A Hard Lesson by AnonymousFluffery
Be Ann Nonn, fluffy owner.
Your pet fluffy Mattie is pregnant.
You told her.
You fucking TOLD her no “special huggies.”
You’d even scheduled her appointment to get spayed!
But FoalFixers costs an arm and a leg, so you’ve gotta deal with this yourself.
You don’t have a license to breed fluffy ponies, they’ll charge you like five hundred bucks for every foal you take possession of.
Fat chance!
Time to make sure she not only doesn’t want these babies, but never wants more.
“I told you not to let that stallion do that to you, Mattie!” you yell every time she comes up to you babbling proudly about her coming babies, to set the stage. “You were bad, and your babies will be bad too!”
“Maddee nu cawe ‘bout dat fwuffy! Speciaw huggies onwy widdow bit huwty - nao gon’ haf babbehs! Pwetty pwetty babbehs!”
She’s so fucking happy with herself, no matter how many times you explain it.
You try shutting her up in her safe room with no toys to get the point across, but she just rocks back and forth on her growing belly, praising her babies and telling them that soon they’ll come out.
You stew and let her go through the pregnancy, since you don’t want to lose your pet forever.
But you’re gonna handle this… a devious final option is taking shape in your mind.
“Uhhnnnn! Big-big-big poopies, mummah!” she cries, then with realization, “Wah! Babbehs comin’! Maddee gon’ be mummah!”
She tries to pull herself by her forelegs over to you over the hardwood floor, expecting help.
You just let her suffer the pain of childbirth all on her own, saying nothing reassuring, watching.
“Hewp! Hewp mummah, haf owwies-- AUUUHHH!”
Man, there’s a lot of blood.
Good thing you put down plastic.
Still gonna suck cleaning it up later, but that’s not the point right now.
“Pwease hewp owwies mummah, nee’ huggies! Nee’ hewp fow gif Maddee babbehs! EEEE!”
Ooo, looks like she’s got two coming out at the same time.
Probably hurts a lot.
But eventually they make it and a third follows, and they’re all cheeping and squirming, icky and stinky and covered in afterbirth.
“B-babbehs…” Mattie mutters, totally exhausted but trying to turn around and lick them. “Nee’ cwean… babbehs…”
Without help and after the tough delivery, she passes out.
Lucky!
You apply local hemostatic spray.
Hey, it’s the future, we’ve got some cool stuff.
While she sleeps off her exhaustion, you pick up the squeaking babies, who are nosing around in search of food.
They’re cute, and you almost feel bad about this… but you’d have to pay $1,500 to keep them, or else move to the suburbs where the laws aren’t as strict.
NOPE.mobi
Walking over to the kitchen, you drop them in the sink full of suds you prepared beforehand.
There’s a little bubbling and a short desperate squeal from one that floats and sinks more slowly… but soon they’ve all sunk.
You reach under and squish the air out of the one that didn’t die right away, feeling some twiggy ribs crack.
After a thorough washing, the corpses are removed and dried with a dish towel.
Then you whip out your can of lucite spray enamel.
Can’t afford to have a real company make blocks out of them, but that’s not your plan anyway.
A little posing, a little squirting and a hair dryer session later, and the little foals look like they’re alive, despite their closed eyes.
They smell plastic-y, but you give each a squirt of your chamomile-lavender air freshener spray.
Then you put them down next to their mother.
She wakes up not long later, looking confused and then worried. “Babbehs! Maddee nuu haf tiem fow sweepies, nee’ hewp babbehs!”
She waddles to them and licks them, apparently oblivious to the stiffness of their coats. “Gud babbehs nee’ be cwean… haf pwetty smeww!”
Lying next to the pool of her own blood, Mattie snuggles the solid plastic-coated fluffies eagerly. “Babbehs, babbehs, mummah wuv babbehs,” she sings tunelessly.
“Your babies are bad and they don’t love you,” you tell her as you mop up her afterbirth.
Mattie shoots an angry look at you. “Dummy mummah, 'ou nuu am nice mummah! Maddee am bestest mummah of bestest babbehs!”
She toddles weakly off in the direction of her safe room, repeatedly having to pick up the dead foals with her mouth because they make no effort to cling to her.
Success!
She can’t smell the death on them!
Later as you bring her a bowl of food in her safe room, you see that she is insistently nudging the corpse-foals.
“C’mon, babbehs! Mummah wan’ pway an haf huggies fwom babbehs!”
“They’re not going to hug you,” you say, “They just don’t love you and they don’t want to play with you.”
“Go 'way, meanie hoomin mummah! Maddee babbehs wuv Maddee!”
She sticks her tongue out at you.
Next morning, you go in to change Mattie’s litterbox.
The fluffy mummah is pushing her corpse-babies out of her bed carefully since they won’t go on their own.
“Wakies, babbehs! Nuu sweepies! Wakies fow mummah!”
“They won’t get up because they don’t love you.”
“Babbehs wuv Maddee wots! Dummy mummah!”
It goes on like this.
Later in the day, she tries to feed them.
She pushes her teats against their mouths, but of course they won’t suck.
“Dwink babbehs! Dwink su can be big fwuffies!”
“They don’t want your milk, they think you are ugly and it will make them ugly too.”
This time she tries to ignore you, but Mattie is clearly desperate.
As the days pass she continues to try to feed the babies by pushing down on her teats.
Milk comes out of the nipples, but since their mouths are sealed up with plastic it won’t go in.
Soon Mattie’s teats are sore from being pushed on and the milk spilled on the babies is going sour.
“Pwease babbehs! Maddee jus’ wan’ be gud mummah… haf babbehs… pwease take miwkie-nummies…”
“They hate you, Mattie. You have bad babies like I said you would.”
“Nuu!” she protests, not meaning it. “'G-‘gon’ make babbehs gud! Maddee shu how!”
She tries to show them all the things that she equates with being good, like pooping in the litterbox.
This just covers them in dust and makes them smell like pee.
The little dead plastic-coated fluffies are uncomfortable to sleep with and won’t do anything she wants, they won’t learn to walk and they’re hard to move, and now they smell.
It takes a whole week to break Mattie.
She really did love them.
“Dummie babbeh!” you finally hear, and you make your appearance.
Mattie is actually more or less hitting one of the petrified foals with another now.
It makes hollow noises.
“Be! Gud! Babbeh! Be! FUN!”
“Mattie,” you say, “Do you understand now that babies… are bad? Just like I said”
She looks at you, comprehension in her face, but almost unwilling to admit it.
But finally, she nods and fat tears form in her eyes. “Babbehs am dummies, mummah! Nuu wike dem! Nuu mowe!”
“So I was right, huh?”
“‘Ou… ou am! ‘Ou wight, mummah, an’ Maddee nuu wan’ babbehs nuu mowe! Su sowwy, mummah! Pwease, stiww wuv Maddee…”
“I’ll make them go away forever, and then you can have a Fluff-E-Treat.”
It’s like you’ve given her a second lease on life.
Her tears of sadness are at once replaced by tears of joy.
“Hooway!”
The disgusting little plastic-covered corpses go in the trash and Mattie never mentions babies again… except to talk about how much they suck.
Problem solved.
END
I was inspired by The Master Butcher’s post “Fluffies in Resin” to see if I still had this old story somewhere. Go check that out, it’s awesome.
I know I posted it on the booru at some point, but the only copy I had was saved as “Lucite.txt” from May 27, 2013. I’ve decided not to fix some of the old inconsistencies and thin bits in there, something something preserving history of the subculture blah blah.
This was before shitrat stuff like mares being universally selfish and infanticidal came along. I think getting this one here to actually look at her foals (though by that point they were just dirty, slapdash taxidermy) as objects or toys that were displeasing her took work… or that was what I was going for. Ending clearly came way too fast in this one, I remember that as a comment on the booru.
But even if I lost the version with the classic greentext-style >s everywhere, I was happy to find it was not gone for good.