I - Big and Plump and Round
The Weighty Marriage
B_25 & Magic Man
It’d been slow—but eventual. Everything flushing back in a flux of sadness while Zecora laid on the bed. Queen size slowly unable to handle her size. It panged her with guilt. Tiny jiggles and sways from her large frame as she silently wept to herself.
Despite the things she loved on either side.
Zecora rolled to the left, a heavy and lethargic movement, requiring a few seconds of effort, pushing, relying on momentum to move the mountain that was her belly. It bore a weight of its own. The rest of her body was dependent on where it went. Never the other way around.
But she rolled. The groans of the bed, squeaking of the springs, the seeping indention of the sheets diving into a pond underneath her mass. The frame creaked. Worst feeling yet. Dread of the wood cracking, what held them up, her up then unable to do so. How everything would crash. His thud light; hers breaking through the ground.
Could the house stand her fullest impact?
Those thoughts crushed and compressed her. It was already hard enough to breathe as it was. Sharp inhales through the mouth, held and choking on them for seconds—exhales with intermittent shutters. It was all she could do to keep quiet. Not wanting to wake the hubby working so hard, so long, and sleeping so lightly, so rarely.
But the bedside table. Zecora struggled to reach its center drawer. Her hand lunged forward and fell to the weight of her arm. She heaved and gazed at it. Stripes bloated out as to lose their clarity. Streaks of brown faded and allowing dots and spots of her natural coat to come in.
Should she swallow her shame and have the stripes stroked on? What was natural, lost, only regained artificially? The idea choked her. Much like how the golden claps and jewels she’d once adorned. The brackets around her arms, which, on losing their taut muscles, were replaced by bountiful fat—expanding broader and broader.
Maybe there was a horrible humour to it. Zecora lifted her arm, shaking it. The lax fat wobbled around, easily jostled without her knowing. Even with the shaking done it stilled jiggled. Not the kind of jiggling a guy enjoyed watching. Doing it now only instilled the bitter comedy of it all.
Didn’t help the bedside portrait wasn’t kind either. Both her and Mac standing side by side, both tall, both strong, both littered with muscles in different fashions. Hard toil created fantastic bodies of them both. Time when working meant more then then it did now.
Those brackets worn around her arms. Fixed to the width of her muscles, accentuating their form, mass, and power. Strong and fiery. The kind of girl to last on her own, take care of her own, the leader and example and idol for those around her.
Those brackets were no longer worn around her arm. Even as her stumpy arms reached for the priority they wobbled on the grabbing. She’d lifted the one, but even still, the loose fat pressed on the edge of the bed, draping over it, flattening into a pile of contact.
She put the portrait back on the table. Lowering her hand, the handle of the drawer touched around her fingers. Lightly pulling on it, the soft creak, a admitting defeat, Zecora reached in... taking out the bag of chips.
Not a candy part or an apple tart or something silent. Fate couldn’t be kind to one like her. Much like the choice to stop wearing those brackets. Struggling to open them around her arm, collecting fat into their hold, pinching and clamping upon it, the utter tightness unbearable. Blood flow pressed shut.
Hoops around the neck were another praise turned to disgrace. Width of her throat couldn’t fit the loops regards of further extensions. They’d always choke her. Cold metal pressing into the flesh, digging into it, pushing Stygian her throat. It’d grown unbearable that’d they had to go.
Zecora struggled, with a pant, pulling on both sides of the bad. It quickly tore open with the sound of loud tearing. His snoring stopped. Her eyes widened. Glancing over at the sleeping hunk in red, however, revealed his naked, chiselled chest pushing up and pulling down.
Rolling back groaned the bed once more. She was aware of his body pressed on and over by her own. Her back, from the fatness of her ass to the extra fat stored evenly across her body, the one thing she was ever thankful for—also levitated her body inches from where she laid and sat.
It was hard. Lying on the bed only be inches higher than her lover. To sit on a chair and be elevated from the rest. Maybe, sometimes, there was a hidden delight to it. Having all the mass and all that ass to make her more, larger and bigger and taller than the rest. But it was hardly the recess needed to serve as a respite from her guilt and shame.
Zecora flopped onto her back proper, the movement and momentum coursing throughout her body, jostling her breast into a jiggle and her belly into a broad wobble. How something so large, so full and pushed out could jiggle and wiggle so easily was beyond her.
Even breathing was enough to bloat her pot upward and outward, filling all that space with air. Her daughter didn’t mind walking across her tummy, light enough to jump upon it, playing as it was a blow-up playground.
The thought both warmed and wounded her.
But Zecora continued to much on her chips, careful despite their loud crunch, feeling so horribly empty. Her belly was full, and yet, always starving. Even the swallowing of the snack jiggled down her frame, pumping into her cavernous tummy, little things littering a cave and granting it little affect.
That was the other feeling. Hunger. Needing to eat vast quantities of food to fill out her overstuffed stomach. It was enormous and broad that little snack barely hit the spot. Turkey or two could touch her inner-walls with the feelings of fullness that she craved. Snacks, though useless, were needed to spot the time between then.
Zecora ate her chips. Hated herself. And rolled her hips, seeing the sway of her belly. Always horribly amused by it. Nothing she could do about it. The duo slept naked. And she had to stare at her nakedness every night. The rise of her belly too high to see over, despite fitting her other proportions, the beyond thick legs below a treasure to him.
Even if Mac was the only one to see it.
Big Mac groaned softly upon the fluttering of his eyes. Few flicks for everything to click. The air was scented of her. The right side of his body flattened over by something other than a blanket. It was the same sensation and feeling he’d woken up to for years now.
Mac glanced to his right. One of her legs had crossed over his, the massive pillar pushing his own into the mattress. It sunk, the indention creating a weight. Yet he didn’t mind it. The pressure of another was always pleasant on the skin and the nerves beneath.
Slowly. Inch by inch. He untangled himself from her, careful not to jostle her excess. Holidays were here and those always marked the allowance of sleeping past the rise of dawn. While he shifted to the right, however, Mac gazed over his wife’s sleeping figure.
There was something that always caught his eye in gazing at her stomach. It was a monolithic sight broader than the top of a mountain. Its curve was smooth without hardly any stretching. Rather everything was pulled taut by the mass. Watching the stripes roll over it was always calming to chase after them with one’s gaze.
Or her breathing. Slow and cumbersome as it was—each counted more for it. Watching that huge mass slowly spread outward, upward, consuming more spaced, reaching distant places. How it could just become so much and then easily deflate. It was amusing and stimulating to the eye and the mind. Hidden delight to the world. Or, at least, the room.
The hunk finally slid out of the bed. Seconds after, however, the mass of his wife came and claimed his place. Fully laying on her back, legs and arms splayed out, the whole of her being declared the bed. The groans of the springs sounded lighter and under much less strain. Her weight was better balanced as it was spread out all over proportionally.
Maybe it was time to get a bigger bed after all. Not that Mac didn’t mind sleeping as it was. Being close to his wife, covered by her body. Sometimes hugged into her big embrace as warm flesh flattened and rubbed over every inch of his skin.
But seeing her able to lie back, normally and happily, free to be free. That was something more he wanted to do for her. To give her that ample space to appropriately fill out. He wasn’t a guy who needed much and already had all that he wanted. There wasn’t price nor pain in trying to achieve hers.
The day, however, couldn’t be spent gazing at her plump belly. Relatives would be over soon for the Apple’s Hearth Warming and barely any of the decorations had been set. It’d been his one day off from working on the farm—spent working on the house.
Not that Mac minded.
Worked was something he sincerely enjoyed.
Getting himself dressed—pants up his legs and shirt down his chest—he came a final time over his wife. He leaned in for a kiss. Starting at her lips, working over to her floated cheek. Then he followed down. Through the excess texture on the throat to in-between the plump breasts of her chest.
His hands caressed over the sides of her mountain, caressing the weighty obstruction, appreciating its faint wobbles. Pushing in to easily feel it jut back out. Little pushes to feel how it swayed. Pleasure in lifting parts up to feel it weigh again into his palm. A final kiss on her belly button for good luck.
And then he was off.
The direct sunlight warming clue Zecora into knowing she’d slept in. Times of being up before the sun was long gone in the house with the exception of one. Groggily, she lifted in the bed—the added space granting her more comfort.
There was still the heavy groan to the bed as she sat up but, unlike before, it came evenly from all around—opposed to one concentrated place. Her stubby legs pressed against the board of the bed. Her belly jutting over her thighs and spilling into the crevice between.
It took a few moments for her to move, every action requiring considerable effort, edging to the side of the mattress, enduring the chorus of squeaks and groans. It came, even more, when her feet fell and pressed into the wooden floor. It creaked the loudest. Fears of collapse beyond legitimate.
Zecora managed across the floor of her bedroom, no note nor scroll left. The distant sounds of hammering spoke of the location of her husband. He’d be busy for a while if he hadn’t come up to check upon hearing her get up.
Another detail to arise with the added weight. Before the zebra was light on her feet. Able to surprise her husband with silent feet in the kitchen. He’d be waiting for the coffee to brew. Her hands would cover his eyes. Seconds later a cup of steaming caffeine was held below his snout.
Now, however, regardless of where she was, Zecora’s location was always known in the house. One didn’t need to listen for her footsteps for they continuously roared out. They’d been jests of never standing beneath the sound lest a massive cannonball, quite literately, crushed them from above.
Those comments dug beneath the coat.
The same coat that desperatelyneeded to be washed.
Maybe a nice bubble bath will ease the floor from my path. Zecora sauntered through the hall, naked still. None would be up here and those still around were used to the sight. Her hand reached for the door, clicking in, pushing out—nearly throwing the frame as it banged against the back wall.
Being bigger, though slower, meant more power. Lazy and weak kind of strength. But it was something to look out for. Like the issue of walking through the door now. Zecora turned to her side, inhaling deeply, sucking in her fat, swirling it within, the thickest swell of its bottom jutting upward.
It wasn’t necessary to do, but sometimes, it made life easier.
Until her ass caught on the frame.
It’d also balloon to cosmic proportions. Each cheek akin to a balloon with the mass of ass it possessed. Wobbling with her every step that required the broadest and yet tightest of panties to slow and stop. Problem was how it dug into each cheek, pushing them so tightly together, stiffing their freshness.
Zecora groaned. With once flank past and the other stuck on the hinge, her head leaned back, fighting back the stinging in her eyes. With a heave, she thrust her hips left, against and again, the bountiful tush whacking and pushing over the wood, more and more fat spilling over to the other side—until the final thrust stumbled her through.
Going through doors had never been such an ordeal before.
Until now.
It took a while to get the bath going. The rim of the tub blocked by the smooth curve of her belly. Leaning forward was hard to her stomach took the rest of her with it. But tricks were easily found. Leaning her chub on the tub, Zecora could squat a little, reaching her small arms out, grasping the handles, turning the valves.
Standing around for the water to fill was the worst. Hardly anything could be seen beyond the swell of her stomach. Even the glance over showed only the water filling. The same liquid that reflected the bottom of her barrel. How wide it ran and jiggled despite being still. Everything lately seemed to be about it.
The water filled to the finish of steam. Windows closed and the door did the same so the heat would remain. Her legs were the first to dip in, the warming touch of water, consuming and washing over her every wish. The kind of loving hug intense at the start.
Zecora paused on jiggling her hindquarters to inside the rim of the tub. Another trick was required. Taking the hands to the sides of her cheeks, she pushed and bunched them together, the best she could, lowering her tush.
The rubbing squeak of bum against porcelain echoed in the room like one rubbing a window with a cloth. The pressure of the frame mounted around her, pleasant in its cupping of her excesses, condensing them into a bigger flab. But lowering further only made it uncomfortable as her flanks touched the water quicker than they should, her body partly lifted from the seas, her cheeks flattened against and over the curved walls of white surrounding her.
Tonight will be strange indeed for those before estranged. Zecora sighed and leaned back in the tub. More rubbing of squeaks crying into the air. Her feet reached the end of the container, her tush sliding deeper into the water.
Despite this. Her plump belly rose out of the water at the half-point like some jiggly island. Water cascaded around its sphere, currents running in narrow lands, streaking all around, so little happening upon so much. She barely saw over its top, heaving a breath, watching it jut up even more.
So many unaware of how the passage of time has changed us here. Zecora dipped her muzzle beneath the water. There’d been another reason why she couldn’t go deeper. The sides of her belly had slid into a tuck against the walls of the tub as well. The pressure of the position would keep her wedged. What will they think of seeing me so unfit? Apples have always been a strong and hardworking clan. Can either of those qualities be spoken of my current vitality?
These thoughts never helped. One always knew that. But knowing never prevented. Even if all they did was hamper without sparking a call for change—one endured them anyway. Guilt and shame desire pain and misery. The body’s way of paying for what the mind believes.
I... do not think I could handle the jokes again. Those close already crack laughs with rather ease. Always with their noses up and their eyes down. Knowing better than the rest; being better than the rest. This will give them laughs and ticks for me being within their family. Worst is how Big Mac will be seen and thought and reacted by all this. Distant family seeing what he has become—with me attached.
It was a strange thing to do, but sometimes, the peculiar only find comfort in strangeness. At least when alone. Zecora leaned forward, sliding her arms over the hill of her stomach, feeling the plush, thinly coat give way to the skin. Even thinner than her coat. Below that was the fat. The pudge she played with in her hands. Pushing it left and slapping it right, swaying it all around, knead clumps and then letting them fall as they spread all around.
Then she would wrap her arms around it, the best she could, hugging into it, sinking into the warmly heated fat, sighing, finding a modicum of comfort to her woes. Though the torrents of thoughts tore through her.
Will he take their jokes? Agree with them? What has he thought of me these last few years? Zecora hugged her belly harder against her chest, the action hard, but the only one she was capable of. Will he joke and jest with them or punch one of them out? He’s been known to work his anger out through his fists.
Zecora wasn't sure sometimes who the weight gain affected more. Her lover or herself? Though most of those family members would wonder not only how she lost her amazon figure—but why Mac would keep with such a girl in the first place.
And that thought let to the one hurting the most.
Why was Big Mac still with her?
Zecora sighed. The warm waters cleansed her coat and skin, though, of course, did nothing to clean her mind. Nothing could quell emotions. Anxiety ended only when a conclusion was achieved. What conclusion that followed was the source of such anxiety to begin with. Her face dipped beneath the water and screamed lightly in the rising of bubbles.
Though once the warm water then turned cool, and chills instead of comfort then crept over her skin, Zecora knew her respite from the world had ceased. With a groan, her hands latched to the sides of the tub, fighting to push upward—only for intense pressure to mount on her sides.
Zecora's burning blush warmed the waters if only with her dread. Not only was the pudge mountain of her belly caught within the confines of the bath—but her tush done the same. Ballooned out the sides and stuck in their flattening over the pristine white.
Her best attempts to rise out of the water resulted only in her splashing back, sending waves blowing out, rolling down the protrusion of her stomach. Getting her stomach unstuck left only for her butt to fill out further in the space below. Rising forward pulled some tons of her butt into freedom—though her belly would catch deeper into the bath and against the sides.
There was no winning by herself.
And when one couldn't win by themselves.
They had to call for help.
Applebloom was used to hearing both the call and seeing the resulting sight. Like Big Mac, the once little girl had grown accustomed to the gained mass of the bigger girl. She came already with a stick. One thicker than normal wood.
Zecora was forced to lay back in shame while the younger sister came without a word. Thankfully, there wasn't a raised eyebrow or even a chuckle. No look of disgust. The act was nearly strangely apathetic, simply something that happened, and something that the young girl had to do something about.
They never talked much during such times—neither before or afterward—but it. The ruler was shimmied through the sides of Zecroa's voluminous butt and the broad hill of her belly. Sliding in and pull up, releasing caught flaps as she fought to raise her body within the same motion. Loud pops and release of squeaks sounded once the poor zebra was able to rise from the cold waters.
She was left to dry off.
While Applebloom simply left.
The acts of the day always seemed to the last, at least those growing in ways they never dared hope for—rather the change gradual, hard to notice in the moment, caught slightly in the reflection, solidifying only when it was too late for change.
When addiction became viscous.
Zecora stood in her bedroom, naked, and with the door opened. The effort of closing it only to open again would exhaust her already drained belly and tired, flabby arms. She heaved upon leaning forward, grown taller due to her size, having to lean forward to reach the drawer for clothing.
They were going to need to get a taller one soon. Simply because the zebra couldn't handle leaning forward. The curve of her underbelly pressed against the counter and blocked sight of it. Also obstructed the pulling of the drawer too. She couldn't stand upright before it, but rather, a step or two behind, learning forward and bearing the cannon of her stomach weighing her body to the floor.
It was impossible to hold the pose for long. Seconds after holding—enough to snag broad underwear—she'd immediately rise. Standing for moments at a time, breathing heavy, setting the undies on the counter. Then she'd dive again for the pants. Rinse and repeat. Results same as the bath.
Once all of the clothing had been assembled came the next ordeal of putting them on. She brought them to the bed as her enormous ass weighed heavily into the mattress—through the springs and nearly touching the frame beneath. Her bottom covered the complete middle of the side of the bed.
How little she grew into being utterly gigantic.
Underwear was hard, and yet, the easiest of the bunch. Its holes barely vast enough to swallow her fat. The thighs was where she struggled. Sliding and suckling on her skin. Hugging it rather too tightly. Her bottom barely fit into its back and spilled more than plenty out the brim.
Pants were torture despite being like a blanket. They had to be put on while standing for her belly jutted out too far while sitting. She passed its holes up her legs, its confines quickly filled out, the fabric then stretching out as it went along. In trying to rise over the swells of her flanks was when the wiggle competition then began.
The sweater was a bit easier. Richly black and densely stitched. Enough to house some younger girls—them running with it one time like it were a kite or a cape—the hugged her body deliciously. Her fat of shame warmly embraced by the sweater. Something she felt good about wearing and in wearing.
Though there was one drawback. At least as of late. Though she fought to pull its brim over the long arch of her belly, straining to tuck it into her pants, the first few steps immediately untucking it. The fabric flew over to the center of her stomach, exposing her underbelly, the sloped fuzz of white and black, wobbling after each of her thunderous steps.
There was no point in trying to fight it after that. Nothing could be done for something too small or her too large. Rather this would have to be the outfit everyone saw her in. Her bulb figure shown off either good or worse. The crashing of her feet stomped through the hall, the morning finally done, going off to find her lover.
II - Party of Terribleness
~ I ~
Party of Terribleness
The kitchen was empty, and sometimes, that's when it was best. Zecora took heart as she stood over the stove. Not many things she could contribute to the household anymore. The rest of the family took on a great many things. But a variety of foods and cooking had slowly become her specialty within the place.
Problem was the tray of tarts left on the plate.
Throughout the house were littered countless trays of different delights. Muffins and slices of pie lingering with heat from the oven. Treats of cookies and brownies, both warmed just a little bit, all for the enjoyment for those who entered the house after being gone for years.
Most of those treats, sadly, munched upon while the girl cooked, all-knowing the supper would be hers to devour. The vast frying of pans and the boiling of pots and the rising of steam were numerous due to all those coming soon. The amount arriving forgave such heavy cooking.
But the girl was saddened to know how she could easily devour it all. How she cooked even more than she should have, family coming included, all so she wouldn't steal from the meals intended for more than herself. Even then she wondered if her hunger could be held back. Or if it was her fate to be this doomed to food.
With every muffin came the broadening of her belly. The fabric of the sweater pulling over her exposed belly. More of its form exposing. That hollowness within being scratched but not filled. Arms and legs and thighs and butt and belly swelling and swelling and swelling and swelling. Would there ever be an end to it?
“How's the food comin' together?” the voice entered from the side and Zecora had to tear from gazing at the boiling water of tasty gravy. She glanced over and saw the young girl walking in. “Seems like you're havin' fun.”
“Making food always tends to be a splendid delight.” Zecora tossed the last tart into her mouth, chewing only twice. She swallowed with ease and indulged in the feeling of it going down into her fatty depths. Now she had to hold onto the feeling to last the next six minutes. “Though I'm rather afraid my new form will lead to many others surprise.”
Bloom leaned her lithe figure against the door frame. She lifted a foot and kept it against the wood, crossing her arms. Slender with hints of taut muscles throughout. This a consistency regardless of the member of the family.
Except for the outsider within it now.
“Worried if it's going to be a good surprise or a bad surprise.”
“My heart hopes for the former,” Zecora replied, “and my mind dreads the latter.”
“Suppose the opinions of my family vary on a few things.” Applebloom tilted her head, exhaling in thought. “Not that they do it to be unkind... but its in their nature to tease as they please. Don't suppose anyone will say anything outright. Even if they do—don't take it personally.”
“Easier said than done, young one.”
“I know—but you have to try your best anyway.” Applebloom turned her head to the side at the sounding of little footsteps: the approaching of the little monster of delight. “May have been a while since they've seen you last. But don't forget it'll be even longer until ya see them again. What they say or think won't matter none come tomorrow.”
Zecora smiled as she turned, the bottom of her belly swishing beneath her sweater, fully exposed at this point—but now felt with less shame. Sometimes it was the words of loved ones that make easy endurance of the strife of life. “I suppose some of the wisdom of my tribe has passed onto you as well.”
Then came in the daughter of Big Mac and Zecora, a mix between them both, unique in her form. Though she was no different from any other kid in many attributes. Like chasing the family cat into the kitchen with a miniature sweater. She was happy about the ordeal; the cat was not.
Only, her foot snagged on something and see fell forward. No tears, but the crying of laughter. Another proof she was the mixture of the two. Still, concern crossed the fattest of them all. She went forward to pick up the little one—only for a sudden release of tension ripping down her bottom.
Zecora blushed heavily as she felt the tear in the back of her pants reach further down the curve of her ass. The denim tearing and exposing the frilly panties beneath it. First it was a slit, but quickly widened into a broad gap. Soon the bottom of the pants were no more as what was tucked behind came spilling out.
Fearful of anyone seeing her like this, Zecora lifted the little girl only to give her to Applebloom. She didn't bother to check the expression of either girl. Only to turn around, with an awkward waddle, and make her way back upstairs. Each step up the stairs tore her pants even further. It was hard to suppress tears while en route.
It wasn't often that dinner was terrible, usually due to great food and family, only now, the latter had changed slightly. More bodies were gathered around the table and only Zecora had the biggest plate of them all. That, and how her ass spilled out from all sides on the chair. She had an elevation to everyone else. This didn't grant her the slightest feeling of power.
Her hugs were the worst. Few went for it and the ones that did bore feelings of regret. She engulfed many into her hold, their bodies laying and sinking into the belly of her fat, some nearly scared of being consumed by the mass. Next came trying to take her giant body through the narrow gaps created by others. Her ass and belly usually pushing them out of the way.
Something she apologized profusely for.
Applejack and Rainbow Dash had instructed others to make no jokes about Zecora's weight. And to this promise others kept true. The same, however, could not be said about all of the family. She could feel countless eyes watching the wobbling of her belly exposed underneath her sweater. The ears perking at hearing her voluminous footsteps. She was the elephant in the room—quite literally.
“You have a very nice daughter there—don't you? To think the last time I saw her was when she was still within your belly.” The cousin's face lit up in surprise in her own unintended remark. She quickly gave an awkward laugh. “I'm almost surprised your rhyme didn't pass down the bloodline. You've lost a little bit of your accent as well.”
“Suppose that is the price to pay,” Zecora said with a forced smile, “to live among loved ones that are different. Perhaps there is something good in becoming more like them—and quality. of them becoming more like me.”
“...and some things thankfully not.”
Zecora shivered. She closed her eyes and exhaled a deep breath. It smelled sweet of tarts. That pained her in a strange way. It was true she was totally different from how she was when the family first came together for their wedding. No strength nor rhythms or anything that had made her zebra.
Or much of an attractive female.
Big Mac gave a huff as he laid back in bed. Everything about him was sore, as was usually the case, but was feeling decently well despite it. Been a while since others had roamed around the house. So many gathered in the halls, each drinking and talking, laughing and joking, though those focused on his wife was rather unkind.
And a few unkind words met with unkind actions behind closed doors and outside in the yard. Matters became cleared up one way or another. His bundle of delight finally netting the cat in a sweater. With everything done, and the house still a mess, he fell asleep rather easily, knowing work would be waiting for him tomorrow.
But he woke up in the night... without the mass of blanket that was his wife.
He shuffled in the sheets only to find none of her broad warmth anywhere close. Even the large portion of the bed her large frame occupied was deprived of her usual warmth. Big Mac sat up in the bed and pulled the chain to the bedside lamp. No trace of his wife anywhere in the room.
But the groans, creaks and croaks sounded below.
Big Mac didn't take long to leave the room and go into the hall, going down the stairs and finding himself in the kitchen. There she sat at the table. Using two chairs to hold her vast bottom. Belly pressing into the edge of the table. Her hands were stuffing tart after muffin after tart into her maw. Tears coursed down her full cheeks.
Comfort eating. It wasn't the only time he'd caught her like this. The filling and hugging tastes of Delicious foods swelling her hollow being. Even though she was so big, it was through eating she could feel full again. She cried, the groan muffled by food, fighting to swallow, failing to not throw another tart into her mouth.
Zecora looked at him only to weep more.
Big Mac knew better than to say anything. Rather he did what good husband did. He saw down, tall but not commanding, close but giving her a seat of space—and not saying a word afterward. She cried a little more. Little yelps and sniffles galore. Everything lowering and the devouring of food slowing. Until the girl was able to breathe without gasping through food.
“Seems like a thing or two has been biting at you.” Big Mac leaned back in his seat, allowing himself to gaze at the ceiling. Keeping his ears open and eyes away. Helped to take away the pressure on others. “Don't have to discuss 'em. Can just sit here if ya like.”
“I... worry I am not the same woman you fell in love with,” the words left her slowly, and she stuffed another tart into her mouth. This one, she slowly chewed, savouring the creamy explosion of blueberries. “In character, I am not the same as the woman you first fell in love with.” She heaved a sigh. “And my figure clues none to what I was before. What you agreed to marry... nothing of it remains now.”
Mac kept his head tilted back, but nodded the same if to let her know he was still listening. Not that Mac was the kind to lose himself during such an important time. But non-verbal cues were sometimes needed to others' subconscious viewings. Empathy and acceptance were hard qualities to mastered for the depended on the succeeding of little things.
Little things most don't think about. Must less consider.
“And when it comes to what married couples do... in all the s-sex we used to have... rarely have we done it recently.” Zecora sniffled and rubbed her cheek, bits of mushed food clinging to her skin. Another rub with another hand then took it away. “I know you're a busy man for all that you do on the farm and for this town. That this time of year is the most stressful of them all. But even then... it doesn't feel like you want me anymore.”
She swallowed her snack as if it brought her the final comfort needed to finish her sentence. “Just adds to the fuel to the belief you don't love me anymore... in all the ways a man loves a woman. And I just don't know how to cope with it. I really don't. Food is all I have, that and my belly, our family and daughter... and the love we once had.”
Big Mac finally lowered his head. He kept looking forward as if processing her words. Then, with a nod, he spoke. “Suppose I can see why you were so wound up if you've been feeling that way all this time. Celestia knows how such feelings can swell if you ain't careful with them.”
He looked over at her with a smile. “Thankfully, I can say you've thought wrong about me, of course.”
Zecora smiled as she sniffled.
“Truth of the matter is I've seen you, and will always see you as the wonderfully smart, strong, caring woman I'm proud to call the mother of my child.” He then leaned back and scratched the side of his neck. “And my coat may get a little redder after sayin' this, but... I've always enjoyed the thickness of your bottom. Gettin' bigger isn't really an issue with me. Only more of ya to love.”
“Are you... telling the truth?”
“Have you ever known me to lie when it matters most? I'd assume you wouldn't have married me then—or stuck with me now.” Mac smiled upon crossing his arms over the back of his head, the tension faded from the air, relaxation reclaiming them. “Just more to hug and to jiggle and wiggle around. Just makes you better in my eyes. So if you're feelin' strange... just know your couple is just the same.”
“So... you love your wife big and chunky?”
“Do I ever.”
Both of them chuckled.
Zecora felt heat course beneath her skin and her belly jut out due to his appreciating eyes. Knowing now the things that gave her shame now turned on her lover—those same qualities now gave her confidence. Powerful and strong, sexy and craving that word missing a 'y,' she began to flirt.
“I must admit there is much I adore about you, farmer boy.” Zecora licked her bloated lips while a fatty arm cleared the contents of the table to the side. She knew exactly what she was getting herself into. “Your bulging and rippling muscles seem to have only swollen with age—adding an attractive, older charm to your body. Very much in the season, I hear.”
Big Mac smirked. “That so, big lady?”
“Very much so, farmer boy.” Zecora heaved herself onto the table. It creaked and groaned from underneath her immense weight. It took a while, but after a few seconds, she was able to lie the back of her back onto the table. “Now that we have some time for ourselves—why don't you reintroduce me to the reason they call you big?”
Big Mac didn't hesitate as the need to blow off steam had been a long time coming. Undoing the buttons to his shirt, he slipped it off slowly, revealing his broad chest and chiselled abdomen. His pants were quickly undone, and his boxers pushed down after them.
An erection throbbing hard into the air.
Mac came to the side of the table and, bringing his face to her exposed underbelly, peppered the curve with kisses. His hands grabbed the bottom of her sweater and slowly pulled it over her top, doing his best cover all that she bore, keeping true to his promise of having more of her to love.
Zecora was in love with it all. Herself and him and the unique qualities both of them bore. How his face sunk into the doughy softness of her belly, sinking into it as a living pillow, its softness and heat comforting all over.
She couldn't help but give it a wiggle. Watching the massive tub of fat wobble sideways, urging his face in the direction it swept. It seemed to turn him on if his ever-growing bulge was anything to go off.
Soon, however, he was able to bring her sweater over the mass of her body. It was hard at first with how her weight pinning it down. But Mac was strong as he was delicate. He was able to pull the article out from under her, helping with easing her arms through the sleeves and then finally pulling it off from her head.
Zecora's breasts and frame had been hugged tightly from the ebony sweater. Now, however, they were free. All that held them were the domes that were the cups to her bra. She sat up on her elbows to make this part easier for him. His hands pass over her shoulders and, finding the broad holding for the bra—unclipped it.
Big Mac returned to his knees placed on either side of her belly, the stripped hill holding him slightly in the air. He leaned back and, with the bra now free, pulled away the cups to expose the swollen nipples held away fro such a long time.
Which he then proceeded to suck upon.
Zecora fell back on the table and moan her heavy whimpers. She could feel his lower body mounting the mountain of her stomach, straddling it and flicking his hips, humping the round pillow. He groaned too. Every time he sunk into the softness, so warm and elastic, it applied pressure against the underside of his cock.
She couldn't help wrap her arms around him, pulling his frame against her own, loving how his hardness melted against her softness. Her breasts had also become plump from her added weight. Mac's attempt to cup them only caused the flaps to sink through his hands—unable to grab enough but striving to anyway.
With his body now hugged fully against her, Mac was able to grind across the full length of her belly, going across the soft hill of fuzz and enjoying all that came from it. His flicked were becoming longer and faster and every dive of his hips hitting harder on impact. His groans were becoming needier now too. Something starting that would need to be finished soon.
“Perhaps your efforts could be better placed somewhere else.” Zecora smirked after saying those words. In truth her own nethers were slick and burning with an aching that demanded to be filled. Mac gazed up at her with a mouth still full from her tit. “I do love the sight you being down there and on top of me.” She giggled. “But surely there will be more times for foreplay after this, no?”
Mac silently rose with a smile. While she missed the feeling of something warm and tight and loving suckling on her breast—the rest stud made it up to her by leaning close and kissing her. It lasted for a few seconds, one dive and one retreat, both of them thinking one more would be enough—before enjoying another three.
And the two were only kicked off by the other due to the blazes burning in-between their legs.
Mac pulled away and started his descent slowly. He leaned into her body and laid kisses across the journey of her figure. Starting in the valley between her doughy mounds to the opening expanse of her belly. Going down and down until reaching the brim of her pants.
It was hard to undo the button that held everything back. But maybe that added a much-needed weight to the action. To struggle and fight to reveal what laid beneath it all. Of course, once the metal circle had been fed through the slit—the thickest swell of her underbelly burst forth into freedom, lightly smacking him.
Though, seconds after, the two started to laugh.
It took a little trouble. A little trying. But his hands were able to pull the black pants down the bloating of her thighs and the fatness of her ankles. Zecora didn't mind helping kick them off. Not one bit. The pants dropped to the floor and collection unto itself. Dense fabric and stitching that spread further than normal pants.
The fact something so large could be so easily filled as another turn on.
And her underwear quickly followed.
Zecora sat up the best she could and watched her husband do the same from the start of the table. All of this clothing starting to go. Aged had treated him. Constant work kept his muscles constantly worked. Broad and chiselled and tightened with age. The look of maturity was one he wore well.
And Zecora sometimes had a hard time believing it was all meant for her.
But he climbed back into the table the same.
Mac crawled over her legs and brought himself back to her belly. He didn't bother to reach her face considering the swell of her stomach. Rather something new would come out of this interaction. Their first time having sex since the weight-gain.
Big Mac was already aching as he reached the spot in-between her legs. He pressed himself through plump hills composed of her softness, his member pressing through it all hugged and already being warmed up. It didn't take long to feel her slit kiss upon his tip. He nestled himself at her entrance.
And slowly slid inside.
Zecora rolled on the table to the thunderous creaking of its wood. The whole thing groaned until the weight of the two—fighting to keep level. It'd been far too long since she truly felt full. To stuff herself with something and feel that pleasant expansion within.
Until now.
She clenched upon his entering length despite it doing nothing to slow his entry. Both only groaned and moaned at the added sensation of it all. Her swollen thighs collapsed into the table with all of its weight mounting on top of each otter. Though it was hard to do—her legs rose, kicking in the air, trying to cross over his back.
Big Mac didn't need to be encouraged to indulge in the bliss shared between them. Driving him all the way inside, he sunk onto the underside of her mountain composed of softness and striped fur. It was like a bed only composed out of his lover's belly.
Sinking fully into it, Mac backed out his hips, as much as he could—before slamming back in. The thrust was hard enough to shudder throughout her body. Her masses jiggled from the kinetic energy. Even her belly wobbled and waves that rocked the boy riding it.
“Do you like that, my dear?” Zecora asked as she could barely see her husband over her stomach. Both of her hands covered both of her breasts, squeezing and kneading them, trying to match their rhythm to the timing of his thrusts. “Able to lie on the warm softness that is my belly? Having it hold you while you enjoy yourself?”
Big Mac groaned in confirmation. His arms spread over the curve of her stomach in the vain attempt to hold it all against himself. Sinking inches into its plushness, he kept thrusting in and out, hugging the fat for support, allowing himself to be consumed by it.
It was mutual enjoyment for all as they moaned and groaned and cried each other's names out. Their thrusts going quicker and hitting harder and the poor squeaking of the table getting louder. Finally, its legs gave its final creak before losing their hold. The mass of the table fell from the mass of the duo.
And, seconds after landing, seeing that the other were okay... quickly resuming what they did. As the couple returned to their passionate sex, another had entered the kitchen, Rainbow Dash standing in the kitchen's door-way.
Her eyes hardly opened and the darkened bags beneath them sold a multitude of stories. She dawned her nightgown and barely watched as the couple fucked with no sense for decency. But her and Applejack had done worse. Plus. It'd been a while since the two had looked happy... or this passionate.
But she would get what she came for.
Rainbow Dash walked around the broken table and the couple fucking on top of it, not caring if she was caught nor for what sound was made. Living together had made everyone used to the other. All parties failed to notice the other. And that made things a lot simpler in the long run.
Once reaching the fridge, Rainbow decided to take the carton of orange juice instead of a glass. With it in hand, she returned to her room, allowing the couple their space. It was about time those two admit their honest love to each other.
And then acted on it.
