End: Lois Retreats, But Blaze's Satanic Spunk Follows Her

There were times when discretion was the better part of valor. As Lois Lane stared through the peep-hole at the ball of black jizz that hung suspended in the air, tethered to the demon Blaze's dick by a thin strand, she felt an icy tension grip her guts...and then it shot toward the reporter. Lois barely had time to slam the cover shut over the peep-hole, and a terrible certainty congealed inside of her.

"Nope. Fuck it. I'm out."

She pushed past Maria and began to jog back the way they had come.

Only to hear Maria scream.

The reporter spared a single glance behind her...to see the young woman squeeze against the wall, as black beads of jizz oozed through the gaps around the peep-hole, liquid darkness seeped...searching...

For just a moment, Lois Lane had a vision of the scarlet succubus jerking her cock. She could perfectly picture Blaze reach down to give those juicy balls a squeeze. And the more the demon came...the further her Satanic spunk could reach in its search.

So Lois turned and ran, as if the devil herself was on her trail.

Which she was.

Panic gave Lois the initial edge. She bolted up stairs three steps at a time, raced down corridors past costumed prostitutes and their clients, burst through doors...and plunged back into the crowd of people on the club floor. For a moment, Lois Lane paused, panted, disoriented by the flash of lights, the pound of music and press of bodies, the heat and smell of sweat and ****. Then the reporter glanced behind her and saw a pencil-thin liquid tendril of darkness crawl toward her, like an enormous worm in midair.

Lois pushed through the crowd, eyes focused on the door. The security saw her, but none of them made an attempt to grab her; the reporter imagined that Blaze was too lost in masturbation to order them either way. In just a moment, the reporter was on the street, sucked cold air into her lungs...and sprinted off into the night.

Yet Lois Lane did not run blindly. While distance might provide her some brief reprieve, Lois had no idea what the limits of Blaze's balls were, if any. For all Lois knew, Blaze could cum continually. Even hopping into an airplane or train might only delay the inevitable. No—Lois needed more than space. She needed security. Sanctuary.

Holy ground.

Metropolis' Cathedral was in the older part of the city, only six blocks from the warehouse district. At this hour of night, traffic on the sidewalks was sparse—and Lois Lane felt her heart hammer against her breastbone as her legs pumped. Eyes wide as she kept looking at the lights of cars...traffic lights...judging when it was safe to cross. When it was better to turn, just to keep moving.

Her destination came in sight, and the reporter panted. She ran every day, and wasn't winded yet, but her mad dash had made her throw caution to the wind. Lois didn't have to look behind her to see that strand of darkness, now thin as a needle, cut through the darkness toward her. Yet just ahead were the granite steps of the cathedral...and Lois knew there would be an open door, that some people stayed all night to pray and light candles. She stepped out into the final intersection, eyes focused on her goal...

...which is why she didn't see the taxi cab until it was too late.

The front bumper hit Lois Lane's right hip. She rolled over the hood, bounced off the windshield, and was briefly airborne. When she slammed back into the street, a sprawl of limbs, the red lights of the taxi retreated into the darkness.

Classic hit and run. Lois Lane lay on the street like a broken bird, left arm flailed as she tried to crawl forward.

Then the black line found her.

Lois Lane wasn't even aware of it as a desecration. Just an added warm wetness that made her thought for a moment that she had pissed herself. Blaze's cum slid down the crack of her ass and up into her pussy. Threaded the channel of her vagina, and pierced her cervix. Every second that Lois lay there Satanic spunk accumulated in her womb...and Lois couldn't even see it. In the darkness of night, neither did anyone else.

There were concerned voices. The scream of an ambulance siren. A warm wetness that filled Lois Lane almost to bursting. The reporter reflected on all the choices that had brought her to this point on her night out—the times she had turned left instead of right, the roads not taken. She wondered if, had she chosen more wisely, things would have turned out differently.

Then she was in the ambulance. A neck brace kept her head in place. The emergency medical technician swore as the vehicle ran over the sidewalk; the black link broke as Lois passed, however briefly, over the lowest step that led up to the cathedral door.

Yet that still left the broken and bloodied reporter with a womb full of Satanic spunk...and somewhere, down below the club, Blaze ceased her frantic masturbation. The exhausted crimson cock folded over her fingers, the spunk-factories beneath sat heavily on the edge of the chair. The scarlet succubus grinned at nothing in particular, and said with a sigh:

"Gotcha."