[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]
Libby’s face swelled up, and her hoof was full of sharp pains whenever she tried to walk on it. One of her eyes was swollen and misshapen, too. The next day, her Papa left for work and she was happy to be able to stay in her room with her foals. They squirmed around the bed and crawled on her fluff, and she cooed and sang to them and hugged them. They were very hungry, and their bellies were tiny, so they had to creep down to her swollen teats and nurse often. They would clumsily push at each other and cry when they couldn’t feed. She would comfort them and try to pick them up with her front legs, even though it hurt her. It was later in the day that she felt her teats draw empty, and her babies toothlessly gummed her nipples and frantically pawed at her, not comprehending why they couldn’t soothe their hunger. The low-grade kibble she had been eating since she delivered was not remarkably nutritious. The runt had barely had any food at all, and Libby knew that she would pay if it died. When she heard her Papa return home, she was somehow relieved because even though he was cruel and dangerous, he was the only one who could help her. She padded down the hallway, making an off-kilter ‘tap taptap tap’ noise because of her damaged front leg.
“Papa,” she said meekly, keeping her head low and ears flat, “Babees haf tummy owwies. Babees cwy and Wibby nu haf miwkies. Pwease gif good nummies? Wibby onwy wan’ gif miwkies fow babees, Wibby am good fwuffy.” To her surprise, he just grumbled something and stalked into the kitchen, banging around and fiddling with the things he used to make spaghetti for her. Libby’s heart leapt. She would get to eat her favorite food, and she would be bursting with milk for her poor foals. She scuttled away from her Papa, but when she made it to the little room at the end of the hall, she stood the pain in her legs and face long enough to cheer at her brood and bounce a little on her legs, beating her wings with relief and joy.
After a few minutes, the man clumped down the hallway, and Libby smelled the dish of cheap pasta. She was sitting on her belly, sphinx-like, in the spongy blue dog bed, trying to ignore her foals as they chirped and tried to shove their noses under her legs. “Babees nu push mummy,” she chided them without rancor, “Mummy wiww num skettis! Sketties am best nummies! Mummy wiww make bestest miwkies for babees.” She had taken care to keep the runt nearby, to show her Papa that she was taking care of it. Papa didn’t seem to notice, and instead looked around the room and made a displeased face. He was still wearing his work clothes.
“Christ, it smells like shit in here. Are your little tards shitting in the bed?” he snarled. Libby tried to focus through her hunger and the increasingly desperate demands of her foals.
“Babees aww too widdle fo’ good poopies in wittabox,” she said nervously. “Babees aw sowwy, nu wan’ be bad. Nu smeww pwetty.”
“It smells like shit. Jesus Christ. Get out of the bed.” Libby blinked, and slowly started to rise from her bed. When Papa advanced on her, she grew afraid and toddled clumsily out of his way. He knelt on one knee and plunked the dish of hot pasta down on the floor, then reached into her bed and swept most of the fluff lining aside, exposing a few tiny smears and little gobbets of foal shit. Her foals, suddenly chilled, chirped and wiggled their hooves piteously. Papa reached out and picked up the red unicorn foal with the maroon mane. “Hey, is it OK with you if I pick up your little rats, Lib? Or are you going to give me some owwies again?”
Libby tensed a little when he picked up the foal, but she knew better than to complain after last time.
“N-n-nu, pwease, Wibby am good fwuffy. Wibby wuv Papa and babees. B-b-babees nu wan’ be bad.”
“Good, maybe you’re not so stupid after all. Your face looks great, by the way.” He pulled her foals out, but to Libby’s relief he wasn’t being rough with them. He looked the runt over most carefully, making Libby buzz her wings in anxiety. Would Papa know that she had struck it, said mean things to it, spit at it? He appeared not to notice when she retrieved the foals one by one and cooed at them, trying to soothe their confusion. Instead, he pulled the cushion out of the bed and pointed to the little crusty patches and bead-like droppings. “Put these in the litter box.” When Libby didn’t immediately comply, he spoke more fiercely, making her jump: “Pick this shit up with your mouth and put it in the litter box.”
Libby hobbled forward and gingerly picked up the nearest little piece of waste. It melted on contact with her saliva, spreading a foul taste that made her gag and caused tears to rise in her eyes. She limped over to the litter box and spat it into the gravel. Papa made her repeat this several times until most of the visible mess was gone. Then he ordered her to lick some of the grime where her foals had released more liquid contents of their bowels. She tried her best, her fear rising with nausea at having to lick and taste ‘not-pretties.’ In the end, he simply left, and she ignored her growling stomach long enough to reassemble her family in the bed and line it with more fluff that she pulled off her belly and chest. She left the runt mewling on the wooden floor while she ate, but she became so afraid that Papa might catch her mistreating it that she carried it back to the bed after her meal. It was not long before her body metabolized the warm noodles and tangy sauce and she was able to feed her offspring again. It even made her throbbing hoof and muzzle feel better.
Her Papa proceeded to ignore her for most of the next six days. Her foals grew and grew, and their sweet-smelling fluff grew thicker on their grub-like bodies, and then except for the runt, their eyes opened. Libby was ecstatic when she found the white earth pony foal staring up at her with limpid eyes. She giggled and chattered at it, holding up her injured hoof for the tiny little creature to wrap its legs around. He was too light to cause her fractured limb any pain.
“Hewwo, babee! Hewwo! Mummy wuv babee!”
A day or two later, the two little unicorns opened their eyes, too, gazing around at the world with wonder, and squeezing them shut again to cry when they couldn’t nurse. The white earthie foal finally took to his legs, bumbling unsteadily around the nest and reaching out to tap his hooves on his mother when he wanted attention or milk. The other two quickly followed suit. Soon, even the runt opened his strange eyes, although Libby continued to ignore him most of the time. Her Papa stopped by their little room once or twice again to drop off another dish of hot canned spaghetti, and she would pull her foals close and hold them still despite their protests. Then her biggest foal said its first word.
“Miwk!” It was a happy, peaceful week, and now that Libby had someone to love her and talk to her, she began to forget the traumas of the past - except her damaged hoof and bashed-out tooth, which kept reminding her that if she angered Papa he would steal her foals and hurt her, and her cloudy, sore eye that stung when she peered at something too closely. Papa continued to pull her good babies away from her teats and replace them with the runt every once in a while, and twice he made her pick up the not-pretties in her mouth and deliver them to the litterbox.
That all changed when she heard someone knock at the door and heard a voice that, for some reason, made her very nervous. Papa and his spiky-haired blond friend strode into her room and loomed over her, staring down at her little family. Papa had been drinking his smelly bottle drinks already, and now they both had one. She cowered under their gaze. She clumsily pulled her struggling, ambling foals together in a pile with her injured hoof while they chatted in low voices. It took her two tries to restrain the white earthie, who was getting quite good at walking.
“What’s up with her leg, man?” asked Rich.
“Pfft, she fuckin’ fell down again and hurt it.” sneered Papa.
“Is it broken?”
“Nah, she just sprained it.” Papa answered, and belched.
“Pway!” said the white earthie foal, pushing and squirming in a bid to get free of his mother’s embrace.
“So, you still want the black one with the red mane?” prompted Papa, who then emptied his bottle down his throat.
“Yeah, I think so. Red on black, awesome. Hey, even the runt made it, huh?”
“Yeah! I’ve been making her feed it. It pisses her off. Watch. Libby! Roll over!” Libby froze as Papa leaned over in his vertiginous heart-stopping way and rolled her roughly over on one side. He picked up the tiny runt in one hand and with the other pulled the red unicorn baby off her teat, causing it to nip her. The red one cried out and spilled dribbles of milk while the runt immediately mouthed her nipple and began to paw at her and swallow the drops. Papa smirked down at Libby’s silent face and then mumbled, “I’m gonna get another beer.”
He clumped out of the room as Rich squatted down to inspect the mare and her foals. Libby stared up at him with fearful eyes, with her good front leg wrapped around the still-wiggly white earth foal and injured one weakly posed over the two unicorns.
“Libby, I’m going to look at your foals, ok?” said Rich, reaching out slowly.
“Pwease nu huwt babees.” she pleaded, tightening her grip on her foals, who began to peep and chirp.
“Nu! Nu!” squeaked the biggest foal.
“Damn, girl, I’m not going to hurt them. Usually you fluffies are real happy to show off your litter.” Rich tilted his head and looked at Libby’s bruised face and crooked front limb. “Libby, are your babies OK?”
“Babees aw good babees. Nu wan’ be bad babees. Wibby sowwy, pwease nu gif owwies.”
Rich shook his head. Libby tried to hold on to her unicorn foals with her injured hoof, but with the slightest gesture, Rich was able to pull the black one loose. Libby yipped in pain, and tears started filling her eyes. She gasped and struggled to stop crying long enough to speak. "Pwease, " she said in a wobbly voice, “Pwease gif babee. Babee nee’ miwkies and huggies. Pwease nu huwt.” she begged, helplessly staring up at the towering human. Rich had pulled a rag out of his pocket with his other hand, and wrapped the struggling, crying foal’s hindquarters up right on schedule as it urinated and defecated from fear. It continued to cry and wiggle helplessly as Rich carefully flexed all four of its legs, wiggled its tail, and gently pried open its mouth. Libby begged the man to give her foal back a few more times, but shut up immediately when Papa reappeared at the doorway bearing two more brown bottles of his smelly drink.
“So, what do you think, man?” said Papa.
Rich was thinking several things about the condition of the dam and her brood, but he decided to keep it simple and make his exit. "He looks good. Glossy black. Looks like it can just about walk, and it’s nice and chubby.”
“So, you going to feed it formula or what?” said Papa, and belched again. Rich waved off the other beer.
“Yeah, their milk isn’t real complicated, and Spike will recognize the smell as one of his babies. He’ll play with it, teach it to talk, that kind of thing.”
“Ok, are we still down for a hundred bucks?” Still staring at the little swaddled foal, Rich passed over a handful of twenty dollar bills.
“Like I said, Spike and Libby have a real good chance of making some awesome colors. You can probably sell these others for a good price - White with black and two-tone red are in pretty good demand. Maybe even the runt. You think it over, and if you want to we can go again after a couple months.”
“If I can sell them, then you got it.” Papa extended his hand, and Rich slid the tiny squirming foal and his swaddling cloth to his breast pocket before giving Libby’s Papa a good shake. Libby had kept quiet, fearfully waiting for her foal to be returned, but when the spiky-haired man made it vanish, her anxiety finally overcame her fear of speaking up in her Papa’s presence. She struggled to her feet and walked in a nervous circle around where her Papa and Rich were standing.
“Gif babee, pwease,” she said, “Babee need mummy fo’ miwkies. Pwease gif babee? Gif babee nao?” she chattered, craning her neck up to catch a glimpse of the foal. She timidly reached out and tapped Rich’s boots with her injured hoof. Both the humans looked down at her with unreadable expressions.
“Libby, I’m taking your foal to my house, I am going to be its new Papa.” offered Rich.
“Don’t bother, man,” said your Papa. “Let me walk you out and I’ll deal with this shit.”
The men turned and walked down the hallway, faster than she could go on three good legs. She bleated after them, her voice climbing higher and more shrill with every step. “Nu, pwease! Nu wike! NU! GIF BABEE! PWEASE! WIBBY WUV BABEE!” she howled. Rich blew out of the house and the door closed with a heavy sense of finality. Libby rounded the corner at the end of the hall and saw her Papa standing alone. Panic gripped her mind. “NU! NU! MEANIE PAPA NU TAKE BABEE! GIF BABEE! GIF BABEE NAO!” she screamed, stamping on the floor in anger and puffing her cheeks out.
Her Papa turned around and sneered at her. “Oh, sorry, Lib, I sold your baby. Your baby’s gone and you’ll never see it again.” He squatted down close to her and watched with growing amusement as she limped past him to paw at the front door through which her foal had vanished.
“NU! PWEASE WET WIBBY OUT! WIBBY NEE’ BABEE! WIBBY WAN’ BABEE! PWEASE!” she screeched at the door, rearing up and banging on it with her front legs. She rounded on her Papa. “GIF BABEE! YOU NU TAKE BABEE FWOM WIBBY! WIBBY HATE MEANIE PAPA!” She was so angry and upset that she puffed her cheeks out and spat at her Papa before she realized what she was doing.
“Oh, yeah, you little piece of shit?” snarled her Papa. Before Libby knew what was happening, her Papa’s hand had grabbed her throat, and she found herself choking, hanging from his grip as he whisked her into the kitchen and pinned her down to the counter with her hindquarters pointing into the cold metal sink. She snarled and puffed her cheeks at him again until her consciousness was swept aside by a sudden blast of hateful pain coming from her leg. Her Papa was squeezing her broken hoof and slowly creaking it up and down, grinding the damaged tissues against each other. Libby gasped sharply and then screamed uncontrollably as agony filled her body.
“AAAAAAUUUUUU!! AAAAAUUUUUUUWWWW!!! NU! NU! PWEEEAA-AAAAAUUUU!” she yelled, mouth open as far as it would go and thrashing her limbs and head around hopelessly. Her body convulsed, and she blasted a gout of feces and a spray of urine out of her hindquarters which splattered into the sink. Her papa’s huge face loomed in her vision.
“There you go. You remember who’s the boss around here, shithead?” he snarled, at last letting go of her damaged leg.
“Haa! Haaa! Hu-hu-hu-hu nu” wheezed the fluffy, lolling and shuddering as the echoes of the pain she had experienced raced up and down her nerves.
“Now, say 'Libby doesn’t have a baby anymore.”
“Wib-wib-wi-nu” was the best she could manage, then she screamed again as Papa gave her damaged hoof another gentle twist.
“Say it, shithead. 'Libby doesn’t have a baby anymore.”
“Wi-Wi-Wibby nu haf babee! Pwease! Pwease nu moar owwies! Wibby nu haf babee! Wibby wan’ go 'way! Wibby nu haf babee!” begged the pegasus, nearly out of her mind with pain.
“There you go. Okay, you go play with your other little rats. I’ll be selling them off as soon as I can. Goddamn, you’re disgusting.” he growled as he slid her off the counter and dropped her from knee height. He pulled the sprayer off the sink and started washing away the mare’s waste as she staggered weakly down the hallway and flung herself down in her bed. She burst out crying when she saw that she only had three babies left, and she started ripping tiny hanks of fluff off her injured hoof as she lay in her bed, staring blankly at the wall and sobbing.
You are Libby, a white mumma with red wings. You had babies, but things have gone all wrong. Your Papa took one of your babies away forever, and he hurt you very badly when you tried to stop him. You remember being happy with your little family, but now when you wake up every morning you see that one of your babies is gone and start crying. It was a black unicorn with a pretty red mane. You don’t know where it is, but you know it needs milkies and love from you. You wonder if it has made forever sleepies. Your front leggie is stiff and sore all the time, and you can feel where one of your toothies is gone and the inside of your mouth has owwies. Your Papa is a meanie and hates you, and you know he wants to take your other babies away. You hate Papa and want to give him the biggest owwies, but you don’t know how.
When your Papa isn’t around, you try to be happy and love your babies. The biggest one is pretty and white with no wingies, and it can walk around without falling down and will sit and listen when you sing and coo to him. It will say “Miwk!” and “Pway!” and “Wuv!” and you are trying to teach it to make good poopies in the litter box. That’s important because if Papa sees too many not-pretties in your bed, he will make you clean them up with your mouthie. The other one is all red with a pointie on its head, and that one is learning to walk. They are both still very hungry. Your bad baby is a little dummy. You hate it and wish you could give him owwies, but Papa told you that if you weren’t nice to the bad baby that Papa would give you forever sleepies. A few days after he took your black baby away forever, he comes in holding a bottle of his smelly drink and picks up the big white foal. This is what you have been afraid of. You climb to your feet, trying to figure out how to make your Papa give your baby back without angering him.
“Papa nu, pwease,” you pant as you trot down the hallway after him, “Pwease nu take babee. Wibby wuv Papa, Wibby wiww be bestest fwuffy evew. Wibby am sowwy. Papa pwease pway wif Wibby and babee?”
“Sshhut up, I’m jussht taking picturesh of it for Ebay.” Your Papa snapped, and then cleared his throat harshly. He was holding your baby up and looking at him curiously. Your baby cried a little when Papa picked him up, but now he is looking at Papa’s face and being very brave.
“Pway?” says your baby.
“Sshure, little sshit. We’re gonna play.” says Papa. You can tell from his voice that he has been drinking smelly bottle juice. That is very, very bad and dangerous for you and your foal.
“Pwease, Papa, wuv babee. Babee am good babee, pwease nu huwt.”
Papa stops in his tracks, wobbling a little on his long, long legs and causing you to stumble, and turns his face down towards you. “Sshut the hell up,” he repeats in a tone that makes your hair stand on end. He clumps down the hallway and puts your baby on the countertop on the little island cabinet in the kitchen. All the lights in the kitchen are on, and Papa pulls a small black box out of his pocket and starts making clicking sounds. You are able to remain calm until you hear your foal’s voice from the top of the cabinet, far above your head.
“Mummy? Cowd!” your baby peeps. You timidly reach out and tap Papa’s shoe with your sore hoofie.
“Libby, if you make one more goddamn shound, I am going to smassh this little sshit with a frying pan.” says your Papa. You don’t understand exactly what he said, but you hear the threat in his tone. Your eyes fill with tears and you slump down on your hindquarters to wait for what happens next.
“Poopies!” says your foal.
“Jesus christ! Great, a picture of him shitting on the counter out to do the trick!” Your Papa reaches out over the counter and you hear your foal make a terrified squeak, followed by a series of muffled whimpers. Your Papa is hurting your foal - just what you were worried about. Suddenly, you think up a way to distract him.
“Papa,” you say softly, “Pwease gif Wibby sowwy stick. Wibby am bad mummy. Babee nu bad, Wibby bad. Pwease gif Wibby sowwy stick.” That brings your Papa up short. He looks down at you, surprised, but fortunately stops doing whatever he was doing to your poor foal. He is shocked for a second, but then he starts laughing.
“Oh, man, that’s hilarious. No, really. Ok. I got a better idea. Thought of it the other day. Hang on. I thought up a game. We’ll play a fuckin’ game.” Your Papa grabs his bottle of smelly juice from the counter and bounds through the big heavy white door that leads to the garage. You get back on your feet and toddle around the island cabinet, whimpering to yourself and hoping to catch a glimpse of your baby. Suddenly, you see a tiny white head peep over the edge of the counter. You can see that there is poopies smeared on its face. Your baby made bad poopies, and your Papa rubbed his face in it.
“Mumma!” cries your foal. You rear up and plant your front hoofies on the cabinet, trying to get as close as possible to your offspring, but it is no use. The countertop is twice your height even when you stretch. “Huggies!” your foal squeaks.
“NU! NU FAWW, BABEE! NU! BABEE STAY! NU HUGGIES!” you bleat, terrified that your baby might fall off the counter. Your terror is interrupted when Papa booms back through the garage door. “Papa, babee wiww faww! Pwease hewp babee!” you beg him.
“Okay, for fucking up the picture and shitting on my counter, you two get to play the rope game! Come on!” announces your Papa. He breezes past you, plucks your foal from the countertop and takes it over to the sink, where he blasts it with water. Your baby squeaks. He starts peeping and chirping like he did when he was a tiniest baby. It jangles in your ears, but there is nothing you can do.
A minute later, you find yourself in the living room, where Papa drops your foal on the coffee table and starts fiddling with a long, thin rope that he brought from the garage. He ties a loop of it around your neck, but you are so frantic to get your foal back that you barely notice. The ivory foal, shivering and damp, tries to walk over to you, but your Papa shoves it away. Your heart lurches as you see him tie the other end of the rope around your foal’s midsection.
“Nu wike! Mummy!” the white foal squeaks, making your heart pound in your chest. Your Papa throws the slack rope off the other side of the coffee table, and then picks up your foal a final time and plops him down on the wooden floor while keeping one hand on your neck to restrain you. Suddenly, he snatches up his drinky bottle again and settles back against the couch while making a sudden chopping gesture in the air between you and your baby.
You immediately dart forward, so frantic to smell and touch your foal that you think you might make sickies. You only make it two steps before the rope around your neck goes tight, and in that instant, the rope tied to your foal jerks taut as well where it leads off around the corner of the table behind him. Your eyes pop out wide in alarm as your foal is yanked away from you by an unseen force. The panic rises in your chest, and you lunge forward to reach him, but instead you feel a stronger pull on your neck, and your little foal is dragged away from you even faster. This time, it bonks its head on the wide brown leg of the coffee table and vanishes around the corner with a peep. You can hear your Papa laughing.
You are utterly confused. You approach the corner slowly, hearing a sliding noise and feeling the weight on your neck pull rhythmically. You pop your head around the corner of the table and are again treated to the sight of your foal being dragged backwards, clipping the corner again as he vanishes.
“BABEE! NUUU!” you cry, and charge forward with all your might, but every time you take a step, your flailing baby is dragged backwards just as fast. With one injured hoof, your top speed isn’t that much, and the rope around your neck makes you wheeze and gasp as you try to keep up. You make a full circuit of the coffee table before you give up and just look at your bruised, mewling foal limp on the wooden floor two feet in front of your nose. You start crying in frustration and try to move forward slowly, but it still makes your baby slide further away. The sound of your Papa laughing rings in your ears.
“Go get your baby, Libby! He’sh right there, get after him! You’ll get him thish time!” he hoots, pointing his tiny black box at you and your foal and making clicking noises.
Your heart fills up with angries. You don’t know how, but your Papa is keeping you away from your foal and laughing at you. He has tricked you into hurting your baby. Beating your wings in anger and anxiety, you turn around and face him. Your heart is thumping in your ears, and in that moment you hate your Papa more than anything else in the world.
“Meanie Papa!” you snarl at him. “Nu be mean to Wibby and babee!” You stick your tongue out at him and give him a raspberry. He laughs at you again, which just makes you angrier. Enraged beyond your ability to care, you turn around and lift your crooked tail and grunt fiercely as you squeeze out the contents of your gut onto your Papa’s shoe. You whirl again and stamp your hooves, and yell as forcefully as you can manage into your Papa’s shocked face, “Sowwy poopies! Papa am dummeh! Wibby hate you! HATE YOU! GIF BABEE TO WIBBY!”
Your Papa stares at you with his mouth open for a long moment. He picks up his leg, shoe covered in splatters and coils of your poopies, and then makes some spluttering noises. In a flash, he grabs you by your throat and slams you down onto the coffee table, his face twisted with rage. You instantly lose the ability to breathe. He is squeezing so hard that your jaw and neck are making grinding noises, and your eyes flash with red and blue sparks. Your last breath splutters out of your mouth as you hear your Papa screaming and thundering. Papa’s mighty other hand appears in your field of vision, but with a booming sound inside your skull you lose your sight as he hits your face, then winds up and does it again. You feel blood start to pour from your nose. You try to pull air into your burning lungs, but it is no use. Just as you lose all feeling in your hoofies, you hear a tiny noise.
“Nu! Bad!” It is your foal’s voice, accompanied by a tiny tapping noise coming from the deck at your Papa’s feet. You know what it is. Your baby is hitting Papa with his tiny, soft hoofies. Everything goes black.