You can tell by the look on the fluffy pony’s face that he knew he fucked up.
You are careful to keep your expression infuriated, but secretly, you’ve been waiting for this. You’re genuinely impressed that the huggy-fluffy had taken three whole days before accidentally shitting outside the litter box.
Reaching out with a casual hand, you flick the two-legged foal hard in the ribs, knocking him to his side. Without his rear legs for support, he is unable to get back to proper orientation. Upright, he is pretty much immobile, but you want to make absolutely sure that he isn’t going anywhere.
Petting Ellie’s soft coat, you hold her so that she can see the poop on the floor next to her friend. “Ellie, little one, look at that! That bad fluffy made bad-poopies! That means that he broke the rules!”
“Hu-huu, Mummah, su sowwy! Nu mean make bad-poopies! Jus’ was su scawdies dat poopies came owt by demsewfs! Huu-huu, nu wan go fowevew sweepies!”
In your arms, Ellie gasps. “Mummah, pwease nu gib fwend fowevew sweepies! Ewwy wub fwend!”
“Don’t worry, Ellie, I won’t give him forever sleepies. Not the first time, anyway. But I do need to punish that bad baby.” Reaching up, you set her inside the clear plastic bubble on one of the elevated platforms lining the walls, making sure that she has a great view of the room and everything that you’re about to do. “Ellie, my good girl, this is going to be very scary, but I need you to watch Mummah and the bad baby the whole time he is being punished, do you understand? You both need to learn what happens to fluffies who break the rules. Are you going to watch the whole time, no matter what, Ellie?”
She looks worried. “Ewwy wiww be a gud fwuffy an wach fo Mummah. Nu wan be bad fwuffy.”
“That’s my good girl!”
With that, you turn back to your waiting victim. The poor foal is clearly terrified. He is lying on his side, exactly how you left him. He is sobbing hysterically, his hooves raised to cover his eyes, trying as hard as he can to hide from you.
You grab a sorry-stick from a nearby shelf and bring it down on the whimpering baby—hard, fast, and without warning or mercy.
“Bad fluffy!” you snarl. “You’re trying to hide from Mummah! Now you’ve broken two rules! You are the worst fluffy ever!"
The second the stick makes contact, the helpless foal throws his head back in a howl of agony. His face-fluff is completely soaked with tears, and his eyes roll back and forth wildly.
You bring the sorry-stick down on his back six more times.
He manages to raise his head up enough to look at you. Everything in his face is very clearly begging you for mercy, for pity, for a shred of kindness.
Instead, you spit on him.
“Bad baby!” you scold again. “That was your punishment for hiding from Mummah! Now, let’s move on to your bad poopies!”
You slide on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, and then you grab the lavender colt by the neck and then hoist him up into the air. “Bad upsies!” he mewls pitifully. He is so small that you are able to hold him with just your thumb and index finger. As you squeeze tighter around his tiny throat, his squishy hooves come up in a pathetic attempt to fight you off. This is unacceptable, so you take a small strip of duct tape and tape his forelegs to his belly.
Then, you shove his face directly into the rancid pile of shit. You make sure to really rub his face deep into it. He lets out a few strained, muffled cries for help. Eventually, just as he begins to go limp from oxygen deprivation, you pull him out and loosen your grip, allowing him to suck in a few wet, painful gasps.
You glance up to make sure that Ellie is still watching. She is crying, clearly scared of what you’re doing, and hugging her hug-toy like her life depends on it, but she never takes her eyes off the suffering foal.
You drop him onto the floor a few inches away from the shit, and he lands with a painful squeak. You strike him again with the sorry-stick.
“SCREEEEE! MUMMAH, NU MOWE HUWTIES! WIWW BE GUD BABBEH, HUU-HUUU!! NU MOWE HUWTIES!!”
“If you want the hurties to stop, then clean up the poopies!”
Slowly, he takes a few minutes to crawl the short distance to the poop, screeching and chirping in agony the entire time. Whenever he stops to catch his breath, you strike him with the sorry-stick.
When he finally reaches the pile, he stares up at you helplessly. “Well, what are you waiting for, bad baby?”
“Huu-huu, dummeh babbeh nu know how cwean up bad poopies, Mummah,” he whines, and you strike him with the sorry stick again.
“Lick it clean, you bad fluffy!”
At this, he begins to cry even harder. “Pwease Mummah! Nu wan num poopies! Poopies am bad fo fwuffy!”
“Bad fluffy!” You strike him five more times in rapid succession, and he screams loud enough to wake the dead. “No arguing with Mummah!”
“Fwuffy jus wan be gud,” he whimpers brokenly. “Nu wan huwties.”
You only have to strike him two more times before he takes his first mouthful. He manages to swallow down three whole bites before his stomach rejects the foul substance. He stares down at the puddle of vomit and tears now mixed in with the shit, and then he looks up at you, and then back down at the mess. Sobbing, he manages to get down another mouthful.
When he finally finishes, he stares up at you frantically. “Mu’uh!” he begs, holding his tongue out of his mouth, recoiling at the foul taste, “Nee’ miwkies! Tas’e su ‘icky!”
“What are you talking about, you bad boy? There’s still poopie on the carpet! You’re not going anywhere until you clean all of it up!”
His anguished green eyes slowly scan over the remains that are smeared into the carpet, and he begins to cry again. You watch as his visibly shit-smeared tongue drags across the fibers of the carpet. He sobs pathetically, wracked with involuntary shudders at the awful taste.
After a few more minutes, there are no traces left of the shit. “Pwease Mummah, nee’ miwkies! Mouf nu taste pwetty, an haf tummy-huwties! Pwease gib dummeh babbeh miwkies!”
“You really are a dummy fluffy, huh? I’ll tell you what; since you did such a good job numming those poopies, Mummah will give you a name! Your new name is Dummy!”
“Fwuffy namsie am Dummeh? Fwuffy nu wan be dummeh babbeh, huu-huuu…”
You are so excited to get to the point that you decide to ignore his remark. “You just ate enough poopies to last you all day! You won’t be getting any milkies until tomorrow.” At this, he opens his mouth to protest again, but a quick swat with the sorry stick quickly changes his mind. “Now then, are you ready for your punishment for making bad poopies?”
The foal is visibly confused. He’s so pitiful that it makes you want to laugh, but you are mindful of Ellie; you don’t want to scare her too badly, after all. Regardless, you angle yourself so that your back is to her, though you are careful to keep both the foal and your hands well within her sight.
“What, did you think that was your punishment, Dummy? No, that was just you cleaning up the mess you made. This is your punishment!”
With a wicked grin, you pull out your brand new pocket knife, flicking it open in front of him. He takes one look at the wickedly sharp blade and begins screaming. Wiggling around, he begins trying desperately to drag himself away from you, but is unable to move due to his taped-down legs.
“Mummah, Dummeh nu wike sarp fing! Am tuu scawy! Pwease mummuh, nu gib huwties! Nu wan! Nu wan! Wiww be gud fwuffy! Wan be gud fwuffy! Mummah, nu wan, huu huu!”
“This is all your fault, Dummy! You are a bad fluffy and you made bad-poopies, and now Mummah has to punish you! It makes Mummah so sad to punish her fluffy, but you are a bad boy and you made me!” Before he can react, your hand swipes down and snatches his wiggling body into the air. You squeeze him painfully tight in your hand, enjoying the sound of the short, fast, chirpy screams that foals let out when they can’t get in enough air. You wave the knife teasingly in front of him, back and forth, back and forth, squeezing tighter and tighter on his stunted little body.
You want to plunge your blade right through his soft belly, but you have plans for him later down the line, so you hold back. Besides, that’s not the point of this exercise.
Just before the lavender foal can fall unconscious, you loosen your grip.
“Haff…haff…” he wheezes weakly, his voice barely audible. His head lolls about groggily, and he is too weak to move a muscle, exactly as planned. “Nu mowe…Mummah…nu mowe huwties…!” With a quick flick to the nose to shut him up, you check again to confirm that Ellie is watching, and then you begin methodically shaving the fluffy in your hand.
You start with his “poopy-place”. Having any part of their coat removed is devastating to a fluffy, especially so when near such delicate organs as the anus and genitals. He sobs weakly, still desperately gasping for air.
When his ass is shaved, you make quick work of his stumpy tail, then move on to his back, “accidentally” nicking his delicate skin more than a few times. He cries harder when you shave off the tiny clumps of amethyst that had just barely begun to grow to be his mane, and you smile again. You work your way up his stomach, un-taping his legs when you reach them.
A little bit of Nair removes the fluff on his ears and face, and finally, you drop the completely bald fluffy onto the floor. He is shivering despite the comfortable temperature of the room—without his fluff, he is unable to regulate his body heat.
You give him one more swat with the sorry-stick, pulling back only a tiny bit so that he isn’t crushed on impact. A large slice opens up on the fragile skin of his back, and his scream is loud enough that it makes your ears ring.
“Are you ever going to make bad poopies again, Dummy?” you yell over him, and he nods frantically.
“Nu mowe bad poopies! Neba eba! Dummeh pwomise! Dummeh be gud! Make gud poopies! Wub Mummah!”
You remove one of your gloves, scooping up the crying, shivering, bleeding foal and dropping him into it, not wanting him to track blood everywhere. You quickly check to make sure that there is no blood on the carpet—a miracle, really. Temporarily laying the glove on the ground—the foal inside screaming at the feeling of the rubber against his unimaginably sensitive skin—you gently scoop Ellie out of the bubble.
The instant your hand enters her enclosure, she drops her stuffed toy and reaches for you desperately. She is crying, clearly very scared, and you give her a much-needed hug. As soon as you bring her up to your chest, she relaxes, beginning to coo happily. You hug her for about a full minute, and then gently pull her away. Still holding her close, she looks up at you. “Mummah is going to go clean up Dummy’s boo-boo juice, and then he is going to sit in the sorry box for a while, okay my good girl? I’ll put on the TV for you since you listened to what Mummah said and did such a good job watching!”
Ellie squeals with delight. “Ewwy wub teebee! Fank yu suuuu much Mummah! Ewwy wiww neba bweak da wuwes—wan be bestest fwuffy fo bestest Mummah!”
After a few little kisses, at which she gleefully giggles, you place both her and her hug-toy gently on the soft carpet. Then, you turn on Fluff TV, scoop up the gently sobbing glove, and head toward your bathroom, clicking the door shut behind you.