Time passes slowly, and the fluffies grow.
Every day is largely the same; you wake up early, at 5:00 am. You shower, brush your teeth, do your makeup, and get dressed. Breakfast is a cup of coffee, light and sweet, in a travel mug to drink on the way to work. Sometimes Ellie wakes herself up to say goodbye when you drop by the safe-room to refill the food and water, but most of the time she doesn’t. Regardless, you always kiss her soft white fluff, to which she always coos with a happy little smile. You’re delighted that even completely unconscious, she is both aware of and appreciates your affection.
You have to drive over an hour, all the way into the city to get to work, which starts at seven. You work as a pharmacy technician, and you spend your days counting pills, being yelled at by the elderly, and getting overwhelmed by phone calls. When you finally get your lunch break—usually around noon, you’ll turn on TV for Ellie back at home. You check on her and Dummy via the camera you have streaming to your phone at least once an hour, usually more when it’s not busy.
Another long commute takes you home—some days, you stop to pick up groceries; another, you stop to chat with an old friend that you see walking by.
Finally, after a long day, you arrive home. Your fluffies know the instant that you get home. Every day, as soon as you click the front door shut behind you, you hear Ellie calling for you, excited and eager for you—you, the epicenter of her universe, a loving, all-powerful god in her eyes.
But you don’t go to her immediately. First, you wash your hands, and then you scrub the makeup off your face. Heading to the bedroom, you pass by the closed safe room door, and just like a cat, Ellie waves her hoofsies out from under the door, trying to get a passing touch of you as you walk by. Sometimes you brush up against her, sometimes you don’t. When you arrive, you change out of your work clothes and take off your jewelry, brushing out your hair before finally going to check on Ellie, who is still babbling and calling for you from inside the room.
As soon as you open the door, she is on your ankles in a tight hug, her sky blue tail wagging furiously behind her. “Mummah!” she squeals, wrapping herself around you as much as she can. “Ewwy did miss yu! Wub yu!”
A quick scan of the room to see if anything is amiss, and then you scoop up the squealing and cooing fluffy at your feet. You carry her against your hip, holding her tight to your body with one arm; she presses her warm little body against you as tight as she can, wrapping her hoofsies around you, the only thought on her simple mind is the sheer bliss that is loving and being loved by her Mummah. You hold her close and she babbles to you about her day.
A short distance away, the tiny, starving, disfigured creature that is Dummy lies crying by himself. You tower impossibly far above him, and listen to his pathetic, weak little hu-huus with a sweet satisfaction. You set Ellie down on the ground so she can go make good poopies, and then go to check on Dummy. Squatting down in front of him, you ask him the same question as always: “Well Dummy, do you know why you’re a bad fluffy yet?”
The poor boy has already guessed everything that there is to guess and then more. As more time passed, his answers got more and more arbitrary, and he repeats the same answers multiple times. Today, though, he surprises you, and says something different. “Dummeh am bad fwuffy becaws no-no stick am haf weiwd feewies?” he asks you, and a wicked grin splits your face.
Both fluffies are around five months old now. Unlike humans, male fluffies sexually mature sooner than females, and it seems like Dummy has finally hit this stage. He’s a week older than Ellie, too, so she’s still got a lot of catching up to do.
Excitement flutters in your chest. This is what you’ve been waiting for—you’ve been planning this next part of his torture since you’d first gotten him, and you have been waiting impatiently since then.
Making a mental checklist for later tonight, you simply inform him that he’s wrong with a restrained kick to the ribs. He rolls away, his body slamming roughly into the carpeted floor.
Then, just like every day, you pick Ellie back up from where she’s waiting by her water bowl, holding her in a side-hug again. You flick the light off, plunging the horny colt into complete darkness. Just like always, he begins to sob immediately, the terrified, broken hu-huus like music to your ears.
You settle yourself down onto your couch, and Ellie curls up comfortably in your lap. She stares up at you, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling against a beautiful, shiny mane of the same wonderful shade. Her silky tail wags behind her as you gently rub her little ears. “What are you thinking about, Ellie-belly?” you ask her.
She traps you with a brilliant smile. “Am finkin bowt how much am wub Mummah! Mummah am bestest Mummah in da whowe fowebah! Ewwy am wub Mummah mowe dan anyfing!”
You feel your heart skip a beat at the saccharine words, and for a moment, you can’t speak. Mentally berating yourself for having gone so soft, you clear your throat before saying, “And Mummah loves you more than anything, little one. You are a very special fluffy, you know that?”
She giggles. “Dat am wat Mummah say! Ewwy jus’ wan be gud fwuffy, wan be gud fwuffy fo Mummah. Mummah am su gud Mummah, Ewwy wan be bestest fwuffy fo bestest Mummah!”
You prop your feet up on the coffee table and turn the TV on to Fluff TV for Ellie, mostly just wanting something to listen to in the background. Ellie curls up into a ball to watch on your lap, and you reach over to the cushion next to you to pluck up your knitting needles—made of plastic and rounded on the ends so as to avoid any accidents—and spend a little while making some progress on the next square for your quilt. At some point, Ellie moves to scoop up your ball of yarn, curling around it in a hug and admiring its “su pwetty cowow fwuff!”
You’re about thirteen rows in when she suddenly gasps. Startled, you nearly drop your project right on top of Ellie, whose head is perked up, staring rapt at the screen. “Wook Mummah!” she squeals, wiggling excitedly. “It am Ewwy fabowite show!”
Pausing in your stitches, you settle the needles down beside you as the word Babies! flashes on the screen. The loud, cheerful music in the background does nothing to ease the cacophony of chirps and peeps from the large number of fluffy foals that dance across your screen. There are earthies, like your fluffies, as well as pointy babies, wingy babies, and even alicorns. They come in all different colors and combinations, running around, playing, cuddling, drinking milk.
You keep your eyes on Ellie while the show plays, interested to see her reactions. She is so caught up in her wonderment that she doesn’t even notice your intense gaze. Her tail wags continuously, and she coos happily when the Mummahs on screen begin to sing Mummah songs to their foals. At the end of the episode, there is a short demonstration on how to give “special huggies”; when this part comes, Ellie’s tail stops wagging.
When the show is over, you click off the TV, and scoop up the fluffy in your lap, holding her like a baby in your arms and giving her exposed tummy a few little tickles. “Ellie-belly, why is Babies! your favorite show?”
“Ewwy wub tu see aww da widdwe babbehs! Dey am suuuu cyute! It make Ewwy su happies tu see dem babbehs, Mummah!”
“You like to look at the little foals, huh little one?” you repeat, and she nods. “What about that part at the end?” you continue casually. “Where it’s just the two grown-up fluffies?”
“Weww Mummah, Ewwy nu weawy unnastan’ weiwd dancie,” she confesses. “Dat not Ewwy fabowite pawt, fabowite pawt am wif aw dem pwetty and cyute babbehs!”
Pleased by her answer, you give her a quick kiss on the head before setting her on the floor to play. You have fluffy-proofed your house, and you’ve taught her well enough that she can stay out of trouble while you go to take care of Dummy.
You enter the room and turn on the light, and his sharp, terrified peeping stops. You can smell his shit-filled diaper from here, and it is clearly extremely uncomfortable. Puffy with the gross substance, it has been rubbing against his completely bald ass and crotch area for a full 24 hours. Normally, you’d have to change a fluffy’s diaper far more often than that, but you give Dummy the absolute bare minimum amount of food that he can possibly survive on, so he doesn’t shit that much.
You take him to the sink and strip off his diaper over the garbage, where it lands with a wet thud at the bottom of the bag. Gripping the underdeveloped fluffy tightly around the stomach—stretched tight over his ribcage, though not skeletally so—you squeeze the remaining shit and piss in him out over the sink, where it is quickly whisked away by the ice cold water from the fountain. He lets out a few chirpy screams as your vice grip crushes his lungs, all of his internal organs being forced out of place and smushed together, and you feel his bones grinding in your grip.
When he is empty, you hold his shit-smeared ass under the frigid water, and just like every day, he sobs pitifully, too weak to try to fight back, his entire body shaking like a leaf at the unforgiving temperature against his bare skin, without even his fluff to protect him from the cold.
You scrub him down with dish soap, working a washcloth over his ass before heading down to where his stumps are. As you’re scrubbing him, he begins to get a weird look on his face. He starts to wiggle in your hand, and for a few moments, you’re too focused on getting him clean to realize what’s happening.
“Enf, enf…” he whimpers, rutting his hips into the washcloth. As soon as you process the words that just left his mouth, you pick him up in the washcloth, holding him with his face directly under the running water. Even as he thrashes—choking, coughing, and spluttering as water enters his lungs—he bucks his hips up, and you smile—this is going to be even sweeter than you imagined.
“Bad fluffy!” you scream at him, and he flails as hard as he can, desperate for a gulp of air. “You’re not allowed to have enfies unless Ellie asks for them!” You reel your hand back behind your head and then throw Dummy into the sink as hard as you can.
With a sickening crack, his left foreleg snaps, and his scream could rival a tea-kettle. “You are not allowed to have special huggies!” you scream over him, and you pluck him up by the other leg, holding him aloft by his one remaining limb, and spit flies from your mouth and hits his hairless face. “You are not allowed to have enfies! And you are not allowed to have good feels! You are not allowed to talk about enfies or special huggies! You are not allowed to ask for enfies or special huggies! You are not allowed to give yourself good feels!” You punctuate every sentence with a vigorous shake, and the fluffy in your hand screams for mercy. His asshole puckers repeatedly, reflexively trying to release the scaredy-poopies that he doesn’t have in him. “If Ellie asks you to give her special huggies all by herself, then and only then are you allowed to have them, and you had better give her what she wants! Do you understand, you extremely bad fluffy?!”
“YUS MUMMAH!” he screams. “AM SOWWY MUMMAH! SCREEE! NU WAN WIEWD-FEEWIE NO-NO STICK! WAN BE GUD! NU MOWE ENFIES! NU GUD FEEWS! ONWY FO EWWY! DUMMEH BE GUD!”
When you are confident that he has the idea drilled into his miniscule brain, you release him, placing a new diaper on him. You let him lie—shivering without a towel, his fluff soaked in ice cold water—on the counter as you open up your medicine cabinet. Pulling out a long, sharp syringe, you hold it aloft and turn to face the fluffy, careful to keep the giddy smile off of your face as you flick the air out of it.
“M-M-Mummah, D-D-D-Dummeh nu w-wan sarp fing!” he shivers.
“It’s okay Dummy, it’s just medicine to help you feel better,” you lie soothingly, holding the fluffy aphrodisiac injection—“Guaranteed to send your fluffy into the worst heat of their lives, or your money back!”— in your hand. With the other, you pin him down by the neck, jabbing the needle into the skin there, and his screams jump an octave as the alien substance floods through his blood stream.
Already, you can see his eyes begin to glaze over, and his body gets noticeably warmer by the second. Before he can get too comfortable, you haphazardly bind his broken leg before depositing him back to the safe room, clicking the door shut behind you.
You scoop up Ellie on your way to the kitchen, and as she hugs you with all the love in her little body, you smile. She’s going to help you with dinner, and you’re so excited by recent developments in your long-awaited plans, that you decide on a whim to make spaghetti.
Life is good.