End: Lois Lane Gets Cum Drunk

Another pitcher arrived. Lois Lane grimaced. Her stomach felt as if it sloshed when she moved. Yet her hand reached for the glass automatically. She could feel it now, that kind of pleasant light-headedness. Not like being drunk, exactly, but the sense of giddy excitement. Naughtiness. The natural high that came from sexual excitement.

Her cheeks flushed as the hot, fresh goo splashed into the glass. Eyes dilated, so that she caught every gleam of every droplet. Licked her lips in anticipation. It smelled stronger than before. Straight from the tap. Yet thicker, too. Like jelly.

Deadman's voice had been droned out as sip by sip, gulp by gulp, glass by glass, Lois Lane slowly demolished the pitcher. Her whole body was suffused by a pleasant glow, especially down between her legs. The reporter rubbed her thighs together, her pussy an absolute swamp in those tight pants. She burped lightly, then giggled. Her stomach distended a little, the kind of bloat that Lois might experience after a night of heavy drinking.

"Well, I did just drink a couple of gallons of cum," Lois said aloud, without even thinking.

"An impressive feat," a female voice said. Husky and low, with an odd, exotic accent. Lois looked up from her glass, licked the last white drop from her lips...and saw a tall, crimson figure stood at her side.

Dark lips were set in a Mona Lisa smile, dark horns curled from a broad brow toward the ceiling. Overall, she appeared feminine—there were small breasts, nipples barely concealed by straps of orange cloth that ran down in a V from her shoulders to her crotch. The long, lean legs and arms were bare, and a belt of leering metal faces were strung about her hips. From that descended long orange sash or loin cloth—not quite a sarong or a skirt—and while that might have maintained a woman's modesty, it did nothing but outline and accent the shape of her cock.

Lois stared. The woman was so tall that while the reporter was seated, the cock was at eye-level. The reporter could see the outline of the fat, happy pecker and its swollen, oversized balls. It wasn't the biggest cock she had ever seen, but the bulge was so prominent she could make out the outline of the helmet-like glans...and the wet spot where the urethra pressed against the cloth.

"You're Blaze," Lois said. The dizzy sensation was stronger now. Her thoughts came sluggishly. She hiccuped, and her stomach lurched, rumbled. The reporter imagined the sludge of demonic jizz in her guts settling, to make room for more.

"Yes. And you're Lois Lane, the cum-drunk slut of the Daily Planet," Blaze said, her voice pleasant. "You're addicted to my jizz."

"Am...am not!" Lois shot back. With an effort of will, she tore her gaze away from the cock that hovered only inches from her face. She looked around...and realized that the club was now empty, except for the two of them. There was no sign of Deadman, either.

"The missing women. The little ghost. A ruse. An illusion. Bait, to bring you here. To nudge you on. So that you would take that first sip, and the second, and the third. To take more and more of me inside of you. Until you can't live without it. Aren't you curious what my cock looks like, Lois?" Blaze's voice was a sulty whisper.

Lois Lane swallowed hard. Her hands shook as she reached out, and drew the orange sash aside.

Red. Hairless. Smaller than she thought, in overall length. The balls were bigger, swollen as ripe navel oranges, pendulous pomegranates, forbidden fruit. Yet the reporter's eyes were locked on the rubbery head of the half-turgid dick.

There was a drop that hung from the bottom. Not white, or grey-white, or yellowish, but black. Midnight black. Dark and thick as molasses. The reporter found her gaze locked onto it, her tongue suddenly dry, her entire face hot. She found herself breathing in from her mouth, and each hot breath brought her that rank jockstrap smell that made her pussy burn.

"Lick it, if you wish," Blaze said pleasantly. "I'll give you all that you need. Until you can't live without it."

The reporter's pulse pounded in her ears. She leaned forward, tongue extended. A part of her couldn't believe she was doing this. Screamed that she was making a mistake. That this wasn't her. She was Lois Lane, the Daily Planet's greatest reporter, not some cum-drunk slut.

The drop touched the tip of Lois Lane's tongue, and immediately that part of her went numb. Tears came to her eyes as an electric shock seemed to run from her tongue straight down to her cunt. The moment passed swiftly, a mere psychic shock...but then her tongue was on the hot underside of that modest prick. She ran it up and down the urethra, like a deer at a slat lick.

It wasn't enough. Lois Lane wanted more.

The rest of the night out was a blur. Her lips closed on the cock. Lips wrapped around her teeth, tongue on the underside. The chubby little red beast swolled, , not too big, just the perfect size for her mouth. The balls were a reassuring warmth against her chin. Somewhere, far above, Blaze gave a contented sigh.

Then she began to cum.

Hot, salty, bitter loads pumped straight into the reporter's mouth...and Lois Lane barely tasted the first load before she swallowed, let the hot sticky treacle ooze down her throat. The reporter moaned like a bitch in heat, eyes rolled into the back of her head. It was so much stronger than anything she had imagined. The cum she had been drinking earlier tonight might as well have been water compared to this. It was like chugigng a bottle of soy sauce, so salty and strong, and yet Lois couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

At some point, Lois Lane found herself on her back. She couldn't see anything.. Could only feel the weight of the demon's testicles press against her eyes. Spurt after spurt coated the reporter's back teeth, and she waited until she had a mouthful before she swallowed. The demon kissed the reporter's cum-swollen belly. It was like an erotic nightmare.

Lois Lane woke up as her alarm blared. The first rays of sunlight crept through from the glass door to her balcony. The reporter sat up, and odd, thick, bitter mass in her mouth, that she swallowed with difficulty. It pushed down her esophagus like a lump, and the reporter's head began to pound. With an effort, she sat up, and found she was fully clothed in her own bed, in her own apartment.

Stomach churning, the reporter staggered out of bed. Her head felt two sizes two small, her balance off. The memories of last night, however, were vivid, until they had fragmented in a dark nightmare of sucking cock...drinking cum...the reporter laid a hand on her stomach and found it reassuringly flat and trim, not bloated with gallons of jizz.

Yet her stomach rumbled. Suddenly hungry for something, the reporter stepped into her kitchen, to the fridge. There was an odd smell in the air. A bathroom cleaner reek. She opened the fridge.

All of the food was gone. The reporter blinked at the perfectly clean, white, interior, empty except for a single mason jar of black goo...and a note.

Call my name three times when you need more.- Blaze

Lois Lane licked her lips. Her stomach rumbled louder. She knew that smell now, knew what was in the jar. Told herself she wasn't addicted, that the demon was wrong, that...and Lois had to stop herself as she found her hand reaching for the jar. Her fingers closed, to clutch only air. The reporter swallowed heavily, recognized the flavor in her mouth now. She knew now what had happened on her night out was true...and that the choice before her could set the course of her life from here on.

Yet Lois Lane's night out was over, and what happened next...well, that's another story.