[Libby Chapters 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 3 and 4 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 7 and 8 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 9 and 10 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 11 and 12 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 13 and 14 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 15 and 16 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 17 and 18 (final) by Dildofarmer]
Chapter 11
The next day was busy and strange. First, the man gave Libby an odd kind of treat - a chalky pill hidden inside a ball of sweet paste. It was the first treat he had given her in some time, so she tried to eat it slowly and enjoy it the way her old mistress had taught. Next, the man untied the hiking boot from Libbyâs tail - she couldnât really move under her own power anyway. He roughly squeezed her over the litter box again and felt her fight for breath against his hands. On the floor in her room, she shuddered and held back tears as the damaged nerves in her tail came awake and stinging pain lanced up into her back.
Apparently in a meticulous mood, the man called his friends to tell them of Libbyâs impending delivery. Knowing that the birth was likely to be a messy business, he made preparations: picking up enough beer and liquor for himself and his friends, dragging a greasy, sooty old carpet remnant to the middle of the garage floor to serve as a birthing table and collecting a towel and a bucket of soapy water.
Libbyâs snout got a smack when she riddled him with one too many anxious questions. His friends showed up first - big, bearded Brian and red-haired Mike with the video camera arrived first and started drinking beer. They both offered Libby half-sarcastic congratulations on her litter. This would have cheered a normal fluffy, but the little red-on-white pegasus was too shaken up and in pain from her injured tail. Finally, Rich arrived, the owner of the stallion Spike who had impregnated Libby. Seeing him made Libby start to shake all over again.
They moved Libby to the garage and plopped her on the carpet remnant and drank beer to keep them occupied while they waited. It didnât take long.
âHuuu, Wibby neeâ make poopies.â quailed the little creature. She had a worried expression on her face and was flapping her tiny wings on and off. She felt exposed, cold, and a little dizzy and nauseated from the weird vaporous smells in the garage. The men had mostly been ignoring her.
âI forgot her litter box.â said her Papa, walking through the heavy white door into the house. He returned and plunked the litter box down, then picked up the swollen fluffy and once again gave her a harder-than-necessary squeeze while pointing her hind end down.
âNuuu, pwease, nu gif huwties to Wibby! Wibby haf babees in tummy! Wibby taiw haf huwties!â scolded Libby, sounding more shrill and upset than usual. In addition to the usual dose of feces and urine, a small stream of sticky goo emerged from Libbyâs hindquarters and splattered sadly in the kitty litter.
âUgh, goddamn it,â snarled her Papa. Libby has become so accustomed to his expressions of disgust that she barely noticed. He set her back down on the greasy carpet scrap. She looked anxiously from human to human, wondering why she was stuck here.
âHer waterâs broke,â offered Mike, snapping on his video camera. Rich murmured his agreement.
âHere we go!â said Brian through his black beard.
âHuuuu, Wibby neeâ make moar poopies.â Libby squirmed uncomfortably and buzzed her wings some more. She felt something in her guts tighten up, and she pushed down with her hind legs to try to take some of the pressure off her pelvic arch. She was panting a little and flicking her eyes nervously back and forth. âWibby nu feew good, neeâ huggies. Pwease? Pwease hewp?â Nobody moved to help her, instead the men kept their distance and murmured to each other while sipping their drinks.
A contraction struck Libby, like a roiling painful wave that squeezed the wind from her lungs. She saw stars dance in front of her eyes and let out a choked cry of pain, feebly pawing at the carpet remnant. She shook her tail, but it hurt where it had been pinched off by the bootlace. The contraction passed, and Libby started panting tiny, shallow breaths and sobbing as she felt the mysterious forces in her body rumble and prepare for another heave. She was terrified.
âUh - uh - uh - uh - why Wibby haf owwies? Nu wanâ owwies. P-p-pwease. Pwease hewp. Wibby nu wanâ. Pwease hewp.â The red-haired man with the video camera approached her closely, capturing the fear and anguish on the little creatureâs face.
âI thought you wanted babies, Lib! This is what happens when you have babies!â
âNu⌠nu⌠Wibby nu wanâ huwties⌠Wibby nu feaw good, wanâ huggies. WANâ HUGGIES! PWE-EEEE-ARRRK-AKKK!â Libbyâs eyes bulged again as another contraction gripped her body, this time twice as strong. She bleated and mewled wordlessly, all four paws and both wings churning the air. It felt like her body was tearing itself apart, and like her special place was being ripped in half. A pint of amniotic fluid, blood and mucus gushed out of her hindquarters, causing the men to groan and cheer out loud.
âI knew this was going to be disgusting,â said Libbyâs Papa, polishing off his fourth beer and tugging on some bright yellow kitchen gloves. Libby sagged as her contraction ended, her head lolling and tears spent. She shuddered at the feeling of something large sliding out of the back of her body and immediately started panicking despite her exhaustion.
âNu! Nu! Pwease! Wibby sowwy! Wibby nu wanâ make bad poopies! Poopies nu come out!â she shrieked. âNu huwt Wibby! Nu sowwy stick! Nu gif owwies!â She spent the last bit of strength in her limbs trying to scoot her bloated, shaking form away from what she thought was a pile of feces behind her.
âWhoa, whoa!â said Brian, leaning into her field of vision and putting his great hands palm-forward near her face. âYouâre not shitting, Libby, youâre having babies. Calm down, get it?â The big bearded man was a little taken aback by Libbyâs obvious fear and panic. He had also noted the new crook in her tail, marking the point at which it hung limply. He reached out and petted her head, the eveningâs only meager taste of comfort. His host did not catch Brianâs reproachful glance, but instead knelt behind Libby at the edge of the cloudy, blood-streaked puddle and picked something up with his gloved hand.
âPw - hah - hahhh- pwease nu mowe. Pwease hewp. Hu - hu - huh - huhhh.â begged the mare, limply rolling her head back and forth as a streamer of drool trailed down to the dirty carpet.
âYep, and itâs fucking gross,â growled Libbyâs Papa as he clumsily stripped away the amniotic sac from the foal.
âWait, man, donât just pull the cord out, you should fold it to break the fibers.â said Rich, armed with information fresh from the internet and keenly inspecting the newborn. âWhite fluff, black mane - they call that a âdomino.â Itâs an earthie male. Put him in front of her so they can meet.â
Libbyâs Papa set the tiny, weakly squirming creature down on the carpet remnant in front of his motherâs nose. Libby, exhausted and stricken with pain as she was, could not help herself from frantically sniffing and then licking the squirming infant.
âOh - oh - oh - widdle babee,â she said, âMamah wuv you, babee, mama wiww gif miwkies and huggies foweva. Wibby wuv babee. Coo, coo, coo - HUH! HUUUH! NUUU! PWEASE NU MOWE OWWWAAAHHH! HAHHH!â Libbyâs first chat with her foal was choked off as another contraction squeezed her womb. One more time she found herself helplessly flagellating her limbs and bugging her eyes out as she screamed and cried over her new foalâs head. This time two tiny, colorful packages slid out of her body along with another helping of greasy fluid and blood. The men all groaned and exclaimed, with Mike leaning forward like a hunting stork to catch it with his camera.
Rich took a quick account as Libbyâs Papa disgustedly snapped the umbilicals like soggy string beans. âAhh! Both unicorns, one mono red and the other red on black. Those are great colors, man!â
âYeah?â said Papa, brightening a little âYou think theyâll be worth some money?â
âSure. So far I want the red-on-black one.â
Papa set both the new foals down in front of Libby. She was sobbing and exhausted, but she managed to wrap her front legs around her offspring as she lay splayed out on the carpet. Her eyes were half-closed as she nuzzled, licked and sniffed the tiny foals, cooing repeatedly like a dove and breathing deeply between sobs.
âWibby wuv babees,â she purred between gasps, âBabees bestest babees, and Wibby wiww be bestest mummy fow babees. Babees wanâ miwkies? Wibby haf miwkies for hungwy babeesâŚâ Libby tried to roll onto her side to expose her teats, but she stopped suddenly. âNuuu⌠pwease nu moar tummy owwies⌠HUUUH! HUUUUH! NU MOAW!â The pegasus mare braced herself again and re-planted her legs on the carpet, crying as another contraction rocked her body.
Rich again had the knowledge handy. âYeah, sheâs going to squeeze out the plumbing. This is going to get gross.â
âJesus Christ, man, how much worse could it get?â
âWibby huwt⌠HuuâŚâ Libby grunted and painfully half-lifted her tail again as the final gout of amniotic fluid, this time coupled with a healthy portion of blood and the dark red squashed octopus of her placenta. The men all groaned and bellowed again. This time Brian looked positively queasy. Rich, on the other hand, noticed a tiny blot of color in the mess.
âHey, man! Look, there - itâs a runt!â
âHuh!â said Libbyâs Papa, gingerly pushing aside the blob of afterbirth and recovering the tiny figure. âItâs a little copy of Libby, white with red tips.â
âSheâs going to reject it.â
âThe fuck she will.â Your Papa carries the tiny bundle over to Libby, who is again straining to roll on her side. Interrupted, Libby sniffs the runt just as thoroughly as she did her other foals, and then wrinkles her nose at it.
âNu wike. Bad babbee.â she wheezes.
Papa snorted at her. âTake care of this one or Iâm going to make you regret it.â
âBabee is bad, nu smeww pwetty. Wibby onwy haf miwkies fo good babees.â Libby weakly attempted to push the tiny, peeping runt away with her hoof. Papa responded by reaching out with deadly calm and grasping Libbyâs left ear, cheek and neck all in one handful and squeezing her flesh painfully. Libby started trembling and came alert, looking up at him in fear.
âAre you kidding me?â Papa rolled her over and stuck the runt on her lower nipple. He stared into her eyes with barely contained anger. Terrified Libby didnât move while her Papaâs painful grip was holding on to the side of her face and throat. Adrenaline had brought her senses back enough to recognize the danger she was in. The tiny, stunted white foal latched onto her nipple and was weakly pawing at her teat.
âItâs not her fault,â said Rich in a placating tone, âThe runts collect chemicals that smell bad to the mom. They reject them because theyâre less likely to make it.â His words rang out hollowly in the garage. Papa glared at Libby closely while the runt had its first meal, and then he and his friends caravanned the whole brood and the exhausted dam inside. Brian spread out the old blanket from the bottom of Libbyâs sorry box, plopped her spongy blue dog bed on top of that, and assembled the tiny family of fluffy ponies. The foals, little more than fuzzy grubs, only held the menâs attention for a short while, so they decamped to the living room to play games and drink more beer. Libbyâs Papa clumped into the tiny room now and again to check on the family, and every time he would pull one of the other three foals off Libbyâs teat and replace it with the runt.
Libby got the message. Her instincts were to kick at the stunted little creature and drive it away to die by itself in the cold, but she knew that her Papa would find out and hurt her. Instead, she cooed and sang to her babies as she alternately sniffed and licked them, embraced them into her warm fluff, or let them drink from her teats. She decided that she would love her babies and protect them from Papa. Except the runt.
Chapter 12
You are Libby, the white pegasus with red wings, a red tail and a red mane. You are a mommy! You have babies! After living alone with your meanie Papa, you finally have someone around who wants to give you huggies and love. You have three foals and a runt. You donât like the runt and push it away from you, but your Papa said he would give you the biggest owwies if you didnât let it num, too, so you give in every once in a while and let it crawl over to your milkie place or let it give your other foals huggies.
âBabees are good babees, coo, coo,â you chime at the three little wiggling forms, your good babies. They still have their eyes closed. They squish their tiny hoofies into your milkie place when they num, and when you pull them off to give them huggies, they squeak and chirp. The rest of the time they wiggle around in your fluff. You have pulled out some of your fluff and padded it down in your spongy blue dog bed to keep your babies warm when you have to get up. Your tummy is still a little swollen but you are relieved that you can make good poopies in the litter box again. Thatâs what you were doing when your Papa clumped down the hall and into your room the day after your babies were born. You finish making poopies in a hurry, but he has already appeared at the doorway when you scuttle back to your bed and nudge your squirming foals into a pile before laying down between them and the looming figure of your Papa.
âHow you doing, Lib?â he says in an unfriendly sort of way. âThat was some disgusting shit last night, but according to Rich it might pay off.â You turn your head to keep your eyes on him as he walks up behind you and kneels. âLetâs see your little rug rats.â
âWibby am good mummy. Babees aw good babees.â Papa is so big that your plan to keep your body between him and the foals doesnât work. Your biggest baby, white with a black mane, is chirping and trying to crawl towards your milkie place. Your Papa picks him up instead. Your heart lurches as your baby squeaks and waves his tiny hoofies. âNuu, pwease, babee need miwkies! Gif babee back to Wibby! Nu huwt babee!â Anxiety drives you up out of your bed, upsetting your two other foals and the runt. Now all your babies are crying. You bounce a little on your hoofies.
Your Papa stares at you and you know he is angry. âHey, you donât tell me what to do. Iâll hurt your little rat if I want. Why donât you feed the others? In fact, why donât you feed the runt first?â You gape up at him, your wingies buzzing with scaredies and angries as he continues holding your foal. Your heart starts beating faster because you think Papa might hurt your baby. You try to put the words together that will make him stop being a meanie, but part of you knows it wonât work.
âPwease nu! Babee need miwkies and huggies! If Papa huwt babee, Wibby gif biggest owwies!â
Your eyes go wide as you realize what you just said. The silence in the room seems deafening except the quiet mewling and peeping of your foals. Your Papa cranes his neck down to look at you, and you can see that his eyes have gone cruel and hard like they always do before he does something mean. You try to speak for a few seconds, but nothing comes out.
âW-w-wibby sowwy, Wibby nu wanâ gif ow-HKKK!â is as far as you get before Papa raises his leg and presses his huge foot on your midsection. Setting an incredible weight on your sore guts, he rolls you halfway over with the ball of his foot. The pressure squeezes you flat and makes your milkie places bulge out painfully. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out in a hopeless attempt to relieve the pressure on your innards while the bitter taste of bile seeps into your mouth. You wheeze, but you find that you canât breathe back in. âHegh⌠ghhh⌠ghhkkk!â are the only sounds you can squelch out. Your papa leans down a bit and holds your white foal facing you. Itâs eyes are still closed, but you see it squirm and reach out in your direction, and you hear it cry out.
âYouâre going to give me owwies, huh?â says your Papa slowly. âYouâre going to give me owwies if I hurt your baby?â Papa held his hand up in front of your babyâs tiny tummy, his middle finger curled against his thumb in a gesture that brings up memories of stinging pain in your muzzle. Stars dance in your eyes as you work your mouth, trying as hard as you can to beg Papa not to hurt your little foal. Instead, he presses down a little harder on your still-tender belly with each word: âGo. Feed. The. Runt.â Your Papa then flicks the foal in the belly, and instantly a jet of undigested milk pops out of its tiny mouth and a stream of light brown diarrhea comes from its hindquarters. Your foal gags and struggles to breathe through the barf, moving its little hooves in a jerky fashion much faster than you have ever seen before. It is like a tiny bug thrashing with spindly legs.
Your Papa finally raises his shoe from your belly. You breathe in with a painful honking noise, wheeze, and gasp again. The air rushing into your body tastes better than anything else you can think of. You look up at your Papa, his face staring at you and his hands still holding your shaking, crying foal. Only fear of him harming your baby any more makes you able to move. You clamber to your feet and stagger over to your bed, where you flop down gasping next to the rest of your brood. Feeling Papaâs cruel eyes on you, you reach out and slide the runt with the not-pretty smell down to your milkie place. You feel the weak little bad baby latch on and start drinking, its feeble hoofies squishing your milkie place as it desperately gulps down milk. You tenderly reach out and guide the red unicorn baby down between your legs as well, and then scoop up the remaining one and hug it smell the sweet-smelling fuzz.
âBabees, babees,â you sob âMummy sowwy. Mummy wuv babees, nu wanâ babees to haf owwies.â You canât bring yourself to coo at your babies like you know you should be doing. After a minute or two, your heart stops pounding and you twist a little to look up at your silent, looming Papa. âW-w-wibby am good fwuffy. Pwease? Pwease gif babee to Wibby? Babee haf owwies and need huggies and wuv. Wibby am sowwy fow being bad fwuffy. Wibby w-w-wuv Papa.â You want him to stop being mean to you and your foals, but you can tell he likes hurting and scaring you.
âSure, shithead! You finish up here and you can come get this little guy in the living room. Iâm going to play with him a little more.â Your Papa turns and walks jauntily out of the room. You listen to his big footsteps clump down the hallway, and once he is safely far enough away you sit halfway up and push the runt off your milkie place. Your insides still hurt from Papa squashing you. Your other unicorn foal gets the idea and crawls down to nurse while you awkwardly scrape and shove the struggling, crying runt out in front of you. You are shaking with anger, and it all seems to be focused on the stunted little pegasus that looks like a miniature copy of you but smells like a bad baby that only wants to steal milk from good babies. You stick your tongue out at it.
"Wibby nu wike bad babee. Wibby wanâ gif babee sowwy poopies and owwies,ââ you hiss at the struggling little figure. Your anger feels hot as you reach out with your front hoofie and gingerly swat it, trying to make it feel hurt and beaten like you do. It chirps and squeaks, waving its little hoofies around as if trying to ward off any further blows. You hit it again, bouncing its little head off the wooden floor. Then you burst out crying as the first unicorn foal, the red one with the tiny grey horn and the wine-colored mane and tail, finally lets go of your milkie place and crawls back up into your fluff. When the other unicorn is full, you will have to abandon them here for the first time and go get your biggest baby back from Papa. You hope they will not be too cold, but you donât know what else to do.
Your Papa is waiting in the living room. You can hear the panic in the âtaptaptapâ noise your own hoofies make on the wooden floor. Papa has moved his chair away from his blinky box and has put a box in front of it, and next to that a stack of the big dusty books from the bookshelf. You can hear your baby cheeping and crying out from the cushion of the chair, and you can smell whiffs of his sweet scent, but you canât see him. Near frantic with worry, you pace in a tiny circle around the chair, bouncing on your front hoofies and buzzing your wingies in an attempt to catch a glimpse of your poor baby.
"Papa, pwease - pwease gif babee to Wibby. Babee need huggies and miwkies and warmies. Pwease, nu huwt babee, babee am good babee - " you chatter, feeling tears well up in your eyes.
âSo youâre going to give me big owies if I hurt your little piece of shit, huh?â says your Papa coldly. He stands over the chair, looking down at you with an expression you know well. Papa is going to hurt you and make you cry and thereâs nothing you can do about it.
âPwease, Wibby sowwy,â you say, trying to stay calm and figure out how to keep Papa from hurting your foal any more, âPapa gif Wibby sowwy stick, Wibby am bad, pwease nu huwt babee. Babee is good babee, nu do anyfing bad. Babee haf cowdies and scawedies.â
âWell, then just climb up here and get him.â Your Papa waves at the boxes and books. You look at it, then at Papa, and you realize that he wants you to climb up and get your baby off the seat. Your babyâs peeps and chirps seem to get louder and louder in your ears. Looking up at Papa balefully, you walk over to the stack of books and sniff them, then tap them with your hoofie. It makes a âbonkâ noise and shakes a little.
âPwease, nu wanâ bookies ow boxie. Pwease gif babee.â you beg, but you know Papa is not going to be nice. He laughs at you and walks away, getting one of his drinky bottles from the fridge. You timidly step onto the first stack of books. They are too narrow for you to walk easily, so you try to go very slow. Once you mount the second pile, you feel a little dizzy from the unfamiliar feeling of air beneath you, but you realize that your foal has stopped crying. âBabee? Babee nu be scawed. Mama wiww gif you miwkies and huggies. Babee?â you cry out. You take another both-feet step, and your Papa comes out of the kitchen and stands close to you, making you tremble a little in fear.
âYouâre doing good, Lib.â says Papa. You know now that when he sounds nice he is going to do something mean to you. You try to focus and move forward another step. The box shudders underneath you, and you flick your tail to and fro, wincing at the pain from the spot where Papa tied a boot to it. It hasnât fully healed and is always crooked and sore. You strain to lift your head up so you can see your baby. You are panting and tears are coming from your eyes now. You take another back-hoofies step and you are almost ready to reach out and pick up your baby with your mouth when the chair rolls away from you with an awful grinding sound. You jerk your hoofies and slide off the box, crashing to the floor in the blink of an eye, smack on the right side of your face and your front right hoofie.
âAAAWWWWOOOOO, huu huu, Wibby faww down!â you cry, sprawled out on the floor. Your face and hoofie throb and throb with pain. Your cheek starts to swell on one side right away, making your eye on that side go bleary. One of your toothies falls out of your jaw and lands on the floor in a tiny puddle of blood and drool.
âOh, no, Lib!â hoots your Papa, âYou fell down ju - hey, donât you dare fucking shit on my floor!â he thunders, switching from his usual cruel mocking tone to an angry yell. âDonât you fucking dare!â
âNUUU! SOWWY! SOWWY! PWEASE! NU POOPIES!â you cry as you clump around three-legged, in too much pain to stop your body from pushing scaredy poopies out from your poopie place. Beyond the pain that rockets up your leggie every time you set it down, you feel sure that Papa is going to hurt your foal now. He might kick you and hurt you until you sleep forever, too, and you know your other foals will die without their mommy. You screech and gibber, begging your Papa for mercy. âNu kiww babee! Pwease nu kiww! Wibby sowwy!â Your scaredy poopies splatter on the floor in an arc behind you.
âGod dammit, now this little rat is shitting too! Christâs sake!â your Papa snarls, and he snatches up your foal by the tail, and you see through your good eye that it is making gobbets of scaredy poopies all over itself. Papa leans over to where you are cowering and drops the foal onto the wood. You lurch forward, but only succeed in jamming your injured leggie against the floor again. Your foal hits the deck inches from your nose as you make dumb hoots with your mouth. Trying to ignore the pain, you clamber up to your feet again and put your body between Papa and your foal. You are almost surprised that he does not kick you. You snatch up your foal up by its scruff and hobble back down the hallway, holding one leggie up as best you can and trying not to bite the foalâs scruff when the pain shoots through your body. You hear Papa swearing as he walks into the kitchen to get the fuzzy and splashy things he always uses to clean up your bad poopies.
You feel like you wonât make it back to your bed, but you do. Piling up your chirping foals and laying down next to them takes so long and hurts so bad that you canât stop crying. Once down, you frantically lick your babees and breathe their sweet scent, trying to think of anything except being scared and hurtâŚ
âWuv babees - wuv babees - wuv babeesâ you sob, âcoo - coo - coo.â You are so scared and full of hurties that you donât even notice the runt as it joins your little family in cowering all together and clinging to each other. Gradually, your heart stops pounding in your ears, and you calm down enough to lay on your side and let your poor foals nurse, starting with the black-maned white one. He blindly nums on your teat, squishing your milkie place, which makes you feel like you can breathe again. The dark unicorn baby follows his lead while you wrap your hoofies around the red one and squeeze him into your fluff. After a few minutes, you have calmed down enough to realize that you are smelling not-pretties, and you pry the white foal off your milkie place and try to lick all the scaredy poopies off it while it chirps and waves its hoofies.
The gritty brown slime coats your mouth and fills your mind with its awful taste. You donât want to get up and spit it in the litter box, so you have to choke it down through your tears. One of your other foals has made bad poopies in the bed, but you are too tired to cope with that right now. You also realize that the bad baby, the runt, tricked you and has joined your familyâs fluff pile. You glare down at it and start shaking with anger. You know that Papa likes the bad baby, and that he would never hurt it or steal it like he did with your good baby. It is lying in the fluff that you pulled out of your own body to keep your good babies warm.
âHate you,â you hiss at the bad baby. âNu faiw. Gif huwties. Kiww you.â You want to hit the bad baby, but your front hoofie is swollen and burning with pain, so you spit at it instead before you pass into a fitful sleep while listening to it cry.