End: Inject Something Inside Lois Lane's Abdomen

"Ah!" Lois Lane exclaimed, as the demonic tentacle pushed in among her guts. Her body quivered in exquisite tension, held in place by the monstrous figure behind her. Unable to do anything as the scarlet tentacle squirmed around inside of her stomach. She grit her teeth, not in pain—only her navel hurt—but in the sense of violation.

**** and **** were risks that the reporter took, that every woman took, every day. A reality that men never understood. Men simply seemed to walk around with invisible blinders and a sense of invulnerability, never afraid that at any moment someone might hit them over the head, bear them down, penetrate them. To leave them, if they were lucky, hurt and traumatized and carrying a ****'s baby. Lois Lane left her apartment every day with the knowledge that could happen, had actually faced situations like that. She had faced them with a certain fatalism, with world-weary wisdom, even with hope.

Yet she had never faced anything like this.

The scarlet tentacle pulled away from the reporter's violated navel. Lois looked down and some the dribble of blood that oozed down toward her pubic hair. Yet what shocked her is that she could still feel something slither around inside her body.

"You put on such a brave face," the unseen evil said. "Such courage. I thought it appropriate to leave you with...something to remember me by. A little gift."

Lois Lane stared down at her flat abdomen...and then she saw something press up against it, from the inside, to distend the skin...and the scream that tore out of her was of primal, unreasoning fear.

The reporter was still screaming when she woke up.

Lois Lane flailed her way out of the sheets, suddenly wide awake, naked and dappled with sweat. She shivered in the dark. Could feel the bed beneath her. See the glass door to her own balcony, the night-lit towers of Metropolis beyond. She reached out with long practice and put her hand on the bedside table, found the switch for the lamp.

Yellow light flared, blinded her for a moment...and then she stared down at her nude body.

Dried cum stained the long, slender legs and small, pert breasts. Lois could feel the greyish, brittle globs in her hair; it stained the pillows and sheets. A dark brown stain of dried blood made a track down her abdomen from her sore nipple to her matted pubic hair. The reporter brought her face to her hand and stared at her body.

It was real. It was all real. It really happened.

Then her mind shifted gear. She looked around herself. At the base of the bed, her cum-drenched club clothes, shredded and torn, were dropped in a heap; her cum-glazed smartphone and wallet on top. The reporter eased herself out of bed and felt the weakness in her limbs, unsteady on her feet, exhausted and sore from her adventures.

Yet there was no trail of cum from the door to the bed. No sign of how she had gotten here, to her own apartment. The reporter swallowed, every sense alert...not just for anything outside of her, but inside. Hyperaware of her own body, and searching for any sign of something that...wasn't her.

Yet though she felt tired, dirty, exhausted, violated...Lois couldn't feel anything squirm inside of her. Not right now.

The reporter staggered forward, toward the bathroom. She looked in the mirror, her face a mess, almost unrecognizable as the Daily Planet's greatest reporter. Filth, inside and out, assailed her, and though Lois knew she should call someone, have them take samples, examine her...instead, she found herself turn on the shower and as soon as the water grew hot, she slipped inside.

Maybe that's when the tears started. Her body shook as she rubbed the shampoo into her hair, not caring how much product she was using, just wanting to get the globs of dried cum out. Tears slid down her eyes, cut through dried sweat and grime. What had happened tonight? The filth was real. The pain in her bellybutton was real. It couldn't have just been a trick or illusion. Lois was a reporter, and reporters had to believe their senses.

Bodywash and a loofah scrubbed hard at the grey-white goo that covered her body. She felt like some teenager's gym sock, crusty and discarded behind the bed after finished masturbating. Her stomach gnawed at her with sudden horror, yet she didn't feel like eating. Just the opposite, she tried to hold her bile back to avoid vomiting as she washed the blood out of her pussy hair...and when that wasn't good enough, she cracked open the shower to reach for her pink safety razor.

The reporter had to open her eyes as she removed her pussy hair with even, clean strokes, careful not to clip her clit or labia. When she was at university, Lois had shaved every day, "ready for action," but she didn't like the pimples and ingrown hair that resulted; had shifted to keeping her bush neatly trimmed. It looked better on her, as she headed into her thirties. A woman who accepted herself, instead of trying to look like a little girl.

She rinsed out the blade and set it aside as she stared down at the smooth skin of her mons, a sight she hadn't seen in years. The dried jizz had mostly fallen or been scrubbed off, to slowly melt down the drain. Her hair hung wet around her shoulders, and...for just a moment...Lois felt almost felt a little of her old confidence.

Then her left hand traveled, seemingly of its own accord, to her shaven slit.

Two fingers plunged inside, suddenly and without warning. The penetration of her sore, sensitive pussy was so swift it took Lois by surprise...and then she grimaced ass he felt the gooey mass inside of there. The filth on the outside had been cleaned up, but not the inside. The reporter grimaced and tried to scoop it out.

Except her left hand wouldn't obey her.

Something slithered in the reporter's left forearm. Her eyes widened as she saw the skin bulge there, as is something coiled around the muscle. The fingers of her left hand locked in place...and then, very slowly, began to move. PLuning those fingers in and out of her cum-riddled cunt. Finger-fucking herself. The reporter grabbed her left forearm with her right, but it was locked between her legs, pleasuring her, the thumb now rubbed at her clit as it found a rhythm, and the reporter's traitorous body began to respond, to heat up. Lois opened her mouth to scream.

No sound came out. Something long and thin coiled around her neck, beneath the skin. The reporter was frozen in an absolute rictus, barely able to breathe, unable to stop as the fingers of her left hand worked their magic on her pussy, in a way completely alien to how Lois would normally have masturbated. Tears welled up in the reporter's eyes as the thing inside of her body **** her to rub and finger-fuck herself faster and harder, and her body shook as, totally unwanted, her pleasure began to grow and grow.

Lois Lane didn't want the climax that followed. The contraction that spread out from her cunt and seemed to engulf her body. Eyes rolled back in their sockets. An animalistic wheeze as she vibrated in place, vocal cords still frozen by whatever was in her.

So that when the control lapsed, the reporter collapsed, sobbing, violated in ways she had never before imagined...and as she lay on her knees, globs of cum dripping out of her ass, Lois Lane knew that though her night out was over, her horror was just beginning.