End: "Please Fix My Broken Pussy"

It had been a long night for Lois Lane. She'd been fucked beyond endurance, her womb was almost hanging out of her cunt, and her investigation had gone to hell. If this woman said she could fix her...well, the Daily Planet's Greatest Reporter was too tired to look a gift medic in the mouth.

Doctor Blaze led Lois into what appeared to be a very clean and modern clinic, complete with a familiar-looking gynecological chair.

"Undress, sit down, and place your feet in the stirrups," the doctor said. "Do you have any allergies?"

"Pollen," Lois said as she shed what few clothes she had left. The reporter found she could barely walk as she came near the seat, the pain in her hips and between her legs growing with every step, so that she had to shuffle forward with bent knees and splayed legs.

"Are you on any **** or medications?"

"No." Something about the coldly clinical nature of the question reassured Lois. As she crawled into the chair, she heard the sound of rushing water. Turned to see that the dark-haired nurse was scrubbing her arms with soap.

Settled into the chair, Lois grit her teeth, and had to use both hands to lift each leg, one at a time, into the stirrups. Once there, however, she found she could relax. This position hurt less.

When Dr. Blaze reappeared, she was masked and gloved, with a tray of instruments in her hand.

"I'm going to give you a little something to help numb the pain," Blaze told her. Lois bared her arm as the doctor wiped the inside of the reporter's elbow with an **** swab. Then she opened a syringe. "It's an opioid, so I don't want to give you too much. It may make you feel a little drowsy..."

The kiss of the needle was almost a relief compared to the burning ache in the reporter's crotch. Lois did her best to relax, though she could feel her pulse quicken a little. She took several deep breaths and made fists with her left hand, almost willing the **** to circulate faster.

"Can you really fix me?" Lois said as the doctor took a position before the reporter's legs.

"Oh yes. More common with women than you might think. Surgical intervention is rarely necessary. Your body will heal. Worse comes to worst, you might need a pessary for a little bit, but I think you're young and strong—and it doesn't look as bad as it might feel."

Lois hoped that the doctor was right. She closed her eyes as she felt a heaviness settled on her body. The pain was fading a bit...it was much less than it had been a few moments ago.

There was a wetness, down by her pussy. The doctor wiping the slit down. It must have been **** wipes, because they stung brightly through the ****. Lois felt fingers spreading her lips then, and something pressing in...pushing...penetrating...

"Lois, can you still hear me?"

"Yes..." The reporter's brow furrowed. Had she told the doctor her name?

"Try to press down. Like you're going to the bathroom."

Lois did as she was told. Pain flared throughout her lower abdomen, and she couldn't tell if it was actually working, doing anything. The probing continued. It seemed to be going further inside of her, and the reporter grimaced. She could practically feel something pressing against her cervix...not as thick as the cock-plant had been, but...

Dimly, the reporter opened her eyes. They stubbornly refused to resolve, yet it seemed like the doctor was standing over her. Their hips were touching and...yes, there was a dark cock sliding in and out of the reporter's pussy, pressing in deep, and the gloved hands were tracing signs on the reporter's abdomen, all around her navel. Weird, squiggly signs, which in Lois Lane's haze reminded her of sperm.

"Is this..." Lois struggled to find the words. She realized her body was hot once again, nipples hard. Responding like she was being fucked. It had happened before, during gynecology exams, to the reporter's eternal embarrassment. "...part of the treatment?"

"Oh yes," Doctor Blaze said, and for a moment those dark eyes seemed to flash pure white, with no iris or pupil. Lois Lane felt her chest rising, body too heavy to move, pussy leaking, but the pain was gone. She almost felt like she was floating in mid-air. "You'll be...good as new...in the morning."

The doctor grunted, and Lois felt a hot wetness inside of her. Without disengaging, the doctor thumbed a floor pedal, and the chair shifted, raising Lois Lane's hips, so that it wouldn't escape.

"When you awake," the doctor said. "You will remember nothing. That is one of my gifts to you."

"Gifts?" Lois slurred the word a little. She was so tired. Her pussy was a little sore, but it was like the soreness after an energetic bout of sex, long dis-used muscles strangely satisfied. It almost felt like something was deep inside her pussy.

"The other you will not find out about. Not for many weeks."

The reporter didn't hear her.

Night became day. Lois Lane woke up, fully dressed, on her bed. Blearily, she looked at the clock—6 AM. She shook her head, as the fantastic dreams of the night stayed in her memory. There was a club...Poison Ivy...cock-plants...a doctor...

Out of long habit, Lois took up the pen and pad by her bedside and recorded as much as she could of the dream, before full wakefulness caused it to fade. Obviously, she had fallen asleep before she had gone off to the club. Her long period of sexual abstinence meant that wet dreams were not entirely uncommon. She could even feel the damp stickiness in her pants, and a kind of bloated feeling in her abdomen, though her period wasn't due for a couple of weeks. Lois was relieved, later, to look down at her pussy and see it was perfectly normal, although there was a little soreness deep inside.

Weeks...weeks later, Lois Lane would have cause to revisit her notes, and wonder how much of what had happened that night had been a dream...and how much of it was reality. Either way, the reporter knew, staring at the little plastic test in her hand, she was going to be living with the consequences.