[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 15
Libby the newly-foaled pegasus lives in a little house with wooden floors with her alcoholic, abusive Papa. Lately the situation has begun to deteriorate. The mare was greatly cheered up by the birth of her litter, but plunged into despair again when her Papa sold off one of the foals. Then the father began to play cruel games with the little family of fluffies. Libbyâs stressed-out mind lost control and she gave her Papa âsorry poopies.â He responded with inebriated rage, beating and choking her, and the little white pegasus with crimson wings lost consciousness to the sound of her foal crying.
She awakens with a gasp, trying to lurch to her feet, but her bruised body foils her. Breathing in sharply ignited a pain in her throat and neck. She instinctively reached up to try to hug the pain away, but her crooked, sore hoof stung her and refused to comply. Moreover, she was in a confined space, and her tail was pressed against the wall, throbbing with a gritty, dull pain where it had been permanently bent. All these sensations assaulted her at the same time, and it was too much. She shook, cried, and gibbered as her nervous system sluggishly came alive.
âOwwies⌠owwies⌠nu wike⌠pwease nu huwt Wibby,â she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. After an interminable time, she realized that she was in her sorry box. When she tried to move again, she found that there was something else in here with her, occupying half the space of the old dog carrier. In the dim light that slipped through the bars, Libby gradually made it out: It was one of Papaâs shoes, and it was covered in a slowly-drying cake of her own feces. It was the shoe she had given Papa sorry poopies on, and it was locked in her sorry box with her. Shit was smeared on her back and the walls of the box.
âNu smeww pwetty,â Libby moaned through her bruised windpipe, and sobbed again as she understood that she couldnât get away from the huge foulness of the shoe. The sorry box was just barely big enough for her to stand up in, and her agitation drove her to climb to her feet. Her head felt heavy and was full of strained tendons and blood vessels from being choked. It seemed like her whole body was in pain. Even her snout was damaged, and the soft tissue under her nose was split open and scabbed over. In the dim light, it took her some time to learn that one of her eyes was cloudy and seeping, and her field of vision on that side was restricted. Finally, she became aware of something so terrifying that she momentarily forgot all her other complaints.
âMiwk!â peeped the tiny voice of her white foal through the bars. âMummy! Miwk!â it chirped again.
Through the bars, she could see her white foal sitting on his haunches at the metal bars and peering at her with his bright, clear eyes. She shuffled painfully forward and bent down to try to nuzzle him through the bars. The foal accepted that amiably enough, but then he reared up and placed his tiny hooves on the cage bars and cheeped at her. âGif miwk!â
âWibby am sowwy, babee. Wibby am in sowwy box.â
The foal didnât register what Libby was trying to say, and instead banged on the bars until he ran out of energy and sunk back down, panting a little. Libbyâs heart ached as the foal puffed his cheeks out in frustration. Attracted by the noise, the other remaining foal - besides the runt - ambled into view at the front of the box and joined the chorus.
âMummy! Miwk!â said the white one
âHungwy!â squeaked the red one.
âHungwy!â agreed the white one, starting to cry.
Panic rose in Libbyâs addled mind. Her babies were hungry, and she had no idea how long she had been asleep. She tossed her head painfully one way and then the other, but she knew the only way she could escape the sorry box was if Papa released her.
âWET WIBBY OUT!â Libby suddenly howled, the effort scratching her throat badly. All it accomplished was to scare her foals, and they skittered away from the sorry box and hid in the nest. They didnât stay there long, as there was no comfort to be found, and the gnawing in their bellies drove them back to the bars. Libby flopped down with her damaged snout against the grate so she could at least breathe in her foalsâ sweet scent instead of the oppressive stench of the shit-covered shoe.
The white foal, brave as ever, became more and more shrill in his demands for food and his complaints of hunger. He soon started crying, and then stamped his tiny hooves on the floor. When that didnât get results, he lashed out through the bars and poked Libby on her nose. By chance, the tiny blow fell right where the tender snout flesh had been split by Papaâs open-handed slap. Libby recoiled, the sudden movement sending jolts of pain across her face, her dampened eye, crooked hoof and bent tail. In an instant, her heart surged with rage and she spat at the little foal, and then banged on the bars of the sorry box a good deal louder and more convincingly than her baby.
âDUMMEH BABEE!â she snarled. âNU HUWT MUMMY! Mummy gif biggest owwies!â
The foalâs eyes sprung wide open and it hunched over as it sprayed a tiny spout of milky feces from its hindquarters. It then squealed and ran away sobbing, with the little red unicorn foal on its heels, to cower in the nest for the second time in ten minutes. Libbyâs anger vanished, and she started crying to see what she had done.
âNu, babee! Wibby am sowwy! Wibby nu huwt babee!â she called, but she couldnât tell if they were listening. She didnât even know if her Papa was home. She broke down crying again. âWibby am bad mummy. Wibby am bad. Bu huu huu.â After a while, her foals returned. They cried to her and begged for nourishment again, but gradually they ran out of energy and simply lay on the floor in front of the bars and hugged each other.
Libby was too full of guilt and worry to calm down. She could hear her foalsâ tiny bellies growling from hunger. She got up and clumsily turned around in the tight space of the dog carrier, her bruised face scraping against the beige plastic wall. She attempted to back up so that her hanging teats would be pressed against the bars, but she painfully jammed her tail against the roof of the dog carrier. Gasping, she scuttled forward a step to take pressure off her damaged tail, and inadvertently mashed her face into the top of the shit-covered shoe in the back of the carrier.
âNuuuuu!â she gasped, tossing her head to try to clear her breathing passages. She could feel the cold, gritty shit smearing into her fluff. The smell was overpowering, and she desperately tried to crane her neck to one side to get some fresh air. Backing up again, she managed to thread her tail through the bars and back fully up against them. She toddled as tall as she could in the back and gingerly lowered her chest and head to the floor, trying to tilt her bulbous teats out where her offspring might be able to get at them. She gagged and wheezed, the awful not-pretty stench threatening to make her sick.
âBah-bah-⌠Babees⌠Babees num miwk?â she cried. Her limbs started trembling with the exertion of holding her into this strange position when she suddenly felt a tickle at her milky place! Could it be? She strained to back up into the cold metal grate even harder. Sure enough, she felt a tiny foalâs mouth clamp onto her nipple with a fragile grip, and she felt a weak tickle on either side as the foal desperately tried to squish at her teat. She shuddered as her hip and chest muscles started to burn with the effort. She felt the other foal grasp ahold of her other teat - she couldnât tell which was which. She burst out crying with relief as her foals hungrily drained the sweet milk from her body. They were not going to starve. She wasnât the worst mother ever. After a few minutes, her legs gave out and she thudded down to the floor of the sorry box, hopelessly smearing her face with her own shit. Darkness claimed her.
When she woke up, she went through the difficult effort of turning around again. Between that and the nagging pain from her tail, leg, eye and face, she was exhausted, but at least she could see. Her two foals were scampering awkwardly about, first hugging and then bumping playfully into each other. She knew they would be hungry again soon, and now that she was more conscious of her own empty belly. She had no idea how long she had been locked in the sorry box. After a few minutes, she got a surprise: Her hated runt, the tiny little stunted foal, had clambered weakly out of the nest and walked over to the bars at the front of the sorry box. Its eyes were were crusted with mucus that she had never bothered to clean off. It looked up at her feces-smeared face, appearing as if it had a difficult time keeping its head steady, and croaked out the first word she had heard it say.
âMiwk?â
Libby had no pity left for the little creature who smelled bitter and stupid, and she didnât have the strength to turn back around and perform the acrobatics it took to get her milky places against the door. The runt was thin and shaking. It lifted its head again and croaked at her pathetically before making a heroic effort to climb over the plastic lip of the dog carrier and through the grate. Libby was suddenly afraid when it stuck its little head through, so she kicked it sharply with her good front leg. It made a burbling squawk and fell down to the wooden floor of the little room, where it would spend the next few hours crawling in a meandering half-circle. It begged to be fed only one more time before laying down crying and twitching helplessly.
The sunlight faded and the room went mostly dark. Libbyâs foals played and slept in front of her, and then as the hours passed, they begged to be fed again. Libby sighed and gathered her strength for a repeat performance. Face down in the back of the sorry box, breathing the fumes from the crusty shit and trembling as the pain and fatigue climbed up her limbs, she was confronted with her worst fear: She ran dry. Only half-fed, her foals grew frustrated and then desperate, gnawing on her tender teats in an effort to squeeze out more life-giving milk, but there was none. She gave up and slumped to the ground. It was only then that she felt the emptiness of her own stomach and recognized that she had not been fed in a long time. She wiggled back around to face out of the bars and was confronted by the mewling of her unsatisfied brood.
âMiwk!â piped the white foal, echoed by the red one.
âSowwy, babees, nu haf miwk, mummy neeâ nummies fow miwk,â you say.
âMiwkies! Huggies!â
âSowwy, babees, nu can gif huggies, mummy sowwy. Mummy sowwyâŚâ the fluffy trailed off into silence and only sat and stared out at her foals as they begged and begged. She had no more energy to do anything but lay there and stare through her one good eye. As before, her babies gave up and they simply sat in front of her and hugged each other and cried. Libby wanted to cry with them but she felt like she didnât have any tears left. She was next awakened by the sound of her Papa leaving the house in the morning. She knew that he would be gone all day, and that she and her family would simply start to starve. Her foals started crying and shivering as soon as they woke up.
Chapter 16
You are Libby, the white mare. You have been locked in your sorry box for a long time with one of your Papaâs shoes that is covered in your not-pretties. You dimly remember giving your Papa sorry poopies when he was hurting your baby, but it seems like a long time ago. He beat you, and locked you in the sorry box where you lie in your own poopies and look out through the bars. You have a lot of owwies. Papa hurt your tail by tying a boot to it, and he dropped you on the floor and made your hoofie crooked. After that, he beat and choked you. You are missing a toothie, your nose is bruised and split, and one of your eyes is cloudy and swollen. Your throat is dry and croaky, so you stopped talking to your babies. You donât have anything to say anyway.
You havenât had any nummies in a long time, long enough for your tummy to give you the worst owwies, which makes you bite your front hoofie and gradually strip away most of the fluff from it. Now you have run out of milkies. Your babies have grown weaker and weaker. They donât understand why you canât give them milkies, so they have saddies and beg. You canât help them or even hug them to make their hurties better. They have given up hitting the metal bars with their hoofies and are lying in front of the grate, alternately crying and hugging each other as their tummies give them the worst owwies. The little one, the bad baby, had tummy owwies so bad that he lay down and wiggled until he died right in front of you.
The light rises and fades again. Your stomach crawls with pain. You hear a dull boom from the front of the house as your Papa comes home. You hear him clunking around in the kitchen, then clump down the hall. You start panting as he enters the room.
âJesush Christ, I can shmell your ass from the front doorshtep!â he booms. Your foals squeak in fear and run out of your field of vision. You think they are climbing into the blue spongy dog bed. âYou havinâ a good time in there, sshithead?â Your Papa kneels down and peers into the front of the sorry box.
âPwease,â you croak, your voice raw and phlegmy, âpwease.â You hate Papa and are afraid of him, but you canât think up anything to do but beg him to keep you and your foals from having tummy owwies until you all make the longest sleep.
You donât think your Papa even heard you. âYou still think shitting on my shoes was a good idea? Huh?â he roars, wobbling a little.
âPwease. Nummies.â you manage to gurgle out. âBabees. Neeâ miwkies. Pwease.â
âYeah? You want some fuckinâ nummies? Here you go!â Your Papa flung something at the front of the sorry box, a handful of tiny dark shapes that clattered and bounced all around you. You recognized them through your good eye - it was dry kibble. The smell of food made you frantic and you grunted and mewled to yourself as you humped about in your sorry box desperately scarfing up the tiny squares.
âOh - oh - num - num - num - mmggh,â you blathered, crunching the kibble and rising to your feet to hunt for chunks that might have been lost in your fluff. You find some that landed in the growing puddle of not-pretties behind you and scarf them up without a secondâs hesitation, the drying crust of poopies mixing with the texture and taste of the food. You donât even notice, you are so hungry. However, the crunchy dry kibble scratches up your throat, which has not yet healed since your Papa throttled you some time ago.
âPapa,â you try to say, but it comes out sounding like âpahah.â You try again. âPapa, pwease, neeâ wawas.â
âOh, right, I forgot!â From his pocket Papa produced a crunchy little clear bottle half-full of wawas. He clapped his huge hand on the metal bars at the top of your sorry box, and lifted the front end right up off the floor. Croaking in fear, you planted your hoofies on the ground in a futile effort to prevent yourself from sliding backwards into a heap against the poopies-covered shoe, trying to ignore the hot pain in your broken hoofie. Your view out of the sorry box crazily swings about, and with your good eye you see your Papa aim the little plastic bottle down towards your face. A stream of shiny wawas falls down, splits against the bars and dashes against your face and chest with a thudding noise. You frantically try to get your mouth in the way of the stream, but when it hits it splashes up your nose and shoots down your throat, making you feel like you are choking. You manage to swallow a mouthful of cool, clear wawas, but then you have to cough and cough, and snot begins to run from your mashed-up nosie.
You see your Papa release his grip on the bars, and your sorry box crashes back down to the floor with a tremendous boom that makes your ears hurt. A tiny wave of wawas mixed with your poopies washes forward around your hoofies, and you are so thirsty and scared that you start lapping it up as quickly as you can, pausing only to gasp or to gag when a soggy, slimy bit of poopies slides down your throat. Your Papa says something, but you are too busy slaking your thirst to pay attention until he turns towards you and says it again.
âThe fuck is this??â comes his scary voice, as he holds up your dead, bad baby and makes it look at you.
âBah-ba- babee,â you say, your rattled brain still trying to work out what is happening.
âTHE FUCK IS THIS?â roars Papa, frightening you so bad that you start trembling.
âBah-babee nu haf miwkies, haf tummy owwies. Babee way down.â
âItâs your fucking runt!â bellows your Papa, pressing the dead baby against the cage bars right in front of you. âYou let it die! You let it fuckinâ die! Do you remember what I said I was gonna do if you let it fucking die, bitch?â
âPwease nu huwt Wibby,â you beg.
âWHAT DID I SAY WOULD HAPPEN IF THE RUNT DIED, SHITHEAD?â your Papa snarls.
âWi-wi-wib-wibby get w-w-wowst owwies.â You say in a small voice.
âThatâs right! Thatâs fuckin-a right!â hollers your Papa, snapping open the cage door and locking his impossibly strong fingers on your ear. He drags you part of the way out of the sorry box and then switches his hand down to your injured front hoofie. You gritted your teeth at first, but as your Papa wrenches your damaged hoofie up and out, you have to open your mouth and scream in pain. Your Papa jams the dead foal into your open mouth.
âEAT IT, YOU FUCKINâ BITCH! YOUR OTHER RATS GET TO LIVE, AND THIS ONE DIES? YOU FUCKINâ BITCH!â your Papa raves into your ears as he shoves the squishy, clammy dead body of the foal deeper into your gullet. One of its eyes pops against your back toothies and oily, bitter-tasting fluid splashes the roof of your mouth. You try to push it out with your tongue or breathe around it, but Papa is always too strong. He shoves it in so hard and so deep that the sore tendons in your neck spasm against it. You feel your guts clench and a pathetic dribble of diarrhea spews out of your hind end. You go limp, wondering if you would finally choke to death.
When you stop struggling, your Papa releases his grip and picks up your sorry box again, scooping you back into its soggy, not-pretty depths. He screams one final volley of angry yelling at you and hurls your sorry box against the wall of your room. The noise is so loud and the crash is so hard that it rattles every bone in your body. Itâs like the whole world splits open. You hit the beige plastic inside of your sorry box along with a wave of water and soggy pieces of your old poopies. The world shrinks down into a tiny grey blob in front of your snout. You donât even notice that the bad baby was knocked out of your throat.
You come awake some time later, your fluff full of poopies-water, and you take a breath that gives you hurties.
âWanâ die. Wanâ die. Pwease.â you cough, then break down sobbing as you realize you were going to live, and that the door to your sorry box is open and hanging on its broken hinges. With every shallow breath you take, your body becomes less numb, but instead of feeling stronger you start to feel pain all over your body: Your tail, face, hoofie and eye begin to throb, followed by one of your wingies. You try to flap it and are rewarded with a searing stab of pain. When your body smashed into the side of the sorry box, your wing was folded back the wrong way and hurt. You think there is blood dripping from it. You gather your strength and move your mouth two inches to the top of your injured hoofie, where you gnaw on it and stare forward with your good eye. Suddenly, a tiny figure pops into the opening of your sorry box and peers into the dank gloom. Itâs your white foal. You can see it shaking.
âMummy?â it squeaks. âMiwk?â
You groan into your swollen hoof, blowing a bubble of ickies against the skin. You are alive, and your foals need milk. You have to get up. The slurry of poopies and water in the bottom of your sorry box makes a sucking noise as you pry yourself up and shuffle forward. When you scrape your broken wing on the top of the doorway, you cringe and cry out with a hoarse voice, and your baby chirps in fear and runs away, leaving spits and gobbets of scaredy poopies in a short trail back to the spongy blue bed. âMunsta!â it yelps before diving into the white fluff that lines the nest. You make it a few steps out of the sorry box before collapsing again into a shaking heap. Your two living babies gradually creep over to you, timidly inching towards your milkie place.
âMummy! Miwk!â says the white one.
âNu pwetty!â moans the red one, wrinkling his tiny nose at your dripping, poopies-covered condition.
âSsss-,â you wheeze, then you manage to croak out âSowwy, b-b-bab-bab-eeh.â
They weakly scrabble their way to your milky place and begin to suckle on your teats, but the nummies you ate have not been turned into milkies yet. Your white baby begins gnawing and biting your milky place, while the red one bursts out crying and shuffles around to your face.
âGif miwkies! Miwkies! Bad!â it cries and pokes you on the face with its tiny hoofies between sobs. The pain feels good to you somehow. Eventually it runs out of energy and falls to the floor, holding its tummy and crying.