The second you turn on the faucet in your bathroom, the fluffy foals in your bathtub begin to panic.
“Mummah, wawa am bad fo fwuffies!” Ellie whines. She still has her forelegs wrapped around the other foal, who has given up talking, and is instead quietly screeching to himself. He stares at his decimated hind legs, unable to comprehend why they are hurting him so bad. “Pwease Mummah!” she continues. “No wan scawie wawa! Ewwy nyu fwend haf wowstest owwies, an nee’ Mummah hewp!”
You test the temperature of the water with your hand. “Don’t worry, good girl! Mummah would never hurt a good fluffy!” Satisfied that the water is nice and warm, you kneel down next to the bathtub. Once both fluffies look up at you, fear still written on both tiny faces, you explain. “Mummah will give her good fluffies a nice warm bath! Good fluffies never have to be scared of bath time! The water is only cold and scary if you are a bad fluffy. Only bad fluffies get cold and not-nice baths. Good fluffies get nice and warm baths! Do you understand?”
Immediately, Ellie nods her head. She still looks a little bit worried, but that’s okay; she’ll learn soon enough.
The other, unnamed fluffy takes longer to respond. He is still staring up at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to breathe through the agony. You lock eyes with him. “Do you understand that good babies get good baths? And bad babies get bad baths?” He takes a few more seconds, and then he slowly starts to nod. He still has not said a word, but at least he has stopped screeching; instead, he lets out soft little peeps and chirps, apparently trying to self-soothe.
“Alright Ellie, you go first! Are you ready for your very first bath?”
She lets go of her companion (who starts screeching again the instant that she does so) and trots over to the edge of the tub. She sits flat on her butt and lifts her front legs in the air, waving them gently. “Good girl!” you praise as you softly scoop her up.
She begins cooing as soon as you lift her from the tub. “Wub upsies! Mummah gibs su gud upsies! Ewwy wub Mummah suuuuu much!”
You smile fondly down at her. “Mummah loves you too, Ellie. I love you because you are a good fluffy! Mummah loves good fluffies! In fact, if you are a good fluffy in the bath, I’ll give you a special treat when you’re all dry!”
Ellie gasps, wiggling in your hands as you hold her up to the running water, not dunking her in yet. “Ewwy wan speshew tweat! Ewwy wiww be gud fwuffy! Fwuffy nu scawed of wawa, fwuffy am gud fwuffy! Gud fwuffy get gud baf! Ewwy weady fo gud baf, Mummah!”
Slowly, you begin to hold her little body under the water. As soon as she feels the warmth of the water on her hind legs, she begins to relax in your hand. “Wawa am su wawmsies! Feews suuu gud!”
You’re glad that she’s happy with her first bath! You’ve cleaned her before, of course, with a wet wipe or a damp washcloth, but she’s never had an actual bath like this before. You can’t deny how cute she is, wiggling happily in your hand and beaming up at you, adoration written in every line of her body.
Gently, you run her shit-smeared fluff under the water, letting the clumps fall down the drain. Thankfully, the other fluffy didn’t manage to rub too much shit on her; most of it was on her forelegs and chest.
After the majority of the foul substance had been sucked down the drain, you pour a little bit of Dawn dish soap on the little foal, gently rubbing it into her fluff, careful to avoid her eyes and ears.
“Mummah, baf am suuuuu nice! Ewwy wub baf! Smeww su pwetty, an wawa am su wawmsies! Feew su gud! Gib Ewwy biggest heawt-happies! Fank yu fo baf, Mummah! Ewwy haf bestest Mummah ebew!”
After you rinse her off, combing through her fluff with your fingers under the water to get out any remaining suds, you turn off the faucet, not wanting to waste water. Holding her soaking wet body in your hand, you give her a very gentle shake, some of the excess water dripping off her thick fluff. Quickly, not wanting her to get too cold—you really should turn on the heater, it’s positively nippy in here—you wrap her little body in a thick towel, gently rubbing her down.
She looks down at the stunted fluffy, still screeching in pain—fortunately for him, quietly enough that it’s not bothersome—rolling around in his own filth and looking terrified. “Nu be scawed, poopie fwuffy!” Ellie calls to him, and he falls quiet to listen to her. His eyes flit up to look at her, and you see him relax a tiny bit when he sees how big her smile is. “Wawa nu am bad! Baf am suuuuuu nice! Fwuffy wiww wub baf! Gud fwuffies get gud bafs, wight Mummah?”
“That’s right, Ellie! And bad fluffies get cold and scary baths!”
Once she is dry enough, you gently pick her up, giving her lots of gentle pets for being such a good girl. Leaving the other fluffy to suffer in the tub, you carry Ellie out of the room, making sure to turn of the light and shut the door behind you as you leave the bathroom, plunging the terrified foal inside into total darkness, which he is programmed to fear.
His screeches intensify tenfold as soon as the door clicks shut, but thankfully, Ellie is too focused on happily hugging your thumb to notice. It doesn’t matter, anyway; as you walk down the hall to the safe room, the cries for help fade from earshot.
As you place the little filly in her shoebox nest, her brilliant blue eyes look up at you lovingly. You gently pet her pearly white fluff, still just a little bit damp. You make sure that the heat pad beneath the bedding is on, and then lean down to kiss her little head. “You were such a good fluffy in the bath! Mummah is so proud of you!”
She wags her baby blue tail excitedly. “Can fwuffy pwease haf tweat now, Mummah?”
“Not right now, little one, but very soon!” When she begins to pout, you kiss her again. “Mummah just has to give that other little fluffy his bath too!”
The foal nods. “Ewwy undewstand. Ewwy am happy fo odda fwuffy get nice baf! Fwuffy haf wowstest weggie huwties, Ewwy hope wawm baf gib wots of happies!”
“Alright good girl, I’m going to go give him his bath now. I will be back very soon to give good fluffies their treats. Mummah loves you!”
You hear a tiny, “Ewwy wub Mummah tuu!” as the door clicks shut behind you.
You enter the bathroom, closing the door behind you but keeping the light off. The fluffy in the bathtub does not seem to notice when you open the door. He is screeching as loud as he can, choking on sobs. His voice is cracked and weak, rasping pitifully. His throat must be so dry; he hasn’t had any milk in three days.
It is pitch black as you kneel down next to the bathtub. Despite this, you are immediately able to locate the baby fluffy, his desperate, terrified screaming giving away his location.
You let out a low growl; the sound reverberates on the echoey walls of your bathroom, amplifying the sound from every direction, and the fluffy’s screams intensify. “Munstah!” he cheeps. “Nu huwt babbeh! Nu mowe huwties! Munstah su scawies!”
Like a hawk, your hand scoops down, snatching the fluffy up and squeezing him with painful intensity. You think that you feel one of his shattered back legs pressed up against your palm, and put more pressure on that part of your hand.
He fights to let out tiny, agonized little peeps, barely able to breathe in your vice grip. “N-nu hu-uwt ba…beh!” he wheezes.
Loosening your grip a little, enough to let him breathe but still tight enough that it is painful, you begin to shake the tiny creature. You can feel his neck whipping around, his head too big and heavy to be supported. He screeches in absolute terror, and you can feel piss and shit exploding into your palm, as if his fluff hadn’t gotten enough of it on you already.
Angrily, you growl again, low in your throat. You drop the fluffy back into the tub from about a foot up, relishing in his tiny wheezes of agony.
“Mummah, pwease sabe babbeh fwom munstah!” he cries, despite not knowing that you are in the room. “Mummah! Hewp! Scawdies!”
You roll the baby onto his stomach on the frigid bottom of the tub. You place your palm over his whole body, pressing him mercilessly against the hard surface.
You feel him fighting desperately for breath beneath your fingers, and you press down harder and harder until he’s unable to draw in any air. You hold him there for a few seconds, feeling him trying to thrash, his stunted, deformed body no match for your strength. You can feel every bone in his body, and you push him harder and harder into the floor until you can feel them start to bend in your hand.
Finally, you release him. Rolling him onto his side, you give him one last hard flick against his defenseless tummy, and you hear him vomit painfully.
Crossing the room, you open the door and turn on the light. “Mummah!” screams the fluffy pony, his voice a faint, almost inaudible rasp. “Hewp! Huu-huuu! Munstah, chirp, hewp! Hewp! Haf owwies, huuu!”
Ignoring his pleas, you tower over the shriveled fluffy, staring down at him. Adrenaline sings through your veins, and you shake with the sick pleasure of your absolute power over this tiny, sentient creature to whom you are a god.
You turn on the cold water in the sink, kneeling down to pluck up the disgusting fluffy by the scruff of his neck. You hold him up at eye level. “Are you ready for your bath?”
He sobs, his shattered legs dangling uselessly in the air. He brings his front hooves up to cover his eyes. “Mummah, babbeh hab scawedies! Nee’ huggies!”
“Why are you scared? Don’t you remember? Good babies get good baths! They are warm, and nice, and feel so good! Only bad fluffies need to be scared of baths. Only bad babies get bad baths that are cold, and scary, and give hurties!”
He sobs again, still dangling in the air. “Nu gib huwties, Mummah,” he chirps, tears soaking his cheeks. “Huu-huu, am gud fwuffy, pwease nu gib huwties!”
“If you’re a good fluffy, then you have nothing to be scared of.” You hold him in the air, pinching his scruff painfully tight. “Are you ready, fluffy?”
He sobs a few more times before he nods once. “B-babbeh am weady fo baf.”
Without warning you shove him under the faucet. The icy water hurts your hands, but it’s worth it, because it hurts the foal so much more.
“SCREEEEEEEEE! NUUUUU! SCREEEEEE! BABBEH NU WIKE WAWA! COWDIES! COWDIES! WAWA AM COWDIES! HUUUU-HUUU, SCREEEEEEE! HEWP! MUMMAH, HEWP BABBEH!”
You hold the fluffy face-down, not wanting him to see the sadistic grin on your face. “What’s wrong, baby? You don’t like your bath?”
“MUMMAH, WAWA AM COWDIES! COWDIES AM BAD FO BABBEH! WAWA AM BAD FO BABBEH! HUU-HUUUU, PWEASE MUMMAH! HEWP BABBEH!”
There is a lot of shit, piss, vomit, blood, and filth caked into the colt’s long, thick layer of fluff, so this is going to take a while. The cold begins to hurt your hand, so you transfer the fluffy to the other one so you can warm it up a bit. Flipping the foal onto his back, icy water pouring over his stomach, splashing into his eyes and up his nose, he begins to choke and splutter. “But little fluffy, if the water is cold, then you must be a bad fluffy!” You emphasize the last two words with a sharp, painful squeeze.
“HUUUUU-HUUUUUU! NU AM BAD FWUFFY! AM GUD FWUFFY! AM ONWY WIDDWE BABBEH! NEBAH DUN NOFING WONG! WAI WAWA GIB HUWTIES?!”
“I’m sorry, little boy, but only bad fluffies”—another sharp squeeze—“get cold and bad baths! If you were a good fluffy, the water would be warm! You are a bad fluffy! That makes Mummah so sad, little fluffy!” You sniffle loudly, flipping the fluffy to look at you so that he can see your frowning face, looking like you’re about to cry. “Bad babies give Mummah the worst heart-hurties. Why are you giving Mummah saddies, you bad baby?”
You shampoo the sobbing, heartbroken fluffy, making sure that some of the suds drip into his eyes. This makes him scream even louder. “MUMMAH! SCREEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEE! HUU-HUUUU, SEE-PWACES HAF WOWSTEST BUWNIE HUWTIES! WAWA COWDIES! NU WAN HUWTIES, HUUU-HUUUUU! MUMMAH, HEWP BABBEH! NU WAN BE BAD BABBEH!”
You make sure to spend an extra long time scrubbing down the bleeding, torn, useless flaps of skin that used to be his legs. As you squeeze the destroyed limb between your fingers, reveling in the tiny fluffy’s endless cries and screams of agony, you can’t help but notice that it feels a bit like a beanie-baby or a stress ball, the shattered bone inside giving it a sand- or foam bead-filled-like feeling. The foal passes out from the sheer agony before long, his tiny, abused body unable to endure the torture.
You sigh, disappointed; you were having fun!
Oh well. Now that the foal is unconscious, you turn on the warm water, for your own sake, quickly scrubbing out the remaining filth. Just as you’ve finished rinsing out the suds, the warmth of the water begins to rouse the tiny baby in your hand. As he slowly blinks open his green little eyes—still irritated and red from the soap—you turn the hot water off. You drop the fluffy abruptly, and he lands face-first onto the wet porcelain, blood squirting from his nose. As the icy water rains down on him again, he fights to crawl out from underneath the harsh stream, the force of which probably stings the delicate surface of his back. You watch gleefully as he struggles, unable to get any kind of traction on the slippery surface, the water pressing him down too hard even if he could.
When he is thoroughly soaked in the icy water, you turn the faucet off. The foal, his light purple fluff visible again, is sobbing hysterically, shivering so hard that he literally vibrates. If he had any teeth, they’d be chattering hard enough to break them. Instead, his weak little gums slam together hard enough that they begin to draw a little bit of blood.
His wet fluff is too heavy for his underdeveloped forelegs to hold up, and so he lies on his stomach in the sink, his leg-flaps lying flat behind him. His green eyes stare up at you pleadingly; they are dull and flat, flitting around uncontrollably as panic courses through every fibre of his tiny being. “M-M-Mummah,” he whimpers pathetically, shivering almost too badly to speak. “C-c-c-c-c-c-cowdies. He-e-ewp b-b-b-b-bab-beh. Nee’ hug-g-g-g-gies…”
You stand up straight, drying off your hands. You tower over him, staring down, feeling your sick pleasure swirling in your chest, flaring up with every desperate chirp and every whimper of Mummah. “I’m sorry, little fluffy,” you say coldly, pretending to look sad. “But I can’t help bad fluffies. Bad fluffies give heart-hurties and saddies, and don’t get any love from Mummah, remember?”
“Nu am b-b-b-b-bad b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b—!” he stutters, shivering too badly to finish.
You leave him to shiver alone in the sink, crying softly to himself as you clean up the mess in your bathtub. It’s quite a big mess, so it does take you a while. Finally, after about ten minutes, you’re able to dry your hands and put away your cleaning supplies.
A cursory glance at the foal reveals it still alive and conscious. His eyes flit around aimlessly, every muscle in his body trembling. He has curled up as best as he can, and is sucking weakly on one of his hooves. His back legs are lying haphazardly outward, and his soaked, scraggly, amethyst-colored tail is curled up over his belly, which is a lighter shade than the rest of his fluff, almost white. For a Foal-in-a-Can, he has really nice colors.
You got lucky.
And he definitely did not.
His night is far from over, but you are merciful enough to give him a break, maybe even let him dry off a little bit. You reach under the sink to pull out an old, worn-out washcloth. You unfold it and drop in on top of the soaked, shivering fluffy, and he peeps in fright.
Opening the door, you loudly say, “You are a bad fluffy, and Mummah doesn’t love bad fluffies!” He lets out a broken sob and you click the light off, shutting the door behind you.
The walk back to the safe room is blessedly quiet, and you slip in to check on Ellie. The soft beige carpet tickles the bottom of your feet as you cross over to the nest. “Mummah, Mummah! Ewwy did miss yu! Am suu happies yu am hewe now!” She props her feet up on the side of the box, and her head peeks out over the top—she’s gotten big enough to leave the nest. “Mummah, wewe am dat odda babbeh? Can fwuffies haf tweats now?”
You gently give her scratches under her chin. “I am so sorry, my good girl, but that other baby was a very bad baby in the bath, so he doesn’t get a treat.”
Ellie’s eyes begin to water. “If odda babbeh am bad babbeh, den him musta had cowdies and scawy baf! Dat am make Ewwy su saddies!”
At this, you tilt your head. “What do you mean, little one?”
“Odda fwuffy am a widdwe babbeh, jus’ wike Ewwy! Ewwy nu haf huwties, an dat babbeh du! Wawm wawa make Ewwy suuu happies, but odda babbeh nu get be happies, onwy haf wowstest saddies and owwies! Ewwy feew su saddies fo odda babbeh!”
This strikes you as odd. Fluffies are not exactly known for their empathy, but Ellie is quite literally telling you that she feels bad for the other fluffy.
It seems you’re even luckier than you thought you were.
“You are a very good fluffy, Ellie, did you know that?”
She takes the “want upsies” pose, and you comply, scooping her up, kissing her soft belly. She hugs your face, cooing happily. “Ewwy am su happies am gud babbeh. Wiww be gud babbeh fowebah, Ewwy pwomise. Wub Mummah mowe dan anyfing!”
“I love you too, my very good girl. I have bad news, though. Because that fluffy was a bad boy in the bath, Mummah has to take a little longer to get him all the way clean,” you lie. “Because of that fluffy, you are going to have to wait a little longer for your treat; I’m so sorry.”
Ellie’s face falls, but she doesn’t start crying. “Dat am okay, Mummah. Ewwy nu am angwy at odda fwuffy. Haf a widdwe saddies, but dat am okay tuu. Ewwy am hope odda widdwe babbeh wiww weawn how tu be gud babbeh soon. Ewwy nu wan Mummah ow fwuffies tu haf saddies.”
You hug her for a little while longer before you set her back in the nest, shutting the door behind you. As you head back to finish with the fluffy in your bathroom, you stop at your desk, picking up your lighter and a sharp pair of scissors.
When you step into the bathroom and flick on the light, you are met with nothing but silence.
Your heart drops. No! Fuck! You weren’t even gone for that long! You know these shitrats are delicate, but this is ridiculous!
Fearing the worst, you yank the washcloth off the fluffy. Much to your surprise, the foal shifts minutely as his cover is removed. His eyes are closed, and he is unmoving. His breathing is slow, and weak, but steady; you grin. This helps you a lot. You fashion a blindfold out of some gauze and slip it gently over the baby fluffy’s eyes.
The poor baby is completely spent—he has had the worst day of his life, and needs lots of sleep to recover. You use that to your advantage as you prep the tub for surgery. You lay out a sheet of disposable plastic on the bottom, and you pour some rubbing alcohol over your scissors, sterilizing them. You fish out a metal nail file from your medicine cabinet, and that receives the same treatment. You set the file down within reach, right next to the lighter.
When you are ready, you use gentle, slow hands to scoop the wet, freezing, still-asleep baby out of the sink, and manage to lay him down on his back without waking him.
You hate anticipation, so you get straight to the point.
Holding one of the shattered rear legs straight up in the air, you hold it taut; with your other hand, you scoop up the scissors. Carefully lining up the blades, the limb is removed with a quick snip; without any bones intact, they cut through the soft flesh like butter.
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! WEGGIE! WEGGIE HUWTIES! SCREEEEEEEEE! HEWP! MUMMAH! SABE BABBEH! SCREEEEEEEEEEE! WOWSTEST HUWTIES!!! SEE-PWACE NU WOWK, HUUUU-HUUUU! HUGGIES! NEE’ HUGGIES! SCREEEEEEEEEEE!”
It’s like music to your ears. Power flows through you, warm and tingly, rushing from your head to your toes, making your blood sing.
Methodically, you flick the lighter to life, holding the nail file in the flame. While you wait for it to heat up, you watch the foal flail and scream with terror and desperation. Stuck on his back, he thrashes his forelegs and head as hard as his malnourished body can. Blood pours from his stump, staining his fluff; he’ll need another bath.
“SCREEEEEEEE! WEGGIES! WEGGIES, NU HUWT FWUFFY! PWEASE NU HUWTIES! WAI WEGGIES AM GIB BABBEH HUWTIES?! PWEASE HEWP, HUU-HUUUUU! NEE’ MUMMAH, NEE’ HUGGIES, HUU-HUUUUU!”
When the nail file glows red, you clamp your hand down tightly on the foal’s upturned belly, holding him still. You can feel his heart fluttering impossibly fast against your fingers, so fast that it seems ready to explode, and another twisted thrill shoots through you. Without warning, you press the glowing metal against the bleeding stump, and the agonized screams jump a few octaves. A burning smell quickly fills the air, and after a few moments, you pull the metal away.
The stump is fully cauterized, the skin black and bubbly.
A quick snip and flick later, and the other leg receives the same treatment. You hold the severed limbs contemplatively in your hand as the foal lets out an unending screech, the sound grating at your ears harshly. You consider forcing him to eat them, but you settle on flushing them down the toilet, a shred of mercy gracing the mutilated pony.
Pretty soon, his annoying scream becomes too much to handle. Swirling on your heel, you lean down to baby and flick him as hard as you can right between the blindfolded eyes. With a single sharp yelp, he’s knocked out cold, his battered, amputated, stunted, deformed little body falling limp into a puddle of his own blood.
You toss the fluffy in the sink—literally toss, throwing the tiny body over your shoulder—and take the time to clean up the tub. Once everything is as it should be, you quickly run the KO’d foal under the water again, scrubbing all the blood and bone shards from his fluff.
Not wanting him to get the safe room all wet but not being able to towel him off without ripping the scabs off his stumps, you blow dry him, wishing he was awake to be afraid of the noise and to complain about the heat.
Finally, when he is dry enough, you place him back in the dry bathtub, on his back so that he can’t move when he wakes up. Thinking ahead, you even lay down a wee-wee pad beneath him so that you won’t have to clean the tub a third time tonight.
Slipping off the blindfold, turning off the light, and closing the door behind you, you head to your bedroom to change out of your bloody shirt before going back to check on Ellie.
As you slip open the door to the safe room, you can hear Ellie singing softly to herself. “Babbeh wub Mummah, Mummah wub babbeh, bestest Mummah ebah! Babbeh dwink miwkies, gwow big an stwong!”
“What a pretty song, Ellie!”
She gasps in delight, whirling to face you. “Fank yu, Mummah! Ewwy am su happies Mummah wike song! Am odda babbeh aww cweane now?”
“Almost, little one. He’s not clean yet, but Mummah has to wait for him to be done. Are you hungry, my beautiful baby?”
“Yus Mummah! Wan upsies! Can pwease haf upsies, Mummah?”
“Of course you can! Up to Mummah, little one!” You hold her against your hip with one hand, preparing her a bottle with the other.
Ellie only drinks fresh fluffy breastmilk. You have temporarily let a feral Mummah stay in your backyard to raise her babies. You let her sleep in the fenced-in, grassy area, even feeding her a generous, balanced, and nutritious diet so that her milk would be as delicious as possible. In exchange you get to “steaw mummah’s bestest miwkies, eben dow mummah’s bestest babbeh haf wots of tummy-huwties”. Meanwhile, her “bestest baby” is a fat yellow unicorn who looks just like her. It doesn’t look like it knows what hungry even means, while it’s three siblings are all starving and underfed.
Pouring out a measure of this morning’s harvest in the fridge, you place the container in a pot of boiling water to bring it to temperature, and prep a bottle to pour into when it’s ready. While you’re waiting, you sit on the floor with Ellie and she lets you pet her belly and give her “silly tickles!”
Soon enough, the milk is warm, and you hold Ellie close to your chest as you settle into the soft armchair next to the nesting area. You cradle the perfectly white fluffy in your arms, and she stares up at you with nothing but love, trust, and adoration. She coos and peeps softly, perfectly content. You plant a gentle kiss on her forehead, causing her to giggle, before holding the bottle for her to drink from.
She makes happy little sounds as she slurps the warm milk, her tiny little arms coming up to hug the bottle. Sometimes, she gets so excited that she has to pop off, chirping, “Wub!” or “Suuuu yummies!” or “Bestest miwkies!”
She drinks greedily, sucking down every drop of the fresh fluffy breastmilk. When she is finished, she latches off the nipple with an audible pop, which makes both of you giggle. You set the empty bottle down beside you, gently rubbing the happy baby who is nuzzling against your breast.
You feel your heart flutter; she’s too cute!
Fuck! This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You think you’re in love.
There are a few drops of milk splattered on her chin; you can barely see them against the snowy white of her fur. Her clear, crystal blue eyes are half-lidded, and she is murmuring quietly to herself. You gently rub her tummy, which is so full of the delicious milk that it is physically distended, an adorable chubby tummy for an adorable baby.
“Ellie, my very good girl, did you enjoy your milkies?”
“Mummah gib Ewwy da bestest miwkies ebeh! Ewwy wub miwkies suuuu much! Dey am su sweet an cweamy an wawm an yummy! Ewwy am suu happies dat Mummah gib Ewwy bestest miwkies! Fank yu, Mummah!”
“You are very welcome, little one. Now then, I think you’re ready for your treat!”
“Tweat!” she cheers, wiggling happily. “Ewwy wan tweat! Pwease gib Ewwy tweat!”
Gently, you rise from the armchair and place her down for the first time on the soft carpet. You sit down cross legged next to her. She stares down at her hooves, lifting them up and then putting them back down, a big smile on her face. “Fwoow am su softies! Feews su gud on Ewwy hoofsies!”
“Ellie, you are doing such a good job growing big and strong for Mummah! As a reward, you don’t have to stay in that nestie anymore—this whole room is just for you!”
At this, the pristine little mare forgets all about the soft carpet on her leathery little hoofs, her head shooting up to look at you, her light blue eyes wide with amazement. She looks around at the well-padded playroom, ramps leading up and down to suspended balconies of various heights that you installed along the walls, all fenced in completely in a plexiglass bubble, much like a children’s play place. She looks at the soft places to sleep, at the balls, tunnels, slides, tents, stuffies, and other toys that scatter the floor. Her tail begins to wag. “Dis whowe pwace…am fo Ewwie? Weawwy, Mummah?! Weawwy?!”
“That’s right, good girl! Everything here is all for you! You can go anywhere you want to, whenever you want to! There’s just a few rules though, okay little one?”
“Mummah, what am a wuwe?”
“A rule is something that you have to do no matter what. Good fluffies follow the rules. Do you understand?”
“Ewwie undewstand. Ewwy wiww fowwow wuwes, wiww be gud babbeh! What am da wuwes, Mummah?”
You gently pick her up and carry her to the litter box in the corner of the room. “Rule number one is to always make good poopies and pee-pees in the litter box. This,” you gesture, “is a litter box. Poopies and pee-pees in the litter box are good poopies and good pee-pees. If you make poopies or pee-pees anywhere else, anywhere other than the litter box, then those are bad poopies and bad pee-pees. Only bad fluffies make bad poopies and pee-pees, do you understand, Ellie?”
She doesn’t respond immediately, and you allow her to take a few moments to sniff around the box, exploring. Slowly, she climbs inside, feeling the soft sand under her hooves. She looks up at you with big blue eyes, squats down, and defecates loudly, her face screwing up in concentration. When she is done, she kicks sand up with her back legs, burying the turd, much like a cat would. She steps out onto the plastic mat that you have beneath the box, specially designed to remove any loose litter from a pony’s hooves and leg-fluff. You praise her thoroughly, and she relishes in your love and attention.
She listens closely and carefully as you finish explaining the rules: always do what Mummah tells you to; no talking back to or arguing with Mummah; no leaving the safe room unless Mummah says it’s okay; be good when Mummah leaves for work; never go outside without Mummah; never give your food to another fluffy; never eat food that is for another fluffy; if any of the rules are broken, whoever did it is a bad fluffy.
When you are done, she lets out a big yawn, and then gets a worried look on her face. “Am sowwy Mummah, nu mean tu make wude yawnies. Mummah nu am bowwing Ewwy, babbeh jus’ am sweepies,” she apologizes.
Once again, you are stunned by this fluffy. You have never taught her to say please or thank you, let alone sorry! You may well have hit the jackpot with this fluffy!
“It’s okay Ellie, I understand. You’ve had a long, exciting day! Why don’t you find a new nestie to sleep in for tonight?”
You help her locate a particularly soft patch of blankets for her to sleep on, and, as she curls up to sleep, you slip a fluffy-sized hug toy in her arms. Eyes already closed, she coos happily, nuzzling her face into the toy happily. You kiss her fuzzy little back and then back out of the room to let her sleep, closing the door behind you.
Down the hall, you press your ear against the bathroom door, and you hear the fluffy inside screeching weakly. He’s probably starving.
Hey, that’s a good idea!
You go to the kitchen and make yourself a sandwich—roast beef, pastrami, mustard, lettuce, tomato, and then head to the dining table to enjoy your lunch.
When you’re finished, you wash your plate, drying it and putting it away before returning to the bathroom once more for the night.
When you open the door, the fluffy has no voice left with which to scream. He lets out a croaking rasp, sounding like a lawnmower that just won’t start. You lean over the tub and look at him, and you pretend to look shocked. “Little fluffy, look at you! You were such a bad baby that your leggies ran away!”
“Mum’ he’p?” he rasps weakly, still begging for you to save him. You wonder how long it will take him to learn that you are never going to help him, no matter how hard he begs.
You hope that he never does.
“I’m sorry, fluffy. Bad fluffies whose legs run away from them never get them back. Your leggies are gone forever and ever. You’ll never be able to walk again. But you must not be a completely bad fluffy, because you still have your front leggies. Maybe you can learn to be a good fluffy! Do you know why you are a bad fluffy?” you ask him, and he shakes his head. “Well, if you don’t know why you’re a bad fluffy, then how are you going to be a good fluffy?”
Mutely, he sobs, but he has no tears left in his body. “When you tell Mummah why you are a bad fluffy, then Mummah can help you be a good fluffy. Your leggies won’t come back, even if you are a good fluffy, but Mummah will be able to love you! Do you want to be a good fluffy? Do you want huggies from Mummah, and love, and cuddles, and bestest nummies?” Frantically, he nods, rasping pathetically, reaching for you with desperation.
“Come on then, you bad fluffy. Mummah will take you to the safe room, but only because Ellie wants you to be there. Mummah doesn’t love bad babies. Mummah does not love you, little fluffy. If it were up to Mummah, you would get forever sleepies!”
At this, he covers his eyes, shaking like a leaf. “The only reason that you are alive is because of Ellie. If you want to be a good fluffy, you will be nice to Ellie. You will do what she wants, when she wants, even if you don’t want to. Do you understand, bad fluffy?”
Sobbing, he nods, but you are not satisfied. “If you make Ellie sad or angry, she is not going to want to be friends with you! When Ellie doesn’t want you anymore, Mummah will make you go forever sleepies! Do you understand?” Again, a terrified nod, still covering his eyes. “If you don’t want to go forever sleepies, then you can either learn how to be a good fluffy, or make Ellie happy! Do you understand?”
One last nod, and you are finally content. You scoop him up out of the tub, throw the soiled wee-wee pad in the garbage, and then take the purple colt to the safe room to make him a bottle.
You have to keep him out of the way while you prepare it for him. Picking him up by the scruff of his neck, he tries to let out a peep, but his throat is too dry, and his voice is too hoarse. You flick him on the nose, still sore from when he landed on it earlier. His hooves come up to hold his nose as you whisper to him. “Bad baby!” you snap, shaking him roughly as you tighten your grip on his scruff, digging your nails in. “Can’t you see that Ellie is sleeping, you dummy baby?” You point him so he can see the beautiful mare sleeping soundly on a mound of soft blankets, cuddling a tiny stuffed teddy bear. “If you make any noise, you will wake Ellie up! If you wake Ellie up, she is not going to want you anymore! Do you remember what happens when Ellie doesn’t want you anymore?” He covers his eyes, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
You take that as a yes. You drop the amputated fluffy onto the carpet from about knee-height, and you hear him try to let out a peep. You whirl and give him a scary look, and he covers his eyes again.
He doesn’t get the same fresh milk as Ellie; instead, you give him the cheapest fluffy formula that you could find at the store, which is actually advertised to be bitter and disgusting. You mix him together half of a serving, heating it up to be only lukewarm before pulling it from the water bath.
Plucking up the fluffy by the scruff, you set him down on his stomach on the padded table where his can used to sit. As soon as he recognizes where he is, he begins to cry again. To his credit, he doesn’t make a sound. Always one to reward good behaviour, you gently give him a few scratches under his chin.
He leans his whole head into your hand, eyes shutting in the ecstasy of being touched, a sensation that is still incredibly new to him.
Holding the bottle up in front of him, you push his head up from his chin. His eyes lock on the bottle and he surges up, but you raise it up a little higher. You make him reach and reach, not letting him have the nipple until he is sobbing with pain. From the angle you have forced him in to, most of his weight is supported by his lower body, pressing his freshly amputated stumps into the padded, pleathery surface, which clings to and tugs on the scabs roughly.
He takes one sip of the bitter, tepid milk and immediately spits it out. His eyes look up to yours, as if to ask you if you’re serious. Before he can even reach your gaze, you give him a harsh flick to his chest, your fingers connecting solidly with the bones that are pressed taut against his skin from the stretch you’re making him do. “Bad baby!” you snap again. “If you ever spit out milkies or nummies that Mummah gives you again, you will be such a bad fluffy that your front leggies will run away too!”
His weak, underdeveloped legs give out from under him, and you watch the pain in his eyes as he fights to rise again. This time, when he takes the nipple into his mouth, he doesn’t spit.
He drinks the half a bottle you gave him in about two minutes flat. After the milk is gone, he continues to suck. Panicked, he pops off, looking up at you desperately. “Nee’ mowe, Mummah,” he whispers, very quietly. “Pwease, babbeh stiww haf wowstest tummy-huwties!”
“No. Bad babies do not get lots of nummies. Bad babies never can have enough nummies, they are always hungry and have tummy hurties.”
“Du Mummah know wai fwuffy am bad babbeh?” he whispers to you, tears gathering. When you nod that you do, he looks hopeful. “Can Mummah teww babbeh so fwuffy can be gud fwuffy?”
You shake your head, looking sad. “No. If Mummah has to tell you why you are a bad baby, then it doesn’t make you a good baby. You have to tell Mummah why you are a bad fluffy, so that you can be a good fluffy. If you are a good fluffy, Mummah will love you. But you are a bad fluffy, and you make Mummah sad, so you don’t get enough milkies. If I were you, bad baby, I would get some sleep.”
He looks down at where he is, head hanging over the short table. “Wiww Mummah cawwy bad babbeh tu sweepie pwace?” he begs. It’s a simple request, one that would be easy to fulfill.
But that would make him too happy.
“Mummah does not help bad babies. Now shut the fuck up before you wake up the good baby.”