Chapter 9 by Zeebop

What Does Lois Do?

Pace Herself

Lois sighed and poured herself a drink. Part of it was thick and part of it was runny. It looked like snot and smelled like a bathroom that had just been cleaned. She sipped it slowly, trying not to taste it too much.

There was an art to drinking, and Lois Lane knew it. She had learned it early in her journalistic career, watching the really heavy drinkers. The trick was not to drink too fast, but steadily. To stop short of being full. Let things settle. Drink again. With ****, it was all about building up a tolerance, acclimating oneself, letting some of the **** process. With this...and Lois could tell now there was no booze in it, really, just the essence of sperm...it was more of a matter of letting her body process it.

So she drank, and talked with Boston Brand, the Deadman. Who knew an inordinate amount of gossip, and wasn't unwilling to answer questions. They talked and glass by glass, quicker than most might expect, the level in the pitcher diminished.

Lois felt slightly queasy thinking about exactly how much jizz she was ingesting. A normal ejaculation might hold a tablespoon. She knew, from her sex life, what that felt like on her tongue. Her face. The small of her back. Shot out in a stream onto her stomach, and rubbed off onto her thigh. Each drink was...six tablespoons? Twelve?

An orgy, basically. She was drinking more semen than most whores saw in a week. Could feel the sticky film of it cling to her tongue, her teeth.

The worst part, though...the absolute worst part...was that the more she drank, the more she got a taste for it.

The last of the pitcher dribbled into the glass like a sixty-year old squeezing out the final gooey drop from his wrinkled grey hairy balls.

"Now what?" She asked Deadman, who was in the middle of detailing how Batman's butler folded the Caped Crusader's underwear.