Into The Arms of Clark Kent

She ran without thinking. Instinct guided her to his apartment. Rang the bell. Waited, sniffling, as he opened the door. Fell into the arms of the only friend she had, the only one who could maybe understand. That loveable doofus Clark Kent.

He had his shoes off, and his coat and tie; dressed only in his slacks and shirt, those big farmboy shoulders stretching the white cotton. She hugged him and cried and for a moment it was like he didn't know where to put his hands...and then he returned the hug, big arms wrapping around her gently, chastely, as though he was holding something infinitely precious and fragile.

No questions, just let her cry it out. And in between the sobs, she told him the story. What had happened that night. The Scarecrow. Her terrible fear and desire. Which had led her here, to this place, where she felt warm and safe and...

This is stupid, Lois thought as the tears stopped. I shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have put all this on him. Poor Clark, he'll get the wrong idea, he'll...

"I could impregnate you, Lois," he said softly.

The reporter's hands clutched him tighter. Her heart leaped into her throat, her pussy squeezed the bottle it was holding. It was the most perfect and terrible thing to say. They were colleagues, friends, and she was...and he was...

Lois Lane looked at him. Really looked at him. One hand rose and took off the black plastic glasses. A single black curl fell over his forehead in a familiar "S" swirl. Something hard pressed into her belly, right through his clothes. Hard as steel. His whole demeanor was serious, and he didn't let her go as the realization sank in. Her knees suddenly shook.

"Oh," she said, and they were floating, just an inch above the carpet.

Toward the bed.