THE ABUSIVE BREEDER (PART 3)
By FoalOut4
Today, three runts were born from a popular breeder mare of mine who produced seven foals. All foals were good colors, even the runts, but runts are runts, and mares instinctively reject them.
Two of the runt foals are wheezing, an obvious sign that their lungs haven’t developed properly. The third runt is throwing up the milk formula that I fed it, showing obvious signs that its digestive system hasn’t developed properly.
Their mother tearfully handed over the three “bad babies” to me, and I told her that I would take them away to be … happy.
I took the three rejected runts with me to the basement.
According to all written hugboxer breeder protocols, I’m suppose to put on soothing music, stroke the foals’ fluff gently, and tell them over and over, “You are a good fluffy, you tried” as they slowly pass away, to reassure them that their brief appearance in this world was not in vain.
Fluffies, even infants, are pre-programmed to react strongly to being told they are either a good fluffy or a bad fluffy. It makes them feel very sad and depressed and greatly distressed when they are told that they are a bad fluffy. Their programmed instincts react to it.
I’m a heartless son of a bitch. So, do you want to know what I said and did to those defective runt foals, in their last hours? I told them the truth …
“You are a BAD FLUFFY, you are a BAD BABY!”,
“You are a HORRIBLE FLUFFY, you are a HORRIBLE BABY!”,
“You FAILED your mummah and your human daddeh! You are a worthless baby! DIE! Cease to exist! Come on, fucking DIE! CEASE TO FUCKING EXIST! Come on, cease to exist!”,
“You don’t deserve to exist, you worthless BAD FLUFFY, you are a worthless BAD BABY, cease to fucking exist!!!”,
“Your mummah told me to give you forever sleepies because you are BAD FLUFFIES! Your mummah said you don’t deserve huggies, love, and sketties, EVER! Because you are BAD BABIES!”
All the while I’m saying this, I’m pinching them, piercing them with thumbtacks, pouring cold water over them, and setting out eucalyptus scents (that horrifically assault their senses, causes their breathing to burn, nasal passages to burn, high irritation, etc), so that the two runts who are having breathing trouble will now have an even harder time breathing, with burning breathing and great irritation as well.
I keep force feeding the runt with digestive issues a lot of milk, over and over, watching it naturally throw it back up, since it can’t keep any milk down. It’s digestive system isn’t working properly. I squeeze its undeveloped tummy over and over to watch it react in great pain.
All three foals are squirming around on the table, rapidly chirping and peeping their “scawdy-peeps” trying to signal their mother who rejected them to come to their rescue and save them.
“BAD FLUFFY! You are a BAD FLUFFY! You couldn’t even be good babies for daddy, you had to be BAD BABIES! Cease to exist! You don’t deserve huggies, love, an sketties! You ONLY deserve forever sleepies! DIE BAD FLUFFIES! DIE BAD BABIES! CEASE TO EXIST!”
I kept this up for hours as they slowly passed away.
I dislocated all of their legs from their sockets. Stuck pins deep into their very sensitive little hooves.
I fired up the portable stove and pressed their lower backs against the hot burners, watching them scream as their backs were horrifically burned.
I started snapping their legs as their breaths started coming to an end, eliciting renewed screams from them.
Just as they began to expire, I took a hammer and crushed them in half. Despite being weak runts close to death, they still screamed and tried to crawl around with their broken legs to escape the pain.
At last, they each took their final breaths, with me still screaming at them that they are BAD FLUFFIES and BAD BABIES who don’t deserve to exist at all.
All the while their torture and deaths were going on, they had an audience.
Ashlynn, the shit factory mare in my basement, whom I was priming to believe that “fowevew sweepies awe gud fow babbehs” after I starved her last litter to death, watched the entire event.
She’s frightened, shaking, and very pregnant (I knocked her up with a feral stallion to produce more bad colored foals for me to play with.)
I bring the three dead runts over to her and present them to her.
“See? Forever sleepies are good for babies! Killing babies sends them to Sketti Land faster! And the worst the owies you give them, the happier they will be in Sketti Land! Drinking miwkies, eating sketties, and playing all day in Sketti Land with all the other dead babies! You want babies to be happy in Sketti Land after they go forever sleepies, don’t you?”
She gives me a very nervous nod.
Hmmm, seems I’m making a little progress.
My end game plan with Ashlynn is this:
Attempt to brainwash her to believe that ‘huwties’ and ‘fowevew sweepies’ are ‘gud fow babbehs’, and see if she will torture and kill her own foals of her own free will, having absorbed this belief.
I started out by telling her the myth of Sketti Land, where babies can drink miwkies, eat sketties, and play all day long, with ‘sky fluffy’ the god of the fluffies, watching over them, in eternal happiness.
Given her genetic pre-programming to accept what her ‘hoomin daddeh’ tells her, and typical fluffy gullibility and stupidity, she ate it right up.
I allowed her to watch internet videos of ‘sketti land’, created by bleeding heart hugboxers as the fluffy version of the ‘rainbow bridge’, to help grieving owners who lost fluffies to be able to cope with their deaths. She was in awe at all the beautiful Sketti Land imagery.
She eventually gave birth to three foals. I allowed her to feed them, play with them, love them. All the while still indoctrinating her about Sketti Land and babies who go there after death.
When her three foals opened their eyes and started talking, I informed her that the only way her babies will ever get into Sketti Land, is for them to experience the ‘wowstest huwties’ imaginable, and then ‘fowevew sweepies’, and that ‘huwties and fowevew sweepies awe gud fow babbehs’.
She was mortified. I told her it was what was best for her babies. To live and play in ‘Sketti Land’, rather than living in my cold damp basement.
I could tell she was greatly conflicted between her built in motherly instinct to protect her foals, and her built in programming to believe and accept what her ‘hoomin daddeh’ tells her as the truth.
After hours of coaching and encouraging her, with her three foals frightened, shaking, making scardy peepees and scardy poopies, begging their mummah not to listen to me, she finally caved in, and knocked one of them over with her front hoof.
The foal started crying and bawling, and then Ashlynn started crying and foaling, and apologized to the foal “Huuu, su sowwy babbeh, nu want huwt babbehs, huu huu.”
I took the foal away from her, and slowly tortured it to death in front of her, with her powerless to help it or save it. She reacted greatly to the foal’s scardy-peeps and cries for “nu moaw huwties”, but I wouldn’t let her near it.
The entire time, I assured her that her foal would forgive me, and forgive her, when the foal is forever asleep and eating sketties in ‘sketti land’ with ‘sky fluffy’. I repeated the mantra “huwties and fowevew sweepies awe gud fow babbehs” and explained how happy sketti land is for them.
She was still in hysterics. After the first foal finally died under my torture, I gave it to her to hug, and told her that right now, it is happily dancing and eating sketties in sketti land, and will be happy forever and ever now. I told her right now it is saying to her “Wuv mummah, fow put babbeh in sketti wand!”, and I played her the sketti land video again for her to watch as she mourned her dead mutilated foal.
I then repeated the process with her two remaining foals. With each foal’s horrible torture and death, she seemed a little less phased and a little less sad, as I constantly reassured her that they are now alive and well and playing in sketti land, with all the sketties they can eat. I constantly play the sketti land video to put her at ease, and tell her that they are praising her in sketti land for putting them there, and that they ‘wuv mummah’.
When she is a mummah-no-more, I went and hunted down a random feral stallion, and brought him down into my basement to mate with her again.
With each passing litter, she has become more and more compliant.
During her second pregnancy in the basement, I played her the sketti land video once every day, and reassured her of her dead foals being happy in sketti land.
With her second batch of foals down here, upon the foals opening their eyes and talking, I told her it was now time. She begged me to spare this litter, but I refused, and told her they will all be happier in sketti land.
At my command, she reluctantly started to hurt them. Biting them, and kicking them with her hooves, but upon hearing their cries of pain, and her foals calling her a ‘bad mummah’, she would break down in tears and stop.
Then, I would take over and torture each foal to death, repeating my reassurance that they are happy in sketti land, and play the sketti land video again while she mourns each foal. She seemed a little more receptive with the second litter.
During her third pregnancy in the basement, I played the sketti land video twice each day, constantly reassuring her of its truth. Her dead foals are now happy in sketti land, and her new foals will be too.
It was during her third litter in the basement that we made a true breakthrough. She began telling her chirpy babies soon after they were born of the wonders of sketti land, and told them how they had ‘bwuddas an sissies’ who are happy in sketti land right now, and they would be too some day.
When these foals opened their eyes and started talking, I waited until I heard each of them say ‘wuv mummah’, before I told her to hurt them for me, to send them to sketti land. She was apprehensive at first, somewhat reluctant, but started stomping them with her hooves, and biting their fluff with her teeth. She teared up as they cried and screamed and called her a “bad mummah”, but this time, she actually continued hurting them despite that!
She gave them ‘sowwiest hoofsies’ until they threw up their insides, and their back half was completely smushed. Then she bit their backs with her teeth as hard as she could, as they cried and SCREEEEEEd in pain, until they were forever silent.
The entire time, she told them, “Huuuu, pwease nu cwy babbehs, huwties an fowevew sweepies awe gud fow babbehs, huuu huuu!”
I didn’t even need to intervene. She did it all by herself. I smiled as I took away her dead litter, killed entirely by herself.
Such great progress at last!
(To Be Continued…)