End: Lois Lane Is Trapped On The Toilet By Her Growing Stomach

As the golden pollen settled on her immense gravidity, the reporter suppressed a shudder and struggled to rise from the toilet.

Only her legs wouldn't work. The reporter tried to stare down at legs, which refused to respond, but her swollen stomach was in the way. Grabbing ahold of the bar on the wall by the toilet, Lois Lane tried to lean over...and though she could see the taut balloon of a womb that filled her lap, she couldn't see anything holding her legs in place.

Yet she could see a green tendril, like a root or a vine, that had crawled across the floor and disappeared between her feet. A moment later, Lois found where the other end of it had gone.

Something wet and thin prodded against her buttocks. The reporter shuddered and clenched. With both arms, she grabbed the bar on the wall, and strove to lift herself from the toilet seat. Yet her muscles felt like jelly. Her body felt too heavy. Another shower of golden pollen wafted over Lois, and the reporter went cross-eyed, suddenly dizzy and unbalanced.

The root or whatever it was wiggled against her desperately-clenched asshole. Yet something else dropped from the ceiling and hit her face. The reporter, still cross-eyed, focused on the tiny tendril that bumped against her nose. The thicker part of it was green, but the tip was a soft green, with a little hole that oozed some sweet-smelling liquid. As Lois watched, the tendril rose like a snake and bumped against her nose.

Lois released the bar for a moment, to swat at it. Somehow she missed—and then the tendril shot into her nostril.

Panic set in then. The weak and swollen reporter grabbed at the tendril, even as it slid deeper into her nose. Down her throat. She couldn't even cough to dislodge it as she felt the slim tube slide deeper and deeper down her esophagus. The other tendril pushed against her asshole, the pressure a little more every second.

It was only a matter of time before both tubes penetrated her body. The reporter squirmed uncomfortably on her toilet, shifted her mass, eyed the exit.

Maybe if I fall to the floor. My weight might drag the tubes out. I can drag my belly along the ground... Lois thought desperately, not sure why her brain seemed to be moving so slowly.

Then, someone opened the taps.

Lois couldn't feel it, exactly. Yet there was a sudden pleased gurgle from her stomach as that sweet fluid began to flow into her body. From below, the need to void lessened. The tendril penetrating her asshole seemed to slowly swell, though so slowly that Lois hadn't noticed until it crossed some threshold of awareness. That kind that reminded her that her sphincter couldn't close, that the intruder couldn't be expelled and was there to stay.

"Help!" Lois finally said desperately, her voice thin and soft, pitch wobbly and out of tune thans to the vine that snaked down her throat. "Please! Someone!"

No one heard her. Yet Lois could feel changes happen in her body. The gravid gut which rested on her thighs began to push forward as whatever was being fed to her in turn fed her passanger. Every so often, the potted fern would release its golden dust...and Lois Lane found herself trapped on that toilet in a kind of narcotic stupor. Feeling the nutrients being pumped into her body through the plant feeding tube, the wastes being carried away.

Pounds slowly accumulated as some unseen enemy played her body like some musical instrument. Dully, still clinging to the bar on the wall, Lois Lane noted that her navel was out past her knees. She had long ago lost track of metaphors for how pregnant she looked. Angry red scars striped the torpedo-like distended abdomen that looked overdue. Nor was that the only casualty of her **** feeding and inactivity.

The reporter's leaking breasts swayed to either side of the great gravid belly, pulled down by gravity, tippling balls of flesh that jiggled obscenely with every moment. Her thighs swelled until they met, her buttocks threatened to overflow the seat of the toilet. Though she couldn't see it, Lois could feel the soft skin beneath her chin begin to pull down into a paunch of fat. Under her thinly-muscled arms, bingo flaps began to grow.

Pinned to the toilet by her own weight and immense pregnancy, Lois Lane wondered when this hell would end.

"Not tonight," Poison Ivy said to herself, as she watched the grossly pregnant woman on the toilet. The reporter stared forward, regular blooms of the narcotic plant keeping her quite helpless as Ivy's seed gestated within the reporter's womb. "By the time you're ready to pop, my dear, your thin self will be nothing but a memory!"

There was a hint of madness to Ivy's cackle as she watched the reporter, who was only now beginning to come to terms with her situation. Ivy's narcotics had dulled her mind even as they had supercharged her metabolism to serve her pregnancy and build fat reserves.

The reporter would need them. With a breeder like this, Ivy would soon have enough for an army.

"First Metropolis," Ivy whispered. "Then the world!"

Lois Lane did not hear her. Panting and unable to move, her mind reflected on the decisions she had made tonight that brought her to this ignominious end. All the times she could have done something differently. A part of her wished she could back up, take a different route. Maybe fulfill her mission and not be subject to such terrible transformations. Perhaps, in the weird universe of Lois Lane's night out, there was such a path—yet all Lois Lane knew was that she had chosen poorly, and now was trapped in a bad end.