See part one here:
“The females are trickier. And messier” Dave chuckles. He is holding an intimidating syringe gun. It’s tip is a long, thin piece of hollow plastic and it is loaded with a thick white paste. Dave inspects the bin of now all mares. They are sobbing and begging, wallowing in shit. He pokes bellies and tosses some around until he finds a bright pink fluffy, hugging a chirpie foal.
“Pwease no take last babbeh. Babies need mummah, am too wittle.” Dave ignores her and she lands on the metal table hard. She huu huus quietly to herself.
“We need to inject this shit into their uteruses,” Dave explains. He lightly squeezes the trigger, making a bead of white appear at the tip. “It scars it up, making them miscarry whenever they do get knocked up. Which happens a lot. The little shit rats are pretty much always pregnant. When we start jabbing this into them, they’ll miscarry. Further along they are, nastier it gets. This one seems to have just given birth a couple days ago, so she’s probably empty.” Dave explains calmly over the mares cries for her baby.
“Nu, need babbeh. Babbeh too wittle, need mummah,” she thrashes and yells as Dave straps her in. Not that she had the angel to see it, but her last baby had already been trampled to death by panicked adults. It is just a pink and red smear in the corner at this point.
“The tricky part is finding your way into the uterus,” Dave inserts the tip into her vagina.
“Ree! Nu touch special pwace! Hurties!”
“You kind of have to poke around until you find the hole,” he jimmies around the tip until it finally finds home and he can press further in.
“Worstest special huggies,” the mare tries to kick free but just snaps her hip out of the socket. “REEEEEE.”
“Don’t try to force it, you don’t want to rupture anything. Once you’re in, just squeeze down until it’s all in,” Dave fills her womb with the caustic sludge. The mare is too far gone to notice it, and still sobs and cries as the tip is removed from her. Blood trickles out of her hole. Dave undoes the straps and whacks her leg back into place.
“See, that little bit of blood is normal if she isn’t preggers. Let me show you the other extreme,” Dave gets a purple mare, heavy with foals, in place. He straps her in but it doesn’t even seem necessary. The thing can hardly waddle. He doesn’t waste time in slipping the tip into her.
“Nu! Nu special huggies, am bad for tummeh babbehs!”
“Alright, get ready. I’m about to pop her,” Dave warns before he gives a final push. Instantly clear fluid gushes out. The mare seems to understand what that means.
“Tummeh babbehs have hurties!” She bellows as Dave injects her with the paste. More clear fluid flows out of her, with trickles of blood as well. “Biggest poopies,” she decrees. The puncturing of the amniotic sacs and ripping off the placentas seemed to have induced labor.
Dave removes the tip and even more liquids gush out. Amniotic fluid, blood, and a bit of the paste flow out. She gives a hefty hnnnng and a tiny foal slides out as well.
“Told you, the ladies can be messy,” Dave moves her to the bin and she was screaming for her babbeh. “She’ll spend the next couple hours giving birth.”
“Mummeh need babbeh. Babbeh! Give babbeh pwease,” the mare manage to stand up against the wall of the bin. Her foal chirps weakly on the table. He’s a unicorn, and though she can’t see him, she can hear him. Its tiny peeps are forced and its tiny body is smaller than normal. The fluff is a thin layer that is hardly visible. Dave doesn’t bother with it, sweeping it aside. Its chirps weaken as its premature lungs fail. Eventually it falls silent.
“Alright, give it a try,” Dave hands over the syringe gun. The trainee frowns and grabs the gun carefully.
“Which one should I do?”
“Any of the adults,” Dave shrugs. The trainee grabs an orange fluffy. It tries to run but it only slips in shit and cries. Not like it had anywhere to run to.
The trainee straps her in just like with the males. He pauses. “So is she going to flood the table again?” He sneers at the sticky mess from the last fluffy. The dead foal still rests on the edge of the table.
“She can waddle around just fine, so she’s not that far along.” Dave shrugs. After a pause the trainee continues. He pokes the tip into the shit crusted opening of the mare.
“Nu! Bad special hugs! Nu wan!” She squirms and wiggles, which was a bad choice as the trainee jerks and the mares screams. Blood starts to flow out, heavy and red.
“Yeah, you ruptured something,” Dave tsks. “Well, keep trying, just for practice’s sake. She probably won’t make it though.” The blood continues to flow. The trainee pokes and prods, trying to find the uterus with Dave’s guidance. He’s pretty sure he ruptured something again, but hey, practice makes perfect right?
By the time they were done with the orange mare she didn’t have the energy to fight. Blood covered the table and she could only sob quietly when they put her in the bin. The purple mare seemed to be laboring with her next foal, but was being kicked and trampled by panicked and hurt fluffies.
The trainee practices on two more mares before he started to get the hang of it. Occasionally small, fetal foals slide out. Most are too tiny to draw a single breath, but some are developed enough to cry for their mothers. All of them die on the cold table without ever once feeling their mother’s warmth.
At the end of the adults, Dave grabs the various fetuses and throws them into the biohazard bin. A desperate foal from earlier in the day, somehow still alive, weakly waves a hoof at them when they open the biohazard bin.
“Pwease help babbeh? Need huggies for wowest owies,” Dave closes the lid without a second glance. The foal’s cries are too soft to hear through the metal. It’s left to hug it’s dead brothers and sisters, hoping the bloody hugs will somehow save him.
“We use a half dose for juveniles,” Dave explains as he returns to the table. He pulls up a soft yellow filly next. Just old enough to eat solid food. The trainee injects her, somehow managing to find her uterus without incident.
“Babbeh too wittle for special huggies,” she cries as the tip goes in. Like those before her she screams as it enters her uterus and fills her womb.
The last of the fluffies go by painfully slow. As they move to the younger fillies their success rate falls. One unlucky little filly starts vomiting blood and Dave explains that means he punctured straight through to the stomach. Not that hard of a thing to do when the foal is the size of your hand.
Eventually all that is left are a few dead chirpie babies and smears of piss, shit, and blood.
“What now?” The trainee asks, exhausted.
“We get these guys to recovery and start on another batch,” he pushes the bin of mutilated and dying fluffies into a new room. It’s quiet and calm in the new room. Pins with toys and beds line the walls, but the staff stopped using them long ago. They were simply too time consuming to clean. It is much easier to hose out the bins than mop the pen and wash the beds. So the staff just keep the fluffies in the crowded bins.
Dave attaches some water and kibble dispensers to the bin, though no fluffy seems interested. They are all suffering in pain, some bleeding to death, others laboring out foals.
“Dispatch will drop them off where they found them in the morning. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch,” Dave offers as they leave the recovery room. He flicks off the light, plunging the fluffies into darkness. A few manage to cry about the dawkies being scary, but Dave doesn’t pay any mind. He wasn’t going to waste electricity on them. Think of the environment.
I’ve been building this story for years in my head. Honestly, these two chapters are just prologue. The rest will be mostly sadbox, not abuse, and get more personal with the fluffies, following individuals.