“C’mon, fatass! Get your flank in gear!”

Soarin’ grumbled as he picked up the pace. Ever since the pie incident, Spitfire had been on his case about what she called ‘His weight problem’. He only had one! Okay, maybe two. Or fifteen. But either way, he was still perfectly capable of flying! It’s not like he needed to go fast or anyth... Oh yeah. Wonderbolts. Forgot. Heh.

This would make is fifteenth lap in ten minutes. Maybe if Spitfire had tasted that pie, she’d know why he ended up eating so much. Not to say he had eaten too much! No, there was no way to eat too much of that moist, succulent apple pie.

It was only a few pies; what about that Prince Blueblood guy? After that helluva date he and that Rarity chick had, he wouldn’t have expected much to happen between them. Now, he was completely immobile and she hung around him all day long! He had to be carried around by a team of unicorns for Celestia’s sake! Still, if that’s what his girl wanted, he couldn’t very well refuse.

Canterlot sure was a big town, now. It had always been a bastion of hedonism and indulgence, but now? Seemed like every restaurant was packed, and so were the ponies. Gah, he mentally grunted, the puns are endless! He was at Donut Joe’s the other day; that Hoity Toity fella was sitting towards the back, taking up most of the far corner, wearing some fancy suit that made him look like a stuffed peacock.

Giggling at the mental picture of Hoity Toity as a peacock, he almost tripped himself up. Stumbling, he got his mind back in the game. The boss wants me to work, I gotta work.

His body jiggled slightly as he jogged faster down the track. He wasn’t that fat, in fact most would only call him chubby. His belly was still firmly in the grip of his flightsuit, and he only had two chins, how does that warrant such a fierce training regimen? It’s not like he was Prince Bluebloat up in the castle. Puns.

And title drop, thought a human sitting at his computer.

On a straight stretch again, he let his mind wander. The front page of the Canterlot Times featured a story on that model, Fleur-de-Lis. He remembered her from an old issue of Playcolt. A damn fine dish, if I do say so myself. Now, her face covered with a hoof, she was helped out of Photo Finish’s design studio by a guard and her husband, who was shooting an evil look at the photographer. Seems a bit insensitive to just plaster that picture everywhere, he thought. Hopefully she’s doing better.

The article was surprisingly detailed, reading like a third-person account of the events leading up to her fattening. Following that, there was a request for aid from the citizens, seeing as the hunt for Photo Finish was getting nowhere fast. Any tips as to her whereabouts were to be sent directly to the National Police. He doubted they’d get any; she was a fashion designer after all, it seemed natural she be a master of disguise. Anypony who got close enough to identify her would probably end up full of cake or something.

He leaned into another curve, the curves in his body also leaning. Sweat stains were beginning to form, his body bouncing, his bodacious booty bobbling up and down as he trotted along.

Odd; he was already running out of breath. Didn’t he usually run a good twenty laps every morning? It’s not like he never overate, and the digestion rarely interfered with his workout. But still, he began to pant as he trotted across the hundred yard line.

From her position above the field, Spitfire looked down in disapproval. Soarin’ was a good flyer, he really was, but he lacked self-control. Always eating, drinking, getting it on, he was a real playcolt. After the flying season had ended, he could often be found asleep on his couch. Spitfire wondered if he even moved from that spot for weeks on end, judging by the amount of garbage piled around it. Unfortunately, the Wonderbolts weren’t for lazy ponies, nor were they for libertines of his calibre. Management kept wanting to drum him out, to replace him with one of the Best Young Flyers winners, but she always convinced them that he could be improved. He just needed to learn some discipline, she’d said, and what better pony to teach it than her?

She was so caught up in her thoughts and memories that she didn’t notice Soarin’ trot up to her.

“Okay, *gasp*, Spits. That’s *gasp* thirty laps.” He panted out.

Sweat glistened on the exposed portions of his coat, causing his light blue fur to shimmer in the sunlight. Dark stains were centred around his armpits and down his front, and what was hopefully just sweat could be seen dripping along his rear. His chub shook as he gasped for breath, straining to inhale against the tight leather suit.

His eyes suddenly widened.

“Soarin’? What’s wrong?” Spitfire asked in concern.

“I...” He said between clenched teeth.

“Yes? What is it? Do you need a doctor?” He’d eaten so much, all that weight he gained, was his heart giving out?

“I...”

“Soarin’! Stay right there! I’ll call an ambulence!” She jumped up and started running for the nearest payphone.

“Wait!” He shouted just before she could dial.

The sudden jostle was the last straw.

*Fffffpupfffffbbrrrrpppbbbbrrrppp*

Spitfire’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as Soarin’ farted. It was big and loud, but that’s implied by the sound effect right there. Maybe it was stinky, depending on if you’re into that. All that matters is fat pohnee.

His body rocked with the sudden expulsion. The uniform, already tight, began to tear right down the rear. With a rip, the costume split apart, from his tail down to his crotch, causing his chubby rear to flop out.

“Uh...” He started. Spitfire simply stared.

It was even more wonderful than Spitfire expected. The uniform was holding it in, she realized. His ass cheeks were round as volleyballs, plump and plush. They jiggled as they flopped down, bouncing slightly as they settled back into place.

The tear continued along his belly, causing his belly to expand to its full size. Soarin’ buckled down slightly as it crashed out of his suit. It was probably bigger than the suit should’ve been able to contain, explaining his trouble breathing, and standing testament to his dressing skills.

It finally stopped at the bottom of his chest. He fell to his corpulent haunches, big belly quickly moving up and down as he inhaled freely for the first time all morning.

“Soarin’...” Spitfire started. She had never seen anything like it; he may eat too much once in awhile but never anything like this! The sweat created a little pool around him as he sat, breathing slowly in his exhaustion. His wings drooped, splayed out across the ground. Suddenly, she felt a cold breeze.

“Wha?” She whirled her head around and saw the cause. She’d always had a crush on Soarin’, ever since she first lay eyes on him at the Academy. Ruggedly handsome, always speaking his mind; she always hoped that one day, he and her might slip out to the bushes behind the barracks one night. But that never happened. No matter how she put the moves on him, he simply refused to take the bait. He’d been with so many mares, it wasn’t as if he was gay or something!

A famous pony like her could have any stallion she wanted, but she’d always saved herself. For the right one, she told herself, but she knew the real reason: She wanted him, and only him. Of course, he seemed to want anypony but her.

“Soarin’... Do you want some help?” She asked slowly, trepidation seeping into her voice as she spoke.

It was strange; Soarin’ was always near, quick to defend her and quick to comfort her, yet he never even tried to sleep with her, never asked her out! Not even that one night when everypony got all liquored up and Surprise took off her bra.

His reply was at first a grunt as Soarin’ picked himself up, belly swinging below him.

“I’d like that, yeah.” He said, wobbling a little.

Before his thick legs could give out, Spitfire flew over to him and propped herself up against his side.

“Here, lean onto me, let’s get you to the locker room.”

Off they went, Spitfire’s shapely bottom holding up Soarin’s blubbery buttcheeks, across the field and to the short building that housed the locker room. It was a unisex room, possibly built to ensure the maximum amount of perviness be enacted by the stallions, and the mares could freely survey them, ranking their assets against their peers.

The room was surprisingly small considering the size of the building, oblong with two rows of lockers on either side, a bench in the middle, and the entrance to the shower room at the end.

Soarin’ left Spitfire’s care and waddled over to his locker. Biting the fabric, he pried the suit from his front hooves, then his head, and finally kicked it off his back legs, the movement sending tremors through his pliable body.

His body was even bigger without the suit on, she realized. His back legs, which looked almost comically thin beneath his bulbous buttocks, were now as wide as tree trunks, his dimpled thighs nearly touching between his legs. He wasn’t sagging, but the tightly packed fat jiggled a little as he tossed the ruined outfit into the corner.

Working with his hooves, he pulled off the fur-colored jock strap covering his privates and let it drop to the floor. With so much of his bulky body in the way, she couldn’t see much of anything, but that didn’t matter. Spitfire had never been so turned on.

“Soarin’... Do you like me?” She asked with trepidation.

“Of course, Spits. You’re pretty much my best friend.” He replied, lowering himself down on the double-wide bench. He set himself down, then flopped down on his back, exposing his belly and... Nether regions. Spitfire eyed his crotch with hunger, lust for the big blubberbolt almost overpowering her reason, but no, she had to do this the right way! If she just pounced on him now, there was no way he’d want to be with her!

“Best friend?” She said slowly.

He craned his head back to look at her. “Yep. No matter what, you’re always there for me. I know I’m not the easiest to work with sometimes, but you always put up with my crap and push me in the right direction. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even have gotten through the Academy without you helping me along.” He spread out his wings, an impressive span of six feet tip to tip. Of course, they looked rather less majestic when they weren’t partially hidden beneath his wide body.

“So... Would you like anything?” She was beginning to wonder what he was getting at, and when they’d reach the subject she so desperately wanted to talk about.

“A bottle of water, then maybe some alone time.” He said, with what could be mistaken for lust but was probably just thirst in his eyes.

“Alone time..?” Spitfire repeated with anticipation.

Soarin’ looked back down and slapped a hoof to his belly, causing the flubbery rolls to jiggle. “Yeah, I’m gonna need a shower.”

“Want company?” She said, expecting the obvious answer.

“Nah, I may be fat but I’m not helpless. You outta go get ready for practice. I think I’ll take the day off.” He grunted, attempting to roll over onto his belly. Straining with effort, he gave up after a few seconds of difficult exertion. With an increasingly dry throat he continued, “Like I said, some water would be nice.”

As she trotted out the door to the vending machine in the hall, Spitfire realized something. In the grand story of life, she wasn’t a romantic lead. She wasn’t even a porn star. She didn’t get any wild and crazy sex. She’d probably die a virgin. She was a tragic character, in a sub-par fetish story written by some alien monkey. He was probably a bit of a dick, taunting his readers with the promise of sex but never really getting there.

She sighed and dropped a bit into the coin slot. C’est la vie, she thought bitterly. At least he’s still my friend.

With a thunk, the bottle fell into the dispense slot. She picked it up and began to head back towards her obese friend. Maybe I can skip practice today too. We can still have some fun, even if he doesn’t like me that way. The trotted back into the locker room, thinking of all the wonderful things she would do to him.

Author's Note

Yep, that's right, this entire two thousand word chapter is just a teaser. A taste of things to come. Not really, because things to come will taste like pizza, and you can't taste fictional pizza. Or can you?

Quickly, nerds! To the SCIENCE-MOBILE!

Still gonna fatten up a couple more ponies before the plot, or what passes for it, takes over. Yes, there will be plots in the plot. Big plots. Gah I love asses. Anyway, drop your two cents in the comments below, and we'll see how many dislikes I get when this shows up in the updates list!

It sure is convenient that Soarin' went to Donut Joe's and saw Hoity Toity, then saw Fleur in the newspaper, and saw Rarity and Blueblood, all in a short stretch of time. Plot convenience. Again, in case you didn't get the memo, I like butts.