It’s Sorting Day here at Greg’s Farm! No special celebration for this event, just a whole lot of work for yours truly. You poured yourself extra coffee to take to the barn: today you’re going to need it.
First things first, you consolidate your breeding stock into two pens instead of four. The stallions and mares all cheer and play now that they have “new friends.” They can’t play too vigorously though, because space is tight. You need the extra pens though, for sorting the foals that are ready for sale. Each foal is about six weeks old at this point. They have been weaned, litterbox trained, and socialized with other fluffies, learning the rules that make for a biddable, quality companion. No uppity floor-shitters here. They are still small and cute, and it will be another six to eight weeks before they are full-grown. The timing of your sorting is critical: pet shops want pretty, well-behaved foals, but they also want them as young as is practical. The reason for this is simple: pet shops typically sell four times as many foals as they do adult fluffies. The longer their stock is foal-sized, the better their sales numbers will be. In fact, some pet stores slightly underfeed their foals to keep them from developing too fast. Others simply watch their diet very carefully. You don’t really care what they do once the money is in your hand, though.
With the breeders consolidated, you have two more pens available for use. Now, the sorting begins in honest. You step up to the gate and clap your hands to draw attention:
“Okay babies! We are going to play the Color Game! When I say the name of a color, any fluffy with that color of fur should follow me.”
There is a babbling chorus of cheering foals. The nurse-mares have been teaching them numbers, colors, and other vocabulary while they adjust to solid food. The Color Game has been one of their teaching aides, fluffies being notoriously obsessed with games of all kinds.
“Fwuffy wuv game! Wuv cowows!”
“Fwuffy am bwue!”
A precocious unicorn bleats up at you. You gently sweep him back to the rest of the fluffies with your foot.
“Not yet, buddy.”
“Okay, let’s start the game! All White foals, come with me!”
You open the gates to both this pen and the one across the walkway, and usher the steam of tiny foals that trickles out from one to the other.
“Fwuffy am White!”
A pegasus with a purple mane chirps happily as it skips playfully past you to the other pen. He is followed by others, chirping happily. There are stragglers, of course. The nurse-mares nudge them forward.
“You am white fwuffy, siwwy!”
A dark green mare nudges forward a very confused earth foal with a turquoise mane.
“Hwaah?”
The startled colt gibbers, following his brothers and sisters to the other pen. Between you and the mares, the pen is soon empty of white foals. You work your way down the list, calling off the “Prime” colors: White, black, Pink, Purple, fluffies with patterns, and any with coloring that matches a pony from that stupid show. These last types you have to pick by hand: no normal fluffy is going to understand all that shit.
Next comes what you might call the “Choice” colors: Red, Blue, Yellow, Orange, Green, etc. The standard bright and cheerful colors fluffies are most known for.
Finally, all that remains are the “Select” fluffies. The leftovers. Brown, dark green, earth tones. Fluffies with dull colored fur, fluffies with unfortunate color combinations.
“Why nu caww fwuffy cowah?”
Complains a crestfallen colt. His nice green coat is combined with a neon orange tail and mane. A jarring combination, for sure.
“Fwuffy am…bad fwuffy?”
A nearby filly asks, her coat a chestnut brown, but her mane a bright yellow.
“No, you’re a good fluffy. Go join the others.”
She doesn’t look bad, to you at least. People can just be picky when there are so many to choose from. Maybe she will be lucky, or maybe she’ll end up in a trash can. You shrug, locking up the newly sorted foals in their pens, and make your way over to the pens for your breeding stock.
The day is far from over. Your fifty-odd cages in the “nursery” across the barn are all full of mares suckling their newborn foals. The last few stragglers had given birth last night, and now there is a four to six week wait for your next batch of weanlings. While the newcomers fatten up on rich breastmilk, it’s time for the other mares to get some buns in their ovens.
You have around 150 mares at any one time, divided into three groups, which you separate by pen. This is all properly timed with the fluffy pony lifecycle. About a week after conception, the mare will be visibly pregnant. In another 2 weeks or so, she will be too fat to play with the others, and you will move her to a vacant cage. At the one month mark, birth starts being a possibility. Another month after the foals are born, and they should be weaned from their mothers milk. At this point they are moved to the foal pens for instruction, and then after two weeks, are shipped out to buyers.
There are two groups of breeder mares, each marked by an ear tag. Each group of fifty mares has four litters a year. The Blue Group is in its resting period, but the Red Group is getting bred today. You start your task by hoisting a mare in each hand and walking over to the “breeding pen.” This is just another pen you have cleared out. It is filled with makeshift cubicles, around two feet square, made of interlocking pieces of plywood. A mare goes into each cube.
“Nu wike!” squeals a recently acquired mare, her bright red tail swishing around in agitation.
“Tough shit, girl.”
You come back with more, slowing filling the empty cells.
“Time fo speshul huggies? Be mummah ‘gan?”
A pinto mare asks quietly.
“Yes. Be a good girl and behave.”
You pass her a cookie from your pocket, and she waits quietly while devouring it. Soon, all twenty five cubicles are occupied by fertile mares. Next comes the stallions. The stallions have been listening to the mares complain, and they know what time it is. None of them have had any relief for the past week, and their balls are swollen up with seed.
“Mistah, wumps huwt!” Chirps a white unicorn, and he is joined by a chorus of other males.
“Nee gud feews, nee pwetty mawe!”
This stallion-gold and purple- is chomping at the bit, his hips already making tiny thrusts. He and another particularly horny earth stallion are your first picks, each being dropped carefully into an occupied cell with a mare.
“Mawe pwetty, fwuffy gib suu many gud feews!” The golden stallion drools, nuzzling the mare’s backside aggressively. The mare has a look of resignation on her face, and her tail raises sluggishly.
“Stawwion du wat stawwion wan du. Fwuffy nu cawe.”
She presents her butt to the horndog, and he jumps her, thrusting away vigorously. The other stallion is having issues, though. The mare, Black with bright blue mane, is running in circles trying to get away.
“Nuuuu! Meanie box wet fwuffy go! Nu want meanie huggies!”
You come back with a hobble, and snag the running mare as the stallion chases her.
“Huuhuuhuu! Nu take weggies pwese.”
Her feet in place, she cannot run as you place the hobble on the floor, and the horny stallion mounts her. There is much sobbing as you walk away to bring more males. Slowly and steadily, two by two, you put pairs of breeders together, and the “enf enf enf” fills the room with the sound of fluffies fucking. Ten minutes of humping pass, and you swap the sobbing mares and the panting stallions out for new contenders, the pens spattered with shit, piss, tears and cum.
“Owwie! Nu huwt wumps!” A stallion cries out in pain. You pace over to the source of the noise: a bright red unicorn is toppled over in a puddle of shit, a blue mare blowing a raspberry at the mewling stallion as he hugs his tiny balls.
“Fwuffy nu want huggies, nu wan mowe babies!” She squirms as you pick her up.
“Nu wike! Meanie hoomin put downsies, gib sketties!” She tries to shit on you, but you spin her quickly, and the “Sorry-poopies” shower the other breeders instead.
“Nuuuu, nu gib fwuffy poopies!”
“nu smeww pwetty nu mowe!”
“Huuhuuhuu, fwuffy nu wan speshul huggies wid poopy-mawe!”
A stallion backs away from his given mate. Mares who cause trouble aren’t worth your time. You’ve got plenty future breeder fillies warming the bench.
“Gib downsies naow, dummeh hoomin!”
The surly mare demands. You shrug, and drop her roughly in the workbench sink.
“Owwies! Nu wike scawwy wawa pwace!”
“Tough shit, bitch.”
You go about bringing the shit-smeared breeders to the other sink, rinsing them off carefully before returning them to their holding pens. In a few hours the mares will feel the tingle of conception, and the barn will echo with “Soon-Mummah” songs.
“Mistah, pwese! Fwuffy’s no-nos hab huwties!”
“Nee gud feews, nu wike feew in speshul peace!”
Right. Not all of your stallions got to breed this time, and unless you want them raping their weaker pen-mates, they are going to need some relief. Luckily, you have just the thing.
“Rise and shine, cumdumpster!”
You open one of the sorry-boxes along the wall. Inside is a rather battered-looking black and white unicorn.
“Fwuffy am Oweo! Dummeh hoomin, gib Oweo weggies back!”
She writhes in anger, her pathetic stumps twisting in agitation. You certainly didn’t name her, but she insists on calling herself that. Whatever. You grab her and walk over to the sink. She joins the surly blue mare in the sink.
“What dummeh piwwow mawe wan?”
The blue fluffy complains, and you hit them both with the faucet.
“Nuuuhuuhuu! Nu wan cowd wawa! Hewp fwuffy!”
The blue mare scrabbles her hooves on the slick metal sink, trying in vain to climb out.
“Tough shit. Got to get you clean for your date.”
You rinse the shit and grime off the two ladies, then towel them down roughly. Oh, gotta dress them up for their dates! Out comes a hobble and some duct-tape.
“Nu wike, wet fwuffy go!”
The blue mare struggles, but you manage to force her legs into the hobble, and wrap some duct tape around her middle, just to be sure. Another strip covers her mouth, as she is likely to voice her thoughts, loudly, about what is going to happen next.
“Muhhhgerbl!”
The mare mutters through the tape. You bonk her on the nose, because why not? Oreo comes next, but having no legs, she doesn’t need to be hobbled.
“Nu wan shiny ting on mouf-pwace! Nu gib tu Oweo, wet Oweo gu!”
She demands loudly before the tape cuts off her complaints. Mares prepped, you walk them over to their destination. The stallions see them and are soon chomping at the bit. One is definitely humping another male, and you pry them apart with the tip of your shoe.
“Poopy-pwace hab huwties! Why fwuffy huwt fwuffy?”
You scowl at the rapist. He’s going in the sorry box, you think to yourself.
“Back up! Don’t start until I tell you!”
The dozen or so unbred stallions clear a circle around you, already throbbing and ready to go. You set down Oreo and the surly blue mare in the pit, and back away. The hobbled mare wriggles, but can’t move from the spot, the hobble holding her out of reach with the floor. Oreo, on the other hand, has begun to sob, her cries muffled, but her tears flowing heavily.
“Okay boys, take turns now!”
The stallions charge the two defenseless mares, jockying to be first. A white earthie with a deep red mane manages to enter the blue mare, and a large black pegasus mounts Oreo after a brief scuffle with the others. Soon, they are enffing away happily, each thrust making more tears flow from the battered mares.
“Old” babies sorted, new babies on the way, blue balls drained. All in a day’s work at Greg’s Farm. And now for something completely different! You clean up, and then walk up to the house to get Pickle and Cocoa for this afternoon’s little adventure.