End: Chicken & Waffles

The restaurant was called Mama's Place. The food was served on plastic plates, with plastic utensils. Lois Lane stared down at her own serving, which was half a chicken breast, deep fried, on a bed of fried dough. It was more calories in a meal than she normally ate in a day. John Henry Irons, with his bodybuilder's physique, seemed amused as she picked at the breading to get at the meat.

"Isn't this a little...stereotypical?" she said. "I mean, fried chicken..."

"Every stereotype has a grain of truth," John Henry Irons said. "Black people love fried chicken. So do white people, and Asian people, and everybody. Because fried chicken is delicious."

Lois couldn't argue with that logic. So they ate in silence, the reporter surprised at her own appetite as she began to dig in. It was probably the best fried chicken she'd ever had, and the buttermilk waffles were light and fluffy, perfect for soaking up the grease. When at last she pushed herself away from the table and used a wetwipe on her hands and fingers, the reporter laid one hand on the small food-baby she'd developed...and that sent her thoughts down other lines.

"Should we tell anyone?" Lois asked abruptly. "I mean, should we go to S.T.A.R. Labs, get checked out, or have someone in the Justice League scan our brains for Lex Luthor's programming."

"We could. If you want to," John Henry Irons said evenly, if neutrally. He seemed neither enthused nor unhappy with the prospect.

Lois found herself staring into his brown eyes. Not sure how to read his poker face. She wanted to know what he was thinking.

"I asked you what you thought," she pointed out.

"Do you still feel...under the influence?" he said evenly. "Any particular urges I should know about?"

The reporter flushed a memory of that big black cock flashed in her mind. Her pussy instinctively squeezed. It still ached from their last bout of sex, and worse, now she could feel the clammy jizz ooze out from between her lips, to make a mess of her pants. She frowned.

"I have a confession to make, Lois," John Henry Irons said, and he leaned close, his voice dropped down to a whisper. "I like to make love to white women. And I find you very beautiful. I have for a long, long time before Lex Luthor's shenanigans came on the scene."

The red flush on the reporter's cheeks spread across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks to her ears.

"Even...even so. That doesn't mean...we should..." she struggled to find the words to express her feelings. Her thoughts were suddenly confused, mind and spirit going north and south.

"Oh? You want us to do something?" He grinned, those big white teeth in an honest smile as he watched her squirm—and Lois realized she was squirming, her ass on the edge of her seat, thighs pressed tight together, her pussy squelching as she rubbed it back and forth.

"I could be pregnant," she said quietly.

"Yes. Do you want to be?" he asked.

Her eyes went wide. Lois Lane hadn't felt this sexually embarrassed since her sister had caught her rubbing one out while staring at a copy of Playgirl.

"You're a grown woman," John Henry Irons said. "Responsible, intelligent. You and I both know there are options available. And if you want to pursue those options, I can't, and won't, try to stop you. But if you do decide that the time is right to have a child..."

He stared hard into her eyes. "...I would love to impregnate you."

Lois Lane gulped hard. Her hands balled into fists. She shook with barely-controllable sexual tension. And the worst part was, she didn't know if this was the aftermath of Lex Luthor's programming, or if she was just that much of a big black cock slut.

"Right now?" she whispered.

Which is how, at the end of her night out, Lois Lane found herself with her back pressed against an alley wall, legs wrapped around John Henry Iron as he hammered at her sticky cunt with all the power in his frame—and Lois Lane bounced on his dick, grunting and sweating like a bitch in heat, she felt him stiffen and groan, and felt that extra bit of wetness down there that told her that he'd cum inside of her again.

"White pussy is my kryptonite," he whispered, in a sudden moment of lucidity.

"Well you better be ready for some kryptonite poisoning," Lois Lane shot back...and then they both realized what she said and began to laugh.

In the afterglow, as they made themselves decent, Lois Lane wondered what they were going to do.

"Each other, as often as possible," John Henry Irons said, before Lois even realized she'd spoken aloud.

"Well yes, obviously," Lois said sarcastically. "But...what about Superman? Luthor? Pregnancy?"

"Superman will understand. Luthor can go to hell. And I think you'd look incredibly sexy with a black baby in your belly."

Lois Lane snorted. "Is Black men lusting after white women another stereotype based in reality?"

"Of course," he said. "Because you, Lois Lane, have the tightest, finest, hottest pussy I've ever had the pleasure of—and you are the smartest, most courageous, and most beautiful woman I've ever known."

Which made Lois Lane blush again...but she couldn't deny that, even if they were still under Luthor's influence, she couldn't feel the little thrill in her stomach at the thought that she might be pregnant right now.

One thing was clear: after her night out, Lois Lane's life would never be the same again.