My Dinner With Fluffy, by Swindle

You live in a fairly nice house, at the end of a large subdivision that was only half completed before the contractor lost their business license. Most of the houses that were built were sold and occupied, but fully half of the subdivision is empty lots overgrown with weeds, trees, and bushes. Your lot was the only one on the street that sold, though they built a foundation for another one across the street from yours. This resulted in you having the biggest yard possible, and the nearest neighbor was six doors down, on the cross street. Nice, quiet, and spacious. And since the contractor was going out of business due to the housing bubble collapsing (again), you got the house cheap.

You live alone, so you get the peace and quiet you enjoy, and whenever you’re not working (you illustrate the covers of various novels and magazines; Frank Frazzetta is your idol.) you’re enjoying your favorite hobby: cooking. You’re no gourmet chef, but you try. You have a fresh herb garden in the back yard (fenced off to keep pests out), and you’re always trying unconventional things to jazz up your cooking.

You walk into the kitchen, pondering whether you should cook something fresh for dinner or just have leftovers, when you glance out the window. Man, it’s really pouring cats and dogs out there! Good thing you work from home, you’d hate to have to drive in this nasty weather.

You’ve just finished heating up some of the fancy spaghetti you made for dinner last night when you hear a faint tap at the door. Hmm?

There it is again. You set the spaghetti on the table and look out the peep hole. Nothing. And none of the neighborhood kids would be dumb enough to run around in this heavy rain just to knock on your door and run. You’re about to write it off as noise caused by the rain when you hear the tap at your door again. You set the chain, then open the door.

“Hewwo! N-n-nice mista! Pwease wet fwuffy in! Fwuffy am mummah, haf babbehs! Scawy sky w-w-wawa bad fow babbehs! Huuhuu! Pwease wet in!”

It’s an umber fluffy mare with ochre mane and tail, with four foals on her back. You undo the chain and let her inside and she shouts, “fank yoo, fank yoo!” as she carefully sets her foals down on your rug and shakes herself, spraying water all over and not doing much to dry herself off.

“You look cold.”

“Yeh, am v-vewy cowd! Babbehs cowd too!”

“Chirp! Chirp! Peep!”

“They sound hungry.”

“Babbehs nee miwkies, bu mummah nu can make miwkies. Mummah nu haf nummies fow make miwkies.”

Her ears and tail droop mournfully as she tries to hug her foals.

“I have some spaghetti; if you eat that, would you be able to make milk for your babies?”

“SKETTIS?! YEH! Dose bestest nummies, make bestest miwkies fow babbehs!”

“Why don’t you wait here and eat some nice spaghetti, while I make your babies warm and dry?”

“Yus pwease! Fank yoo, nice mista!”

“Oh, don’t thank me. I’m really doing this for myself.”

You set the plate of spaghetti down by the door, where the mare can drip on the rug instead of your nice wood floors, and you carry her foals into the bathroom. The mare seems a little nervous about you taking her foals away, but hunger and the delectable smell of your homemade spaghetti, as well as your kind behavior, soon allay her fears and she begins eating.

The foals peep in panic when you first put them in the sink full of water, but quickly settle down into quiet chirping to each other as the warmth from the water seeps into their bones. You squirt some antibacterial soap into your hand and wash each one thoroughly, noting that you have three fillies and one colt, all with their eyes open but none old enough to talk yet. One cheeps in pain when you get soap in its eyes, but you quickly rinse them all off and dry them with a small hand towel; their fluff is just a thin fuzz, like the surface of a tennis ball but infinitely softer, so they’re easier to dry than an adult fluffy.

You cart them all into the kitchen and set them in a large punch bowl, and the mare wanders over, smacking her lips and licking marinara sauce off her face. She cocks her head at the sight of her offspring feebly wiggling around in the glass bowl as you dump the contents of a can of frozen grape juice concentrate into a large baking pan. Then you set the oven to begin preheating.

“Nice mista gif babbehs back nao?”

“In just a little bit. First we need to get you cleaned up and dry, so you don’t give them sickies.”

“Otay!”

You lead her into the bathroom, set her next to the tub, and run the water, letting it warm up. Then you hold her over the toilet and command her to empty her bowels, which she does, before setting her in the tub. She panics a little, crying about “wawa bad fow fwuffies”, but once the tub fills enough you dunk her into the water and she moans in pleasure as the warm water soothes her aches and takes away the chill she got from the rain. She quits resisting and simply luxuriates in the warm bath as you squirt more antibacterial soap into your hands and begin gently massaging it into her fluff. The mare quietly thanks you over and over as you rub her down and knead the soap into her fluff.

Then you begin very thoroughly soaping and massaging her teats and she tenses up.

“Nice mista? Dose mummah’s miwkie pwaces, pwease nu tuch!”

“I have to make sure they’re nice and clean, so they don’t give your babies sickies, ok?”

She reluctantly agrees, but remains tense and nervous while you continue soaping down her crotch boobs. Then you rinse her off, making sure you get all the soap out, drain the tub, and place her on a large towel and begin drying her off.

You end up going through three towels before she’s dry; she looks much better than when you found her on your porch, and she obviously feels better too.

“Fank yoo, nice mista! Fwuffy feew gweat! Mummah haf miwkies nao, pwease gif mummah hew babbehs su dey can haf miwkies!”

“Ok, let’s do that.”

You carry her into the kitchen and set her into a plastic milk crate, just tall enough for her to see over without being able to escape it. Then you begin raiding the fridge and spice cabinet.

Into the baking pan, which is now full of melted grape juice concentrate, you pour two cans of Dr Pepper and add a large sprig of fresh rosemary from your garden. Add some sweet basil, dill, green onions, and a splash of red cooking wine… excellent. This pan is ready. Once cooked down it will make a wonderful sauce both for meat and on mashed potatoes.

Next, you take a glass bowl and scoop in a heaping spoonful of dairy spread; it’s not really butter, just pure cream with enough olive oil added to make it spreadable. Then you add a generous spoonful of minced garlic, another generous spoonful of caviar, and stir them together.

The mare peeks over the side of the milk crate, nose twitching.

“Nice mista? Dat smeww yummy! But kin mummah pwease haf hew babbehs? Babbehs nee miwkies, dey haf wowstest tummeh owies!”

The foals probably are quite hungry, but now that they’re warm and dry they’ve settled down for a nap in the bowl, clinging to each other in a little fluff pile. You ignore the mare’s request and get out a cookie sheet, four strips of bacon, the can of black pepper, and add some chives to the butter-garlic-caviar mix. Then you grab the cutting board and a filet knife, set them on the counter, and scoot the trash can next to the counter.

Oh! You almost forgot!

You mix up a batch of tempura batter and some mashed potatoes (the refridgerated kind, regrettably, but it all tastes the same in the end.) and set them on the counter and put a large skillet on the stove and pour in some olive oil.

There. Time to begin.

You snatch a foal, a little filly, from the bowl and hold it over the trash can. It chirps and whimpers at being taken away from the warmth of its siblings. Then it begins chirping in earnest as you squeeze its abdomen with your thumb.

“SPEEEP! SPEEEEP! SPEEEEEEEEEEEP!”

The mare panics.

“Nice mista, pwease nu du dat! Huggies too tight fow babbeh, gif babbeh huwties! Pwease nu huggies babbeh su hawd!”

You ignore her and squeeze downward like you’re emptying a tube of toothpaste, and a few small turds slide out of the foal’s anus and into the trash can. You wipe its rear off with a paper towel and set it on the counter, where it curls into a fetal position and cries. You repeat the process with the other three foals as the mare becomes increasingly frantic and begins trying to escape the milk crate, scrabbling against the side and screaming, loudly begging you not to hurt her babies.

You set one foal, the little colt, on its back on the cutting board and make a shallow cut down its belly with the filet knife.

“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“NUUUUUUUUU! NU HUWT BABBEHS, PWEASE! GIF MUMMAH HUWTIES INSTED! NUUUUUUUU! HUUUHUUHUUUUU!”

Grasping the foal carefully with your fingertips, you peel the skin off like peeling a tangerine, pulling it off in one piece as the foal screeches bloody murder. Ah good, the testicles came off with the skin. You peel all the skin off and set it aside, then slit open the abdominal cavity and reach in with a small pair of sewing scissors to snip out the stomach and intestines, since their contents could spoil the meat. Heart, liver, kidneys all look good… Hmmm. Maybe next time you should keep a fluffy family captive for a while and experiment with fluffy foie gras.

You spoon a dollop of your butter-garlic-caviar-chives mixture into the foals abdominal cavity where its digestive tract used to be, then tightly wrap it with bacon and sprinkle some black pepper over its bare flesh. Then you set the writhing, screaming foal onto the lightly greased cookie sheet and repeat the process with the other three.

One foal passed out from pain during the skinning process, but that’s hardly important. You don’t derive pleasure from their suffering, but the meat does taste better and have such a tender texture with adrenaline and pain/panic hormones flooding their system, which is why you do this to them while they’re alive. You set the cookie tray with all four foals inside the preheated oven, silencing their screeches of agony by closing the door and set the timer. The butter, herbs, and spices will permeate their flesh as they’re cooked alive, making the most tender and succulent meat, with just the right amount of crunch from bones that are just barely calcified.

Then you turn your attention to the crying, screaming mare. She’s pissed herself, but that’s ok. She tries to bite you when you grab her and scrabbles her hooves against the counter in an attempt to escape, but four quick cuts to her tendons make her legs flop uselessly. She breaks down into sobbing as you roll her onto her back and part her hind legs to give you access to her teats.

“WHYYYYY?! WHY GIF WOWSTEST HUWTIES TU BABBEHS?! BABBEHS NU AM NUMMIES! WHYYYYYYYY?!”

“Because you’re fucking delicious.”

Then you gently squeeze her teats, causing a few drops of milk to spill out, and nod in approval. She is indeed full of milk now.

Perfect.

You quickly and expertly cut off her udders, which makes the mare’s eyes roll up into her head and cause her to hyperventilate between screams, coat them thoroughly in your tempura batter, and start frying them in the skillet on the stove top. Once you judge them finished, your set them on a plate covered by a paper towel to cool and drizzle a little sesame sauce on top. Then you turn to the sobbing mare, who is trying unsuccessfully to roll over as she bleeds all over your cutting board.

“Huuuuuuu, why? Why huwt mummah? Why take mummah’s miwkie pwaces? Why haf babbehs fow nummies? Nu faiw, it nu faiw… huuhuuhuuuuuu!”

She resumes screeching in pain again as you skin her like you did her children, then repeat the process of removing her stomach and intestines and filling the cavity with more of your butter and spices mix. Then you set her in the baking pan with the sauce you made, stuff her mouth with a granny smith apple, and insert her into the oven on the tray above her foals. She meets your eyes one last time and you give a little wave before shutting the oven door and leaving her to be cooked alive while listening to the screams of her children.

You pour yourself a nice glass of absynthe and sit at the table, listening to Mozart, while your dinner cooks. The foals will finish cooking first and will make an excellent appetizer while you wait for their mother to be ready. What to do with the skins though… well, you still have the skins from the last batch of foals you ate, so you don’t need these. They make excellent chamois for waxing your car though.

Hmmm? Is that a tap on your door? You open the door again and see a small fluffy family shivering on your porch, thoroughly soaked. A stallion, a mare, and two chirpy foals, each one a beautifully developed pegasus. Oh, the wings remind you: foie gras.

“Nice mista? Pwease kin fwuffies cum inside? Wawa bad fow fwuffies, babbehs haf wowstest cowd!”

“Of course, come in, come in! Let’s get you clean and dry, and you can spend the night in my nice, warm garage. I think I even have some spaghetti left over for you.”

“Oh, fank yoo, fank yoo! Yoo bestest nice mista evew! Fank yoo!”

You glance at your watch to see how long you have until your dinner is ready; plenty of time.

You should look up how foie gras is made tonight so you can get started tomorrow morning. They force feed the ducks corn, don’t they?

You hum contentedly as you lead the little family into your bathroom to get them cleaned up.

“Sumfin smeww weawwy yummy!”

“Oh, you don’t want any of that. I’ll let you have the last of my spaghetti after you’re all dry.”

“Fank yoo su mush, nice mista! Fwuffy wuv yoo!”

“Oh, don’t thank me. I’m really doing this for myself.”

53 Likes

I was somewhat inspired by Hannibal Lecter for this one. And yes, I realize the tempura doesn’t go with the other foods, he’s just trying different things while he has the opportunity.

14 Likes

A nice home cooked meal where the main course delivered itself to your door along with the appetizers. Can it get any better? :grin:

8 Likes

Literally doesn’t get any more sustainable than this.

6 Likes

Bullshit tempura goes with everything

3 Likes

@FluffiesAreFood will have such a boner with this…

2 Likes

Eating random ferals seems like a good way to catch a disease or get parasites.

It would be better to buy them from a reputable meat breeder.

6 Likes

I want a part two badly hhh

1 Like

“WHYYYYY?! WHY GIF WOWSTEST HUWTIES TU BABBEHS?! BABBEHS NU AM NUMMIES! WHYYYYYYYY?!”

“Because you’re fucking delicious.”

These might be the two most perfect lines ever written in fluffy fandom.

9 Likes

Well, thank you. I do assume you read the Fluffy Restaurant story I posted earlier?

2 Likes

This one? I have indeed! Also well done!

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Well sometimes things can surprise you. I know I’ve tried things in the kitchen to see if they worked or not. Experimentation in cooking is part of the fun.