Fluffy Hell: Pride by FlameAres with art by LemonCurds

And now for something completely different! I was tired of writing chapter after chapter of buildup in Changing Hearts and Minds, so I decided to start another project where the whole story is in ONE post. This is just the first in a series that I’m thinking of. As you can see it’s pretty long, so buckle up!

Cover art by the lovely @LemonCurds! They may or may not be taking commissions which you can check out on their profile :slight_smile:

In a post fluffy world, economic and social trends adjusted to meet new problems, and fulfill new desires. While they legally weren’t alive, the torture and abuse of fluffies still carried a stigma. As a result, companies that specialized in fluffy discipline appeared wherever fluffies were found.

Record capital investment and virtually zero percent interest rates allowed unlimited growth right until the world realized that fluffies were in a bubble. The average price of a fluffy went from hundreds of dollars to free, and hundreds of abuse centers found themselves being bought up and consolidated into two major entities. MiseriCorp and Cocytus Farms. This is the story of MiseriCorp.

Deacon checked his watch. He’s in his office as usual, waiting for a special case that’s scheduled to come in today. As he resigns himself to wait longer he sees motion on the external cameras, a large, expensive looking pickup truck is pulling into the lot. Fixing his collar, he moves to the front entrance to wait for the newcomer. The man who enters is short and portly, poured into worn jeans with a thick leather belt and accompanying silver buckle. On his feet are cowboy boots, and his white shirt is pinned by the belt, except in the back where it’s forming a bit of a duck tail. His head was round, like his body, and bald, with round spectacles pinching the fat on the side of his head. He’s using both hands to support a carrier of unusual design; where most pet carriers are just made of extruded plastic to be both light and cheap, this one was fifty percent larger than normal, and from the way the customer was carrying it the thing weighed a ton. Moving forward, Deacon introduces himself.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith I presume?” The man’s spectacles snap towards Deacon and he carefully sets the case down. “Yessir, John Smith’s the name, and don’t wear it out!” He chuckles as he shakes Deacon’s hand with both of his. Deacon nods towards the unusual carrying case. “This is our little troublemaker, I presume? I can’t help but notice her accommodations; would you mind telling me about them?” At this Mr. Smith’s face lights up, “It’s a soundproof fluffy carrier, my own design! Sure it’s heavy, but it don’t stink and it beats the hell out of listening to ‘em whine.” He beamed as he talked about his invention. “They don’t run outta air neither, it took me a while to figure out how to keep sounds in while letting air pass, seeing as they’ve got lungs fit to blow the trumpets at rapture.” John Smith loved his invention, and told Deacon all about the activated carbon filters that had finally done the trick for him. “Fascinating,” Deacon politely added, “if you ever have plans to sell the design, I’m certain MiseriCorp would compensate you well. Is there anything you need before we take care of N°1 for you?” “Naw, just don’t break 'er too good, alright? I still need her afterwards.”

Deacon smiled internally; the whole point was to break her, and everyone involved knew that. They were MiseriCorp after all, specialists in fluffy misery. Mentally, Deacon reviewed Mr. Smith’s profile. He had recently happened upon a living goldmine: genuine, wild bowl fluffies. Being a naturally occuring mutation to fluffies in deep forest, bowl fluffies have a high consumer demand but low supply. With three mares, N°1, N°2, and N°3 respectively, he could become one of two breeders on the entire continent producing bowl fluffs. But there was a problem, which is why Deacon was involved. The former ferals were all headstrong, showing cases of Bitch Mare Syndrome in various stages of development. They all showed preferential treatment, and N°1 was the worst of them all. She only picked babbehs that looked exactly like her to be bestest, then starved and beat the rest to death. She also had smarty tendencies, corrupting the other two mares to be as brash as her. The client wanted N°1 to serve as an example to his other mares and bring them into line without giving them all individual attention.

The soundproof crate was loaded onto a cart and rolled to the intake room. It contained a stainless steel table, a wall of counters which had a deep wash basin, and a wall dominated by a decorative display of tools. Some were sharp, some were blunt. There were big and small tools, some were electric powered, and a few were well over 100 years old. Lights gleamed off the points and edges, and an unidentifiable brown substance was crusted on a fair few. The white paint and cold fluorescent lights completed the foreboding atmosphere, sure to make any fluffy quake. An aide entered the room as Deacon undid the latches keeping the carrier airtight. The lid raised, and the sound and smell went off like a bomb. “MUMMAH WAN BESTEST BABBEH! GIB BABBEH TO MUMMAH, MUMMAH NEE BABBEH! DUMMEH HOOMIN, WET OUT OF DUMMEH NU SMEWW PWETTY BOX!”
The box didn’t smell pretty indeed, it seems N°1 had given her prison sorry poopies and sorry peepees which had predictably gotten on her. Deacon sighed inwardly, this complicated things slightly, but it wasn’t so unexpected that they didn’t have measures for it. He indicated for the aide to get the sink running while he addressed their newest inmate.

“Hello there N°1, how are you today?”

“DUMMEH HOOMIN, MUMMA NU AM NUMBAH WUN, MUMMAH AM MUMMAH! WET MUMMAH OUT OF STOOPI SOWWY BOX WIGHT NAO OW GET WOWSTEST STO-” Deacon closed the lid. Looks like he’d have to try again later. He wheels the fluffy, box and all, to the sink which now had lukewarm water running. Without another word the aide picked up the furious shit machine and washed her thoroughly but clinically. N°1 was vibrating with indignation, the entire time she could be heard complaining about water being bad for fluffies, as well as more cries for her bestest babbeh. After the bath she got an extensive blow drying. For the first time since arriving N°1 stopped fighting and spewing insults, her emotionally weak brain finding pleasure at the warm air hitting her fluff. Deacon hated seeing her happy, but he knew the blow dry was necessary. It made what came next easier, and more shocking. No longer wet or covered in excrement, N°1 was placed on the stainless steel table where she was approached by Deacon. In the background the aide was already preparing the instruments. Time for intake to properly begin.

“Hello N°1, how are you today?”

Interrupting happy coos about “wawmsies,” N°1 noticed Deacon as if for the first time. “Mummah am mummah, nu numbah wun,” she huffed. “Mummah am su wawm, hab bigges happies! Bu’ Mummah nee bestest babbeh fo huggies and wub and dwink miwkies tu gwow big and stwong. Whewe babbeh? Wook jus wike Mummah!”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about N°1, I heard that you’ve been a big meanie and gave your babies hurties. Is that true?”

N°1 assumed a knowing look. This hoomin clearly didn’t understand babbehs at all, but she could clear that up easily. “Dummeh hoomin, nu gib huwties to babbehs, babbehs onwy fow miwkies and huggies and wub. Mummah gabe stompy hoofies to munstah dummehs dat steaww Mummah miwkies!”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Those weren’t milk thieves, those were your babies. Bowl fluffy babies, like you. Why did you kill all of them except your bestest?”

“Bestest am bestest babbeh, wook jus wike Mummah!” She beamed with pride at having created more of herself. There it was, the client had already identified narcisism as the reason behind N°1’s behavior, but it was standard practice to confirm it once the fluffy had been moved to a new environment. Well, now he didn’t have any doubts about what he was going to do.

“Indeed, and looking like you is the best thing a fluffy can do. In fact, your daddy was so happy with you and your bestest that he decided to send you here. He wants you to have even more babies so that you can be the best and prettiest mom in the whole world! How does that sound?”

N°1 was skeptical. She was already the prettiest, bestest bowl fluff in the world, but this hoomin had made her smell pretty when the sorry box made her smell not pretty. After a three-forever pause, she nodded. “Otay hoomin, Mummah wan mowe babbehs and be mowe pwetty.”

Deacon’s face took on a death’s head grin. “Okay N°1, just remember: you asked for this!” And without another word he picked up the electric razor the aide had laid out earlier and turned it on. The unfamiliar buzzing noise that filled the room caused N°1’s ears to pin back in fright, something wasn’t right! Suddenly her chest thumped the steel table. One hand pinning her, Deacon used the razor to cut a diagonal line across N°1’s neck, taking a good chunk of her mane along with it. The sensation was strange and upsetting, but it was only when the discarded fluff landed next to her face that N°1 reacted. It was as though acid was being poured on her. She bucked and wriggled like she was in physical pain, tears immediately bursting from her eyes as she pleaded.


Deacon’s heart was going now. As the bowl struggled further the aide stepped in to assist, grabbing each forelimb and pulling. Then with her limbs splayed like a hog, N°1’s fluff was systematically shaved from her body. It was basically the same idea as shearing a sheep, he started below the chin and moved down the belly. As the razor passed over the contours of N°1’s stomach Deacon marveled at her bowl shape. Most of the time she appeared to be an ordinary fluffy, if a little stubby, but upside-down bowl fluffies looked more like a creature that hadn’t died yet. Its chest was so concave he couldn’t help but be reminded of a pug, one of mankind’s other genetic missteps. But hey, he loved pugs and someone would surely love these things if his client was successful. With the belly now split by a naked strip, he simply shifted to the left a little and made another pass. From there it was systematic, making each pass slightly overlap the last to not miss any fur. When a limb was reached it was bisected and then the fluff was carefully peeled by the razor. The entire time N°1 screeed like the dying. Periodically they had to set her down and rest their weight on her hooves while she tired herself out, lest she get cut. Her eyes were saucers looking at her now naked belly, tears and snot matting the fluff on her face as they flowed freely. She was held aloft by the aide and Deacon to reach every corner of her body, and let out a particularly hoarse wail as her tail was reduced to a hairless pink nub. They held her muzzle to shave her head.

Reduced to stubble N°1 was given another bath, hot this time, by the aide, who took special care to massage the short hairs into softening. She protested any more water like she was programmed, then really started freaking out when it touched her naked skin. Hot enough to hurt a human but not burn, the water was scorching to N°1’s newly exposed skin. After a few minutes of soaking Deacon stepped up to the basin holding a straight razor and a leather strop. Then with professional ease he proceeded to shave her until she was completely hairless, baby bottom smooth. By this point N°1 had been fighting humans for hours and was barely able to move, which suited Deacon just fine. He still had business with the thing and didn’t want to deal with protests. She was in quite a sorry state now, the bumps of her bowl ribs on full display with no fur to hide things. She stood miserably in the transport cart, her nub tail trying to tuck itself under her belly while she shivered in the room temperature air. She didn’t speak anymore, just looked around pleadingly.

Deacon brought N°1 to her new home away from home, officially known as Multipurpose Room 2 but often called the Pit of Despair. While MiseriCorp had plenty of standard punishments for common problems like refusal to wean, litter box trouble, and even mild smarty syndrome, John Smith was a high priority client whose wallet prompted some creativity and prior planning. Around one month and three weeks ago preparation had begun for N°1’s arrival, MiseriCorp aides had scoured the city’s streets and pet shops, looking for mares with a mane and coat color that was at least an 85% match to her coloration. After being bred with John Smith’s own stud to make things as close as possible, all 20 of the new mothers were put into mounted cages that collectively took up two walls of the room. There they were taken care of by MiseriCorp’s state-of-the-art automated feeder and waste disposal system, nicknamed life support. While the situation was upsetting to some of the dams at first, it had been over a month since they were first interred and the knowledge that they would soon have babbehs buoyed all their spirits.

“Hello ladies,” Deacon cheered as he brought the cart to a stop. “I have a new friend for you today, she’s going to help you ALL with your babies!” The mention of babies caused a stirring from the cages, and snapped N°1 out of her stupor. “B-babbehs?” N°1 parroted the call from the walls, hope replacing the despair she had fallen into since her shaving. Deacon smiled down at her. “Yes, babies! Soon you’ll have so many babies you won’t know what to do with them. You just have to follow a few rules and take good care of them ALL, do you think you can do that?” N°1’s eyes sparkled at the promises she was given. More babbehs than she knew what to do with? It wasn’t her bestest babbeh, but maybe if she had lots and lots of babbehs she could get another bestest. Maybe even more than one! She regained some of her former composure, and she gave a tiny hop for emphasis. “Yus! Mummah wan suuu many babbehs, gib bestest babbehs to bestest mummah!”

Deacon nodded sagely, “An excellent choice, now here are the rules you have to follow.” He carries N°1 to the center of the room, where a small platform with enough equipment to raise an orphan army lay, as well as a fluffy bed. A rather sophisticated looking robotic arm, a new addition, was positioned on a rail that ran along every wall save the one with a door. It was strong enough to pull the cage out of its wall holder, and precise enough to gather foals without injuring them.

“This is where you’ll stay. When one of the mares is going to give birth, the robot will know and it will bring them to you so you can help them. All you have to do is clean all the foals, give them some hugs, and put them over here.” Deacon indicates a chute that’s shallow enough to not injure the foals placed on it, and slick enough that they’ll actually slide. “Then the robot will take care of them and they’ll get a nice family of their own. BUT, all the foals have to be alive, that’s the rule. Understood?”

Recovering further from her shock, N°1 threw her head to the side, failing to toss her mane. "Dummeh hoomin, Mummah am bestest an gib babbehs bestest huggies an wub ebah.” Deacon didn’t react to being called a dummy and instead just smiled, which should have worried her given the circumstances. “Okay then, make sure to be good because otherwise you’ll get the worstest hurties!” And with great aplomb he placed N°1 on the bed in the center of the room, on her back, and left without speaking further. Her freshly exposed skin, still sensitive to being touched, prickled at the slightly scratchy wool of her prison.

N°1 waited. It annoyed her that the dummeh hoomin had put her upside-down, but she was going to get babbehs! Babbehs were the bestest thing ever, and made her bestest, which was more important than being stuckies. She tried calling out for the hoomin to help her, but he hadn’t come after a hundred forevers, and she gave up. Now she was just sitting there, waiting. The mummahs in the sorry boxes on the walls were singing mummah songs, which made her miss her bestest babbeh. That gave her saddies, so she decided to think about something else. She was cold! The cold reminded her of her missing fluff, which reminded her of the dummeh hoomin, so she called for him. When he didn’t come, she tried again. Drawing breath for a third shout, N°1 was interrupted by a cry of “BIGGEST POOPIES” from one of the wall boxes, and something very strange happened. A grabby munstah moved on a line in the floor and gave the mummah bad upsies, then held her right over N°1. The mummah was screeing now, and between grunts of exertion from her labor would plead with the munstah to let mummah down. In her turtled position N°1 wasn’t able to help her at all, nor was she interested. She did her best to ignore the mummah’s distress, looking away and humming to herself as if nothing was amiss.

Then, in a deluge of amniotic fluid a peeping, mewling lime green mass slid into N°1’s naked bowl stomach, and she was forced back to reality. The feeling of mummah wawas and booboo juice on her skin was so yucky, and there was a poopie babbeh on her! She watched with horror as four more lumps were deposited by the now weeping mummah, one beige, one red, one gray, and one violet. By the end of it all her bowl was more than half filled with amniotic fluid, blood, placenta, and five squirming masses trying to slip their way out of the mess. NONE of these were pretty blue like her, which was a disappointment. This stupid dummeh mummah had made a mess all over her, and she was stuckies and couldn’t do anything about it! Now N°1 smelled not pretty and she didn’t even have any pretty babbehs to give milkies and love. She thought a little about what the dummeh hoomin had said, to give lickie cleanies to the babbehs and put them on the babbeh slide, but none of these were good babbehs, obviously she shouldn’t take care of these ones. So she ignored the wriggling feeling on her stomach. She screamed for the dummeh hoomin to give her licky cleanies but he still didn’t come. She decided when she got out of here she’d get the best licky cleanies, and nummies, and enfies, and her bestest babbeh; no one noticed the five lumps in her bowl slowly drown.

It hadn’t been five minutes since the incident when another cry of BIGGEST POOPIES rang out. This time N°1 knew what was coming and began to protest, she was already dirty!

“Dummeh mummah, nu hab biggest poopies on Mummah! Mummah wan bestest babbeh and nu smeww pwetty. Nu make biggest poopies on Mummah! Stoopi dummeh poopie sowwy box mummah, Mummah nu wan dummeh nu pwetty babbehs!”

The dam, of course, couldn’t obey and just kept on giving birth. Next N°1 assaulted the robotic arm.

“Dummeh munstah, nu gib mummah biggest poopies fwom sowwy box mummah! Weave mummah ‘wone! Mummah nu smeww pwetty, nee wicky cweanies, nu biggest poopies!”

The robot just kept doing as it was programmed. This put a weird feeling into N°1, like she had hurties on the inside of her chest. She was already covered in booboo juice and mummah wawa and she was stucky. She didn’t want more booboo juice on her! Her fluffy brain produced a memory for her, something she hadn’t thought about in many forevers. She had been a walky-talkie babbeh, floating in her mummah’s soft and warm bowl fluff, when wawa started falling from the sky! She remembered the fear in her mummah’s face, she had started yelling and wiggling around, even though her babbehs were still there and getting close to the wawa! Sky wawa must be really bad for fluffies! She remembered giving her mummah huggies, and making sad wawas and having biggest scardies, and as she saw the wawa coming up to meet her the sorry-box mummah gave a SCREEEEE and covered N°1 in more booboo juice and mummah wawas. Oh, and some more babbehs. They weren’t pretty babbehs either, none of them were blue like her pretty fluff. They drowned, not even having breathed. So it goes.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, fate deciding that only those two mares gave birth. Those two were plenty, however, as N°1 was forced to sit in the aftermath and afterbirth. The contents of two dams had filled her bowl stomach practically to overflowing, her pink skin keeping the surface tension much better than fur. The semiliquid mass she was holding, containing almost a dozen foals, slowly putrefied over the course of the day. Blood clotted, blackened and started to turn rancid. Amniotic fluid thickened into a sort of biologically active jelly with bits of placenta suspended throughout it, while at the bottom 11 dead foals were digested by their own gut bacteria. In addition, the wool bed that N°1 had been placed on had started to become uncomfortable. What had initially felt soft had revealed thousands of coarse little hairs which poked and scratched when pressed against bare skin. After an hour it had become itchy, after four it felt like needles were stabbing her, after eight her skin was on fire. She was able to get water thanks to a green not-sketti that dangled near her head, but she didn’t have anything to eat. No matter how many times she asked, her tummy wouldn’t stop giving her hurties, and the dummeh hoomin wouldn’t give her nummies. She needed to get out of here. She had the worstest owies and she smelled SO not pretty! Everyone here was a dummeh that gave her hurties and yucky wawa! She demanded her freedom. She ordered, she threatened, she cursed in the blackest language known to fluffies, after hours she sobbed with a hoarse throat for someone to please come help her. None of it worked. Only long after N°1 had fallen silent did Deacon make his way back to Multipurpose Room 2 to check on his special client. He entered with false mirth, greeting dams who were less than enthusiastic in their response. N°1 whipped her head forward to look at him, seeing his torso rise out of a lake of rot. She pleaded with Deacon to let her go, to clean her, to feed her, but he simply smiled and walked around her to the empty autofeeder. Despite already seeing everything go down on camera, he acted surprised for the sake of his guest.

“N°1! There aren’t any foals in here, even though I said to take care of them all. What happened?”

She had the gall to act surprised. “Wha? Mummah nu hab any babbehs dis bwite time, jus dummehs.”

“That’s a lie N°1, life support told me that two mares gave birth today. Why didn’t you take care of the babies?”

“Stoopi hoomin, dummeh babbehs nu am pwetty wike Mummah su Mummah nu gib wicky cweanies to dummehs. Huggies an wub an wicky cweanies an miwkies am onwy fow Mummah’s bestest babbeh!”

Alright, she had said it. Now it was time for Deacon to do his job. He visibly dropped his air of friendliness and concern, and gripped N°1’s skull in one spidery hand. Squeezing a little harder than he had to, Deacon wrenched her head to look at him and fixed her with a death glare that would shame Medusa.

“No! That’s wrong,‘’ he began. “When I say to take care of all the babies it means you take care of ALL the babies, you understand? Mummahs are supposed to love all the babies, not just babies that look like them. If you don’t take care of the babies, you’ll get hurties until the end of time. Forever hurties!”

While N°1 was shocked by his tone, Deacon’s insinuation that she had to take care of dummehs or get worstest hurties was unacceptable! She scrunched her naked brows in defiance, and snorted in his face. “NU! Dummehs am dummehs, and Mummah nu gib huggies ow wicky cweanies to dummehs! An’ Mummah am MUMMAH! Mummah namesie nu am ‘numbah wun!’”

Deacon stood, looking down the bridge of his nose. “Well you’re not getting cleaned until you take care of at least one foal. You’ve been a bad fluffy, now eat up.” He lectured her before unceremoniously shoving a funnel in her mouth and pouring slurried kibble into it. The sudden oral intrusion panicked N°1, but being an exhausted bowl on her back she couldn’t do more than wiggle her legs. There was gagging, choking, tears rolled down her skin, she tried begging him to stop but it only came out a gargled moan. The entire time Deacon was silent. He didn’t visibly relish in force feeding this naked creature a day’s worth of food. Just silently forced more and more into the funnel, never stopping when she coughed or moaned around it. The goal was to get enough calories into the animal so it would stay alive. When he left the room it got dark, it was also beginning to smell.

The morning began with a sensation of peeling. Bloating and evaporation in equal measure had left N°1’s stomach roughly level, the amniotic jelly becoming more like a thick gel, which the now inflated foals at the bottom had bubbled with noxious gasses. What had started as seriously not-pretty had become enough for N°1 to make sicky wawas, if not for the fact she would get it all over herself in the process. The mummahs in the sorry boxes weren’t singing their mummah songs anymore, they had all seen what happened to the two dams yesterday. N°1 looked behind her to see what Deacon was looking at last bright-time, and the movement caused her skin to shift slightly. She screamed. The pain was making her shake, just the slightest bit of friction caused every nerve in N°1’s skin to sing. Reflexively her entire back contracted, making her shimmy around in agony to try and get relief. When she pulled off the bed, noxious smells and dried blood made her shudder, but if she laid down she’d cry from the impossible hurties.

She continued like this for countless forevers. Blind with tears, her leggies were shaking from the inescapable pain. Cold sweat started to form on her brow, her stomach, the folds of her body. She didn’t think about her bestest babbeh, or enfies, N°1’s entire world became hurties beyond comprehension. She paid attention to when the hurties got worse, when they got better, sometimes the hurties would seem to fade away, then she would cough and sandpaper was dragged against her raw flesh. She took shallow breaths. Her once beautiful bowl tummeh was itchy, and she smelled like forever sleepies. When BIGGEST POOPIES rang out she was hit with choking sobs.

“Huuuu huu huu, p-pweeeeEEase n-nu make biggest poopies on Mummaaah hu hu hu huuu! Mummah nu f-feew pweetty! Hab wowstest huwties an s-saddies an wwwan bestest b-babbeh!”

The mare could only sob along with her as the contents of her womb splattered onto N°1 and the surrounding floor. The wetness only set her to shaking harder. Six miracles of life died of either hypothermia or suffocating in day-old afterbirth. The scene was repeated several times throughout the day, each time N°1 protested, pleaded, fought while trying to minimize the pain. At the end of the work day the was caked in layer after layer of gore in various states of drying. Her chest heaved like bellows, the pain from the wool needles had stopped coming in waves and was now constant. It colored every thought, every action, and as she existed with and became and sank inside and examined her pain she remembered what the dummeh hoomin had told her. “Well you’re not getting cleaned until you take care of at least one foal….” "You’ve been a bad fluffy…” “… hurties until the end of time!” She felt a strange jolt on the inside of her thinkie place, and slowly brought her limp head up to look at her stomach. There half buried in the filth was a single living foal. It was blue, dumb and blind from youth. Its arms were stuck in the air and it waved them, peeping as much as its gelatinous prison could let it.

When Deacon came to check on N°1 at the end of his day, he was surprised to see a single foal on life support. Given N°1’s attitude and the mess she had become, he assumed it would take longer for her to break. When he reached the center of the room he wasn’t disappointed. It was blue, time to question our little charge about it.

“Hello N°1, I see we have a new friend today! Why don’t you tell me about them?”

“Mummah gib pwetty bwue babbeh wicky cweanies an wub, gib cweanies nao? Babbeh am pwetty an bestest, gib wots of huggies to babbeh.” She seemed exhausted but was clearly pleased with what she did.

Figures. The first foal that she takes care of and it’s because it’s blue like she was. Well, progress was still progress and Deacon wasn’t one to waste an opportunity for a lesson.

“Duly noted N°1, and since you finally took care of a foal you’ll get a bath as promised. But I have a question for you before you go: where are the rest of them?”

Confusion contorted N°1’s face, now powdered with a day’s growth of fluff. “Wha? Wha odda babbeh? Mummah nu gib wickies to any odda babbehs, stoopi hoomin.”

Contempt sank into Deacon’s voice. “Yeah, that’s the problem N°1. Life support tells me that three mares gave birth today, but I only see one foal out of those litters here. You’re supposed to take care of ALL the babies, remember? Not just the pretty ones, but the ugly ones too. No bestest or poopie babies for you.”

Deacon turned and picked up the foal, the sudden movement and sensation of gravity making it peep in alarm. He then locked eyes with N°1, starving, delirious with pain, encrusted with two days worth of fluffy dams unloading onto her, and like a professional Smash player spiked the foal hard enough that he painted his shoes. N°1 immediately let out a pealing wail that devolved into sobbing hysterics. Deacon hits a button on his pager and two aides enter to give her a thorough bathing, and another shaving. Still hypersensitive from the woolen bed, every touch sent her shrieking, but when the chunky salsa was washed out of her stomach she breathed easier. She was fed from the funnel again, then left to collapse from exhaustion. Sleep took her.


N°1 was passing the time the worst way that a fluffy could: by yelling. Fortunately for surrounding humans Multipurpose Room 2 was soundproof, but the constant talk of hurties had set all the mares crying. After finally taking care of a babbeh she was disappointed to be back in this stoopi room, with a munstah on the floor and dummeh mummahs on the walls. And she didn’t even get to keep the babbeh, even though it was pretty! Now she was redoubling her efforts, trying to get the dummeh hoomin or her daddeh or SOMEBODY to come help her from this hurty bed. Her back and haunches had hurties like sandpaper on an open wound, and now they felt sort of wet too.

Five mares gave birth that day, each time the robotic arm dutifully held them over N°1.
N°1 dutifully cleaned all of the blue foals and sent them down the slide to life support. Her logic was sound: last time she cleaned a babbeh she got a bath, so she needs to clean more babbehs! They were all so pretty, and they were all for her, these babbehs. It was something. This place was definitely stoopi and dummeh and poopie, but she also got baths where she smelled pretty after, and she got suu many babbehs! She would still be mad at her daddeh for leaving her, but at least now she could show him all the pretty bestest babbehs that she got. The pain and wetness on her back forgotten, she brightened when Deacon entered late that day.

“Wook, dummeh hoomin, Mummah hab suuu many pwetty babbehs! Nu mowe huwties fow Mummah? Nee gib babbehs huggies an wub, an Mummah am stuckies.”

Deacon takes a peek at the foal life support to find seven blue beanbags latched to the artificial nipples. “You’re right N°1, look at all these babies! I can’t help but notice that they’re all blue, however. What happened to all the other babies?” His tone was innocent as his eyes ran over the “ugly” babies on the floor.

Without thinking, she answered truthfully. “Mummah nu sabe ugwy nu-pwetty babbehs, Mummah onwy wan pwetty bwue babbehs wike Mummah!”

Deacon clasped his hands in front of him. “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before the fall. You don’t get to decide which babies are pretty or ugly. You have to take care of ALL the babies, remember? This is what happens when mummahs pick a bestest baby.”

That feeling was back in N°1’s chest as she saw the dummeh hoomin pick up one of her new babbehs like he was King Kong, his thumb under its little chin. The babbeh peeped and cooed from his warm hand. There was a flick and a pop, the babbeh’s head flew to a corner of the room, and the corpse was dumped into N°1’s bowl stomach. For a moment she was still. Purple-red blood pooled on her skin, and she wailed.


He picked up another; flick and pop! Two corpses cooled against her now. Her cries got more shrill as tears began to flow openly down her face.


“Then you shouldn’t have made them bestest!” Deacon screams back, grabbing a third foal. This time there wasn’t a pop but more of a wet crunch, instead of being decapitated the foal’s neck was bent at an obscene angle, and its breathing was thin and reedy. “Oops, I fucked it up. You take care of him, now.” He says with mock sincerity, placing it into the bloody pool. N°1 can only stare and gape as the wheezing thing fails to lift its head above the vitus. Nothing more is said about foal number three, as Deacon already has foals four and five by their scruffs, eliciting loud peeps from the well-fed newborns to show N°1.

“Now which of these do you like more, this one, or the other?” He indicates foals with a shake of each hand. N°1 gained some composure, alternating between two foals that were identical from five feet away.

“Uhhhh, M-Mummah nu knu, wet Mummah smeww dem,” she sniffled. Deacon decided to humor her, as the look on her face was much more focused than moments ago. N°1 closed her eyes and leaned as close as her posture allowed, ignoring the wince of pain that it brought. She sniffed thoughtfully, first trying one, then the other, then checking each again. “Dat babbeh am bestest,” she eventually declared.

He couldn’t help but break a little. “Wrong answer, idiot!” Deacon jeered as he clenched the foal in his left into a fist and squeezed. Its peeps became more frantic and higher pitched, knowing nothing other than a short drop and warmed formula before this. The foal shit itself on instinct, being a newborn it had the color of caramel and the consistency of yogurt. There was a little pop when its ribs were crushed. It, and its shit, joined its siblings. In his right hand, he thumb wrestled the fifth’s head while examining N°1. She was hyperventilating at this point, the loss of four beautiful babbehs before her eyes pushing her close to a psychotic break. She could only stare and babble between breaths while Deacon pushed his thumb through the foal’s skull.

The sixth foal he picked up gently, and held it like it was a doll. He put it in N°1’s face, the foal’s closed eyes facing the far corner of the room. Putting on his best fluffy voice, he puppeted it. “Wai mummah gib bwuddas an sissies huwties? Babbeh nu am bestest, jus am widdow babbeh. Mummah nu wub babbeh? Babbeh am gud babbeh, pwease wub babbeh. Babbehs aww gu foweba sweepies!”

“NuuuuuuUUUUUUUuuuu! PWEASE! Mummah soowwy, babbeh jus suu pwetty, wub yu suuu much! Pwwease mistah, n-nu gib bestest b-babbeh fowebah sweepies! M-Mummah wub b-babbeh, babbeh w-w-wwwub mummah, dwink wots of miwkies, gwow big an’n s-stwong!”

N°1 warbled her mummah song, serving more to comfort herself than the doomed foals. This time Deacon aimed the foal’s head at her face and flicked, a dull thock announcing his success. Six corpses mixed their blood in N°1’s stomach. Deacon lifted the seventh foal with reverence. He held it up to N°1, close enough to see the red angel’s hair that would be a mane in a few weeks.

“Now tell me, what do you think of this baby?”

She froze. After the treatment she’d had over the past few bright times, she knew that pretty babbehs meant the hoomins gave her hurties. But this one looked so much like her bestest babbeh! He was soooo pretty, but she didn’t want to get any more hurties. It wasn’t fair, all she did was love pretty babbehs! She missed her bestest babbeh so much it gave her that hurty feeling in her chest! This babbeh looked so much like her! It was then that N°1 hatched a plan to save her new bestest babbeh. It would be almost unthinkable normally, but she was desperate. Gathering her will, and her courage, her face composed itself into a mask of innocence.

“Babbeh… babbeh nu am pwetty ow poopeh. F-fwuffy tink babbeh am nowmaw. Mummah gib babbeh wicky cweanies, am gud Mummah?”

“You’re lying,” Deacon sneered as he pinched one of the foal’s forelimbs between two fingers and twisted. It immediately went from cooing due to the warmth of his hand to peeping, the pitch and volume increasing as the barely formed hoof reversed, then did a full 360. As he moved to the other limb they were replaced by a neverending shriek. N°1 stared in horror as this beautiful babbeh was destroyed by this dummeh hoomin, no, this munstah! Tears ran tracks on her blood splattered face. She screamed her protest, tried to wriggle off of her back despite the blinding pain and wetness she felt, anything to save that babbeh! All it served to do was slosh around the foal soup in her stomach. Bestest babbeh soup. With a gleam in his eye, Deacon held the foal’s face over the pool of blood, rolling with the mostly decapitated corpses of its half siblings. It still screamed as much as its factory-new lungs could manage. “Hurties until the end of time!” Then its head was submerged, and N°1 felt her thinky place crack open like an egg. She gave out a long, fried out scream that devolved into convulsive sobs and huu huuing. Her stomach clenched, her limbs alternated between flailing and going rigid. She cried so hard that she made sicky wawas, which covered all her dead babbehs. It was just too much. Losing her bestest babbeh, being put in a stoopi sorry box, getting her pretty fluff taken, the baths, the dummeh mares, the floor munstah, being force fed, the horribly itchy hurties, the babbeh that was splatted last bright time and now the babbehs she had given licky cleanies to were all GONE! She had just thought they were pretty, it wasn’t fair! As Deacon strode out all the mummahs, former and future, began to cry with her. Two aides came later to wash and shave N°1, as well as feed her. They put her back in the room with crying walls.

N°1 wept. It was supposed to be dark time, but she had too many saddies and hurties to sleep. The hurties from last bright time were still so big, and she knew next bright time would bring more, bigger hurties. She was exhausted. N°1 closed her eyes, letting out soft huu huus as her brain latched on to the pain in her body. It was hot and angry, but after constant exposure she was starting to blend with it. She felt the pain in her leggies, her joints, her neck, back, stomach, and shoulders. As she sat inside of her pain N°1 didn’t even notice she was having thinkie-place pictures.

She saw herself. Then another of herself, then five, then five and five, then… so many fluffies, all looking like her! As the scene came closer she saw the versions of herself were making sad wawas. They were all getting hurties! She got scaredy poopies and started to run, when something ran into her face. Looking up, it was the munstah hoomin! His face was mean and scary, and he was laughing while he gave all of her worstest hurties. The munstah locked eyes with N°1 and declared “HURTIES UNTIL THE END OF TIME!” His teeth bared in a grin. She cried out in response: “Nuuuuuu!”
“HURTIES UNTIL THE END OF TIME!” Came the reply. N°1 protested again, and when the dream munstah opened his mouth she heard him say “BIGGEST POOPIES!” The world blurred and N°1 was returned to a late night birth that she’d almost missed. Her heart still raced from seeing herself get hurties forever and ever. When she felt wetness slap against her teat she reflexively picked it up and cleaned it. The wetness thanked her with gentle peeps. This scene repeated itself a few more times, each time N°1 took the foal and gave it care on instinct. Her mind was filled with the mantra of ‘HURTIES UNTIL THE END OF TIME, ALL the babbehs’ while she worked. After the dam was finished the room fell quiet, and sleep caught N°1 by surprise.

When Deacon arrived and was told about last night’s events he was skeptical. Not even the fourth day and she had already taken care of a whole litter, at three AM? He had hoped to confirm it by watching her deal with a birth while present, but to his annoyance no other dams popped the entire day. Oh well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Stepping into Multipurpose Room 2 he’s met by a chorus of huu huus from the captive mares. N°1 stares holes into him, but Deacon ignores her pleas as he moves around to the foal life support. Peering in, five little lumps are dozing quietly, their full bellies and the heated pad they laid on doing work. Three of them were various shades of blue, with one being a prime candidate for N°1’s doppelganger. Then, to his astonishment, there was a purple lump and a gray lump. This was something interesting indeed, now all he needed was the reason why. He put on his cheerful mask.

“Wow N°1, look at all these babies! There’s so many colors, you must have taken care of them ALL.” The look of expectation that he gave N°1 didn’t seem to phase her; when their eyes met the fight in them was missing.

“Yus… M-N-Numbah wun gib wickies to aww babbehs… nu mowe huwties nao? Nu huwties pwease?”

Now this is progress! Deacon held a laugh while he considered the transformation this fluffy had undergone in the last 80 hours, really closer to 72 before he’d sat through an entire workday. She had lost her beauty, lost her bestest baby, and now she’d renounced her own name. He decided it was enough.

“Sure N°1, let me get right on that.”

Deacon stepped out as he paged aides to take care of her. After a brief litany of orders, he set them loose and went home for the day. N°1 was lifted from her bed, gently and with gloved hands. The aides gave her a thorough once over, noting joints swollen from constantly raised legs, and a gnarly looking sore on her back that wept blood. They bathed her in warm water, using gentle soap to spare her wound. During their ministrations N°1 cried out when her back was touched, but after a few minutes she resigned herself to the care. After being pat-dried, one aide produced a large, crumpled tube of Hasbio quickheal ointment and massaged it into her naked flesh. She’s carted back to Multipurpose Room 2 and gentle hands lay her where the wool bed used to be. N°1 exhaled gratefully when her legs found themselves underneath her body, the gratifying ache of release working its way through her joints. As she laid her head down to sleep a single tear rolled down her naked cheek. The hurties had ended.

Deacon had an idea. It wasn’t a particularly sound business move, nor was it ethical (duh). If it worked, however, it would accelerate his schedule by about a week and he would save a pretty penny on fluffy feed. He thought about calling Mr. Smith, but decided that if anything went wrong it wouldn’t be too much of a setback. Originally the plan was to keep N°1 until she broke and/or all the mares gave birth, but now Deacon envisioned a trial by fire. If she could make it through today then N°1 was truly reformed. If not, there were plenty of ferals in the city. After making a quick stop he heads to the life support control room, which houses the intakes and outputs for everything a fluffy needs to live. It also had a system for intravenous fluids, which he opened. Out of a satchel he produces his secret weapon: real fluffy oxytocin, not synthesized. How is it harvested; wouldn’t you like to know? All that Deacon cared about was that it induced labor in fluffies, and unlike parsley it left the foals alive. After loading the hormone into the machine he goes to his office and waits.

The cry of BIGGEST POOPIES doesn’t startle N°1 like it used to, she’s used to it. Early that bright time a hoomin had come in and given her a new pretty bed, it felt much better than the hurty one. Now she wiggled her leggies at the mummah that had yelled, dangling above her. “Is otay mummah, numbah wun gib babbehs wots of huggies an wicky cweanies. Wub babbehs!” Four bundles of joy found their way onto life support. After her work was done N°1 found herself pleased, which also left her surprised. Giving the babbehs licky cleanies had been pretty easy, and she loved holding each of them. She didn’t smell pretty, but N°1 knew that eventually a hoomin would come and give her warm wawas to smell pretty again. Best of all, she didn’t have hurties! She was still stuckies, but this new bed felt sooo soft and pretty! The munstah hoomin had been right: she needed to take care of ALL the babbehs or she’d keep getting hurties. It wasn’t that hard now that she’d done it. If all hoomins wanted was for her to take care of a few mummahs every bright time, she could do that. Another cry of BIGGEST POOPIES interrupted her musing, and N°1 gave each foal a thorough bathing and sent them sliding. After a few forevers another dam popped and was hoisted by the robotic arm. Fifteen foals were now latched onto the feeding stations. When the fourth dam popped her labor was particularly stressful. She only had a few foals, but they were much bigger than she could easily handle; her face was colored with pain as she begged them not to hurt her. N°1 tried her best to comfort the mother.

What ensued was a tornado of crying, blood, amniotic fluid, and babbehs. While N°1 was working with the fourth mare, a fifth popped. By the time number four was finished, number five was halfway through delivering her foals onto the stainless steel floor of her cage. Rather than grab her, life support grabbed the sixth mare of the day, who had just gone into labor. N°1’s pace quickened, and she paused every few licks to comfort a mare or plead the hoomins or munstahs to help her. Every mare, both pregnant and not, was screaming and wailing for their foals. Every remaining dam popped over the course of 30 minutes, often overlapping with one another. Life support could only handle one mare at a time, and it filled N°1 with horror to think of the babbehs she was missing, and the hurties that could come from that. She cried as she pushed her pace even further, taking great gulps of filth to get it off ALL the babbehs! When her hands were free, they frantically cleared the mess from her stomach to make room for more babbehs. When all the mares had been spent, the robotic arm went around and collected all the newborns it had missed, and placed them in N°1’s bowl. They were all just chirpy babbehs. Some were loud and peeping, some felt cold to the touch, but she took care of them all. The cold ones were warmed by her bare skin, the lonely ones brightened when she held them, the hungry ones latched greedily. By the end of the day, ten mares and fifty seven foals had passed by her.

Mist hugged the ground outside. It was an autumn morning, the air crisp but still early enough in the season that a sunbeam from a wall length window warmed the mare barn. It was a comfortable building, deceptively rustic looking for the aesthetic of an authentic farm. Sixteen nooks lined the walls, giving space for a mare and her foals. The stallions were kept in a separate barn. N°1 was the oldest mare there, as everyone else had been born on the farm. She didn’t have any babbehs at the moment, they had all grown up and been given to new mummahs and daddehs. Instead she busied herself with checking on all the other mares, who she kind of saw like her little sissies. A crowd had gathered, clearly very interested in something they were blocking with their bodies. Shouldering her way to the front, she saw it. Last night a mare had given birth, and among her foals was the most prettiest babbeh that N°1 had ever seen! Its coat was white, but when the sun shone on it pearlescent greens, blues, reds, and purples danced on every hair. Its hooves were golden, and its tiny horn was spiraled with a gold stripe. All the surrounding fluffies oohed and aahed at the foal, its mother cradling it in her hooves while she looked at it.

“Dis babbeh am su pwetty, hew fwuff hab suu many cowows! Dis am mummah’s pwettiest, favwitest, bestest babbeh.” She beamed. Murmurs of agreement from the crowd were cut by a sudden cry.

“NUUUUUU! Babbeh nu am bestset! Babbeh nu am bestest! Hoomins nu wan bestest babbehs, mummah nee wub AWW da babbehs! AWW! DA! BABBEHS!” N°1 had charged the new mother, knocking the foal out of her hands and her onto her back. With her eyes closed she pummeled the other mare with her hooves, tears leaving dark streaks in her cheek fluff. They lashed out at her head, bruised her ribs, even hurt her milkie-places, and the other mares recoiled in horror at the violence. They had been the new mummah’s side, but if Numbah Wun said something she was usually right. Quickly the crowd retreated, their ears pinned back in sympathy for the new mother, even if she was apparently being bad. All that could be heard as N°1 sobbed and beat her lesson into her was “AWW!” thud “DA!” thud “BABBEHS!” thud “AWW!” thud “DA!” thud “BABBEHS!” thud “AWW!” thud “DA!” thud “BABBEHS!


Author's Note

Whew! I’m back, baby! Truthfully I never left, but I have been taking my sweet time in writing this :smiley: Part of it was energy, part of it was ideas, but I’m buoyed by the creativity and kindness of Fluffy Community! This project was a bit more daunting than anything I’ve done before, seeing as I wanted it to be “complete” in one go. No filling in gaps with later chapters here! I think I’ve done alright, as always I want to know what you guys think.

If you made it all the way down here thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!


Now this is a character growth. This is hella good hoping for a sequel.


I do hope the rainbow unicorn is safe from punishment…


Does this mean there will be a 7 sins themed covers and other stories in future?




holy shit this is good


Very good stuff

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Yep! When I started it was just gonna be industrial abuse but along the way the seven deadly sins theme came along :slight_smile: God only knows how long until they’re all done tho


Excellent work, love to see unique abuse for bowl fluffies and a proper rehabilitation.


Who knows but im curious which of the next sins will be covered…I kinda hope Gluttony if a punishment has a Fluffy turned into an immobile obese blob… but never wants to eat skettis ever again. A rehabilitation by… i forgot the phrase used, is it “Death by Repetition”?


From a bitch to beating others into submission
Number one went through one hell of a character arc

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Lovely concept. Well written and intriguing.

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