Chapter #8Bitch-tits = The funniest word in existence. by: Unknown “On-hon hon! Bounjour, mon petite croissant!” Came the most non-French French accent Thom had ever heard.
It’s not to say Thom expected an easy start: any experience he knew of cooking would be just tying his shoelaces for the long, long rip he was in for just to get started on catering to the likes of Canterlot’s elite, so he’d long steeled himself for the full brunt of the job to impact him like a tidal wave, ready for it to submerge him right when he was packing his socks that very morning. Snooty teachers chastising him for the most basic of mistakes, angry customers, maybe a few rounds of initiation from his neighbors.
Thom mentally scolded himself for not putting ‘greeted by the chaos god’ on his list.
Another mix of fake-French chortling and utterings of ‘croissant’ and ‘fromage’ rang out from a multicolored blob from the end of the room past its staircase, spilling from a white chef’s costume that adhered to it’s owners circumference and various rolls akin to how a wetsuit would. It was about twenty-something times as much Discord as Thom expected him to be, history having written him so often as some skinny, agile buffoon who could swim though the air like some eel in water, but here before Thom now, he possessed an immensity that gave his noodle-like form much more definition.
Defined, that is, by canyon-sized dimples in the elbows of bingo wings hanging off his shoulders with the weight of train cars, a set of bitch-tits that Celestia’s own lardiness would desire to own, capping a mammoth of a belly whose all-encompassing expanse proceeded his entire figure in a spheric landmass of brown engulfing part of the staircase, blemished by copious rolls along its diameter and creases where its mass doubled in on its self, and an outright titan of an ass sagging out from either side of him, one that no sexuality could prevent any gender from staring at for uncomfortable lengths of time. Even his tail was downright fat, springing out from his butt crack in a red, blobby appendage that made wearing pants an impossibility for him.
Discord descended the stairway whilst twiddling the end of a fake moustache adhered to his upper lip, footfalls earning a frightening amount of the sounds of flexing metal and bending wood; yet another reminder of how un-Discord his actions and presence were expected. “Tu es, as they say, monsier Thomas? Je suis monsier not-Discord, le big-man chef, as your freedom-loving people would say!” He affirmed, pointing to a name tag on his suit with the same moniker written.
“Okay, I’m not even French, and I’m getting really offended right now.”
Letting out another chuckle, Discord reached the bottom of the staircase and came up to his side, his nubby fingers grabbing Thom’s shoulder and pulling him into an uncomfortable amount of contact with Discord’s hip, their size difference equating it to being pulled into a bear-hug by one of Canterlot’s biggest residents. “On-hon-hon, monsier, you can have biggest assurances that the boundaries between my glorious country and yours shall not be any of a hindrance as you are taught to turn yeast and fromage into ART!” He extended an arm and opened a hand to the air. “In weals, you will have learned to spawn flying cupcakes! Eclairs that do taxes! Cakes with legs, smart enough to legally be your own children! EVERYTHING!” He listed off, conjuring those insane descriptions to materialize onto his palm and traverse down his arm, then march right into their doom as he opened his maw for them to enter and be swallowed whole.
With each little addition of weight to enter his mall, Thom could feel his fleshy captor widen out and absorb more of his scrawny figure, prompting a round of kicking and muffled screaming against his reptilian leg.
“But, how you say, we shall start off with le baby steps. To learn the space, as you will. Avec moi?”
Freedom for Thom when Discord’s grip loosened to let him unceremoniously fall to the floor, the draconequus parading for the other room in anticipation. Seeing his big butt jiggle and sway to exit the room, Thom took only three second to abandon his dreams and walked the other way to get a new job and rethink his life...only for turning around to change his entire surroundings without a burst of magic or energy to signal the shift. When his arms were once free, he was bounded by a stretched surface tautly strapping him into something soft...something soft and warm, and mired by a damp layer that saturated into his best clothes.
Looking backwards, Thom found himself amongst the three to five chins trapped in Discord’s collar, whose mismatched eyes observed his student’s horrified look with fondness.
“Le scenic view, as they speak.” He assured him. “Shall we, as they say, begin?”  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
<<-- Previous · Outline  · Recent Additions © Copyright 2024. All rights reserved.
The Grand One has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work within this interactive story. Poster accepts all responsibility, legal and otherwise, for the content uploaded, submitted to and posted on Writing.Com. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
