Knock Knock

Lois steeled herself as she stood before the door. A shiver of excitement or apprehension went through her, but she reached out...and knocked.

Her knuckles disappeared into darkness warm and wet as fresh tar. A suction pulled at her hand, and she could see, could feel the slow steady creep as she sank into the door. Lois grabbed at the doorframe, braced herself. Yet the pull was inexorable she flexed and pulled, but the pull continued, slow yet constant. By the time her right hand had disappeared into the Black Door, she gave up on decorum. She screamed the name of the one person that might could hear her, might could help her.

"SUPERMAN!" Lois Lane's scream echoed in the dark garage.

The Daily Planet's star reporter still screamed his name as the strength gave out from her fingers. As the darkness closed over her face, and began to flow through her open mouth and nostrils, blocked out all sound, all light, all air.

No, not all. Lois opened her eyes, and could see through where the door should be—a door-shaped frame into a hazy world. Heat radiated from beyond, as if Lois stared into an oven, but she could make out figures that moved in that grey beyond—nude figures moved in a kind of dance that circled around a woman that knelt, hands on her knees, back straight. An older woman dabbed a crude brush in a bowl at her hand, brushed something black and sticky on each nipple, on the slight curve of her belly above her mons, long thin blue-black lines down each arm and over each hip to the legs...

The dance shifted, a silent tempo Lois felt rather than heard, and her own heart beat faster. Dancers lined themselves up in a gauntlet. They were all women, Lois saw, but their breasts were huge, high and proud. The large bosoms looked absurd on the women's think, lanky, supermodel frames, bones visible through the thin flesh...yet the breasts were heavy and full, nipples hard and thick as thumb. The woman who knelt stood up...and began to walk.

As she passed the first pair of dancers, they exploded. Streams of white milk arced in the air and splattered against the painted woman. Steam after stream hit her, ran down the dark lines...and Lois could smell it, at that moment, the barnyard odor of animals, the smell of fresh milk...

Her breasts swelled. As the milk hit her skin, the walker's own breasts seemed to grow heavier, wider. Lois saw the swell of the breasts become visible from behind, the gentle curve of the orbs spread wider than the woman's torso.

The woman didn't stop. Every step, the dancers shuddered and moaned, nipples hard and breasts heaved as they painted her. After the fifth pair, the painted woman got down on her knees—and now it splattered in her hair, on her face, ran over her back and buttocks, smudged the dark lines as it dripped down arms and legs.

In the final stretch, the painted woman, still on her knees, raised her head and opened her mouth, pink tongue arched out to catch the streams of milk as they fell on her. The final dancers lowered their breasts to aim at her face as she passed, the white liquid pooled in her mouth. The woman's throat bobbed as she swallowed, then opened her lips again for more. Lois swallowed the drool in her own mouth, the smell so strong now she could almost taste the milk herself.

The gauntlet ended. The painted woman, now daubed in white and black, continued forward on her knees. Her nipples scraped the ground, which left twin trails of milk. Before her, Lois saw what the woman had headed for—a throne, on which a naked woman sat. There were horns on her head, and black hair that reached to the floor, skin the red of fresh, bright blood. Her breasts were small in proportion to those of the women of the gauntlet, more fit to her slim, muscled figure. Yet between her widespread legs was a vast black prick—something better suited for a horse than a human.

Lois could see this was a true hermaphrodite—heavy balls the size of grapefruits dangled above the leathery black labia, and below that, the swollen donut of the anus. The painted woman crept forward on her knees. With her hands, she gripped the muscled red thighs and pulled herself up. The walker climbed the woman on the throne and stood over her, swollen teats dangled in that face, one hand grasped a horn on either side of that scarlet head—and then she began to lower herself onto that great black cock.

A moan shuddered through the crowd, as their breasts collectively spurted a little again, white drops dribbled down their erect nipples...and Lois, finally, recognized where she had seen the face of the painted woman before.

It was her own.

Lois steeled herself as she stood before the door. A shiver of excitement or apprehension went through her, a sense of déjà vu, as she stood before the door, one hand poised to knock.

Then she rapped her knuckles on the hard metal. The Black Door opened, and she stepped through.