You’re a fluffy owner. Your fluffy mare has recently given birth to a single foal, and she absolutely adores the little thing. It’s pretty cute too, bright pink with a soft lavender mane and tail. Your fluffy has been wanting a little filly of her own for months, and you finally took her to get knocked up and now she has her baby.
The only problem is, after it was a few days old and had its eyes opened, its junk had developed enough that it was definitely male, despite its feminine coloration. Your fluffy is still convinced it’s a girl though, and she is endlessly praising it, telling it what a good girl it is, and how she always wanted a filly. The foal, now old enough to talk somewhat, is obviously confused by its mother referring to it as a female when the little colt knows for a fact he’s male, but he generally goes along with his stupid mother’s delusion. You’re not expending any effort to disabuse her of the notion her baby is female because at least she finally shut up about having a filly.
You’re babbeh! You’re a happy babbeh. You love mummah. Mummah gives hugs, and miwkies, and love. Mummah is soft and warm. You love mummah. She confuses you sometimes, but you’re just a babbeh; mummah knows best, so you just assume any confusion is ignorance on your part.
You’re happily playing in mummah’s tummeh fluff, crawling toward her miwkie pwaces, when mummah suddenly stops singing to you.
“Babbeh? Wat am dose?”
“Huh?”
You look around, but you don’t understand what she’s asking about.
“Dose. Wat am dose?”
She nudges your no-no’s with her nose and you giggle. Mummah’s so silly sometimes!
“Dose babbeh’s no-no’s, mummah!”
Mummah frowns; did you do something bad?
“Babbeh, fiwwy’s nu haf no-no’s. Fiwwy’s haf pechul pwace.”
You’re confused for a second, but then you think you see the problem.
“Mummah, babbeh nu am fiwwy, am cowt!”
“Siwwy babbeh, nu am cowt! Yoo am mummah’s widdwe fiwwy!”
No, you’re pretty sure you’re a colt.
“Mummah, babbeh nu am fiwwy. Babbeh haf no-no’s, am cowt.”
Now mummah looks angry. Did you say something bad? You huddle into her fluff and shiver; you don’t want to be a bad babbeh! You want to be good and make mummah happy!
“NU! Babbeh am fiwwy! Fiwwy’s nu haf no-no’s!”
“Bu- bu babbeh haf no-no’s! Babbeh am- am…” You’re really confused now. You think you’re a colt, but mummah insists that you’re really a filly. Are… are you a filly? Or a colt?
“Mummah knu how fiks dis. Babbeh way on fwoow.”
You slide off mummah’s fluff onto the floor and lay down, not wanting to upset mummah any further. You want to be a good babbeh. Good babbeh’s make mummah’s happy, and happy mummah’s have happy babbehs.
“Fiwwy nu haf no-no’s! Babbeh haf no-no’s! No-no’s bad! BAD NO-NO’S! Mummah gif biggest owies, make no-no’s weave so fiwwy am gud agin!”
Wait, she’s going to do what? You don’t-
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
You run to the safe room, hearing the loud shriek from the foal. Geez, those things are loud! Did she accidentally step on the little guy, or roll over on him, or what?
You open the door to the safe room just in time to see your fluffy rip her baby’s balls off and swallow them. The little colt, now a castrati, is writhing in agony, chirping and shrieking his pain to the world. Your mare just sits there with an odd look of satisfaction on her face.
“What the hell did you just do?!”
“Mummah fine no-no’s on fiwwy. Fiwwies nu haf no-no’s, bad no-no’s get on fiwwy. Mummah make no-no’s go away, so now babbeh am gud fiwwy.”
Oh geez. She castrated her own baby because she wanted a girl that badly. You scoop up the screaming foal, blood and scaredy poopies all over your hand, and rush out of the safe room, slamming the door behind you.
Some hydrogen peroxide goes onto the raw wound where the colt’s testicles and scrotum used to be, the baby continuing to shriek and thrash in horrible pain the entire time you clean out his wound. Shit. A bandage won’t stay unless you shave off enough fluff for it to stick, and that would require shaving most of the baby; between the blood loss and the inability to regulate his temperature without his fluff, he’d probably die. You find some liquid spray-on bandage and spray it onto the open wound, careful not to spray his little anus and seal it shut. The foal screams even louder as the spray-on bandage goes on, and you remember how much it burns when applied.
“Sorry, little guy, it’s ok. You’re gonna be ok. Geez.”
It takes another twenty minutes to calm the foal down enough to return it to the safe room, and it tries to hide from its mother by covering its eyes with its hooves. You honestly can’t blame the little guy. You grab your fluffy by the scruff of her neck and carry her out of the room. Maybe a few hours in the sorry box will convince her that eating her baby’s balls was a bad move on her part.
You’re babbeh. It’s been a long time (at least a week) since mummah gave you biggest owies and made your no-no’s go away, but you’re still a little scared of her. Mummah doesn’t seem to notice and just keeps happily singing to you about what a good little filly you are. You don’t understand. You’re not a filly, you’re a colt. Maybe… maybe your NAME is Filly? That… that makes sense. That’s why you get so confused when mummah calls you her pretty little filly. You’re not a filly, you’re Filly. That makes things much less confusing for you.
You still don’t understand why she took away your no-no’s though. But everything is all right now; mummah praises you for being a good babbeh, you’re starting to eat kibble like a big fluffy, and now you understand that your name is Filly. All is well again.
After a good game of ball with mummah, you need to make peepees, so you run to use the litter box like a good fluffy. Hiking up your leg, you start making peepees and sigh as your little bladder empties itself; that feels so good! You keep holding it in as long as possible so you don’t have to stop playing, but now that you’re done you can relieve yourself.
“Babbeh, wat dat?”
Huh? What? Where?"
“Wat mummah mean?”
“Dat. Wat am dat?”
She flips you over onto your back and nudges your peepee place with her hoof.
“Mummah, dat babbeh’s peepee pwace.” Doesn’t she know that?
“NU! Gud fiwwies nu haf peepee pwace! Babbeh am fiwwy, peepee pwace bad!”
You’re confused and your feelings are hurt; why is mummah mad at you? Did you do something wrong?
“Mummah fiks dis.”
Huggies? Huggies can fix anyth-
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
You run into the safe room and see the foal laying on his back in the litterbox, shrieking and writhing, and his mummah cooing and telling him what a good filly he is. You check to see what the problem is and- oh, FUCK! She bit his tiny little baby dick off! You don’t see where it went, she probably swallowed it like his balls. You grab the foal and kick his mother across the room.
“What the FUCK is wrong with you, you sick piece of shit?!”
“Fwuffy sowwy! Fwuffy du nu wat du wong, bu fwuffy sowwy! Pwease nu huwties!”
You run the foal into the other room again, clean the raw wound with peroxide, use a large needle you sterilized with peroxide and the flame from your stove to ensure the urethra hasn’t been crushed shut, and then apply liquid bandage, removing the needle from the tiny urethra now that you don’t have to worry about sealing it shut, and drop the still shrieking foal into a box and drive him to the fluffy shelter.
“His mother keeps mutilating him, trying to turn into a filly. First she bit his balls off, now his dick. I can’t keep him like this, he needs a good home.”
“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll put him in with some other fluffies to get socialized, and then we’ll give him a new home.”
“Thanks. I can’t stand seeing the poor little guy get hurt like this.”
The entire drive home, you think about how you’re going to punish your fluffy for mutilating and castrating her own child out of some sick delusion. You’re not an abuser, but you are in a very dark place right now.
Entering the safe room, you see your fluffy lying in bed crying. She perks up when she sees you.
“Daddeh! Whewe am babbeh? Mummah wan hew gud widdw fiwwy!”
“C’mere, bitch. Your ‘special place’ has a date with Mister Curling Iron.”
“NUUUUUUUUUUU!”
sizzle
You cry after daddeh abandons you in this strange, scary place all alone with a strange hoomin. Your peepee place hurts, badly, you have the biggest heart hurties, and you can’t understand why mummah would keep hurting you like this.
“C’mere little guy. Let’s put you in with the other stallions and colts. Maybe you’ll feel better with some company, huh?”
The scary stranger carries you away to another room and you hear a multitude of other fluffies all shouting, crying, singing, and playing. You get dropped into a big, wire mesh cage with a floor made of cedar chips, sniffle, and look around. There’s a dozen other fluffies, most of them bigger than you, all looking at you curiously.
“There you go, little guy. Have fun!” The strange hoomin walks away and you hear the door shut.
You huddle into the corner and shiver. You want your safe room. You want your soft beddie, not this weird floor. You want your toys. You want your daddeh. You even want mummah, even though you’re not sure she loves you anymore and might hurt you. You don’t like this strange, scary place with its noise, and smells, and fluffies you’ve never met before. You’ve never met another fluffy except your mummah. Scared and huuhuuing, you curl up into a little ball and hide your eyes with your hoofsies. If you can’t see the scary things, they can’t get you.
You hear the cedar chips rustle and look up; then you squeak in fright. There’s an enormous fluffy standing over you!
“Hewwo! Fwuffy nam am Wogew. Wha yoo nam?”
“Ff… fwuffy am… fwuffy am Fiwwy.”
“Weawwy?” The big fluffy seems surprised. He turns and shouts to the others, “Fwuffies! Dis fwuffy am fiwwy!”
Another big fluffy walks over and smiles at you.
“Fiwwy am pwetty.”
You feel a little better. Mummah used to tell you you were pretty all the time.
“Fank yoo.”
The first big fluffy sniffs you, then shakes his head in confusion.
“Fiwwy nu smeww wike fiwwy!” He nudges your rear with a hoof. “Fiwwy nu smeww wike fiwwy, but nu haf no-no’s ow peepee pwace. Am fiwwy.”
“Fiwwy am pwetty,” repeats the other fluffy.
You stand up tentatively. Maybe… maybe this won’t be so bad? Maybe they’ll be friends?
“Nyu fwens? Wan pway with Fiwwy? Fiwwy am scawed, nee huggies.”
The big fluffy next to you smiles and gently pats you on the head with his hoofsie.
“Wogew gif bestest spechow huggies tu wittwe fiwwy.”
Wait, what are special-
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
You’re no longer a fluffy owner. You gave your poor, mutilated colt away to the no-kill fluffy shelter two weeks back so his mother couldn’t hurt him anyore. His delusional, insane, whore-bitch of a mother you ended up torturing to death in revenge for what she did to her poor, innocent baby, then thrown in the trash. You’re not sure you can ever own a fluffy again; not for a while, anyway.
You hope the little colt is happy now, with a good, loving home. He’ll have to squat to pee now, like a mare, but losing his testicles shouldn’t be too life-scarring; no more than any other fluffy who got neutered anyway. You’re sure he’ll bounce right back and live a happy, restful life now, like he was meant to.
“So this ‘Filly’ is actually a stallion?”
“Yes sir. His own mother apparently ate his genitals, from what his former owner told us. He hadn’t hit fluffy puberty yet, so he’s smaller and with less defined male secondary features than most neutered stallions. Because he insists on calling himself Filly and lacks males genitals, some of the other stallions got… adventurous.”
“I see.”
“It took a few days before we realized what was happening, but it seems to have led to a major improvement in morale for the stallions. It’s a good arrangement; they get their special huggies, and we don’t have to deal with any pregnant fluffies. The stallions are all happier since they get to hump something, and happy fluffies get sold faster. We’ve experienced a 30% increase in sales of stallions since we put Filly in the cage with them.”
“Interesting. But couldn’t we achieve the same results with a fixed mare?”
“We’d either have to purchase one, or pay to have one of ours fixed, sir. This is a sure thing, and we didn’t have to spend a dime on it.”
“Hmm. But don’t some of the stallions realize that ‘Filly’ is a stallion too?”
“Most of them aren’t that smart, sir, but a few are put off by his more masculine scent, yes. We fixed that with a quick spritz of fluffy estrus scent on his rear.”
“All right. Fuck it. Not like anybody will give a shit. Congratulations, Filly! You now have a long and exciting career as the shelter bitch. Have fun with that.”
“Pwetty mawe. Mawe smeww pwetty. Uff!”
“Nu! NU! NU WAN BAD SPESHOW HUGGIES! NU HUWT POOPIE PWACE! OWIES!”
“Enf enf enf enf enf! Mawe- enf- gif- enf- gud- enf- feews! Enf enf enf!”
“NU AM MAWE! NU AM MAWE! FIWWY NU WAN SPESHOW HUGGIES! OWIES! Huuhuuhuu!”
“ENFENFENFENFENFENFENFENFENF!”
Yessir, this little guy was going to ‘enjoy’ a looooong tenure as the shelter bitch, if it kept all the stallions happy and increased sales. The stallions were happy, the boss was happy, the customers were happy, everybody was happy.
Well, except for Filly.
“NU AM MAWE! SCREEEEEEEEEEE!”
“ENFENFENFENFENFENF!”
Eh, joke 'im if he can’t take a fuck.
those staff is like ugh! Seriously and they just used him fucking great!
Much worst! I was expecting the owner would pillowed her and have her knock up and be just a milkbag to her would be foals.
