Epilogue: Morning Sickness

Lois Lane slid out of bed, trying not to wake Blaze. The clock by the bed said it was 3:07. Work in a few hours. She stumbled to the bathroom, stomach roiling. Already she could feel the bile rising in her throat, the convulsive almost-hiccups that preceded the heaves. Didn't even bother turning on the light, just got down on her knees before the toilet and retched.

She knelt there before the porcelain goddess, feeling feverish and achy. Intuition told her not to wander away from the bowl, not until she was sure whatever sudden illness had passed...and she didn't want to wake Blaze if she could help it.

Four weeks, the demon had been sharing her bed at night. At first, Lois had wanted to resist, had tried to think of plans, loopholes, ways out of it. But every night she had to come home, and Blaze would be there with the night's activities planned.

The reporter hadn't been getting much sleep. And after the first week, she had stopped trying to clean her pussy out before her morning shower. It was easier to just let it be a sticky mess, the dickgirl's cum running down her thighs. What's more, she swore that each night the cock was a little bigger. The reporter's pussy felt sore and stretched.

Maybe I'm sick, she thought as she leaned against the toilet seat. Maybe all this sleep has worn down my immune system. Caught whatever stomach flu is going through the office this week.

But nobody at the office had said anything. Lois showed up with bags under her eyes, walking funny, and everyone just smiled and...no one seemed to notice anything off. At least her work hadn't suffered. Assignments came in, stories written, her editor was happy.

Lois stared into the bowl of sick, a yellow haze floating in the bowl she didn't recognize. Did I eat something weird last night? It was just chicken noodle soup...and the ice cream, after. Too much sugar?

She shook her head...and then froze, hearing the familiar padding of bare feet on the floor.

"When was your last period, Lois?" The demon's voice was like raw silk scraped over a fresh wound.

The reporter counted back in her head. It had been a while, hadn't it? The last one she could remember was two weeks before that night at the club...and Lois Lane's insides seemed to chill as she realized the ramifications. It had been six weeks since her last period.

Blaze's hands lifted the reporter's ass. Still on her knees, clutching the toilet bowl with white-knuckled hands, the reporter felt the now-familiar sensation of the cock-tip rubbing up and down her poor abused cunny. She hissed as it slid in.

Definitely bigger.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about periods, Lois." Blaze whispered in her lover's ears, her small breasts brushing the reporter's back. "Not for the next nine months, anyway."