End: Yes...But It Won't Be Quick Or Pleasant

To Lois Lane, Clark Kent's hands felt huge, spreading her ass apart.

She wasn't prepared for his tongue, wet with Kryptonian spit, violating her per pucker with effortless ease. The reporter grabbed the nearest pillow and buried her face in it, teeth clutching on the fabric, reminding herself that he had paid for it, that he was just a client, that it was okay...

Clark Kent was slow, methodical. His strong tongue swirled around and around her anus, drooling his super-slick Kryptonian saliva into her anus, stretching out the muscle. Once Lois got used to it, she began to relax...deliberately unclenching her muscles. She told herself that she trusted Clark...trusted him above all others.

Which is why she only shook a little when his tongue left her well-lubed ass and something hard and long pressed against it.

It wasn't his cock. Lois thought it was, and then she felt the knuckle and realized it was only one huge finger. From the bedside table, Clark had grabbed a bottle of lube and was pouring it onto her ass as he worked his finger in and out of there, immensely gentle but also utterly impossible for her to resist. It was like a train slowly sliding forward; even as slow as possible, anything on the track was going to be swept away...and Lois was back to biting the pillow as he plunged it in deep, his X-ray vision focused on her colon, measuring the contours of her internal anatomy, the path to his target.

She couldn't keep a moan from escaping when a second finger pressed against her sore, violated ass.

Even as gentle and slow as possible, it was clear now that this procedure would not be over swiftly or easily. With his free hand, Clark Kent massaged Lois Lane's lower back, but his hand never stopped moving in her back, not for a second. He would add more lube, but her never gave her anal ring a rest, always spreading it a little more, pushing another finger in there...and his hand was so big...when at last she felt all five of his finger tips pressed against her asshole, Lois was sure she was going to die.

Once again, Lois was wrong. But a part of her wished she wouldn't.

Her scream was muffled by the pillow. Clark Kent pushed forward, his perfect jaw set, lips tight. Lois couldn't know what it did to him, to hear the scream of pain from the woman he loved as his knuckles slowly disappeared between her buttocks, her asshole goopy with lube, a taut pink ring utterly inflamed from hours of working toward this goal...and when his whole hand finally slipped inside her colon, the pillow ripped at the reporter's body shivered in an utterly uncontrollable body spasm.

Clark waited until Lois had calmed down, tears dripping down her face, the strange alien feel of an entire hand in her ass, her poor asshole a burning bracelet around his thick wrist...she gasped for breath, hyperventilating for a moment, before she could regain control of herself.

"This next bit is going to sting," Clark said.

Instinctively, Lois tried to make a joke...but the quip died on her lips as two small points of fire burned down on either side of her spine. Incredibly thin beams of heat vision had drilled down through skin and muscle to vaporize the connections between the parasite and her nervous system, and killing the demonic invader.

With a shock, Lois was herself again, its control gone...but before she could process that, Clark Kent pushed deeper.

Lois Lane had never imagined what it would be like if Popeye the Sailor fisted her ass up to the elbow. Yet in that moment, she had some inkling of what it must have been like for poor Olive Oyl. Fresh tears burst from her eyes...and then there was a tugging, deep within, as though her guts were being torn out. She actually felt him pulling, and Lois buried her face into the pillow again, unable even to scream as her asshole was turned inside out, her guts dragged out onto the bed...

...and then it was over.

Her ass felt oddly empty, like after a terrible stomach flu. She raised her head, blowing feathers away, and saw a dead white worm-thing in his grasp...and then she bent over to look, as well as she could, at her ass. Reached back and explored it delicately with her fingers.

It was sore. Soft. Her finger slipped in easily. Yet it wasn't hanging out. She hadn't prolapsed. She looked at Clark Kent, who had stood up and walked over to the bathroom. The flush of the toilet told the fate of the dead demonic parasite.

"Smallville?" Lois said weakly.

"Yes, Lois?" he said.

"The next time you fist me in the ass," Lois said. "Get me drunk first."

The blue eyes blinked.

"Next time?"

Lois gave a pained smile. "I mean, it's not like I'm a virgin anymore."

They laughed...but her gaze fell on the big tent that Clark Kent was pitching in the front of his pants...and after the long, strange night out that she had, the reporter thought that both of them deserved a little rest and recreation.