Ultimatum, Part 1
By: Turboencabulator
Martin, a part-timer on third shift, was glazed over, mindlessly sweeping the aisles in the
shop he was employed at. The big, echoing ambiance of three in the morning at a twenty-four hour Fluffmart was hypnotic. He swept past the pens of colts and fillies, all asleep in their
piles. They knew him anyways, and wouldn’t bother him to be taken home. The manager, Ty, was
asleep in his office. He wouldn’t sweep the fluffy aisle anyways, they were too afraid of him.
The nighttime policy was strict. Fluffies were quiet at night, or they were made example
of. Martin glanced at the ‘fluffy cart’ Ty had cobbled together. A housekeeping cart salvaged
and repaired from the hotel a few lots down, the bottom filled with things for cleaning,
tending to owwies, and the like. But the top had a special surface. The padded ‘nicey bed’, as
the fluffies called it, was for helping them. Take it off, and there was a cheap cutting board
under it, and a heavy meat tenderizer. Ty nicknamed it the Skullpopper.
Martin swept past the alcove where the fluffy cart was kept, listening to the radio read off
the news from Ty’s office. There was very little to do this late at night, and he had finished
his coursework already. A pair of headlights sweeping the front doors made him blink and
refocus, putting the broom up against the register and walking over to the doors.
A tired, muttering man wearing a bathrobe over a stained t-shirt and jeans walked in and
stopped in his tracks, staring at Martin, bleary-eyed.
“Uh. Hi? Welcome to fluff-mart, can-” Martin asked, before the man held up his hand and shushed
him with a gesture.
“Sh… shhhh… uh… wh. Hm.” The man said, rubbing his eyes. “Fng.”
Martin facepalmed and held up his hands. “Hold on a second ok?” He said, and after a quick trip
to the break room pressed a cup of reasonably warm coffee in the guy’s hand.
He just looked at it for a second before chugging it down, then blinked as the coffee took
hold, wincing. “Man that tastes bad.”
Martin tossed the cup for him. “So, what brings you out this late?”
“Ugh. I’ve got a fluffy that wants babies.” The man said, and grimaced, recounting the tale as
he woke up.
Joe sat up, heart pounding as he heard a high-pitched screech and the sound of things being
knocked around rip through his house. Running on adrenaline he pulled out a pistol from his
night-stand and began working his way through the house towards the saferoom.
“DADDEEEEEE!”
He peeked round the corner and made his way to the door, opening it and peering in.
His fluffy, a pastel green dam named Clover, was standing in the middle of the aftermath of a
shit-encrusted tantrum. Feces and urine were smeared everywhere, except for a “BouncyBuddy”
mare ‘stress toy’, which was suspiciously devoid of anything other than a reflective
moistness.
“DADDEE! WAN BABBIES! NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED BABBIES! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” Clover screeched, rolling around and continuing her tantrum.
After a pause, Joe carefully dropped the hammer on his revolver, put it on a side table, and
reached for the sorry-stick. One thorough spanking and a cold bath later and Clover was
sniffling and huu-huuing inside a sorry box in the closet, and Joe was half asleep and
shampooing the carpet in the saferoom. Soon he had finished, and after a pit stop in the
laundry room to not go out mostly nude, he got in his car and drove into the night.
“Oh boy. Yeah she sounds bad.” Martin said. “So, I take it you’d like to see about a new-mummah
kit? Or are you looking for something like a mummah-no-more meal?”
“Not quite.” Joe said, wandering towards the medications and snatching a basket on the way. “I
told her she could have babies when she was older but she won’t listen. And she’s started
misbehaving in other ways.”
Martin walked with him, and sighed quietly. “She’s got the fever then?”
“No doubt.” Joe muttered, working his way down the aisle and picking items off the shelf here
and there, dropping them in. “And she had the audacity to demand spaghetti. She only gets that
on her birthday. Then came the name-calling and the ‘hate you’.”
“Has she tried to run off?” Martin asked.
Joe laughed once. “She thought about it. I would’ve been happy to slam the door on her ass
after that conniption but she’s terrified of the outside. I had to put a poster over the window in her safe-room.”
Glancing at the contents of Joe’s basket, Martin sighed. “So, what’s the plan? I might have a
few products around that can help.”
“Simple.” Joe said, a cold sneer showing as he refreshed his plan in his head. “I break her of
this shit or I just break her.”
Joe looked into the basket as well, going through the contents and organizing them. Dam
hormones, fluffy aphrodisiacs, super litter supplements, and more. He turned when he felt a tap
on his shoulder and saw Martin offering him a dropper bottle of ‘Lactohalt’.
“What’s this?” Joe asked, taking the bottle and turning it.
“New product in the abuser’s line.” Martin said, with a slightly twisted smile. “They still get
fat, but their milk is basically water.”
After a minute Joe smiled back and put it in the basket. “Any more?”
Martin motioned him to follow, and Joe kept up as they went into a back room.
Clover looked up at her daddy as he sat in front of her. He had his fingies linked. That meant
he was thinking and angy with her. She knew why, but she didn’t care that much. He was being a
dummy because babies were important and she was important because mummahs were important and he wasn’t a mummah so how dare he say no?
“Clover.” He said, carefully. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. I want you to answer
honestly. It’s about babies.”
She perked her ears up. Maybe he wasn’t dummy after all? Some humans took some time, the teevee said so, but she thought her daddy wasn’t a slow one.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes daddeh.” Silly daddy. She did, he gave her toys and food and was going to give her babies
no matter how long it took her to get them.
“And you love babies too?”
“Oh yes daddy.” She couldn’t help but bounce a little, and wiggle her tail. The dummy-ness was going away!
“If Clover had to pick between me and babies, which would Clover choose?”
The question hitched in her brain, making her pause. If she had to pick? Daddy was nice and
kind and gave her things but babbies were important because… well they just were. But if she
said that daddy would get mean and not let her have babies, and she’d need to push back even
harder. Which was tiring and the sorry-box was boring.
“Fwuffy pick daddy.” Clover said, internally congratulating herself on outwitting her daddy.
Joe sat back, thinking, rubbing his chin in a parody of deep thought.
You lying little shitbag. Ok. We’re doing this.
“But you said you hated me.” Joe said, putting on an exaggerated sad-face. “So how can I know
for sure?”
Her smug satisfaction faltered a bit. She fumbled for a moment, trying to work out a response,
but then he broke into a smile.
“I know. If you really love me, Clover, you’ll have the best babies a daddy could ask for,
right?”
It was a good thing she had just snuck into the garage and pissed on his snowboarding boots for
the sorry-boxing. She was empty and couldn’t have an accident out of sheer excitement.
“YEEEE! Yus daddeh! Cwovew hab bestest babbies fow daddeh!” She screeched, bouncing around and starting to sing a first draft of an inane soon-mummah song.
Joe watched her prance around, and began organizing mentally. He was going to enjoy this way
too much, he knew.
Clover was in her safe-room, and Joe quietly said a prayer of thanks to whoever designed
fluffies to sleep fourteen hours out of the day. He cleared the kitchen table and pulled it
open, inserting the leaves until it was at its full ten-seating-place length. Some work with a
stack of newspapers and a roll of duct tape and it was completely covered, multiple layers
thick, and Joe began meticulously putting together his supplies.
Notepads were jotted upon, and timelines were calculated and adjusted. Joe began to fill film
roll canisters, meticulously dating and labeling each one, dumping in exact weights of powders,
and marking down liquid additives. Joe felt the stress slowly drain as he fell into a
meditative state, the future slowly solidifying in front of him.
She was so clingy and affectionate, at the beginning. He mused about the past, turning memories
over in his head like pages in a photo album. She was a gift from a family member, already old
enough to talk, but barely young enough to be trained still. Sure she had the occasional
accident and like all fluffies, was caught out in lying a few times. But he was firm, though
not cruel, with discipline and teaching her how to behave.
He had lied to Clover from the beginning, sure, about having to leave to go to work. Really he
went out the front door, in the back, and snuck upstairs to his office. He broke the monotony
of reading through terrible book submissions for a publishing company by observing Clover in
her saferoom on a monitor, and occasional bouts of sketching, usually centered around when the
neighbor decided she needed to work on her tan in the backyard next to his own.
Perfect circumstances to monitor her and watch how things would develop. He sat back and mulled over the plan, listening to the whine of a slightly dusty 3d printer as it chugged out canister
racks, pill organizers, and other little widgets. Tomorrow, he decided, would be the first
day. He leaned back and looked into the kitchen, checking the clock. Clover had a vet
appointment, specially set up to check her for ‘baby health’. The vet really would make sure
she could carry children without complications, but it was also an overnight stay. Night
terrors, he claimed. They were alright watching her for one night.
He sighed and looked over his neatly arrayed supplies, before getting up and heading to shower
away the night.
Clover was grumpy. She didn’t need to go to the vettenaran. She didn’t like the vettenaran
because they kept looking and poking and shining things at her and they were dummies that kept
asking stupid questions.
“Daddeh nu wan go wettewnawaian.” Clover said, grumbling in the carrier.
“Well you said you wanted babies, and your mommy had problems having babies. So the vet is
going to make sure you won’t have the same problem.” Her daddy said, managing the metal monster as it rumbled over the not-sidewalk.
She stopped and considered this. What does a vettenaran know about babies? So she asked.
“Why wettewnawain know bout babbies?” She asked, shifting on the pad in her carrier.
“So, a veternarian is a special kind of doctor that works with doggies, and kitties, and ours
learn special for helping fluffies.” Her daddy explained. “Some of them help fluffies that have
really bad owwies, some of them make sure fluffies are healthy in ordinary ways, and you’re
going to see one that learned special for helping mares and stallions have babies.”
Clover settled down, thinking further on this. She knew that humans did and knew things that
she didn’t, but didn’t consider those things would be useful. If humans knew things
special for babies, then maybe her daddy wasn’t so dummy after all. And maybe the vettenaran
wasn’t so dummy either. Of course she didn’t think much of this, but if it meant she could get
a hoof up on making the bestest babbies to show daddy, then she’d take any help offered.
The metal monster turned, slowing down into the lot of the vet clinic, and Clover grumbled
quietly to herself again. She just knew they were going to put the cold thing in her poopie
place again. They always did that.
May kept a gentle hand on Clover’s back while the thermometer was taking its reading. Joe had
warned her about Clover’s dislike of her normal vet, but May was an old hand with recalcitrant
fluffies.
“Yeah I know this thing is awful.” May said, listening to Clover whine and mutter. “Wish they’d
make one that didn’t go someplace so uncomfortable.”
“Dummie poopie-pwace cowdie fingie.”
“Hey the human ones aren’t much better.” May said, before taking the thermometer out and
dispensing the cover into the trash. “But, you’re in good health, generally.”
“Dat mean hab good babbies?” Clover asked, perking up.
Oh boy. Joe was right, she probably had mummah-fever.
“It means that you’re healthy, which is only one part of having good babies.” May said, letting
Clover up. “There’s four parts to good babies.”
“Cwovew know dat nummah.”
“Clever you.” May said, genuine. At least as genuine as a fluffy could detect. “So, a healthy
mummah is one. A strong stallion is number two. The third we figure out from taking a little
boo-boo juice.”
Clover tensed up a little and May gave her a boop on the nose. “It won’t hurt, silly. Just a
little pinchy feeling and that’s it. The last one is a good baby-place in a mummah, which we
will check after we take the juice sample.”
May guided Clover to lay on her side. “So, this is called a vacutainer.” May said, holding up a
tube with a sealed cap. “This is going to hold some of your boo-boo juice.”
“Bu’… dun nee hab owwies fow boo-boo juice cum owt?” Clover asked, eyeing the tube, worried.
“Not if you do this right. So I go here.” May said, poking the inside of clover’s thigh. “And
make a pinchy.”
She lightly pinched the skin, sliding a needle in and plugging the vacutainer in. “And that’s
it. The juice is coming out, no owwies.”
Clover winced and whinnied a little at the strange sensation, but it was just weirdly
uncomfortable. Then May took the vacutainer and needle out, and put a little bandage on the
spot.
“That’s it.” May said, holding up a tube full of blood.
“Dat… fwee fings?” Clover asked, concentrating. “Su, now wook at babby-pwace?”
“Right.” May said, taking out a uteroscope. “This unfortunately is going to be uncomfy but it
lets me look in where the babies grow in you.”
She slathered it with warmed lubricant and turned Clover, settling on a stool and putting a
prop under one of Clover’s hind legs. “Now, just breathe, and I’ll do this as quick as I can.”
Clover was about to protest the awkward position when the end of the scope pushed inside her,
the warm lubricant quickly thinning out on the cold, smooth plastic of the scope’s probe
end. She eeped, and clenched her eyes shut. Something in her told her this was a bad touch, but
she had to endure. Babies. Think of the babies.
Something began to tingle, and she felt her special place grow warm as the probe shifted around
in her.
Joe looked through the observation window at Clover in a pen, dead asleep. May walked up and
joined him, looking in.
“She’s prime for breeding.” May said, flatly. “But there might be a different issue.”
A look from Joe and she groaned, flushing a little. “She might have a hormonal disorder. Most
mares absolutely detest the uteroscopic inspection. I had the scope deep enough in her vagina I
could check her tonsils and she had an orgasm off it.”
Joe blinked and sighed, rubbing his face. “So she’s got mummah-fever and she’s an easy lay.”
“Worse. She might have a syndrome called ‘hormonal nymphomania’.” May said, turning back to
watch through the window. “It’s rare, but it’s out there. Only treatment is to take her ovaries
out. We’ll know when the bloodwork comes back tomorrow.”
“Thanks for doing this. I know the overnight is a weird thing to ask.”
“Not that weird. Sometimes we get asked when owners need a short break from a
fluffy. Fortunately she’s old enough that if she does have kids she should settle down
afterwards.”
Joe considered this, thinking it over in his head. Would little fluffies be so bad?
Then he considered the poop. One fluffy was bad enough. Even with litter training.
A stop at the pharmacy later and Joe was on his way home, when a brown-grey blur on the road
made him slam on the brakes and slide to a stop. A few fluffies were gathered at the edge of
the road, and as Joe opened the door they scattered into the hedges. A scrawny colt was curled
up and sobbing in the middle of the lane, filthy and shaking.
Joe fished out a slingshot from the glove compartment and tucked a marble in the sling before
getting out, checking for upcoming traffic, and then going in front of his car to look at the
colt.
“Hey. The hell you think you’re doing?” Joe asked, before glancing at the hedge near the
road. Some eyes in dirty, fuzzy faces peered out at him.
“Huuu pwease nu wan go fowebba-sweepies.” The colt said, staying curled up. Joe crouched down
next to him and looked the colt over.
His ribs were showing, and there was a tear out of his ear. Chunks of fur had been ripped out
of his mane where it wasn’t matted down and tangled with burrs.
“Gib dat poopie fwuffy owwies, dummie hooman!” A tiny voice shouted. Joe turned to see a blaze
orange feral halfway out of the hedge. “Yu no s’posed tu stop!”
Joe processed for a second, and then looked back between the colt and the orange feral. “You
chase fluffies you don’t like into the street for, what, fun?”
“Dat wite. Dummie poopie nu-gud fwuff onwy gud fow owwie-funs.” The feral said, before turning
and lifting his tail to symbolically shit in the direction of his victim.
It only took a second for Joe to line up the slingshot and split the feral’s scrotum in half.
The colt shivered and whinnied as Joe carefully bathed it in the upstairs bathroom sink, the
water already a dense mud-brown as he rinsed off the second round of shampoo. There was a sheen starting to come through, and Joe drained the sink yet again, sighing. He had said no more
fluffies.
“M-mistew, why u hep fwuffy?” The colt asked, nervous and twitching a little.
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Joe said, setting the colt back in the warm water of the sink and
working a fresh round of shampoo in his fluff. “Nobody deserves that kind of treatment just
because of their coloration or looks though.”
The colt just nervously watched the sudsy water as Joe continued the bath, going from a mucky
brown to a rather pleasing peanut color.
Joe finally got him clean all over and drained the sink, wrapping the little fluff up in a towel
and carefully drying him, before picking up a fine brush and going into an upstairs library
adjacent to his office. He settled in an armchair and began brushing the colt, thinking.
He did like owning a fluffy, and the colt’s temperament was already better than Clover. She was
brassy and bouncy and fun but also a demanding, spoiled little shit, and had been that way
since the day he got her. Her behavior had improved with training, but the little snorts and
grumbles and protests never faded.
The colt’s mane had brushed out to be quite voluminous and full, minus the patches that had
been pulled out by the bullies. A dense chocolate brown, and with the orangy-tan of his body, a
name came into Joe’s head.
“I think I’ll call you Reese.”
It took a moment before the colt looked up at Joe, eyes big and watering. Joe nodded with a
smile.
Reese jumped up and planted himself on Joe’s chest, and cried as he felt his daddy’s big arms
hug him tight.
The plan had changed, and boy howdy was Joe pleased with the developments. A late night with
Reese and he found the colt to be a pleasant, and reasonably intelligent young fluffy. After a
salad and a quick rummage around the garage for old fluffy stuff, he had a makeshift saferoom
set up in the walk-in closet off his bedroom. He never used it, even when he had it installed
for his ex-wife. When he sold off the contents it had been enough to buy his first new car,
with enough left over for a few cases of good booze.
Clover was in her carrier in the passenger seat, sniffing the air. “Daddeh? Why cwovew smeww
nuther fwuffy?”
“Uh.” Joe thought quickly, before alighting on an obvious idea. “One of the people at the
office is bringing their fluffy in. Loud and pushy too.”
“Oh.” Clover said, nodding. “Nu wike woud an pushy fwuffies.” She said.
Really? You seem to be pretty tolerant of yourself. Joe thought, before turning and
diverting down a side road, taking the long route home.
“Clover, the vet gave me some good news, and some bad news.”
He could hear her shift in her carrier as she tensed up.
“Now don’t worry, you’re going to have a chance to have babies.” Joe said, thinking over his
word choice carefully.
“YEEEEEEYYYY!”
“But.” He said, which silenced her immediately. “To make sure your babies are bestest healthy
babies, we need to give you special medicine. You don’t worry, I’ll handle it, but it might
mean pokie-medicine once in a while. The rest I’ll put in your food and water, ok?”
“Otay daddeh!” She said, loud and happy. Her tail thumped as she wiggled her hindquarters
excitedly, before a quiet “Ooh… oopsie. Sowwy daddy.”
Joe sighed internally as he smelled urine, and thanked whoever designed the carriers to include
a spill tray.
Clover was bathed and eating noisily in the kitchen. Joe watched her as he went through his own
meal, making sure she ate the entire bowl of kibble. Hormones in the food, to start. A light
smear of lidocaine cream on her ‘bouncy toy’ for good measure, and of course a new combination
air freshener and nightlight from the new ‘Brain Drain’ series of abuser’s tools. One bottle of
air-scent, a nice light floral smell, and a smaller bottle, of concentrated stallion musk,
which would be mixed in randomly anywhere from one to eight hours apart. Joe made sure it would dispense the musk slightly more often at night.
She finished with a loud, percussive belch and a contented toot that ruffled her perpetually
slightly brown stained tail. Joe put her dish and his own plate away, before watching her
waddle into the living room and take up her usual spot under the coffee table, waiting for
‘teevee time’. Joe used the remote to put it onto a safe channel, some milquetoast
sitcom. Clover would giggle along with the laugh track, oblivious to the actual joke, but she
enjoyed herself.
He watched her as he did the dishes, her back end just visible over the couch. He could see her
start to fidget and her tail swish as the hormones began to take hold. Purposefully slowing
down, he grinned to himself and continued observing, until she had her hind legs crossed and
pulled up hard against her underside, squirming.
“Daddeh?” She called, a nervous tone to her voice.
“Yes m’Clover?” He said, turning down the television.
“Cwovew nu feew wike teebee tonite, can go tu safewoom?”
“Aw, really? I was going to put on a movie.” Joe lied, grinning as he saw her growing
consternation.
“Fwuffy feew too tiwed.” She said. Lies, lies, but a good excuse.
“Alright, I’ll probably tuck in early as well.” Joe said, watching her bolt and hurple along to
her saferoom. He followed behind and closed the safety gate inside, turning the overhead light
out. “Night, sweetie.” He said.
“Nini, daddeh.” She returned, sitting in the middle of the floor, with a nervous smile on.
He closed the door and drained the sink, going upstairs and to his office. The monitor was
already on, and muted. Joe flipped to the right angle just in time to see Clover practically
jump on her enf-toy and ride it like she was trying to crack walnuts with her pelvis. He sighed
internally, watching the hormones take hold. He slipped an earbud in, listening to the
perversely deep, frustrated grunting as the lidocaine kept her from any release.
“Daddy?” A voice asked, and Joe turned to see Reese in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his
eyes. “Heaw nudder fwuffeh.”
Ah shit. Joe thought, before reminding himself Reese was different. Different from a lot
of fluffies, and while he couldn’t hear everything Joe planned, he should be truthful.
Joe dropped the earbud on the desk and sat on the floor, motioning for Reese. The colt padded
over, looking around the office, before Joe picked him up and set him on his knee.
“Reese, I have another fluffy.” Joe said. “She’s having some problems, and she’s not very nice
right now. You’ve seen how some mares get when they really really want babies, right?”
Reese nodded.
“Well mine’s been mean about it, and I don’t want her to be mean to you too. I’m going to let
her try to have babies, but unless she goes back to being a good fluffy, I don’t know I can
keep her here.”
“W… if Weese be good fwuffy, Weese can stay?” Reese asked, shuffling nervously.
Joe sighed and smiled, hugging Reese soft and making him squeak. “You’re staying no matter
what. I just don’t want her hurting you, she’s much bigger than you are. If she turns nice
again you two will meet, but if she doesn’t, she’s going to go away.”
Reese relaxed, nodding. “Otay daddy, Weese wait uppystaiws.”
Joe got up with him, and Reese pointed to a shelf of books. “Wut dose?”
“Oh, uh. Those are books.” Joe said.
“Wut a book?”
“Well, you know the talking picture boxes?”
“Yeh, seen pwasma-scweens an eww-see-dees.”
Joe blinked and looked at Reese.
“Weese hewd wive next to da Bess Buy.” Reese said.
Joe chuckled. “Right. Well those sometimes tell stories or information. Humans had books to
hold stories or knowledge before television, by making markings on paper and putting the paper
together.”
“Ohh. So yu wead books.” Reese said. “Dewe any stowy-books hewe?”
After a beat, Joe turned and opened the door to his library, and Reese started to wag. “Dat a
wot of books.”
“Let’s find you a story.” Joe said.
Clover was exhausted, and her loins throbbed with need. She lay on her side at the end of a
long slime trail where she had dragged her special-place across the firm short-pile carpet,
drawing a crunchy half-dried line in random curves and straightaways from end to end of her
saferoom. Anything to get good feels, even though she knew in the morning her daddy was finding a stallion to have babies with.
She coughed once, and got up, her hind legs trembling as she awkwardly staggered to the water
bottle. A long chugging later and she felt a bit more able and sharp. For a fluffy.
Two things were working against her now, the first was the water in her bottle was laced with
more hormones. The second was the air freshener had decided to include stallion musk in the
shot of scent it was dispensing.
Both hit Clover’s system at nearly the same time, as she was halfway across the floor to her
bed. Her pupils dilated, then shrank to pin-pricks as she felt her special place start to burn
with a cavernous, aching need. She turned and charged her enf toy, practically skidding to a
stop by it and jumping backwards onto the protruding silicone member.
Eventually the lidocaine wore off, and Clover seized up as a grand sensation washed over her,
before she blacked out.
Joe peeked into Clover’s room in the morning, finding her asleep, still riding the toy. He
carefully transferred her to her bed and picked up the toy with the grill tongs, taking it out
and disposing of it in the trash. After mixing Clover’s morning food, he set her bowl down,
snuck up with Reese’s real food, a salad with goldfish crackers, and after pausing for
consideration, snagged his laptop from the office and deposited it on the kitchen table.
A few minute’s research and Joe sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee as Clover stumbled
in, faceplanting her food and chowing down noisily.
“Morning Clover.” He said, grinning into the mug. “You look like you slept deep.”
“Mnrgnr.” She mumbled around a mouthful of feed, before grimacing, spreading her legs wide, and letting out what was distinctly not a far. Joe paused before realizing what had happened and
choking back a case of the giggles, framing it as a cough.
“Well, looks like today’s the big day.” Joe said. “I picked out a good strong stallion for
you.”
In a flash she was awake, eating and listening carefully, though trying to remain nonchalant.
“He’s a show pony.” Joe said, only slightly bending the truth. His neighbor down the road had a
stud that was formerly a model for b-grade fluffy products.
“Cwovew gun uh. Go get weady.” Clover said, and bolted for her saferoom, squee-ing in
excitement. Joe inspected her bowl and found it empty. Satisfied, he checked on her, observed
her searching for her missing toy, and closed the door, heading out and down the road.
“Nu wan.” The stallion said, a big, proud crimson unicorn. His cheeks were puffed and his chin
tucked down into his chest.
Craig groaned. “Oh come on it’s free poontang you little idjit.”
“Nu wan. Cwovew stinky an wimpy.”
Joe crouched down with Flare and nodded. “Yeah you’re right. I gave her a bath though, and
she’s not even going to play hard to get. She wants babies so bad she’d jump on you
first.”
Flare shuffled a bit, grumbling. “Bu’ awway hafta stop when habbin speciaw-feews.”
“Look, as long as you don’t bite or hit her, you can go until you’ve had enough, ok?”
Flare considered this, mulling it over in his head. “Nu hafta be swow an bowwing?”
“Plow away.” Joe said.
Immediately Flare hopped up into a wagging, wide-legged stance and charged into his
carrier. Craig laughed and closed it up, carrying Flare out and following Joe.
“So what changed your mind? I thought you didn’t want more fluffies.” Craig said.
“Eh, I figure why not let her try. Even if she doesn’t do well she’ll get it out of her
system.” Joe said, before giving Craig a wink and shaking his head, pointing at Flare.
Craig processed for a second and nodded, catching that Joe didn’t want to put Flare off. They
went up the steps into Joe’s place.
“So you a tea or coffee drinker, anyways?”
Joe watched the footage back that night, after reading to Reese from Alice in Wonderland and
tucking him to bed. Flare had taken five hours to work out all his energy on Clover, and even
though she was a spent, noisy wreck afterwards, she had enough strength to coo out an idiot
mummah-song to her belly. He noted the date on a wall calendar, and filled in the timeline
afterwards, when to add what drug or stop another.
Leaning back in the chair, Joe stared at the calendar, the planning, and realized he was
enjoying himself. He never thought he’d like this kind of, well, abuse, but the idea of what
was to come had him anticipating and, while it was not excitement, he was certainly engaged in
this little project.
What if you like doing this too much? He thought, before looking across the hall at his
bedroom door. What about Reese?
Never. He could never do that to Reese. He felt that in his bones, an actual attachment to the
colt. Once his nerves had been settled, Reese was a calm, patient little goober with a sunny
disposition, though he was easily scared, even for a fluffy.
His thoughts drifted back to Clover. First, a runt batch. Let her see it’s not that easy, and
if she has bad mothering tendencies, he could use those for an excuse. Either way she’d be in
the basement after that. Joe made a note to get cameras installed down there as well, and clean
up the ground floor for Reese. The saferoom reeked.
Second, he’d slip in some of the cheap Chinese trash he got from the back room of the
fluff-mart. Birth defects and stillborns. Third, the lactohalt, so even if she has a beautiful
batch of babies, she’ll never be able to feed them. There’s the real test. If she can ask for
help, he might let some live.
And between each stage, the same question, and the same penalty.
“If you love me, why won’t you give me good babies? If you’ve been lying that you love me, this
won’t be your home anymore.”
“You’ll have to go outside.”
