MY BELOVED SWEETPEA – CH. 4
By Nosies
(Got hit with a newbie post timer, so this chapter is very long. Thanks for reading! I’m really enjoying the comments.)
You are Sweetpea, and you are the luckiest fluffy in the whole world. Your daddy is the smartest, most thoughtful, kindest person ever. He sets you high up, on the kitchen counter, and you cower from the edge of it when he walks away from you.
“Scawy, daddeh,” you tell him, eyes welling with tears, “Nee huggies.”
“Now, now, Sweetpea. I can’t hold you all the time. I need to use my hands to prepare your dinner.” Daddy’s tone is firm.
“Otay, daddeh. Am sowwy.”
You watch him gather the materials to prepare lunch for you. You can’t fathom how he could possibly keep track of everything hidden within all of the drawers and cabinets, or their purposes. He places a plastic baby bottle beside you, along with a large tub of powdered fluffy formula. He turns on the kitchen tap and holds his fingers underneath the water until he deems it warm enough, then carefully adds a measured amount to the bottle before putting it next to you, again.
Daddy stands in front of you and strokes your mane. “Okay, Sweetpea. Now I need your help.”
You straighten, eyes wide.
“I’m going to turn you around and give you a sort of…special hug, okay? It won’t hurt, I promise. It helps daddy make milkies.”
You’re only a little baby, but you have so much to learn! You’re grateful to have such a wise daddy to teach you these things. “Swee-pee hewp daddeh!”
“That’s my good girl,” daddy says, scritching your chin. One of your back legs goes crazy and starts tapping all by itself. This makes you giggle so hard that you almost fall over. Daddy undoes his belt and unzips his pants. He wraps you up in his hands and gives you even more tickles, until you can hardly breathe. Then he turns you around.
You feel something hard and fleshy pressed against the silky fluff of your tummy. You try to hug this part of your daddy, but your legs are so tiny, and then daddy starts moving you. You can’t hold on as he slides you back and forth over his penis, stroking himself with you.
“Oh, Sweetpea, that’s perfect,” he groans, “Can you say: ‘Sweetpea loves good feels’?”
“Swee-pee wub good feews.” You struggle as daddy’s grip on you tightens.
“Yes,” he pants, “Say it again!”
“Swee-pee wub good feews! Wub daddeh!”
Daddy is pumping you fast, now. “Tell me you want babies.”
You don’t understand, but you’re ravenous, and the strange sounds your daddy is making scare you a little bit. “Wan babbehs! Swee-pee wub bestest daddeh! Wub good feews!”
“Beg for it! Say please!” Daddy sounds so angry! You’re trying your best, but you’re so small, and the motion is making you dizzy.
“PWEASE DADDEH! SWEE-PEE WAN BABBEHS! PWEASE GIF GOOD FEEWS!” You squeeze your eyes shut, desperately waiting for this experience to end.
At last, daddy’s breath hitches. He scrabbles for the plastic bottle, using it to catch the milky fluid that shoots out of his member, right in front of your face. You’re stunned.
Daddy lets you slide back onto the countertop. He’s breathing heavily as he fixes himself up. He dumps two scoops of powder into the bottle, then he puts on the rubber nipple and holds his finger over it while he shakes it up.
He hoists you up and cradles you to his chest. He brings the bottle to your mouth, and you struggle with the stiffness of it for a moment before you’re rewarded with milk. It tastes different than your mother’s milk; it’s not as sweet, and it’s thicker. Your hunger and exhaustion are too overwhelming to complain, and you drink greedily, until your bloated stomach aches. Daddy tugs the nipple away from you, and before you can protest, he puts you on his shoulder and taps gently on your back until you burp. A little bit of daddy’s milk comes up with it, leaving a damp spot on his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Warm and content, you let yourself drift off to the sound of your daddy’s heartbeat.
…
You are a pretty white filly, and you are the unluckiest fluffy in the whole world. You are the only one of your siblings capable of opening your eyes, and you have been waiting for your mother to return for a very long time.
At first, your brothers napped peacefully. Then, they woke up refreshed and ready to play. You entertained them until your ugliest brown brother started bleating hungrily. Your mother still hasn’t returned, and now, despite your best efforts, the nest is thick with the panicked shit and desperate peeps from your small family.
You are starving. You don’t know what to do. Your mother left you with strict instructions: comfort your brothers until she returned. But what if she didn’t return? The thought horrifies you enough to send a stream of urine rushing down your legs. You wish your sister hadn’t wandered off and gotten lost, and that your mother was here, hugging you tightly to her heavy teats.
Your ugliest brown brother is quiet, now. He looks so frail, curled in on himself, shivering. He has no tears left to cry, but his face is screwed up in a painful grimace as he suckles on his filthy hoof. You summon all of your resolve, but you tremble as you approach the hole in the wall that leads to the big world outside.
You hesitate beside the safety of the dumpster that hides the gateway to the only home you’ve ever known. It’s the first time you’ve felt pavement underneath your leathery hooves. It radiates a comforting warmth.
You swallow, hard, and dare a quiet whisper into the alleyway. “M-m-mummah?”
A breeze sends loose trash scuttling, and you scramble backwards, slipping in the torrent of shit loosed from your bowels. Your tiny head smacks brutally into the ground as you fall. Dazed, you roll onto your back and stare helplessly at the evening sky. Then you begin to cry.
“Muuuuummmmmmaaaaaaah! Babbeh huwt! Muuuummmah! Hewp babbeh!”
You feel hopelessly at odds with everything. You may be the biggest, best baby, but you can’t take care of your family by yourself. Frustrated, you flail your legs and wail again and again for your mother.
“Oh, sweet baby fluffy! Are you lost?” The voice startles you. A wet fart spurts from your rump as you try to right yourself.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright! I won’t hurt you. I heard you crying and came to help. Are you okay?”
You look at the human standing in front of you, unsure what to do.
“Where is your momma? You look so hungry and sad,” the man peers around the alleyway, and you burst into a bout of fresh tears.
“Mummah! MUUUUUUMMMMMAAAAAAAH!” You screech as loudly as you’re able, but when you’re done, it’s still just the human and you, covered in your own excrement.
“Dearie, I don’t think she’s here,” he says, and shakes his head sadly, “But you can come home with me, if you want. I could be your daddy.”
Your broken heart finds strength in this strange man’s words. You repeat the name back to him, liking how it feels when you say it. “Babbeh am Deewee? ‘Ou be daddeh fow Deewee?”
The man chuckles softly. “I suppose Dearie is as good a name as any. Yes, I’ll be your daddy.”
You feel a wellspring of hope bubble up inside of you. “Deewee haf bwuddahs! Hewp bwuddahs?”
The man kneels, smiling. “Of course, Dearie. Can you show me where they are?”
You nod, padding behind the dumpster. The man pokes his head into the gap between it and the wall, examining the hole that leads to your nest.
“That’s pretty small. I don’t think I can fit,” he sighs.
You tap your hooves nervously. “Nee’ hewp bwuddahs, daddeh!”
“Okay. Let’s see…do you think you could bring them out to me?”
Your mouth falls open. You never would have thought of that. Your daddy is incredibly clever. You nod happily and make your way back into your nest.
Inside, your twin brothers are immediately upon you, kneading with their hooves and peeping for relief from their hunger.
“Come on, bwuddahs! Daddeh hewe, daddeh hewp!” You try to explain, but they’re too restless to listen. You clamp your marshmallow teeth on the scruff of one’s neck and begin the laborious process of dragging him out of the nest. It takes you nearly ten minutes to tug him the handful of inches to the hole in the wall. At the end, you collapse, the effort having taxed you of most of your remaining energy. Fortunately, the other twin bumbled along after you, uncomfortable being left behind with your ugliest brown brother. He remained in the nest, cold and still and silent as a stone, now.
“These are your brothers?” The man asks, shifting to wedge his shoulder behind the dumpster, reaching blindly to collect the twins. You’re breathing too heavily to reply. The man sits back on his heels, examining them. Your heart is pounding in your ears. You dry heave until a bit of bile spills from your lips.
“Wow, a matching pair. You don’t see that very often,” he mutters to himself while your brothers clutch desperately to one another, in his grasp.
You are in dire need of sustenance. Your body aches, but it is nothing compared to the hollow yearning of your tummy. You pushed yourself beyond what you thought possible to bring your brothers to safety—to save their fragile lives, despite being only several minutes older. You stretch your leg towards the loving touch of your daddy as your vision is consumed by dark static.
…
You are Sweetpea, and you are the luckiest fluffy in the whole world. You wake up in a large, plush bed, and at first you don’t remember that your bad mother left you all alone, or that the best daddy ever has brought you back to his idyllic home. You nose through the sheets with your eyes closed, seeking your mother’s nipple. You bump into the flesh of daddy’s fingers, and in your sleepy stupor, you latch on and nurse greedily.
Daddy makes a funny noise, and it brings you fully into reality. You release daddy’s fingers and bump your forehead against his hip. “Daddeh, bwight times hewe.” You feel your intestines cramp, and you realize that you need to empty your bowels. Daddy said there was a right way to relieve yourself, but he hadn’t elaborated on how precisely to go about doing it. After daddy gave you milk, you fell asleep cuddling together in a chair. Sweat blooms across your flanks as the pressure inside of you mounts.
“Daddeh! Hewp Swee-pee! Swee-pee haf poopies!” You back up a couple steps and charge at him, headbutting his thigh.
He grunts.
You are about to burst. You are frantic. You take a deep breath, and shriek at the top of your lungs. “DADDEH HEEEEWWWWP! HEWP SWEEEEEE-PEEEEE!”
With each syllable, your anus opens like a camera shutter, spraying a thick sludge of putrid feces across the bed. Horrified by your body’s betrayal, you collapse into a sobbing heap.
Daddy sits up and pulls the sheets back to reveal your accident. “Oh, Sweetpea. What happened?”
As you speak, the tremors wracking your body can be heard in your voice. “H-h-haf p-p-poopies!”
Daddy smiles and picks you up and puts his mouth on your bottom, slurping loudly while his tongue probes and tickles your soiled asshole.
“Daddeh gif bestest wickie-cweanies,” you coo, and he moans appreciatively as you press yourself against his face. He takes his time at the task. Drool dribbles down the feathery tuft of your tail. It feels so much better than any grooming your mother ever gave you.
The sudden rumbling of your tummy makes daddy stop. Your rear is soaked with saliva. Daddy cradles you in his palms. “Looks like it’s time for daddy to give you some milkies.”
You clap your hooves together in excitement. “Wub miwkies!”
Daddy stands up and puts you against his shoulder. He is nude, and his cock bobs as he walks to the kitchen.
“Now, it’s not easy for daddy to make milkies for you, you know,” he tells you as he deposits you on the counter, next to the still-open tin of powdered fluffy formula.
You blink dumbly, puzzled.
“Daddy needs you to help him, again, Sweetpea,” he says, setting a bottle of warm water beside you.
You remember and understand. You raise your front hooves, waving them around. “Swee-pee dancie fow daddeh! Wub daddeh miwkies!”
Daddy’s cock is turning purple. He roughly spins you around, and you chirp in surprise as he wraps you around his shaft.
“Oh yeah, you want it so bad? You’ll shake your little ass at me for it? Daddy’s got your good feels, Sweetpea. Beg daddy for milkies.” He spits the words out harshly as he thrusts against your fluff.
“Pwease! Pwease! Swee-pee wan daddeh miwkies! Pwease gib Swee-pee miwkies. Wub ‘ou, wub ‘ou, wan babbehs! Daddeh gif bestest feews! Bestest miwkies! Pwease gif.” You squeak out the words when you can manage to catch your breath, smashed against his erection.
Daddy barely manages to get the bottle in position before he spurts several ribbons of hot spunk into it. He adds powder and shakes it, then scoops you up and brings the bottle to your parched mouth. It’s more bitter than you’d like, but daddy is obviously trying very hard to feed you, and you wouldn’t dare offend him by appearing ungrateful.
The milk is warm in your tummy. As you relax in daddy’s grasp, you knead contentedly at the rubber nipple and piss all over yourself.
Daddy clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Now, this won’t do at all, Sweetpea. I think it’s time we set some rules.”
“Teehee, nee’ mow bestest wickie-cweanies fwom bestest daddeh!”
Daddy smirks and lifts you to his mouth. You stick out your bottom expectantly, idly kicking your legs and giggling. This time, he flicks his tongue over your vagina, and it feels electric. You stiffen as he repeats the motion.
“Daddeh, Swee-pee feew siwwy!”
Daddy raises his brows, and the tip of his tongue pokes inside of you. You gasp and arch. It’s so squirmy and wet! Then daddy sets you down again. Your little legs are wobbly.
“Now, we need to discuss rules.”
“Wules?” You try and shake off the mental fog from daddy’s thorough cleaning.
“Good fluffies make poopies and peepees in the litter box.” He points to said receptacle on the ground, beside the kitchen trash can.
“Widda box,” you echo.
“Daddy will give you lickie-cleanies, but only after you go poopies or peepees in the litter box.”
You twirl on the kitchen counter. “Poopies in widda box fow bestest wickie-cweanies!”
“Yes! That’s my good fluffy. Now, there’s only one more rule: never, ever, EVER go near those two doors.” He picks you up to ensure you have a clear view of the closed doorways at the far end of the hallway. “No matter what, you stay far away from those two doors.”
You nod confidently.
“So, what are the rules?”
“Poopies an’ peepees fow widda box, an’ stay ‘way fwom da doows.” You puff your chest out proudly.
“You are so smart, Sweetpea! Very good!”
Daddy’s praise makes you dance in his hand. You giggle and chirp happily.
“I think daddy’s smart, pretty fluffy has earned some playtime!”
You cannot contain your joy.
Daddy carries you to the playroom, and selects a shiny, red ball from the ample toys displayed along the low shelves. He sits you on the floor and settles a few feet away, then rolls the ball towards you. You watch it slowly travel the gap between you, confused. You stick a hoof out to keep it from hitting you in the face, and it rolls away from you, back to daddy. You gasp in wonder, and when daddy rolls it back your way again, you’re prepared. You kick at it as hard as you can, sending it veering into the corner. Daddy cheers you on as you chase it around the room, laughing harder than you ever have before, until exhaustion catches up with you. You yawn as you’re lovingly placed in your velvety bed. As daddy pulls a blanket over you, tucking you in, he kisses the top of your head.
“Wub ‘ou, daddeh. Wub ‘ou so, so muchies.”
“I love you too, Sweetpea. Sweet dreams.”
Sleep had never come so easily.
…
You are Dearie, and you are the unluckiest fluffy in the whole world. Your mother left you to care for your brothers while she searched for your sister, and she never came back. You thought you found a nice daddy to take care of you and your siblings, but he tricked you. He took you to a scary place and put you in a cardboard box so small that you can’t even turn around. You impulsively shit yourself out of fear, and you are stuck stewing in it.
You can’t see your twin brothers, but they don’t sound any better off than you are. Their fervent peeps and chirps have weakened, gradually. It’s hard to focus on much besides your gnawing hunger.
The soft creak of a door is your only warning, and you fail to realize it in time to shield your eyes from the sudden onslaught of blinding light from the buzzing, florescent bulbs overhead. When you finally cover your muzzle, dazzling stars dance around the backs of your eyelids. You can’t restrain the tears that leak past your hooves.
The twins vocalize their protests loudly. You realize they must have finally opened their infantile eyes. You keep your mouth firmly shut as you listen to daddy’s heavy footfalls coming down the stairs.
“Hello again, little fluffies!” His greeting is chipper, but something about it makes your blood run cold. You hear water splashing, and you begin to tremble. “Sorry to interrupt your rest, but your sister soiled my sheets. Had to come down to put them in the wash.”
Your sister? You perk your ears. She’s with your daddy, too? You lift your head, a spark of hope igniting in your heart. Is your mother here, as well?
Your brothers cry pitifully, and daddy hums to himself. Carefully, you walk your front hooves up the side of your box, standing. Though you need to stretch a bit, this gives you a broad view of the space. You watch as daddy packs the fabric of his putrid sheets into the washing machine. He looks up, as if sensing he’s being watched. When he catches your gaze, he softens, walking over to you.
“Hey now, don’t look so sad. These accommodations are only temporary.” He bends and puts his hands on his knees, to be at your level. “I’m not a mean daddy. I’m not going to keep you around just to hurt you.”
You lift your muzzle cautiously. “Deewee hungwy,” you say so softly that it’s almost a whisper, “Bwuddahs nee’ miwkies.”
Daddy nods sagely. “And we’ll get that handled right away. Just as soon as I finish this laundry.”
Relief washes over you, fortifying you against your hunger pangs.
Daddy resumes humming to himself as he adds various liquids to the machine and closes the lid. He pats your head as he passes you by, then bounds up the stairs jauntily. You smile to yourself, excited for you and your brothers to fill your little bellies.
Daddy shuts off the light and closes the door.
Your brothers screech with renewed terror, but you just slide down against the inside of your box. The washing machine makes a loud click, and then it screams furiously to life, drowning out all other sounds.
Your mind wanders amidst the white noise, in the darkness. You wonder about your sister, and your mother. Did daddy take them, too? Would you see them again? You hope your mother won’t be mad at you for being unable to save your poor, ugly, brown brother. She bid you to look after all of your siblings, and you failed.
Realization hits you like a stone in a still pond.
You failed. This is your fault. You’re the best baby. You’re bigger, stronger, and smarter than your siblings. You were supposed to keep them safe and happy, until your mother returned. You didn’t. First, you fell asleep, and your not pretty, green sister wandered off blindly. When your mother left to rectify your mistake, your ugly, brown brother was nearly starved before you summoned the courage to seek help.
You’re a bad fluffy.
You deserve this.
The smell of the twin’s rancid shit descends upon you like a fog. Tears sting in your eyes. You wish they weren’t suffering for your errors in judgement. The motorized vibrations of the washing machine gradually die down, and the room is silent.
When the door creaks open again, you don’t bother to protect your eyes from the light. You wince.
“Oh, fluffies! I have a treat!” Daddy’s voice is lilting. He descends, carrying a bowl in each hand.
Your innocent brothers peep hopefully, recognizing the last word.
“But first, we need to complete intake procedures.” Daddy sets the bowls down on a stainless-steel table, along the far wall. When he looms over your box, you shudder but say nothing. You are resolved to take whatever punishment the universe has levied against you.
Daddy clucks his tongue and lifts you by your scruff. He turns you this way and that, brows knitted together.
“This won’t do at all, Dearie.”
Piss trickles down your hindquarters. Daddy steps back from your puddle, sighs, and brings you to a large utility sink. He plops you in it and starts the water.
A series of farts trumpet from your puckered asshole as you’re doused in the waterfall coming from the faucet. The strength of it pins you down, and you sputter and gasp. He leaves you there and returns to deposit your brothers on either side of you. They struggle valiantly amidst the deluge, eyes wide and pleading as they try to reach you for comfort. Your heart aches.
Daddy scrubs each of you, in turn, and rinses the stinging soap off your delicate fluff. He towels the twins, then you. He places your pathetic family on the stainless-steel table, in front of the bowls. The sight of the milk-soaked kibble within makes your mouth water and you bow to take some into your eager mouth. He tosses a damp towel on the floor to soak up your urine.
“That’s much better, isn’t it?” Daddy pats your head again, and you nod as you chew carefully. Your brothers lap up milk with wagging tail tufts. Warmth blooms in your belly.
Daddy disposes of the filthy, cardboard boxes that had housed you, and sterilizes the table on which they had sat. Then he walks back upstairs, and you’re ready for the cold darkness again. Instead, he returns with a wire dog kennel. He tucks it under the table, and lines the inside with several soft blankets. He turns to face you, again, hands on his hips, smiling broadly. “Okay then! So, rules: no free lunches here! You guys are going to be working fluffies.”
You cock your head thoughtfully.
“With your help, daddy can change the world! You are going to be very important fluffies.”
Your brothers giggle as they smoosh the softened kibble into manageable chunks with their hooves.
“But to do that, you must listen to me and be good fluffies. Can you say that?”
“Deewee wisten. Deewee be goo’ fwuffy.”
Daddy looks expectantly at your brothers. They are distracted. You nudge the nearest one, and he rolls onto his back to look at you, eyes sparkling, and a small bit of liquid excrement burbles out of his behind and onto the table.
Daddy frowns. He surveys the room for a minute, chewing his lip, and rummages through the cabinets until he finds a suitable enough vessel to use as a litter box. He dumps some cat litter inside and brings it to your table. He picks up both of your brothers in one hand, and roughly drops them into it.
“This is a litter box. Say it.”
“Widda box,” you say automatically.
Your brothers grasp each other in a scared hug.
“SAY IT.” Daddy’s voice is louder than the washing machine.
“Widda box!” You repeat the words anxiously. “Widda box!”
One of your brothers shudders and his tiny cock unleashes an arcing stream of fearful piss. It soaks into the litter.
Daddy’s praise is immediate. “Very good! You got it, baby! Good fluffies go peepees and poopies in the litter box!”
The twins squirm with pleasure at his reaction. You hop in astride them and crouch, grinning and wagging your stubby tail at your daddy as you dump a fat pile of thick shit on the litter.
“You’re so smart, Dearie! You get it. Well done!”
You bounce on your hooves happily. Daddy carries the box, with your family still within, to the wire kennel. He crouches and gently slides the box inside.
“This is your safe space.”
“Wan’ daddeh.” You stretch your hooves out, praying for him to hold you.
Daddy shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie. I have a lot of work to do, and I can’t have you wandering around my lab. It’s too much of a risk. I need to maintain clean, controlled conditions, and free-range fluffies just aren’t conducive to that.”
Daddy shuts the wire door, and latches it closed. You find a soft spot near the front of the cage to watch him. He empties what remains in your food bowls, washes them, and sets them to dry on a rack above the utility sink. He thoroughly wipes down the counter on which you ate. He opens the lid of the washing machine, unspools the fabric, and tucks it into the dryer. He collects the towels and cloths he’s used and puts them in the waiting washing machine. This time, he does not add anything. He fills the bottom of the utility sink with soapy water, dips a sponge mop into it, squeezes out the excess, and sets to work eliminating any evidence of your piddle puddle.
You yawn. You glance back over your shoulder to check on your brothers. They’re snuggled tightly together, fast asleep—still in the litter box. The flowery warmth inside of you grows. Maybe you’re not a bad fluffy, after all.
Daddy rinses the mop, drains the sink, then mists it with a sterilizing spray. He checks the lint trap, winds a few knobs, then pushes a button.
The dryer roars, then jumps and shudders as it chews its burden, banging against the still-open washing machine. The room is a sudden cacophony of painfully jarring metallic clashes and the loud woosh of rushing air.
You scramble backwards, into the litter box, sending a wave of litter scattering over the blankets in your wake. You fling yourself in a quaking pile with the twins and hold them tightly to you while you feel their chests rise and fall with fraught screams.
Daddy, unphased, trots back upstairs, flicks off the light, and shuts the door.
…
TO BE CONTINUED
