Ivy Wants To Breed The Perfect Human-Plant Hybrid

What followed next was a blur, hours that Lois Lane would never remember in their entirety, but which she would stitch together into a sketchy timeline of events as they came back to her in flashes and dim erotic nightmares.

Lois would remember herself in one of the back rooms, stripped naked, feet up in the stirrups like she was at the gynecologist's office. Tubes in her arms, feeding her blood, saline, and something pale and green with a biohazard trefoil on it that made her veins grow green beneath the skin.

Remembered Ivy's mask and gloves. The cool gel that the plant woman began to massage into the reporter's cunny. It tingled. She was so wet already. Moaning and writhing as Ivy's fingers worked deeper and deeper.

The plant villain had said something about it...a certain kind of seaweed. How it helped loosen the cervix. Later on, Lois would read about certain abortion clinics that used something similar.

Except this was the exact opposite of an abortion.

The seed was the size of a coconut. As Ivy rubbed it against the reporter's cunny, the **** reporter saw a seam begin to open horizontally. Something pinkish white slid out, like the shoot of a new plant...but oddly hairy, mammalian. Lois thought of an umbilical cord...and then she felt it slip deeper inside of her, lubed by the cool gel, until it touched something deep inside that made Lois convulse as a sudden cramp hit her, nearly bent her in two.

Hands had grabbed the reporter then. She distinctly remembered the panic that gripped her as the living thing found her cervix and pressed against the opening. The muscular sphincter gave way, slowly, painfully, as the whitish thing instinctively sought somewhere to take root.

Lois remembered the faces of those who held her. Their names, their ages, their majors at Metropolis University. Tonya Wong. Mara de la Cruz. Diana Reynolds. Jenny Dunlap. These were the women who had gone missing, who she had come here to find, to save...now leering, idiot faces, nipples hard against the fig-leaves that served in place of bras, their pussies wet and dripping so that Lois could smell them from here, eyes vacant.

"The formula needed a lot of tweaking," Ivy had said, her voice swam through the mix. She had said so much. The seed she'd found in a meteorite studded with kryptonite, feeding off the radiation. A real superplant, but male, without a female. The weird genetics, so compatible with human genomes. Projected gestation period in the hundreds of months; projected lifespan of the final hybrid in centuries...

The reporter's scream as her cervix had finally dilated enough for the stamen to slid in, the pollen bursting inside of her, the painful bloating sensation.

"Your body will bloom, Lois," Ivy had said as exhausted, the dying superplant withdrew, falling limp and lifeless, its sticky seed already inside of the reporter's violated womb.