I’m pretty sure I’d fallen in love with Jana within 10 minutes of meeting her at that stupid St. Patrick’s Day party. She was so clever and so silly, but at the time she exuded a kind of warmth I’d never seen before. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had my concerns at the time. Here I was, the man who’d never dated a woman smaller than a D-cup, getting serious with this slender little twig of a woman. Yeah, it was partially superficial, but another part of it was that I’d always been up front about wanting a family, a big one at that, and Jana had hips so small I could almost my hands completely around them. How could I ask a waif like this to risk her life, to have a lot of babies? Wonderfully enough for me, it turns out that Jana also wanted a big family, and she was more than happy to take the risk. But why, I asked?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “When you want something badly, you make it happen.”
6 months after our wedding day, Jana was throwing a positive pregnancy test in my face as I stepped out of the shower. A month after that she was ordering both new bras and panties because the old ones were getting too tight. Two months later I was looking at our credit card statement and I realized that our food costs had doubled.
“See?” Jana said, rubbing her still tiny bump in between bites of lasagna, “I told you I’d make it happen.”
At the beginning of the second trimester Jana’s belly was still the smallest curve on her growing body. Friends who hadn’t seen her in months were noticing first that she’d seemingly overnight developed a pair of respectable-sized breasts, followed by a respectable-sized ass, and then maybe only after that the slight pudge around her stomach.
By the third trimester it was obvious that Janna had a bun in the oven, even on those rare occasions when she wasn’t wearing a skin-tight shirt or dress to show it off. But even then, the bump was the second or even third stop on the tour that the eyes of the increasing numbers of male (and female) visitors were taking of my wife’s body. F-cups on a 110-pound woman who’d halfheartedly worn an A-cup a year before tended to have that effect on people, and the amount of stares she got only seemed to encourage her to flaunt them even more. When I asked how she felt about the attention, she just smiled and gave her ass (also much bigger) a little shake.
“A month ago I was a perfect hourglass. It’s not my fault that my tits didn’t get the message and kept growing.”
By the beginning of the 9th month, Jana is 40 pounds heavier than she was at the beginning of her pregnancy, with 5 pounds in each boob, 10 in her ass and, and another 20 around her belly and hips. She’s still a slender little thing above the neck and below the knees, but everything in between is the body of the fertility goddess I’d always dreamed of impregnating. One night, after a marathon session intended to bring on labor, we were snuggling in the afterglow when Jana turned to me.
“Did you really believe me when I said I’d find a way to grow our babies?”
“Of course!” I said, as I idly caressed a heavy breast.
“Good,” she said. “Because I want twins next. And I promise that if you knock me up again that I’m going to get absolutely fucking massive with them.”
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