Call For Help

"Okay, jizz pouring through the doorknobs is some serious wicked witch shit," Lois muttered. The reporter grabbed her smartphone off the counter and found Zatanna's number. The Justice League sorceress owed her a favor, and Lois Lane was not above calling it in. Not where a spreading puddle of jizz was slowly covering kitchen floor, spurt after white spurt dripping down from the gaping hole that had been her front door handle.

The phone rang. Lois Lane's eyes tried to be in two places at once, watching the puddle near the front door, and the sloppy white good that was sloshing over the tub to spill onto the bathroom floor.

A click.

"Zee? It's Lois Lane. I need..."

Something warm and wet touched the reporter's ear. Lois wrenched the phone away from her head as though stung. White goo was seeping out of every port and seam, the digital screen slowly filling with a familiar grayish goo.

Lois dropped the phone. The screen cracked as it hit the kitchen floor, which sticky cum oozing out of the broken device. The light of the screen remained on, but the reporter couldn't hear anything.

"Fuck," Lois muttered, wiping at her soiled ear with her hair. Her eyes went to the empty socket that used to hold her landline—but she was wireless-only these days. Then she glanced at the laptop where it sat on the kitchen table. If the same thing happened to that...

Think Lane, think! She told herself. Don't panic. Just got to think of a way out of this.

She looked toward the patio door. At twenty stories up, her apartment offered a great view from the balcony, but not much in the way of escape. Still, it would at least let her try to signal for help. Or maybe she could experiment, see what the limits of this curse or whatever it was were. There had to be some limit to it...