TGS

Based on: https://derpibooru.org/1250702?scope=scped628c0f1b8a50b6693684ee356e84552e86a729d




The Greasy Slut.


It was a diner in Manehattan, one you’d never even heard of until recently. When you did, you had slight misgivings on the name, but everyone you talked to who knew about it had nothing but positive things to say: excellent food, superb service, very casual atmosphere. Some of your friends said that the staff were very accommodating, friendly, and even ‘affectionate’. Then again, it was a restaurant run by ponies, catering exclusively to humans, something you hadn’t seen much of here in Equestria.


The thing was, it was very exclusive. From what you heard, the building itself was rather out-of-the-way of casual observation, out of prudence rather than seediness. Also, for some reason, you could only eat there not just by making a reservation, but by signing a waiver of consent. Said waiver was to acknowledge that the customers and the staff were willingly on the same page about the Greasy Slut’s more ‘free’ atmosphere. This seemed disconcerting at first mention, but those you’d spoken to praised it, and said it was ‘liberating’. They mentioned being able to just give the waitresses hugs, petting them, even giving them belly rubs. This sounded too good to be true!


Well, you finally decided it was time to check it out for yourself. You made your reservation, signed the waiver, and at last, the day arrived. Following the directions given to you upon making your reservation, you turn down a by-street off of the main road. Following that takes you to a dead-end. On the left, the back and side doors of various establishments stare at you. On the right, its lights lit up and its exterior inviting, is the Greasy Slut itself. It’s difficult to mistake it for anything else, given that the name is right over the doors, the handles of which are stamped with the letters ‘G’ and ‘S’. Taking a deep breath, you push them open and step inside.


At first glance, it looks like an ordinary diner. The floor is red-and-white tile, the walls plastered with photos and memorabilia, doors which lead into what must be the kitchen, a restroom in the back, and the delicious smell of food wafting through the window leading into the aforementioned kitchen. A sign right by you reads, ‘Welcome! Please seat yourself!’, and right in front of you is an empty booth.


The thing is, there only is that one booth. There aren’t any other seats for customers in the whole place, as far as you can tell.


“They really are exclusive here,” you mutter to yourself.


You cross over to the booth and sit yourself down, as the sign directed. A menu is sitting, waiting for you. You pick it up and start browsing through it. The selection is very inviting, and you can practically feel the calorie count in each and every one. There aren’t many places in Equestria with such a bill of faire as this. In spite of this, you soon believe you have an idea of what you want to order.


“Hi!”


If this didn’t make you look up, a slight shift in the table and a creak from it would. An Earth pony mare has reared up, leaning against it to look up at you. She has a light pink coat, a dark-pink mane with straight bangs, streaked with blue, green eyes, and a scroll of parchment for a cutie mark. Most observable about her, however, is her rather plump belly, jiggling a bit as she shifts slightly on her hind legs. She gives you a sweet smile, dimpling her freckled cheeks.


“Welcome to the Greasy Slut! My name’s Sweet Bun! Can I take your order?”


You can’t help but smile. This mare is quite adorable. Plus, you’ve always had a thing for, ahem, ‘fuller’ figures. A belly like that is just asking to be rubbed.


“Hello, Sweet Bun,” you say. “I think I’m ready to order, yeah.”


You pick up the menu again to refer to it, and Sweet Bun pulls out a notepad and pen.


“I’d like the Quadruple-Decker Oatburger Tower-”


“And how would you like that cooked?” she asks, starting to write it down.


“Medium-well.”


“And what would you like on the side, sir? You get a choice of regular potato fries, sweet potato fries, or onion rings, all bottomless.”


“Regular fries, please.”


“All righty.”


“And I’d also like the Choco-Nilla Dreamshake.”


“Ooh, excellent choice, sir! It’s one of our specialties!”


“Heh, I’ll admit, it was the donut that hooked me,” you say, with a chuckle.


She giggles cutely and finishes writing it down.


“All right, sir,” she says, getting down on all fours. “It should be ready in a little while.”


“Thank you very much,” you say.


“You’re welcome!” she says, beaming.


She waddles over to the kitchen window, rears up, and drops the note inside.


“Special of the day!” she calls. “Oatburger Stack, medium-well, bottomless fries, and one Dreamshake!”


“Comin’ right up!” calls a stallion’s, probably the chef’s, voice.


As you look at her, still remarking how cute she is, an idea strikes you. You remember what your friends had said about the friendliness of the staff. Why not see for yourself?


“Uh, Sweet Bun?” you call.


“Hmm?”


She turns around to look at you, politely puzzled. You open an arm out, giving her an awkward, but well-meaning, smile.


“Would you like to sit and keep me company? If you’re not busy, that is.”


Sweet Bun’s face lights up gleefully.


“Oh, of course!” she says. “I’d love to!”


She waddles back over, and you scootch over to give her space. She sidles in, taking up nearly all of the space you gave her with her plump hindquarters. You hadn’t noticed before, but she smells really nice, like cupcake frosting. She smiles sweetly at you, and you smile back.


“So, this is your first time here?” she asks.


“Er, yeah,” you say. “I have to say, I’d never even heard of the place until some friends of mine mentioned it. They had nothing but good things to say about it, too.”


“Aww,” said Sweet Bun, beaming. “I’m glad we made them all so happy.”


“Although, the name kind of put me off a little,” you admit.


“You’re not the first,” Sweet Bun says, reassuringly. “It’s some stupid contractual obligation by the previous owners. When we started here, we tried to change the name, but we’re obligated to keep it for quite a while longer. They wouldn’t even tell us why they named it that in the first place. Silly, right?”


“Very,” you concur.


After that, you fall silent, feeling rather awkward. You’re not really sure what to talk about. You’d never been much of a conversationalist, and you didn’t want to leave a poor impression on this kind pony.


“Do you like hugs?” she asks, abruptly.


You start, then blink at her. That question came right out of the blue, but was asked with completely innocence and sincerity. Again, you’re reminded of what your friends told you. Well, you do like hugs, so why not? Besides, a pony her size...


“Umm, yeah, of course,” you say. “Who doesn’t love a good hug every now and then?”


You smile and open up your arms, in case she acts too quickly and pins your arms to your sides. With a delighted little squeal, she lunges forward into your arms, rather enthusiastically at that, wrapping her forelegs around you. She’s pretty heavy, and a hug like that almost flattens you on your back. However, that’s soon tempered by the warmth of the embrace, and the fact that she pulls you upright. You can feel her plush belly pressed up against you. Still smiling, you wrap your arms around her. She sighs contentedly and nuzzles your cheek.


“You’re a great hugger,” you say. “You must’ve had lots of practice.”


She giggles.


“All my friends say so,” she says. “They say it’s cuz of my tummy. I’ve always been kind of a chunky filly.”


“I think it looks cute on you,” you say.


Without really thinking, you give her belly a little pat. It jiggles nicely. In the next instant, you feel sure you shouldn’t have done that, and she might get offended. Your fears are unfounded, however, as she says,


“Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say! Thank you!”


She doesn’t seem to have minded, so you breathe an internal sigh of relief. She just sits there, snuggled up against you, as you hold her in your arms like a sleepy child. Feeling daring (or is it foolish?), you decide to give it another go, and put your hand to her stomach. She hardly even reacts. Cautiously, you start running your hand over it in a gentle rub. She’s indeed blessed with wonderful abdominal padding: soft and warm to the touch. She heaves a very contented sigh, her smile broadening, her eyes closed, as if she’s having the sweetest dream imaginable. You can hardly believe you’re doing this. You’d never met a pony who was so willing to partake in such displays of affection. Sure, you had several good female pony friends, but none whom you’d imagine consenting to a belly rub like this. This feels too good to be true.


“Order up!” calls the chef.


“Oh!”


Sweet Bun gives a start, waking up, as it were, and sitting up in your arms. You gently (though reluctantly) disengage yourself, and she does the same, with equal evident reluctance. You can still feel the bit of pressure from her hug on your torso, but your heart also feels as warm as a preheated oven. That felt nice.


“Thanks,” you say. “I really enjoyed that.”


“Thank you,” she says, sweetly. “I love a good hug, but it’s so rare that I get a belly rub along with it!”


She hops off the seat and trots over to the kitchen window, where a plate bearing a tower of a burger, a sizeable cup of julienne fries, and a big vanilla-chocolate milkshake topped with a donut awaits. Picking it up, she brings it over to your table and sets it down. It looks and smells wonderful!


“Here you are, sir!” says Sweet Bun. “Enjoy!”


“Thanks very much,” you say.


Before she disappears, she leans up to give you one more nuzzle on the cheek, then disappears into the kitchen. You can’t help smiling as you watch her go. Such a sweet, affectionate pony. Now, however, your attention is invested in your newly-arrived meal, hot and primed for gorging. You’re about to dig in, when you feel the table lean to the other side, giving off a creak.


You look over, and feel your heart skip a beat. A purple-coated mare with a flowing blue mane is leaning on your table, on her hind legs, just like Sweet Bun. There’s a marked difference in her bearing, however. Her ears are pierced, and there’s a sultry look in her orange-yellow eyes. She, too, is quite plump, perhaps slightly more so than Sweet Bun. Her cutie mark is an open chest full of gold. She’s giving you a coy, teasing smile.


“Hello,” she purrs. “Welcome to the Greasy Slut. My name’s Treasure. Can I take your food?”


Words fail you. All you can do is stare. Treasure’s leaning in quite close, so that the edge of the table presses into that perfect mound of tummy dough, as if to purposely show off just how soft and fat it is. Was it getting hot in here, or was it just you?


“Erm...b-beg pardon?” you stammer.


She gives a soft giggle.


“This your first time here?” she asks. “Here at the Greasy Slut, we believe that sharing truly is caring. My friend Sweet Bun and I like to make our guests feel welcome. We like to pop over, say hello, maybe grab a bite, if the customers want. It’s one of the reasons we dish out such big portions. It lets us get, shall we say, better acquainted with the customers.”


Her tail gives a very noticeable flick as she says this, and she wiggles her eyebrows. You swallow hard.


“O-Oh, right,” you stammer. “I, er, remember hearing about that, about the whole casual atmosphere thing. That’s...very nice. P-Please, have a seat, if you’d like.”


“Why, don’t mind if I do,” she says.


You scootch over, and she seats herself right next to you. Her hefty hindquarters fill up practically every inch of space you’ve made, and the table presses against her belly even more. She smiles at you, and you detect a strong smell of perfume. Not a bad scent, actually.


“Mmmm, that looks delicious,” she says, gazing at your plate. “And you even ordered the Choco-Nilla Dreamshake. Everyone always does.”


“Heh, that so?” you ask.


You chance a glance down at that belly of hers, and wonder how hungry she must be right now. She notices, smirks, and nudges you in the ribs in a teasing way.


“Oh, don’t worry, hun, I’m not going to let you starve. We’ll split it.”


“Sounds good to me,” you say, rubbing where she nudged you.


Taking up your knife, you slice your mountain of a burger stack in half, as best you can, and slide one half closer to Treasure. She smiles at you.


“Such a gentleman,” she says. “Thank you. Only…”


She pauses, her expression a little, you want to say, cheeky.


“Yes?” you ask.


“I’m feeling a little lazy today. Could you feed my food to me? I’ll even let you rub my tummy.”


She bats her eyelashes at you, giving you the double-whammy combo of puppy-dog eyes and pouting lips. It’s irresistible, but you still can’t believe she herself offered to let you rub that perfect belly of hers.


“Errm...Are you sure that’s all right?”


“Oh, of course!” she says. “As long as it’s all right with you. We here at the Greasy Slut strive for complete customer satisfaction and comfort. There’s a reason we’re so exclusive, after all,” she adds, winking.


Well, that made sense, you guess. Besides, when else are you ever going to have an opportunity like this?


“W-Well, I don’t mind, if that’s what you want,” you say. “By all means.”


She smiles broadly.


“Oh, you are such a sweetie-pie. Thank you.”


And with that, she drapes herself across your lap, on her back. She’s very heavy, but you don’t really care. You feel your heart dance as that gorgeously chubby middle rises up in front of you, a rounded purple hill of softness. You give her a sidelong glance, still not sure if this is really happening or not, and tentatively place one of your hands on it. It’s soft, warm, and plush, like the world’s best pillow. You look at her again, and she merely smiles. She’s plainly enjoying this. You give her belly a pat or two, making it ripple and wobble, like gelatin. She giggles. You crack a weak smile.


“Well, uh, you hungry?” you ask.


“Famished,” she purrs.


This has to be one of the oddest, most extraordinary things you’ve ever done: sitting in a booth, with a pretty, plump pony lying across your lap, her mouth lazily opened to receive food. You start, naturally, with the oatburger. You take her half and hold it for her, so she can take great big bites out of it. This is a particularly messy operation, and her face and chest become besmirched with crumbs, which she seems oblivious to, beyond licking her lips every so often. In between, you start eating your own half. As you’d had no reason to doubt, it was absolutely delicious.


All this time, one of your hand rests, almost automatically, on that belly of hers, patting and running along it. Treasure sighs dreamily, both from the taste of the food you’re feeding her (you’re now dropping those delectable fries into her open mouth like grapes for a reclining queen) and the feel of your hand. Her gut is dreamlike in its feel: soft, yielding, and so squishy. Your fingers sink in easily wherever you place them. You find yourself alternating between rubbing and massaging, while giving her an occasional tickle on the side every once in a while. It’s plain she loves it all, sighing from the rubbing and giggling from the tickling. You can almost fancy you even feel and see her growing a little fatter as she eats and eats. Maybe it’s just your imagination.


You have no idea how long this goes on for. The fries are, after all, bottomless, replenished almost automatically, though you’re so focused on Treasure that you don’t notice who does it. You wish, however, that it could go on forever; you’d be perfectly happy with that, and she probably feels the same way. You realize she probably does this kind of thing all the time with other customers, but that doesn’t bother you. It’s part of her job here at the Greasy Slut. You also can’t help but wonder, rather wryly, how much weight she must’ve put on since starting work here. Heck, how about Sweet Bun, despite her saying she’d always been a ‘chunky filly’?


At last, you go for the Dreamshake. By some token of foresight, somepony had put two straws in it. This time, you rest one hand behind Treasure’s head, settled in her silky mane, to support it, and use the other to hold out the shake between the two of you, a straw facing each of you. The rich blend of chocolate and vanilla is a perfect finisher for such a meal, and you’re starting to feel full and content. So much so, in fact, that when all that’s left of the shake is the donut, you offer the whole thing to Treasure.


“I don’t think I could eat much of this,” you say. “You have it.”


“Oh, how generous,” says Treasure, batting her lashes.


She opens her mouth, and you hold the donut up to it so she can munch it down. Within seconds, it’s reduced to crumbs and frosting lining her lips. She laps it up with ease with her tongue, and then, to your surprise, she leans up and gives you a lick on the cheek. You can’t help but stare, caught off-guard.


“You just had a little smidge right there,” she said, but the coy way she says it makes you wonder if that was really true.


With nothing else to feed her, both hands are now free, and, with pleasure, you start giving her a true belly massage in earnest. She lies back and closes her eyes, sighing peacefully under your gentle touch. Honestly, a belly like this would make for the best pillow in the world, with how soft and cushy it is. You didn’t want to pry and ask if she was seeing anypony, but if she ever did have a special somepony, they would be very lucky to have a mare like her.


Suddenly, a clock begins to chime. You look up, startled, and Treasure opens her eyes.


“Aw, darn,” she pouts. “Is it time already? Sorry, hun, but we’ve got to clean the place up for our next reservation. And you were making me feel so cozy, too.”


“Ah, shucks,” you mumble, blushing. “I wish it could’ve gone on longer, too.”


She smiles at you, then, with your assistance, she’s heaved up into a sitting posture, and she scoots herself off your lap and onto all fours. The kitchen door opens, and Sweet Bun waddles out, beaming.


“Did you enjoy your meal?” she asks.


“Oh, yes, very much,” you say.


“Both of us did,” says Treasure, grinning.


Sweet Bun giggles, then hands over the check. As you’d anticipated, it’s pretty steep, even for a meal for one. Still, you’d been warned about this, and had prepared a hefty bag of bits for the occasion. You dole out what you owe for the meal, and leave, you hope, a generous tip for both of them. Treasure seems to know which is which, as she pulls out (big shocker) a chest chock full of bits, and swipes in everything except the tip. This she puts into a sizeable jar.


“Thanks so much!” says Sweet Bun.


“Well, thank you for such a wonderful time,” you say. “Now I can understand what all the hype was about! This has to be one of the best restaurants I’ve ever eaten at!”


“Flatterer,” says Treasure.


“Hope we can see you again soon,” says Sweet Bun.


“I definitely hope so, too,” you say, sincerely. “Maybe we can meet up again sometime, even if it’s not here.”


“Yeah! I’d like that!” says Sweet Bun, eagerly.


“Sounds great to me,” says Treasure. “We’ve already got your address from your reservation, so we know where to find ya.”


She winks at you, and you blush, though you’re sure she’s just teasing you. You’re about to turn toward the door, when another idea strikes you. Standing before them, as they watch you with mild curiosity, you kneel down, open your arms, and ask, hopefully,


“Er, one last goodbye hug?”


Both mares smile, a clear sign that says ‘yes!’ Stepping forward, they envelope you in a warm double-hug, their cheeks nuzzling against yours, their big bellies pressing up against your torso. You can hardly calculate how lucky you are, getting a hug from not one, but two cute, pleasantly plump mares. Before you finally pull away, though, both of them give you a kiss on the cheek, Sweet Bun’s a quick peck, while Treasure’s is about a second or two slower. Your face feels like it’s on fire, but you feel warm and fuzzy inside.


At last, but very reluctantly, you take your leave, turning your head to smile one more time at the mare pair, who smile back, waving at you. The doors close behind you, and they’re already off again, bustling around to get the place cleaned up for the next lucky customer. You let out your breath in a long, low whistle, then start off back down the by-street that led you here. That had been the best experience you’d had in a long time. You’d hardly felt so...so...free. Now you were sure, odd name or no, that the Greasy Slut was a place worth singing the praises of, and you’d definitely see about making another reservation in the (hopefully not too distant) future.