A DAY AT THE BRONY CONVENTION

– Mark. Hey. You gotta see this.

Mark Kaylan, clincally obese purveyor of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic dolls, trinkets, figurines, and action figures, sits grunting as he attempts to glue back together a prized piece of customer-damaged merchandise – a little "Princess Celestia" figurine. His buddy Howard leans over the vendor table holding up his phone, breathlessly trying to show a video to his fat friend.

A moaning female voice wails ecstatically from the phone's tinny speaker.

– Check this out, man... I found this vid while I was surfing the con thread on /mlp/... it's that Rarity cosplayer with the big boobs I was telling you about earlier – feeling herself up and making a scene over by the Artist's Alley!

Mark doesn't look up from his work.

– Forget it, Howard, I don't care...

He mutters

– Rarity. Worst Pony.

Howard is indignant.

– I thought you liked big-titty cosplayer chicks?

Mark stares his ignorant buddy squarely in the eye, the sweat of an exasperated pony otaku beaming brightly on his brow.

– First of all, Rarity is objectively the worst pony. Secondly, I told you I only really have a fetish for busty Celestia cosplayers. How could you forget who my waifu is??

He casts a reluctant glance at his pal's phone.

– Plus her tits are too small. She needs at least another cup size.

Returning his attention to his work, he slides his fat thumb across the glorious helial rump of his plastic Princess Celestia. Every morning he "Praises the Sun," ritualistically masturbating to an idealized vision of his anthropomorphic goddess: her astral mane; that fine, fat ass; those enormous, plump, juicy breasts... She would dominate him completely, barely tolerating his uxorious, worshipful behavior... maybe allowing him the beneficent mercy of fondling her sanctified flesh, maybe... if he was a good boy...

If only SHE were here with him now...

– Hey Mark, look! It's her!! It's that sexy Rarity cosplayer!!

***

How could I have forgotten!

Publicity shots with The Mango Sisters! That kind of exposure could easily make my career! And here I am, completely lost on the convention floor, running late!

What sort of pathetic excuse for a businesswoman am I??

– The sort whose body's current refractory period has just ended!

I pause. That familiar voice again.

All at once, my mind is splitting open again, the nuclei of my cells eagerly listening for the loudest subconscious sexual desires in the room, desperately bending my genetic facticity to the whims of the horniest weirdo. I feel his pathetic hunger. And my body begins to transform.

I feel my hips widen. The luscious cheeks of my already-formidable ass begin to slouch even harder against the tight material of my dress. My swelling, muscular rump begins to plump itself greedily with thick cushions of dense, jiggly, gelatinous fat.

My stomach rumbles. All those burgers from earlier are being used to fuel my body's nascent changes – I can feel it. I shudder with terror.

My petite horn begins to grow larger & longer, twisting, ratcheting itself ever-outwards like an emerging drill from my worried forehead. A chillingly familiar tingling feeling tickles the taut skin of my HH cup tits. Once more, a horrible burning sensation builds inside of them.

Panicking, with nowhere else to hide, I wedge myself between two tall merch display shelves, praying that no one will see me.

***

– You just GOTTA see her, Mark... You'll totally...

Howard Volman returns his gaze to a now-empty space of convention floor.

– Eh? Where'd she go?

Mystified, he scratches his head.

– I just saw her...!

Mark is nonplussed. All this talk of sexy Rarity cosplayers – an utter waste of time to respectable men of proper taste...! Now if she were cosplaying Princess Celestia, that would be something! He would murder every goddamn soul in this room just for the sweet solar taste of Celestia's sweet nectar of horselips...

– Excuse me... sir?

An authoritative female voice has approached his table. He looks up.

There, in all her radiant cosmic glory, is the woman of his fantasies.

His waifu.

A rather exceptionally busty, plump-rumped anthropomorphic Princess Celestia.

– So... you wanna make out, or what?

She wears a black one-piece leotard. It struggles to contain her big I cup boobs. Her buxom, sinewy, full-figured yet athletic body defies all conventional logic. The daybright symphony of her mane glistens & waves with a luminous mystery, sustained by some unknown magic on clear, dry air.

She rests a hand on broad, impatient hips, wearing a testy expression.

– Come on, I ain't got all day here buddy...

Mark Kaylan is paralyzed with reverent awe. She sounds just like he dreamed she would. It's really her.

He shrieks, an outburst of profane joy.

– GODDESS!!

Ew.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

His hairy hand claws desperately at my body.

...

Wait, what am I DOING here?

Trapped behind his trinket table, the feeble fat man strains in vain.

I gotta get out of here!

– It's her!! That's no cosplayer!! It's her, Howard, it's really her!!

I bolt.

– Wait!! No!! Come back!!

With boobs as big as mine, sprinting proves difficult. With every plodding rebound, my huge, unruly boobs flop up into each other with an audible slapping sound, threatening to slap me in the face, falling sharply down, pressing hard against the big cups of my bra, tugging painfully against my ribcage, yanking at the surrounding skin, interrupting my panting breath at every interval.

I'm doing my best to try and ignore the pain.

– Come back!! My Queen!!

Having waddled out from behind his table, he's attempting to run after me, struggling mightily against his own morbid rotundity. My powerful haunches are working overtime, the fat cheeks of my oversized booty bouncing & rippling wildly, shaking uncontrollably in time with my tits. He's huffing and wheezing. Despite the handicap of my large, inconvenient chest, I'm easily outrunning him.

– My Goddess!!

Hapless bystanders crane their heads to watch the big-tittied Sun Princess jiggle-jog her way up the escalator, nearly bouncing out of her leotard.

Quickly reaching the second floor, I hang a sharp right down the nearest hallway – nearly slapping a hapless Spike cosplayer square in the face with a wayward bounding boob – ditching my corpulent pursuer downstairs in the dust.

I hear his distant voice echo up, wailing from below.

– I NEEEEED YOU!!!

I continue to race down the hotel hallway, dodging startled onlookers. My shoulders hurt, my upper body heaving forward from the immense pulling force of my heavy chest. I press my arms to my breasts tightly, neatly restraining their exuberant jouncing to a modestly jostling jiggle. Should have done that sooner.

I halt, gasping and catching my breath.

Looks like I lost him.

Pshew!

God, this body was NOT built for running... my boobs feel like they're on fire!

I step over to a nearby water fountain and bend over to drink deeply, absentmindedly massaging the taut, burning skin at the base of my breasts. I'm sweaty and tired, my heart still pounding adrenaline throughout my mutant system. My wings – quite a bit larger than Rainbow Dash's – unfurl majestically, stirring a gentle breeze instinctively to cool my aching, absurdly voluptuous anatomy.

Suddenly curious, I take my smartphone out from the secret compartment of my extensive cleavage, using its camera lens as a mirror to survey my new figure. I'm slightly taller – maybe 5'6" now. My horn is long and prominent. My boobs are nearly as big as my head. They're glistening with shiny sweat. My elastic one-piece rides up harshly into my ass, putting the broad, convex sweep of my buttocks on clear display. The flanks of my chubby asscheeks are branded with twin blazing suns.

I'm a sad man's masturbatory fantasy come true.

...

Eh, what the heck. I snap a few photos for the fans.

Uploading to the IG app, I find that my follower count has reached an astonishing total of 30,000. My previous pics are loaded down with creepy comments about my figure and invasive questions about my increasing cup size. A handful commend me on my impressive cosplay skills.

There's a private message from Herbie, manager for The Mango Sisters.

Loving your newest pics! Your talent for cosplay know no bounds, I'm floored to see you pulling off such a broad range of characters perfectly! Are those tits for real??? I forgot to tell you where our little photoshoot will be taking place – meet us on the second floor, in the hallway by the screening rooms. Dress as any pony you like!

I shrug my shoulders and saunter towards the screening rooms, turning heads as I go.

***

William Watts – owner & operator of Twilight's Emporium (a division of H.C. Enterprises) – turns his head to admire the formidable flank and tremendous tits of a passing Princess Celestia cosplayer.

Dayum.

What a Goddess.

He glances down at his phone, reading a Facebook message from the thin, mousy cosplay girl he had hired as help to run his vendor table. Her profile picture exhibits a reedy, meager rendition of Twilight Sparkle. Be there soon! I can't wait to meet you!

He raises his eyes once more to watch that thicc rump bob seductively, passing him by. A magnificent stream of ethereal tail wafts winsomely abaft, defying physics.

Fuck.

He drops his phone.

I wish the cosplay gal I got comin' to work the front counter looked more like that!