Princess Celestia cordially invites you to the royal wedding of Prince Blueblood and...

“Somepony I’ve never heard of!”

Soain’ gasped sarcastically as Spitfire read the letter.

“Please be serious, Soarin’. This isn’t a joke! We’ll be performing at the wedding for Luna’s sakes!” Spitfire grumbled in her usual tone.

Since that little incident with Soarin’ being fat and Spitfire stuffed full of cum and all that, the two of them had been placed on probation from the team.

Over the past week, Spitfire’s body had dealt with the massive amounts of semen inside her, through digestion or otherwise. At the moment, her belly hung down a good foot from her torso, flank soft and pliant, and breasts as big as volleyballs. She’d recently stopped lactating, to Soarin’s displeasure, but there was still a good amount in there.

“Oh? Methinks you’ve got a cru-ush~!” Soarin’ sung.

“I do not!” Indeed she did not. In fact, for a week, the two of them had been lovers, and... You know what? I’m not explaining this to you. If you’ve got no context for what I’m talking about I suggest you go back to the first chapter and read from the start, otherwise, horses, ladies and gents.

He wasn’t finished. “Oh Blueblood, you can spit on my fire anytime!” He mimed a kissy face, which was made even more adorable by the proximity of his bloated cheeks.

“That was just terrible,” she groaned.

“Whatever. Keep going, I guess.” He popped a lemon tart into his mouth and chewed obnoxiously.

“As long as it’s okay with you, your majesty.” Spitfire gave him a disgusted look.

Princess Celestia cordially invites you to the royal wedding of Prince Blueblood and Lady Rarity Belle.

“Rarity Belle... Say, isn’t she the one who pulled that stunt at the Best Young Flyers competition? You sure she’s not gonna knock us out, lock us in a dark room, and stuff us full of who-knows-what?”

“Soarin’, you really need to stop listening to that Coast Tucoast idiot. He’s touched in the head.” Spitfire facehoofed.

“Well have you seen Blueblood? She and him get together at the Gala, come next morning and the fella can barely move!” Soarin spread his front hooves to illustrate, flabby legs jiggling slightly, “And now he’s marryin’ her!”

“You know, I’m sure there’s a saying just right for this.”

“Tell ya what,” Soarin’ said, eyeing Spitfire’s athletic body,, “What say we go to sleep and pick up on this in the mornin’?”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“Ain’t I just?” He laughed. With a flourish, Soarin’ had removed his uniform. Well, less of a flourish, and more of an incremental process of unzipping, unwrapping, and removing his tight latex suit, which wasn’t even the least bit sweaty, somewhat defeating the purpose of the thing. Oh well. At least he jiggled a lot. As they walked, Soarin’s man-boobs wobbled with every motion of his thick legs. Atop them sat his flabby butt, distended cutie marks covering his flanks. Looking past that, his back was covered in a layer of chub that only added his his general huggability.

Spitfire was a lot smaller, looking downright skinny next to her bloated boyfriend. Her tits sloshed a little as she walked, a bit uncomfortable but she could live with it, and her belly wobbled side to side with each step.

“Ma’am, what are we going to do on the bed, ma’am?”

“Sleep.”

“Sleep?”

“Sleep.”

“Sleep as in sex?”

“No, sleep as in sleep.”

It was a restful night, during which Luna didn’t visit Soarin’ in his dream, he didn’t sleepfuck Spitfire, and I’d just like to point out that most of this story has been sitting around on my hard drive since Christmas, so please disregard any similarity to any other story ever, and jerk off to horses already.

Now, come morning, Soarin’ had already taken off (figuratively, whether he’d ever fly again was anybody’s guess) for breakfast at the hotel restaurant, leaving Spitfire to get ready for the day. Not a particularly busy day, or an important day, in fact they’d probably spend it eating in front of the tv, but hygiene was always important. We rejoin our young heroine in the bathroom, having just finished with her business and preparing for a shower.

Spitfire suddenly doubled over in pain. Her gut, it was on fire! It had to be! No, the rational part of her brain said, it’s just gas. Take a tablet and a shower and get ready for the show.

Groaning, she got back up and made her way over to the medicine cabinet, belly swinging as she went. Aspirin, Ibuprofen, there it was, the Alka-Seltzer. Dropping it into a glass of water and taking a swig, she began to feel better already.

“See? Just gas. Nothing to worry about.” She said to herself.

In the shower, the feeling had come back. Trying to ignore it, Spitfire reached for the shampoo. Slip! She fell right on her butt. Well that went well, she thought. Let’s try this again.

It started as a low gurgle. At first Spitfire thought it was coming from outside her room, but quickly realized where it was really coming from.

Inside me?

She looked down at her stomach and saw something that took her breath away. Her stomach, a blobular ball of blubber, should’ve been sitting still on the floor, the only movement the rise and fall of her breathing, but instead shook with regular bumps. Little hoof-shaped bulges appeared and disappeared every few seconds. There was only one explanation for this, no matter how much she wanted to disbelieve it.

I’m... Pregnant?!

The surprise of this revelation prevented her from forming coherent thoughts for the next few moments, during which time her womb stretch outwards, enough for a second child to make his home in there. Now her belly bulged against her forelegs, spreading them apart slightly as the kicks came in quicker succession.

She was able to get her thoughts together, just for a second, and know what she had to do.

Getting up, she slid open the shower door and started onto the tiled floor. After only a few steps through the spacious bathroom, she slipped and fell back.

“Ouch!” She shouted, before howling in pain as her belly swelled again. She looked ready to give birth to triplets, at least, and by the time she got up she was sweating. It was really hurting, this sudden growth, enough that she almost believed she was in labor already!

Her belly jiggled as she first tried to run and, failing that, trotted to the bathroom door. She had to get out, had to escape, had to get help! She fumbled with the handle; she could feel a growth spurt coming on--augh!

She fell back on her haunches, milk splattering from her swollen breasts, and clenched her teeth in pain as her belly rocked forward a few inches. I’ve got, what, four, five inside me now? When will it stop!

Her body didn’t reply as another contraction shook her body. Her fur was thin, stretched out across her mountainous mass. Trying to stand, her hooves could barely touch the floor.

“Gotta.... Get.... Out!” she shouted, flinging the door open. Just past the bed, she could see the front door. If she could just get to it, she could get into the hallway and get help!

Shuffling on the tips of her hooves, she made slow progress to the doorframe. Suddenly, there was another grumble, and her belly ballooned again. Now, her hooves mere inches above the tiled floor, victory in sight, she was really and truly immobile. The foals inside her rocked and kicked, interrupting her as she tried to think.

“Babies, mommy’s gonna get us out of this, but I need you all to be--” She was interrupted by a growl, signifying to her yet more growth. Oh boy, this one’s gonna--

“Aaaayaaaawaaaaah!”

Her voice was hoarse from screaming, her eyes red from tears of agony. Her belly, now suspending her a foot from the ceiling, was covered in stretchmarks over much of the now-exposed skin. Every few seconds or so, a bump would signify the life she held inside her.

Her breasts, already bloated, were now the size of beach balls. The pressure, oh the pressure, caused milk to dribble out in a small stream onto the floor. It had been at least an hour, and with her belly blocking the doorway, that hour of leaking had caused several inches of milk to accumulate across the floor.

She was practically laying on top of herself, and her children, like a big uncomfortable mattress. A mattress that was frequently rocked by kicks, and filled most of the bathroom.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes, come in!” Spitfire croaked, her throat sore from yelling.

The door opened and, standing in the doorway, was her boss, a white pegasus named Surprise. Oddly enough, she wasn't surprised by Spitfire's gravid situation, but that's just what you get when you strive to ironically name your children. With a voice like an angel who smoked too many Winstons (this story brought to you in part by the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company. Winston tastes good like a cigarette should.), she spoke.
"Spitfire, I've talked with Soarin', and here's what we're gonna do. Since we can't very well fire our two most decorated fliers, the two of you are being shuffled from the flight roster, and will instead become drill instructors at the new academy in Cloudsdale. That way, you can keep on doing whatever you two damn well please and spare the team the embarrassment of... Well, you. Good frickin' day."
And with that, she slammed the door, leaving Spitfire alone with her belly.
*grooaann*
"Aww, kids, are you hungry?" she cooed, "Don't worry, I'm sure daddy will be back soon enough, and knowing him we'll have ourselves a nice little feast, okay?"
She shuffled her hooves along her girth, causing a spurt of milk from her teats.
And now the door opened again. Soarin' announced his entrance with a loud belch. "Spits, I'm ba-a-aaahaack!" His eyes widened and he stumbled backwards, falling flat on his flabby back in the hall. His tongue lolled out as his eyes rolled up, out cold. Framed by his belly, legs, and moobs, his little flyer had sprung to attention, two wingponies taking formation.
Yes, that'll do nicely, she thought to herself, licking her lips as another growl shook her belly.

Author's Note

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to myself, since I saw Letters from Iwo Jima and Cloud Atlas back to back and spent the next two weeks writing proper fanfiction, my possible success therein being largely due to skills picked up writing this. Coming soon to a FiMFiction near you. Sorry I took so long.
Now then, a lot of people have been addressing recent events, but this really isn't the place for it, not that anyone cares about my opinion anyway, me being some random pervert on the internet and all, but, well...

With this chapter, we enter the home stretch. We'll meet the culprit behind (heheh) the immense new style and uncover hidden secrets that will shake Canterlot to the core... Aw, fuck it, you all just wanna jerk off, don't you?

Toss your thoughts and suggestions down in the comments, curse me out for not fulfilling your TwiDash fantasy, demand to know where I hid the girl, you know the drill.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a butt to snuggle with. Heheh!