Epilogue: Breast Pregnancy

None of Lois Lane's bras fit. She had tossed the largest of her lady holsters back in the drawer in frustration this morning and gone braless to the doctor's office. At first she thought that it was just the typical swelling that sometimes happened with her period, hormones going funny, retaining water. Except her breasts weren't saggy; if anything they were firmer than before, standing out from her chest.

It had been two months since the night at the club. Lois had been sick for most of it, nauseous at odd times, appetite varying between completely gone and ravenous, often for odd things. Corn chips with cottage cheese, pickles and yogurt, stewed tomatoes...the reporter had found her diet shot to hell, and watched the scales tick up slowly. Yet little of the weight seemed to be going to her belly or her thighs...all of it had gone to her breasts.

In twelve weeks, her bare handfuls had nearly doubled in cup size, band size going up four inches. To anyone staring at her—hard not to do, with how puffy her areolae had gotten, though thankfully her inverted nipples spared her at least some embarrassment—it looks like she was smuggling a couple of large pears.

The doctor was good about it during the manual exam. Lois held her hands above her head and tried not to think about other things as the latex-covered hands scientifically squeezed, running from the outer edges inward. Yet her tits were so sensitive these days...the reporter bit her tongue, trying not to moan.

"You don't have any breast augmentations?" It was a black woman, with a slight Caribbean accent.

"Au natural," Lois confirmed.

"Any discharge from the nipples?" She kept squeezing, and Lois winced, feeling a trickle of pussy juice leaking down her leg.

"A little," the reporter said. In truth, her nipples often were a bit damp in the mornings.

"Well, I'm definitely feeling a hard lump in each breast. We should do a mammogram. It might just be a benign fatty tumor, but it pays to take a look at it. You aren't pregnant, are you?"

The reporter's heart skipped a beat.

"I...I mean I don't think so. I haven't had sex in about eight weeks."

"Better safe than sorry, then." The doctor's brown hand guided Lois to the mammogram machine. "This is the new LexCorp model. Ultrasound, instead of X-rays."

There was no particular indignity to placing her rack on the machine, except for the first time in her adult life Lois actually had breasts big enough to place easily on the tray. There was a light buzzing sound...and then it was done.

Lois turned to the doctor, who was staring at a screen. Wordlessly, she pointed.

Rendered in black and white, the reporter recognized the outline of her swollen titties. The gray striations of milk ducts and fatty tissues...and something inside each one, maybe the size of a strawberry. Little round sacks. Lois felt her heart leap into her throat.

"Is it cancer?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.

The doctor, grim-mouthed, adjusted something on the screen. It zoomed in on the mass in the right breast. An unmistakable outline, bulbous head and curled spine, little hints of arms and legs...

"I...want to run some additional tests." The doctor said. "Because in all my medical years I have never seen anything like this. But that looks...very much...like an eight-week old fetus." She paused to take a breath. "It is the same in the other breast."