Press play

You press play, and a documentary on Superman’s supporting cast begins.

“I think I’m a bit old for cartoons,” Lois says, as she sits down on your sofa, crossing her long shapely legs. “Although this looks kind of real, and, wait a minute! That’’s me!”
You nod, as you sit down on the other end of the sofa, not wanting to scare her away by sidling too close. If anyone’s worth waiting for, she is.

You see her listening intently, as on-screen they talk about her animated self. It’s hard to tell what she’s feeling, if she’s missing the animated world her memory’s have been plucked from, since her face shows no obvious emotion, but then all of that changes as she suddenly becomes more, for want of a better word, animated.

“Did that guy just call me bossy? Of all the nerve. I’d like to give him a good talking to.” Lois looked sexy enough just sitting there before, but she looks even hotter now she’s riled.

You continue watching her, while the documentary moves on to Jimmy Olsen. Her interest in the on-screen goings-on seem to be waning, except that every so often Superman makes an appearance, and her robo-slut side takes over, her hand slipping down into her skirt.
“Poor Clark, he hardly gets a mention,” she says, during a gap without a Superman, and then she’s making more moaning sounds, as her hero reappears once again. Not that she’s the only one getting aroused.

Her eyes turn from the screen, and look straight into yours, as you’re staring at her pleasuring herself. What she wants is unmistakeable. Her violet eyes are glowing, burning with a hunger, but not for food. She wants to break her fast with your speeding bullet, your powerful locomotive, she wants to leap your tall building with a single bound.

“I need a man...” she says, as she moves towards you, and her other hand starts massaging you, making your erection even harder, “a man of steel.”

You shift uncomfortably as your cock strains against your underwear. “Are you sure this time?” you ask, not certain whether you’ll be able to resist her a second time, should she once again ask you to stop.

“Don’t worry, stud, there’s no turning back this time,” she says, sitting on your lap, straddling you, grinding herself against you. “I’m going to take you to heaven and back, make both our Earths move for you. Sure, Lois Lane would never do that, but...” she tears open her jacket, buttons popping off, revealing a bulging pink bra underneath, “this is a job for robo-slut.” She hugs your face into her inviting cleavage.

And then everything changes, for the worst. “You almost had me believing you,” she says, now holding your face in her hands, looking down at you with disappointment, “but that was a step too far.”

You look at her in confusion, as she climbs off you and attempts in vain to fasten her jacket with its few remaining buttons. She looks over at the documentary, still running, now talking about Clark Kent’s parents.

“I thought you were a good guy, I looked into those Doe eyes and thought I could trust you, but I was just falling for your lies. You must think I’m stupid.” She stands there, her arms folded in front of her, a hurt look on her face. “You honestly expect me to believe that Clark Kent is Superman?”