Lois Saves Herself

Time slowed down for Lois Lane. She could hear her heart beat go from a rapid thudding to a slow, sonorous boom in her ears. Chest rising and falling at a glacial pace, breath almost frozen in her lungs in the moment of panic. The Scarecrow's penis was touching her, almost inside of her. The reporter could feel the shape of his pale mushroom tip, the heat of it against her own pussy.

This is it. Lois told herself. One last hallucination from the ****. I'm going to be ****. And there's nothing I can do about it.

She lay like that between heartbeats. Her eyes were fixed on the clove cigarette on the carpet, so out of place. Unable to move. To breathe. To react as a dark red hand came down, and picked it up. Slender fingers, well-manicured nails. A woman's hand.

"Lois Lane," a voice came from somewhere far above. A woman's voice. Just a hint of an accent, something Mediterranean. "Is this who you are? The damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued? The victim who lies back and takes it?"

Fear had frozen Lois—the strange, terrible, chemical fear that defied all logic and common sense, that had reached down inside of her and dredged up that awful image of her bloated and knocked up, a used sex toy, worthless and helpless.

Now a new emotion flared in Lois, bright and furious. She couldn't move, couldn't respond, but the heat of that emotion seemed to fill her whole head. There was no breath to make a response, no strength in her limbs to even move, but she could feel the hate untapped by those words.

The cock pressed against her was an alien thing, a hateful transgressor. Lois wanted to rip it off and feed it to him. The fear and lust were still there—she could feel her pussy was wet, the terrible image of getting **** was still turning her on—but the helpless victim was gone. She had passed through it into some other place. **** as she was, she was poised to attack.

A bit of ash fell from the cigarette onto the carpet. "If you're not a victim, then stop acting like it."

Just like that, time sped up again. Lois' heart threatened to burst from her chest. The Scarecrow leered over her, relishing the sensation as his cock kissed the entrance to her vagina.

The reporter rose screeching, hands curled into claws, tangled in the mask around his eyes. It was the only thing that saved his vision, but she twisted and scratched, knocking the eyeholes askew. Momentarily blind, he fell back—and then Lois was on top of him, her whole weight on his chest. Punching like an army brat, knuckles digging in at throat and eye. Even with the sudden surge of fear-fueled strength, the naked reporter knew she wasn't doing much real damage. The Scarecrow was regularly beaten up by Batman; his costumed was armored and padded for worse than Lois.

...except for one bit.

Reaching down, Lois grabbed the Scarecrow's testicles, the tiny balls doing their best to crawl back up into his body. Her nails dug into the thin, sensitive flesh, the wiry pubic hair matted and thin against her palm...

The Scarecrow, self-proclaimed master of fear, began to bluster and babble. He raised one gloved hand, green-grey gas dribbling from a hidden port.

Lois leaned down and whispered in his ear, low and menacing. "What do you fear?"

Then she squeezed until she thought her fingernails were going to meet.