Epilogue: Pregnant Prison

The first day, Lois Lane did everything she could to escape.

There were no doors or windows. The air vents were too small to fit through. There was no television, no books, just the bedroom and the bathroom. So Lois began the slow, methodical demolition of the room. Tore the gilt-framed erotic paintings off the wall. Broke one of the posters off the four-poster bed, and used the cock-headed hardwood as a battering ram against the painted walls. Beneath the paint was only bare cinderblock.

Lois had sat on the mattress of the ruined bed, when a bell rang. She turned to look for the source of the sound, and found a small tray-table by the bed which hadn't been there before...and on it was food. A McDonalds salad in a plastic box, a double cheeseburger, and an iced tea in a paper cup. The reporter frowned, but the growling of her stomach told her she should eat. So she picked at the salad, drank the tea, and got back to try and figure out how she was going to get out of here.

Knocking on the walls, Lois couldn't hear any hollow spots. She pulled a wire off the back of one of the paintings, and began to poke at the cement between the cinderblocks. It scraped off into a fine powder. With nothing better to do, Lois scraped and picked. It must have been hours she worked; the reporter could see the little pile of grey dust accumulating on the floor.

There were no clocks, no ways to tell time.

Lois wasn't sure when she decided to give it a rest, and curled up on the mattress.

She awoke to the ringing of a bell. Opened her eyes to find the room exactly as it had been: broken furniture restored, walls repainted, paintings hung. On the tray table was an Egg McMuffin, a paper cup of black coffee, and an orange. Lois was halfway through breakfast when she realized one thing was different: her clothes were gone. She sat in bed naked.

The first day—if it was a day—set the tone for the days that followed. Lois would methodically dismember the room, seeking some way out...pulling up floorboards, hammering at walls, washing herself in the bathroom...and eating McDonalds. She refused to give in to depression, even if she was only going through the motions, but she found herself tiring more easily, and blamed it on the bad diet of fast food, the lack of exercise.

Blaze didn't visit her...but she was watching, somehow. Lois knew that, because sometimes things would change when she awoke.

There was a scale in the bathroom now. Lois had been 115 pounds when she came in, and now it said she was 119. That sent the reporter into almost a frenzy of push-ups and sit-ups, until her abs ached and she puked that day's breakfast into the toilet. When the stubble on the reporter's pussy had gotten to the point where she was scratching herself, a safety razor appeared...and Lois had used it, wondering how Blaze was keeping tabs on her.

"You could give me something to read!" Lois had said aloud...but nothing answered her.

Except the next morning, there was a bookshelf by the bed. A small, dark walnut affair...but it was filled with pornographic novels. The reporter methodically went through the contents anyway, hoping for something she could use. The thought came to her that maybe she should start a fire...but she knew she could easily die from smoke inhalation, in such a closed space as this.

One "morning"—Lois wasn't sure how many days she'd been here—she weighed herself at 122 pounds, and Lois had stared at the ceiling and said: "Something other than McDonalds, please!"

She wasn't sure why she had added 'please' at the end. Yet that evening, when the bell rang, Lois heard her stomach rumble...and found herself with a personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut, alongside her salad and a large Coca-Cola, instead of the usual cheeseburger. Lois fell on the food, grateful for the change of pace, determined next time to ask for something healthy.

After that, Lois stopped trying to break up the room. She read through the books on the shelf, exercised as best she could in the small space, and she occasionally made requests out loud. Some of them were ignored: no clothing was forthcoming, no non-pornographic books or newspapers, nothing to write with, no internet or television or clocks.

The **** inactivity was having a toll on Lois, and it wasn't just the fast food or the lack of exercise. She began to sleep more, sometimes awaking only when the bell rang, hunger dragging her out from under the sheets. Dark, strange thoughts haunted her dreaming and awake. Half-baked plots. Her voice cried out for grimoires, books on the occult, headache medicine, but they weren't forthcoming.

At some point, the doldrum crossed the line into actual illness. Even though the fare was more varied, it was still fast food, all grease and salt, and Lois began to feel genuinely sick...stomach roiling with nausea, vomiting, a low-level fever. Lois found herself lying in bed all day, reading those tawdry pornographic paperbacks, rubbing her fresh-shaved slit...and then one "day" she found something new in the bathroom, sitting on the sink next to her toothbrush and toothpaste.

A pregnancy test.

And Lois Lane knew her imprisonment was just beginning.