End: No, She Cannot. Lois Lane's Ass Breaks. Explosively.

Blood splattered across Poison Ivy's face. The hardened villain blanched and drew back. Lois Lane's scream was shrill in her ears. Ivy could not look away as four stiff pricks stabbed into the gaping wound that had been the once-pert asshole of the Daily Planet's greatest reporter.

"Well, that escalated quickly," Ivy muttered.

"Nnnnh," Lois Lane gave a muffled moan. The reporter's head lay in Ivy's lap, and the villain's fingers played about Lois' face. The cocktail of plant-based anesthetics Ivy had fed the reporter had her tripping hard...but to make sure she didn't overdose, Ivy found herself here, in the emergency room, stroking Lois Lane's hair as the reporter's ass bled into the adult diaper as they waited for a doctor.

"This was so much easier when I was robbing banks, or committing eco-terrorism," Ivy said, to no one in particular. "I'd just go out and destroy some bulldozers, or use some vines to burst a bank vault, and then it would be all champagne and weed for a few weeks. Sometimes, people weren't even hurt."

The reporter's drool touched Ivy's thigh, and the redheaded villain—in her civilian disguise, with cheetah-print leotard, three-inch red high heels, sun hat, and sunglasses—fetched a tissue from her purse to wipe it away. Which made her look like a bored housewife out on the prowl for some strange, but definitely did not make people reach for the phone and call the cops like a plant-print one-piece would.

"I guess the whole sex thing has just been me missing Harley," Ivy told the nigh-comatose reporter. "You know how it gets when you go without for a while, you know? When you start getting into four or five keywords on your porn searches, and not finding it, and then you make that leap into doing something else—I just put all that frustration into my research. I thought I could find some girls and just...I don't know...live vicariously through them. Who hasn't thought about taking four cocks in their ass at some point? Who hasn't wanted to see that? To experience that?"

"Nnnnh," Lois moaned. Unable, at that moment, to express the sensation of her poor perforated posterior, or the immenient prospect of corrective surgery and the need to wear diapers for the rest of her life.

"I know, I know. I should have just...made things up with Harley. I should just call her and tell her I'm sorry, that no means no, and I won't wake her up but sliding a vine up her ass, pussy, and mouth at the same time ever again," Ivy said.

The villain's hand traced the reporter's ear.

"Although now that I think about it, I never got a chance to figure out the long-term psychological impact of my mind control pheromones. There's a chance you might be in an ultra-suggestible state right now, imprinted with everything I've said, and will wake up in a day or two with a deeply-implanted need to have your ass fucked with more and bigger cocks," Ivy said. The reporter gave a little **** spasm and moan.

Ivy frowned.

"I guess we'll just have to see," the villain said.

Lois Lane, lost in her ****-induced receptive state, could not answer her. In the morning, she would awake from her night out, after an emergency anal repair, and receive a stern lecture from the doctor about the dangers of excessive penetrations, which Lois Lane would pay very strict attention to and ask a number of disturbingly specific questions.

All that would be left of Poison Ivy's involvement was a single red strand of hair on the reporter's jacket, a wad of stolen money to cover the cost of the reporter's hospital bill, and the seed of an idea deep inside Lois Lane's brain that would, in time, blossom into an excess of anal devotion that would put many porn stars to shame.

Yet that is a different story.