I'm Not Going To Grow A Penis

Lois said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was really feeling the buzz from the cocktails earlier, and she knew when she got drunk she tended to get feisty and obstinate. She wanted to help the missing women, and her intuition told her the rhyming demon was telling the truth—but even drunk and aroused the reporter had a few lines she wouldn't cross.

The demon's grin turned down at the corners, massive breasts heaving. Lois really had to strain not to look at "Lady Etrigan's" rack...she honestly didn't know how men managed it, sometimes. Even she wasn't immune to admiring a pert derriere or supple pair of sweater kittens sometimes, and those mammoth mammaries were just...right there in front of her.

Never fear, oh cock-socket,

Thy well-trod tunnel shall remain unscathed

As for my rod, don't knock it!

Behold, for thine use my tool is made!

The demon held her hands apart—perhaps twelve inches—and something flashed between them. A dark red crackle of fire without source, flowing from palm to palm, surrounded by a haze of black dots. As Lois watched the fire seemed to condense, to thicken and take shape.

Oh phallus infernal, prick of Hades,

Throbbing member of happier days,

And nights when our turgid length we bury,

To crack the dark angel's cherry!

Waken from ****'s cold quim,

And fill our holes to the brim,

No orifice shall be thus denied,

Claim all cunts for thy bride!

Bound are you by Solomon's law,

To ream those soft tunnels raw,

And pounding their clefts into mush,

Bury yourself at last in the devil's bush!

The fire had faded now...no, crystallized in phallic shape, which yet pulsed with the same terrible heat and power. Yet as the last flicker of light had faded, it dropped between the demon's hands—and instinctively Lois lunged to catch it before it hit the ground.

It was a penis. A thing of living flesh, warm in her hands, half-hard yet still flexible, and a garish, ugly sight—being bright yellow, and festooned with scars and tiny soft conical bumps like blunted spikes, here and there tattooed with dark, obscure runes. Lois judged it to be about eleven inches long, and two inches thick at the base, which ended in a solid circle of flesh, with no testes or orifice. The head was of a deeper, ruddier shade yellow, with backward pointing spines along the flared base of the pointed helmet-head, and an oddly large urethra, which almost bisected the head.

"Wow." Lois said. Holding it in the crook of her left arm, the reporter gently stroked the ugly shaft...felt the veins beneath the rough, callused skin which throbbed with unholy ichor, the soft bristle of the spines near the head...and under her ministrations it stiffened. It didn't grow much—maybe half an inch longer, and a bit thicker overall—but it became as rigid as a crowbar. Grabbing it by the base, she held it up, and it stood under its own power.

"Okay," she said. "Demon dick. What do we do now?"