Her Ring Finger

"I'm thinking...a ring tattoo. On the ring finger of your left hand. That's where your wedding ring would go if you got married, wouldn't it?"

Lois Lane swallowed and nodded.

"But I don't think you will get married Lois Lane. Not pregnant, and not subject to my whims. Do you agree?"

"Yes," Lois said, a weird flutter through her belly as she was certain that the dickgirl was right. A single woman, pregnant with someone else's child—the tattoo would just be an outward sign of the choice that the reporter had made. If anyone asked, she could tell them that it represented how married she was to her job, or if pressed, at some commitment to someone else. She didn't have to tell them the truth.

"Walk home. Get the tattoo done before you get to your apartment. Let it be the symbol of our alliance. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Lois said. "I do."

They made themselves presentable, with the reporter reclaiming her club clothes from upstates. Lois Lane could still feel the warm, wet squish of the cum inside of her pants at every step. Angelica Blaze gave her a satchel large enough to hold the folder, and guided her up a back stairwell to a rear exit from the building into an alley.

Lois stepped outside and drank the cool night air. The club was a distant, noisy memory.

"How do I...contact you. When I need to?" The reporter asked.

"I am not up on all of this recent technology," the dickgirl said with a smile. "Look into a mirror and say my name three times, and I will come for you."

With that, Angelica Blaze closed the door...and Lois Lane was alone.

Normally, she would have taken a cab...but Blaze had told her to walk. Lois patted the satchel, just to make sure it was still there. That she hadn't sold herself for a bunch of fairy gold. Then she set off.

Her phone found a tattoo parlor on her way home. A bored looking Asian man was watching a horror movie when she entered. Lois told him what she wanted, he nodded, asked a question or two, nodded again when she specified that it was just going to be a straight black band, all the way around the finger. It was all very business like—wavers to sign, instructions for aftercare. He shaved her ring finger with a small pink safety razor, and then sterilized the area. All very clean, very professional.

The reporter watched the movie as the tattoo needle began to buzz.

It was her first tattoo. She had expected pain, and there was some. Like a bee sting, but drawn out. He worked carefully, no rush. A simple design, but one he wanted to get right. There weren't any other customers waiting.

On the screen, Sheri Moon Zombie had her breasts out again. Lois wondered what that felt like, knowing people would be watching you expose yourself. Possibly for a long time. Centuries from now, when her body was long gone, and even the bones turned to dust, Sheri Moon Zombie's tits might survive in some archive, part of the precious cultural legacy of this time-lost age.

_What if she had asked me to get the tattoo on my face? _Lois wondered to herself. What if she wanted me to get a piercing? Is this really worth it? What are my limits...and when, if ever, do I say no?

The tattoo was done before her character was killed. The artist wrapped it carefully in gauze and bandage, talked to Lois about keeping it clean, not to pick at the scab, how it would heal. To call or come back if there were any trouble. Lois Lane smiled and paid him.

She stepped back out into the night, the moon a little older, feeling a little more sober and present. Her finger throbbed, but it was nothing she couldn't live with. The cum was running down her legs inside the tight pants now, the satchel was at her side.

The night was dying. It was time to go home.