Hold Her

The blood-red face with the dead eyes and the dark, curling horns stared at Lois with an expression of...curiosity. The reporter, still limp in the beast's arms, felt her breath coming in ragged gasps, heart pounding frantically and erratic, her tired body shivering in uncontrollable tremors.

The face was still surrounded by a ruff of dead flesh, in which Lois could still make out the mutilated features and ginger hair of Lana Lang. It hung around the horned woman's neck like an obscene collar, like the bloody head of a fetus poking itself out of a broken cunt. As the reporter watched, slim red fingers pushed upwards, grasping the edges of the skin and pulling it away, the once-supple flesh now cracking and flaking like some old dead thing. Layers on layers peeled back from within, as if a corncob could squirm its way out of its husk...

With a crack, the spine split and fell onto the floor with a dry rattle, empty vertebrae popping and rolling away. Lois caught sight of a slim red torso, adorned with small breasts, the tiny pink nipples pointing sharply upwards like ripe strawberries. The red arms caught the reporter under the armpits as the rest of the monster's body began to crack and fall away, the slim, naked woman that emerged clutching Lois to her chest, holding her up so that she wouldn't fall, hugging her tightly as the reporter shook.

Something was still plugging up Lois Lane's cunt. She could feel it, through the pain, though it seemed smaller now, more...more like a normal penis, though the ache of the sudden attack and the trauma to the reporter's vagina made it difficult to tell. Lois could still feel something wet and thick running down the inside of her thighs, over older tracks of dried blood and semen, and she could not tell right then if she had lost control of her bladder, or was still bleeding, or...or if that was just her cunt emptying itself out still.

The woman-thing's breasts pressed into her own, and stood up on her own two feet. Lois gazed dazedly into the bathroom mirror. She took in the long, oily black curls of the hair, the well-defined muscles of the back, her own haggard appearance...the violet eyes that looked haunted, face scratched in places, her own straight hair a mess, plastered against her forehead and cheek, sticky with blood in places.

She was breathing easier now, in long ragged sobs, the shaking was down to a quiver. Traumatic as the event had been, Lois Lane was resilient, and something told her she would need to tap whatever inner reserve of strength and sanity she had for what was coming next.

Because the night was far from over.

"There. Is not that better, my sweatmeat?" The voice rumbled in the throat, half a song, the accent strange and unfamiliar. "There is no pleasure in this life without some pain. Now thou hast suffered, and ye will know the suffering of women..."

"Why?" Lois asked, when she could find her voice.

"Shall I tell thee?" The horned woman crooned.