Hope - The Chub

You had always fed her well. That was your number one concern early on, feeding her properly. Like you, she wasn't a ruminant, hay and grass did nothing but fill the belly with an empty weight. Such was your worry that your little girl may have gone malnourished you made certain to feed her with such an impressive variety of foods that sometimes even Lyra felt a little jealous of your loving doting.

Such a wonderful menagerie of everything under the sun you laid at the table before her. All sorts of foliage and roughage beyond the simple grasses, every sort of legume you could acquire and order, fruits from across the land, exotic roots and tubers, vegetables and gourds that baffled most who saw them, nothing was beyond your reach when you worried about your daughter. You remembered the weakness as you had to adjust to your new diet yourself and blaze the new trail yourself. Hope should never have to suffer that daze, not while you took care of her.

You first noticed that perhaps you'd gone overboard one average, uneventful morning. Sitting there, drinking your coffee, staring at some trim on the midwall that needed fixing that you were going to get around to doing sooner or later. Hope walks by, butt crossing your focused vision on her way to get a post-breakfast snack. Hmm. You'd never noticed it jiggle like that before. Well, she was a teen now, perhaps that couldn't be helped.

About a week later she came home mid afternoon on a hot summer's weekend after playing with her friends down by the lake. She was soaked, her damp shirt already off and in her hand, trailing drips through the house as she took the shortcut through the kitchen to the backyard where the drying line was. She failed to notice you staring at her with a cocked eyebrow as you actually looked at her body for the first time in years.

Those thighs were a little thicker than they should be, that butt wasn't there because of any particular genetics, nor was the belly pudge over her waist.

“Is something wrong, Dad?”

She caught you that time, though. As she came back in from the outside you stared her down hard again, and she noticed. Standing there uncomfortably as you accusingly glared at her, legs firmly spaced apart, muddy hooves planted on the kitchen tile on either side of the mat you  put there just for her, she waited for your reply fearing she was in trouble.

You let her sweat a little as you tried to put the words together in the least offensive way, watching her nervously fidget. Skin tugging at itself while tacky from the trying water she adjusts her arms, sending slight ripples drifting around them. She's sucked her belly in now, core tight in her anxiety, but there was still some defiant overhang above her imaginary waistband. From her three-quarters stance you could see how it all smoothly blended into far too much hip and thigh around the corner, and that ass was simply unacceptable no matter how you wanted to look at it. Nodding wisely to yourself, you set down your glass and spoke.

“Honeybun?

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Do you want to come on a walk with me?”

“Sure? Is there a problem, Dad?”

“We'll talk about it, okay?”

She nodded herself, mind racing to try and remember what she did to get in trouble, or perhaps what you'd found out that she though she'd hidden. After she asks for a moment to have a drink before going back out to the heat of the Summer afternoon you allow her. You knit your brows again as she moves to the refrigerator, pulling out the pitcher of kool aid as opposed to the water. Gently you place your hand on the rim of the pitcher and take it from her, placing it back in it's spot and shutting the door before Hope.

She isn't quite sure how to respond, choosing to keep quiet. You've so rarely had to correct or punish her for anything, this was almost alien to the two of you. Perhaps it was even unfair to Hope, she has to undo the affection you'd lavished on her, few children would spontaneously invent discipline in the face of abundance. Instead, you hand her your glass of water, fresh ice cubes chattering as they bounce and settle while the glass changes hands.

Hope quietly drinks it without protest, still fearing what Dad could possibly be upset about. Taking her had as though she were a much younger child you lead her outside, away from the path into town and instead toward the outskirt fields around Ponyville. It's a brisk walk, yet Hope seems to already have trouble keeping stride with you. You experiment by tugging her into the slowest jog you can manage. Her gait is uneven, she sometimes stumbles, and you often find yourself steadying her as she skips forward and tries to match your pace.

“Where are we going, Dad?” She's panting. Goodness, the house is hardly out of sight and she's already panting. Your poor little girls needs this badly. You make it a point to place as little effort in your own voice as possible, speaking as though casual conversation on the couch.

“Just around the wheat field, sweetheart.” You hear her cough a little, spit catching in her throat. She barks out her response as soon as she manages to compose herself momentarily.

“But that's like, miles and miles, Dad.”

“Oh, is it?”

You laugh to yourself between your own short breaths, perhaps you too needed this. Still, as you find her heart racing you peek back at your little girl, most of her body rippling jiggles with each heavy hoof fall, the poor thing looking as uncomfortable and unfeminine as possible as she rips her hand from yours to steady herself, heaving for breath and coughing spit and snot into the worn path beneath her.

This was going to take awhile.