Within the wild Northlands, a place where the Ulfung, or wolf folk, roamed and lived and eked out a living, there was a place considered sacred by all who knew about it: the maternity grove. The grove, blessed by a mother goddess, was a font of life magic and bountiful fertility. It was a place where expectant mothers could travel in order to safely ride out their pregnancies and deliver their children, free of wars between their tribes. All wolf-skins knew better than to make war on the grove or harry those going to or from it, for it would invite the wrath of the gods themselves.

A helpful cult of followers called the grove home. The Ulfhednar were one tribe of wolf-skins, a fierce and warlike people with a proud heritage. The Fjallúlfar, another tribe of wolf-skins, were gigantic, towering over their brethren as well as mortal men. And while their tribes might make war outside the grove, here in its sacred confines the cultists got along well, serving a greater purpose.

They could all be most charitably described as ‘plump.’ More realistically, you might call them ‘fat’ or even ‘obese.’ The denizens of the grove didn’t mind, however. They knew that fertility was concerned with more than just making babies—it had to do with the wealth of the land and the fields, the bountiful harvests and cornucopia of fruits, and in partaking of said bounty. Their big sizes were a testament to their devotion to their roles in servants of fertility.

And of late, they had been attending another new addition as well.

She called herself ‘Moro,’ a short name spoken with a foreign inflection. She claimed to have fought in a great war between man and beast and to have fallen, only for her spirit to have woken up here, in the Northlands, drawn by some strange magic. She claimed to be a goddess herself, and none who saw her doubted it. She was a gargantuan snow-furred wolf, towering even over the Fjallúlfar, with a twin-forked tail and an air of wit and wisdom.

Whatever had drawn her to the Northlands, one thing was sure: Moro was massively, indisputably pregnant.

The wolf goddess was so pregnant she was fully immobile, her titanic frame consumed even more by her ceaseless bulk. Her massive sphere of a belly, rolling with supple fat, served as a cushion for her to rest on. Resting within was her bounty: a swift-growing litter of healthy wolf pups.

So huge was she that she could not even take care of herself. But never fear: the purpose of the cult was to do exactly that. And so it was that Moro found herself luxuriously attended to. A pleasured, happy growl rolled out of her chest as one of her attendants, a battle-scarred, very pregnant Fjallúlfr, dutifully massaged her rear paws. Two more Fjallúlfar, round with fat and pregnancy, were lending their assistance in feeding Moro. They delivered all manner of succulent meats to the foreign goddess’s waiting maw, the giant wolf gulping them down without delay. Down below, the smaller Ulfhednar—each with a bountiful belly of their own; some were fat, some pregnant, many both—helped in their own way. Though the Ulfhednar were far too small to reach Moro’s mouth or even her paws, they busied themselves in grooming her luscious coat to a healthy smoothness. Others were using vivid blue paint to bedeck her with signs and symbols of motherhood. The runes seemed to conjure up some strange power as they were painted; Moro wondered if the power they represented was commingling with her own divine strength.

As she gulped down another helping of cooked meat, the swallowing motion making the rolls of fat around her throat jiggle, a new figure appeared. Gunngerðr, the high priestess of the fertility cult, was a tan-furred Ulfhedinn. Her gait was not so much a walk as it was a waddle, being so obese that her flesh rolled around her as she moved; like Moro, her belly was painted with blue arcane symbols celebrating fertility.

“And how is our new patron goddess doing?” Gunngerðr asked Moro as she walked up.

The great wolf chuckled. “As well as she might be expected to, though she wishes she could actually move under her own power.” She chuffed good-naturedly, a teasing glint in her eye. “Perhaps you engineered my new weight to make your own look modest in comparison?”

Gunngerðr’s laugh was healthy and rich. “Blame me all you want, my goddess,” she said, laying one hand on Moro’s plush hide. Her digits sank happily into the plump, yielding flesh. “I think you like being this way.”

Moro chuffed again but didn’t respond, her forked tail flopping down on her ample rear. For a few minutes, she was content to luxuriate in the attention given to her by the various priestesses; the stroking of the Ulfhednar as they brushed her coat, the delightful feeling of the heavily gravid Fjallúlfr massaging her paws and backside. Moro was still getting used to this new existence—in her old life she had been lean and powerful, loping through the woods and mountains and moving like spring lightning. Now, she had a different sort of power. Ever since becoming the patron goddess of this grove, she could feel her divine power cresting—but as her body changed itself to fit the ideal of fertility, it was only a matter of time before she became immobile.

Perhaps sensing her goddess’s apprehensions, Gunngerðr smiled comfortingly at her. “How are the pups, my lady?”

Moro shifted on her belly, draping one paw against the front of her tummy for emphasis; even her legs were growing squishier than usual, garlanded with cushions of soft fat. “They are acting up,” she said, voice uncharacteristically soft and introspective. “The birth is approaching… and I find myself concerned…”

“You needn’t be,” Gunngerðr replied, gently kneading into Moro’s plumpness. The white-furred goddess settled back with a pleased rumble. “I have attended literally hundreds of births… your pups shall come out healthy and strong, like their mother.”

“As you say.”

A sudden noise cut off the conversation—hunger growls from both wolves’ stomachs. Chortling, Gunngerðr declared: “Well! I suppose it’s time for lunch, then.”

Eying the plates full of food that her attendant had lavished her with, Moro quipped, “I think I’ve already had lunch. Or two lunches, perhaps. Even seven or eight…”

Another stomach growl cut her off again, and Moro sighed. “But the pups are acting up,” she said, resigned. “They are hungry. I suppose more food wouldn’t hurt…”

Gunngerðr, for her part, smiled. Collecting some of her fellow priestesses, they walked away to find more sustenance for their patron goddess. As they left, Moro settled back, lost in thought. Truth be told, her resurrection here in the Northlands was unanticipated, and her new role as a fertility goddess even more so… yet, uncertain as she was, she found herself approaching her new role with a cautious optimism. Even if it was unlikely for her to ever be capable of moving under her own power again, the growing power within her—amplified by the sacred grove which was now her demesne—more than made up for it.

As she settled back, warm and comfortable in her own fat, she was cognizant of a deeper sensation—her pups squirming and acting up within the secure confines of her womb. Their activity caused something to spike in the lupine goddess; gradually, Moro began to feel a small budding of arousal. It grew over time, unfolding into something powerful, warm and encompassing—a natural consequence of her newfound position as a fertility goddess. Soon her whole body was awash in the sensation of want.

Lazily, almost unthinkingly, Moro lifted her forked tail from her rear, exposing her flushed pussy to the grove. The scent of her arousal was unignorable, and the cool air was a sharp and fresh bite against her wet slit.

Had she forgotten about the Fjallúlfr serving her, or was it an invitation? Either way, the plump, very pregnant wolf-skin, herself so round and heavy she could barely move, was not going to leave her goddess unattended. Delicately placing one hand on each of Moro’s fattened buttcheeks, the Fjallúlfr spread them wide, exposing the goddess’s vagina—then, breaths heavy, she dipped her snout in.

Moro crooned at the touch of the Fjallúlfr’s tongue to her sex. She wriggled with delight, the act causing her fat to wobble and roll about underneath her; more movement showed from deeper within, proof of her still-active pups. Confident her goddess was appreciative, the attendant increased her attentions to Moro’s flushed pussy, every lap from her tongue leaving the immobile wolf grunting and panting with delight. The slow ember of arousal which had risen was now being stoked into a fire.

And though Moro didn’t know it, that fire was quickly growing to stoke her own fertility powers.

Her considerable divine strength had been shifted to serve as a fertility goddess, and her power was amplified by the grove in which she now resided. Now, her power—which drew strength from her fertility and desire to mate and birth and breed—was brimming stronger and stronger as an echo to her arousal. Had she been focused and stoic, Moro likely could have kept it under control. But as it was, soon her power was threatening to spill out of her—and the gravid goddess, so consumed with the delight of being eaten out by the pregnant Fjallúlfr and with the ever-increasing movement of the pups within her, could not keep it leashed.

The fertility magic began to spill out of Moro like water from a font, sweeping the grove and enveloping all it touched. It settled into the Fjallúlfar and Ulfhednar, working itself into them. The already plump wolf-skins, their bodies fat and their wombs packed full of young, found themselves growing even more. Moro’s magic seized hold of them, turning the ecstatic attendants into veritable icons of fertility. Their bodies swelled with more and more fat, their faces quickly becoming little more than glorified dimples in ceaseless rolls of plump cheeks; their legs piled up with rolls of obese flesh, their flabby tummies jiggling from the activity of the pups within.

The attendants loved it, of course. They had willingly given themselves to serve the grove and its mistress, and to be impacted in such a way was everything they could have wished for. They happily sat about, basking in the glow of Moro’s power—even the Fjallúlfr eating her out quickly found herself shifting from ‘nearly immobile’ to simply immobile, locked in place by her own ceaselessly-growing weight. Thankfully, the priestess was in the perfect place to continue lavishing attention on her goddess’s cunt, and she did so, Moro’s husky voice rising high above the trees.

The white wolf wasn’t the only one getting worked up. Her fertility magic wasn’t just affecting the size of her servants—it was also compelling them to mate. Before long, many wolf-skins were locked in carnal embrace, rolling and moaning through the grasses. One Fjallúlfr was on her back, keening as her belly swelled outward with new life (the very magic of Moro having itself impregnated her) as an Ulfhedinn acolyte dutifully ate her out, the rhythmic shhlk-shhlk-shhlk sound of her tongue wafting over the glade. Two more acolytes were holding each other tight, their fattening paws nearly lost in one another’s flesh, as they passionately made out. One fattened faster than the other and flopped on her side, her body rolling with Moro’s gift, and the other managed to drag into a position where she could eagerly rub and stroke her fatter compatriot’s pussy.

Some of the smaller Ulfhednar were rutting passionately in the grass, one priestess panting as she was taken from behind. Before long, she was newly pregnant, her pups growing weeks’ worth in mere moments, the sensation of newfound motherhood threatening to completely overwhelm her. The Ulfhednar who had been attending Moro, stroking her fur and painting her belly, found themselves growing fat and gravid as well. Soon they too were immobile, but they had a new thing to occupy themselves: their goddess’s teats, stimulated by her arousal and her ever-blossoming magic, were more notable than ever. The Ulfhednar affixed themselves to them, suckling milk from their goddess; they gulped more and more, feeling it settle in their body, and their shapes took on more rounding as they grew squat and fat with milk.

Moro herself was having the time her of not-inconsiderable life. Her magic was stimulated by her arousal, going haywire, spiked by the grove, and then causing her to become even more aroused; the entire cycle repeated itself over and over, fed by the incredible stimulation of her pups’ increasing activity in her womb, the pleasing tug of the Ulfhednar on her teats, and the loyal licking from the Fjallúlfr behind her. Her lust and power commingled together, forming themselves into something new, and as it settled into Moro, the goddess began to change. Moro’s gargantuan body swelled out even further. Her face, already crowned with round, blobby cheeks, was nearly lost by the endless rolling waves of fat; her limbs were completely swallowed by her own ballooning body, the only hint of their existence the small dimples they left in her flesh. Anyone unfamiliar who looked at Moro might have struggled to comprehend they were looking at a wolf at all instead of a massive, cream-colored blob.

Gunngerðr, aware that something was happening in the grove, rushed back to check, only to be caught in the tidal surge of Moro’s magic. The already-pregnant high priestess was left swelling immensely until she too was completely immobile; dimly, Gunngerðr felt herself getting rolled onto her back by the other attendants, who began caressing and stroking her swift-growing belly. The priestess cooed as one of the attendants made passionate love to her, spreading her legs and dipping a tongue into her vagina amidst all her lovely rolls of fat. The pups within were roiling over each other, and Gunngerðr, deciding to ride out what her goddess had decided to gift them all with, began treating herself to the meats she’d brought for Moro, gulping them all down with delight.

Minutes passed and the grove devolved into an orgy of fat, pregnant wolves all making love with each other, fondling their fat and suckling milk, with the great goddess Moro at the center of it all. The sheer force of the fertility magic could not be denied. It built and built, cresting higher and higher, perfectly tied to the arousal of the goddess wielding it, until finally, her voice high and lustful and piercing, Moro came, and the spell lifted.

The magic done, the priestesses and attendants settled down with languid sighs, each of them fat and pregnant and gleefully weary after their magic-fueled orgy. For her part, once Moro’s head cleared, she was left in shock. Had she really done all this? Caused this massive orgy by accident—and nearly doubled her own size on top of it?

As if on cue, Gunngerðr’s voice came in query: “Are you well, my goddess?”

It was as if she had a sixth sense, always knowing when Moro felt most doubtful. The blobby wolf felt gratitude; Gunngerðr truly was an exceptional priestess. “As well as might be imagined,” she said, voice still powerful despite the layers of fat now cushioning her face and throat. “I suppose movement was overrated anyway.”

Any further quipping was cut off; Moro gasped as she felt something down in her womb. Oh… oh. “They’re… coming,” she said, her voice taut with both wonder and apprehension. “The pups.”

Gunngerðr was too far away (and too immobile) to assist directly, but she still offered words of encouragement. “You shall perform wonderfully, my lady,” she intoned. “You are a goddess in the seat of your power. Your pups could not be safer.”

Spurred by Gunngerðr’s encouraging words, Moro focused and pushed. As a fertility god, birth came naturally to her, the first of her pups sliding easily down her birth canal. Her voice rumbled as she felt her pup’s snout breach her vagina, the little thing squealing in the open air—and then she sighed with relief as she received some unexpected assistance. The Fjallúlfr, still behind her, still immobile, still dutiful, grasped the creature around his head and gently pulled him free. Moro murmured thanks as she felt the next of her pups settle into place, and the Fjallúlfr responded demurely, only for her own voice to cut off with a small gasp—a sound that was echoed by the other pregnant females throughout the grove.

“A-ah, your m-magic,” came Gunngerðr’s voice. “Lady Moro, it seems we are all due to deliver now…”

As the pleased moans of countless birthings rose over the forest, Moro settled in with a pleased sigh. The next of her pups was soon coming close to crowning. This was an unanticipated experience… yet one she heartily enjoyed.

Yes, she thought as she felt the next of her children squeeze free as one of the pregnant Ulfhedinn, still drinking from her, began to moan as she began to give birth herself, I think I could get used to this new role.