[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]
Libby, the crimson-pointed white fluffy pegasus, has descended into a world of darkness in the shadow of her Papa. As his drinking has gotten worse, he has changed from irritable and dangerous to active loathing of his lost wife’s pet. The days when he felt genuine remorse for hurting her are gone. Libby can only be reminded of her sweet Mama on rare occasions, and it brings her more sadness than joy. The rest of the time, she can only comprehend the fear of being locked up in the dark little house with the unpredictable, hateful giant that used to be her Papa. The man only feeds Libby inconsistently, usually when he is both sober and preoccupied. When one bag of low-grade kibble runs empty, he will neglect to purchase more for a day or so - sometimes two. He is marginally more inclined to give her water. When the little white fluffy asks, she is as likely to be cursed at or kicked aside than to receive fodder or drink. It brings her no comfort that her cracked ribs heal relatively quickly.
One evening the little fluffy is sitting by herself in her little room. Sometimes she plays, but other times she lies down and tries to sleep even when she’s not sleepy. Now and again she will puff her cheeks out for no reason, chatter to herself, and eventually succumb to the urge to gnaw on her front hoofie. She has worn a bald spot and a tiny, leaking sore into her skin by doing so. The man appeared at her doorway seemingly at random one night. Even though he was gripping the frame, he still wobbled a little on his huge feet. Libby looked up at him and backed away a pace instinctively, her eyes growing wide and her heart rate climbing a little.
“HEY, LIB!” he boomed in a way that sounded friendly, “I wash jusht reading the news, and guess what?” Libby didn’t answer. “It shaid that a buncsh of fluffies caushed a car accshident dow’ by the mall! Ishn’t that fucked up?”
The silence hung heavy. Libby’s mouth chattered a little on its own, trying to shape some words that would make the man be nice to her.
“P-p-papa nice. Wibby wuv Papa.” she said in a small voice.
“I love you too, Libby!” he said again, his voice too loud for the small room. “But shomething’sh got to be done about these goddamn fluffiesh everywhere, right? Don’t you think bad fluffiesh sshould get sshorry sticks?” He advanced a step into the room. Libby recoiled, her rump shoving into the spongy material of her bed. She knew there was not really any place to hide in the little room. “WELL?” his voice got a harsh edge to it. Libby knew he had been drinking from his smelly bottles and that he was baiting on her, but she didn’t know what to do about it.
“W-w-wibby am good fwuffy. Nu wan s-s-sowwy stick. Wibby nu do anyfing bad.” She murmured, lowering her eyes from his strangely burning eyes.
“Yeah, you’re a good little fuckin’ fluffy, aren’t you?” he said, “Look, you even keep your shhit in the shhitbox, don’ you?” He turned away from Libby and walked a few wobbly steps over to the corner where her poorly-tended litterbox was kept. Libby had trouble using it without getting ‘nu-pretties’ on her hooves. “Oh, no, Lib, what’s thish?”
Libby watched as he braced his hand on the wall and reached out with his toe to flick a dried turd out of the litter box. It barked off the wall, leaving a tiny oval mark, and landed on the wooden floor where it rolled in a spiral until it stopped. The man whirled to face the little white fluffy.
“What’sh this, Libby? Did you shit outshide your litterbox again?” asked the man, putting his hands on his hips in an exaggerated gesture of approbation.
Libby’s fear grew alongside her frustration. They seemed to fight over which would get to use her voice first.
“Nu, Wibby nu make bad poopies. Wibby sowwy. Wittabox haf too many poopies.”
“If you didn’t shit on the floor, then why are you sorry?” asked the man.
“W-W-wibby nu know. Pwease nu be mean to Wibby. Wibby am good fwuffy. Wibby wuv Papa.”
“Ohh, I’m not being mean!” he said. “I gotta teash you right from wrong, ish all! Bad fluffiesh get shorry sticksh!” With a flourish, he produced a wooden ruler with red markings on it. Libby tried to back away over the rim of her spongy blue bed, but her stubby hooves hooked on the material and she fell back on her haunches instead. The man grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her around until her hindquarters were in front of him as he knelt.
“NU! NU! WIBBY AM GOOD FWUFFY! WIBBY NU MAKE BAD POOPIES!” she wailed as he lined up and started fiercely swatting her hindquarters with the ruler. She squeezed her eyes shut as he proceeded to smack her twelve or fifteen times in the same place with the ruler. She cried out a few times in rapid succession and then let out a long cry as the pain took hold. He abruptly let her go and she skittered forward, whirling around to back into the corner of the room and protect her bruised posterior from the man. She started silently crying and resumed watching the laughing man’s every move with limpid eyes, and fighting to restrain her bladder from releasing.
“Okay!” the man said, resuming his cheerful tone. “ell, I got sshomething else to tell you! Ah figured out a way your dumb assh can earn its keep around thish fuckin’ place! Bri’s friend’s got a fluffy and he wantsh a foal! Ishn’t that great? You’re going to be a mommy and I’m going to get a couple hundred bucksh apiece!” He clumped back out of the small room.
Libby’s stressed mind was half shut down from pain and fear, but it came to grips with part of what the man had said. The freshly-beaten fluffy froze and her eyes unfocused as the idea worked its way into her consciousness. Libby was going to be a mother. A brood, babies, foals. For the first time in months, joy filled her heart. She quivered a little as the unfamiliar instinct to clap her hooves together and cavort with happiness fought against her paralysis. Then she flinched, realizing suddenly that she had stopped breathing.
“Wibby wiww be mummy!” she said to herself, timidly seeing how the world would react to the idea. “Wibby wiww be mummy!” her heart pounded in her chest. Nothing bad happened, so she tenderly stood up and shuffled forward into the room. She toddled up to her ball and stared at it with a rare, cheerful gleam in her eye as she repeated yet again: “Wibby am haf babees!” The ball seemed happy to her stressed, injured mind. Coming back to her senses, she scuttled over to the dry turd in the middle of the floor and picked it up with her mouth, taking it to her overfull litter box and dropping it in the corner. It tasted horrible, compounding the usual not-pretty poopies taste with the bitter, stinging lime of the cat litter. Still, she knew that she had to do it or the man would yell at her and hit her with the sorry stick again. She flopped down in her bed, warmed and comforted by the first pleasant thoughts she had had in a while. She cooed to her imaginary babies and drifted off to sleep.
She awakened the next morning in her usual fog of sadness and shuffled over to the litter box. She unconsciously complained to herself as she tries to move the old turds out of the way before mounting and urinating in the box.
“Nu wike poopies. Poopies nu smeww pwetty. Go 'way, poopies!” she muttered. While relieving herself, she remembered her conversation with drunken Papa the night before. Suddenly, she couldn’t finish at the litterbox fast enough. She bounded out of her tiny room and trotted down the hallway, making a loud, cheerful ‘tap tap tap’ sound against the hardwood floors. Swelling with joy, she burst into the little kitchen where her Papa sat, dressed in a shirt and tie, slumped over a cup of coffee with both hands massaging his temples. He was clearly stricken, but the fluffy did not notice.
“Papa! Papa! Wibby wan’ babees! Wibby wan haf babees and pway wif babees and sing to babees! Papa say Wibby be mummy!” she babbled, bouncing on all four hooves and beating her wings mightily.
“Shut the fuck up,” snarled the man, squeezing his fingers into his eyes. The fluffy did not catch it.
“Wibby wiww be bestest mummy evew!” blared the little fluffy. “Wibby’s babees wiww pway and sing and haf miwkies an - HURKK!” Abruptly, the man snatched the fluffy up from the ground by one of her hind legs. Teeth gritted, he slaps her face twice, forehand and backhand, then yanks up hard on her ear until she is staring into his eyes.
“I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he thundered straight into her face. She starts shrieking and struggling as he stomps over to the sink and pins her against the cold metal. He pours the bottom half of his coffee on her head, wincing as her cries grow louder and more high-pitched.
“NUUU! NU OWWIES!!” she howls, “PWEASE! WIBBY HAF BUWNIES! BUWNIES! NU WIKE!” she thrashed in a futile attempt to escape the pain as the hot coffee seared the skin on the right side of her face and neck. Her airy fuzz drank up the black liquid so quickly and thoroughly that almost none reached the drain. She was dumped on the floor from counter height, badly bruising her rump and rear left leg. As much as she would have liked to sit still, the crawling, burning pain on her skin drove her in a little circle, moaning and toddling this way and that. Without another word, the man grabbed his black bag and jacket and stalked out the front door. The pain wore off after a while and the abused little creature regained her powers of speech.
“Hu… hu… hu… oh… buwnies… buwnies… pwease… pwease… Nu wan’ buwnies… Wibby sowwy! Wibby sowwy! Nu huwt! Nu faiw!” she quailed to herself. She found that her skin was badly scalded, so raw that she couldn’t lay down on her right side, and it hurt her whenever the thought of her future babies made her smile.
You are Libby, the white wingie. You live in a dark little house. You have been scared and sad for a long time. When you are alone, which is most of the time, the memories of your Papa hurting you and yelling at you play over and over in your mind. You find yourself biting your own hoofie at times, or crying to yourself, or staring at the back door and hoping you could get out and run away. Sometimes he doesn’t give you nummies or wawa for a long time, and you have tummy owwies and feel tired and have sickies all day. Lately, though, you have been having good thoughts, too. Your Papa said that you would get babies. Babies! It never occurred to you that you could get babies, but now you can’t stop thinking about it - you could have babies and play with them and love them, and they would love you and everything would be happy again. Your Papa does not seem happy about it. In fact when you talk about babies with him it just makes him mad, and a few times he hurt you or punished you, so you stopped talking to him about it.
One night all that changes. You are alone in your room when you hear the door bang open, and many deep human voices start echoing up and down the hallway. You are excited - it would be nice to meet a new friend, or anybody besides your Papa. You recognize the voices of your Papa’s friends, a big man with black fluff on his face and another with red fluff on his head. They were never give you huggies but they are never mean like Papa. You trot down the hallway, making a ‘tap tap tap’ sound on the wooden floors with your hoofies. When you round the corner, you see something really startling.
With Papa, fluff-face and red-fluff is another man, as tall as your Papa but with spiky blonde hair. All four of them look at you evenly, but what really takes your breath away is at blonde-fluff’s feet: A fluffy! A stallion fluffy with deep red fluff, a black mane and tail, and a grey horn is standing there between the blonde man’s legs! You stop and stare. The red unicorn bounds forwards towards you, but he is stopped by the leash held by the blonde man. The men all start talking at once, apparently pleased, but you are too surprised to speak. You can’t remember the last time you met another fluffy. The stallion talks to you.
“Hewwo! Am Spike! Wan be fwiend?” he says brightly, straining forward to smell you.
Your papa scoops you up and walks into the big room with the couches. Everyone else follows. Your papa kneels down and holds you securely by the scruff of your neck as the blonde man unsnaps the other fluffy’s leash from what you can now see is a black collar with small, shiny pointy things ringing it like teeth. The new fluffy immediately waddles over to you and starts sniffing you very thoroughly, starting with the tip of your nose. You chatter back to him, eager and pleased to meet another fluffy for the first time you can remember.
“Am Wibby! Wibby am good fwuffy! Fwuffy wike pway! Wan’ pway wif Wibby?”
“Spike wan’ pway! Spike am bestest fwuffy eva!” the stallion jogs around you in a little circle. It frightens you, and you find yourself flinching away from him and turning to try to keep him in sight. All the while, your Papa and his friends talk to each other. You are too worked up to follow their low, buzzing voices.
“Ok, so I googled it. Libby’s a ‘Valentine’ - pure white with scarlet points. Spike’s a ‘Mustang’ - black over red. They got a near-hundred percent chance of producing one of the color combos I want.” said the blonde-fluff man.
“I brought my camera so we can put the whole thing on the internet.” says red-fluff.
“Look, he’s getting a boner” said fluff-face.
“I refilled these pain pills the vet gave me for Libby.” says your Papa.
While the men talk and watch you, Spike continues to sniff you thoroughly. You have grown used to feeling like there is a cold stone in your tummy, and when Spike tells you that he loves to play and give huggies, it seems to shrink a tiny bit. Still, he is very rambunctious and bold, and it grates on your jangled nerves the way he keeps sniffing at you and pawing at you with his hoofies.
“Spike wan pway baww?” you ask him, turning again to face him as he skitters around behind you again.
“Nu,” says Spike, busily continuing to sniff your hindquarters.
“Spike wan pway bwocks?” you ask again, backing up so your tail is against the couch.
“Nu, Spike wan speshuw huggies.” he says, standing up straight and looking right at you with his yellow eyes.
You don’t know quite what to say. When Spike says that, your insides feel funny and you have the feeling you know what he means, but you are tense and don’t like the way the humans laugh when he says it. All four men and Spike are looking at you and it makes you feel extremely nervous, like you want to run and hide.
“What’s up with her hoof?” asks blonde-fluff.
“Eh,” says your Papa “She started chewing on it a while back, I don’t know why.” said your Papa as he walks to the kitchen.
Papa retrieves a bunch of clinky glass bottles for his friends while you try to figure out a way to escape from the red stallion. He stands very close to you, hooking one of his front hoofies around yours and pulling you sideways. You squeak in alarm and swat him flat on the nose with your other hoofie, even though the effort made you stagger and shift. He stops short when you bop him and stares at you in surprise. The humans all hoot in a strange way, especially the red-fluffed man who was holding a funny black box up to his eye and pointing it at you. You bop Spike on the nose again for being bad and scaring you. This time, he responds by rearing up on his hind hoofies. You see that his peepee place is standing up, and that he is bigger and scarier than you were. He lashes out with one of his hoofies and cracks you on the nose in response, much harder than you had struck him.
“Spike wan’ speshul huggies! Nu be bad fwuffy!” he snaps at you.
“Nuuu!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut and holding your hoofies in front of your stinging nose. “Nu gif Wibby owwies!” The humans cheer again. Unfortunately, you had taken your eyes off Spike, and before you could locate him again he had clattered around you and planted his nose between you and the couch. You squeal in fear as he shoves you with all his strength, forcing your hindquarters out.
"Mehh! Mehh!’ you pant as you waddle for the hallway with the red unicorn in hot pursuit. You wanted to go hide in your bed. Tears burn in your eyes and you feel your heart starting to thud-thud-thud in your chest like it did when Papa was mean to you.
You never made it to your room. Your Papa and the blonde-fluff man chase and snatch you and the red unicorn up and carry both of you back to the big room. You are shaking and trying to bury your face in Papa’s ribs, but Spike was looking at you keenly and making a funny thrusting motion with his hindquarters. Even while being carried, he reaches out and tried to paw at you with his hoofie. You get more and more scared when your Papa carries you over to the corner of the big big room and kneels down with one hand holding you firmly pointed into the crevice. You turn your head helplessly from side to side, trying to keep an eye on Spike as his owner sets him down behind you and lets him go. Spike bounds forward and noses your tail out of the way, exposing your special place. You kick backwards at him, but he is standing too close for you to get any leverage. Papa shakes your mane and scolds you.
“Nu! Pwease! Pwease! Weave Wibby awone! Go 'way! Go 'way!” you cry helplessly as spike rears up and puts his hoofies on your back, squashing you most of the way to the ground. You feel something poking your hindquarters and start thrashing and squirming. Fluff-face says something in his deep voice and the rest of the men all laugh. Suddenly, you feel a sharp stabbing pain in your special place and your eyes bug out in surprise. Spike pauses a second and then grunts, and you feel the sharp stabbing pain grow, as if you are being ripped open. You scream. The tiny sharp pain in your special place is withdrawn for a second, then returns at double strength as Spike slams his belly into your hindquarters.
“Spike wike speshul huggies!” says Spike cheerfully, “Spike am bestest fwuffy eva!” Your Papa lets you go as Spike settles his weight on your back and starts doing whatever he was doing in a steady rhythm. It feels like you are being sawed in half and that Spike is hurting your insides. When you squirm, Spike leans forward and nips your ears or the scruff of your neck, pulling out little tufts of fluff. “Enf! Enf! Enf! Enf!” he says, in time with the jabbing pain in your special place. You can’t do anything but listen to his panting and your mewling sobs and cries echo off the flat white walls. Time seems to pass very slowly and you are acutely aware of every painful stabbing thrust. Through your tears, you become aware that the men were talking again. You try to cry out to them for help, but they ignore you.
“Pwease! Pwease hewp Wibby! Wibby haf owwies! Pwease!” you bleat, earning yourself another bite on the ear from Spike.
"Too bad you can't post video files on fluffybooru" said red-fluff, still holding the funny black box up to his eye.
“She’ll deliver about twenty-four hours after she becomes immobile, so when she can’t walk, call me and we’ll come back for the main event.”
“He’s going nuts, man.”
“You got any more of those pills?” said fluff-face as he finished off his second bottle of smelly drink.
“That’s nothing, man. Watch this. Spike! Donkey punch! Spike! Donkey Punch!”
With that, you feel the stabbing and burning halt as the stallion shifts his weight, and you look up through your sobs to see him turning his head around to look at his master. The blonde-fluff man repeats his command, and Spike turns back to you and abruptly clocks you on the back of the skull with one of his front hoofies before resuming his thrusting. The men all yell and cheer as your vision went black and red, then came back all dizzy. A bad taste appears in your mouth. Before you come back to your senses, Spike redoubles his work and then cries out in a strange way. The pain in your special place is blazing and he jams his hoofies down onto your back harder, shoving the breath out of your body.
“Enf! Enf! Enf! EEEEEeeeeeaaaaahhhhh! Spike haf good feews!” Spike abruptly bounds up and back off your inert form and spins around to frolic in front of the cheering men. You rise unsteadily to your feet and try to slink out of the big room to the hallway, but your head hurts from panic and being given owwies, so you lurch a little and fall down once. You see Spike’s owner pull a cookie out of his pocket and offer it to the crimson stallion. He speaks to your owner while Spike crunches his cookie, cooing proudly around the mouthful of nummies. Watching him get num-nums for doing what he did makes you feel like you might have sickies.
“See if you can get her some treats and water, we should go again in twenty minutes to make sure.” says the spiky fluff man.
You stagger down the hallway, then back into your sorry box and slump into a shaking heap. You hate your sorry box but it is the only place you can think of to hide. Your special place is stinging with pai , and you can’t catch your breath. You can feel a lump forming on your head where Spike gave you owwies. You hate Spike and Papa and all their friends. You listen to their booming voices echoing down the hall, and you try to cower deeper in your sorry box, slowly tearing away smoe fluff from your front hoofie with your toothies. After a while, you hear your Papa’s footsteps clumping down the hall. He drags you out of the sorry box and carries you back down the hallway, ignoring your begging and crying. When you get there, Spike is already rearing up and pawing at you with his front hoofies and humping the air.