End: Turn Lois Lane Into Pregnant Teenager

The pins and needles sank deeper. The teenaged reporter screamed and fell to her knees as the sensation sank into her brain. Into the very core of who she was. Or...who she could be.

Images flashed through her brain. All those stupid reality shows. Teenagers who had gotten knocked up, and some idiot put them on TV. Let people see their swollen bellies and breasts. Listen to their vapid, brainless thoughts. Complete sluts who had spread their legs and taken dick, been ridden around highschool during senior year like a public bicycle, and now they were famous and...

...and Lois Lane's own teenaged years had been sexless. She had been a good girl. Never got trashed at parties. Never slept with anyone before she was eighteen, and then she made him wear a condom, and it was just to punch her v-card anyway. Little Lois Lane, flat as a bored, a winnowy weed, not like those curvy teenagers that got sacked by the star quarterbacks or ran a train for the basketball team, and...

....and then the reporter saw it. In her head. An image of what she could have looked like six months after her eighteenth birthday. Long dark hair. Wide hips, A ghetto booty. Big tits that were even bigger to feed the babies. Pink areaola gone dark, her nipples bigger than the mosquito bites of the girls who hadn't developed yet. Perfect skin, no stretch marks, just a big baby belly...swollen with twins...no. Triplets?

"Full. Fucking. Octomom," the teenager whispered to herself as the gravid, distended abdomen in her mind's eye became honking massive, bigger than the rest of her torso, with a pair of fat fucking milkers up top to match.

Only one thing would make it more perfect.

Superbabies.

"Unfff," Lois Lane as she spontaneously squirted, a hot dribble that ran down her legs at the thought. I only she had met Superman when he was Superboy. Same age as her. A teenaged hunk. Young and full of cum. When she was at her most fertile. The things Lois would have done with him once she turned eighteen...the things she'd have let him do to her. And no condom would be able to hold his super-loads. No one. She imagined herself flying through the air, wrapped around him, as he pumped load after sticky load into her tight twat. Pounding her so hard all her eggs shook loose, and all his little swimmers were right on target.

By degrees, the pins and needles sensation faded. A harsh new reality began to assert itself on her flesh. With her eyes still shut, Lois Lane's hands roamed over the huge, taut dome of her belly. Only six months gone, and she was going to get even bigger. Lithe teenage thighs gave way to chunkier, meatier drumsticks better suited to a young mother. Her nipples ached. Too soon for her milk to come in, but somehow Lois knew she was going to be a fucking cow when it came time to feed the octoplets. Already, she could feel the aching tension in her shoulders, neck, and back from the added weight.

Then Lois Lane opened her eyes...and gasped.

She couldn't see her feet. Just the massive curve of her swollen stomach, and resting on top of that the huge, fat sacks of her breasts. In a heartbeat, all the aches and pains of being an enormously pregnant eighteen-year-old struck Lois at once, and she nearly collapsed forward...but she managed to lean back, onto her haunches. As a reporter, she had to believe the evidence of her eyes and other senses, and everything told her she was knocked up. Super-knocked up. Only Superboy could have been the stud to pump this many babies into her.

With a giddy glee, Lois Lane explored her body, all the brattiness evaporated in the sudden realization of an idealized form, a wet dream, a degenerate fantasy that shocked even those up above.

"Holy shit," Mercy Graves said. "What the fuck just happened!?"

One of the technicians pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Um. Well, we're not sure what that variety of red kryptonite does, but we think it generates an idealized form using Kryptonian's inherent psychic powers."

"She looks like she's about to having a fucking litter!" Mercy insisted.

"Not due for several weeks yet, I estimate," Lex Luthor said as he read the data. "Beginning of the third trimester. With multiples. Intriguing. I wonder if she'll actually give birth? If the children will be psychic projections or real? I suppose it depends on whether or not the effects are permanent...she isn't one hundred percent Kryptonian after all..."

"What...are we going to do?" Mercy said, utterly unprepared for this unexpected nativity.

Lex Luthor tapped the console. Then he smiled.

"Offer her a deal."

Teenagers, impulsive as they are, don't make the best decisions. Some are more impulsive than others; teenaged mothers rarely get knocked up after long and careful discussion about the possibilities of starting a family. So when Mercy Graves emerged in the white room, with an offer for Lois Lane to get her own television show, with free bed, board, clothes, and medical care for her and the babies for the duration of the pregnancy and a bunch of money on top of that...she signed it without reading each and every subclause.

Now here she was, in a scandalously almost-transparent pink nighty that barely covered her nipples and didn't cover her belly at all, in her brand new room with all these stuffed animals and silk sheets and the four-poster bed that Lois had always wanted, and Lex Luthor had made it all happen in just a few hours because he was so rich, and the pregnant teenager smiled at the camera and said:

"Hi! I'm Lois Lane and I'm super-knocked-up!"

Lois Lane had never imagined her night out would take such a turn. Nor did she have any idea how long this would last. It felt like a dream she never wanted to wake up from. Yet she knew, as she settled down onto her side, the only position that made sleeping comfortable, she hugged a plush Superman pillow between her breasts and whispered.

"And they all lived happily ever after. The end."

She prayed it would be so.