Epilogue: Her First Victim

Lois Lane struggled to stuff her growing erection into her pants...and finally had to settle with letting the last three inches protrude from the top. She zipped her jacket up, which largely covered it, though there was still a distinctive bulge as though she was trying to shoplift a liter bottle of Pepsi.

The thong panties were impossible to wear like this; she bunched them up into a jacket pocket. Going commando was interesting with her new testicles, but she could manage long enough to get home.

Tired, exhausted, and with one more mystery to solve than she had come down her with, the reporter began the long climb up the ladder. Even as tired as she was, Lois appreciated the physical activity, it drew her mind away from her current predicament...namely, what was she going to do with a dick?

The thing—Lois hadn't a ruler or measuring tape—was definitely on the porn star size of things, even though it was smaller than the ridiculously oversized phallus she had humped on the statue. Fortunately, she didn't currently have any lovers to explain her new addition to, but that still left her with...what? Surgery? She could just imagine going into a gynecologist for a consult.

Of course, the alternative was to call in an expert on magic, someone like Zatanna or Dr. Fate...they might be able to help her. She was sweaty by the time she reached the top, not even paying a thought to the top being open...not until she heard the familiar snikt of a switchblade being opened behind her.

"Okay bitch," a rough Suicide Slum voice echoed on the bare concrete walls. "Wallet, phone. Then lean against the wall."

Carefully, Lois placed her phone and wallet on the ground by her feet. Took three steps over toward the wall, glancing to the side, just enough to get a look at the thief with her peripheral vision.

Young black male, early twenties. Basketball pants, some Gotham City sports jersey, shoes that cost more than the rest of his outfit put together. Almost a stereotype.

Tired as she was, Lois was willing to let the phone and wallet go. He'd get some cash, but she could lock down the credit cards in an hour, the phone was password-protected and had a tracking app. The hardest bits to replace would be the fake IDs she had in there.

She was mentally already planning the call when she felt the knife against her throat, his hot breath against the back of her neck. One hand squeezing her ass.

"You pretty, bitch. Think I'm gonna break off a piece of this ass before I go."

Lois had always heard that many rapists didn't **** because of sexual desire. It was a way to express their power and dominance. Maybe that was true of this young man too. But as he pulled at her pants, revealing the lack of underwear, the blade lifted from her through the tiniest bit...

The back of her head cracked into his nose with shudder of pain, bright and sharp in her scalp, and a satisfying crunch of broken cartilage. She grabbed the wrist with the knife and twisted, the blade clattering on the floor some little ways away. Tired body still remembering the old exercises she spun, his arm twisting above her, and she got a glimpse of a bloody face as a mask of pain, right before her knee dove upwards and drove his testicles somewhere around his kidneys.

She let him fall to the floor, every sense suddenly alert as the adrenaline kicked in, heart pumping wildly...

"What da fug?" He managed, staring in horror at her monstrous cock. It had slipped out during her attack, standing tall and proud, veins throbbing gently, head swollen. Her body ached with a new, unfamiliar need.

Her hands grabbed his head, thumbnails pressed into the skin of his eyelids. The would-be **** could only stare at the fat pale cock a hair's breadth away from his lips.

"No teeth, bitch," The reporter said, feeling an unexpected strength in her voice. "Or I'll poke out your eye and skull-fuck you."

Lois wasn't sure where the words had come from. In the moment, she wasn't sure she would actually be able to do that. Yet she dragged the young black man's face toward her, blubbering slightly, tears tracing down his cheeks as she **** the almost too-big head of her cock passed those lips into the hot, waiting mouth...

There was no romance in it, and not much in the way of pleasure. Criminals are a cowardly lot, and hurt and without a weapon, subject to a taste of the same indignity he had intended for his victim, the would-be thief and **** was reduced to mindlessly sucking on her cockhead like a giant pacifier, without skill or passion.

The dickgirl was disappointed, as well as disgusted with herself. She could, probably, get off on this eventually. But the scene of the frightened and weeping thug aroused more pity than erotic interest, and unlike him she wasn't any kind of sadist.

With a disgusted growl, she pulled her dick out and hit him one, hard, right between the eyes. Hard enough to feel the shock of it up to her elbow, whole arm going numb...but his head snapped back like it was on hinges, and he was **** before he hit the ground.

She retrieved her phone and wallet, and after a moment's thought, the switchblade. Stuffed her cock back inside her jacket and resumed her journey. Her balls throbbed, nature's punishment for denying them the chance to blow their load, but she ignored it.

Lois Lane, the Daily Planet's Greatest Reporter, might have a cock, but she wasn't about to let it control her life.