Well, It Isn't Wriggling

Lois Lane waited, listening to her pussy fizz gently. She gave it ten minutes, and then another ten just to be sure. Poked her belly gently, up near her crotch. Nothing moved inside of her. But she felt the need to pee.

Still with her pussy in the air, the reporter awkwardly crawled over to the tub. She tipped her legs over the ledge, feeling the liquid slosh inside of her, streams of cola running down her legs...but at least it was all going in the tub, not on the floor. There was enough mess to clean up as it was.

Squatting over the drain, Lois let the soda run out of her...and then pissed for good measure, the yellow stream burning its way through her urethra in a way that made her wince. She would be very lucky to avoid a urinary tract infection from tonight's stunt, but then if it worked she'd count herself lucky just to be rid of...

Something shifted inside her. Instinctively she squeezed, pushed down hard as thought doing a kegel exercise, and felt something fall out of her pussy. The reporter stared down between her feet at the deflated sack that had been the head of the giant sperm. The last few yellow drops rained down on it.

Lois was too tired to take any glee at the sight.

Hesitantly, she turned the faucet...water ran down, clear and pure. The naked reporter watched it for a moment, then nudged the skin of the thing down the drain with her toe.

Hard part over, she wet a washcloth and ran it between her legs, then got on with the hard business of cleaning up the bathroom. Without cum spewing out of the faucets, Lois Lane managed to have it sorted within forty minutes, bagging up the cum-stained towels, determined to just toss the lot and buy new ones.

For a moment she collapsed on the bed, sore and tired...but the good kind of tired, now. The kind that came from solid work well done. Lois closed her eyes for a second, thinking about a glass of wine, and then...a gentle snoring filled the quiet apartment.