A DAY AT THE BRONY CONVENTION

Hunkered down, alone in an empty bathroom, the sweaty shape of a mostly-human Pinkie Pie visibly lurches in terror as her reluctant body begins once more to change, fervently opening its DNA once again to those desires which are nearest & strongest.

I'm on my hands & knees, trying in vain to resist the encroaching inevitability. With a sickening shudder, my genetic structure spontaneously rewrites itself to suit the subconscious whims of an overwhelming desire-presence lurking lustfully just beyond the restroom door. Damn it! That fucking Spike!!

Rarity. Bigger boobs.

Got it!

I falter. My skin & fur blanch into ghastly white. A thick, hard boil accretes on my forehead, rapidly developing into a blunted conical cyst. Touching it, it feels like bone. Slowly, painfully, it begins to press itself with unbearable sharpness against my very skin, splitting my epidermis like a blade, a small white unicorn horn bursting like a slow-motion hacksaw from its flesh-cocoon.

I groan with feeble agony.

My clothes are next to change, along with my hair. My tank-top and short-shorts fuse into an incredibly revealing black velvet dress, hanging asymmetrically about my trembling bone-white haunches. My G-string, of course, remains wedged tight between my asscheeks, unchanged. My once-fluffy poofs of frizzy hair restrain themselves into elegant, looping coifs of meticulously-styled purple curls, bouncing voluminously from my scalp and rear-end. Hard black plastic heels materialize around my bare feet.

With mounting horror, I realize that my bra is growing, becoming looser & looser around my E cup breasts, until at least a 2-inch gap stands between my hardening nipples and the baroque black satin cups. Bravely I inspect the tag.

HH cup.

Fuck.

An ominous tingling sensation gathers within my chest. My heart beats with feverish urgency. My boobs feel warm and achy, wobbling fatly, faintly in rhythm with my drumming, anxious heart.

They're growing.

I gasp in terror. My heart has betrayed my mind, pumping rich hormones and nutrients into my overdriven breasts against my own will, saturating them with thick, hot blood – feeding their expansion. If only I hadn't eaten all those sweets earlier! They grow slowly. Little by little, they are steadily closing the gap, throbbing closer & closer, bigger & bigger, struggling with all their might to expand and fill the big, ornate cups of my menacing black bra.

Purple veins bulge sorely against the taut, clear skin of my snow-white globes, visibly throbbing with vital fluids. My nipples are on fire, wiggling, thrusting, distended with blood atop the inflamed, wobbling, fatty lobes. My upper body convulses forwards with each painful pulse, as if my heart were marshaling all of its resources into my burgeoning breasts. Fresh, greedy capillaries multiply like angry spindles under the skin. My extremities feel faint and bloodless. I'm keeled over on hard bathroom tile, gagging & reeling with implacable dry heaves, rocked by wave after wave of nauseating pressure surging forcefully into my billowing tits. Finally, the engorged, hard marbles of my burning nipples begin to tickle the inner cups of my bra with overwhelming sensation, viciously triggering my already-overexcited pussy. My areolae are definitely bigger than Oreos now.

Then, all at once, in one last violent, sickening lurch that very nearly connects my face with the floor, my breasts achieve their miserable goal, fattening themselves snugly against the the waiting satin of my infernal brassiere, bulging roundly – juicy, ripe, plump and full.

With wavering weariness I attempt to collect myself off the restroom floor. I nearly fall over, wholly unused to the precarious torture of high heels. My grey matter rapidly compensates for this inexperience, nimbly developing the neural networks necessary for me to balance once more with grace.

I gaze into the mirror to assess the damage.

The low, sharp cut of my dress draws immediate attention to my new HH cup boobs, which are definitely straining the limits of "casually busty," pushing into "amateur porn actress" territory. Where once were perky grapefruits now hang hefty cantaloupes. They jiggle uncomfortably at the slightest motion – guaranteed to attract plenty of unwelcome stares. A golden necklace drapes itself into my obvious cleavage, crowned with a shimmering emerald brooch that's very nearly engulfed by my large breasts. My dark evening gown touches the floor on one side; on the other, an immense fissure in its skirt traces my leg up past my thigh, proudly showing off my shapely haunches, salacious G-string, and triple-diamond cutie mark.

In all honesty, I look ravishing.

I examine my figure in profile.

My heels accentuate a plump, lascivious derrière, elevating my pert rear-end seductively. My waist, slimmer than before, contrasts strikingly with my ample hips and generous rack. My figure outlines a distinct hourglass shape. Flicking my opulent tail, I admire the bounce of its intricate spirals – inadvertently causing my big boobs to wobble sympathetically.

These things are incorrigible!

I tear my attention away from my tits to examine my face. Intuitively, I feel that my petite unicorn horn – though pretty – is useless. Leaning deeply into the mirror, I admire the subtle eyeliner and glamorous eyelashes rimming the comely hue of my sparkling azure eyes. I twirl a luscious lock of mane playfully around an immaculately-manicured finger.

My nails look fabulous.

...

Where is my phone??

I simply must take a selfie this instant!

Instinctively, I reach for my purse. I must have dropped it on the floor.

...

Wait a minute, since when did I have a purse?

No matter. Rummaging through my black Prada Galleria Medium Saffiano Tote Bag, past sundry napkins, accessories, cosmetics, brushes, combs, hair product, inspirational booklets, feminine hygiene items and fashion-design sketchbooks, my slender violet-nailedpolished digits finally brush the hard plastic surface of my stylish mauve smartphone. Angling it high over my head, I pout my lips and compress my shoulders, skooshing my boobs to maximize cleavage. I take the shot.

Wonderful!

Immediately I upload it to my Instagram, @growingpony7. I've already hit 900 followers! Word of my talent & beauty seems to be travelling fast... although honestly, with my fashion skills, and my body, I'm hardly surprised!

I give a little wink in the mirror, smooch my palm, and blow myself a well-deserved kiss. Giggling at my own silly behavior, I do a tiny dance, squashing my big chest between my small arms, making the fatty top halves of my tits wiggle in place like twin mounds of white rubbery gelatin.

I pause. It takes a moment for them to stop.

...

Now then, where was I...

Ah, yes!

Where did that darling little Spike cosplayer get to...?