The minister was very kind to take you in, especially when his wife had only left him a year prior. Your fellow parishioners had urged you to accept his hospitality, citing his kindness and charity, and you did not want to disappoint them by looking a gift horse in the mouth. You’d grown up in the church-run orphanage, and were not young enough to likely be adopted, quickly aging out of the system with nowhere to go. So you went home with him, and he took care of you.
Father gave you a bed in the room across from his, took over your remedial schooling on his own so you didn’t need to leave the house, took you to service on Sundays, and fed you better than you’d ever been fed before. In exchange all you had to do was help him with chores and keep him company.
You are allowed to eat whatever you want whenever you want, and after almost a year of living with him, you’re no longer the sickly figure you once were. Your thighs and arms have plumped out. Your ribs are no longer visible, covered by a nice layer of chub. Your concave stomach is gone, replaced by smooth skin with a few little rolls. Your once small chest has been nourished as well, combining with your grown into hips to create a youthful hourglass.
Father always tells you how pretty you are, helps you brush your hair and helps you get dressed in the morning. He helps you put on your panties and dresses and runs his hands over your new curves, complimenting how you are growing up. You are Father’s miracle, and he always tells you that he loves you.
When you keep Father company, you go to his bedroom and play games with him. Sometimes it’s hide and seek, when Father always hides under the covers and pulls you into bed with him. Sometimes it’s Blind Man’s Bluff, where Father has you tie a blindfold around your eyes and find him. Sometimes it’s Simon Says, where Father tells you what to do, where to touch.
Father takes care of you when you are sick too. Recently you’ve been sick a lot. You wake up in the morning feeling like you’re going to puke, and some smells make you sick too. You’ve been sore all over, like when you have a cold, and are always tired. Your feet get puffy and ache to walk on. When you lay down on your stomach your chest hurts, and the way your nipples rub against your dresses makes you make moan sometimes, and you touch yourself in the places Father usually does.
You want to keep Father company more often now, have become needy for his games, and he chastises you for it sometimes. Never seriously though, because there is always a knowing twinkle in his eye. You see him smirk in service when you have to cross your legs, discreetly bouncing up and down on the bench in the back of the church because it feels good. Your panties are wet, and you think it’s your cycle, but it never is. Your panties are always wet nowadays, and when you ask Father about it he says it’s normal, and he can fix it.
When you play games now, he pokes at your stomach. You are confused, because it’s gone from flat to poking out a bit, and Father tells you how nice it is you’ve gained more weight, encourages you to eat more to “feed that growing belly”. You blush when he rubs a hand over it, and moan out when his hand travels lower. And you obey from then on, eating everything he puts in front of you, no matter how much.
After a while, your ‘growing belly’ gets larger, pressing uncomfortably against your now tight dresses and pushing the elastic of your panties down in a way that makes you squirm. You don’t want to say anything to Father, don’t want to ask for more than he’s given you, but the waistline of your dress has been forced up under your bust, and your front buttons are close to bursting. Father gets you new clothing when your waistline rips to reveal your big, round tum and your buttons fly off into his mashed potatoes at dinner. The new dresses are not loose, but they’re stretchy in a way that hugs your curves, and Father doesn’t get you new panties. He says you’ve ruined so many pairs that you can go without. It’ll be easier for him to fix the wetness without them in the way anyways.
You initiate the games more than he does now, having him walk into you playing Simon Says by yourself, touching how he would. He always laughs and plays along, though it’s harder now with the obstacle between you. The roundness of your belly isn’t chubby like your hips or your thighs, but firm. When he is inside you, he presses down on it uncomfortably, which makes you moan. One time, you feel something inside you flutter when he is on top of you, and you move his hand to feel it. You play all night after that.
Your body changes a lot after that. Your belly continues to grow, and one day it feels sore when pressing against your dress. You peel it up and find a dark line leading to your belly button, which is completely flattened and uncomfortable. A few weeks later when you’re alone, it pops out when you rub your thumb over it, sending a shiver across your whole body. You feel more of those little fluttering movements, which are no longer light and more feel like your stomach is kicking you from the inside. You nipples get darker, and one day Father rubs them until they leak wetness. Now they make dark spots on your dresses to match the one at your crotch. When you go to service people coo over your tummy, asking about the ‘little one’ which you find odd, but you tell them it’s growing, and when they touch it you have to make an escape to the bathroom to wipe yourself dry.
Just when you think you’re done changing, your bump explodes outwards one day, completely dwarfing your body as it proceeds to slope down and rest over your aching hips. It forces you to walk with your back arched and your legs spread wide, which makes you feel exposed below. Father is more gentle when you spend time with him, peppering the red lines on your bloated belly with kisses and touching you gently. He teases you, you think, saying that he didn’t want you to “pop” before you were ready. You don’t appreciate it, needier now more than ever, but you think you understand. You’ve been getting really bad tummy aches recently, and Father doesn’t want to hurt you. You can see the impatience in his eyes whenever you rub the twinging underside of your massive belly.
Your cramps get worse during service one day, and you writhe uncomfortably in your seat in the back the whole time, occasionally letting out little noises that the congregation can’t hear over the organs. When you sing the hymns, you can’t help but moan them out, the sounds making you feel better as you rub your belly with both hands leaning back and spreading your legs. They continue to get worse even after service is over.
You waddle back to the car behind Father, the pain slowing your gaite as you keep one hand on your aching back. When you get in the car, you can’t help but keep your legs spread as you groan to Father that you think you you might be sick. He strokes your heaving girth and proceeds to push the end of your dress up til you’re naked from the hips down, slipping a finger inside you. You groan at the pressure and bat his hand away futily as he touches you. You feel your toes clench and your legs shake. Your body twitches, and Father makes a disappointed noise, urging you to do what your body tells you till you get home. Halfway through the drive something changes. Your moans turn to grunts as you try to push something out of you. You tell Father you feel like you have to pee, or maybe poop. He unbuckles your seatbelt so he can push your dress up farther, the cool air hitting your shiny belly as you watch it clench and move. You keep grunting, spreading your legs farther in the seat, and stretch your arm around to feel yourself. Your privates are hot and pulsing, and you feel more open than usual. It makes you feel strangely vulnerable, and you can’t help but place your hand firmly over your crotch, the counter pressure encouraging you to grind against your own hand.
Father pulls into the driveway and tugs your dress down before ushering you inside. You try to make a beeline to the bathroom, but he tugs you to the bedroom instead when you stop to groan. You don’t want to play right now, the pressure in your stomach hurts too much, but Father says he doesn’t have to be inside you. You get on your knees take him in your mouth instead, moaning around him as your tummy roils and clamps down, and he spills quickly.
Then he tends to you, peeling off your sweaty dress and rubbing the heavy bottom of your belly to try and sooth the growing pressure. You grunt, still on your knees, and your body clenches. You bring your hands down on the floor as well, your belly hanging so low that it just barely brushes the carpet. You spread your legs, groaning and grunting as the pressure increases around your hips. He gets down next to you and slides a finger inside you like he did in the car. You can’t push him away because your body tightens again and the pressure moves to your privates. You struggle back up on your knees and hold your rock hard belly with both hands as you try to push whatever is pressing downwards out of you, teeth firmly together.
Father pulls you up to your feet, about to walk you to the bathroom, and for a moment the pressure abates before you need to squat down. You scream as the pressure squeezes your belly like a vice, and you push down hard without stopping. Something explodes from you. Your thighs are drenched and there is a puddle on the floor. You’ve squirted the wetness before, but never this much, and you moan out to Father that you had an accident, your knees sliding further apart as you try and spread them while standing. Father tells you to sit on the edge of the bed while he goes to get some towels, presumably to clean up the mess you’ve just made, and you blush with embarrassment as you perch lightly on the clean sheets, trying not to get them too wet. When you sit down, something feels very wrong, and a panicked feeling rushes through you, your body automatically leaning back so that your privates aren’t obstructed by the bed, legs open as wide as you can keep them.
You’re panting in time with the clenching of your belly, the rhythm of the pain coinciding with the need to bear down, and you really need to stand up again and squat once the brief respite ends. Your crotch is burning and you let out a scream as your belly hangs between your knees, breasts heavy and leaking atop them. Father rushes back in and kneels under you, fingers skirting along the edge of your hole, and you can feel something large coming out of you. You want to ask what is happening, but you find yourself incapable of anything other than screams as the solid mas slowly inches its way through you. It doesn’t fully get out though, and the vice squeezing your belly once more eases, the big mass slipping back inside. You instinctively reach a hand down to your crotch. It feels hot and open and tender, and it’s still dripping as Father’s fingers move to stretch your opening.
Father pushes you back so that your butt rests on the edge of the bed, the sudden contact with your lower half causing you to moan and press your crotch out towards the air to avoid grinding it into the bedsheets. He places towels over the puddle on the floor and then has you stand so he can place one on the bed beneath you,something within you telling you to rock your hips back in forth as you wait for him to be finished. Your belly feels rock solid, and it almost hurts to touch but you can’t take your hands off it. The skin ripples under your fingers, and the underside is so tender that it makes you keen. Soon the vice grip begins to squeeze your belly once more, and Father pushes you onto your back on the bed, fingers digging into your sweat slick thighs still coated with fluids. Immediately it feels wrong, the pain in your lower back intensifying with the position, but you don’t have time to object before Father tells you to grunt with the pain and “push”. Whatever is stuck inside you must have to come out, and you do as he says, Grunting and pushing as the pressure increases, the burning around your opening coming back full force as you feel yourself stretch wider and wider. Suddenly it’s like your lower half is on fire, and you screech as your body keeps pushing, the tight squeeze not stopping until suddenly the stretch is over.
You flop back into the bed, still feeling something big between your legs, keeping them open. After a few moments catching your breath you notice Father talking to you, telling you what a good job you’re doing, that it’s almost over. You whimper, begging him to make it stop, but he just caresses your thigh before rubbing a palm over the thing coming out of you, a sensation that makes you moan and makes your stomach tighten and flutter. Your belly is a little lopsided now, the top less firm and the bottom heavier. It feels weird, and you ask Father if you can squat, the twinges in your lower beginning again. He helps you to your feet and then onto your knees, your belly keeping you from seeing just what is spreading you open.
You keep your thighs apart, rubbing your lower belly and moaning, noticing how much softer it feels overall, all of the weight shifting downwards. You grunt and give an experimental push to try and alleviate the pain in your back. But instead of easing it, your whole belly clenches, the swell pulled in and the muscles outlining the bulge within you, and the ache in your hips intensifies. Quickly your squat sends you to your knees, and you can’t help but pray that whatever ordeal you’re going through is ended swiftly. Father is behind you, and his hands are around the object coming out of your opening. You feel yourself stretch once more around it, your fists meeting the floor as you give one solid, final push. A scream tears itself from your throat, and you feel the fluid burst from you once more, and suddenly you know it’s over.
You’re on your knees, gasping for breath and rubbing your tender belly with one hand while the other braces you on the ground when you hear it. Crying. Suddenly, from between your legs, Father hands you a baby. Your nipples are hard and leaking, and you instinctively bring the child to your chest. When he’s back in front of you, you can’t help but look at Father in wonder.
“You had a baby.” He says matter of factly, looking curiously at the child in your arms.
“It must be a miracle!” You reply, wondering why God would give a virgin like you such a gift.
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