Lois' Spank Bank

Blaze blinked and gazed around at her surroundings. It appeared to be an art gallery...an endless corridor of white walls and overhead lights, tiled floors, and gilded picture frames. The pictures themselves, however...

The demon turned to the nearest example and raised an eyebrow. It was about six feet square, and appeared to be a photographic close-up of a man's crotch, covered in red underwear, somewhat wet and damaged. The outline of the man's penis could be clearly seen, not quite erect but...close. Blaze bent down to read the small bronze label at the base of the frame.

"Man of Steel, After Battle, 14 Jan..." the date was obscured, but the demon caught the gist. She cast a discriminating eye down the corridor. Every picture frame held some key erotic image, scene, or moment. Men and women, artwork or real life... Blaze walked down the corridor, admiring candid shots of men and women caught in states of undress in locker rooms and bathrooms, wardrobe malfunctions that the public never got to see, photos deemed too racy for the public.

She had entered into a visual representation of the reporter's mind and found herself in...Lois' spank bank. The collection of erotic memories that she kept, a secret from all others, the formative memories that shaped the sexual drives of Lois Lane, the images she fell back on when she needed to fantasize and masturbate.

"But where," Blaze murmured to herself, "is Lois?"

Blaze wandered the corridors, senses attuned, trying to make sense. It was not, as she had first thought, a single long hallway. There were side-galleys, separate rooms. The pieces displayed were grouped by themes, some obvious and others more...subtle.

Some sixth sense tugged at the demon's consciousness, and she let it guide her, through the endless corridors. Changes began to be manifest, the halls growing narrower, the portraits smaller, sometimes less-frequent, other times several related images clustered together. There was dust on the tiled floors, cobwebs on the now lower ceilings...old memories, perhaps, or a part of Lois' mind where she did not go very often.

The demon observed that they had passed out of the strictly heterosexual portion of Lois' gallery. On the wall were fleeting glimpses of intersex individuals, those suffering from congenital deformities. A hidden streak of desire for the weird, the grotesque, the unusual... Blaze mused. And then she blushed as she recognized herself.

The images were fresh, new, hurried. Yet Blaze recognized her own cock, the background details conforming to their sexual encounters of the evening. The demon paused to admire one glorious shot of Lois looking down her own body, pussy spread wide by the stabbing cock that filled her cunt.

And if these are here, then Lois cannot be far away.

Blaze hurried on.

The gallery changed again...and the demon wandered past pictures of women in various states of pregnancy. There was a focus on bellies and breasts, the heavy, drooping hemispheres that defined motherhood; several of the images were set up as progressions, showing the same woman at different points in her pregnancy. And the farther Blaze followed this particular vein, the larger the women were getting; until she was walking among pictures of women pregnant with triplets and quadruplets, bellies grossly distended, stretch marks evident everywhere, the massive abdomens monstrous against the size of their bodies.

She found Lois, finally, at the end. It was more of a grotto than anything else, ceiling and walls collapsing into a kind of cave. There were photos there that Blaze had never seen...unpublished press photos of women pregnant with octuplets, most of them laying in hospital beds, seeming like little more than strange, gangly growths attached to their massive stomachs.

Lois was staring up at the largest and most vivid one—a life-size Octomom caught changing, her body nude, her face turned away from the camera.

"Hello, love," Blaze whispered as she sidled up behind Lois. "We have to talk."