Preggoshy (WIP?)

Artist's original paste: http://pastebin.com/6jAigCUS

http://archive.heinessen.com/mlp/thread/15442192#p15741549

Cloppy greentext fetish story. You've been warned.

Feeding, pregnancy, bellyrubbing, milking. Read on if this is what you like.

>In the turmoil of animal noises that is Fluttershy’s cottage, a familiar but rather hushed voice manages to catch your ears.
> “Anon…”
>You perk up, unsure if you’re just hearing things.
> “Anon! Can you come here, please?” you hear again, just a little louder this time.
“Coming!” you call back out, making your way out of your room and towards the room you know she’s in. On the way, you nearly trip over a duck, her ducklings in tow, but manage to stop yourself before you accidentally punt one of the little things halfway across the room. The mother stops, seeming to give you a look before continuing on her way, her brood undaunted.
>A rather typical day in Ponyville so far.
> “Anon, can you please hurry? I’m getting uncomfortable…”
>You realize you’ve left the little butter yellow pegasus waiting, and walk into the next room at a slightly faster pace than before.
“Sorry, sorry,” you say as you push on the cracked-open door to Fluttershy’s room. “Got a little caught up back there.”
>It’s a bit bright in the master bedroom, as the window seems to be open, casting rays of sunlight upon the bed. You believe Fluttershy to be looking out through it, but can only guess as her head is obscured by a rather large lump under the bedsheets.
> “It-it’s okay,” a soft voice assures you. Two blue eyes peek up from behind the swollen mound. “Just hurry, please. I’ve been stuck here all day, and the foals are starting to get restless.”
>Foals.
>You remember her telling you about that.
>Apparently, something involving a sperm bank, and a mistake that caused her to conceive not one, but three foals.
>When she first mentioned to you about wanting foals, you told her that she could just go out to a bar and seduce a random stallion; it would be quite easy for her. Her reaction was to blush and hide behind her mane.
>You’re not even sure why she felt she had to tell you, except for the fact that you live under her roof.
>You approach the side of her bed, grasping the covers and gingerly pulling them off. They slide down her enlarged frame, the pink-maned mare blushing slightly from the slight contact your fingers make against her coat.
>Once her body is fully exposed, you look down at her. She’s on her side, smiling at you in a pleading way as she shifts restlessly. She’s obviously uncomfortable.
“Okay, you ready?” you ask.
>She nods. You bend down, slipping one hand underneath her slightly pudgy chest, and the other reaching halfway around her rotund middle.
> “Ooh,” she gasps quietly. You pull her towards you, inching her along the bed until she’s at the edge, then pick her up. You carefully lower her to the ground, setting her on all fours and holding her in place until you know she has her balance.
“You good now?”
>She nods, giving you that sweet smile. She starts to slowly waddle off, her belly reaching a little past her knees and its width forcing her to spread her legs as she walks.
>You’d feel a bit self-conscious if you were caught staring, but it’s honestly pretty hard for you to look away. She was a cute mare before she got pregnant, but with her chubby cheeks and all-around fuller figure…
>You’re honestly rather happy she asked you to be her caretaker while she’s pregnant.

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>Hands on your hips, you proudly survey the rather fine job you did at changing Fluttershy’s sheets.
>When she left the room, as laborious as that was for her, a large stain in the spot where she had been lying was exposed to you. Your initial reaction was to be extremely adverse to touching it, but closer inspection revealed that it was actually just milk.
>Poor girl. Her body must be working in overtime to produce food for all three foals. You didn’t see her teats, but you imagine that they had to be at least as large as a woman’s, maybe larger…
>As you carry the dirty sheets through the house, you can’t help but notice Fluttershy.
>She has her nose buried in the fridge, various chewing and slurping noises easily heard from any spot in the kitchen, and beyond. The forgotten corner of a sandwich falls to her hooves, but Fluttershy hardly seems to notice.
>You place the sheets you’re holding in the corner of the laundry room, and return to the kitchen with a washcloth. By now she’s started to accumulate a noticeable amount of debris from her raid on the fridge, so you begin to clean it up.
>She sees you doing this, and stops her eating. She blushes, her cheeks stuffed full of food.
>She forces it all down with one swallow. She smiles embarrassedly, saying, “Sorry, Anon. Lately, I’ve been kind of a- *BUUURRP*”
>The crimson begins to overtake her face. “Oh, excuse me…” she apologizes, her voice dropping in volume and tapering off at the end.
You smile, shaking your head. “No worries. You’re a pregnant mare, I understand. Though,” you wipe some frosting off the edge of her mouth with the clean side of the hand towel, “I think I know a cleaner way of doing this.”
>She thinks about this for a moment. Her embarrassed blush returns upon realizing what you’re referring to. “Oh, Anon, not that again…”
“Come on,” you say, pulling a celery stick out of the fridge. She turns her head to the side, refusing the food but still keeping her eyes glued to it as you hover the green tantalizingly by her nose. “You know you want it…”
>She lets out a soft whimper, before finally giving in and taking a single small nibble of your offering. This small nibble quickly turns into a large bite as she chomps the celery stalk in two, swallowing and quickly eating the rest immediately after.
>Just as fast as she consumes the treat, you now present a carrot. This time, there’s no hesitation; she eats the whole thing, stem, leaves, and all. You decide that to satiate the hungry void that this mare feels, you’re going to need to go bigger.
>You pull out a cake, one that she had apparently been working on before you interrupted her earlier snacking. A trail of bites has been taken out of it, leaving the remaining seven-eighths of the dessert platter. Deciding to go with the Buttershy method of slicing a cake, you take a large scoop with your hand and hold your palm open for her to see. She engulfs your whole hand in her mouth, sliding her lips over your skin to catch every bit of the delicious treat possible.
>You take another scoop, this time using both hands. The very pregnant mare digs her muzzle into the mound of cakey goodness, barely even chewing before swallowing large amounts of food. When the glorious mini-mountain has reached its end, she begins licking your palms, begging you for more.
>You grab more cake, and continue this feeding process. Pretty soon, presenting her with food has started to become inefficient, and you begin simply stuffing her mouth full of cake. She sits down as her cheeks swell like a chipmunk’s, filled to the brim with fattening sugar and frosting as she repeatedly swallows, trying desperately to keep it all inside of her. At some point, you start to become worried that she might choke, but she only lets out a muffled groan when you start to slow down. So, thus continues your feeding, until the cake platter becomes empty.
> “I want pickles,” she suddenly demands. You look at her worriedly; she just ate an entire cake. While only a slight growth shows as of now, you’re sure she would have a nice little bump of a belly had she not been pregnant.
> “Anon,” she growls, rather menacingly. “I want you to get me some food. Now.”
>A loud gurgling in her stomach helps convince you to do so. You reach into the fridge and pull out a jar of pickles that you bought at the market- the giant kind that you usually find at fairs and such.
>You open the jar, reaching into the vinegar to pull out one of the green monsters. Tentatively, you hold it in front of her, as if questioning whether or not you should really go through with this.
>She answers this for you. She leans forward, snatching it out of your grip. Without even chewing, she swallows the thing whole, a bump forming on her neck as the slippery vegetable slides down her throat and into her gullet.
>You stare, slack-jawed. She just managed to deep-throat an entire monster pickle, no trouble at all. A part of you is completely mortified.
>…and yet, a part of you wants to see her do this again. One more time, at least.
>You grab another pickle, pressing it against her lips. You take your finger and press it in from the back, letting it slowly slide in until it completely slides into her mouth. She swallows again, the oval-shaped lump moving down her throat until it reaches her stomach. You swear you can hear a splash.
>You decide you won’t hold her back from her feasting, pushing pickle by pickle by pickle into her. Pretty soon, the whole container is empty, save for the vinegar inside.
>That’s when she manages to grab the entire pickle jar, brings it up to her maw, and drains it down her gorge. You watch, perversely turned on by the sight of her already embiggened form growing larger with every gulp. The area around her popped-out navel glows a bright red from the overtime it has to do, and her belly groans loudly. You’re not sure whether it’s in favor, or against all the extra attention it’s receiving.
>When she finally finishes, she lets out a gasp, pulling in fresh, essential air. When she does this, her whole belly surges forward, expanding until her lungs reach their full limit.
>It contracts again when she exhales. She breathes in and out, her overextended stomach pressing against her legs.
> “Oh… my,” she barely whispers, going down to lie on her side. The width of her girth prevents her from doing so, and so she settles for lying on her back. The contents of her belly slosh noisily around inside of her, and her labored breathing pushes her tightly packed, beautiful orb up and down.
> “I think I ate too much…” She looks at you in a pleading way, her eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears. “I have a bellyache…”