End: A Portal To Hell

Once, what seemed a lifetime ago, Lois Lane had read Clive Barker's The Hellbound Heart. Even before she had seen the films based on or inspired by that story, she had felt that queasy excitement that came with the recognition of a like soul. She had seen something of herself in Frank Cotton, not so much in the masochism and sadism that had driven him into the arms of the monstrous Cenobites, but the burning curiosity that had him devote his energies to unlocking a puzzle that should have remained unsolved.

The thought burst through the reporter's mind in a moment as the key turned. Invisible seams in the statue's ass and legs opened, unfolded into panels that revealed a dark abyss, as if the statue itself was hollow. Lois Lane stared, disbelieving, into that utter blackness that seemed to swallow the very light. There was no visible mechanism, no obvious way that the statue could have opened like that.

Every hair on the reporter's body stood up. The sounds died away, so that all she heard was her own soft breathing, the pounding pulse of her own heart, the blood trickling through her veins. Then, like Alice following the stupid rabbit, Lois Lane did the obvious and idiotic thing and reached out a hand to touch that darkness.

Something shot out of the darkness and wrapped around her arm. Lois Lane felt a slimy grip, like the arm of an octopus—except this was red as fresh blood on parchment, and tipped by a very human-looking glans, rubbery and swollen, that spat a sticky gob of black goo onto her arm.

"No," Lois said, too late, as she tried to pull back.

Other cock-headed tentacles shot out. Lois fought with the strength of panic, planted her feet against the ground, tried to twist and dodge—yet they were faster and stronger than her, and although eyeless thay coiled around her body with perfect accuracy. The reporter shrieked as they wrapped around her thighs and arms and waist. She jammed her feet against the base block of the statue and screamed for help as the tugging grew stronger.

Then with a sudden violent burst of strength, the reporter was pulled off her feet and dragged into the darkness.

Lois Lane did not see the panels of the statue close. She was lost, blind, as dozens or hundreds of squirming warm tentacle-headed cocks pulled her deeper into the abyss. When the rubbery prick-heads pushed at her pussy and ass, she tried to scream...only to face a half-dozen more jamming themselves into her mouth. Too thick to even bite down on or chew.

Curiosity, they say, killed the cat. What would it do to Lois Lane's pussy does not bear thinking about. There is no time in that dark space where she went. A thousand years in there can pass in an hour in the sunlit world of Metropolis. Slowly, methodically, through a million million outrages, the dark and eyeless things that dwell in that abyss would have their way with Lois Lane. Her body, fed only on the foul seed they squirted down her throat, would begin to change. They would alter her flesh to suit their needs. Taint her spirit to devour her innocence.

So the women she went to find would remain missing. The demon she unknowingly opposed would drink a toast to the health of her foe, who had fallen into a trap too foul for most devils to use, even against one another. The Last Son of Krypton would fly through lonely skies, carrying with him a grief and a guilt that would never fully be healed.

Someday, perhaps, Lois Lane would return from her night out. Yet there would be few that would recognize her. Even her dearest friends would be shocked at what she might become.