A DAY AT THE BRONY CONVENTION

I wobble over to my new manager, negotiating my prodigious JJ cups carefully past several stacked boxes of assorted merchandise, doing my best to not topple over any piles with my awkwardly huge bowling ball-sized rack.

– Sir, is it time for me to suck your dick yet?

He playfully snaps my choker collar against my cock-thirsty neck.

– Not yet sweetie, we haven't even opened up shop yet... we've got a whole goddamn day ahead of us...

– Aw...

But his eyes betray a desperate hunger. He's eyeing my titties, struggling to maintain his professionalism.

– Here... first thing you can do is put those toysets over there up on the shelf where they belong... Hup to it now...!

Obeying, I turn to go.

– Wait!

I freeze.

– Y-yes, sir?

– Something's different about you...

Shit, did he notice my boobs got bigger??

I hope I'm not in trouble!

He steps over to scrutinize my figure in profile.

This could be bad... He's gonna think I'm a freak of nature!!

Anxiously, I bite my lip, hanging my head low. With my every in-breath, the distressed fabric of my overladen uniform strains mightily against a hefty pair of JJ cup tits as big as my own skull, stretching the material, causing the upper buttons to gap.

Which I am...

– Yes... definitely different...

I feel like crying.

– ... have you gotten fatter?

Stunned, I press my hand against my belly. My uniform, pulled rigidly between my shorts and generously protruding bosom, has stretched itself taut, quivering elastically a full 6 inches from my slender waist to create an illusion of chubbiness. Irritated, I push the fabric inward, demonstrating the flatness of my tummy for my dense employer.

– Oh, I see! Ha ha! Silly me!

Insulted, I shove my tail in his face and strut off indignantly. I'm certain he's ogling my ass.

Let him watch.

Jerk.

I reach a modest pile of pink My Little Pony playsets. Aren't these for children? ... Girl children...? Whatever. I stoop to pick the stack up at its base – but my stupid boobs get in the way again, promptly bumping the top box off of the pile and onto the floor.

Whoops!

#bigboobproblems, I guess...!

These things are going to take some getting used to...

– On second thought, maybe you'd better run inventory instead...

***

This woman is an atrocious employee.

Not only can she not pick up boxes on account of her huge tits, but she's lazy, incompetent, and unreliable!

After the box debacle, I send her to run inventory on the company desktop. Of course, she manages to immediately run afoul of this most basic technology, proceeding to inadvertently mash the keys with her enormous chest when she leans over to read the screen.

– Sir, I think your computer's busted...!

"Busted" is right...

Her breasts define her relationship to the world around her. Often – when she's supposed to be working – I'll catch her taking selfies for her "fans" on Instagram, just like a well-programmed social media slut. Without fail, her poses seem calculated to maximize her already prominent bust (she's far too busty to even dream of ever hiding those things...). She'll unbutton the top buttons of her uniform, proudly exposing her cleavage for the camera, then quickly re-button herself if she sees me watching.

The first time I caught her doing it I actually walked over and snatched her cellphone right out of her pretty little hands (this is a retail workplace environment after all) – I thought she was gonna burst into tears! It was if I had deprived her of some basic, primal need to show off her huge rack to strangers on the internet. She immediately started trying to whinge and cajole me like the spoiled little teenage brat that she is – obviously used to getting exactly what she wants all of the time, using her good looks, innocent eyes, and jumbo-sized tits to guarantee she always gets her way – but I stood my ground.

That is, until she got me to look up just how many "fans" she has...

I gave her that phone back pronto!

I mean, 100,000 pairs of eyes... our company logo is sewn into the front pocket of that uniform...

Well, there's no need to elaborate upon the benefits of free publicity!

Sure enough, the customers can't get enough of her – every few seconds, it seems like a different brony stops in his tracks to gawk at her obscene, pornstarlike body. They're buying random little trinkets from our shelves – just to have some meager excuse to ogle her glaringly exaggerated, shamelessly sexualized figure from up close. Despite her grotesque incompetence as a reliable employee, I'm easily making back the paltry $8/hour I had promised to pay her.

When I take a late lunch around 1 o'clock, she seems hungry, so I offer her a cup of ramen. Sure, call me a weeb, whatever. While she's eating the stuff, that klutz drops a gob of it from her fork; unsurprisingly, it lands right inbetween her tits.

– Whoops! Ha ha, caught it! Am I good or what...?

Then she digs the noodles out with some chopsticks. Utterly shameless. Of course, she has me snap a photo to commemorate the occasion. For her "fans," I'm sure.

I send her back to the company desktop to complete the store inventory.

30 minutes later, I find her sleeping in front of the monitor, once again crushing the keyboard with her copious chest. I stand back for a moment, marveling at the sheer breadth of this woman's ineptitude.

Zero work ethic.

The desktop browser is open. A video of three ripped dudes with massive cocks gangbanging a huge-chested lactating slut plays on the computer screen.

The company computer screen.

Jesus Christ.

Her hand is down her pants.

Absolutely shameful.

I walk away, pretending I didn't see. I'll let her wake up on her own and account for her own mistakes.

...

Another 30 minutes pass. She's still asleep.

Holy shit.

Am I really going to have to wake her up myself??

I step up behind her slumped form and loudly clear my throat a few times.

She bolts to attention.

– I'm not sleeping on the job, sir!! I'm working hard, sir!!

What a fucking idiot.

She's lucky "ditzy airheaded bimbo" just happens to be my type...

Better just play along.

– Ah, that's what I like to hear...!

Then I shoo her away, telling her to go pose some pony figurines around the display case, filling some empty shelfspace.

Surely that's something she can handle. I'll finish the inventory myself...

...

Now I'm watching her ass strain against her shorts as she struggles to reach the topmost shelf. She's doing tiny hops on her tiptoes, making a little whining grunt with each little leap, trying to retrieve a Princess Luna doll that's tipped over.

There's an unused footstool directly to her left. I shake my head.

Then, the inevitable. She leans in just a little too far, smacking the underside of a shelf with an errant boob. An entire row of figurines topples to the floor.

– Whoops!

This woman is an atrocious employee...

She bends over to pick them up, putting her ass on display in a new way – a plump, lovely heart shape, framing a lush thigh gap.

... but god-DAMN!!

Her boobs are smacking her in the face, dangling like twin torpedoes in their substantial holsters, obscuring her field of vision. She's having a tough time collecting all the dropped toys.

I feel sorry for her.

I walk over.

– You're doing extraordinary work! In fact, I'm giving you a raise!

She muffles her words through a faceful of tit.

– Ooooh, how much?

– I'm movin' you up to $9.50 an hour!

– Wow, that's more than I've made before in my entire life! Thank you sooo much sir!!

She stands up straight, suddenly quite serious.

– There's just one question I have, sir...

– And that is...?

Without warning, she leans forward, shoving her ass in my general direction, and begins to twerk her luscious booty vigorously before my astonished eyes, thrusting it sharply up & down in a lascivious pantomime of doggy-style sex.

– Does my butt look good in these shorts? I mean, like, $9.50-an-hour good?

She's absolutely unaware of what she's doing to my cock.

I'm in heaven.

***

– So sorry I'm late!! There was a big accident on the freeway, and my mom tried to take a different route, but we...!

A timid, homely high-school girl in a shabby, homemade Twilight Sparkle costume rushes towards the storefront of Twilight's Emporium. A custom pipe-cleaner wig scratches her face. As she approaches, she sees the owner man from the Facebook ad goggling at an immaculately-costumed, unbelievably busty Twilight Sparkle cosplayer wearing the store's uniform as she stoops to assist him in gathering up some merchandise from the floor, her enormous knockers sagging like fat stalactites from her slim frame.

– Oof, my boobies are feeling – ugh – really... really heavy again sir!

– Ha ha! That's all right babe! I'm sure they're just excited for the big sales event! Huhu, with knockers like those you're gonna sell QUINTUPLE the product that boring ugly-ass beanpole girl-I-was-gonna-use could ever dream of selling!

Tears well up in the boring, ugly-ass beanpole girl's eyes.

– I'm so glad I hired you instead. She was ugly as sin – but you're gorgeous as gold, kid!

He slaps her ass. Her titties wobble.

She perches hands on her hips in affectionate mock-reproach.

– Sir!

...

Replaced – again – before I could even start...

She sadly walks away, head hung low.

Just like my last two jobs...

And all 6 of my crushes in my 16 years on this stupid Earth...

No boy wants me...

She yanks off her misshapen papier-mâché tail in abject despair, tossing it to the floor.

I'm unmarketable...

She weeps, big, ugly tears streaking her mousy, unloved face.

No one wants me...

I wouldn't be missed... even if I were dead...