Attack!

Lois Lane had enough. She had been abused, jizzed on, and her plumbing looked like the aftermath of the World Bukkake Championships. The Daily Planet's Greatest Reporter wasn't about to be put down by a bunch of cum-chugging cultists.

Her hand closed on the sawed-off hammer in her purse, and she launched herself forward. The goons behind her stumbled forward, having expected her to retreat; most of the cultists still had their cocks in hand, unprepared for a frontal ****. Even the priestess, pure white eyes going suddenly wide, was taken aback by the reporter's charge.

One bare foot shot up, kicking the bowl of cum-encrusted wafers up into the air. The reporter's toe caught the underside of the priestess' chin, snapping her head back like it was on hinges. All around Lois, the cultists desperately fell forward, trying to catch the cum-crackers in their hands or mouths, picking them up off the floor and stuffing them into their eager maws—or pussies, as the reporter briefly noted.

But she had no time to stare at the spectacle of fresh semen-stained bread being crammed up into eager cunts with trembling fingers.

The two cultists who had blocked her entrance on the stairs were on her now. Big, beefy men, three or four inches above six feet, muscles like bodybuilders, dressed in black t-shirts and black pants. Lois knew the type at a glance: steroidal monsters with tiny dicks and lots of zits. Not people you wanted to fight with...but then, most of them were big enough that they didn't know how to fight.

Lois paused, swiveled, and her right hand shot out, hammer held near the head. The first cultist ran right into it, the heavy metal slamming into his throat, the impact numbing Lois Lane's arm down to the elbow. The thug collapsed as though he'd been poleaxed.

But then the second one was on Lois, big sweaty hands grabbing for her wrist and throat, keeping the potentially deadly weapon away from him. He leered at her—ugly little piggy eyes, thinning hair, bad teeth—but he was a wall of muscle, and she didn't even try to break his grip.

Her left leg came up between his legs with as much **** as she could muster, and though she knew it was impossible Lois swore she could feel the testicles driven up inside his body. The face turned purple, the grip slackened just for a moment.

The reporter brought her leg back and booted him one more time, just to make sure.

He collapsed, hands cupping his shattered balls. The whole scene had taken maybe thirty seconds. Lois panted, adrenaline singing through her veins, a center of calm in a storm of chaos. There were at least thirty cultists here, plus the priestess with the bloody mouth trying to stand up.

Lois Lane realized she had maybe ten seconds before they realized she was all alone and outnumbered. She needed a plan.