There's Nothing She Can Do

As a journalist, Lois Lane had always avoided cliches like victims being "frozen with fear." Now, however, as something seemed to squeeze her heart, so that her pulse pounded in her ears, her scream died off to a mewling whimper, and her muscles seemed to lock rigidly in place, she began to get an idea of what it was actually like. Unable to bring herself to move, scarcely to breathe, Lois could only sit there in the tub as the bloody hand gripped her arm, thumb and pinky forming a tight circle around her wrist...

The other three fingers, long and tapered and finely shaped, moved almost independently, the tips brushing and prodding her skin as they explored Lois' arm, leaving behind red fingerprints, red a fresh blood. Like a spider, never quite relaxing its grip, the hand crept up her arm, the palm leaving a bloody trail behind it. More of the arm, wet and dripping crimson, emerged as the hand moved.

Then it was where her arm met her chest, and the hand lay flat against her, creeping slowly forward...and Lois could feel her pulse against the palm, the pale blue veins beneath her skin, the long middle finger tracing one as it crept over the collar bone...and the wet heat of the hand came to Lois, emanating through the point of contact with her skin. The fingers played along the collar bone, leaving bloody little kisses...and then dropped down, the whole hand, five scarlet finger-streaks clawing down her right breast, the fingers pressing in to her tit, grabbing and squeezing it...

Lois' breasts had always been sensitive, and she had loved it when her lovers had played with them—even on her own she liked to fondle and cup, squeeze and caress, to flick her her nipples into hardness, then take them between her fingers and press and rub—but never like this. Never this blind pawing, like an eager lover in the dark, trying to find and feel the whole shape of her mammary.

Then the hand found the nipple. The palm rested on the underside of her breast, hefting and supporting it, while the fingers groped and touched, two of them gently circling her areola...and Lois silently cursed her body's betrayal as the little nipple became erect, hard as a pebble, standing out on the teat, and the pointer and index finger captured it between them, rolling back and forth, tugging gently at the erect tissue...and Lois felt the rest of her body begin to respond to this attention as well, but for the moment all of her attention was focused on that dark, dripping hand that smeared gore all over her breast...