Sally, pt 3, by Grim

[Grim]

Pistol awoke exhausted. He had slept fitfully, being awoken many times by the cries of tiny hungry foals. Each time, he had gotten himself to his feet before placing each foal on a teat until it was full, then placing it back in the fluff pile. It helped that Pistol was also lactating, which sped things up and lessened the load on Sally. Sally, on the other hand, was still out cold, but she could hardly be blamed, having just queefed out thirteen foals, although by the end of the night she had run out of milk, as she was sleeping instead of eating to produce more milk. So as the sun started to rise, it fell to Pistol to keep switching between nursing foals, sprinting to the food machine to stuff his face, and sprinting back to feed more tiny mouths.

Eventually, Pistol managed a few hours rest before being woken by Dave preparing his breakfast in the nearby kitchen.

“Daddeh,” Pistol whispered loudly, having used his collar to let himself out of the safe room, “Pistow nee hewp. Pwease gib Sawwy big nummies fow make miwkies fow babbehs.”

“I’m sorry buddy, but since you used to be an outside fluffy, you need to be the one bringing Sally all her food, otherwise your babies won’t grow big and strong.” Dave sweetly lied. He then put on a hoodie and turned up the air conditioner.

“Oh-okay, Pistow undastan,” and as the exhausted alicorn trudged back to the safe room, he muttered, “Be bestest daddeh, be bestest speshul fwend, Pistow wiww du it fow dem.” He then proceeded to make the grueling journey of ten round trips to the food dispenser and back to fully fill Sally’s kibble bowl before doing another round of foal nursing after which he fell into a sleep not far separated from that peace known only to the dead.

Four hours later, Sally awoke, famished. Once she had eaten for a few minutes, she looked up and took stock of her surroundings, only then remembering her new litter of foals, who by this point were feeling cold with Pistol’s body heat only on one side of them and, ever hungry, were starting to peep and chirp to garner attention. Sally rushed over to them and, as her breasts had dutifully already started filling with milk, she was able to immediately start nursing. She made sure each foal had its fill of milk, even though that meant stopping halfway through to stuff her face as fast as she could so as to have enough milk for all her children. All through nursing, she sang softly to her foals,

“Mummeh wub babbehs, babbehs wub mummeh,
Mummeh gib miwkies, babbehs dwink miwkies,

Babbehs gwow biggies, babbehs gwow stwongies,

Mummeh wub Pistow, babbehs wub Pistow,

Pistow gib nummies, mummeh gib miwkies.”

And so the day went, with the new parents lovingly caring for their tiny foals. There was a brief crisis when one of the foals made a milky poop on the floor, but the red ‘bad poopies’ light on the kibble dispenser didn’t light up, only the yellow “clean up good poopies’ light lit up so it looked like babbeh poopies didn’t count as bad poopies, which relieved Pistol, who quickly licked up the mess.

“Babbeh poopies am wowest-nu-gud-tastie poopies, but Pistow wub babbehs an Sawwy, su Pistow cween babbeh-poopies. Pistow du it fow dem!” Pistol declared.

“Pistow am bestest daddeh ebah! Sawwy wub Pistow suu muchies!” Sally said as she and Pistol finished licking up thirteen tiny pools of milky shit. “Sawwy sowwy bestest fwend, Sawwy nee make poopies 'gain, Sawwy twy tu make cwean nu-ickies poopies fow Pistow tu move.”

“Dat am okay, Pistow understan,” Pistol replied, and once he was done clearing the litterbox, “It tuu coldies fow babbehs, Pistow teww daddeh nee bwankie fow put on babbehs.”

“Daddeh?” Dave turned on a fake smile before looking down from his emails.

“What is it Pistol?”

“It am tuu coldies fow babbehs, can daddeh gib bwankie fow Pistow put on babbehs?”

“Fuck” Dave thought, “She just had to fuck an alicorn didn’t she. Probably the only feral one for miles and she finds it.”

“Of course Pistol, we can just pretend you found it while you were out looking for nummies.” Dave wasn’t about to give up the game yet, not when it was just getting interesting, and so he got up and handed Pistol a medium sized kitchen towel, hoping that it would rapidly be saturated in urine and become useless at retaining heat.

“Tank-uu daddeh!” Pistol said before dragging the towel to the safe room with his mouth, mumbling something about “wucky hab gud-niceie daddeh”

To Dave’s dismay, when he checked later, he saw that Pistol had suspended the towel between himself and Sally, creating a tent of warm air above the foals sandwiched between them.

By the next morning Pistol, with Sally helping with the foals, had actually had meaningful sleep, his body seemingly adjusting and getting used functioning on little overall sack time. The foals were still little more than hungry balls of fluff that pooped occasionally, but during downtime, both parents made sure to play with the foals. Each foal would be held up by a parent several times a day, talked to, and gently hugged.

“Wingie babbeh gunna gwow biggest wingies an be fastah den da biwdies.” The little blue colt wiggled in Sally’s arms, eager to show what a good babbeh he was as he buzzed his tiny wings and peeped happily.

“Pistow gib widdwiest babbeh gud huggies an wikkie cweanies! Soon babbeh make wunnies an wowdies and gud wittahbocks poopies wike big fwuffies!” Pistol said as held up the blue runt, who was excited by the attention and tried to hug Pistol’s hoof as he was gently placed back with the rest of the litter.

Dave, meanwhile, was watching on the safe room’s security camera. This was baffling. Everything he had read had told him that the chances of Sally being a good mother at such a young age were vanishingly small, and yet there she was, being mother of the fucking year. Dave had been happy with just having Sally, and since he was an alicorn, keeping Pistol probably wouldn’t be that much work either. However, by this point the issue was edging closer to one of principal- simply put, fluffies aren’t supposed to be very good parents- they’re supposed to pick favorites, neglect foals just on the color of their fluff, be terrified of newborn alicorns, and kill runts. Then a though occurred to Dave- perhaps they will behave ‘properly’ only when they are ‘properly’ stressed. But how would he do that? If Sally or Pistol realized he was trying to make them fail, then the jig was up, and the game no fun anymore. At the same time, he could just lie and tell them that he couldn’t find them anymore food, but then they literally had no chance, and it wouldn’t be a game at all.

Then Dave had an idea. An awful idea. Dave had a wonderful, awful, terrible, used car salesman’s racist uncle kind of idea.

Dave grabbed his coat and headed for the local fluffies ‘R’ [unforgivable slur]

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[BFM101]

Interesting, I’m wondering if this is gonna be a case of the Fluffies being genuinely good and Dave being unable to cope with that narrative since he wants to punish ‘bad’ Fluffies.

And if that is the case, will Dave change his ways or will the parental bond snap into splinters from the stress?

[clover]

I kind of forgot I was interested on this story.
Really good. I wonder what will Dave come up with next. There must be a way to crack the parents of the year and set them up for failure.

[ThatsWhy]

What I’m hoping to see is Dave running himself into madness as he tries to maintain his childish facade of punishment rather than abuse. Like, if you want to abuse the fluffy, just abuse the fluffy, you absolute pussy. The whole “guy sets up preggers fluffy for failure and then interferes anyway when he doesn’t get his way but it’s definitely still the fluffy’s fault lol” trope is so overused that any change is welcome. Plus, I just like watching this couple deal with what life throws at them, it’s genuinely sweet.

[clover]

Direct abuse loses the strongest part of psychological abuse. Gaslighting and making the victims blame themselves has a greater emotional impact than outright abusing them for no reason. I like setting up fluffies to blame them because rather than outright call daddeh a munstah first they are confused, eventually they buy it and suffer extensively and some end up realizing it was a coup and they shouldn’t have blamed themselves in the first placd. That moment is when direct abuse is useful to break them down or outright kill them. They are broken toys that won’t play along anymore. The fun is in making things linger, not in short timed pleasure.
Or at least that’s the kind of fluffy abuse I like reading.

[ThatsWhy]

I agree with you—I just dislike seeing stories where the sane, ordinary everyman character is like “oh, you did everything my way and didn’t lose? You were supposed to fail! Let me kick over your sand castle like a toddler”. Or, even, I don’t actually dislike them, really; rather, I think it’s so common and un-self-aware that it’s annoying.

I’m often reminded of a scene in the Psychopathy story where the main character gets mad that his favorite fluffy lost a race against his least favorite fluffy, and has a literal temper tantrum about it, outright denying that the other fluffy won and smashing furniture and other stuff. He tortures the fluffy for winning, but the fluffy laughs at him because it knows it won this encounter by upsetting him so much over something so petty. That’s how these stories sometimes feel, except that the main character is usually being portrayed as entirely sane and reasonable. This story isn’t like that, at least not yet, but it’s a common pitfall with this trope.

And to be clear, I like slow-burn psychological abuse stories much more than edgy gore oneshots. But I also like variety. Obviously, Grim is a good writer, so I expect we’ll see something excellent with the rest of this story. I just think it would be very funny if the fluffies thwarted Dave at every turn without even realizing they were going against him.