Help Us

The words shocked the reporter. When she should have been fleeing, she hesitated—torn as to how to help these masturbating dickgirls—and in that moment, the futazombies closed in. Sticky, cum-smeared fingers closed in on her arms. Lois immediately tried to push back, to rip herself free, but she was outnumbered...and she pulled her kicks and punches, not wanting to hurt these dickgirls, since they were obviously victims in all of this.

So that within seconds, it was too late. There was a woman each on Lois Lane's arms and legs, holding her fast, and they stopped their endless fapping long enough to tear and rip the reporter's clothes off of her. Lois twisted and turned, her mind racing...their skin was so hot, as though each woman was in the grips of a fever, their lips cracked and tongues swollen, eyes dilated as though high, and their strength almost seemed superhuman.

Then there were the cocks.

Lois couldn't avoid them, though she tried. They were stiff, standing out from the dickgirl's bodies, the foreskins peeled back and the heads looking raw from constant rubbing and masturbation...yet as soon as they touched the reporter's skin, they shot off, jizz bursting from the tip as thick and strong-smelling as any cum that Lois had ever smelled...and that gave her an idea. Because when the dickgirl came, her whole body shivered, her mouth went into a moan of audible climax.

So as the futazombies struggled to carry Lois deeper into the crypt, the reporter did all she could to move her arms and legs to grab or caress those jutting cocks—the women seemed to have almost no refractory period, for the cocks were always hard, right after cumming, and they could cum again mere moments after Lois touched them.

Still, it was four on one, and even with the reporter's best efforts she could feel herself being drawn deeper and deeper into the crypt. The mouths still asked for her to help...their white seed splattered across her arms, legs, belly, and breasts, white trails dripping down, but Lois Lane did not give up. Whatever was going on, she knew she didn't want to see what they had in store for her...

...then she saw it. A figure seated on a throne, that was the spitting image of the demon statue above. Except this figure's skin was red as blood, and it lived, the white eyes following the reporter as she was carried forward, toward an X-shaped stone table or altar. The horse-like cock throbbed slightly. The reporter knew that if she was placed on that table, the demon could penetrate her easily.

"Greetings, Lois Lane," the demon spoke English, though with an accent the reporter had never heard. Something Mediterranean, with hints of Greek and Egypt, Syria and Iraq. "I had hoped you would find your way down here."

Curiosity got the better of the reporter. She had to ask.

"Why?"