Not new to fiction writing, or even fucked to fiction writing. But I’ve never written fluffy stuff (despite being a long time reader). I have more parts planned, though not written. Tell me what you think.
Fluffies ravished the city. They bred faster than rats with a large appetite that lead them to tear apart garbage bags. They couldn’t even digest it properly and left copious amounts of foul shit everywhere they went. They harassed pass byers and their rotting corpses stank up every other block. Parks that were once popular outing spots became stripped of greenery and reeked of shit and rotting fluffy corpses from sadists who couldn’t clean up after themselves.
Traditional pest extermination methods failed. Dead bodies from poison just served as food for other starving fluffies. And thanks to fast breeding new fluffies were there to take the spot of the extermined ones within days.
Enter the Trap, Neuter, Release program. Hug boxers found it more humane to just sterilize and release the stray fluffies. But the real hope in adopting the program would be that sterilized fluffies would eat resoury, preventing others from successfully raising foals. While the program claimed to care about the welfare of the fluffies, the ranks were quickly filled with abusers. Those apathetic or sympathetic towards fluffies eventually gave up on being humane when the high processing rate demanded more speed and less care.
The center collected dozens, sometimes even over a hundred of fluffies a day. The capture team collected herds and threw them into large bins. Some larger herds called for multiple bins but little care was given for the fluffies to have enough room to move or to avoid fighting. Once at the facility, the bins were placed on carts for ease of transport. The pins with toys and brightly colored paint, constructed to give a hugbox image, were rarely used. Really only for the rare case of needing to isolate or quarantine some fluffies.
“And here is where the action happens”, Dave leads the trainee through a set of double doors, deeper into the building. Fluffies were still crying and begging, and the same awful scent fills the air as the rest of the area. There are less threats from the fluffies and the room is more clinical. Bins of sobbing fluffies line the walls. Most bins have at least some blood with a few bins containing messes and the odd dead fluffy.
“This is where we neuter them,” Dave pats a small metal table with leather straps built in. “I always like to start with the smarty. Gets him out of the way early. Otherwise the little fuck might bite you or shit on you.” The trainee grimaces. He heard about ‘sorry poopies’ and based on the smell and consistency of the shit piles he’s seen, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Dave plucks a blue and red fluffy from the bin closest to the table. “Wet smartie down o’ get sowwy hoodies” the little thing threatens with puffed cheeks. Dave doesn’t even pause and instead straps the fluffy into the table. The smarty is now on his back with his hind legs spread wide, giving a clear view of his balls.
“Usually they are out of shit by the time they get here, but sometimes they can surprise you. So never stand in the splash zone. We have a hose over there in case they make a mess. Floor is cement with a drain so don’t worry about getting anything wet. Now, onto this guy,” Dave flicks the fluffies snout. It huu huus and and it’s asshole puckers but nothing exits. The bin it came from is full of shit and other fluffies. The smarty struggles against the straps more and more violently, but nothing budges.
“For the guys we use this tool,” Dave shows off what seems to be high tech scissors. “When you close them and push this lever, a hot blade cuts through whatever is there. Castrates and cauterizes all at once,” as Dave finishes his explanation there is a sickening snap and suddenly the fluffy is screaming in pain. It’s left hind left is twisted awkwardly from within it’s straps. This time a small spurt of liquid shit actually escaps its anus.
“Reeee! Reeee! Biggest owies! Special friend, help!”
“Yeah, that happens. Damn thing’s joints are so delicate, easy to dislocate. Guess it’s so they can dance and hug and shit. No big deal. Let’s get those balls off first.” The fluffy cries and screams, but his hips are still. It seems like it is smart enough to realize that thrashing around with a dislocated hip only causes more pain. Dave holds the scissors around the balls.
“You want to make sure the blade doesn’t cut into the dick. Instead go straight between the dick and balls. Otherwise they might bleed out, or get an infection. Not that big of a deal, we don’t care if one or two die. But we want most of these guys to recover and get back on the streets,” Dave explains. The scissors clamp around the balls but the blade waits to be pulled.
“Nuuu, weave smartie’s special wumps alone! An’ fix wiggie!” The smarty is back to giving threats, though he still isn’t squirming. As before, Dave gives no attention to the brightly colored fluff ball. Instead he twists the scissors, giving the trainee a good view of procedure. The smarty huu huus about his balls being twisted around but not much else. Until-
“SQUEEEEE” The hot blade cuts through the scrotum and a pile of blue fluff and gore falls onto the table. Dave wipes it up with a paper towel and throws it into a biohazard waste bin. He wraps a loose leather strap around the fluffies muzzle, muffling it’s screams of agony. The scissors still remain, attached to the loose skin that remains of the scrotum.
“You want to leave it on for a good minute. Make sure the wound seals shut,” Dave has to yell over the muffled screams of the smarty and the new cries of the rest of the fluffies. Seems like hearing their smarty suffer upset the rest of the herd.
Dave unclamps the scissors and gives the trainee a minute to inspect a clean castration. Then he undoes the straps. The smarty immediately cries about his ‘special lumps having the worstest burnie hurties’. Dave gives his dislocated hip a firm whack back into place, which causes another loud scream. Unceremoniously he dumps the smarty in a clean, empty bin.
Dave repeats the process with another adult male before telling the trainee to try with a green and purple fluffy. He goes through the process, and despite a few hiccups successfully separates the fluffies from their testes.
“Younger fluffies can be tricky since they don’t have as big of balls,” Dave explains. He looks into the bin of fluffies and grabs a smaller fluffy. The same shade of blue as the smarty, but with a yellow mane. Probably the juvenile son of the smarty. “It’s the same idea though, give it a try”, he plops the little fluffy on the table. It tries to run but doesn’t have anywhere to go. Within moments the trainee has it strapped in and is prodding the small lumps. They’re closer to the body and refuse to be pulled away.
The trainee clamps on and let’s the blade cut through. But when the scissors are removed blood leaks out.
“Yeah, you see the bleeding spot? You cut into the dick there. It happens, even the pros can have trouble with the young ones. Doesn’t look like it’ll bleed out, but it might get an infection”, Dave explains as the sobbing fluffy is put in the bin with the rest of them.
“Do we give it antibiotics or stitches?” The trainee asks, which Dave seems to interpret as a joke.
“Ha! As if. We don’t waste supplies or time like that. Doesn’t matter if a few die.” Dave explains. The little fluffy resorts to chirping and tries to hug his dad. The older fluffy kicks his son away and instead focuses on trying to find cool spots to chill his burning scrotum on. The younger fluffy cries and sucks his hoof. Other fluffies shove into him as they also struggle with their own pain. The bin already has splatters of shit. No doubt that any open wound will get an infection and fester.
The pair turn their attention back to the bin of intact fluffies. There’s no more adult fluffies but the trainee gets a little bit more practice with juvenile males, though only once does he have a clean castration.
“Nu take babbeh, nu! Am just babbeh. Gud babbeh! Babbeh needs wove and huggies,” a mare pleads with Dave. They are out of male juveniles and now only foals, with still protective mother’s, are left.
“Am I really expected to neuter fluffies this small?” The trainee gawks at the smaller fluffies. Dave picks up a red foal, small enough to fit in a single cupped hand.
“Not really. Higher ups like us to try, but most of the time they die,” Dave doesn’t even bother with the straps, the fluffy is too small for them. It doesn’t struggle much anyway.
“Pwease nice mistah, nu take special wumps, babbeh needs special wumps. REEEEE” Dave doesn’t respond to the begging. He clamps down, but there is no space between the testicles and penis. Instead the clamp covers the balls and crushes them. When he finishes, it’s a mess of blood that doesn’t stop. He throws the tiny body into the finished bin without any care.
When the trainee tries for himself, he’s even worse. He actually gasps as he removes the clamps and realizes that he cut too deep. Far too deep. The foal squeals and chirps as a piece of intestine droops out of a gushing hole.
“Woo, he’s a goner.” Dave whistles. He takes the foal, which can only chirp and sob despite previous being a talkie baby, and dumps it in the biohazard waste bin. The foal then manages words, crying about the dark and stink of rotting flesh. It doesn’t make a difference though. It will die in there, on top of a mound of gore and fluff and the occasional dead body. Maybe from bleeding out, if it’s lucky. More likely from starvation after a day or two. Or even suffocation if too much more biohazard is piled on top.
“Hey, don’t look so down. I told you, foals that young usually die,” Dave gives a reassuring smile and they get back to work. They plow through the rest of the male foals. Most of the trainee’s, and a few of Dave’s, go into the biohazard waste bin. More intestine and bones are exposed. The chirpie babies in particular are a joke. Not even Dave saves any of them, and after a couple tries they just dump the rest in the biohazard waste bin. The tiny cries are largely muffled. Sobs about tummeh sketties and owwies are ignored by the only two humans in the room.
“Ready for the ladies?” Dave laughs as he swaps the tools. It was only half time.