Then Prove It

"Come visit the Holy City of Globolia, like the Vatican but instead of a Pope we have papayas!"

Visiting this supposedly god-blessed town in Central America seemed like such a brilliant idea at three in the morning last week, but regret started worming its way into your mind when you checked your travel bag on the plane and realised you left your Spanish translation dictionary on the sofa. After sneaking off from your tour guide's group twenty minutes ago (and managing to order a nice, cool soda despite the language barrier) you decide to weave through several dusty back alleys to avoid the deafeningly loud bustle of the main road.

"Maybe I should check out one of the souvenir shops," you mutter to nobody in particular, "there's still space on my fridge for a couple more magnets." Taking a right up a small but steep flight of bright orange bricks, you find yourself in a clearing on a side of the city bordering a forest. Directly to your left is a larger staircase, longer but flatter and far more refined, leading up to a moderately sized temple. A much more muted off-red compared to the streets and slightly cooler too thanks to the thick grove of trees blocking out some of the sun, you decide to take a quick rest on the bottom of the steps. Taking in the sights of the surrounding buildings as you sip your soda, you don't hear the sound of footsteps over the faint din of tourists and trade in the distance.

"Excuse me, are you lost?" you jump slightly at the sudden voice. "I can give you directions back to the main road, if you wish." Hopping to your feet you swig the last of your soda and stuff the bottle in your back pocket.

In front of you is a woman in her mid twenties, with a rather unfitting getup for the hot weather: a plain white cotton dress patterened near the bottom hem with grey chevrons, with a black shawl draped over her shoulders and three-three!-belts of the same colour around her waist. Silver hair falls down her back, with matching eyes that carry a friendly expression despite their cool tone.

"You must be boiling in those clothes," you accidentally remark out loud. The woman giggles and shakes her head slightly. In hindsight you imagine she gets told that a lot.

"It may appear so, but thanks to the blessings of the Serpent Father I'm kept cool."

As much as you want to rebuff her claim, part of you takes the fact she's not a heatstroke-addled heap on the floor as a sign that she's telling the truth. "Oh, you're, uh, a priestess then?"

Instead of responding straight away she gives you a flat look, one that quietly exclaims "Obviously! I'm standing outside a temple and talking about holy blessings. You think I'm a flower girl?" After you break the silence with a sheepish chuckle, she replies. "Indeed, this is a temple honoring Quetzacoatl, on the off chance he needs somewhere to rest while travelling outside of Mexico."

"He clearly appreciates the gesture, since his power is apparently the last barrier between you and 80 degree weather." you say. The priestess beams at you in an almost smug way and gestures to her clothes.

"I wear these clothes as proof of the generosity of our gods."

"So if Quetza-whatshisname is the god of this out of the way temple, who's the god of that massive one they advertise on TV?"

"That's Invennda, goddess of contrived story setups."

"...Huh." You muse over that for a moment. "I thought Quizno-coathanger would be more of a big deal around here."

The priestess' small smile drops sharply into a frown. "Yes. He is. And it's Quetzalcoatl." Her expression noticeably darkens.

"What's he the god of? Air conditioning? You ask dryly.

"Close," she says, "the god of wind and wisdom. So yes, pretty important." Catching the increasing frustration behind her words you find your curiosity piqued. Something about the way she seems dead-set on appealing the power of her god and her unnatural heat resistance makes you want to find out more-could it really be true? To probe for an answer you say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Then prove it." you smirk and fold your arms. Her expression goes blank.

"...Prove it?" she whispers in disbelief, "did you not hear me talk about how the Serpent Father's blessings keep me cool? How they let me have silver hair and eyes, something reserved for those devoted to his service? You think those colours are natural?" her right eye twitches slightly as she speaks.

"For all I know you could be trying to market hair dye and breathable fabric to me, so I'm not fully convinced." your smirk's smugness swells. "So prove it."

Her shock is replaced with anger. You catch her fists clench in the corner of your vision. "Why, you... Damn tourists..." she mutters under her breath, "Alright. Ok. How do you want me to prove it, then?" she asks a little shakily, clearly trying to keep her rage from surfacing.

Putting a finger to your chin, you begin to think. "Quetzacoatl is the god of wind... So it'll have to be something to do with wind, or air, that would otherwise be impossible... Aha! I've got it!" you're silent for a quick moment before replying.

"By blowing yourself up." 

"...What."

"This god of yours has wind powers, right? And can do anything with them? An-yyyyy-thing?" you emphasise, as she continues looking at you with flat bewilderment. "So, if he's really all you're making him out to be, then he could totally do something that would defy science, such as blowing you up with air."

After a moment of silence, the priestess sighs deeply. "Father, give me strength..." she mutters and grits her teeth, running a hand down her face. "You know what? Fine. If this is what it takes to wipe that smugness off your face, I'll do it." She clasps her hands together and tilts her head downards, eyes closed. You realise it'll probably be a good idea to step back as she begins whispering a chant to herself.

Suddenly, she gasps, which rapidly shifts into a inhale. The sound of her breathing in mingles with a faint sound of rushing wind. Your eyes fixate on her chest, which rises noticably more and more without falling; the faint outline of her upper arms bulging becomes apparent under her shawl. With a mouth firmly closed and a body looking slightly more... Puffy, she gives you a satisfied look.

"Impressive, but... All you did was just hold your breath." you say, recovering from your shock. "Surely you can-"

Your voice is cut off as she groans loudly and rolls her eyes. Managing to muttering another chant, she gasps much more sharply this time and inhales again. Her three belts begin to appear tighter and tighter as her torso takes on a barrel shape that's pinched in the middle; her arms swell up and her dress widens as her legs thicken and spread outward a little. Wincing due to the sudden tightness of her belts, you raise a hand but before you can offer to unbuckle them she shoots a determined glare at you, and breathes in heavily once more.

Her cheeks puff up as her body quivers, her belts creaking as growing bulges are forced between them. She shakes once, twice, then with a loud pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! her middle belt gives way, the prong snapping through all the holes before whipping backwards. With slightly more room to grow it's only seconds before the other two belts follow suit, and she can't stop herself from releasing a relieved moan as the uncomfortable tightness is relieved. Her stomach quickly swells outward, swallowing her hips and catching up with her burgeoning chest (one you've been trying not to stare at) which has jumped in cup sizes and it nearing the size of grapefruits; her dress rises up as her inflating body pushes outward, her shawl stretches to the sides as her arms become increasingly conical.

By now you admit that yes, Quetzalcoatl clearly is good at his job, yet you cannot stop yourself from staring in awe at the bizarrely hypnotic sight of the priestess ballooning up. She doesn't seem too bothered about stopping either. Despite the fact her arms and legs are splaying outwards like a starfish and her entire torso is three times wider than before, as if she's swallowed a particularly well-pumped beach ball, her steely gaze remains and she takes yet another deep breath.

Alongside the sound of rushing wind, her dress exudes a gentle groan as it begins to run out of room, rising up over the dome of her inflating midriff and revealing that her legs are just as swollen as her arms, both pairs of limbs beginning to sink slightly as her now-ovular body's growth catches up with them. Her breasts are now beyond any size thought possible, her cheeks are even puffier, tinted red from either exertion, embarrassment or anger and her head has sunk slightly into her shawl, which is stretching beyond its limits. Part of you wants to say "Stop! You've proven your point!" but the rest of you cowers under her triumphant glare and can only watch slack-jawed as she contiues to expand.

"Does... This..." she huffs as best she can, her head slowly disappearing behind the stretched piece of fabric that used to be a shawl, "Prove... Mmmmph..." her cheeks inflate fully and clamp her mouth shut. She lets out a squeak of panic as she realises that her body is somehow still growing, her dress now barely covering half her seven-foot body, her extremities now more suggestions than anything as only her worriedly-wriggling fingers and sandalled feet are visible (well, alongside her obscenely stretched underwear, but you don't exactly want to point that out to her). Her victorious look is replaced with one of dread as her eyes dart about and her muffled whimpers become more and more frequent.

Her body quivers once more. Snapping out of your trance you step back further realising that there's no good places to duck for cover. Seconds tick by as the poor priestess' spherical body continues to engulf her, only the tips of her fingers and toes are left outside her inflated frame, along with her hair and a pair of now-teary eyes. Letting out one final high-pitched squeak of fear, thin tears begin to form around her dress, her body shudders violently, and... Miraculously for the both of you, stops swelling. You breathe a sigh of relief, as the priestess loudly whines and flaps her hands as best she can. You just about make eye contact as she looks down at you with a mortified expression.

"Well, uh... Turns out your god is the real deal." you stammer awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Her attempt at a reply comes in the form of a stifled wail. You walk hesitantly towards the nine-foot tall balloon. "I really hope this isn't permanent..." you think to yourself, placing a hand on the priestess' side. She makes a squeak of protest and you can't help but gently glide your hand upwards to feel just how firm and soft her body is. Despite being filled to the brim with what you assume is air, there's a surprisng amount of resistance to your touch, not unlike the feeling of rubber. You assume that what's left of her dress adds a cushiony layer over the top in a fittingly similar fashion to the parachute of a hot air balloon. Underneath your mesmerised shock is a small pang of guilt for partially being responsible for getting her into this situation, so you decide to move her out of public view. Or, at least try to, given her size. Placing both hands on her body you push, and with an indignat squeal of panic she smoothly rolls up the first couple of steps. You thank God-er, thank Quetzalcoatl-that she's incredibly light for her size and respond to her indignant and panicked squeal at the sudden motion.

"Don't worry, I'm rolling you to the temple," you explain as you gently guide her up the thankfully gentle incline, "Hopefully we can find a way to... Deflate you in there." and hopefully one without involving a needle, you silently add. Luckily it only takes a short minute to roll her up the stairs and you stop to catch your breath. Ignoring her moans of dizziness, you take a look at the entrance of the temple and realised that not only is it only six feet tall to her nine feet, but the corners of the doorframe are worryingly jagged. With a resigned sigh, you push gently on the priestess and attempt to figure out how to fit her through... And silently curse the Serpent Father for not being the god of something more easily-proven.

"WOOOOOO! Yeah! That's the stuff, baby!"

Up in the pantheon of the gods, an excited voice rings out. Valubath, the god of niche fetishes, watches through a crystal ball as a tourist gives their new (and rather embarrassed) puncture-free airbed a test run.

Across the impressively large table from him, Quetzalcoatl chugs his third bottle of five-thousand year old vintage, and buries his face in his hands. Invennda, the patron saint of contrived plot devices, can only sheepishly give him a consoling pat on the back.