A Real Memory

As Lois shook, the tentacles squirming deeper into her grey matter, she tasted molten copper in her mouth and felt something wiggle in her left nostril...and she tried, really focused on a single bright, powerful memory.

It was the Halloween party at the Daily Planet. Someone had spiked the punch, and Lois Lane, in her little blue Star Trek uniform with the boots and miniskirt, was feeling good and buzzed...and horny. It had been a few months since she'd had any action, and as she'd undone the first few buttons on her blouse to show off what little cleavage she had, the reporter had sipped her punch and surveyed the field...not that it was promising. Her editor Perry White was married. Jimmy Olsen was...well, Lois wasn't sure what was going on with him these days, but she wasn't convinced he was playing the same game. And big, hunky, former-quarterback Clark Kent...

Lois caught sight of a red figure ducking into the supply closet. She slid away from the loud, laughing, slightly **** crowd. Sucking down the last bit of punch for courage, she twisted the knob and slid the door open.

There Clark was, black plastic frames of his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, his chest filling out the Superman costume nicely, and he greeted her with a bumble of words...and Lois smiled, wishing she could twitch the pointy rubber ears she was wearing.

"You know...Shmallville," Lois said. "You're...almosht...out of uniform."

The reporter was sure that Clark had said something clever to that, but she didn't remember what it was. A lot of this memory was fuzzy around the edges. But she remembered how her hand had grabbed at his red shorts, and how she'd smiled at the thick bulge she found there. Behind his glasses, Clark's blue eyes widened...and then his face fell, somehow sad.

"You're drunk," he said.

"Ssho?" Lois slurred. Gently, he pressed his hands against the reporter's shoulders.

"Lois, we shouldn't. You're not yourself. You might regret it later."

"Tomorrow, shir, I will be shober!," Lois declared. "And right now, my pr-prime directive is to shuck cock!"

He was holding her at arm's length now and Lois was squirming. Clark was stronger and faster than she thought. Every time she thought she could get inside of his grip, he'd push her gently off to the side. Lois felt the heat rise in her face.

"Lois, please," he said. "I don't want to talk advantage of you."

Agitated, the reporter grabbed at his arms and lifted herself up. She rubbed her feet against one another, until her black boots came off...and then, with a smile of triumph, the drunk reporter's stocking-clad toes reached forward to rub at the Superman's erection through his red shorts.

"Come on, Clarky," Lois said. "I'm not...not that drunk. It's not like you're going to fuck me. Just...just let me shee it."

The reporter licked her lips. "It'll jusht be...our little shecret. You know how much I've wanted to...shex with Shuperman..."