i changed the name of the story to better fit it
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You are a fluffy-- a poopie fluffy, as others have said. Your name is Doe and you have just gotten your new home. Your daddy seems nice, though your fluffy friend is not. He says he’s your friend so long as you make him happy, just like daddy told you. You are playing with your favorite ball when Rocket approaches.
“Gib Wocket baww, wan pway.” he demands, stomping one of his front leggies on the soft carpet. You wince, despite the lack of impact.
“Buh… Dow am pwayin wif baww… We can bof pway?” you offer, not wanting to give up your toy. Rocket huffs through his nostrils and stomps again.
“Nu! Nu wan pway wif ugwie poopie fwuffy! Gib baww or Wocket teww daddeh ou no make Wocket happeh!” he threatens and you recoil at the words. You don’t want to make Rocket unhappy, your daddy said he would take you back to the FluffMart if you do.
“O… otay…” you relent, releasing the ball from your grasp and watching the orange fluffy run off with it, leaving you huu-huuing at the loss of your entertainment.
This is how nearly every day is for you. You’re eating your kibble and Rocket demands you move so he can eat first-- leaving you barely any left. You’re taking a nap on a comfy little pillow and Rocket shoves you out of the way to take your spot.
One day as you’re sitting in the corner stacking some blocks, Rocket waddles over to you and demands you give him licky cleanies. Your eyes widen at the request, visibly cringing. You desperately don’t want to num poopies, your tummy gurgling angrily at the mere thought.
“N-nu wan…” you whimper, watching the other begin his tell tale tantrum. “Gib wickie cweanies NAO!”
You shake your head, firmly standing your ground. “Nu WAN num poopies! Pwease Wocket dun make Dow wickie poopie pwace…” you beg, searching for any thread of mercy in the colt’s face. He doesn’t relent, stomping his way over to the door of the safe room.
“DADDEH!!! Dow nu make Wocket HAPPEH!” he yells, and a knot forms in your stomach.
It’s a few moments later when you hear the sound of your daddy walking down the hall, opening the door and immediately staring you down.
“Doe, is this true?” he asked pointedly, and you slowly back up away from him. “W-wocket wan Dow gib wickie cweanies buh Dow no wan num poopies…” you cry sheepishly, but daddy’s expression doesn’t change.
“Now, Doe. Remember, you have to make Rocket happy or i’ll have to take you back…” he tells you, and you give a soft sob. You really don’t want to clean Rockets poopie place, but you also don’t want to lose your new home.
“O…otay…” he mutter and not missing a beat, Rocket walks over to you with an heir of superiority and promptly shoves his ass in your face. You gulp, then reluctantly stick your tongue out and begin lapping against the ring of muscle. You sob as you do so, trying your best to keep your breakfast down.
“Good girl, Doe.” you hear your daddy say, then the sound of the door closing. You begin to huu as you continue to clean the other, trying to ignore his hums of victory.
Since that day, this has become a regular routine. Every time Rocket uses the litterbox, you’re forced to lick him clean. Despite this, you’re still not used to the taste of poopie. But, it keeps Rocket happy which means you keep your home.