[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, the white pegasus with crimson points and wings, had been mated by the stallion Spike. The second time, her Papa had dragged her out into the middle of the hardwood floor and held her there while Spike mounted. This time, all the fun drained out of the room when Libby started screaming “HATE YOU!” and “WAN’ DIE!” at the men before going so limp that she drooled on the floor, eyes unfocused. It upset Spike, but not enough to dissuade him from roughly humping her still body. It alarmed his blonde spiky-haired owner a bit, too. He stepped aside to have a quick conversation with Libby’s Papa.
“Ok, man, we’re going to go. Remember, I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the pick of the litter. You probably ought to make sure she gets lots of good food and lots of water while she’s pregnant. Internet says it’ll take twenty-one days, give or take one. You call me, ok?” The blonde man came just short of pointing out that Libby was in very bad shape. Libby’s Papa appeared to get the message. By the time he had walked his guests to the door, Libby had staggered off and hidden in her sorry box again. He satisfied himself with cleaning up his living room of its more noisome new stains.
Libby cowered in her sorry box, her mind working overtime to make sense of what had happened. Her hindquarters felt like they were on fire. The thought that the horror, pain and humiliation that she had suffered would result in a litter of foals did not occur to her. Instead, her mind dwelt on what appeared to be a new vulnerability, a new way that the world could harm her. Her pupils dilated and breath quickened when she thought about other nearby things that she had formerly trusted - her ball? Her blocks? What else could hurt her in ways she had not yet come to understand? How could she protect herself? She bit her own front leg again, and for the first time a tiny bubble of blood popped out at the corner of her mouth, where she could apply the greatest leverage with her peg-like little teeth.
The next morning, she did not answer when the man’s footsteps boomed down the hallway and he called out for her. He called her name a few times before shrugging and emptying her litter box - something he had not done in some time. He refilled it with a fresh pile of kitty litter. Once that was done, he stood in front of her sorry box and called to her. Libby was new at this practice of hiding in her hated sorry box, but it was obvious even to her that he could just reach in and drag her painfully out by a handful of fluff, as he had last night.
“Libby, come out, I have something to show you,” said the man, his voice oddly friendly and bright.
“W-w-wibby nu wan’, pwease nu huwt Wibby. Wibby sowwy.” she stammered, tiredly trying to find the right combination of words that would make the man leave her alone.
“Come on, get out of there. It’s OK, Spike is gone.” said the man. Libby’s heart started beating a little in her chest at the mention of the red stallion.
“P-p-pwease. Wibby am good fwuffy. Wibby nu do anyfing bad.” she said in a small, shaking voice.
“Get the fuck out of there!” snarled the man. Libby started a little, then slowly crept out of her sorry box, keeping her head low and not looking at the man. To her surprise, he did not snatch her up by her scruff, but turned around and walked back out of the room. “Come on, Libby! Let’s go see!” he said, his voice returning to a cheerful tone. She backed into her litter box and made good peepees. Once she was done, he continued to talk to her as he walked down the hall, pausing every couple of feet to turn around and make sure she was still following him.
“So, you’re probably pregnant now, and Rich was right, we gotta feed you so you can pop out some little two-hundred-dollar foals for me. How does that sound?”
“Wibby… am haf babees?”
“Yeah, dumbass, that’s why we had Spike come over and pork the shit out of you.” Libby starts shaking again at the mention of the stallion and looked around herself left and right, as if the red unicorn was waiting to leap out at her.
“W-w-wibby nu wike speshul huggies.” she said, stopping in the hallway.
“Spike’s not here, dumbass,” repeated the man impatiently, turning around and glaring at her. He was growing irritated. She started walking forward again unsteadily.
“Wibby haf babees? Wibby wuv babees!” said the little fluffy, her voice and stride growing brighter as the thought of foals occupied her mind. “Wibby wiww pway wif babees and sing songies to babees and wuv babees and gif babees miwkies! Wibby wiww be happy wif good babees and gif babees huggies!” she chattered. The pair rounded the corner into the kitchen, and the fluffy was surprised again to find her dish filled with a steaming helping of canned spaghetti instead of the usual dry kibble. The man had nearly forgotten about the stash of cans in his pantry, gathering dust in the months since his wife’s death. This morning he had followed Rich’s advice and heated some up. The fluffy was so startled that she stopped in her tracks. It took her a full eight or nine seconds to process what she was seeing and smelling. She began to squeal with joy and bounced on her hooves, beating her tiny scarlet wings.
“Sketti! Sketti! Sketti!” she shrieked before bounding forward and burying her face in the warm low-grade pasta. She flinched a little when the man knelt next to her, but he put his hands up and spoke soothingly.
“Whoa! Whoa! Chill! Yeah, I got you some sketti, huh? Gotta feed you the good stuff if you’re going to have healthy foals. Hey, slow down!” His manner softened a little as he watched the tiny creature gobble and slurp on the noodles. He reached out and started petting her ears and mane, causing her to flinch again and then relax.
The little fluffy was overcome with joy. She felt the anxiety and fear she had lived with for so long start to drain out of her mind as she wolfed down mouthful after mouthful of noodles and sauce. The man was saying friendly, loving words to her, and she stopped every few seconds to breathe and burble out a constant stream of cheerful babble before re-planting her face in the dish.
“Wibby wuv sketti! Wibby wuv Papa! Wibby wiww num nummies and make miwkies for babees! Wibby wiww haf bestest babees evew! Wibby am good fwuffy and good fwuffy get bestest skettis and nummies and wuv! Coo! Coo!” said the tiny creature around a mouthful of noodles and sauce, its face hopelessly smeared.
The little creature’s consciousness was overcome with the sensations of gorging herself, babbling and feeling her Papa’s hand petting her. She didn’t notice when his hand slowed its rhythmic stroking and settled on the nape of her neck. The man was staring at the fluffy with an odd fixity of expression, his eyes dead but also somehow burning. His hand gradually tightened and grew heavier, until the Fluffy pushed against it in an attempt to bring her head up and babble and coo some more. She found that she couldn’t move.
She pushed again and snorted against the face full of pasta. His strong hand would not let her raise her head up, and after a heartbeat he pushed down on her neck with a tremendous, grinding strength. She tried to squeak a complaint, but found that opening her mouth just gave him the opening to shove her face deeper into the squishy food. She gasped, sucking gobbets of half-chewed noodles and clumpy sauce into her windpipe. Libby’s legs pushed and scrabbled against the floor, desperately trying to force a gap between her snout and her meal so that she could breathe. The man was too strong, holding her head in place with a cruel iron strength. A second passed, then a few heartbeats, then a long agonizing moment as the fluffy gagged and murmured against the blockage in her throat. With her eyes jammed against the food, she only saw waves and flashes of indescribable colors as she began to panic and her lungs threatened to convulse and suck the food into her lungs. Her mind tightened down inside her skull to a single point.
“Bbbblllgh… gbll” was the only noise she could make as her limbs went slack and her bowels clenched. A spray of feces and urine jetted out of her hindquarters. Just when the darkness was closing in on her mind, the man finally let her go. The fluffy backpedaled blindly away from her dish, falling over backwards into her own waste as she sucked in a lungful of air combined with half-chewed food. This set a fire off in her chest, and she flailed in her puddle of waste as she coughed and gasped and coughed some more. She fought to keep air moving into her lungs as her nose filled with mucus and her eyes streamed. She clambered to her feet, one eye shut and the other peeled wide in terror, looking up at the chuckling figure of the man. She backed around the corner of the island cabinet, sobbing and crying as the burning in her lungs subsided, and peeped out at him, tensed and ready to bolt.
“Oh, no, Lib! What happened?” he said in a mocking tone. “Are you OK?”
Libby gasped and gagged a little, unable to speak. The giant figure of the man leaned over a little. He had an expression of concern on his face that just scared the little creature more.
“Don’t you want the rest of your sketti?” he said.
“Nu… nu… pwease…” was all the fluffy could manage.
“OK, well, I’ll leave it out for you in case you want more later.” The man turned his back on the terrified, wheezing fluffy and he walked off with an unconcerned air. The fluffy’s heart would not stop thudding in her chest, and she remained hidden behind the island as she watched him walk into the big room and sit at his clicky box. She walked as quietly as she could around the corner and backed down the hallway to her room, where she cowered in her sorry box and tried to clean her fluff of spaghetti sauce and shit, and cough up the maddening fragments of noodles from her windpipe. Several hours later, she heard the man slam the front door, and only then did she emerge to joylessly gobble the rest of her meal, aware somehow that her body needed the rich food. The man didn’t even clean up the feces and urine for several days.
You are Libby, the white and red pegasus. You are pregnant! You feel so happy about the growing babies in your tummy that you sometimes forget about the sadness, the darkness and the pain of your life with your Papa. Your little room at the end of the hall used to feel like a place to hide from Papa when he was being a meanie, or a place you were trapped in with no one to talk to. Now it seems like a place where you will play with your babies. You used to be sad that your Papa didn’t love you or hug you or play with you anymore. Once you have babies, you will never be alone again. It is a secret happiness that you think about when you are scared and lonely.
Every day when you wake up you feel bigger and heavier. Your Papa has even become less of a meanie, which is good because you are thirsty and hungry a lot. He even fed you sketti a few times, but since that first time you only num the sketti when he’s not standing near. After you eat, Papa makes you num strange, bitter little nummies that come out of a bottle. You tried to tell him they didn’t taste pretty but he hit your nose and made you cry and you have to eat them anyway. Even so, you have the impression that Papa wants you to have the foals because he feeds you and says something about waiting for them.
“Papa! Papa!” you cry, wiggling your hoofies at the edge of the litter box. “Wibby wan’ good poopies!” You tried, but your tummy has grown so big that you can’t get over. “Papa! Pwease hewp Wibby!” As you wait for your Papa to come save you from bad poopies, you coo at the babies in your tummy. “Be good, babees. Mummy wiww make good poopies and den haf babees and wuv babees fowevew!”
“You’re lucky this shit will be over with in a few days,” snarled your Papa, clumping into your tiny room and wrapping his hands around you. He hoisted you up over your litter box and squeezed you.
“Nu! Nu! Papa! Pwease! Nu huwt Wibby, Wibby am mummy!” you protest, squirming as he compresses your swollen body. A gout of feces and urine spurts painfully from your hindquarters and you hear it splatter into your litter.
“Okay, I’m not walking in here every time you need to take a piss,” your Papa says. Within a few minutes, you find yourself sitting in your spongy blue bed in the big room at the front of the house, with your litter box, food dish and water bowl nearby. You are happy that you can talk to your Papa while he types on his blinky box.
“Wibby am haf babees soon!” you tell him cheerfully. “Wibby wiww gif babees miwkies and pway wiff babees and sing to babees! Coo! Coo!” You close your eyes and flap your red wings in joy as you imagine your foals. “Wibby am good fwuffy, and Wibby’s babees wiww be bestest babees evew!”
You are interrupted when something smacks into your face with explosive force, making a loud <CRACK!> noise. Your eyes shut, but you still see sparks and your tender snout feels like it’s on fire. You gasp and raise your front hoofies to cover your stinging nosie, but you feel Papa’s hand grab your ears and mane and jerk your head up. Another <CRACK!> rings out and your nose is smacked again, just as hard. It feels like lightning leaping up and down your whole body. Papa drops you into your bed, and you drag in a deep shaking breath and start sobbing from the pain.
“Nuuuuuuu! Nuuuu wiiiike! Owwwwwiiiiieeeeees!” you moan.
“Shut the fuck up.” growls Papa. His voice sounds scary and dangerous. You open one of your streaming, stinging eyes and look up at him. He is crouched over in his chair and holding his wooden ruler - the sorry stick. He looks relaxed, but you know he can lash out and hurt you in the blink of an eye. You try to stop crying, but you can’t help shaking, gasping and sniffling.
“Well? Are you sorry?” says Papa, tightening his grip on the sorry stick. You shiver in fear.
“Wibby sowwy. Wibby sowwy. Pwease nu huwt Wibby, Wibby haf babees.”
“Then shut the fuck up about your babies.”
Papa’s voice makes you scared again and you can’t stop trembling. You wait until Papa turns his attention back to his blinky box, and you try to be quiet as you slide your big, round tummy off your bed and toddle down the hallway. It’s exhausting, and your tummy and milkie places scrape against the floor as the strength drains from your leggies. By the time you reach the end of the hall, you are panting and feel sickies. You peep into your tiny room, and suddenly realize there isn’t anywhere to hide. You waddled back to your room out of habit, but your sorry box was shut, and even looking at your blocks and ball made you feel tired all over. Wheezing and gasping, you turn yourself most of the way around and look back down the hallway - it seems so much longer than you remember. At the end of it, you can just barely make out your blue spongy bed. You wish you hadn’t left it, but Papa was scaring you.
Suddenly, you feel a strange, wiggling pushing feeling in your tummy. You are afraid at first, but you realize that it must be your babies, moving around in your tummy! Your eyes grow wide as you come to grips with the first outward sign of the little family growing in your belly.
“Babees? Babees? Wibby can feew babees! WIBBY CAN FEEW BABEES!” In your excitement, you try to bounce on your hoofies, but your tummy is so big that you only manage to squish yourself a little. You feel a wave of nausea, and then realize that the bouncing and bobbing has squeezed your bladder and bowel again. Your litter box is all the way back at the front of the house next to Papa, and you are already so excited and tired that you are panting. Desperate, you take a risk.
“PAPA! PAPA!” you bleat, “WIBBY NEED WITTABOX! WIBBY FEEW BABEES! BABEES IN TUMMY AND WIBBY WUV BABEES! WIBBY WAN’ MAKE GOOD POOPIES!” your voice sounds shrill and you have to breathe for a few seconds after yelling.
You can tell by your Papa’s footsteps that he is going to be a meanie. He strides down the hallway and picks you up painfully by the scruff of your neck, making your body feel even more under pressure than it was before. You squirm and whimper, not sure if the gurgling and rolling you feel inside your body is your babies or an impending burst of bad poopies. Just when you start to cry, you find yourself suspended again over your litter box, where your Papa gives you another sharp squeeze, making your eyes and tongue stick out and painfully forcing a smaller burst of feces out of your poopie place.
“HAHHHH!” you wheeze as your Papa shakes you up and down, “P-p-pwease! Nu skwish Wibby! Wibby am sowwy, tummy is too big! Boo huu huu!” Turtle-like, you wiggle your hoofies around in little circles.
“You having fun, shithead?” snarls your Papa, gritting his teeth. “You know I won’t beat your ass while you’re pregnant so you see if you can make me run all over the house after you? Why the fuck did you go back down the hallway?”
“Nuu, Wibby am good fwuffy,” you whine, “Wibby am too big, can nu wawk an’ make good poopies!” Papa plants you back on the ground after squeezing the not-pretties out of you, and he growls something you don’t hear as he stalks off. Still panting, you clamber into your bed and try to back up into it so you can keep an eye on Papa. It is hard to move with your tummy so full. “Sowwy, babees,” you murmur to your unborn children, “Papa am big meanie and squish and huwt Wibby.”
Your Papa returns to the big room holding one of his big brown boots. He kneels at your hindquarters, ignoring your murmuring protests, and fiddles with your tail in a way that you don’t understand. It culminates in a cruel pinchy feeling halfway down your pretty red tail. When your Papa stands up, you see that he has tied his brown boot onto your tail and your poor pretty red tail is throbbing in pain from the knot down to the tip. The pain drives tears into your eyes again. Your eyes hurt from so much crying.
“Nuuu, boo huu huu, pwease nu huwt Wibby. Wibby nu be bad fwuffy! Wibby nu want! Wibby nu wa-” is as far as you get when your Papa painfully flicks your still-sore nose with his powerful finger. You gasp in pain, and in your moment of shock Papa grabs you by the throat. He squeezes so hard that you can’t breathe, and you feel blood pounding in your neck and in your tail simultaneously. The world starts to spin.
“Now, you got maybe a day until you shit out your little rats,” Papa seethes into your face, holding you halfway up off the ground by your throat, “And you’re going to sit here and shut the fuck up about it, or I’m going to get a baseball bat and beat your dumb ass to death and forget about the money, you hear me?”
You try to beg him to stop choking you, but he is gripping your throat and shaking you, and a terrifying darkness is creeping up inside your mind. You feel your babies move in your tummy again, coupled with your stomach heaving and your bladder and bowels squeezing in panic. Your sight narrows to pinpoints focused on Papa’s terrifying angry face, and even as he releases you the world goes black for a few seconds.
Papa dumps you back in your bed to wheeze and gasp. He slumps down in his chair and continues clacking and tapping on his blinky box. You cry into your front hoofies for a long time. The bitey feelings in your tail and face settle down to tingles and throbbing, and you are suddenly very tired.
When you wake up, your Papa is gone. You find that you can’t feel the bottom half of your tail unless you try to drag Papa’s boot around, in which case pain shoots up and down your rump. You make the painful effort to hobble and hump your body over to drink some wawa and num on some kibble, but beyond that you just lay in your bed and sing and coo to your growing babies, because you are scared that they could feel your sadness and owwies and you want them to be happy.