Alastair ‘Mac’ MacDonald stepped out of his home and looked over his property as he did every morning.
Mac owned a farm. Yes, he knew about the ‘old MacDonald’ nursery rhyme. Yes, he’d heard that joke before. No, he did not want to go to a 'McDonald’s.
Well, his family had previously owned a farm, but by the time Mac was born, it was already showing it’s age. Farming was being done by massive corporations these days, there wasn’t much call anymore for Pops on his old rusty tractor and Ma in the kitchen with her tatty apron.
So bit by bit, the land was sold off to surrounding companies and Mac’s siblings had moved away while their parents grew older and eventually just gave up on trying to live anymore.
In the end, Mac was the only one still on the family homestead… because he’d always had an eye for business, and had found a way of turning a profit from their dusty old farm, without even needing to do any real farming.
The ‘farm’ itself consisted of Mac’s family home, the old barn, and the dirt track leading from the two out to the main road to the city, but it was all Mac needed. Hell, the barn alone would be enough, except he also liked his privacy away from his ‘stock’.
Mac walked across the beaten dirt ground to the barn, opened the door, and stepped inside. He flicked a switch on the wall, which acted as a power control for the entire barn operation. With just a flick, he heard several machines start up, along with a lot of muffled wails and cries.
His company was ‘MacDonald’s Milk’, which specialised in selling two products, one more popular than the other. The barn was divided into three sections, two of which were responsible for his products, but all of which were necessary.
Mac made his rounds, as he did every day, and headed to the first section.
It was a small area of the barn with two strong metal tables setup together, spaced apart with a walkable gap between them. Above the tables, hovering just above the tabletop surface, were several female fluffy ponies. They were slumped in some old fishing nets and hanging above the table surface, with their limbs hanging out of the gaps in the mesh material.
But most prominent of all were their swollen milk-filled breasts, which poked out of the mesh just the same as their limbs.
Underneath the tables were a series of milking machines, each of which was modified to have only two nozzles per machine. Each nozzle was fixed to each mare’s breasts and, when the power went on, the machines activated, and began violently pumping the milk out of their crotch-tits. They wailed and shrieked and cried, but it didn’t matter, they were all fitted with special ‘feeding masks’ that Mac had found online (which, like with most fluffy-related products, he suspected was some kind of recylced fetish item).
The mask was like a combination of a scuba diver’s snorkel with a funnel attached to the end. It was jammed into a fluffy pony’s mouth in such a way that they couldn’t spit it back out, and when feeding was required, all the owner had to do was pour some liquid food down the funnel for them.
Mac hadn’t regretted buying them, as they not only made feeding easier, they stopped them from being able to scream or cry clearly, which easily made his job better by a mile.
Mac walked by, checking each mare in turn, which only required a brief glance. Were they moving? Did their eyes look at him as he passed? Did their blood-starved limbs twitch as they reached out to him for a hug?
As long as they showed some kind of life, they were fine, and were ignored as Mac moved on to the next one.
He had almost finished when he found his only casualty for the day, a dull green mare whose eyes were bloodshot and whose entire body was limp. Mac glanced at the milking machine on the floor, it hadn’t managed to extract a single drop.
The bitch was dead, case closed.
He switched off her machine and unhooked her net, hauling the cold, stiff corpse out of the material and disconnecting her breast-pumps. He then tossed the corpse into a large plastic basin sitting by the wall and moved on.
He’d be back for her later.
He moved to the next section, which occupied the middle of the barn. This was a series of metal cages, all stacked up on top of each other, with small pieces of note paper taped to each one.
Inside the cages were more fluffy ponies, most of whom were too scared to talk, the rest of which babbled quietly to themselves, in a desperate attempt to reassure themselves about where they were and what was happening.
In order to get his milk-mares, Mac required pregnant mares. When a mare had her foals, they were taken and put into the various cages. If they were female, they’d be fed and ‘cared’ for until they were of an adult age, at which point they’d be taken to the next section, where they would remain until they became pregnant. Once they were, they’d be brought back to their cage until their breasts began to swell, and before they knew it they’d be hanging in a net to be pumped dry too.
Then their foals would be taken to the cages, and the entire process would start all over again.
As for the male foals… they were taken to the third section too.
Mac made his rounds once more, checking each of the fluffies was alive. None of them were happy, not a single one. Foals without their mamas, forced to subsist on lukewarm day-old milk that had come from Mac’s own farm, who spent their days crying and waddling around, desperately seeking their mother’s comforting warmth.
Other cages were filled with older mares who were silent, knowing already what was in store for them. If they were old enough, it was time to have foals, whether you wanted them or not… then it would be time to lose them, whether you wanted to or not. If you were too young to have them yet, it meant another day of waiting until then, watching as all the others screamed and cried as they were taken away, never to be seen again… unless you were soon to become a milk-mare yourself.
Mac paused as he checked the cages, spotting a brown colored mare with a white mane. The note on the cages listed their dates of birth, as well as their pregnancy status (a simple ‘YES’ or ‘NO’). Mac did some quick maths in his head… and worked out that the brown mare was, as of today, in the ‘adult’ range, and had a ‘NO’ on her note.
It was her time.
He opened her cage and pulled her out, as she broke down into shrieking wails, thrashing fruitlessly in Mac’s tight grip. He closed her cage door and carried her away under his arm, as the others watched, seeing their friend disappear like so many before her.
Mac carried her through to the third section. This was the part he enjoyed the most.
The third section was almost identical to the first section, except for a few small details.
First, there were no mares in sight, only stallions.
Second, the milking machines only had one nozzle.
And third, the stallions had no breasts to milk… so instead, the nozzles were fitted to their dicks.
All along the tables, suspended in nets mounted on brackets, the stallions wailed and groaned behind their feeding masks as the nozzles violently pumped at their cocks, draining every single drop of semen they possibly could.
Mac confirmed none were dead, and carried the shrieking brown mare over to another table at the end of section #3. On this table was a milk bottle crate filled with old turkey basters, as well as basic leg-restraint for fluffies. One by one, he slotted the mare’s legs into the restraint, then once she was secured, picked out a baster from the box and carried it over to the stallions.
Mac didn’t bother checking their colors or types, it never mattered with fluffies anyway, and instead opted for the stallion with the most filled machine. He switched it off for a moment, opened it’s compartment and filled the baster with an inch of watery, gray-white semen, before closing the compartment and switching the machine back on. He walked away, baster in hand, as he heard the stallion shriek in agony as the machine kicked itself back into life.
Back at the table, the mare was turned away, unable to see anything that was happening. Before she knew it, Mac had grabbed her tail, yanked it up, and jammed the hard plastic syringe into her vagina, filling it with a sharp squirt of slimy stallion juices.
Mac tossed the used baster to one side, planning to sterilise it later, and lifted the mare out of the restraint to carry her back to her cage.
The third section was where all the male foals were taken. They too would be caged and fed milk until they were old enough to reproduce, at which point they would be thrown into section #3 and pumped for every droplet of cum they could produce before finally dying.
This semen was then used to impregnate the newly adult mares, who would then produce more male and female foals, who were then milked or impregnated… and so the cycle continued.
Mac had been running this operation for over 10 years, and it was still a success.
Mare milk was in huge demand, due to the sheer amount of bitch mothers that refused to care for their children, and the volume of abandoned foals people found roaming the cold, dark streets. There was always a need for more milk to keep the foals fed and happy, and Mac was happy to provide it in turn.
The stallion semen was something of a side-project to keep his stock of mares filled, but it still managed to turn a slight profit, as specialist breeder sites were also looking for semen for their own reproduction projects.
As fluffy pony pregnancies and foals were a complete lottery, there was no need to specify body-types or colors, they could produce any results. So every month, Mac shipped out a medium-sized container filled with fluffy pony semen samples.
With the cum-filled mare in his hands, Mac carried her back to her cage, tossing her inside and noisily slamming the door shut, allowing fluffy pony biology to work it’s twisted magic and impregnate the poor bitch as fast as possible.
Meanwhile, with everything else checked, it was finally time for feeding.
Mac headed back over to the large plastic basin he’d dropped the dead milk-mare into earlier and fished her out, dropping it with a thud on another table, on which were various tools and, next to it all, a large metal cooking pot and a blender.
Mac picked up an electric razor and set about shaving the mare bald. Once at least 90% of her fluff was gone, he picked up a hacksaw and began dutifully cutting up her body into random odd-sized chunks and lumps. Each lump, once cut, was tossed into the pot. Once the mare was fully disassembled, he reached under the table and came out with a large spoonful of kibble in one hand, and a fistful of enriching multivitamins in the other. Both of which were dumped into the pot, along with a decent amount of water, which was then spooned into the blender until it was full.
Mac held the lid on the blender and turned it on, letting it roar as it ground up the fluffy pony meat, bones and organs, along with the chunks of kibble and the vitamin pills, turning the entire mixture into a thick red-brown slurry.
With the blender full, Mac made his rounds once more, tipping the blender into the feeding funnels of each of the milk-mares in turn, until he ran out halfway through, at which point he returned to the pot, refilled the blender, churned it up some more, then continued.
So it went until every milking fluffy had been fed. All that was left was the caged fluffies, who were either bottle-fed milk (if they were still foals), or just given a plastic pot of the same red-brown slurry.
Mac had noted that fluffies seemed incapable of starving themselves. No matter how miserable or pathetic their lives were, they would fight with every ounce of strength they had in order to shovel more food into their mouths.
And so it was that, every day, he fed the pregnant mares a mixture of their own kind’s corpses, and they ate it up every time. They hated it and were miserable, some even vomited it back up while attempting to finish the bowl, but they knew it was the only food they were getting. They ate, or they starved.
And they did not want to starve.
With his work for the morning finished, Mac headed out of the barn to return to his home, ready to start checking his email orders for the day… when he heard something.
“Hey! Dummeh hooman!”
Mac turned, looking down, as he saw a small herd of grubby feral fluffy ponies standing behind him.
“Dis Smawty wand!” The leader snorted, a fat little dull-green fluffy with a dark orange-brown mane. “Gib sketties n-”
“Sure, no worries.” Mac said, turning back towards the barn. The small herd babbled in shock while the Smarty held his head high and smugly trotted along behind Mac.
“Dat’s wight! Dummeh hooman wisten to Smawty! Dat wight, dummeh hewd?! Awways wisten to Smawty!”
“Y-yes Smawty…”
“Yoo awways knu bestest…”
The herd muttered and mumbled as they followed along. Mac couldn’t be sure yet, but at a glance, the majority of the herd seemed female.
He opened the barn door and stepped in, allowing the herd to follow him in. Once the final ones were through the door, he closed it behind them, and locked it just in case.
Now they were ferals no more.
Now they were just more stock.
Two hours later, he’d rounded up the last of the herd.
His estimate had been right. Of the entire 9-strong feral herd, 8 of them were female, and 1 of them was the Smarty. Apparently, according to their babbling and pleading, each one of them was his ‘speshul-fwiend’, and he had spent the bulk of his time with them simply fucking them one after another, leaving the rest of them to do things like find food or look out for predators.
Mac could almost see himself as a savior to the herd… at least, to the females.
The Smarty had been thrown into a milking-machine like the rest of the males, with his no-nos of mass destruction being left to the violent onslaught of the pump.
The mares, in turn, had mostly been dumped in the nets for milking. Only two of them had gone to the cages, because they were too young to be pregnant yet.
But Mac didn’t worry about that. Fluffy ponies only lived so long, and as a result, aged pretty fast.
All it would take is a few more weeks, and he’d have more milk-mares ready to go.
Sometimes, he loved his job.
