Goddess of Growth

The pantheon of the gods of fiction is diverse and crowded. At the apex of the land, there are the Gods and Goddesses of Genre – somber Mystery and bubbly Romance, statesmanlike Literary and impetuous Scifi, and a dozen more besides.

Beneath this rarified tier, the sub-Gods and Goddesses, those who rule over some subsection of their patron deity’s domains. Mystery has under his reign both a portly European gentleman known as Drawingroom and the wild-eyed maniac Thriller; Fantasy’s realm contains a section controlled by High and his brother Low, and another cousin named Historic.

Where we currently dwell, however, is somewhat more… rustic than these glorified heights. For it is here, under the house of Erotica, a pristess of Fetish is sleeping fitfully.

The Monastery of Expansion has always been a backwater, even within the domains of Fetish. Less trafficked than its fellow waypoints of, say, Cuckold or Leather, a pristess assigned duties here could expect a quiet eternity of tending to the libraries of breast implant jokes told by third-rate comedians or tales men tell in bars about the one that got away whose tits were seriously as big as watermelons, ask Bill if you don’t believe me, he was there.

But something has been brewing within this nameless priestess, and she has been unable to rest for days. Strange snippets of stories seem to be flitting to and fro in her mind, but she does not recogize them from the stacks of books she is tasked with maintaining. And her robes have been fitting strangely – not an uncommon occurance for a priestess assigned to the monastery, but usually the robes themselves also shift with such changes – hers are instead showing a positively indecorous amount of cleavage.

She rises and, sleepily, makes her way to the Abbess, herself a minor deity, responsible for every euphimism for ‘big tits’ ever employed by a man when describing a woman. She was one of the first sub-deities of Fetish, almost as old as language itself.

“I have been plagued with dreams and strange premonitions,” the priestess says, adjusting her robes and failing to conceal her bloated breasts. “I’ve always felt this pull, but never this strong.”

“Come, let us pray at the shrine to our Goddess,” the Abbess says, and the priestess rolls her eyes behind her back. That is her solution to everything.

But she has no better solutions to offer, and so follows the Abbess to the sanctum, where they kneel, the priestess’ breasts filling her lap as she does so.

They sit in silence, both communing with the Personification of Smut, the Deity of Naughty, the Goddess of Erotica. The priestess is about to open her mouth to speak when, with nary a whisper of movement, the Goddess stands before them.

What precisely she appears as is different to everyone who gazes upon her. To some, she is wholy male, a highland scottish lord ready to reveal the secrets of pleasure to an unsuspecting farmgirl. To others, her aspect is that of a blonde co-ed, tanned and ready for a sororoty-wide sapphic orgy. Still others see their own deepest desires reflected back to them, the Goddess concerned wholly with the dreams of others.

How she appeared to the Abbess and the priestess is beyond the ability of anyone to describe – for how can one describe the true nature of another’s fantasy? What matters is what she said:

Aʀɪsᴇ, ᴍʏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴀs ᴍʏ ɴᴇᴡᴇsᴛ Gᴏᴅᴅᴇss.

And with that, the priestess stepped forward and was transformed.

Her robes, which had been failing to contain her body properly for a while, disintegrated entirely, revealing the depths of the transformation she had undergone. As she stood, she found herself towering over the Abbess, her body transformed into that of an amazonian-scale woman. Fine striations of muscles peeked through her soft skin, which still had a layer of cherubic chubbyness to it, infusing a hypnotic wiggle into every step.

Her breasts had swolen to titanic orbs, each one much larger than her head, but still sat firm and high on her chest. Her hips groaned and stretched until they would fill a doorway, their waddle whispering of fecundity in abundance.

“I am… Growth!” The new goddess said, speaking her name for the first time in millenia.

Erotica beamed.

Mʏ ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘᴘᴇʀs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀs ᴏғ ʟᴀᴛᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ.

Growth stretched her arms and beamed at her Goddess. “I can feel their worship, every word they type, every line they post. Oh, it feels… like a chorus of tongues!” She shivered.

Cᴏᴍᴇ! Mᴇᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ sɪsᴛᴇʀs.

With a wave, Erotica and Growth vanished from the monastery, leaving the startled Abbess behind, masturbating furiously to the memory of her Goddess appearing before her.