Twilight found himself comparing Pinkie’s plump posterior to Applejack’s well-toned glutes, and found it did not come off as inferior. Pinkie Pie might seem soft as a marshmallow but Twilight knew there were hard firm earth pony muscles under that soft layer of baby fat. The urge to make a tactile test of that distracted him so badly a delicate vacuum tube broke in his grip when he flexed his thicker stronger fingers in reaction to Pinkie twisting her hips slightly to the side and presenting him with an even better view of what was between her legs.

Pinkie you are a troll.

Pinkie looked over her shoulder at Twilight, and then down at her outfit. An expression of mortification crossed her face when she realized she was wearing the wrong party outfit. “Oh my gosh, Twilight. You’re right. This is my, do nasty stuff to silly stallions outfit. I need a, please do nasty stuff to me, outfit.

Not what he had in mind.

Twilight wondered how Pinkie had managed to do up the buttons on the top, and having done it, managed to breathe. The fabric above and below each button was gaping open, revealing that there was only Pinkie underneath the dark fabric. Twilight had worn a white blouse under the suit. Twilight half expected buttons to start flying all over the throne room, that, or Pinkie to collapse from lack of air. That might explain the constipated expression on Pinkie’s face as she glared at Twilight. Or it might have simply been because Pinkie had drawn her mane back into such a tight bun that it had pulled the skin of her face into that expression. Twilight had to admit that Pinkie was doing a pretty good job of channeling Miss Harshwhinny. Except for the novelty glasses with the thick bushy eyebrows and the over-sized nose. He felt a sudden rush of affection for his friend. When all was said and done Pinkie just had to be Pinkie.

Indeed.

She could hardly wait.

Never change, Pinkie.