Thinking of a farming community that is thriving through a famine because the goddess of nature has blessed them to become pregnant with produce and give birth to their harvest.
All of the farmers become swollen with one kind of fruit or vegetable over the course of the season, some of them local and some from faraway lands. During the harvest, most will give birth to a humbly sized crop. But the extremely devout farmers push out so much that at feasts, they will recline on a table with their legs open for the townspeople to take fresh offerings straight from their holes, which drip with the delicious juices of whatever produce they carry.
No one ever risks going thirsty, either, as every pregnancy causes the chest to swell with water so pure that it doesn’t even need to be boiled before consumption. Many in the town are employed ‘milking’ the farmers to create a reservoir for all to use. The most faithful produce so much water that their tits sag heavily around their fertile bellies, full enough that each breast can be heard sloshing as they walk. They keep cups hanging on their belts so that they can send any thirsty passer-by on their way with a drink—that is, if they don’t have time to suckle straight from their teats.
And of course the pregnancies can manifest many interesting ways…
A farmer carrying grapes will feel like their womb is full of soft eggs, and if you gently push their belly around, you can feel all the bunches shifting. When they give birth, it comes as one long vine that they can’t push very hard if they want large bunches, so they often just labor passively for days and days as the vine coming out of them grows longer and longer.
Root vegetables with leafy tops start to poke out of the farmers’ holes when they’re ready, and in addition to pushing, they need the help of a second party to grip the stems and help pull them out of their womb.
Those growing butternut squashes end up with oblong bellies, and never know whether each squash will come out head-first—leaving them to struggle on the round base—of if they’ll crown around the base and the whole vegetable will shoot out of them.
Someone carrying oranges or apples might have a bumpy belly that tumbles around with their movements, needing often to be adjusted for their comfort, and ending up in lopsided shapes if they’re unattended.
While large bunches of bananas are preferred, some—the less experienced farmers, especially—cannot stretch far enough to admit very many at once, so a farmhand is required to carefully insert a tool deep inside them and break a few off the stem. A farmer who’s used to having their bananas broken into single deliveries must take care not to be caught alone when it’s time to push, because they’ll have no idea what to do when a bunch of 10 or more starts spreading them.
Those who grow watermelons and pumpkins can often be seen in the goddesses’ temple, nervously rubbing the discolored, paper thin skin of their bellies as their body struggles to contain their bounty. With enough prayer and meditation, they can achieve a trance state for the birth, where the goddess will only allow them to feel as much as they want. For some, this is only a fraction of the pressure, which is still enough to make their groans echo in the temple. For others, this is the full impact of the birth, their bodies tortured as they’re pushed past the edge of human ability, their hearts in rapture at the chance to show their goddess how much they are willing to do for her.
It’s always important to be sure the harvests are ripe, too, of course. A farmer must pay close attention to the first of their delivery, and if it’s still green, they must stop pushing immediately and force what they can back inside. It’s quite common, especially for less experienced farmers, to need to postpone their birth by a few days or even weeks. Several farmers in this tender state can usually be found at the temple, moaning and groaning in misery as they clutch their contracting bellies and pray to the goddess for relief. Every day, the faithful visit them to comfort and soothe them, massaging them, holding them, even pleasuring them or inserting blessed artifacts into their holes to keep them plugged, so that they can at least answer the urge to push.
When the day finally comes to empty their aching bellies of the ripe harvest, it is not uncommon for the farmers to feel so pent up that each thing they push out makes them moan and jerk, slowly pushed towards the edge of pleasure. Often, the faithful attending to them will take the last fruit and fuck the farmer with it, until finally rewarding them with an almost unbearable orgasm, and then a sleep so peaceful and deep that they don’t even notice being carried home and put to bed. They are then allowed to rest for several days, first to recover… and then to germinate the next clump of seeds that has appeared in their belly.
