[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]
Time passed and the woman’s death receded into the past. The effects of her death lingered and in some cases grew stronger. The man had his friends over more often while also leaving Libby home alone more and more often. Little tasks that he or his wife used to tend to stopped getting done: He only remembered to fill up Libby’s water bowl when she asked him to. More than once, Libby found herself licking the cold bare bottom of her water bowl. Fierce, unaccustomed thirst would drive her to the bathroom, where she would look ruefully up at the rim of the toilet.
One evening her throat just burned too much. She rose unsteadily on her hind legs and just barely managed to hook her front hooves on the slippery porcelain lip. Even her hugging muscles were too weak to hoist her body up off the ground with any kind of control - gasping, she kicked and tossed her head, but it was no use. She fell back down to the ground on her haunches. Frustrated, she puffed out her cheeks and stamped on the wooden floor, making an angry ‘wap!’ sound instead of the friendly ‘tap tap tap’ she was used to.
“Meanie toiwet! Gif Wibby wawa!” she scolded. Big mistake. Talking just made her more thirsty.
The second time, she went for broke. Hooking her front paws over the top of the toilet, she shoved with both hind legs. Her frantic grappling and straining slid her center of gravity over the rim of the toilet and she landed face first in the cold pool of water. Her white fluff instantly drank up a third of the shockingly cold water. She gasped and howled, flailing and splashing as the curved bottom of the bowl took every opportunity to shove her against the back wall.
“NUUUU! FWUFFY COWD! COWWWWWWD!” she cried, her unslaked throat still raw. She panicked and bobbled in a sluggish half-circle, trying to flee from her suddenly heavy fur and the frigid water that cruelly yanked warmth out of her body. “HEWWWP! HEWP WIBBY! PWEASE! NU WIKE!” she squeezed her eyes shut and hollered as loud as she could. Eventually, she calmed down enough to remember that nobody was home to help her. She panted in fear and slowly came to her senses. First, she lapped up as much of the cold, awful-tasting water as she could. It felt good on her throat. She gasped and panted and lapped a little more, but quickly the painful cold and hateful soggy feeling drove her to try to leap back out. Again she hooked her stubby front legs over the rim and she shoved with her back legs. It was a much lower threshold this time, but she felt a great deal heavier and could not get firm footing with her back hooves. She slipped over the rim and landed on her face with a wet splat.
“WIBBY HUWWWWT!” she bawled, rolling back a bit and holding her hooves to her face. She was sitting on the wood floor in a puddle of water that made her fluff stick down, like a hundred tiny arms trying to pin her. When she pulled her front legs away, she saw that her nose was bleeding freely, the blood and snot clouding the water at her sides and rapidly staining and feathering her soggy fuzz. She struggled to her feet and skittered down the hall to her room with rivulets of water running down her legs and tail. She flopped into her bed, smearing it with blood, snot, tears and water, and tried to lick her fur clean while sobbing and shivering.
Some time later, she heard the familiar thudding noise of Papa coming home. The desperate fluffy pried herself up out of her sodden bed and ‘tap tap tapped’ down the hall to the front door with the certain knowledge that Papa would comfort her. She rounded the corner and plunked down on her haunches, making another wet splattering noise, and raised her blood-smeared front hooves up in the air towards Papa’s looming form and howled.
“PAAAPAAAAA! WIBBY FAWWW! WIBBY FAWWWW! HAV OWWIES AND COWDIES AND NUU WIKE TOIWET! WIBBY WAN’ HUGGIES!”
Papa’s expression was so revolted that it was like a tiny dart piercing Libby’s heart. Her crying was abruptly cut off.
“Jesus Christ!” snarled Papa, his brow furrowing, “What the hell happened to you? Is that blood?” Libby fidgeted, rotating on her haunches with her legs still up as he swept by, as if he was about to stop and finally give her the affection and comfort she was begging for. She didn’t know what else to do. Instead, he clumped down the hallway along her soggy trail, first looking at the mess around the toilet and then into Libby’s tiny room at the end of the hall, where he saw the soggy condition of her bed. "What the fuck happened? Ah, you got in the… " his voice trailed off but his footsteps grew louder until it seemed like they were shaking the whole house. He whirled around and confronted her again, standing two feet away while he leaned over and bellowed at her face. “What the fuck were you doing?”
“Wibby feww! Meany toiwet nu gif Wibby wawas! Wibby feww and haf ouchies and cowdies!” bleated the fluffy. She was too rattled to explain herself much better than that, and the man was in no mood to listen. He flung open the hallway closet and produced two large towels. One he flung straight at the fluffy, who weakly held her paws up in a futile attempt to avoid being smothered by it. He threw the other onto the wooden floor around the toilet, fiercely grinding it down with his shoe. He scuffed it down the hall to Libby’s tiny room, where he pressed it into her bed. Libby, in the meantime, fought her way out of the other towel and wiped her face and hooves on it, rolling a little as she felt it drawing the remaining moisture out of her soft, airy fluff. She was still quivering, but more from emotional stress than cold. The man wordlessly stomped back down the hallway, picked Libby up by her mane and hindquarters and trotted her back to her tiny room.
Libby’s sorry box was an old mid-sized dog carrier made of beige plastic with a shiny steel cage door. When the man tucked her under his arm and reached for it, Libby realized that she was going to be locked up again and began to squirm and protest.
“NUUU! NUUU!! WIBBY AM GOOD FWUFFY! PWEASE NU SOWWY BOX! WIBBY TWY HAV WAWA - !” her stressed mind finally started to try to explain her troubles to the man, but he wasn’t interested. “PWEASE!” Libby braced a front paw against the side of the sorry box in an effort to stop the man from shoving her inside, but it just made the man more angry. He slapped her hoof sideways, popping her front end fully into the box while he yelled a loud profanity down at her. She gracelessly turned around in the tight quarters of the box, looking up at the man with tearful eyes, and tried once more to beg for clemency.
“Nu faiw! Wibby nu bad fwuffy! Wibby twy haf waw- !” She made even less progress this time before the man curled his right middle finger against his thumb and flicked her nose with shocking power. The blood vessel that had burst when she hit the floor earlier popped painfully back open and blood started pouring out of her snout once again. She shrieked and retreated into the darkness of the box as far as she could go. The man latched the cage and stalked back out of the room.
Libby cried and cried, but she knew that yelling from the sorry box or banging on it with her hoof would just enrage the man further. Her heart burned with the unfairness of it all, making her wracking sobs feel almost worse than her painfully bruised snout. She licked up as much of her blood as she could until she began to feel sick and thirsty again, but she could still see the big stain on the old blanket and feel its stickiness as it matted her fur. She was left in the sorry box overnight, but at least when she was released her water bowl was full again.
You are Libby, a white fluffy pony with a crimson set of wingies, mane and tail. Things have been bad since your Mama went sleepies forever. Your Papa has become more and more grouchy and mean. He has punished you and scared you a number of times, and he rarely wants to play with you or give you toys. You have been numming on dry kibble for a long time, and the memory of sketti and tasty nummies has receded into the fog in the back of your mind along with your Mama’s voice. You remember having your mane and tail brushed while you cooed, but those days are long past. You have tasted pain at your Papa’s hands when you were trying your hardest to be a good fluffy. Your hooves still make a ‘tap tap tap’ noise against the wooden floors of the little house, but now it rings very loud in your ears. Your Papa’s clumping footsteps are worse, and you dislike it when he ‘pways hawo’ and drinks his bitter fuming drinks from big bottles and yells in anger. Sometimes other people come over, big loud men who seem to laugh at you a lot and drink Papa’s drinks. They play with him but not with you.
Every day you play a little by yourself in your little room at the end of the hall, and other times you push through the floppy screen door to the backyard where you make good poopies and pee-pees. You liked to nibble on the green nummies back there and listen to the sounds coming over the tall wooden fence, but the nummies have gone brown and stale lately and the air has been cold. When you are done, you paw at the screen door until it flops open and you clamber back inside to warm up.
One morning your Papa gets up and puts on his funny clothes and goes to ‘work.’ That always made Papa angry, so you try to avoid him on those days, but your tummy is being a meanie and rumbling and giving you owwies.
“Papa, pwease gif nummies for Wibby?” you ask timidly, sitting in the middle of the hall but keeping your eyes down and ears flat. Papa growls something and clump-clump-clumps over to the pantry to fish out another cup full of kibble. He remembered to fill your water dish, too. You feel relieved when he trudges out the door - you were bored a lot, but it was better than being anxious and feeling like Papa might yell at you at any time. You eat some kibble and bat your bright red ball around in your room a little. After a while, you feel the urge to make good poopies, so you ‘tap tap tap’ down the hall to the back door, but to your surprise, the big wooden door was shut tight. You couldn’t get out!
You suddenly remember last year during the cold times when the door was shut, you were supposed to make good poopies in the litter box. Coming fast on the heels of that thought is the fact that you hadn’t seen the litter box in a long time. Your Mama put it in your little room at the end of the hall, but Mama is gone. You waddle back there to see if it had suddenly appeared. You knew, somehow, that it wasn’t there even before you looked with your own eyes.
“Wibby am good fwuffy.” you murmur to yourself, “Wibby wan pway!” You tinker with your blocks a little, trying to ignore the increasing demands of your bowels and then your bladder. You build a little pile of blocks and then whirl about and kick them over with false enthusiasm. You try it again, but your meanie poopie place will not stop bothering you. You don’t know what to do. You feel your heart start to beat a little faster as you trot down the hallway again to see if the back door was really shut. It was.
“Pwease…” you plead quietly, reaching out to bang on the door with your hoofie. “Pwease wet Wibby make good poopies.” You knew that making poopies anywhere besides the backyard and the litter box would get you punished. You had known that your whole life as far as you could tell - good fluffies make good poopies and bad fluffies make bad poopies. But you also knew that nobody was in the house to listen to you or help you. You start to get upset, which just made your pee-pees more urgent.
“PWEASE!” you yell, hearing the shrill sound of your own voice as you bang your hoofie on the door harder - hard enough to jangle the nerves up and down your leggie. Nothing happens. You trot back over to the big room and the couch where your Papa usually slept and try to lay down. No use. Little shivers race around your tummy as your bad poopies wiggle inside you. Back to the door.
“Wibby haf make poopies! Wibby nu wan’ make bad poopies! Pwease?” you beg. Moving desperately fast, you chug back to your little room at the end of the hall to make triple sure your litter box was not there. It wasn’t. You skitter back to the back door.
Frustration bubbles up inside you and you start to cry and bat your wingies while looking up at the shiny brass doorknob, two or three times your height from the floor. You don’t know what to do. Your tummy hurt worse and worse, and you found that you couldn’t sit down while still holding in your poopies. You walk in a circle in front of the door, shaking a little, and sobbing uncontrollably even though every shudder made it feel like your poopies were closer to bursting out.
“PWEASE! PWEASE WET WIBBY OUT!” you shriek, shaking with anger and panic, and rose up to bash your hoofies against the door. You hammer on it with all your strength, tears and ickies dripping from your muzzle. “PWEASE HEWP! NU WAN BAD POOPIES! PWEASE!” Your cries descend into wordless shrieking and crying as your bowels start to move with a life of their own. Your bad, bad poopies force their way out of your body as you blindly stagger around in front of the door, jerking and twitching as you lose control of your muscles. You urinate too, with your peepees burning as you futilely try to hold them in. The not-pretty smell assaults your senses even through your crying, and once your bowels were voided you could think of nothing better to do than run away and hide. You hid in your bed, eyes behind your hoofies and cried as the stench pervaded the whole house.
Papa was gone a long time. After a while, you got up and waddle nervously back to the door. Sure enough, your bad poopies were still sitting there along with a broad puddle of bad peepees. “Nu smell pwetty,” you moan “Wibby make bad poopies! Wibby sowwy! SOWWY!” you howl. You start crying again. The sun sets and the world goes dark and cold outside. Your tummy burns and you cry until you think you are dying. You are a bad fluffy.
You are startled out of your sleep by the thudding, booming noise of the front door bursting open. You must have fallen into an exhausted sleep! Papa was home! You are happy at first, but then you smell your bad poopies and remember. You start to panic. Sure enough, you heard him shuffle and stop. The not-pretty smell was strong. You hear Papa bellow something angry and loud. You could tell just from the sound that he had been drinking his fiery-smelling bottle juice again.
“WHAT IN THE FUCK?” he yells, so loud that it makes you start crying again. “LIBBY! GET YOUR RETARDED ASS OUT HERE! YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT!” his voice seems to shake the whole house. Trembling in fear, you run into your sorry box, bury your face in the rear corner and cover your ears with your hooves. You sob as you hear your Papa stomp down the hallway and into your little room. You can’t see him, but you can feel his huge, seething presence, hear him breathing, and smell the vapors on his breath. Your hind leggies kick a little, trying to drive your body into a smaller and smaller package in the back of your sorry box.
The earth shakes and suddenly you feel your Papa’s hand grab your crimson tail and pull with incredible strength. The pain is like a lightning bolt up your spine as you are dragged free of the sorry box in a flash. You shriek. Before you know it, you are in the hallway and your Papa is roaring at you and kicking you down the hall. Your eyes bug out in terror and you waddle in front of him, flapping your tiny wingies and trying desperately to stay away from his feet. He lands several pointed-toe blows on your haunches, causing you to tuck your tail. In no time flat you are face to face with the pile of smelly bad poopies and the big puddle of bad peepees at the back door. You turn half around and look up at your Papa.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, LIBBY?” he thunders, making you flinch piteously. “YOU TOOK A SHIT ON MY FLOOR?”
“Nuuuu!” you squeak, “Wibby nu get out! Wibby nu get out! Wibby twy good poopies, but nu haf wittabox -!” you are too afraid to make much sense through your sobs.
“SHUT UP!” Your Papa seems to grow even larger. His mighty hand shot out and threw the door open, releasing a tremendous noise and a gust of cold but fresh air. The heavy wooden door creaks, and your Papa leans over you and your bad poopies and bangs the screen door open as well. “GET THIS SHIT OUT OF MY HOUSE! YOU GODDAMN RETARD!” His yells struck you like a physical blow, making you cower and cry. You waddle in a tiny circle, shaking with fear.
“Wibby sowwy, nu can make poopies go away!” You turn and yelled at the bad poopies, your voice climbing into a panicked warble “Poopies go way! POOPIES GO 'WAY! PWEASE! PWEASE NU BE MEANIES! WIBBY WAN BE GOOD!”
“Pick that shit up with your mouth, fucktard!” growls Papa in a tone that chilled your insides.
“Nu, Papa, Wibby nu wan’ haf nu-pwetty poopies in mouf, poopies aw nu nummies, Wibby am goo-”
Papa leans so far over so fast that it makes your head spin. His right hand flashes out and grabs your ear, pinching the tender flesh between his finger and thumb. It is like a burning iron claw shooting pain through your entire body. He pulls up on your ear so hard that your front hooves lose contact with the floor, and pedal the air helplessly along with your wingies. You can only focus on the pain and the dangerous, snarling tone with which your Papa speaks into your bruised ear, and the hot bottle-smell on his breath.
“You pick that shit up and get it out of my house right now or I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Plopped back to your hooves, you sob and shuffle over to the still-sodden mound of feces. The fluff around your hooves starts to wick up the puddle of urine, chilling you. You close your eyes and lean over to put your mouth on the poopies, but the pile deforms with even the slightest pressure and soaks up drool from your mouth. The smell and taste are hideous, worse than you feared. The sound of your Papa shifting his weight scares you into action. You suck a mouthful of the bad poopies up. The poop turns instantly to foul-tasting sandy slime, and seems to grow and grow on and around your tongue and threatens to slide down your throat.
You try to carefully breathe past the shit-clog in your throat, and tears stream freely from your eyes. You stagger a few steps towards the frigid outdoors, and when you feel the biting cold and the grassies under your hoofies, you close your eyes and spit out the feces in an unsatisfying spray. When you open your poor mouth, the smell finally fully penetrates your senses and your stomach heaves, shoving burning bile and partially digested food out of your mouth and nose. You puke, hack, try to breathe in and gag instead. Blinded by tears and pain, you bobble back around towards the glowing light of your home and the huge, dark shadow of your Papa.
“Pwease… pwease… Pwease nu Papa pwease nu make Wibby num on poopies” you beg and beg through your sobs. “Wibby so sowwy. Wibby wuv Papa. Nu wan be bad fwuffy . Wibby haf sickies. Boo huu huuu, pwease no mowe - !”
You can barely see, but you feel Papa pick you up by the scruff of your neck, and before you can re-orient yourself, you are shoved face-first in the remaining bad poopies. You brace your front hoofies on the floor and struggle to get your nose out of the pile, but Papa is too strong and you only succeed in smearing the bad poopies all over your cheeks and chin. Your front hoofies slip sideways and your face is smacked into the wooden floor underneath the pile of your bad poopies. Papa is hollering so loud that you can’t make out any of the words.
“NU! PWEASE! NU WAN NUM ON POOPIES! NU SMEWW PWEGAGH-” your complaining is cut off as your Papa manages to shove your open mouth sideways into the mound. Another heap of the slimy, awful-tasting fecal matter clogs your mouth and throat. The world lurches and spins up and around until you land painfully in the crunchy brown grassies in the cold, cold backyard. The door slams shut and the whole world goes dark except the windows, glowing with a warm inner light like your Mama’s eyes once did.
Time passes. You rub your face in the grass, trying to scrape off as much of the bad poopies as you can. A breeze blows through the backyard, chilling you badly where your face and leggies are damp from tears and peepees. You shudder, and now that you have calmed down you realize how covered you are in owwies and hurties. Your heart feels like a cold stone in your chest. You scuttle over to the corner of the yard where Mama’s happy little plants used to grow, and clumsily scratch out a shallow depression to cower in while the cruel night air continues to steal the warmth from your body. You curl up and try to tuck your face for warmth, but you smear your pretty fluff with shit and cannot get away from the not-pretty smell and taste.
“Wibby am bad fwuffy.” you sob to yourself. “Wibby am bad. Papa is big meanie. Poopies nu smeww pwetty. Wibby cowd.”
More time passes. You are startled yet again when the back door creaks open and you hear your Papa’s voice. It is much softer and not scary now. He sounds very, very sad in a way that makes your heart ache. He sounds groany and tired, like he just woke up.
“Libby, I’m shorry, sweeite” he growls in a friendly fashion, kneeling and reaching out to you with both hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realish you didn’t have your litter box shet up.” Papa wobbles a little and seems like he’s been crying.
Your heart leaps, giving you a tremendous burst of energy, and you scamper over and fling yourself up into your Papa’s arms with both front hoofies raised. He wraps you up in a soft, warm towel gives you the sweetest, bestest huggies you can remember having. He is crying and swaying a bit, and smells even more like a bottle, but you don’t care. His huggies make all your owwies feel better. You cry with relief into his chest while listening to his slurring speech.
“'M sorry, Lib” he breathes “‘M drunk and shit, I forgot to put y’r litterboxsh out when I shhhut the door. Din’ mean to yell at you like that.” Papa burps a little, making an even worse smell than your bad poopies, but you don’t care. Papa carries you back into the house, and to your relief your bad poopies and pee is gone. You practically vibrate with joy and relief as he carries you to the kitchen and washes you clean. After that, he carries you to the couch and lays down to cuddle with you. Both of you drift off to sleep, but before you do, you feel that the whole world is back to normal and that you will be the happiest, bestest fluffy in the world forever after this.