THE ABUSIVE BREEDER (PART 1) [39576 By FoalOut4]

THE ABUSIVE BREEDER (PART 1)

By FoalOut4


I am an abusive breeder. There, I’ve said it. But it’s not quite like you’d think it is. I truly care about the quality of my product, and it shows.

I’ve got 5 star ratings from all the ranking websites on fluffy breeding. I enact strict discipline and love on my fluffies, and the end result nets me quite a respectable product and reputation. My Fluffbook wall is flooded with happy photos of my fluffies with the satisfied families who purchased them.

And yet, I am still, at my very heart, a cruel abuser. I run a very balanced life as both a respectable breeder and a relentless abuser. A Tao of abuse and business, interlocked together.

Allow me to explain myself. I got into this business of breeding fluffies a little over three and a half years ago. Prior to that, I was your run of the mill abuser, purchasing foals each week from the local fluffy mill at a great discount. (The mill was run by my best friend from high school, we go way back.)

At the beginning of each week, I’d take home a new foal, promising it ‘huggies’, ‘wuv’, ‘sketties’, and fun. By the end of the week, it would be begging me to kill it (in the ‘wan die’ loop) from the relentless torture I’d unleash upon it during my spare time all week.

Pretty much every abuse method imaginable I inflicted upon those little shits at one time or another.

Instead of the foal dying a quick death at the end, I’d leave it in the basement to slowly starve to death once it finally hit the ‘wan die’ loop. Sometimes I’d get creative and try out different deaths for the foals, but starvation was one of my favorites.

I had a few ‘accidents’ during this time where I got too overzealous in my torture and ended up killing some foals prematurely before they’d enter the ‘wan die’ phase. Oh well, the ones who made it to the end of the week only to slowly starve to death or meet one of my more creative ends, more than made up for it.

This weekly ritual kept up for quite some time, until my former high school friend who ran the local fluffy mill informed me that he was closing up shop. He said he was going to use the money he saved up to go back to college and get the career he actually wanted. I wished him the best.

I called him the next night, and informed him that I was interested in starting a respectable fluffy breeding business of my own, after spending weeks researching it online. He told me he would give me my pick of his best breeders, both mares and stallions, to get me started.

In the end, I received 9 breeder mares and 12 stallions, all good colors. No doubt, some of their children at the mill had died at my hands already, tortured and then starved to death in my basement, the delicious irony.

After getting this ‘breeder starter kit’ as I call it, I turned my spacious house (inherited from my grandparents) into a breeder’s delight. All spare rooms with the exception of my bedroom, study, kitchen, and bathroom were turned into rooms for the fluffies.

The living room was made into a massive saferoom where the weaned foals play. Two spare bedrooms were turned into rooms for nursing mares and their foals. Two spare rooms were turned into rooms for stallions. A third spacious spare room was turned into a room for pregnant mares, before they foaled.

I give breeder mares a three strikes policy. If they give birth to bad colored foals that exceed 50% of the total foals of that given litter, they get a strike. On the third strike, they are considered a ‘Shit Factory’ by me and are disposed of.

While most breeders would simply strap them down on a table and shoot them in the head with a bolt gun, or drown them in a bucket of water, or incinerate them in a furnace, I’m different. I’m an abuser.

I introduce third strike shit factories to my basement, along with the offending bad colored foals. If she had any good colored foals, I place them with a foster mare or feed them from a dropper myself until they’re weaned.

In the basement, I beat, torture, and starve the mare and her bad colored foals each day, until all her foals are dead in front of her, with her just barely hanging on. I then leave her the bodies of her foals to eat. I feed her nothing else, and come back once a day to torture her further, until she has starved to death.

All the while telling her that she is a bad fluffy, and that daddeh hates her, because she couldn’t make enough pretty babbehs for daddeh.

I do spruce it up a bit from time to time with different torture methods and death methods, but that’s how it generally goes.

The fluffies upstairs have no clue, I just tell them that I am taking the offending fluffies away to be … happy. Just like other breeders are told to do. Well, they are ‘happy’ when they finally get the sweet release of death after prolonged torture and starvation.

As for foal punishment for bad behavior, I tend to … deviate … from the official Hasbio suggestions. The Hasbio recommendations for foal punishment (for both breeder and owner alike) are as follows:

  1. The sorry stick method. Four sturdy whacks on the foal’s sensitive backside with an official Hasbio sorry stick is one method of punishment sanctioned by Hasbio. Each repeat offense should increase the number of sorry stick whacks by one, never exceeding eight whacks. (Because “you don’t want to traumatize the poor things.”)

  2. The sorry box method. Place the foal inside of an official Hasbio sorry box, with eye slits to peek out of, for a period not exceeding 30 minutes, as punishment. Repeat offenses should increase the period of time by 30 minutes an offense, not exceeding 3 hours.

  3. The listerine spray method, aka “bad baby spray”. Squirt a foal with watered down listerine in order to mark it with a bad scent that will cause its littermates, friends, and even its own mother to avoid it for a few hours, until it wears off. Repeat offenses should simply be a reapplication of the spray.

The Hasbio recommendations suggest not to combine any of the three punishments, unless really bad behavior warrants it, as it could potentially traumatize the foals.

I, on the other hand, combine these three methods with devious intent.

I use a custom sadistic sorry stick “maximum pain, minimum damage” that deals three times the amount of pain that a normal Hasbio sorry stick does, at half the damage. Meaning, I can whack a foal twice as hard with this incredibly painful sorry stick before it matches the impact of a normal sorry stick swing. Maximum pain, minimum damage. Great for not accidently damaging the product.

I start my punishment by striking a foal HARD eight times on their tender backside with this custom sadistic sorry stick, and I add TWO additional strikes per offense, up to a maximum of sixteen strikes. It really helps with discipline, and satisfies my thirst for abuse.

Next, I always place the foal inside of a sadistic sorry box. A sorry box that has pointy-yet-dull spikes on all sides of the floor and walls on the inside, and is peppered with sadistic scents that cause fluffies eyes to water, assaults their senses constantly, and makes even their breathing painful, and it’s totally dark and soundproof inside. It even sprays cold water at them from the ceiling at random intervals.

I keep foals inside the sadistic sorry box for a starting period of 90 minutes, and add 30 minutes each additional offense, up to 6 hours.

Upon removing the foal, it will be shivering from the cold water, wheezing horribly, with its eyes watering non-stop. It will constantly complain of “bweevie buwnies” and “see pwace buwnies” for awhile, until the scent assault wears off.

After drying them off with a towel, I spray them with my version of the “bad baby spray”. It’s watered down listerine, but less watered down than the recommendation. Much stronger. The bad scent is stronger, and takes much longer to wear off on the foal.

Their much needed “huggies” and “wuv” sought from its mother and littermates and friends after its traumatizing punishment, will have to wait even longer for the scent to wear off before they can be consoled.

These three punishment methods combined has allowed for strictly disciplined foals, as well as satisfying my own abuse urges. They still grow up to be good disciplined obedient pets.

At least, the foals that don’t turn into real discipline problem cases, or turn ‘smarty’, or simply have bad colors. For those, they end up in my dungeon, slowly tortured to death over time.

For bad colored foals, I let them stay and nurse from their mother for the first three days of their life, allowing attachment to form. Then I set my plan in motion to take them away.

Their mummahs sing to them, hold them, hug them, love them, and get so attached to them in their first three days. It’s so fun knowing what is to come for them.

Just today, I had a mare and her foals to deal with in this way.

The mare’s name is blueberry, generic I know. A blue pegasus mare, good breeder. Zero strikes, but she does get a bad colored foal or two in each litter. In her current litter, she has five foals. Three are good colors, but two are bad colors. A shit brown and a puke green.

I watch video (which are placed in front of each nursing mare cage) of the two bad colored foals suckling their mummah’s miwkies, kneading her crotch tits, and chirping and peeping happily after detaching, with their belly full of mummah’s miwkies. I smile knowing what’s coming next.

At the close of day three of their lives, I take the mare and her foals to the kitchen, to properly examine the foals. I put the foals on the table, and write down their sex, colors, health, etc. While this is going on, I treat the mare to a bowl of spaghetti, so she is properly distracted.

On the table, I have a bottle of “runt spray”, purchased online. This spray emulates the ‘bad smell’ of a runt foal, causing its mother to instictively reject it, even though it has already been nursing for a few days.

The scent is very strong. The mare will smell it, and quickly start sniffing each of her foals to determine which one is the “bad babbeh”, and will reject it, kicking it out of the nest, and will tearfully ask daddeh to take away the “bad babbeh”. Its instinct, the mare is powerless against it.

I do the same to smarty foals and badly disciplined foals, to get the mares to reject them on their own, so I can take them away to be “happy” in my torture basement.

I spray both bad colored foals with the “runt spray”. They both squirm around, frantically chirping and peeping in alarm, flailing their little hooves around in the air.

I give them back to the mare and set them back inside of her cage.

Less than five minutes later, a tearful Blueberry is begging me to take away the two “bad babbehs”, which she has kicked away from her nest. The two foals are squirming around on their backs, frantically chirping and peeping for their mother’s ‘wuv’ and ‘miwkies’ that will never again come.

I take the two foals and place them in a small cardboard box. I tell Blueberry that she is a good mother, and that these were just bad babies, and it wasn’t her fault. I take them down into the basement.

Inside of my basement is an abuser’s delight. Every sadistic contraption, torture device, and abuser’s tool, can be found down here.

I place the two bad colored foals on the main table, one filled with blood stains. The two foals inside are chirping and peeping in alarm, desperately seeking their mother, whom they grew so attached to over the first three days of life.

They get scared, and start blindly squirming around the box seeking their mother’s warmth, to no avail. Their chirping and peeping relentlessly escalates. One of the foals, the brown one, wraps his hooves around his green sister, in a touching huggie embrace. They both chirp and peep loudly. Awww.

“Pwease nu huwt dose wittew babbehs.”

An abused mare pipes up. Ah, my latest shit factory. Sasha, a red unicorn mare, good temperment, terrible breeder. Eight days ago, she gave birth to six foals. Only one of them had good colors. The rest were shit browns, puke greens, and piss yellows.

It was her third strike. On the third day of her foals life, examination day, I led her and her foals down into my torture basement, with the promise of more sketties. The sole good colored foal of her litter I ended up placing with a foster mare upstairs.

Over the past five days, I have relentlessly tortured her and her chirpy foals. Four of her foals are dead from my torture. Now, only a single foal of hers remains, horrifically abused and mutilated, huddled in fear on her back.

chirp! “scawy!” peep! it says. The foal just sparted speaking today, and just opened its eyes yesterday. Welcome to the world little one! Welcome to the world!

Sasha herself is now missing an eye, her horn, and her tail. Her entire back is shredded with lacerations, infection on her wounds already setting in. She has bruises from beatings, and burn marks all over her fluff.

Her sole remaining foal is horribly mutilated as well. It is pillowed, with severe cuts all over its back, bruises, burns, and a toothpick stuck up its ass. Its stomach is bloated, from being unable to shit for several days. It periodically SCREEEs and EEEs in abdominal pain from time to time.

“Pwease nu huwt dose wittew babbehs daddeh. Pwease. Huu Huu.”

Sasha starts crying, and her sole foal starts peeping in pain and says “scawy!” again. Then it says peep “nee ma’ poopies!” cheep. It hasn’t shit in days, and won’t live too much longer.

It tries to strain to shit, but it just ends up letting out a loud SCREEEEEE at the painful blocked up attempt, and says chirp “mummah, huwties!” peep, while its mother sobs.

I laugh at the constipated foal, and then turn my attention back to the two new foals I brought down with me.

I reach into their small box and start pinching them as hard as I can all over their bodies, on their most sensitive areas. The foals chirp and peep rapidly in alarm, which quickly turns into SCREEEEEEEs and EEEEEEEEEs as the pinches and pain intensifies. They squirm, trying to get away, but are unable to escape my grasp.

I grab a sharp toothpick and start jabbing the two foals with it, over and over, watching them recoil in pain, SCREEEing, EEEEEing, and chirping and peeping out an instictive alarm for their mother to save them, which will never happen. I poke, jab, and stab them over and over with the toothpick, drawing blood again and again. I even stick it into their very sensitive hooves.

The two foals start blindly squirming their way over to the sides of the box as I stick them, trying desperately to escape. Once they reach the sides of the box, they flail and struggle to tip it over and escape the pain.

I flick them over onto their backs, and then jab them in the stomach with the toothpick, and use it to drag them back into the center, and start stabbing them all over again. They cry and cry, SCREEE, EEE, chirp, and peep in pain. Blood is dripping.

“I think these foals are hungry for miwkies! That’s all foal ever care about anyway, miwkies!”

I pick the brown one up, and carry him over to a portable stove burner I placed in the basement. I fire it up, and let it heat up nicely.

The bleeding foal is letting out a constant EEEEE EEEEE EEEEE sound from the pain from all of the stab wounds, as it flails its little hooves around in all directions.

“I think this babbeh nees miwkies! Sadly, I don’t have any down here, maybe buwnies will have to do instead!”

I place the injured foal’s lower half, belly first, onto the heated portable stove’s burner.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEEEEE!

The foal has its mouth open screaming constantly, with its little front hooves flailing like mad in all directions. Its bottom half is stuck to the heated burner, frying, burning, with a loud SISSSSSSSSS sound. The foal is in unimaginable pain and agony.

“Awww, wook at him! I bet he’s thinking about sketties, and miwkies, and mommies, and huggies, and wuvies! That’s a miwkies thinking face if I’ve ever seen one! Awwwww!”

I keep the foal pressed down on the burner for a few seconds longer, as its lower half cooks. Its little hooves flailing wildly, its body twitching in horrific pain, its mouth open wide screaming. And then I pry it off with a spatula, still alive, still screaming at the top of its lungs, and take it back over to its littermate.

I toss the half-burnt foal on top of its startled littermate. The heat from its cooked half burns its sibling below, and it reacts in pain as well.

I decide to sit down here tonight and watch its suffering.

For the rest of the night, the cooked foal screams and cries endlessly, non-stop wailing and screaming. Its sibling, though also injured itself, has spent the night instictively trying to give it huggies and wuv, to no effect.

It chirps, peeps, and gives blind huggies to its cooked and wailing sibling, and is unable to take the pain away.

In the early morning hours, the burnt foal finally expires, after bellowing out a few last weak EEEEEs, it stops breathing. Its sibling is alarmed, and begins rapidly chirping and peeping and blindly hugging its now silent brother even tighter. He chirps and peeps, hoping for a response from its sibling, a response that never comes.

I smile as the foal continues to be upset over its littermate’s eternal silence.

Sasha, the abused mare, has been bawling all night at the tortured sounds of that burnt foal. She actually seems relieved now that its suffering is over.

I get up, and decide to “feed” the surviving foal. It must be starving by now.

I leave, and return with a bottle of milk, a bottle of drano, and a dropper. I pour the milk into a bowl, then I fill the dropper with milk.

I go over to the injured still peeping foal, and put the dropper up to its mouth.

It sniffs suspiciously, but after a few seconds, it begins to hungerly drink the milk from the dropper. It drains the dropper dry, and then hungerly chirps and peeps for more.

I go and pour some drano into the bowl of milk, mix it around, and then fill the dropper back up. The foal already knows there is milk in the dropper, and will not question the next feeding.

I return to the foal, and feed it the “milk” from the dropper. It hungerly drinks the “milk” from the dropper, and happily chirps and peeps when the dropper is fully drained.

Then … it quivers for a few seconds, and SCREEEEEEEEEs. Oh God does it SCREEEEEE! Its insides are being eaten alive by the drano in the dropper. Its glorious!

The foal convulses, thrases around, vomits blood, shits blood, SCREEEEEs, EEEEEEs, and after its internal organs have been turned to mush, finally falls silent.

Sasha is bawling again, and her stopped-up foal is once again saying “scawy!”.

Hmmm, I killed these two off much more quickly than usual, but another mare is suppose to foal within the next two days, so maybe I’ll get lucky with another bad color or two.

BUZZZ BUZZZ

I suddenly get an alert on my phone.

Wow, a new 5 star review of my business! It reads as follows,

"This guy is the best and most loving breeder I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting! Three weeks ago, we purchased Grape, our little fluffy foal bundle of joy from this breeder, and he’s the most loving, well behaved foal we’ve ever had!

We’ve purchased foals from mills before, but they all came mentally broken or with severe behavioral problems, and ended up being taken to the shelter. Not so with Grape! He was worth every penny!

I highly recommend this breeder to all of my friends. Not only does he raise them in a well behaved and disciplined environment, but he does so with love, so much love. You always get the feeling that they were truly raised with love, by a breeder who truly loves his fluffies."

(To Be Continued)

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