End: Bound. Gagged. Naked.

In her nightmares, Lois Lane rolled off one cock, her snatch dripping with spunk, and sat down on the next. There were cameras, boom mic operators. Silent men and women that stared at her as she moved from one to the next, to grind away until they too spilled their seed inside of her. Their adoring hands rubbed her swollen stomach, round with the inevitable results of her whoring. Bitterly, Lois gyrated in their laps, felt their hard, hot shafts stab deep into her overflowing cunny. Somehow, she knew, this was all she had left. A downward spiral that would only end with the terrible emptiness of the baby taken away by child services, so that Lois could go and sell herself again, get knocked up again, until there was nothing left and she died in the operating table as they cut the baby out of her...

The reporter awoke with a start, naked body beaded in cold sweat. A pale, cowled face loomed over her, to wipe her brow. Lois tried to move, but found herself strapped down in the gynecologist chair, legs trapped in the stirrups. A rubbery ball jammed in her mouth, held in place with straps.

"You were screaming," Batwoman said, as she combed back the reporter's hair with her gloved fingers. "And the fear **** isn't metabolizing like it should. I had to strip you to find the traces of whatever you've been exposed to. When you got violent, I had to tie you down."

Lois Lane's body shook, every muscle suddenly rigid. Memories flashed through her mind. The unscrupulous fertility specialist that had caused all those multiple births. She had substituted her dead son's semen and implanted multiple embryos in each of her patients. By the time they figured it out, she had sixty-four grandchildren...and before they caught her, she had impregnated herself. The reporter vividly remembered the trial, ths sixty-year-old woman with grey hair and sagging breasts and an enormous stomach pushing out of her orange prison jumpsuit. Octuplets. During the trial, they had shown the videos of women in chairs just like this one as they were impregnated.

"It's almost dawn," Batwoman said. "You've been asleep for hours. I've had time to analyze the samples I recovered from your vagina."

Batwoman held up a clear plastic evidence bag, and Lois Lane recognized the broken remains of the bottle she had smuggled out of the club in her pussy. There was blood on the glass, and Lois didn't remember that. Instinctively, she squeezed her pussy, and felt a hot burning pain.

"I...had to call in a specialist. He's recommended an unorthodox treatment," Batwoman said. "That's why I brought you out. To get your consent."

Lois stared at the caped crusader, her chest heaving. She could almost feel her stomach press against the strap across her belly. With supreme effort, the reporter nodded her head.

Batwoman took a deep breath. "According to my...expert...you're possessed by a fear demon. It's feeding on your deepest, darkest concerns. The contents of the bottle made you a magnet for such things. The Scarecrow's fear **** catalyzed it. Drew it to you. Now you're stuck in a feedback loop. Making it stronger. You need to face your fear. You need to face the risk of being pregnant."

Lois Lane quivered, her whole body taut. She wanted to shake her head. To scream herself hoarse. Yet she couldn't even breathe.

"Of course, being a woman, I can't impregnate you myself," Batwoman said. "But...I do have a sperm donor. Alfred?"

There was a quiet step. Lois Lane saw an olded man approach her. Thin. Balding. Somewhat stiff. She saw his kind eyes, his wrinkles, the spots on his hands. He still wore the immaculate suit of a butler. The reporter's eyes couldn't go any wider, but she suddenly deduced, in an instant, who Batman must be.

"I heard you rave in your delirium, Miss Lane," Alfred Pennyworth said, with that subtle British accent. "I know you fear...degradation. That you will be alone for your pregnancy. Shamed. Your reputation in tatters. Yet, if you will allow me to...miss, I assure you that you are loved. You will be loved, and cherished. Every day of your pregnancy, and beyond."

He stopped between her legs, and his blue eyes met hers. He was a tall man, six feet if an inch, and with the broad shoulders that spoke of a powerful frame, grown wiry with age. Batwoman reached down and clasped the reporter's hand.

"I'll be here with you, Lois. You won't be alone. But you have to face your fear." The caped crusader told her.

The bald head nodded...and then Alfred dropped to one knee. Lois Lane could barely lift her head, stare past her small breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, to see those blue eyes stare at her over the carefully-trimmed tuft of her pubic hair. Then she felt his tongue, confident but infinitely gentle, slide from the bottome of her labia to the top.

Lois Lane's breasts heaved, but in a different way as the butler slowly, methodically, lovingly ate her pussy. She could feel the heat of his breath from his nostrils. The way he slowly explored every inch of her labia. The soft flutter of his tongue against her clit sent a quiver through her form...and slowly, achingly slowly, as Batgirl held her hand, her body began to relax. Muscle after muscle unclenched. The sweat that beaded the reproter's brow and upper lip were not from fear. Batwoman watched, wiped the sweat from the reporter's brow, her painted face inscrutable beneath the mask as she measured Lois Lane's breathing, the dilation of the reporter's pupils, the hardness of her nipples.

Until Lois Lane convulsed, just a little. A warm fire seemed to spread itself out from her pelvis, an electric convulsion that went up her spine, and seemed to chase away the ache and ague of fear. For just a moment, in the aftermath of her little climax, Lois Lane felt at peace.

Then with calm deliberation, Alfred Pennyworth stood up and unbuttoned his pants.

Lois Lane had never been with an older man, much less one that was still virile. Alfred was of the same age as her father. So she was not shocked to see that his pendulous scrotum hung low. What shocked her was his prick itself. Male porn stars had made their name with dicks seven inches long; John Holmes claimed 10 inches, and the Guinness World Record Holder was 13.5 inches long.

Alfred Pennyworth would have given John Holmes a run for his money...and his prick was scarred. The foreskin had been lost long ago. There were banded ridges of pink scar tissue all along the long, rigid length of it, as if a tiger had mauled it. There was a mark on the purple head that could have come from a small-caliber pistol. Dark smudges along the side were tattoos faded almost to illegibility by age and hard use. It was a cock that could have told stories of blood, mud, ****, and strange and exotic women in the far, grim places of the world.

"Forgive me for saying so, Miss Lane," Alfred said. "But you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in the altogether. I...will try to be gentle. But it will be difficult to restrain myself."

Lois found herself holding her breath as he leveled that purple prick toward her pussy. For a moment, the old fears surged within her once again...but Batwoman was there, holding her hand, giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze. The caped crusader lowered her head and whispered into Lois Lane's ear:

"If I wasn't a lesbian...I would be jealous."

The purple helmet rubbed up and down the reporter's slit. Perhaps he had added a dash of lub, but Lois Lane didn't think so. She had never been this wet. This excited. This ready. In the back of her brain, the fear of pregnancy still gnawed at her. Here she was, tied down, about to get fucked, inseminated, impregnated...she was going to be a worthless, knocked-up slut...

Then Alfred slid his cock in...and all conscious thought ceased for a moment. The reporter went cross-eyed, her lungs froze as he slid in...and in...and in. Lois Lane had never considered herself a size queen, but some of her better lovers had had larger members, and Alfred Pennyworth's cock filled out her cunny like an overqualifed applicant needing another page on the application. Every ridge of scar tissue provided an unexpected extra bit of friction, right where it was needed...and if he didn't slam into the back of her pussy with the **** of a pile-driver, that was only because the old man was so consummate a lover that he would never hurt any woman that put herself in his care.

Face flushed, the bald head lowered to kiss the reporter's nipples. His long, callused hands rubbed the reporter's naked thighs. Stimulating her body even as her pussy got used to the tool that stretched her cunt in new and exciting ways. When at last he was ready to move, he lifted his head to stare Lois in the eyes and he whispered.

"Miss Lane, you are magnificent."

Then he began to move.

It wasn't fucking. Lois Lane had been a drunk university student that hung her bare ass out of a car window to get dogged by a frat boy. She had spread her legs lewdly for drunken one-night stands and held them as they pumped away at her pussy, to spill their load into a condom. Once, on a bet, she had spent seven minutes in a closet with a lesbian and found out that clever fingers and hot kisses could rewire her world.

Yet she had never had a lover so gentle, so attenative, so utterly determined and delighted at the little gasps that came through the ballgag. Whose long, scarred prick pushed in and out of her almost its entire length with each thrust, tireless and so hard. She had heard of men who could last for hours before they came, but she had never been with anyone who actually seemed utterly without urgency, who could ball her continually without cumming before her.

Lois Lane felt it start again. The flutter of anticipation in her stomach that grew and grew. The heat that suffused her body and grew more and more intense as the friction built and built inside of her. Her thighs quivered beneath her touch. She clasped Batwoman's hand for dear life. The violet eyes rolled into the back of her head...and as the old man continued to pound her pussy, Lois Lane came for the second time, pussy squirting and dripping down the crack of her ass, her body flexed against its bonds, her breasts pressed against his still-clothed chest.

Then he whispered in her ear.

"Miss Lane...I fear I have...not had the pleasure of female company for some time. I am...somewhat backed up. When I spend, I fear my emission will be...quite large. If you are...up the stick...I swear...I will marry you."

Then he jammed himself as deep as he could and gave the softest, cutest, deepest groan.

She didn't feel the jets of yellowed jizz that flooded the back of her cunt-tunnel. That spurted up against her cervix. Yet she felt the pulse of his cock inside her pussy. She squeezed her quim tight, to hold every drop of him inside of her, and his lips brushed hers, where the gag did not get in the way.

Somehow, being pregnant right then didn't seem so bad.

Batwoman gave the reporter's hand a little squeeze.

"We'll need you to stay with us for a few days...repeat the procedure if necessary. Just to make sure it takes," Batwoman said. Then the caped crusader corrected itself. "I mean, that the exorcism was successful. You don't have to be knocked up for that to happen, you just need to get over the fear of being knocked up."

Lois Lane sighed and felt her body relax in the afterglow. After the night out she'd had, a few days of getting creampied by the greatest dick in the world seemed attractive. She nodded her head, and Alfred sheepishly smiled, his face flustered.

"You honor me, miss. It was...a phenomenal experience. I will endeavor to meet your expectations. And..." his hand gently touched her abdomen. "...I meant every word of my promise. It was not just the heat of the moment. Any man would be lucky to have a wife like you. So intelligent, so beautiful, so...driven."

Flattery, Lois Lane thought cheekily. Will get you into my pants any day, Mr. Pennyworth!