Hey, folks. I used to post stories infrequently on Fluffybooru under the name HR_Flufnstuf. There’s a user with a similar name here already, so now I’m SamDiamond. I found this story I posted on the old booru and thought I’d bring it back to life here.
Wednesday Is New Fluffy Day
by SamDiamond
Wednesday
“Wuv sketties! Wuv nyu daddeh!” the little blue gelding cooed.
Cecil closed the front door and smiled indulgently at the fluffy tucked under his arm. “And daddy loves you, too, Winston.”
“Winston!? Fwuffy hav nyu namesie?! Fwuffy am suuuuu happies! Nyu daddeh, nyu namesie, and sketties? Dis am bestest day eba!” The fluffy, suspended under his new owner’s arm, did an awkward midair dance.
“That’s right, Winston,” the man said, carrying the fluffy to the kitchen and setting him down on the counter. "And this spaghetti isn’t the crappy canned stuff, either. It’s FluffChoice Premium from the frozen section at FluffMart. It’s just to die for!
A bolt of fear shot through Winston’s heart, and he let out an involuntary peep. “Nu wan foweba sweepie sketties!” Winston felt his poopie pwace pulse, and for a terrifying moment thought he had made scaredie poopies on his new daddy’s nummies table, but he turned an saw that there were no poopies. The owwie on his tummy that the meanie not-daddy had given him ached, though.
Cecil stroked the fluffy’s white mane. “It’s just an expression, Winston. ‘To die for’ means it’s really good, not that it’s going to give you forever sleepies.”
“Oh,” Winston said, silently mouthing the word “expwession.” His confusion gave way to enthusiasm again as his new daddy took a shiny packet from a big black cold boxie and set it on the counter. He couldn’t read the squiggly shapes on the packet, but even though he had never actually seen spaghetti in the fluffy mill in which he was born or the fluffy store in which he had spent his most recent days, some deeply ingrained part of him knew exactly what the picture on the packet was: bestest sketties!
Cecil placed the packet in a stockpot full of water and turned the stove on. FluffChoice was, indeed, the best spaghetti sold at FluffMart, but it was still a convenience food: after boiling for five minutes, Cecil would take the packet out of the water with a pair of tongs, pull the “Cool ‘n’ EZ” opening strip, and dump the contents into the fluffy’s bowl, which already had his name on it in cutesy lettering.
“Well, while that’s getting warm, let’s go have a look at your safe room, shall we?” Cecil said, tucking Winston under his arm again.
Winston was more than a little disappointed that he wasn’t getting his sketties right away, and wondered with some dread how many forevers it would be until he got them, but he tried to swallow his disappointment and be good for his new daddy.
Cecil strode across the small condo carrying Winston, until he arrived at the second of his two walk-in closets; this one had doors leading both to the hallway and to Cecil’s bedroom, and like the fluffy’s bowl, was already marked: “Winston’s Room,” the door read in florid script. Cecil placed the fluffy gently on the ground and opened the door to the safe room, bowing dramatically as he motioned Winston into the room.
“Your castle, my liege,” Cecil said, adopting a muddled “British” accent.
Winston giggled. “Hehe, daddeh am funneh,” he said, trotting into his new safe room. The fluffy gasped as he beheld the riches before him: in the fluffy mill there had been no toys, and in the stallion pen at the fluffy store, he had had to fight for the few dingy blockies and the half-deflated ball that a careless store employee had tossed into the pen to shut the little shitrats up. But here there was a whole set of pretty blockies, more balls of varying sizes than he could count with his hoofsies, and other bright-colored toys whose function Winston couldn’t even begin to guess. “Dis…dis am aww fo fwuffy?” he asked quietly.
“It’s all yours, cutie!” Cecil said. “Why don’t you play with your toys while I go finish up your sketties?”
“Yay!” Winston exclaimed, rushing toward his new toys. Between the excitement of having all of these toys all to himself and anticipating his first sketties ever, his thumpy-place was going crazy, and he got a little dizzy. Winston wisely decided to sit down for a moment and take a few deep breaths. When he did so, he noticed a familiar smell in the safe room and on the blockies in front of him, a fluffy smell. Another fluffy? But that couldn’t be! He was alone in the safe room. He tried not to worry about the fluffy scent as his heartrate returned to normal and he began to stack blockies–he managed to create a stack of two before the geometry of stacking equally-sized blocks simply overwhelmed him and the misplaced block number 3 caused the whole structure to topple–and presently his daddy returned with a steaming bowl!
Cecil placed the bowl on the tiled floor of the safe room, and Winston bolted over to it, seemingly ready to dive face first into the bowl.
“Hang on, there,” Cecil said, putting a restraining hand on the earthy’s head. “It’s hot! You’ll burn your mouth if you dive right in. If you don’t want to wait for it to cool, you’ll need to blow on it.”
Winston, of course, did not want to wait. He began blowing on the steaming contents of the bowl as his daddy watched, then after what seemed like at least one forever, he took a tentative bite of the meal. It was still hot, though more manageable than it would have been: honestly, it could have melted the fluffy’s tongue and, at that moment, it’s unlikely he’d have noticed. Whatever arcane genetic trickery the Hasbio scientists had used to engineer an obsession with spaghetti into the fluffy creatures took over: this was manna; this was ambrosia.
After finishing the last bite, Winston returned from a kind of sketties-induced trance, and awareness of his surroundings crept back in. His daddy was sitting on a small stool, watching him indulgently. “How was it?” the man asked.
“Dat am bestest nummies eba, daddeh! Wuv daddeh su muchies! Su muchies! Tank you!” Winston actually teared up, overwhelmed.
“I’m glad you liked it so much,” Cecil said. “You’re very welcome. Now, you’re probably not going to be thrilled about what comes next, but you’re covered with spaghetti sauce, and I need to give you a bath. Come now.” Cecil opened the door between the safe room and the master bedroom.
Winston’s poopie place twitched again, though thankfully he once again failed to make bad poopies. He knew from the “How To Be Gud Fwuffies” videos that all of the fluffies at the store were forced to watch that one of the things that good fluffies never did was complain about bath time, even though everyfluffy knew that wawa was, in fact, bad fo fwuffies. But Winston didn’t want to be a bad fluffy on his very first day with his new daddy, so he followed Cecil obediently, albeit with something of a hangdog look.
In spite of his worst fears, bath time actually wasn’t bad. Daddy lathered him up with a good smelling “champu”, and after rinsing it off, dried him off with a hair dryer, the loud sound of which caused another abortive attempt at bad poopies, but which was really the only way to get a fluffy dry in south Florida. Daddy then sprayed him with a good smelling spray, and, after combing out his mane, attached a number of little pink bows to it. Winston wasn’t so sure about the good smelling spray and the pink bows, and he suspected that had he been back in the stallion pen at the store, he might have been mistaken for a mare, which always led to a bad time; but the bows seemed to make his daddy really happy.
It was only after bath time that Cecil finally explained the litterboxes. “Winston, you learned what a litterbox is at the fluffy store, right?”
“Yus, daddeh, gud peepees and gud poopies gu in da wittewbawks!” the fluffy replied dutifully.
“That’s right,” Cecil confirmed. There’s a litterbox here in daddy’s room, one in your safe room, and one in the living room. When you need to go pee, you go pee in one of those litterboxes, okay?"
“Yus, daddeh, Winston make gud peepees in wittewbawks…an gud poopies?” The fluffy was a little confused. He knew that good poopies went into the litterbox along with good peepees, but daddy had gone off script.
Cecil shrugged. “Yes, of course, good poopies go in the litterbox, too.”
Relieved that an eternal verity had been reestablished, Winston yawned hugely.
“It probably has been a long day for you, hasn’t it?” Cecil asked the fluffy, whose eyelids began to droop. “Well, I was planning on watching TV in bed for a while anyway. You’ll sleep with me.” Cecil picked up the fluffy and took him into bed with him. Winston curled into a cozy ball, butted up against his daddy and a puffy down pillow, and went immediately to sleep.
Thursday
The next day was a blur of joy for Winston. In the fluffy store, he had been led to believe that most of his meals in life would be kibble, like what he was fed in the store, and that sketties were only for special occasions, and that not all fluffies got sketties even then. But Winston soon realized that his daddy was planning on feeding him sketties THREE TIMES A DAY, EVERY DAY. This revelation nearly killed the poor fluffy: he didn’t know whether his thinkie place or his thumpie place was going to give out first, but he felt funny in both of them when he realized that his daddy was telling him that he was going to eat nothing but sketties. Daddy had shrugged and smiled at Winston’s reaction, wistfully murmuring, “Well, I like to spoil my fluffies.”
Friday
With the excitement of the first day in his new home, and the subsequent day, which Winston thought of as AWWAYS SKETTIES BWITE TIME with an almost religious reverence, behind him, the fluffy began to settle into a more normal routine. His daddy had to “work” on a high-up not-TV that had strange toys attached to it. It was all very mysterious, but daddy said that it was something he had to do so that they had a nice place to live and good things to eat. When, after several forevers, Winston made the connection between this “work” and the delicious sketties that he got to eat three times a day, he became an unabashed fan of “work” and retreated cheerfully to the safe room to leave his daddy to it.
Winston played with the blocks and the balls, and learned about the other toys in the safe room. There was one that made different pretty sounds when he pushed his hoovsies on different parts of it. Another was a battery-powered fluffy mobile: hoof-activated, Winston laid himself under it for hours, watching the same six stuffy friends rotate in and out of his field of vision, always surprised at which one would appear next.
Like a good fluffy, Winston interrupted his activities to make good peepees in the litterbox. Good peepees were all he made, however. He felt like he could make good poopies, but not like he really needed to. Either way, nothing came out.
Winston slept with his daddy that night, just like the other nights.
Saturday and Sunday
The next day, daddy told Winston that it was “the weekend” and that he didn’t have to work. Winston became terribly concerned about the possible outcome of this “the weekend” on the steady supply of sketties he was enjoying, but he figured that daddy knew best. It meant, at least, that daddy spent the day playing with Winston, who got another pretty pony home makeover, this time with rainbow colored bows.
It was early Sunday morning that the trouble started.
“Daddeh, pwease wakies!” Winston tapped insistently at his daddy’s sleeping form. “Daddeh, nee make poopies! Pwease wet Winston down!” He kept tapping, and Cecil’s consciousness slowly emerged from the swamp of deep sleep.
“Wha-?” he asked, before the nature of Winston’s anxiety seeped in. Finally, after what seemed like many forevers to Winston, Cecil lifted Winston off the bed and onto the floor. The fluffy teetered to the litterbox with the grace and form of a camwhore with a foot long dildo up her ass.
Cecil began lightly snoring as Winston climbed into the litterbox, arched his back, and strained to push out the mother of all fluffy dumps. The fluffy’s asshole dilated, but nothing came out. Now as confused as his owner had been a few moments ago, Winston managed a “Wha-?” before another spasm overtook his bowels, and he strained again, once more unproductively. Finally, a shift in his bowels, either of shit or gas, relieved the immense pressure in his intestines, and Winston collapsed in the litterbox, exhausted. As the pain in his guts faded to a background hum, he fell asleep.
Several hours later, Cecil woke and found Winston asleep in the litterbox.
Gross, he thought. There was no shit in the litterbox, of course, but still. He pursed his lips. He was going to have to cut back on Winston’s meals. Either two regular-sized servings of spaghetti a day, or three scaled-back servings. Cecil woke the fluffy, combed some clinging litter out of his fluff, and left him in the safe room to play while he made breakfast. In the end, Cecil settled on three half portions of spaghetti, and Winston, while he hadn’t experienced another spasm like the ones from that morning, still didn’t feel well, and didn’t complain about the reduced ration.
In the afternoon, Cecil gave the fluffy another bath, then played with him in the safe room for a while. Winston seemed more like his usual self, though a big sluggish at times.
Monday
The next day, Cecil was back to work on his computer, and Winston played in his safe room all day. Winston seemed reasonably well recovered from his emergency the previous morning, but the man did hear occasional grunting and mutterings of “Nu feew pwetty,” from the other room. Cecil sighed. This was always the least fun part of the week. He shook his head and resolved to concentrate on his work.
The day went on pretty much as had become usual for Cecil and Winston: work, sketties time, bath time, and play time. Today, though, Cecil took a bunch of pictures of Winston after bath time and after dousing the fluffy with perfume and festooning him with bows.
“You’re so pretty!” Cecil exclaimed, snapping photo after photo with his iPhone. “What a cute fluffy!” Cecil had noticed that praise always seemed to have a salutary effect on fluffies. Winston enjoyed the photo shoot so much that he even began to prance a little, posing for the camera, ignoring the building pressure in his intestines.
After the photo shoot, though, Winston could barely breathe. He was so excited! So excited at being a pretty pony and making daddy so happy! Yes, that was it. He just needed to rest. It was getting late anyway, and Cecil could see that the photo shoot had pretty much exhausted his little companion, so he put them both to bed.
Tuesday
“Daddeh! Daddeh! Pwease wake upsies!” On Sunday, Winston had gotten up on all four hooves and had been tapping his daddy with a forehoof: now, in the early morning light seeping in from around the blinds, he lay on his side, unable to rise, weakly pummeling his daddy with all four hooves. Cecil woke.
“Daddeh! Winston nee make biggest poopies! Hav wowstest tummeh huwties! Hewp, daddeh!” He began to sob.
Cecil sighed and rubbed his face. He sat up slowly. “I guess we should get this over with,” he said flatly, to nobody.
The man picked up the bloated fluffy and set him down gently in the litterbox.
“Alright, Winston, I need you to make a big poopie for daddy, okay? Just push as hard as you can, and make the biggest poopie you can.”
Winston managed to gurgle out, “Yus” and bore down on his poopie muscles as hard as he could. His asshole dilated to nearly the size of a tennis ball, and the pain cut cruelly through him, until, suddenly, it didn’t. With one last lightning-bolt of pain that tore through his guts, Winston’s intestines perforated, spilling a copious amount of shit into the fluffy’s abdomen. The fluffy stood, legs trembling, breathing hard. He felt…better?!
“Daddeh,” Winston managed to say, “daddeh, Winston feew a widdwe bettuh!”
Cecil patted the fluffy. “Yes, sweetheart, I know. I’m glad. Do you feel like playing with your toys for a while?”
Winston thought. “Y-yus, daddeh, Winston tink Winston can do dat.”
Cecil lifted the fluffy out of the unsoiled litterbox and set him on the ground. Winston shuffled drunkenly toward the safe room. Cecil followed, and sat on the little stool to watch Winston’s simple joy in playing with the toys in the safe room: mostly the mobile, as Winston was not, himself, especially mobile at the moment. Ah, irony, Cecil thought.
Cecil didn’t make breakfast, and Winston didn’t ask for it. They never did at this stage.
Winston played for an hour or so, babbling sluggishly to himself, before his respite expired. Like a siren approaching rapidly from a distance, the fluffy’s pain and the accompanying scream came tearing back. “ssssccccccrrrreeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
Cecil took a close look at Winston, who screamed again. “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” The whites of his eyes were as yellow as lemons now. The fluffy’s liver was going. Cecil picked up Winston and carried him to the little closet where his water heater was tucked away. Inside, next to the heater, there was just enough room for a fluffy bed, into which Cecil deposited Winston. The fluffy’s yellow eyes rolled around confusedly, as Cecil closed the closet door and left Winston alone in the dark, but for the green LED on the water heater that flashed once every three seconds to indicate “Everything is OK.”
Over the next few hours, Winston drifted in and out of consciousness in the darkness. At one point, he thought he was a tummeh babbeh, inside his mummah, waiting to be born. But then, pain reached up from the very center of his being to tear at him, and he was confused. Surely it didn’t hurt to be a tummeh babbeh? But, wait, he couldn’t be a tummeh babbeh: he remembered, in agony-steeped fragments of memory, being a foal at the mill, then a colt at the fluffy store. He lost consciousness.
Winston woke again to hear what sounded like his daddy crying, making big choking sobs. Then he heard a hurk sound like his daddy was making sickie wawas. “Daddeh!” Winston screamed. “Am yu hav huwties!?” The thought of his daddy, so big and sure, having biggest hurties was more terrifying to him than his own pain, which again crashed over him and drowned his words in inarticulate screams.
More pain. More darkness.
Wednesday
D-Lo hated faggots. D-Lo–who was David to his friends, who refused to call him D-Lo, and who enjoyed calling him J-Lo and insisting that he had a similarly “thicc booty” as the geriatric actress who’d gone by that moniker decades before–made an exception for one faggot, who insisted on calling him Mr. Lopez, instead of D-Lo, or just David. Whatever. That wasn’t important. What was important was that D-Lo could provide something that Mr. Brinks, whose first name was something faggy like Cedric or Cecil or something, needed. And D-Lo, in turn needed something that Mr. Brinks had: money.
It turned out that most employers had no use for a former Navy Corpsman who’d been drummed out of the service with a dishonorable discharge. They took an equally dim view of the reason for which he’d been discharged: diversion of narcotics. Access to pharmaceuticals proved too tempting for the south Florida boy, who’d been fucking around with prescription painkillers since junior high.
He hadn’t been enough of a streetwise hustler to fool the Navy when their inventory numbers started coming up short, but he had figured out how to parlay his battlefield trauma training into under-the-table cash back home: fluffy modification.
Most of his “customers” just wanted weird shit that most of the fluffy shops wouldn’t do, like pillowing, but of only one leg, or only one front leg and the opposite back leg. Or they wanted fluffy “body modifications”, like threaded sockets implanted in their fluffy’s skull so they could screw in goofy shit like spikes. This Brinks guy, though, was the weirdest. Every week, on Wednesday, he was to deliver a fluffy to Brinks. It had to be a blue fluffy with a white mane, male, neutered. They always offered to do the neutering at the shops where D-Lo bought the fluffies, but he liked to do it himself–there was something relaxing about taking a fluffy’s balls while he screamed about his “speciaw wumps”–and D-Lo had to do some other digging around in the fluffy anyway. Brinks wanted the fluffies modified so that they couldn’t shit. So D-Lo would disconnect the fluffies’ colon from the rectum, then suture both parts closed. It was simple enough, and Brinks paid him $300 a week, in the same way every time, 6 crisp $50 bills, unfolded, in a small envelope. When he handed D-Lo the envelope, he’d say, “For your trouble, Mr. Lopez.” Every fucking time.
D-Lo figured Brinks was fucking the fluffies to death. A gay guy who wants a male fluffy once a week, with its intestine separated and sutured to prevent shitdick? Yeah. D-Lo did the math on that one. But, again, whatever. None of his business. Three hundred bucks a week meant he could stay up to date on his child support payments to his cunt of an ex-girlfriend, which meant he could stay out of jail. He’d been in for thirty days for missing child support payments after he got discharged. It wasn’t fun. He’d arrange the death-by-assfucking of a hundred fluffies a week if it meant not having to go back. He considered one a week a bargain.
D-Lo pulled up to the fluffy joint, one of the seedy retail storefronts for the big fluffy mills up in the northern part of the state. He banged his palm against the dashboard clock. It flickered teasingly, but not long enough for him to read the time. Clicking his tongue, he shifted around in the seat of the ancient Honda until he was able to dig his phone out of his jeans: 7:55. Just five minutes until he could pick up a new fluffy and get to work on his big payday for the week.
–
Burning. No: wowstest buwnie huwties. It couldn’t be? Winston (was that his name? he was…fwuffy…did he hav a namesie?) knew fire. The fluffy training videos at the store had taught him all about fire, and fire was bright; there was no light here. But deep inside him there were wowstest buwnie huwties, burning him in the dark, and the need to poop was back. A dormant part of the fluffy’s brain kicked in: litterbox! He needed the litterbox! He couldn’t make bad poopies, because only bad fluffies made bad poopies, and Winston–yes, Winston!–was a good fluffy for daddy. Bestest daddy, who gave Winston so many huggies, and made him pretty, and gave him toys, and sketties!
“Dggggggggg!” Winston gurgled. He tried to call for daddy, but he couldn’t get his wordsies to work. Still, he was loud enough that he heard hoomin not-hoovsies coming in response. Slowly, the closet door opened. Agonizing light flooded the closet, outlining a massive figure. A savior? Winston’s eyes adjusted. It was daddy!
The fluffy gurgled again, but it made no difference to Cecil. He stooped stiffly and picked up the bloated fluff. The man’s mind was elsewhere, but an analytical part of him knew that the fluffy was basically a biological weapon at this point, full of a week’s worth of rich sketti shit, bacterial toxins, and gas. He placed the fluffy gingerly under his arm and walked mechanically to the front door and out to the curb. It was Wednesday. Wednesday was garbage day.
Cecil lifted the lid to the galvanized steel garbage can and placed the fluffy gently on top of the rest of the garbage from that week, including the kitchen trash bag that contained all of the empty sketties pouches from the last few days. In spite of the gentleness with which Cecil put the fluffy down, the pressure was finally too much, and the fluffy’s rectum prolapsed violently, rocketing past his sphincter to end up looking like a huge, grotesque nipple. Next, the sutures in the rectum ripped, and what must have been over a gallon of the evil slurry that had been brewing inside the fluffy poured forth in a torrent from the now-destroyed rectum.
Winston gasped, the pressure on his diaphragm relieved enough for him to take a full breath of air for the first time in days. As Cecil looked down at the fluffy with a distant, bemused expression, Winston began to sob jaggedly.
“Huuuuuuu,” gasp, “huuuuuu! Winston am su sowwies, daddeh!” He gasped again, in between rushed words and sobs. “Nu mean tu make bad poopies! Huuuuuuuu!” gasp “Winston nu mean tu be bad fwuffy!”
A look of confusion flickered across Cecil’s face momentarily. “Winston? Hmm. No, Winston will be here soon. Yes, Winston will be here soon.” The man absentmindedly placed the lid back on the garbage can and pushed it down securely. Once again Winston knew only darkness. His sobs echoed in the rank metal can as his daddy walked back inside.
It was already 90 degrees, and it would get much hotter before the trash pickup came.
–
D-Lo turned into the condo development where the fluffyfucker lived. The shitrat on the passenger side floorboard huuhuued, whining about his sore empty sack, his missing “speciaw wumps” and his “tummeh huwties” as he was bumped around by the sharp cornering.
“Shut the fuck up,” D-Lo said. “You’re about to meet your new daddy, so you’d better quit whining, real quick.”
“Nyu daddeh? Fwuffy wan nyu daddeh!” The blue fluffy with the white mane dared to look up hopefully at the man who had given him wowstest speciaw wump and tummeh huwties only an hour before.
D-Lo rolled his eyes. ‘New daddy.’ ‘Sketties.’ ‘Enfies.’ Like verbal reset buttons for these retarded shitrats.
He pulled up to his destination, grabbed the fluffy roughly, provoking more whining from the shitrat, and walked swiftly up to the door.
The creep answered the door quickly, as always, and proffered the same kind of small envelope he did every week. “For your trouble, Mr. Lopez.”
D-Lo gave an ironic salute with the envelope. He didn’t need to count it just now; the money was always there. “And here’s your fluffy, Mr. Brinks.”
Brinks nodded and smiled, taking the fluffy from D-Lo and tucking it under his arm before closing the door. D-Lo was already on his way down the walk. He smiled. He’d been saving up. After making his next child support payment, he figured he might have enough left over to score a nice pile of roxys and get well and truly fucked up for the first time in a long time. As he headed back to his car, D-Lo thought he heard a faint, tinny voice saying, “Wan die!” He paused for a moment.
But only a moment.
–
Back inside Cecil’s house, the little blue gelding cooed, “Wuv sketties! Wuv nyu daddeh!”
