Lois feels...bloated

In the cab on the way back to her apartment, the idol still snug against her stomach, Lois felt a sense of elation. She had done it—although she had taken the idol on a whim, and still wasn't entirely sure why, the adrenaline rush of the successful theft hit her like a ****.

This must be what Catwoman feels like. Lois thought to herself. She really had to hold onto the idol tight, as it felt almost like it was digging into her belly. The driver didn't care, radio turned up to catch the tail end of the Metros game.

The reporter clutched the idol to her belly the entire trip, even while she paid off the cabbie, and the long elevator ride up to her apartment—did not dare to end the act until she was safely inside, with the door locked and bolted. Only then did she begin to disrobe. In a hurry she shucked off the jacket, pants and shirt, to stand naked, to hold the idol. When she took off her pants, she noticed why the idol had seemed to dig into her stomach—her normally taut midriff seemed rounder, softer, and more sensitive than normal. Lois gave it an experimental rub, but with all the drinks she had, couldn't be sure if she was making a mountain out of a mole hill.

She set the idol on her bed—it was that or the kitchen table, and that was already covered with her laptop and bundles of books, papers, and other research materials, and other usual clutter. The whirls incised on the distended belly and pendulous breasts were almost hypnotic, primitive in conception but not in execution. Some artist had toiled over this, Lois thought, a little dizzy from the **** and the theft. One finger tip idly traced the line on the belly as it spiraled in toward the belly button—and traced the same figure on her own tummy. Her focus was interrupted when her own stomached growled, and her gut pinched hard enough for her to gasp. Yet the pain ended almost as soon as it began.

Lois knew she hadn't had anything to eat in hours, and then the **** on an empty stomach...not good at all. When her stomach gurgled again, a wave of nausea hit her, and Lois nearly flew across the apartment to the bedroom to the bathroom.

Several minutes later, she emerged, and on shaky legs made her way to the kitchenette. The fever from the club was still with her, and she remembered the old adage about "Starve a cold, feed a fever..." so the reporter reached past the diet drinks and bagged salad to pull out cold chicken and a bag of Chocos—she needed something substantial—and dug in. Although she had intended only a light meal, by the time she felt finished, both the chicken and the Chocos were gone, and she felt a bit bloated. She laid a hand on her stomach, which felt taut and over-full.

The idol lay on her bed, and lethargy took hold of Lois as she clambered over to lay down next to it. She rested on her side, to better stare at the idol. Her hand traced the spiral on her belly again, and she wondered where it was from, who had made it before it had appeared in that weird shrine, with all those sexual offerings...and what it might represent. These thoughts still filled Lois' mind as she fought back the sudden urge to sleep.