The Film Ends And They're Still Fucking

The plane disappeared into the grey horizon. Lois Lane had read somewhere that they couldn't get a real plane, that it was made out of cardboard, and that the actors in the scene were little people. It was silly enough that she wanted to believe, even as the music swelled and the credits rolled.

The lights in the theater came on as Blaze grunting and bucking in her chair, busted another nut in the reporter's cunt. The dickgirl gasped for air, sitting still as Lois, realizing that her lover was done but not yet hard, kept going on her own. Her pussy rode up and down on that hard shaft, dribbles of jizz leaking down her thighs, over Blaze's balls to stain her pants and the seat cushion. Her squishy cunt made obscene squelching noises as the reporter bobbed up and down, and Lois Lane's hand rubbed at her pussy. She wanted just one more orgasm, just one more...

Somewhere outside the theater, the staff heard the muted squeal. The two assigned to clean the theater eyed each other and smiled as they pulled on their latex gloves, double-checked that they had their lysol wipes and mops.

Lois and Blaze staggered out of the door ten minutes after the film had ended. The reporter was beaming, her hair a mess, her pussy a sopping, squelching, squishy swamp of jizz. Blaze looked tired, but the good kind of exhausted. As they passed the cleaning team, one hand shot out—a pair of hundred dollar bills that quickly disappeared into pockets—and then Lois and Blaze walked out into the cool night air.

After midnight, Metropolis has a certain charm of its own. Like all great cities, it never really sleeps; but as large parts of it begin to drowse, you can sense the aloneness sometimes. Blaze offered her arm. Lois took it. They strolled to where the car was waiting.

"That was fun," Blaze offered.

"I'm not normally that needy," Lois said, her legs still wobbly. Blaze opened the door to the car, and Lois slid in. She could still feel all the jizz leaking out of her pussy. It wasn't like her...any of it. To take an unprotected cock into her pussy, to get a creampie. The whole thing just sent a weird thrill through her body, and on top of that there was her long dry spell, and the fact that she was...was...

Trying to make a baby.

It really hit Lois hard, all of a sudden. What she had been doing. Blaze and herself. That was what this whole "date" was for, after all.

Blaze slid in. The driver turned around.

"Where to?"

The dickgirl looked at Lois, an eyebrow raised. "It's late. If you want to go home..."

"I think...can we just drive, for a while?" The reporter said.

Blaze nodded. The privacy screen went up. The car moved.

"Second thoughts?" The dickgirl asked.

"And third, fourth, and fifth," Lois admitted.

"You've done nothing wrong, Lois Lane," Blaze told her. "Your mother's soul is free. You have accomplished that. Found what you came for." The demon's head tilted. "So what bothers you?"

"Motherhood," Lois said, leaning back in her seat, both hands on her stomach.

"You strike me as quite a capable woman. I'm sure you'll be a great mother...if and when you do get pregnant."

Lois looked over at her. "How do you know I'm not pregnant yet?"

The dickgirl shrugged. "The odds are good, but nothing is a given. Some couples try for years to get pregnant. Some women get pregnant when they have sex for the first time. You have been inseminated—repeatedly—" she allowed herself that damnable Mona Lisa smile "—but even so, conception could take minutes or hours. Your egg cell might be fertilized tonight, or tomorrow—or never."

The reporter looked at her. Journalist senses were tingling. Blaze was hiding something.

"You don't know."

"No."

"But you could tell, couldn't you? If I was pregnant right now. If you wanted to."

Blaze met her gaze.

"Yes."

Lois Lane ran sweaty palms over her shirt. A strange itch was building in her pussy. Something between anticipation and excitement, fear and elation. She had to know.

"Tell me," the reporter asked. "Am I pregnant?"