Libby Chapters 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer

Author’s Note: This was the second story I uploaded to Fluffybooru. It was strongly influenced by a job I had at the time involving work with a state agency. It was also my first experiment with fluffy POV ‘voice’ as it switches off between a fluffy narrator and omni. It totals 17 chapters, 70 pages of 11pt type. I have edited up 40 pages so far and will post them two chapters at a time. It gets a little dark but it does not include any content listed under the ‘controversial’ category guide.

I have edited it up trying to reduce my chronic wordiness and fix a few plot issues. I plan to set up links to tie the whole thing together as I add chapters. Criticism of any kind is always welcome.

[Libby Chapters 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 3 and 4 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 7 and 8 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 9 and 10 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 11 and 12 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 13 and 14 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 15 and 16 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 17 and 18 (final) by Dildofarmer]

Chapter 1

You are Libby, a fuzzy white wingie mare. You have lived with your Mama and Papa for a long time in their bright little house with happy wooden floors that go ‘tap tap tap’ against your leathery hooves. You even have your own little room at the end of the hallway. You love your toys, your tasty nummies and your grassy little backyard. Most of all you love your Mama and Papa.

That’s important, because your Mama has had sickies for a long time, so long and so badly that you felt like you always knew she had sickies. Your Mama hardly gets out of bed, and all the fluff on her head is gone. You know deep down that your job is to play with her and cheer her up while she has the sickies.

“Mama wan’ pway? Pway baww wif Wibby!” Every day you pick up your bright red ball and climb from the floor to the stool to the chair to Mama’s bed. You drop the ball in the hollow between her legs and talk to her. You bounce a little on your front hoofies and beat your wingies. Sometimes Mama is sleepy and wants to read or cuddle, but sometimes she smiles at you and throws your ball. Sometimes she has to get up out of bed and make peepees in the hall bathroom and you bravely scamper in front of her to make sure she doesn’t trip on anything. Sometimes you bring her your brush and she combs your deep red mane and tail while she stares out the window. You are vaguely aware that her skin and her smell have changed since the old days when she never had the sickies. You are somehow troubled by her illness but you are also happy that she is at home so much. You hug your Mama, you love her, cuddle with her, sing songs to her and sleep on her bed to keep her warm.

Papa is different. He spends as much time with Mama as he can, but frequently he puts on funny, stiff clothes and leaves the housie for a while. Sometimes he sits in the big room and taps away at his little box for hours, but he brings nummies to Mama every day. Mama always shares her nummies with you, even though Papa gently scolds her for it. Sometimes, maybe half the time, Papa will gently but firmly lift you off Mama and put you outside the room with the door closed. They talk in there and sometimes you hear them making funny noises or sleepy noises. You used to get frustrated and bang your hoofie on the door for them to let you in and play with you, but Papa would get angry and put you in the sorry box. These days you waddle off, making ‘tap tap tap’ sounds against the floor, and sleep by yourself in your spongy blue bed. Other times Mama would go to sleep early and you would cuddle with her while Papa tapped on his box and went to sleep on the couch.

Later, Papa explained to you that Mama had finally become so sickies that she had to sleep forever. You understood, but after a while your understanding of what he had said melts away, and you find yourself wondering where Mama is. Maybe Papa had the same problem, because he slept on the couch for many nights after that, and when he would go into Mama’s room and see she wasn’t there, he would cry. You did the best you could to cheer him up, but you felt very uneasy deep inside and spent a great deal of time sitting in Mama’s room waiting for her to come back, sitting in the back yard looking for her, or lying by the front door to see if she would suddenly burst through it. Other times, you would cuddle with Papa or ask him to play ball with you. He would try, but after a short time he would stop playing or petting you and just stare, or even cry a little a few times.

Many things changed for the little white and red fluffy and the man. The woman’s death from cancer was the biggest change, but an army of small changes invaded the house, too. Some of them wrought their little alterations and were finished: The herbs and flowers in the backyard died and were subsumed by the grass. The flashy matched set of bicycles in the garage never moved again. Other changes arrived small and began to grow: The man started showering less and drinking more. After some time passed, he only showered and refrained from drinking when he had to go into work. Other things did not change: Barely anything in the bedroom where the woman and the fluffy used to cuddle and play changed. And finally, the world changed around the house and the man and the fluffy: The weather grew colder and the days shorter.

The man’s habits changed subtly. After rising later and later, he spent more and more time sitting on his couch, drinking from a bottle and madly fidgeting with his video game controller. He would put on a headset and talk to people who weren’t there. It reminded Libby of an old game that she and the woman would play: When they wanted attention from Papa, they would team up together and ambush him on his couch and say “Pwaying Hawo not weawwy pwaying!” together in a scolding tone. The man would laugh and grudgingly set down his toy and welcome them. Sometimes he and the woman would cuddle on the couch or jump up and leave the house together. They would return home with big crinkling bags and set about making a huge racket in the kitchen. They would eat together and sometimes a bowl full of spaghetti would be plunked down on the floor for Libby, which always transported her with joy. She would gobble it down and lick the bowl clean and then doze and smack her lips.

The fluffy was reminded of this game suddenly, when she was startled out of a dream by the man yelling into his headset. The fluffy was dimly aware that the man sounded strange: He sounded more upset at his game than Libby ever remembered him being before, and his words sounded funny and sloppy in his mouth. Her attention was caught and she thoughtlessly acted out the little pantomime she had learned in happier days. The man was seated on his couch, and Libby bounded fearlessly up to the coffee table and braced her front hooves against it, and bleated “Pwaying Hawo not weawwy pwaying!” in the happiest brightest voice she could muster. The man’s reaction was not at all what she suspected.

He flinched back from her outburst and his face twisted with rage and fear. His left hand shot out, half slapping and half shoving the fluffy’s head. Just as quickly, her happy face was replaced with terror and she started shaking. The human thrust his hand back out at her in a gesture of exasperation and bellowed at the top of his lungs. He appeared to grow in size in the terrified fluffy’s sight.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” yelled the man “Piece of shit!”

“Wibby sowwy! Nu huwt Wibby!” she squealed, her voice trembling in her throat. Libby’s snout tingled and burned with the unfamiliar feeling of being bruised. She hopped back down to all fours and ‘tap-tap-tapped’ around the corner of the easy chair and peeped back around the corner at him, sobbing. It was beyond her to understand what she had done to cause the man such anger. It had never occurred to her that he was so powerful and dangerous.

The man sighed and seemed to deflate a little, which made Libby less afraid, but then he stood up and approached her. He was so big! He stooped way, way over until Libby was totally in his shadow, and then he picked up the trembling fluffy and hugged it to his warm body.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Lib. I didn’t mean to hit you, you just startled me. I’m sorry. Good girl, you’re a good fluffy.”

Libby sniffed away some of her tears.

“Wibby am good fwuffy. Wibby sowwy. No wan’ owwies. Sowwy.”

The man sat back down on the couch and put a hand to his mouth, and Libby thought that even he was sniffling a little.

Over the coming months the man slept later and later in the morning and drank more and more frequently. The trips to the grocery store became fewer and farther in between, and soon neither of them could remember the last time the man had bothered to cook a real meal. The man stopped turning on the lights in the back half of the house or his deceased wife’s room.

Chapter 2
You are Libby, a white wingie mare with a dark red mane and tail. You can remember when you lived with your beautiful Mama and Papa in the bright little house with the funny wooden floors. Then your Mama got sickies and went to sleep forever. The little house did not seem as happy anymore. Your Mama was asleep at night and awake during the day, but Papa sleeps half the day and stays awake half the night. If you ask him to play with you when he gets up in the morning, he will be growly and a little scary. For that reason, you are lonely after you wake up in the morning. You play by yourself a little, and sometimes you push your way through the screen door and play in the small grassy backyard with its tall wooden fences. It is sunny out there, and sometimes you can hear and smell strange things. Mama’s happy little plants have all died. Your Papa still gets up sometimes, puts on his funny clothes and leaves the house, but it always seems to make him angry.

There have been other changes too. Your Papa leaves one night and you are alone in the house again except the ‘tap tap tap’ sound your hooves make on the wooden floor. You played with your blocks in your room at the end of the hall and fell asleep more from boredom than sleepiness. You are suddenly awakened by the door banging open and the sound of several deep voices - only one was Papa’s. You suddenly became excited and scampered down the hallway to the front door.

“Papa! Wibby wuv Papa! Wibby wan meet nuu fwiends!” you chortle as you bound around the corner and are drawn up short by the sight of your Papa and two other men. They stop talking and stare at you in a not-entirely-friendly way. One is big, bigger than Papa, and has huge black fluff on his face. The other one is slender and shorter with only a little bit of thin red fluff on the crown of his head. They make a funny burning smell like when Papa used to cook dinner on the back porch, coupled with the bottle-smell that makes your nose and eyes burn. They all goggle at you for a second, and then then fluff-face and red-fluff start laughing. It didn’t sound like nice laughing, like Mama used to make. It made you a little scared. You want to run up and give them huggies and ask them to pet you and love you, but the way they smell and the way they look at you stops you cold.

“Ha ha, what the fuck is this, man?” said face-fluff.

“That’s, uh,” said your Papa “that’s my wife’s old pet.”

“Nice. I’ve only seen one or two of these.”

Papa and the red-fluff man brushed past you into the big room, but face-fluff knelt down and looked you over. You talked to him.

“Wibby am good fwuffy. You gif Wibby huggies?” you asked, settling back on your haunches and reaching up at his immense form.

“Dude!” he brays and turns his head around to look at your Papa “It’s so cool how they talk!”

“I seen some fucked-up videos of people fucking with fluffies on the internet,” drawls red-fluff. Fluff-face turns back to you and reaches out to you with both his huge hands. You squeal a little as he picks you up, one hand pulling up on your mane and the other on your ribcage. It hurts a little, and his incredible strength is terrifying as he hoists you effortlessly up into the air. You are so scared that you felt like you couldn’t control your body anymore. Your leggies and wingies wiggle in the air, and your tummy clenches up, forcing bad pee-pees out of your body! Your pee-pee place burns a little when you try to fight it, and your eyes fill with sudden tears.

“NUUU! NUUU! Pwease nu huwt Wibby!” you beg.

“Jesus Christ!” booms Fluff-face, incredibly loud, as your scaredy pee-pees splatter onto the floor and onto his black boots so very, very far below. Fluff-face lowers you to about waist-high and drops you. You experience a moment of sheer terror, still unable to make your legs hold still, and then slap onto the wooden floor with your front legs splayed. The impact dashes your chest, left haunch, and chin, and your eyes see flashes and blackness. You freeze as the unfamiliar feeling of pain and impact thrashes its way through your body. After what seems like a long time, your lungs drag in a double helping of air, but you choke halfway through as tears and ickies fill your sniffer. You cough and cry out in pain at the same time.

“AAAAUUUUU AWWWWWUUUUUU!” you holler. “WIBBY NO WIIIIIKE! WIBBY HAF OWWIES!” The big bearded man leaned over with confusion and surprise on his face. Papa appears right next to him.

“What did you do, Bri?” he says

“Nothing! I was just looking at her and she pissed all over the place!” says the bearded man, his voice rising higher.

“Ok man, it’s cool, they are crybabies,” Papa reaches down and starts to scoop you up from where you lay crying, but he flinches suddenly. “Ugh, God dammit, she’s pissed all over herself.”

“Nuu! Wibby make scawedy pee-pees! Munsta dwop fwuffy!” you protest through your choking sobs. Your chin, leg, and ribs are throbbing painfully. You thrash your tail and back legs around as the waves of pain wash through you.

“Ok! Jesus!” Papa’s voice gains a harsh edge to it that made you more scared. “I got this, man, have a seat and turn on the Xbox.” he growls at fluff-face.

“Ok man. Sorry about the fluffy, really. I just picked her up.” said the big man.

Papa stands up and clumps off to the kitchen. You can’t stop crying, but as the pain in your leg and chest eases, you try to stand up. Three of your hooves make the happy ‘tap tap’ noise on the wood, but the one in front skids in your scaredy peepees and you fall down again. Another burst of pain screams out of your chest and races up and down your body.

“AAAAUUUUUUU! AAAAUUUUU! WIBBY FAWW DOWNNNN!” you howl. You have to breathe in deeply, which makes the pain worse. You gag and cry out again. Papa appears behind you and seizes you by your mane with his left hand while his right bats the floor and your underside with a brown towel from the kitchen.

“Shut the fuck up!” he snaps at you in a dangerous tone. “You just fell! Fuck! You’re OK.” Your sobs ease to a slow boil as he roughly brushes your fluff dry. You struggle to your haunches and look up at him through your tears. Instinctively, you reach up with both your front hoofies.

“Wibby haf huwties. Gif huggies, Papa?” you ask weakly. You need huggies to make the owwies go away. But Papa turns his head away from you with a sharp motion and stands all the way up. He doesn’t answer you. It made you feel like you had swallowed a stone from the back yard. Your owwies continue to throb as you watch Papa turn away and go flop down onto the couch next to fluff-face and red-fluff. They start talking amongst themselves, using a bunch of words you don’t recognize and ignore you while they ‘pway Hawo.’ You were hurt and sad, but you don’t want to be alone, so you shuffle into the living room and lay down next to the couch. You are so nervous that you jump every time they speak too loudly.

Time passes, and your Papa gets up and fetches a bunch of glass clinky bottles from the refrigerator. Red-fluff pulls something out of his pockets and begins fiddling with it on the coffee table, and pretty soon he makes a small white stick with a pungent odor. You watch in confusion as he sets one end of it on fire and sucks on the other end. When he is done with that, he passes it to fuzz-face. Red-fluff makes a very funny expression and then hacks very loudly and releases a large cloud of weird-smelling burny smoke! You are alarmed and utterly confused, but after face-fluff and Papa had done the same thing, you calm down. You have never smelled anything quite like it. The three big men growl and chatter at each other louder and louder and play halo for some time, passing the tiny burning stick back and forth and making a smoke cloud so big it saturates the house. You feel lonely and bored, but you can’t relax with these strange things going on.

Suddenly, your Papa calls your name, snapping you out of your reverie.

“Libby! Come here, Lib! I’ll give you a big hug!” You don’t notice the two other men snickering a little and falling silent.

“Huuuwaaay! Wibby wuv huggies! Wibby wuv Papa!” Your aches and pains are forgotten as you scamper around the coffee table to your Papa. He is reaching for you with one hand, while with the other he holds another tiny white burning stick to his face. You leap joyfully into his lap, trembling with joy and bliss, and flop down on his reclining torso with your front hooves splayed to either side. You press your bruised cheek against his giant, warm ribs and release a long-pent-up coo. You knew something was wrong when your Papa’s chest shook a bit. Was he breathing? You looked up at his face.

Papa suddenly wraps his hand around your nosie and holds it tight. You struggle, but he tightens his grip. He blows a great lungful of that cloudy smoky stuff right into your face. You thrash but can’t move. You inhale the smoky stuff, and it burns its way into your lungs and makes you wheeze painfully. You breathe in to complain, but that just sucked more of the smoky stuff into you. Papa finally let you go.

“NUUUU! NU WIKE!” you bleat before breaking into a coughing fit. “WIBBY NOSIE HUWT!” The other two men had been watching you and Papa keenly, and they suddenly laugh and cheer. You run away, ‘tap tap tapping’ all the way down the hallway into your room, where you flop down on your bed. You stick your front hooves in your eyes and cry and cry. After a while, you feel a funny feeling creep up your body and you start to feel dizzy and sick. Your head pounds and throbs, and you fall uncomfortably asleep listening to the muffled booming voices of your meanie Papa and his two friends in the front of the house. Your final thought before you lost consciousness is that your heartie feels cold and you miss your Mama.

30 Likes

Damn. I want to rescue Libby

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Poor Libby…

Dude, don’t mistreat you dead wife’s pet. Be like John Wick.

5 Likes

Yay be like Jon wick you dick

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3 men in a bar with a fucking pencil.

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![|640x330](upload://rQ9tKaWQgmHJURaOprlTectRmyT.mp4)
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This story is one of my favorites and really stuck with me. I’m no hugboxer, but (without giving much away) this one did make want a happy ending for Libby. Glad to see you here!

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Poor girl. She doesn’t deserve that. She just wants her mama back, or for her papa to be a decent pet owner.

2 Likes

You’d think that he’d cherish her, being the only thing he has left of his wife.
That said, grief is a son-of-a-bitch, and this story is great so far!

2 Likes