It had been two days since Anabelle was forced to eat her own foals from her new owner. In that time, she had stopped eating almost entirely, preferring to disassociate from the reality of her actions. At the same time, she lost considerable weight as she continued to feed Bestest with what her body could provide from her own stores of fat. The fat little ball of fuzz knew something was wrong with it’s mummah, but none of the peeping, chirping or snuggles would snap Anabelle out of her catatonia. The foal wondered if her mummah even loved her anymore. Still, Bestest kept feeding when she was hungry, only now the supply was beginning to run out. With a frustrated and hungry cheep, the pink-striped foal was tirelessly beating it’s hooves against the catatonic mare’s teat to coax more milk from her mummah.
“Peeep peep, chirp, peee-” Bestest cried in a desperate plea to her mother’s miwkie pwaces. Her tummy owwies had started earlier that day, and Bestest briefly wondered if she had been a bad babbeh to deserve starvation. After all, mummah’s nummies-bowl was still full from the last time the hoomin filled it. Hoomin daddeh would come in at the start of bwite-time, with a scoop full of kibble, and pour it over the fast-collecting pile of uneaten food in the pink dish. Bestest’s had even tried to eat the kibble herself in desperation. She carefully gummed a few grains, only to drop them from her mouth once she realized they were too big for her babbeh jaws to num. Her belly twisted in another hunger pain, this time worse than before, and she pleaded again with her mother.
“Huuuhuuuu… Peep, mummah… Peep, peep”
Meanwhile, Jacques observed the two interact from a cracked door of the safe-room. His latest video had done extremely well; some commenters even gave him ideas on what to do with these two he had left, and especially for the tubby yellow filly that was chirping for love and milk. “Raise bestest to be a weanling, then braise her in mummah’s milk!,” said one commenter. A novel idea, and one he would certainly try but not now. He briefly considered stewing her; that would definitely taste good; the broth might even be something he could store for later. Or, he could replicate a recipe he once saw; a living fluffy whose babbehs had been roasted and served with her milk, but from inside her sliced-open uterus as the mummah writhed in pain. Ultimately he decided against both of those and opted for something a little more sustainable.
After all, Jacques really did like Fluffies. Not just how they tasted, although they were delicious, but their mannerisms, the texture of their fluff, their dependency on humans and unwavering, if misplaced trust. He found it all so endearing, and that only made the process of finding and cooking fluffies that much easier to enjoy. However Anabelle’s final filly had an extremely rare fluff pattern; a branching stripe of pink down her yellow back, and as far as Jacques was concerned there wasn’t any telling what her mane would grow into once it finally grew in. He thought, she deserves better than being a quick meal, and besides, Jacques was tired of eating street meat.
Deciding on his course of action, he slowly creaked the safe-room door open and crept forward. Anabelle was still in a state of shock, and didn’t react to his presence entering the room. The quickly withering mare simply lay there, eyes half-open and staring at the window of her safe-room, almost as if she expected to see her foals prancing through the side yard at any moment. Bestest, however, smelled the hoomin smell she had become familiar with, and began nosing the air to locate him. Once her snout settled on his direction, she peeped, and with clumsy limbs crawled toward him. If she couldn’t get miwkies an’ wub from mummah, she would have to petition the hoomin.
“Look at you, my little lemon,” he spoke softly to the chirpy as he bent down and stroked her head. She cooed at his touch, leaning her tiny grape of a skull into his finger. He smoothed the finger over her head and down her neck in adoration, and thought ‘yeah, I’ll keep you after all’. Scooping her up in his hand, he jumped as he noticed Anabelle’s once motionless body stir.
“Nu.”
Her defeated, glazed eyes suddenly shot full of life and stared daggers into him.
“NU TAKE BESTES’ BABBEH! SCREEEEEEEEEE-”
In an instant, she pounced to her hooves and charged straight for him. Thankfully, a mean, lethally-intended fluffy is still just a fluffy, so Jacques merely side-stepped her as she ran towards him at full speed. Realizing she missed, she braked with her soft hoof-pads, which sent her ass-over-head tumbling into the safe-room door frame. With a -thud-, her back leg landed awkwardly against the wall as the rest of her body followed it’s momentum. Jacques could hear a loud -CRACK-, followed by the loudest sound he’d ever heard a fluffy make. The noise she made caused Bestest to shudder, and the foal began to cry and peep it’s scaredy-chirps in reaction to it’s mummah’s wails.
“SCREEEEEEEEEE-!!! HUUUU, WAI DUMMEH WEGGIE GIF GUD MUMMAH OWWIES?” Anabelle screeched like a banshee as she tried to hug her back weggie better. Unfortunately for her, she succeeded in grabbing the over-extended limb, but her strength failed her as she reached, causing her to pull her own leg in the wrong direction. Her screaming intensified, and Bestest was now furiously chirping and voiding herself from within Jacques palm; a sludge of scaredy-poopies and peeped collecting and staining the yellow chirpy. Jacques himself stood there in confused shock; how did she manage to hurt herself twice?
Though his confusion was thick, he snapped out of it, realizing his hand had become wet and sticky with foal waste. With a disgusted expression, he softly placed the scared, sobbing form of Bestest onto the foam fluffy bed he purchased for the pair the day before. He spoke to her softly, reassuring the chirpy of her safety.
“Don’t worry my little lemon, mummah just got some hurties, Daddy’s gonna give her some Huggies outside the saferoom to make them go away,” to Jacques surprise, this retarded line of logic seemed to calm Bestest down enough to stop her sobbing, if not quiet her completely. He knew she was still starving; Anabelle hadn’t bothered to feed her, although Jacques didn’t yet know why. He had no idea she had pieced together what he fed her the day they arrived at his house, although now he began to wonder if this was the case. Nah, there’s no way, he thought, these things are supposed to be stupid, right?
Turning to the agonizing mare, who had now painted the wall in front of her with her fecal matter, he picked her up by the fluff on her head, and began carrying her out of the safe-room. She wailed and flailed the entire trip down the hall, as he lightly swung her from her head-fluff. Then, entering the kitchen, he raised the injured fluffy to match his gaze with hers. Almost immediately, the pathetic creature winged about it’s self-inflicted injury.
“HUUUUU, BAD UPSIES, NU WIKE! MEANIE MUNSTAH, GU WAY-”
“Shut up.” Jacques raised a hand to the fluffy and slapped her across the face. Blood welled up in her nostrils and see-place, as she hushed into a whimpering sob. “You did this to yourself for some reason,” he chided as he rested her back onto the kitchen counter. “Now explain to me exactly why you’ve been ignoring your baby, and why you’re so upset.”
“Huuuhuuuu… Anabewwe nu wan num mo’ babbehs, huuhuuuhuuuu… wan babbehs back!”
At last, she revealed what she was truly upset about.
“Oh Anabelle…” Jacques leaned over to bring his face within inches of hers.
“You already turned them into milkies’ and poopies my dear,” he said as he searched a finger under her chin. She simply continued her sobbing, evidently not having come to this conclusion on her own. Earlier, Jacques was already preparing for the possibility of force-feeding her to produce milk. He made a compound butter filled with shallots, garlic and lemon zest and filled a turkey baster with the mixture. He kept his scratching hand on her chin, as his other hand grazed over the counter, fishing for the baster. Finally, he made contact with it, grasped it, and grabbed her jaw.
“Now I’m gonna need you to make some more milk, too,” he whispered before pinching her jaws open and forcing the tip of the baster into her mouth. She bucked and struggled against his baster hand, but she had neither the energy nor the strength to free herself. However, she kept the strength to clamp her teeth down and deny the baster it’s entry. Jacques only sighed, and grabbed a spoon from his dish-rack.
“Fine, we’ll do this the hard way,” and as soon as the words left his mouth, he swung the bowed back of the spoon directly into her mouth
-CRACK- “AIIIEEEEEE” -CRACK- “EEEEEEEEE!!!”
And another sickening crack followed the first two. She screamed in torment as her front teeth were all broken away from her jaw. She bled profusely into her own mouth, pooling and threatening to enter her lungs if she kept screaming. Suddenly, Jacques squeezed the baster, sending a flood of butter and herbs down her throat, forcing her to swallow or drown in the delicious spread.
She chose to swallow.
“There we go, was that so bad?”
Jacques stood at the counter with a collapsed, exhausted Anabelle and several small baby bottles full of her milk. The high fat content of the compound butter was a perfect feed to force her teats into production on short notice, and only an hour later each teat was hyper-inflated, nearly-to-bursting with milk. Even now, as she lay there soaking in her suffering, her teats had yet to return to form, hanging deflated like a couple of flesh pancakes from her fuzzy body. Jacques was able to extract 7 bottles of milk, and he figured each bottle would last a day. I have enough time to wean her, thankfully, he thought to himself as he placed the bottles within the fridge. Grabbing one bottle, he left Anabelle on the counter to stew in her misery, as he set off to the feed the hungry foal.
-RING, RING, RING-
He froze in place, in the mid-point between the safe-room and the kitchen; he had completely forgotten his phone! He was supposed to be getting a call today from Mike and Jan about their Friendsgiving plans. Briskly turning, he sauntered back up to his cell. It was Jan; he swiftly answered.
“Hey Jan! Sorry I was just doing something in the kitchen, almost didn’t get to the phone in time,” he said to the woman.
“Oh, no don’t worry too much about it, but Mike and I are just putting together the plans for Friendsgiving. We’re doing a pot-luck, I don’t know if Mike told you at the bar,” Jan responded
“A pot-luck, huh? That sounds like fun,” Jacques leaned with his back against the island countertop, crossing his arms as he spoke. “What’s everyone bringing?”
“Ahhhh, good question, I didn’t talk with Monica yet, but I think she’s doing a dip. What were you thinking of bringing?”
Jacques fell silent, as his head turned towards Anabelle. His gaze met hers, as her tear stained fluff parted to reveal two miserable, suffering blue eyes back at him. Jacques smiled a Cheshire cat’s smile; suddenly, he had a great idea. He continued walking to the safe room, lost in thought, when Jan’s voice broke his train of thought.
“Hellllllooooo~. Jackie, are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” said Jacques, “I’ll bring the main course”
Last Part
First Part
