Lord Satanus

Lois Lane left her pants and panties behind. In her shirt and jacket, she followed the faux-Vixen out of the jungle-themed room, into a red-carpeted hallway that looked like it belonged to an upscale hotel. Lights on the doors showed which were occupied at the moment; erotic prints on the wall showed various heroines and villainesses in states of artistic undress. Lois padded on bare feet behind the horse-cocked shemale as they turned to the left...through an unmarked door into bare concrete walls and floors...down a set of stairs on which each step someone had carefully painted pentagrams and six-pointed stars...and to another, heavier, metal door covered by elaborate texts in white chalk, Latin and Hebrew and what Lois thought was cuneiform.

It smelled like the stall of some large animal. The reporter rankled her nose at the beastly odor, like the pen of a bull, or a horse in heat. That musky, unmistakably masculine odor.

There were seven bolts on the outside of the door. The Black shemale undid them one by one, and then pulled the door open...and a warm, wet breeze hit Lois Lane full in the face...

...and just like that, she squirted. It wasn't an orgasm. Her pussy simply squeezed itself and ran like a sponge, rivulets of juice flowed down her legs...and she could feel that squeeze, deep inside her, run up into her torso. As though her pussy prepared itself for its next challenge.

It was a small cell, barely wide enough for its occupant. There was no light. More elaborate diagrams were written on the walls, but Lois was focused on the naked figure who sat on a bench, facing the door. His great muscled arms were manacled to the wall above his head...and Lois caught a glimpse of a lean, muscled body, more swimmer than bodybuilder, no trace of fat at all; skin the color of blood on parchment, dark horns that rose up from a broad brow, a face hidden in the shadow of a helmet like a Roman legionnaire...but what caught Lois Lane's attention was his cock.

It stood at least three feet long, and the tip was as wide as a two-liter bottle of cola. A great ridge ran along the underside, veins as wide as the reporter's thumb snaked along either side of it. The reporter's jaw dropped as she took in its impossible length, it's girth...it was a tool for impregnating elephants, and the football-sized testes that hung halfway to the floor between the splayed legs looked as if they could do the job. It was almost cartoonish...comical...except it was real.

The helmeted head did not rise...but a voice, masculine, sepulchral, and resigned burbled forth...

"Is that you, sister? Are you here at last to end the suffering of Lord Satanus?"