Lois Runs Away

Lois Lane pushed herself up off the demon's lap. The scarlet succubus leered at her, the scaled cock in her lap wagging, the swollen red testicles hanging in the toilet.

"You can leave if you like," Blaze lifted her hand, and the stall door flew open. "But you cannot escape the truth Lois. Our child will be born...and when you call my name, I will come to fuck you again."

The reporter staggered out of the bathroom. Hurriedly, she gathered up her pants and squeezed into them, black jizz dripping down her legs, her panties nowhere to be found. The demon's mocking laughter seemed to fill the bathroom, and Lois felt dizzy, feverish, her stomach lurching.

In a minute, she was out of the bathroom, back into the rush of the club...

Lois Lane felt sick. Used. Defiled. The demonic jizz was still squishing around in her pants, inside of her pussy. It made her want to vomit, it made her want to wash herself out. Barely able to think, she moved through the crowd, uncoordinated, on edge, moving toward the door.

She never saw the man until she bumped into him, to avoid a scary-looking metalhead with a face full of piercings. Her elbow spilled one of the beers he was holding down his shirt, knocked the other one onto his date's tits. Lois turned, her eyes wide, an apology on her lips.

His face was a mask of steroidal fury. Big, bulging muscles in a too-tight shirt, ugly little bloodshot eyes like two pissholes in snow, the shapeless nose and cauliflower ears of a boxer or wrestler. She saw his shoulders roll as his right fist came up. Time seemed to slow as she saw it head for her midsection...his hand looked huge, twice as big as Lois Lane's own. It was coming straight for her stomach, too fast for her to dodge...

The baby! Lois thought.

Something happened. Lois swore she saw something glow beneath her shirt, just as the knuckles graced the fabric. Black lightning shot up the hulking man's arm up to the elbow. There was a crack—like thunder and breaking bone—and the man was thrown back, his arm hanging loose, fingers twisted and limp at all the wrong angles. The scent of ozone filled the reporter's nostrils, very strongly.

As he fell back, Lois Lane was already moving. Her stomach felt fine. The blow had never landed. Yet the naked fear that Lois Lane had felt was melting into a kind of despair, cold sweat running down her ribs as she pushed out of the door and into the cool night air of Metropolis. She still wanted to vomit, to clean herself, to...the reporter clutched her midsection as the nausea took hold, and people nearby steered away from her as she leaned against the side of the building and emptied her guts.

It's real...it's all real...I can't...I can't have this baby...