Epilogue: Sexual Exhaustion

The first few weeks were straight sex.

Lois Lane would get home at night and Angie would be there, in her apartment, pulling the reporter's clothes off, cock hard and at the ready. They made love for hours, and not in the hypothetical teenager-masturbating-furiously-while-imagining-what-it-will-be-like-when-they-grow-up. There were nights when Angie kept fucking Lois long after her pussy had grown sore. When the exhausted reporter was pinned to the bed, one crimson foot pressed against her head as Blaze grunted and pumped what felt like a pint of black jizz into the reporter's already-impregnated pussy. Mornings when Lois woke up and had to bite her lip as she pulled the cock out of her ass, because if she made the slightest noise then Angie would wake up and fuck her and then Lois would be late for work. Lois lost track of how many mornings she spent the first few minutes on the toilet, just shitting out all the accumulated cum, and then wiped her butt and saw a streak of blood.

Something about being with Blaze was affecting her, the reporter was sure. No matter how sore her ass was, none of the anal fissures lasted more than an hour. Bruises from when Angie got rough healed up before Lois got to work. Lois never had to explain to Clark Kent about bite marks or hickies.

Yet in a way that felt like Peter Pan growing up, the Daily Planet's greatest reporter soon found herself getting tired of sex.

It sounded ridiculous, but there it was. Not that she didn't orgasm, which was always pleasant, but it was also...a time sink. All they seemed to do was fuck. Angie never asked her how her day was, didn't help out with the chores or the rent, and the only time Lois could get her to leave her alone for an hour so that she could work on a column at home was to sit on the demon's face and feel about three inches of tongue explore her pussy or asshole for a while.

Lois had started to find more excuses for staying away from home for longer and longer periods. Gym three times a week became five days a week, sometimes with an early morning workout. She often stayed late at the office, and went in on weekends. Knowing she was pregnant, even if she wasn't showing yet, Lois sometimes lingered near bars on her walks home, wondering if just one drink would hurt the babies...and maybe numb her inside for when Blaze shoved her down and fingered her ass while splitting her pussy in two with that cervix-bruising bitchbreaker of a cock.

This isn't a relationship, Lois thought as she dragged herself along the corridor, eyeing her own door with dread. It's like she's holding me prisoner in my own home. I can't live this way.

She had tried to say no. Asked to cuddle. That was when Angie started to wheedle and deal. Just for an hour, just for a minute, just lick the tip, if you're wet I'll lick your pussy, oh you're so wet I'll just put it in...and a few hours later Lois would be on her stomach as Blaze tried to break her record of nine ejaculations before dawn.

Lois paused before the door, key in her hand. A part of her wanted to run. To just...go somewhere else. Stay a hotel for the night, or crash with Clark Kent. She was too exhausted to face getting fucked past midnight again. Needed sleep, needed...

The door opened.

Blaze stood there in a set of lingerie that Lois hadn't seen before. Her stiff red prick was tied to the demon's flat abdomen by a leather harness that clashed with the black frilly lace about the crotchless panties and the tiny cups on the bra that didn't hide the succubus' stiff pink nipples. She held out a black silicone phallus in a kind of girdle.

A strap on.

"I was thinking...maybe we could switch it up a little?" Angie said.

Lois Lane sighed. Rivulets of juice were running down the demon's red legs, staining the stockings she wore.

"The things I do for love," Lois growled, knowing she wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.