The Miracle of Life

You stir awake to a sudden, violent change to your morning ritual. Before this interruption, the day was indistinguishable in the sacred darkness of your bedroom, as it had been for weeks now: your hands snake over the changing topography of your faux daughter, taking extra care to gently squeeze those tender, enlarged breasts. She flinches from obvious pain, but she knows better than to argue, now. Her perky B-cups have become healthier, fuller, and must be Cs by now; they'd approach and then surpass Ds if you continued your chemical **** on the poor subject entwined in your arms, long before the theoretical, anticipated pregnancy was finished. They did not yet spray the nurturing milk for your child, but time would solve that, surely. She stirs in your arms, but doesn't immediately fight your grip; she's surrendering more to you every day, growing stoic under the duress of timeout and constant guilt of not loving her father back. You lean in to inhale the coils of her hair, and smile as you enjoy the scent.

But today she rips herself out of your arms, so suddenly and urgently as to stun you into letting her. "Oh God-" is all she gets out as she runs to the bathroom, audibly slams the toilet seat upwards... and begins to retch out of sight. You're left here, stunned on the bed... and only realize nearly a minute later that your jaw has been slack in a joyous, childish, open-mouthed smile since the moment she began to puke. Morning sickness. It must be it... this has to be it. You spring out of bed, composing yourself on the way to become the stoic, concerned father; it's almost impossible. The electricity running through your body is a live wire of achievement, twisting and dangerous on the once-cleared road of this young woman's life. Life. You have created life. You have your ****. You've never felt so accomplished.

But you don't even consider your work done, or your campaign complete. "Honey, what's wrong?" you ask, struggling to keep a sadistic glee out of your tone.

She lifts herself from the toilet quietly, shaking as she goes to the sink to clean her mouth. You do her the courtesy of flushing the foulness she left in the bowl. A mouthful of water, spit, another mouthful, spit; she washes bile from her tongue as if it were the truth her body knows, the facts as plain to you as they are obfuscated from her. "I'm... just feeling really sick, dad... but I think I'm... I'm better, now." She looks up to you with pleading eyes. "But I don't think I can stomach a cleaning today, or even a dose of... please..."

"Of course, sweetie." She smiles weakly. "We'll wait until you're feeling better." Your mercy, short-lived as it always proved, almost causes her tiny smile to falter. She's learning to be grateful. Appeasing you has been her goal, if only to stop the injections; you keep assuring her that it's impossible for the shots to be responsible for her swelling breasts, but an instinctual association or fear keeps her wary of your treatment. But now you have to give her the reason to fear her breast growth, or her increased appetite, or gaining weight, or nausea... all roads lead back to the truth.

Well, your version of it.

"Honey... I need to check something. Sit on the toilet and spread your legs."

"B-but you said-"

"We're not doing a cleaning, sweetie. I just need to check up on how well you've been shaving down there." You continue to lecture her as she nervously squats onto the toilet. "You've been keeping yourself shaved bald this whole time, right? You know the dangers of not doing so."

"O-Of course! I've been extra careful," she sighs, opening her legs once she understands your intent. You kneel and bring your face close enough to smell that wonderful, pungent odor of her unwashed pocket in the virgin hours of the day, and it takes every bit of your amateur character acting to not break your word to her.

First, the squinting of eyes... and as you see that, yes, save for the natural stubble of a night's rest, she has been as careful as she reports, shaving every inch of nether regions per your specification.

"Oh no..."

"W-What? What do you mean- why oh no, what- what is it?" Her words cascade out of her mouth faster as her eyes go wide in terror. You're already rising up and opening your medicine cabinet, plucking out the razor and shaving cream. "I couldn't have missed- I'm sure I..."

"Give me a moment baby... I thought I could trust you with this," you sigh with artificial worry, desperately suppressing a giggle at the terror that danced across her features. She doesn't comply, and instead starts brushing and rubbing all around her slit with shaking fingers, desperately trying to find whatever you've spotted. Sighing, you guide her fingers to the fold along her inner-thigh, towards the buttocks; awkward enough to not see, and believable insofar as a spot she would miss.

"I-I don't feel anything, just... just a bit of stubble-"

"Honey, really? I can't even see the skin under there, it's so unshaven... I guess you're not used to telling the difference yet, baby, I'm- I'm sorry. I should've shaved you myself." Making an extra effort to sigh audibly, you order her legs apart and get to work, shaving down a patch of hair that doesn't exist, letting the building understanding in her head grow: you already warned her that the only way to prevent pregnancy during cleanings was by shaving her crotch clean. This, with the morning sickness, the tenderness in her swelling breasts... and soon enough, the milk that would start to leak from her enlarging nipples. It would all be too much evidence to deny... and it would be her fault, you coyly remind yourself as you finish shaving the non-existent offense.

"I'm going to the store," you finally declare.

"But dad, what about-"

"You need a pregnancy test." Her expression freezes in horror... and a sound at your door doesn't let you savor it. Someone fell. Someone is at your bedroom door. Someone is eavesdropping. Your halfway across the bedroom, but you already know who it is, and throw the bedroom door open to give chase... only see Penelope, in just a t-shirt and panties, fresh from waking up herself, staring up at you as she struggles to stand with wide, terrified eyes. The tension in her legs, reflected throughout her twisting body, screams of a woman ready to take flight the moment you so much as move incorrectly.