A Breeder's Body

Her tits were impossibly swollen, blue veins prominent in the saggy teats, nipples dark and large, areaolae like dinner plates with prominent bumps, the pointed tips ringed with fresh bruises, the sides striated with red stretch marks. They ached, from deep within, with a terrible pressure and the dull pain of long use, white milk leaking in slow streams from the glands.

Raising and pushing apart her saggy tits was a swollen belly, sitting high and extending outwards in front of her, the dark line splitting it in two, belly button popped by stretched by the massive cargo within...and there was a jewel on it, a little hanging charm with a gravid belly, hanging off of her distended navel.

Right above that, in letters that had been stretched and distorted by the skin beneath, she could make out a single word, tattooed across her stomach in an arc:

BREEDER

A black tallymark, crude and purposeful was tattooed on the side...one stroke for every successful pregnancy. Lois shuddered as she tried to count them individually, then marked off the groups of five...and it wasn't all fear that she felt. Lust flooded her cunt, which must be a swollen and grotesque thing with dark lips, probably festooned with arrows, pleadings, instructions, though she could not see them she knew they were there. CUM HERE. OPEN FOR BUSINESS. GRADE A+ FERTILE.

The alley swam in and out of Lois vision as the toxin-induced dream flowed over her. She knew that the Scarecrow was correct—this was what she feared, and secretly wanted. What she might become, if she ever gave in totally. Addicted to pregnancy. A breeder slut, her womb constantly in use. No time for reporting...for anything. Fresh off of giving birth, she'd offer herself to anyone, to get a fresh load of jizz and start the cycle all over again, no matter the toll to her body, her reputation, her life...and Lois shivered in ecstasy and terror at the thought of that loss of control, of giving in, giving up, to abandon everything and just be a womb to rent...or not even that...

"Tell me..." the Scarecrow's eyes burned into her. "What do you see?"

Haltingly, Lois tried to put it into words...the desire, the disgust, how her bloated body, scarred from endless childbirth was alien to her. No longer the trim, fit, tight body she worked so hard to have and maintain, but damaged goods, stretched, swollen, and worn from the rigors of her gravid adventures.

Yet even the act of talking cleared Lois' head a little. She could still feel the chemical fear and lust roiling within her, but the words gave it shape...focus. Addled as she was, the bottle in her snatch still burning within her, she wondered if she could use that to create an opening...