Sam and Will Enter a New Business (Turboencabulator)

Sam and Will Enter a New Business

By: Turboencabulator


Headlights swept across the curtains, briefly illuminating the room within before sliding off,
to the soft grind and squeak of wet gravel being parked on. There was a thump, and footsteps on
a wooden porch. The click of a lock, and someone tiredly shuffling inside.

Lightning was asleep on the couch in the living room, Hickory half buried in a mound of pillows
next to him. and Sam peered in to see the little fluffies passed out in front of the bouncing
screensaver of the media computer. A soft blanket and the click of the screen powering off, and
Sam crept into his office, leaving the door open a crack.

The quiet clink of ice in a glass, the gurgle of a bottle of scotch, and then a soft sigh as he
sat down in his chair.

The creak of leather and steel as he leaned down to pick through a cabinet of vinyl.

Headphones and Santana.

Oneness is such an underrated album, he thinks.

After a minute’s contemplating and enjoyment, Sam leans forward, the cogs beginning to turn,
and starts planning. He has funds, but he also has attention now. What to do, what to do…

The night passes quietly, flicking through news sites, message boards, checking honeypots and
web spiders, sneaking into shell accounts and snooping in insecure systems. The ideas ferment
and fizz in Sam’s head, until he happens upon a website.

The legalities of fluffies, in excruciating, sedating detail, neatly organized by state,
category of law, dates and legal precedence, was all laid out in an accessible, and utterly
boring fashion.

It was daybreak before Sam finished, staring out the window, rolling the ideas around.

Then he got up and made breakfast.


Two Weeks Later

Another late night trip to the airport. Sam sips his coffee, a fresh bag of White Castle on the
seat next to him. He watches in his rear-view mirror, waiting. Spotting Will, he starts the car
again, flicking the headlights back on and thumping the horn once.

Will looks over at the sharp tone, then walks over, tossing his bags in the bed of the
truck. With a groan he gets in the cab, narrowly avoiding sitting on the fast food bag. After a
fidget with the seatbelt, the truck pulls out and away from the airport. Will lights a joint.

“Fuckin need smoking sections on flights again.” He says, rotating between the weed, sliders,
and fries. “And why is it white castle’s fries are consistently soggy and mealy.”

Sam shrugs, with a little grin on his face. “I suppose they have other priorities. How was
Mexico?”

Will sighs, his head thudding back against the headrest. “It was tiring. I’m still coming down
from the ritual. I swear to god if I wasn’t used to tripping I’d be confused why a wolf was
driving.”

“Got some news.”

After a moment, Will sits up again, glowering out at the road. “You did something didn’t you.”

“I got a breeder’s license.”

“You what.”


Sam and Will slip into a booth, nestled in a strip mall bar just off the highway. After
ordering drinks, silence fell as Will stared at Sam, who just smiled back.

“You got a fucking breeder’s license.”

“Yes.” Sam said, picking up a peanut and eating it, shell and all.

“Doesn’t that mean inspections?”

“Sort of.”

There’s a long pause. Will leans back, rubbing his face. “Ok stop being a smug dick and just
tell me.”

Sam shrugs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded printout. “So I did some
research. Frankie’s shelter is what, twenty minutes away?”

Will nods, leaning in to look at the printout. “What’s with the map?”

“Look.” Sam says, tapping on the sheet. “We’re here. Frankie’s shelter is a mile away over the
back of the property. The county just routed the roads around the ridge and gulley back there
because it was cheaper.”

“Ok?”

Sam grins, using a pen to draw boundary lines on the map. “So we have this property, there’s
the lot for the shelter, this is the junkyard, but there’s a good three-quarter mile by mile
land parcel here right between us and the shelter. I just bought it.”

Will looks up at Sam. “What? Why? That must be millions.”

“Eh not really, I talked them down to eight hundred thousand after I pointed out nobody would
want to live between a shelter and a breeder. Look, that’s not important right now. I got a
breeder’s license but I also got another license.”

Sam and Will leaned back as drinks were served, and after orders were placed, Sam continued.

“A breeder’s license as well as a shelter license.”

After Will snorted some of his beer and finished blowing his nose, Sam
continued. “Specifically, I got us a disposal shelter license.”

“What the flying pigfuck is a disposal shelter?” Will asked, lighting a cigarette.

“It’s the last chance for a fluffy.” Sam said, grinning. “I already got things set up with
Frankie. He keeps the tagged fluffies, we get the untagged ones. Disposal shelter licenses are
expensive but nobody wants 'em. The idea of killing fluffies means all the hugboxers avoid that
license, and the people who are ok with it probably shouldn’t be running shelters anyways.”

“You’re starting a fluffy slaughterhouse.”

Sam shook his head. “No, look. There’s a plan here but you haven’t heard all of it.”

“Yeah, hold onto that thought. Not over food.”

The food was served. They ate, and left in silence.


The road was quiet as they drove back, empty of most traffic.

“Right. Just lay out what you’re doing.” Will said, lighting another joint.

“Ok.” Sam said, with a sigh, finishing his lukewarm coffee. “Look, right now we need more
consistent income and work to keep all our goodies looking like we’re actually doing research
and things. So we start a business.”

“Right.”

“It has to involve fluffies for the research, and quite frankly I would prefer a business that
is profitable and allows me easy access to a stream of fluffies that I don’t need to be
particularly fastidious with on the paperwork side of things.”

“Yes…”

“So here’s what we do. We have a disposal shelter. Each fluffy gets a video feed. We have a
website. People can pay to bid on how a fluffy dies, or interact with the fluffy in some
way. When the timer’s up, winning method goes. We have daily specials on interactive
executions. Up to the last day a fluffy is in the shelter, they can be bought to save them.”

“Uh…”

“At the same time, we run a breeder’s outfit. High end, super specialized. Absolutely custom
fluffies, absolutely anonymous. We use the disposal shelter’s incoming shitbags as our starting
stock. Between these two businesses we have the need for the labs and whatnot.”

“Ok. Why do you need the property though?”

“Can’t have the two businesses on the same property for ‘hygiene reasons’.”

Will sits and thinks a while. “How are you going to dispose of the remainder?”

“Cremation, and the shit and piss get dessicated into fertilizer and sold.”

Another long, dense pause.

“Well alright then.”


Will set his bags down inside the house, Hickory bounding around happily.

“Daddeeee home. Daddeeee home. How twip?” He asked, clopping to a stop in front of Will.

With a grin, he scooped Hickory up and tossed him in the air, making the fluffy shout and
laugh. “It was really fun. I brought back a lot of things, too.”

Hauling one of the suitcases onto the coffee table, he set Hickory on the couch and
unzipped. The fluffy watched, leaning off the edge of the cushion, eyes sparkling with
curiosity.

Will picked through the contents, setting aside a pair of cigar boxes. “Those are for Sam,
but these are for us.”

He takes out a large, weathered sack of greying leather. Untying the top, he takes out many
small paper parcels, and opens one. Inside is a stack of compressed cakes of herbs, fungi, and plant matter.

“Wut dat?”

“This is uh… well in English it’s called god’s-eye tea.” Will said, putting the remainder
away.

He picks up Hickory, taking the single parcel and the wiggly little fluff into the study, where
he begins carefully preparing. Clay bowls are set out and filled with boiling water to pre-heat
them, and two coin-like cakes are peeled off the stack, and dropped in a glass
teapot. Nearly-boiling water is added, and slowly turns a dark, wine-like color.

With a filter in hand, Will decants the tea into a large flask, and begins heating it. More
infusions are drawn, adding to the bubbling mass in the flask, until the brew is a weak yellow
color. The liquor of the herb mix is slowly simmered down until it leaves a blackish, thick
liquid.

Will serves this in the warmed clay bowls, setting one down in front of Hickory. “This is going
to be fun.” He says.

The pair drink deeply of their doses, a coffee-bitter and pungent brew, and the night fades
away into technicolor dreams.


“Huh. Thought Chad had died out.” Sam said, leaning against the doorframe in the morning
sunlight.

A frazzled young man in an ill-fitting suit was standing on the porch, already beginning to
sweat. “What?”

“As a name.” Sam said, sipping his coffee. “After that whole thing in the tens with ‘chad’
being used as shorthand for ‘douchebag neanderthal’.”

“Sir have I insulted you in some way?” Chad asked, already internally regretting his decision
to get up this morning.

Sam blinked and laughed. “Oh no, no, that’s just how my brain works. I’m weird. What brings you
out here?”

After fumbling through a bag, Chad pulls out a folder with a sigh. “Thought I’d forgot it. I’m
here on behalf of the Ag board, there’s a sort of checklist we need to go through to make sure
you can handle the licenses you’ve bought.”

“Oh sweet, come on in.” Sam said, walking in the house.

Chad stepped in and closed the door, sighing as the air-conditioning seeped into his suit.

From the kitchen, Sam called out. “You can stop the formal stuff, there’s a coatrack if you
want to drop your jacket.”

After pausing to think for a minute, Chad shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie,
then followed the sound of Sam’s voice. He walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table,
plunking his bag down on a chair and beginning to lay out items.

“You want something to wake up with?” Sam asked.

“Uh do you do a green tea?”

“Yes. Lightning’s gotten me more into tea ever since he tried boba and got hooked.” He said,
preparing a pot.

“Lightning?”

“Hewwo.” Lightning said, from the chair next to Chad.

With a jump, Chad watched as Lightning nibbled his way through a plate of turkey bacon and eggs.

“I thought fluffies couldn’t eat meat.” Chad said, confused.

“Lightning has cannibal genes.” Sam said, sipping coffee while the tea brews. “He came about
during some breeding experiments and I rescued him from a bitch mare.”

“Mummah wus a mean fwuffy.” Lightning said, blandly. “Had nu appwefiation fow theology ow
geometwy, or cuwtuwing a wich inner wife.”

Chad just stared. Sam chuckled softly. “We’re working through the book together.”

“That’s… huh.” Chad said, then turned back to his paperwork. “So, we’ve got a start on this
already.”

Sam set down the tea and cup, sitting opposite. “What do you mean?”

“Thank you.” Chad said, pouring a cup of tea. “Well one of the items on the checklist is
establishing if you know how to care for a fluffy in general terms.”

“Oh, yup.”

“So, let’s start with the breeder’s. You breed fluffies already?” Chad asked, one eyebrow
raised. “Without a license.”

Sam waved one hand nonchalantly. “Not for sale. Research.”

Chad nodded, making notes. “So you have facilities here already for a vet clinic?”

“Uh, yes. Is that required?”

“Yes, you have both a shelter and breeder’s license. Normally you wouldn’t be required to have
a vet clinic either on site or within five miles if you had more than fifty adult fluffies, but
both licenses mean you automatically qualify for this requirement. However in order to be
qualified as a vet clinic, you will need to be open to the public as well.” Chad rattled off,
going down paperwork, ticking boxes.

Sam sat back in his chair, thinking. “I did not know that. I suppose this far out it wouldn’t
make a huge amount of difference in the end.”

Chad nodded. “Probably. Now, you have a question of disposal of bio-waste, from practically all
directions.”

“I have a medical incinerator in the labs, there’ll be a larger one for the shelter side of
things on the way in two days, and effluvium is getting processed into fertilizer.” Sam
said, refilling his coffee. “We have on-site greenhouses so the little goobers get some fresh
greens and there are some local farmers lined up to take the rest.”

More nodding, Chad muttering to himself as he picked through the paperwork. “Right. What sort
of scale is this breeder’s operation expected to be?”

Sam sat down again, with a shrug. “Not big. It’s a fluffies-to-order kind of thing. People call
in, define what they want, I give them a quote on price and if the deal goes through, they get
their fluffy in one to three months.”

“One to three months?”

“We start with genetic typing of a known pool of breeding age fluffies. The pairing is
engineered to produce a healthy litter with a high probability of matching the type the
customer wants. The litter is raised in a healthy environment with proper education and
training.” Sam rattles off, finishing yet another cup of coffee. “To the order, of course. When
done, the fluffies are distributed, the ones for the order to that family, the remainder are
placed separately. One to three months gives time for a pregnancy, education, weaning, and
enough time the litter can be separated from the parents without causing emotional issues.”

Chad blinks, going down a list. “Well that’s far better than most. The last place I vetted
managed to get a hold on viagra. Kept slipping it into the feed.”

Sam sighed. “Brilliant.”

“Mmm.” Chad says, ticking boxes. “Ok, the shelter side. Capacity?”

“We’ll have space for eight hundred to a thousand a month. I’ll just go ahead and say the whole thing though. Frankie’s shelter is our supply source unless we get animal control trucks directly, he keeps the tagged ones, we get the untagged. Each fluffy gets listed on a website for adoption
for the usual fees and whatnot. The incoming fluffies get snipped, get a non-mean sized pen for
three to five days, depending on behavior and other factors, then they get a bit of tinned
zucchini pasta and a big party with a lot of other fluffies in an oxygenless chamber. Pregnant
mares get to give birth and their babies go up for adoption with one of our milk-mares raising
them.”

Chad paused. “You have milkbags?”

Sam shook his head, one finger raised. “Not what I said. Milk mares are mares that produce
excess milk and are trained to raise foals that aren’t their own. There’s no amputation,
blinding, deafening, feeding tubes or shit funnels involved.”

With a sigh, Chad nodded and took more notes. “Good, the board is leaning hugboxy lately. The
properties are separate, correct?”

Sam nodded.

“Then I see no reason to stop you from continuing. Once you’re up to speed, give me a ring.”
Chad said, setting down a business card. “There will be a site inspection, we’ll list you on
our website as a fluffy vet, and after that you’re off to the races.”

The teapot was empty. Chad looked at it.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

With a sigh, Chad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uh…”

“Bathroom’s across from the stairs.”

“Thank you.”


Three Weeks Later

The phone rings, late at night. Sam looks over from mounting his permits on the wall of the
clinic’s office.

He picks up the handset. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this the fluffy clinic?” A young woman.

Sam looked at the handset. He’d been listed for less than an hour.

“This is a fluffy clinic, yes. I’m afraid you’ve called in after hours though.” He said.

“Please, I’m at wit’s end. Can I at least ask a few questions?”

With a moment of thought, Sam sat down at the desk with a silent groan. “Alright, what’s going
on?”

“I have a fluffy, she’s a few months old and she really, really wants children.” The woman
says.

“Running away?”

“No, I’m alright with her having babies, done it before. It’s just we keep setting her up with
studs and she says she feels the babies, but she keeps spontaneously aborting.”

After a pause, Sam sits up in his chair, thinking. “Really. How many times so far?”

“This is the fifth litter, it’s always the same, a week in and she loses the pregnancy. I had
to wrap her in a towel and give her benadryl tonight. She’s been trying to kill herself and I
don’t know what to do, she’s so set on babies and my husband loves her to death and-”

“Ma’am, please, slow down. I’d like you to bring her in tomorrow. We open at ten.”


A teal and cream pegasus is tightly hugging a stuffed rabbit, sitting on a cushion in the exam
room. Her owner, Laura, is sitting nearby, evidently missing quality sleep.

Sam pulls over a stool and sits with the fluffy. “Hi Seafoam. I understand you’re having some
trouble.”

Seafoam nods, sniffling quietly. “Wan babbies, but babbies. Dey nu gwow up in tummeh. Am bad
mummah.”

Sam sighs. “No, no you’re not. This might be a kind of sickies.”

The fluffy looks up, a bit snotty and teary. “Sickies?”

Nodding, Sam reaches up and pulls down a beak-like apparatus from the ceiling. “There’s lots of
ways to be sick, and sometimes, they can make it really hard to have babies. I want to use this
special camera to look at your tummy, can you turn on your back for me?”

Seafoam looks at it. “Dat a camewa?”

“Yes, it’s a special one that doctors use.” Sam said, helping Seafoam lay on her back. He
lowers the head and touches a control.

There’s a momentary buzz, and he returns the head to its storage position. Turning to a
monitor, he adjusts it so Seafoam can see. “This is called an X-ray. It’s a picture of inside
you. Now, sometimes there’s things we can see, like old owwies or hidden hard lumps. But you
look fine in there.”

“Here, good job. A lot of fluffies get scared of things like this.” Sam said, offering her a
little treat.

Seafoam scarfs it down, wiggling back up on her haunches. “Dat a weiwd camewa.” She says.

And then she faceplants on the table. Laura begins to get up, but Sam motions to her. “It’s ok,
just a sedative. I forgot pegasi tend to get hit a bit faster.”

“Why did she need sedated?” Laura asks.

“Well.” Sam says, turning Seafoam on her side and using a stand to lift one leg. “I’m going to
need to make a visual inspection.”

He takes out a speculum and pulls on a pair of gloves. Laura sits back down, wincing. “Oh
boy. I’ve been there.”

A generous application of lubricant and the speculum is in, slowly opening the fluffy. A scope
is inserted, and Sam navigates it in, peering down the eyepiece. “So, what did you think you’d
be doing when you were growing up?”

Laura laughs, a tired, but relieved sound. “I thought I was going to be adventuring with
Wonder Woman.”

“Ooh, a scholar of the classics.” Sam says. “Ahh. I see an issue.”

He turns and changes the monitor, showing the red, smooth mass of tissue at the end of the
scope. “This is right at the terminus of the vaginal canal. See how it’s nice and smooth?”

Laura nods, and then blinks, eyes widening as he moves the scope. “This is the placental
node. Fluffies have a specific spot it develops from and uh. It shouldn’t look like that.”

The node is a misshapen lump, scabby and pale.

“If I had to guess.” Sam said, leaning back and slowly withdrawing the camera. “She has an
autoimmune disorder. Pregnancies show up as something to get rid of when the babies start
moving into the phase where the cord develops. I’m afraid she’s unable to carry a child to
term.”

Laura sighs, holding her head in her hands. “She’s going to kill herself over this.”

Sam thinks, leaning back, a grin slowly forming. “Actually, I might have a way around
this. It’s experimental, and it wouldn’t exactly be cheap, but if you don’t mind being a bit
coy with your insurance I can figure out how to get it covered.”

Laura looks up, confused.


Seafoam is sitting on the cushion.

Sam pulls up closer to her and sighs. “Seafoam I’m sorry, but the tummy-place babies grow in
you is hurt. You won’t be able to grow babies there.”

Sniffles, then quiet sobbing. Seafoam begins to rock slowly, sucking on her forehoof. Sam stops
her, and leans down. “You can still have babies, Seafoam.”

She stops, watching Sam. “Yu jus say nu can gwow babbies in tummeh.”

Sam nods, and sighs. “Yes, but what I can do is take your babies, and put them in another
fluffy’s tummy. They then grow the babies in them, and when they’re ready to come out, they’ll
go back to you.”

Seafoam slowly zoned out, deep in thought. Sam and Laura waited, and eventually she sat up.

“Why dey nu be dat fwuffy’s babbies?”

Slowly, Sam nodded. “That’s a good question. It’s because when babies grow in a mommy, it
starts out from a thing called an ovum. It’s a little tiny thing, but it’s not ready to be a
baby. A stallion has to provide part, which is what happens during special huggies. Some of the
ova get woken up, and start to grow. It doesn’t matter where it grows, as long as it’s
safe to grow there, it’ll always be the babies of the mommy and daddy that it came from.”

A long, slow few minutes passed, and Seafoam pondered, muttering to herself and shifting back
and forth.

“An… when babbies hewe… can gib miwkies?” Seafoam looked up. “Eben if nu hab babbies in
tummy?”

“You’ll be able to nurse them, yes.”

“O-otay.”

The fluff seemed to perk up, still deep in thought. Laura leaned over. “So, how does this
work?”

“Basically, fluffy IVF. I can also remove her ovaries so the urge only happens once if you
want.”

Shaking her head, Laura winced. “I think after this many times she’d be grateful for the one
litter. Will the surrogate be ok giving up babies they carried?”

Sam smiled, and nodded. “Oh yes. I know one or two that won’t mind it at all.”


Standing on top of a hill, Sam looked out over the empty grassland being slowly turned over and
excavated, preparing the land for foundations to be laid and a road to be paved, right up to
Frankie’s shelter. Marking stakes showed where it would navigate the brief section of ravines
separating the shelter from Sam’s residence. It wouldn’t be too long before the incinerator
arrived, and the room that housed it could be built around it. Gas and water lines were already
buried, and it would only be a matter of time before picketers found out there was a new kill
shelter around.

Suppressing a small grin, he turned back and carefully picked his way down the hill, and strode
across the carefully-mown lawn to his own small shelter building, the quiet rhythmic hum of
music coming from within.

Inside the air was warm, fans overhead moving the air around to keep things fresh. The pens had
been slowly moved and stored, preparing for the changeover from storing fluffies for lab work
to when the barn would be retrofitted for luxury breeding. A dozen or so fluffies remained,
happily babbling to each other while Saint-Saens drifted through the air.

“Alright you all.” Sam said, turning the music down. “Afternoon nappy-time, grab your
blankies.”

There was a general shuffle as the fluffies made their way to their beds, the fleece blankets
warm and snuggly for them. Sam walked down the lines and stopped by one pen, taking a carrier
out. “Not you Marie. It’s checkup day. You can have a nap after, ok?”

Marie, a chubby, grumpy earth fluffy huffed up at Sam, her perpetually shit-stained tail
swishing in frustration. “Mistew Sam. Wan nappies.”

“I know, it’ll only be a few minutes.” Sam said, opening the carrier and putting it in her
pen. “Come on now, you know it’s for your own good.”

With muttered unpleasantries, Marie stumped her way over and into the carrier. Sam closed the
door and carried her out, sighing with a wince as the trip across the lawn to the lab was
interrupted with a loud ‘blort’ sound and a surge in stink.

“Marie, why didn’t you do that in your cage?” Sam asked, gritting his teeth.

“Nu feew wike it. Stupi. Gib cweanies nao.”


Sam set Marie’s carrier on a counter, pulling on gloves for cleaning.

“Wan cweanies nao.”

“Oh don’t worry Marie, you’re getting so very clean.”

Swinging a chemical shower head over the sink, Sam opens the carrier and dumps the tubby fluffy
in, turning the cold water on to maximum.

Marie shrieks and splutters, thrashing around and trying to run or climb out, but the water
knocks her back down immediately. After a minute Sam turns the head off, swinging it out of the
way.

The mare is panting in a soggy pile at the bottom of the sink. She is very clean.

“Now, Marie. You were a bad fluffy so you got the meanie bath. No more making bad poopies on
purpose, okay?”

She stares at him, hateful, and says, “Otay.”

Sam sets her on the counter, toweling her off slowly. A judiciously timed application of lubricant, a wait, and then the introduction of a cork are all conducted in the time it takes to dry the fluffy off.

“There. Now, exam time.” He sets Marie on the exam table and turns to gather his tools,
watching the fluffy in a mirror.

She glares at his back, and turns, making a dismissive glance down her nose before presenting
her hindquarters, tail up, and waiting for Sam to turn around again, her thighs flexing in
preparation.

He turns back, immediately putting his finger on the cork as she tires to force out a spray of
feces, but nothing happens. She groans, and whimpers. “Nu, whai poopie pwace hab owwies?”

“God what a disgusting little shitrat you are.” Sam said, all pretense of kindness gone. “Of
all the moronic little fartpigs I’ve dealt with you’re one of the most degenerate. Relishing
in your filth.”

Marie winces, whimpers, then gets her nerve back. “Dummy stoopit hoomin, gib poopie pwace
back.”

Sam flips Marie on her back, uncorking her and slamming his elbow down into her abdomen,
calculated to make her shit herself empty. She squeals and shouts, blasting shit across the exam
table and against the raised lip.

She groans, Sam grinning and rolling his shoulders. He drags over a molded foam restraint
board, plopping Marie on it and securing her in place with velcro straps, holding her on her
back, legs apart, and tail down.

“Now, Marie.” Sam said, taking out a modified insemination tool and fitting in a cartridge of
fluid. “I have a special use for you today.”

The fluffy is struggling, grunting quietly.

“You’re going to have babies.”

She stops, looking delighted. “Weawwy?”

Sam smiles, slipping a silicone bite guard in her mouth. “Yes. I’m taking another fluffy’s
babies and putting them in you. She can’t have them so we’re using your tummy. You’ll give
birth, and she’ll take her babies back. You’ll never see them.”

He watches as she struggles, snorting and trying to wiggle loose. After a minute he picks up
the insemination tool and slides it in, slowly working it to its full depth. Marie squeals and
tries to clench down, to slow entry, but Sam simply waits for her to tire before continuing.

Then with the push of a button, a click, a pneumatic thud, and Marie jumps. Sam pulls the tool
out slowly, then begins shaving a section of fluff off her inner thigh. The protests are
muffled from Marie, and she gives a muffled yelp as an IV is installed.

“This to make sure you stay nice and healthy. And this.” Sam says, holding up a rectal
evacuation tube. “Is so you stay nice and clean.”

Without fanfare, he shoves it in, making the former-mare scream from the intrusion. He secures
it on the frame, and slides it into a waiting cabinet, connecting it to a waste pump. A feeding
tube is forced down her throat.

“Now, Marie.” Sam says, smiling into the fluffy’s face, watching her tremble with fear. “Let’s
talk about your medication.” He says as he connects the IV to a saline source. “First, we have
a lovely cocktail of hormones so you give a bit more than normal for the babies to grow. You’ll
be fine, but they’ll be the healthiest babies you’ll ever have.”

She sniffles, watching, squirming in the restraints.

“The second though, that’s the real fun. Lactation induction.” Sam says, grinning, tapping a
bottle connected to the line on a drip feed. A little bubble trickles up as it begins slowly
introducing its medicine to the line.

There’s a moment where Marie confusedly looks down, then a muffled squeal as her teats visibly
grow and start to swell. She feels the mummah-feeling come on, strong and warm. Sam places the
milking cups on her and secures them in place. “All that milk and you’ll never get to feed
these babies.”

She starts to cry, wiggling in place. Sam grins and picks up a loose helmet. “Now, you’re going
to be so bored in there waiting for your babies to grow. So I’m letting you have a personal
TV. All the episodes of Babies and Best Mummah and Special Huggies Shows you can watch.”

He leans in, inches from her face. “By the time you’re done in here you’ll be a dummy. The only
thing you’ll want is to have more babies for me. And I’ll breed you and breed you until you
can’t give me any more babies. And then I’ll take your leggies and let my stallions use you as
an enfie toy until you go forever-sleepies.”

She stares, sobbing, trembling. Sam hangs the helmet from a frame inside the cabinet and slips
it onto her head. She can turn and relax, but never be out of the shows.

He closes the cabinet, and the first show starts to play. Special Huggies All Day. Basically
fluffy porn.


One Month Later

Seafoam sniffs, happily crying, carefully rotating her eight babies between her teats. Laura is
on the floor with her, using a bottle to help feed.

Sam sits on his chair nearby, going through a paperwork file. “I honestly didn’t think we’d get
this many.” He said, smiling quietly. “The few times before I’ve done this the litter sized
maxed out at five. You sure you can handle nine fluffies?”

Laura laughed once. “Oh yeah, the commune will be more than enough space.”

“An anarcho-syndicalist commune?” Sam asked, grinning.

“Yes, how did you know?” She asked, watching him with puzzlement.

“Uh.” Sam winced to himself. “Monty Python quote.”

“Oh.”

“Not exactly sure what it means to be honest.”

Laura shifted in place. “Well in practical terms we all live in a communal property and
business is done democratically. There’s no hierarchy, we grow a lot of our own food, but
there’s also a lot of people. So there’s plenty of family for fluffies.”

“Huh.” Sam said, thinking. “That sounds quite interesting. Well as long as you all have the
space and time to mind the little ones they should come up fine.”

“Oh yeah, we’re all hugboxers.”


Sam stood on the crest of a hill, on a paved road. The brutalist, angular structure of the new
shelter was coming together, simple and severe, and yet with an artistic flare that made it
seem more than just a building. After a minute of surveying, he turned to the other
structure. A huge building, commissioned from a company that builds livestock auction houses,
was going up. One section was done, the size of a few offices, but the remaining, open
section was still going up. The games would begin there, soon.

Turning back, Sam strode down the new roadway towards his shelter, and went inside.

Marie was being mounted, the derped mare ecstatically making enfing noises, tongue hanging out
and eyes catty-wumpus as a big, girthy stallion jackhammered into her from behind. Eventually
the stallion proclaimed his satisfaction and pulled out, panting. Sam walked over and grinned,
giving the stallion a firm scritch down the mane.

“Better, Glitch?”

Glitch nodded, still a bit out of breath. “Wumps feew su much bettew.”

Sam picked the fluffy up, carrying him to his pen. “Alright, you get some sleep. We’ll see
about how your babies are coming along in a few days.”

“Otay!” Glitch said, and bounded around, getting himself ready for bed.

Sam turned his attention back to Marie. The mare was giggling on her side, making raspberry
noises with her tongue and gently pawing at her tummy. Then she saw Sam looking at her.

He smiled widely. She began to cry, very, very quietly. She did not understand why, and went
back to feeling the babies starting to grow in her.

43 Likes

Whhhhaaaatttt fluffies with personality? Scoundrels who walk the line? And here it is not even my birthday.

8 Likes

I missed your stories turbo

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Uni started back up, so output is going to be a bit slower. Not quitting though.

9 Likes

What a story! I loved how dark that ending was. Damn!

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Good luck with uni! You can do it.

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If only she knew what it took to bring Laura happiness.

1 Like