Fluffing Off - Numbed For Her Pleasure, Spiced For Her Delight (By Thk)

Fluffing Off - Numbed For Her Pleasure, Spiced For Her Delight (By Thk)

Some people look at Fluffies and see a talking animal in need of shepherding
Some see a unique pet that can provide higher rewards than natural animals.
Some see man’s attempt to play god revealing the true ineptitude of humanity by producing a physical dumpster fire of a body combined with a hamster brain elevated by an organic computer programmed as poorly as any other cheap product made by a company with an executive board almost entirely interested in nonconsensual activity with lower rank employees and cocaine.
Some just see a bundle of meat wrapping up an assortment of pure evil and un-pitiable dependence.
Some are triggered and enslaved by the neurological tug of war between the thirst of the human brain to indulge on the reward chemicals released that ensures protection of cute things and the emotionally regulating parts of the mind producing the opposite effect, with the resulting brutal torment the Fluffy unlucky enough to be small and cute being little different than the tears a human produces from happiness or the laughter that escapes the mouth when frightened or stressed.
Some just see the closest thing to humans on Earth, for all the depravity or mercy that entails.

None of these of course are mutually exclusive.

Angelique experienced all of the above for example. Adopting Ferals made her feel good, teaching them to be good pets and distributing them among her friends being a rewarding hobby. She loved the games she could play with Fluffies via a combination of manipulation of their poor grasp on reality plus gaslighting letting her create fiction to play out for real, a dramatic soap opera under her complete control. Like any Fluffy rearing experience they always found new ways to disappoint her, from deciding to chew off their own limbs to “hug themselves where they hurt” after eating plastic off the floor to sticking their face in a tiny hole they dug to hide in during hide and seek and screaming until they gave themselves a stroke from suddenly being in darkness during the day instead of simply pulling their head out of the hole; though initially traumatizing she’d since stopped baptizing tiny garden graves with tears, feeling it was better they die happy with her than unknown conditions elsewhere and somewhat thankful that the worst examples died before breeding. The ones who survived their idiocy were usually sterilized, either through an injection of a gene transfer causing anti-Müllerian hormone production in the muscles of the anal sac (or ‘Bad Poopies pouch’) if female or the far less elegant numbing followed by quick scalpel castration the way she’d done to piglets with her grandparents as a girl. She’d certainly killed Fluffies before for various sins ranging from murder and rape to having picked up hate speech language she’d given up on purging from their vocabulary, and there was no sense letting meat go bad; pickling killed anything they’d picked up in the woods, derelict buildings, and parking lots she usually found them in, and since they couldn’t smell the living hormones or fluff anymore she could share her meals with the happy survivors, as well as recycling their lost limbs and testicles as a treat that helped them get over their lost flesh. Their pain did bring her a joy that she would never admit to, with her sadness and disappointment at their deaths and anger at misdeeds providing an odd satisfaction along with an interior raucous laughter behind pitying eyes and a frown when they screamed in agony and anger. She also found they didn’t trigger the allergies or indifference that boring old natural animals did.

It was in the spirit of those harmonious contradictions that she discovered a Fluffy rearing technique she would become internet famous for, netting her streams and subscription accounts enough cash to quit her day job and adult subscription service gig.

Likely due to the high amount of wild peppers that grew in the wilds around her town as well as in private gardens both as local cuisine staples and Fluffy torture the Feral population was largely immune or resistant to the effects of capsaicin, similar to birds. Domestics raised from local stock only often had mild issues as they tended not to bite on the seeds of the small peppers as they scarfed through the rind and swallowed so quickly it could barely be acknowledged that they had ever been fed at all, only to suffer mild burning (amplified by Fluffy intolerance to basically anything sometimes depending on the breed) afterwards. But generationally coddled, imported, and store-bought Fluffies had neither inherited or passed on knowledge of peppers nor any form of resistance, shrieking like a blond city girl dumb and trashy enough to scratch their snatch after choking down some good wings. These screams of self-inflicted but highly survivable agony sometimes protected them as it warded off cautious predators waiting for a carcass they could determine cause of death of, and drew humans who would sometimes bring them to her.

While those ex-Domestics were reluctant to consume obvious peppers there were few willing to starve to death when given them twice a week or more depending on how soft she determined them to be, and after providing seedless and mild ones for a while as well as getting them addicted to the taste with chips she could increase the spice over time. They’d hurt, but it improved their health by purging their gut flora and they could be convinced nothing had changed and they needed to be stronger to persevere through the pain or else seem weak and disappointing to her and their peers among the training herd in either her wired outdoor kennel or the indoor care room depending on the breed. Those who threw tantrums and refused to eat weren’t excessively punished for it since it created too many problems in other areas like the ones who sought negative attention out of boredom or in the case of breeders would teach them to hurt their young as a response to displeasing them. An overturned plate of whole jalapenos meant nothing, their wails earned them no attention and eventually just made their throat so raw the peppers would cause a direct cause/effect punishment. Defecation and violence earned them pain, but she was careful to always mix a mild bit from a human with something far more severe that they could only blame themselves or the harshness of the world for.

This is where the “spicy sorries” technique came into play. What neither Domestic nor Feral was immune to was the burning sensation produced by introducing spice from their food into their flesh by licking their wounds or sensitive areas.

A scalpel to deliver a quick cut, so sharp it only slightly hurt right away, to an appropriate location and size depending on the crime would suffice. Plenty of assurances she didn’t want to, and bad things happen to bad Fluffies, and that she was only trying to cause them a bit of justified pain so they wouldn’t hurt themselves far more later because she cared so deeply for them. Assurances that whatever was causing them to misbehave was just bad Fluffy impulses they’d learned, not really who they were inside, and they just needed to unlearn the bad icky thoughts. They protested of course, but when bad things happened they’d fall back on anything she’d told them to rationalize things both as not being their fault and being something they could control by surrendering their actual will.

Mild offenses and early misbehaviors were self-correcting, eventually a Fluffy would eat the spicy peppers and then would lick their wounds. Some breeds took less time, those being capable of reaching inside their nostrils with their tongue or bending far enough to orally groom or masturbate their own soft bits feeling pain far sooner. Cases she cared about lead her to remain nearby to swoop in and tell them that it was the very bad wants and feelings in their heart reaching through their mouth to hurt them, others she left to figure it out themselves.

The ones too dim to recall anything more than a minute ago could be placed under supervision of another Fluffy to point out her scriptures as a culprit, the ones too slow to learn would be kept in isolation in one of the closets modified to hold hard luck cases for the rest of their lives in modest comfort if it was something they couldn’t help like mental handicaps or severe trauma.

Especially troublesome Fluffs were placed in one of three separate twelve by twelve foot and five foot tall pens made of plywood in her garage, with one-way windows to observe from. These Fluffies had committed mortal sins in her eyes, in need of punishment on Earth before death though some she judged fit for a second chance. Each was drugged, sterilized, and left to awaken in the pen, a middle chamber in each allowing her to transfer new ones in under cover of darkness without breaking her illusion. In all three food and drink was slid through a latch in the bottom of one wall, quietly and in the dark to prevent any outside mental stimulation

One was full of things to hurt their skin, from dry detergents sprinkled throughout the sleeping area which would irritate to thumbtacks and razors embedded in the foam flooring of the play area to cause enough small wounds that suffering was inevitable, though the walls were painted like distant hills with the floor implying they were on a safe and isolated peak at sunset. It had an overhead smartlight which brightened and dimmed to imply a passage of time from night to day, keeping Fluffies at their most passively nervous since they could never perceive a morning or noon hour to relax in. Her time doing backgrounds on murals had rendered the art semi-realistic and fully believable to most Fluffies. Comforts were provided, toys and blankets all in red to encourage them to injure themselves and have time for penance, but also to keep them hopeful and aware there was still better out there beyond the large time-out box. While they would often shit where they liked, “rain” from a showerhead disguised as a cloud washed most accumulated filth down small channels into small drains which appeared to only be rock piles. They might spend months in there if necessary, and some might return to misbehavior and wake up to find themselves once more on the mountainous hilltops of blood, but none were safer in her home than in the first box of hell.

The second was full of spicy food seasoning dust blown from a fan in the ceiling every say, and oil aromatherapy diffusers set in the walls behind mesh that kept a mix of mint, chili pepper, and lemongrass on their skin and in their noses, privates, and eyes at all times. The sky mural and smart light kept them seemingly in a swamp in the permanent twilight hour when fear of predators and the dry painted bog water would keep them on edge. This was a place of atonement, a longer term sentence for those she had lost all patience with. Sometimes a small herd would be within, spreading misery to each other, but often they would whittle each other down to a final few. Water from above would drain slowly, causing a half inch of water for a few minutes which few could drown in but all would panic over as they sloshed in a fetid swamp of excrement.

The final one was a mix of the pain and misery from the previous two. No toys, all four walls painted black with slight spiral patterns in an almost imperceivable dark grey that wasn’t consciously detectable without knowing to look for it to imply a false sense of an infinite nothingness in all directions while the top and bottom contained dark grey patterns that would cause feelings of vertigo. The light alternated between dim and off at random intervals over the course of ten minutes, keeping even the dumbest Fluffy aware only in the deep recesses of their minds where tragically inaccessible higher brain function was locked away that they had been there far longer than the number four that all Fluffies could understand. Fours of fours of fours of fours, unending and unpredictable periods of infinite nothingness and true darkness that would panic even humans within minutes. There was no blankets, indeed no other pleasures of any kind in the room which was subject to high heat or cold alternating every day. Food consisted of the highest grade peppers they could take without a burned esophagus along with water with drops of menthol. Attention came only in the form of a red taxidermy Fluffy she had sewn from the pelt of a particularly wicked Smarty with an added pair of devil horns from a few innocent Pegasi that had ended themselves tragically, plus hooves from an Asina Fluffy that died in childbirth and forked tail made from tanned leg skin for her own amusement. Whether hugged, struck, or mounted it would vibrate violently after any contact before its eyes would glow yellow and mouth pulse red, a flame sound effect from an interior speaker preceding a truly wicked speech of condemnation recorded by several of her darling roleplayers and combined together to result in an ethereal and unnatural accusation of sin in layered dueling tones. Then it would laugh hysterically, screams of pain mixed with the unsettling laughter of a mentally handicapped Foal she’d cared for almost a decade ago, then vibrate again and emit a horrible siren to ensure the Fluffy would release it before the lights dimmed and it raised up to the ceiling again where it was out of sight in the darkness. The interaction kept the victim from entering Wan Die but kept their life miserable, with all but a select few always coming to interact with the doll simply for new stimuli in the loneliness and pain. The first two rooms had similar dolls, though nowhere near as traumatic; an evangelizing angel in the blade room and a skeleton of a ‘fellow damned soul’ warning them they could still escape in the chemical room.

None of those were part of the program she shared of course. They existed solely for her, two chances at redemption and finally a true hell. Thus far she hadn’t condemned any there permanently. As exciting as it was to shove one of the true nasties in ‘hell’ for a few days there was no joy in continually sitting there to watch, and when she wasn’t there watching the sick bastards being humbled then within days the fire in her chest would go out. She pitied them too much in the abstract, her general concern for the welfare of others giving her a feeling of shame like a small lead ball weighing down her gut. Each time she’d removed them, invariably a now emaciated (compared to how they had entered) quivering ball of wracking sobs and whimpers that was tinged pink in blood and left her own skin tingling to the touch where she cuddled it. She would hold the precious monster, the victimized brute, the martyred devil and rock them while offering words of sweet things and simple delights. She never promised them these things, only reminded them of it, and sometimes would feel her heart grow cold again when their response to something she mentioned returned a reminder of their crimes. But no matter what she would wait until they fell asleep in her arms before twisting their neck firmly and quickly at least 180 degrees until she was sure their life was extinguished and windpipe closed, holding them an additional few minutes in case she had only caused suffocation. Limbs chopped off with a cleaver, belly slit and guts removed to be purged of feces then packed into a glass jar, limbs peeled and placed in a second glass jar together, head fluff peeled and skull cracked with the brains and eyes removed to go into organ jar while the tongue and rest of the skull go into the leg jar, the body fluff removed with meaty torso sealed into a ceramic crock pot. Each container filled with five cups of salt and a judicious sampling of cloves, mustard seed, ginger, garlic, and hot pepper flakes. One month later and the spiced meat was ready for anyone, human or Fluffy, with an appetite.

Once upon a time the irritants and hidden blades were in the indoor Fluffy pen where misbehavers would go and be reminded that outside was for the well-behaved Fluffies who were not punished by the cosmic force of the universe, but that only made the ones who graduated her care afraid of the indoors while placing the blades outside caused rust and infections. Surgical retribution was what she sold and presented, and for that she’d won hugbox community awards and status and quietly accepted those abuse awards that came with a financial prize.

She had considered taking things to a higher extreme of course. Partially or completely skinning them, doing something in a costume or putting puppet monsters like a sock puppet hydra in the wall to attack and chase them, sexual torment like hot sauce lube and urethral sounding, and plenty of surgical ideas. The skin particularly interested her, thoughts of fishooks and paperclips and rigs to provide unnatural mobility, of horrifying them with each others appearance, all particularly came to mind. But her friends still accepted her Fluffy rehabs, the Hugboxers hadn’t turned on her, and Angelique hadn’t yet met the kind of sinner to make a Lucy of her. Still, each time she held a pregnant Mare who in conversation revealed she’d put her own unattractive siblings to death and planned a strict purge even now, when she popped the veiny white sacks from the slits in the scrotum of a drooling and snoring sexual predator, when a Fluffy so close to being sent into the world to make other things happy insisted on peeing on other living creatures, the flames of passion in her heart and the sharp coldness deep down in the dark and repressed recesses of her soul would swirl, and come ever closer to meeting and spelling some magnificent doom to an unsuspecting soul unknowingly at her crossroads.


Finally I started something and actually finished it.
Inspired by my idea in this piece by @Bad_Roomie which blossomed as I wrote.

A bit heavy-handed, but serving as a setup for stories from a Fluffy perspective. Being magically transported to and from hellish landscapes, losing consciousness and waking up surgically altered, maybe drifting into perversion of flesh. All focused highly on sensation and psychological state. Maybe she fells into depravity as a villain, inspires a friend or fan, or just has a twisted view on things and goes further and further on the tormented while still remaining mostly about rehab. Honestly I feel its more interesting to not completely fall, and just be demented as a hobby within a hobby.

I wanted to write some Clive Barker shit basically. Like the Mcfarlane Tortured Souls series. Not sure how far I am willing to go, but its available as a setup for anyone who wants a go.