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Fluffy Pony Abuse Thread
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Seeing a fluffy pony thread on /mlp/ that didn't include these stupid fucking little ponies being tortured to death really triggered me.

Please help me feel better.
135 replies and 88 files omitted.
>be me
>playing casual fluffies
>basically a fluffy simulator, can hugbox but plenty of tools for abuse.
>Decide to make some experiments
>Create a fuckhuge laboratory
>Spawn two breeding pairs in
>Experiment 1: Adoptive foals?
>Get both mares knocked up
>Both give birth around same time
>As foals are born I swap them with the mothers
>Mothers refuse to nurse any of the babies, kicking them away and oftentimes crushing them.
>Those that don't die outright from getting kicked away starve to death.
>Both mothers depressed from loss of litter.
>Experiment 1 end.
>Experiment 2: Cannibalism by desperation.
>Create different segments of the labratory, a few different holding cells for the fluffs, and a meatcage where deceased fluffies are butchered in preparation for the experiment.
>Spawn a couple fluffies. Luck of luck one of them is an alicorn.
>Decide to make fluffies' irrational fear of "munstah fwuffies" completely rational.
>Put her in a separate cell with no food
>She cries out for daddeh to give her nummehs.
>Her cries go unanswered.
>She is on the brink of starvation and I drop a couple dismembered fluffie parts into her cage.
>She cries out "am sowwie huhuhu" as she forces the mangled fluffie flesh down her throat, gagging all the while.
>Finishes it all, still hungry.
>Fine by me
>Drop an entire fluffie's worth of bodyparts in there. She still doesn't want to eat it, and only eats it once she gets really, really hungry.
>Eventually though she starts eating more of it, and sooner than before.
>Now instead of sobbing and gagging as she cannibalizes, she comments about how good "tummy sketties" and "head ketties" are.
>Experiment end.
>Research note: It seems that fluffies, after eating enough of their own get desensitized to cannibalism, and eventually relish the exotic meal.
>Experiment 3: Reluctant infanticidal cannibalism.
>In another holding cell, place a breeding pair of fluffies.
>After going through the regular courtships of saying "nyu fwend" "hi" and "hi best fwend" 12 dozen times they copulate.
>Female is immediately impregnated, father is placed in another cell.
>Mother eventually gives "biggest poopies" and gives birth to a litter of 3, one of which was stillborn.
>Remove kibble trough.
>Mother cries out for nourishment and is barely able to produce enough milk to keep her two foals alive.
>Eventually out of desperation, she chokes down her stillborn foal just to live a little longer to feed her foals.
>Expect her to then sacrifice one of her foals to be able to feed the other.
>She starves to death refusing to hurt her still living foals.
>Both foals die of starvation. All three are chucked into the meat cage.
>Experiment end.
>Research note: It appears that fluffies that have not yet underwent the process of transitioning to voluntary cannibalism via repeated desperate acts. (Henceforth coined "Wendigo Psychosis" for brevity) are extremely reluctant to eat a still living fluffy, even when faced with the context of a starving mother with foals.
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>Experiment 4: Raising of foals by Wendigo Mothers.
>Recall in a few previous playthroughs that rapist stallions will temporarily ignore the fact that a mare may be a "munstah fwuffy" and still get their "special huggies" one way or another.
>Spawn a dozen or so fluffies outside the lab to exist as a feral herd. Pick out a few males and isolate them.
>One male yells and demands that the "dummeh mares come out and give special huggies"
>Subject picked up and placed in the Wendigo's cell.
>As expected, the stallion rushes over to the mare, completely ignoring the fact she's an alicorn and proceeds to give bad enfies.
>Immediately after the climax he realizes what his mate was exactly and screamed, running from his rape victim and soon to be devourer.
>Wendigo mare proceeds to rip apart her rapist in a predatory manner, and messily devours his entire carcass.
>Place food trough full of fluffie hamburger in cell and await "biggest poopies"
>She gives birth to a healthy litter, and appears not interested in eating them due to the presence of food already available.
>Remove food trough
>Alarmingly quickly she begins devouring one of her foals, saying "look pwetty, taste pwetty"
>Place the food trough back.
>She lets her remaining foals nurse her while she eats from the trough.
>Once they are weaned I place one of her foals in a separate cell with another mare.
>Theres a food trough there full of kibble, so the foal shouldn't starve.
>The foal is preying upon the now screeing and cowering mare, completely ignoring the kibble.
>holy shit, wendigo psychosis is hereditary.
>Experiment end.
>Research note: It appears that mares afflicted with Wendigo Psychosis will cannibalize their offspring, but only in the absence of already present fluffy meat. Additionally it has been discovered that WP is not only caused by repeated instances of cannibalism, but is also inherited from the mother. Additional research may take place to see if WP can be inherited from a paternal source.
>Experiment 5: Exposure of multiple Wendigos to a feral population.
>Allow the surviving offspring of the prime Wendigo to reach full maturity
>Conduct verification tests to verify the presence of Wendigo psychosis
>Pluck a few fluffies from the herd and place them into each of the cells.
>All are messily killed and eaten.
>Fucking Fluffasic Park
>Begin transplanting the Wendigos into the feral herd.
>Immediately they ignore the various wild growing flowers, fruits, and mushrooms on the ground and start sinking their teeth into the nearest ferals.
>Several are killed and eaten in the span of minutes.
>Wendigo Prime corners a foal, begging for no moe huwties.
>She ignores the pleas and kills it.
>Before she could devour it though her son comes up behind her and starts attacking her.
>She screes and is unable to move.
>Try to break up the fight to preserve the specimens, but am took late, she's already been beheaded.
>Damn, what a loss for science.
>The violence dies down. The herd is effectively destroyed, the surviving members and the Wendigo hunters too spread out to interact with eachother.
>Experiment end
>Research Notes: It now appears that even in the presence of available meat there is still a chance that a wendigo will prefer to kill and eat an already living target, including other wendigos. Additionally the abundant presence of wild growing foodstuffs being ignored completely by the wendigos further confirms their preference for flesh. Additional research must take place to determine if they will be content with an herbivorous diet in lieu of prey.
>Experiment 6: Hereditary tests
>Place stallions in isolation separate from females
>Wait several minutes.
>Finally some of the studs cant take it anymore and begin crying out, demanding special huggies.
>Pick one and place it in a cell with disassembled fluffies.
>After several minutes the stallion forgets about his libido and begins crying out for nummies.
>Eventually the stallion begins choking down fluffy flesh.
>It cries and gags and only eats when its desperately starving.
>Soon the process of Wendigo Psychosis comes to its climax
>Stallion is now enjoying fluffy meat and has gained predatory instincts typical for a WP inflicted fluffy.
>Fluffy's libido returns
>Place the Wendigo in a cell with a female.
>Remove the wendigo before its predatory instincts kick in.
>Await the litter.
>Mummah gets biggest poopies.
>Wait for infants to be weaned.
>Not one shows a sign of WP
>End Experiment
>Research Notes: The hypothesis of WP being hereditary through both the maternal and paternal line has been disproved. >WP is now proven to be only inherited from a Wendigo mother.
>Experiment 7: Attempts to cure Wendigo Psychosis
>Remove Wendigo from its steel room, place into a confined grass floor cell.
>Hypothesis: It may be possible to cure WP by undergoing its steps in reverse. I.E force feeding a Wendigo an herbivorous diet.
>Place bowl of spaghetti in cell in an attempt to further entice the Wendigo
>Wendigo outright refuses "Dummeh food" and futilely tries to find away out of the fenced off area.
>Constantly complains "nu dummehs hewe, fwuffie wan find dummehs for num"
>This goes on for hours.
>End Experiment
>Research Notes: It appears Wendigo Psychosis is an incurable mental illness with current tools available. Perhaps in a future update tasers will be added for potential resets.
Personal Notes: It may be tempting to try to intentionally breed Wendigo fluffies to introduce them to feral populations to act as natural exterminators. However current tests have only been performed with fluffies, no animals were available for testing. While it would be foolhardy to suggest that they would be able to harm any wild animal with more natural defenses than a snail, it is possible they may find certain native species in their infant stage vulnerable enough to "num" The last thing we need is to add on to what is already an ecological disaster by having these shitrats try to eat everything weaker than them into extinction.
I've gone insane.
During one of my experiments i saw that the feral fluffy herd had grown out of control and I was getting 5 frames per second. It was just too choppy for me to manually kill them all but I had an idea. I replaced all of the ground with metal floors so that they couldn't eat. Thus starved they were forced to resort to cannibalism. This resulted in a huge amount of wendigos being created, which only hastened the demise of the entire population. At the very end there was only one little fluttershy lookin fluff left, the last one standing. I decided to reward him by building him a pyramid temple in the midst of the blood and shit filled rusting landscape. To the right of the pyramid is his personal harem/farm where the mares produce his offspring for his consumption. it also doubles as his sewage system.
h (again)
## Mod
Are ya done?
booru is dead. long live the booru

new site is on https://fluffycommunity.com

Also some pastebin
Instead of trying to start threads on /trash/ and /b/ all the time and having them deleted, why not use this one? It's literally been up since 2017, it's not going anywhere.
fluffies are now reddit


Frenly reminder, Fluffy Ponies are just Yukkuri ripoffs who shit themselves and get tortured. There really is nothing new under the sun.

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,'  ノ   !'"    ,___,  "' i .レ'    L.',.   ヽ _ン    L」 ノ| .|
 (  ,ハ    ヽ _ン   人!      | ||ヽ、       ,イ| ||イ| /
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Fluffy babies
Shit "smarty" foal
What I'm missing? Why these cute fluffies are hated?
Take it easy
I can't, these little creatures are suffering.
Take it easy!


Biologically it could make sense. Maybe prions? Those are mostly deffective proteins that cause several neuropathies in all sort of species that might have practiced cannibalism. Take for instance the mad cow desease as an example. Some african tribes that practice cannibalism and eat brains also portray feral behaviour.
Given prions are proteins, maybe an infected mare can pass them through the womb to her liter. Just an hipotesis, though.

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I hope you’re all burning in hell or have committed suicide by now
You wish, faggot.
Apple Jack wouldn’t say that
She would indeed.
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Welp, I can’t argue with that sound logic. Guess I was wrong about the character of Applejack. That said, still hope most of the anons that had posted here killed themselevs. Wonder if were the only two that still know this place every exists
huge faggot.png
>That said, still hope most of the anons that had posted here killed themselevs.
Sorry, but not. KEK
You can not confirm nor deny a large majority of the posters here haven’t gotten their own wan die forever sleepies, I win
You don't know that. But keep wishing LOL.
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Faggot I may be but at least I’m not the filth that posts in this empty hell
let me in.png
Actually, do you know where you are? Check again, just in case.
Why are you bumping this thread with no content?
You are posting right now.
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lmao people are actually bumping this thread.

You know what? Fuck it. Just for this fag >>23507 I'm going to dump the retarded fluffy-abuse story I wrote forever ago.

Chapter 1:

So, my wife is apparently a hugboxer. Trust me, I wouldn’t have married her if I’d known, but in my defense I really couldn’t have. Fluffies didn’t even exist when we tied the knot five years ago; now these stupid things are everywhere.

Don’t ask me where they came from. The official story is that some company created them as “pets” or toys or something, but I can’t imagine any toy company would actually be that stupid; more likely than not it was a weapon engineered by a foreign government to drive us all to the brink of madness. Have you seen these fucking things? Who would create something like this on purpose for any reason other than malice? All they do is babble in baby-talk and shit everywhere. If you took a leaky garbage bag, filled it with liquid shit, and spray-painted it some garish neon color you would basically have a fluffy.

But anyway, my wife. Turns out, there are actually people who not only tolerate these things, they actually find them cute and keep them as pets. And it also turns out that I married one of these people, can you believe that? Not long after the fluffies first started appearing all over the place, Heather announces that she wants to “adopt” one. We had just bought a new house, and there was this room at the end of the hall on the first floor that I had plans to turn into a sick-ass game/entertainment room. Nice sofas, big screen TV, surround system; I had it all planned out. And then…nope. It’s a goddamn “fluffy safe room” now. I wasn’t even asked, I was just told.

That’s not even the worst of it. Heather picked out a mare, a big, fat, hideous neon-pink creature she named Ramona. As soon as she brought it home, I realized if I spent more than thirty consecutive seconds around this abomination I was going to wind up breaking every bone in its body, so for a few months I just plain avoided it. So long as it was just one fluffy that I had to deal with, and so long as it stayed in its room, it was all good. But then…well, you can probably guess what happened.

One afternoon, Heather lets her fluffy out into the backyard so it could run around and shit all over my lawn, as opposed to just shitting all over the carpet of what should have been my game room. Heather meanwhile goes inside to fuck around in the kitchen, and wouldn’t you know it? Some bright orange feral smarty wanders in and gives Ramona “gud feews.” I heard the disgusting sound of their copulation through the open window in my office, so I ran out and chased off the smarty with the garden hose, but the damage was done. A couple of weeks later (gestation times for these creatures is apparently ridiculously short) she shits out a litter of foals. The verb is deliberate there; Ramona eloquently described the birthing process as “biggest poopies,” and as soon as I saw her offspring I have to say it was the first thing she ever said that I agree with. So now, in addition to the mother, we have six repugnant little mini-shitrats running around. And did this deter Heather in any way from her fluffy obsession? Nope; she’s got even dumber ideas in her head now.

She wants to become a “breeder” if you can believe that. She’s getting really into it; she has accounts with all these fluffy forums on the internet and they keep encouraging her and feeding her information. She’s obsessed with figuring out how to breed for specific colors; apparently, shitrat enthusiasts are really, really particular about what color their hellspawns are, and whether or not they are unicorns, pegasi, whatever. I guess an “alicorn” is really valuable. I don’t get it at all. From what I can tell, they all shit the same color, and they don’t do much else. Anyway, whatever; not much I can do about it. As long as they stayed in their “safe room,” I could grit my teeth and wait for Heather to get bored. But then one day, it all changed.


Heather was gone for the day, and I had the place to myself. So, I decided to make the most of it and spend my time drinking beer and playing games on my PC. At one point I realized I had to pee, so I got up and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. Our house is pretty old, and most of the first floor is carpeted with thick blue shag that was popular in the 1970s. My wife wants to get it replaced at some point, but I actually kind of like it. However, as I was walking, I suddenly noticed an annoying little high pitched voice:

“Spwow! Babbeh spwow! Hee hee, babbeh spwowin’!”

It was clear enough that the sound was coming from one of Heather’s fluffies. I was used to hearing these things spout all sorts of idiotic gibberish, and I didn’t pay it any attention most of the time. What had me a bit more concnerned, though, was that I was hearing it in the hallway. Then I glanced at the far end, and saw that the door to what should have been my game room was slightly ajar. From there, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

I looked down at the carpet, and sure enough, there was a little trail of shit spatters leading out of the crack in the doorway and running down the hall in a zigzag pattern. I followed it with my eyes, and there was one of the foals. It was a little blue one, male I think, though the difference is pretty negligible with fluffy foals. The little dipshit was scampering around, moving from one random direction to the next and babbling incoherently about “spwowin.” I think it was trying to say “exploring.” The shag carpet was pretty thick, and to a little shitrat foal it would have been like wading through tall grass, but the slow movement didn’t seem to dull its enthusiasm. However, it seemed like the extra exertion was taxing its already limited bowel control, so with every third step or so a little bit of shit would squirt out behind it. I groaned audibly. Have you ever tried scrubbing fluffy shit out of shag before?
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The sound of my groaning seemed to attract the foal’s attention. It stopped not far from me and looked up with a joyous expression on its horrible little face.

“Wook daddeh!” it cried triumphantly. “Babbeh spwow!”

“I can see that, you little faggot!” I cried, in a mockingly cutesy voice. The fluffy, however, didn’t seem to comprehend irony; it wasn’t put off by anything I said to it.

“Babbeh spwow! Babbeh wuv spwow!” it continued to crow, as if it genuinely believed that aimless wandering around the hallway was an achievement it ought to be proud of.

“Hey faggot,” I said, still with my mocking cutesy-wootsy voice, “Don’t you know you’re supposed to stay in your goddamn safe room?”

The “babbeh” looked up at me in confusion suddenly.

“Why daddeh call babbeh ‘Faggot’?”

I forced a smile so hard it made my face hurt. I leaned down with my hands on my knees, looking the obnoxious little creature right in its eyes, though it didn’t seem to even remotely sense my hostility towards it.

“Because you’re a little faggot, faggot!” I said. “Look at what you did to my goddamn carpet–”

However, I couldn’t finish the sentence, because the foal suddenly fell back onto its hindquarters and began clapping its tiny hooves together and laughing.

“Babbeh am Faggot! Babbeh am Faggot! Faggot wuv nu name! Faggot wuv ou, Daddeh! Babbeh am Faggot, babbeh am Faggot…”

The idiot just kept singing this to himself over and over while clapping his hooves together and laughing. In spite of how angry I was, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing myself. Jesus Christ these things are stupid, I thought. Does this little moron seriously think that ‘faggot’ is its name?

After the initial amusement though, it occurred to me that this might be a problem. My wife was super protective of these things, especially the babies, and she knew perfectly well that I didn’t like fluffies. If she heard this thing calling itself Faggot she would instantly know that I’d had something to do with it.

“No no,” I began. “Your name isn’t Faggot, I was just calling you a name…”

I trailed off, because the idiot was clearly confused.

“Babbeh nu am Faggot? Siwwy Daddeh! Faggot am Faggot! Faggot wuv nu Daddeh…”

Its babbling seemed to jog something in my memory that I’d heard about fluffies. Apparently they have some kind of biological programming that registers the human who names it as its “mummah” or “daddeh.” And once it’s named, that’s it’s name; I could torture this thing and it wouldn’t ever acknowledge that it’s name isn’t actually Faggot. I was basically screwed; there was no way to reverse this. Looks like I can forget about sex for the next month, I thought grimly as I watched Faggot do his stupid little “wuv-Daddeh” dance.

A weird idea suddenly crossed my mind, and I glanced once more at the slightly open door that the foal had come through. It didn’t look like any of the other “babbehs” were in a “spwowin’” mood, as I could see no sign of any others wandering through the door, and there was only one trail of shit. I crossed the hall quickly as I could, while avoiding stepping in the shit splatters of course, and peered inside. I saw the unmistakable hot-pink blob that was Ramona, sitting in the center of the room. I counted five foals bouncing merrily around her, and Faggot made six. All shitrats accounted for. Ramona looked up at me and began to yammer some fluff-speak gibberish about her “wittle spwowin’ babbeh,” but I didn’t bother to listen to what it was. I rudely slammed the door while she was in mid-sentence and pulled it tight, making sure it had closed all the way and couldn’t be nudged open again.

With the door shut, I returned my attention to Faggot.

“Hey little buddy,” I said cheerfully. “Did I hear you say you like ‘splorin’?”

The little blue foal nodded its head enthusiastically.

“Faggot wuv spwowe!” it cried.

“Hey, that’s great, Faggot!” I cried, all cutesy-wike. Like. Cutesy-LIKE. Fuck, now even I’m talking like these things. “I’ll tell you what: how would you like to become a professional explorer?”

Faggot looked confused for a second, but then he began to once again clap his hooves like a retard and chirp in that little singsong voice again.

“Faggot wan spwowe! Faggot wuv spwowe!”

That sounded like a yes to me.

“Alright, Faggot, then I’ll tell you what: I’m going to make you a cadet in the Fluffy Aeronautics and Space Administration!”

“Yay! Faggot wuv spwowe!”

While the little idiot was still chirping and singing, I went into the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet. I let the water run as hot as I could get it, far hotter than anything I would ever bathe in, and let the tub fill up about halfway. When I came back to the hallway, Faggot had stopped singing and was looking up at me curiously.

“Daddeh?” it asked. “What am ‘fwuffy spess pwogwam?’”

“Oh, you’ll learn all about it, Faggot!” I said cheerfully. “Training starts right fucking now!”

Without warning I reached down and grabbed the little shitrat by the scruff of its fluff. It immediately began waving its legs and chirping in alarm.

“Nuu! Nu wike, nu wike! Bad upsies!” it cried, over and over. I ignored it.

“First mission is aquatic training!” I laughed, and tossed the foal carelessly in the direction of the bathtub.

“SCREEEEEEEEEEE!” it shrieked in alarm, its legs flailing comically as it sailed through the air in a graceful arc.

It hit the water with a little plop, sunk underneath for a moment and then bobbed to the surface.

“NUUUU! NU WIKE, NU WIKE!!! BUWNY WAWA NU AM GUD FOW FWUFFY!!!” it shrieked, gurgling in between words as it struggled to tread water. Suddenly, a burst of “scaredy poopies” fired out of its hindquarters.

I don’t know how these creatures manage to do it, but somehow their bodies can hold easily ten times their own mass in feces, and Faggot launched all of his at once. The explosion from his butt had the effect of a rocket booster, and propelled the screeching foal from one end of the bathtub to the other. He collided nose-first with the wall of the tub with a soft thud, and the ricochet combined with his still-firing “scaredy poopies” sent him into a spin. He was now gurgling his own shit in addition to the scalding hot bathwater, and though his screams were mostly incoherent noise now, I was pretty sure I could make out phrases like “poopy wawa nu smew pwetty” and “smew pwace haf biggest huwties.” By now I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to make “poopies” myself. Will Heather miss one of these things if it suddenly “disappears?” I wondered to myself. My guess was probably yes; she was pretty devoted to her fluffies. However, if I wasn’t going to get laid for the foreseeable future one way or the other, I may as well get some enjoyment out of this thing. First, though, I was going to need to do something about the constant shitting, or else this was going to turn into a pretty messy business.

Leaving the foal to flail around in the now-filthy water, I went to the kitchen and pulled open the utility drawer. We had quite a few things in here that looked like they might be fun for working out aggression on a fluffy, but in the end I settled on a pair of needle-nose pliers and a tube of Krazy-Glue.

Back in the bathtub, Faggot was still flailing around trying to swim. He had stopped shitting, but the water looked like it was mostly shit now anyway. He was starting to look weak, and I realized if I didn’t get him out of there in the next 60 seconds or so he would probably drown. Sighing, I reached my hand into the filthy water and grabbed the struggling foal.

“Whew, you’re fucking filthy!” I exclaimed, revolted by the slimy feel of the creature’s matted fluff. I tossed it into the sink. By now it had stopped talking, and had reverted to a series of peeps and chirps that I guess these things make when they get pushed past a certain stress level. I ignored the noises it made, and flipped on the faucet. Ice cold this time.

“SCREEEEEEEEEE!!!” cried the foal as the “wawa” splashed on him. He tried to run away from the stream, but I grabbed him and held him under, turning him over and over until most of the shit was rinsed out of his fluff. I did my best to clean my hands too. Fortunately, he seemed to have expelled most of the shit from his own body, because I didn’t see any more “scaredy poopies.” However, I wasn’t about to take any more chances.

“Alright, Faggot!” I said, picking up the shivering foal. It looked up at me with an unforgettable expression of hurt and bewilderment.

“W-why Daddeh huwt babbeh?” it said in a trembling voice. “Faggot wuv Daddeh!”

“Hey now,” I said, pretending to be upset. “I thought you said you WANTED to be in the Fluffy Aeronautics and Space Administration. Don’t tell me you’re backing out now?”

“Fwuffy nu wike dis game…” the foal said, its eyes turning downward.

“Well, I’m afraid it’s too late,” I said cheerfully. “You already signed a contract! FASA has invested too much money into your training for you to just up and quit!”

“Fwuffy nee mummah…”

“Sorry, ‘fwuffy’, but in space, your ‘mummah’ can’t hear you shit. Oh yeah, speaking of shit…”

I turned the foal upside down and grabbed the Krazy-Glue. Faggot once again began to wriggle and chirp in protest, but I held him firm. He let out a loud “screeeee” again as I squirted a generous glob of glue into his anus. Ignoring his protest, I continued drizzling the entire region until his asshole was sealed with the quick-drying substance. While I had him, I noticed that he also had a comically tiny little cock and balls. On impulse, I picked up the needle-nose pliers I’d also brought. Fuck you, fluffy, I thought to myself. If I’m not getting laid, you sure as shit won’t be either.

Without warning, I clamped the pliers down on his genitals. The look of terror followed by another “screeeeee” as the pincers closed was priceless. Even more priceless was the way his eyes seemed to bug out of their sockets when I gave a hard jerk of my wrist, and tore his fluffhood off with one deft movement.


“Yeah, sorry about that, little buddy,” I said, casually flicking his tiny little wang and balls down the sink drain. There was a little ribbon of blood oozing out of the open wound, so I rinsed it off with another full-power blast from the faucet and closed it up with more Krazy-Glue. The foal was borderline-catatonic, but it looked at me when I began to speak again. There were tears in its eyes, and the expression of utter betrayal on its face almost made me physically erect.

“I didn’t want to have to castrate you,” I said pleasantly, drying the little shitrat off with a nearby towel. I made sure it was Heather’s towel; it was her fluffy, after all. “I begged the top brass to just let it slide this one time, but I’m afraid they were quite adamant about it. ‘No more dicks on our astronauts,’ they said; I guess it’s the new slogan. Wouldn’t have been my choice, but there you have it. It’s part of FASA policy now: only eunuchs and pregnant women are allowed to pilot spacecraft. New regulations; you can thank the Democrats for that one.”

I was walking back down the hall. The still-damp, shivering foal was in my hand, staring fearfully up at me, softly hu-hu-hu-ing but otherwise quiet. I went into the kitchen.

“Anyway,” I continued, “The next portion of your training involves survival in sub-zero temperatures. You’re going to need a lot of stamina to survive in the freezing depths of outer space. Here’s your isolation chamber.”

I yanked open the door of the freezer and threw the foal inside. It chirped and peeped in alarm before colliding face-first with the wall and landing in the ice bucket. I could still hear it rattling around in the ice cubes as I slammed the door shut.

Whistling pleasantly, I grabbed a bucket of warm water, some soap, and a scrub brush, and got to work cleaning up the mess the little shitrat had left in the hallway. It was pretty disgusting work, but somehow I didn’t mind. Playing with Faggot had blown off a lot of steam; maybe there was something to this “fluff therapy” that my wife was reading about after all. These things were great stress relievers! I hadn’t felt this relaxed in years.

After the carpet and bathroom had been taken care of, I went and grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down to watch some television. I watched an episode or two of Sanford and Son on some high-number satellite channel that shows long-forgotten reruns, and pretty soon I’d forgotten all about my wife’s fluffy collection.

It was only when I stood up to get another beer that I noticed an odd sound coming from the refrigerator. I was half-buzzed, and for a moment I was a little confused.

“The fuck is wrong with this thing?” I muttered, and in a moment I realized it was coming from the freezer. A second after that, I realized it was the sound of ice cubes rattling around in the bucket. I yanked open the door.

“Holy shit, is this thing still alive?” I exclaimed, reaching into the ice bucket and drawing out the shivering babbeh. There was a layer of frost on its fluff, it was barely moving, and its eyes stared vacantly up at me as if I were an apparition, but the little shitrat was definitely still among the living. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

His teeth were chattering, but Faggot looked up at me, a pleading expression on his horrid little face, and eventually he managed to force a few words out:

“F-F-Faggot nu w-w-wike dis g-g-g-game, D-D-D-Daddeh…”

I threw back my head and laughed. Jesus, these things were full of surprises. What had started out as a pretty “shitty” (ba dum tss) afternoon was quickly turning into a hoot and a holler.

“I have wonderful news for you, Faggot!” I cried aloud. “You’ve passed your space training with flying colors! Congratulations, Lieutenant First Class Faggot! You are now among the few and the proud! You are officially an astronaut of the Fluffy Aeronautics and Space Administration!”


I laughed again.

“Oh, you better believe it, little buddy! So, are you ready for your first mission? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you’re ready! You were born ready!”

“F-fwuffy am c-cowd…nee mummah…haf biggest huwties…poopie pwace haf owies…”

I ignored the gibbering of the weak foal, and set it absent-mindedly down on the counter while I rummaged around in the utility drawer. I found some zip ties which would probably do the trick. After that, I went to the hall closet and grabbed something off the top shelf.

“Alright, Lieutenant!” I chirped, scooping up the still-shivering frosty foal and heading for the back door. “It’s time for you to boldly go where no fluffy has gone before!”

I went out onto the back porch, and laid everything out on the picnic table. Our yard is surrounded by a tall wooden privacy fence, with a gate that opens up onto a communal alley. At this time of the afternoon, none of the neighbors or their kids should be home, so I figured the alley would probably be as good a place as any for this.

I placed the foal with his back against the rocket I’d taken from the closet. The brand name on the label said it was the “Big Bang,” and judging from the size of the thing I didn’t think it was a misnomer. It was one of the leftover fireworks from the Fourth of July the previous year; an enormous rocket, almost a foot long and an inch or two thick (make whatever Freud jokes you want; I’ve always been kind of a pyro and I get a thrill from shooting off big fireworks). I wrapped a zip tie around the foal’s neck and pulled it tight, watching in satisfaction as Faggot’s eyes began to bulge out of their sockets again. He had been chirping and peeping and babbling about “mummuh” and “poopie pwace huwties” until his wind was suddenly cut off; now all he could do was make a pathetic gurgling sound. Other than that, though, he didn’t try to struggle. These animals, or whatever the fuck they are, are pretty goddamn stupid, but this one seemed to have more or less realized that he wasn’t going to “wike” whatever I was about to do. On some instinctive level, he might have even realized that his pathetic little short life was nearly at an end. Maybe he welcomed it at that point.

Oh well, I thought. Serves you right, you little shitrat. You wanted to ‘splore’? Well, you’re going to go ‘splorin’ alright. This is for my carpet, and my game room, and my poor neglected dick…

Whistling cheerfully, I took the rocket and its reluctant passenger through the gate, and quickly set it up in the middle of the alleyway. I kind of wanted to milk the theatrics a little more, maybe sing the national anthem or something, but the longer I drew this out the greater the chance that someone might open a window and see what I was doing. So, I quickly flipped open my Zippo, lit the fuse, and took several steps backward. I put a flat hand to my forehead in a mock gesture of salute.

“Semper Fi, little buddy,” I said. The fluffy foal’s bulging eyes turned towards me, and it looked like it was trying to gurgle out some last words. I’m no fluffy lip-reader, but I’m almost positive that it was trying to say “Faggot wuv ou Daddeh.” Either that or it was complaining about its “poopy pwace huwties” again; who the fuck even knows with shitrats. In any case, a second later the fuse burned its way to the rocket, and a torrent of flame began to erupt from its base.

Unfortunately, I was never much of a physics student, and I had failed to take into account how much of an impact the extra weight of the fluffy would have on the rocket’s trajectory. Instead of shooting gracefully up into the air as I had planned, the rocket made a rough lurch to the side and began to skitter a short distance down the alley, the terrified foal flailing its limbs as it repeatedly struck the asphalt. I had a rather harrowing moment myself when the rocket did a loop-de-loop and came back around, flying head first towards me. I leapt instinctively to the side, and it shot over my head and up into the air at the last minute.

I flipped over and watched it. Its flight path was still erratic, but it was a good twenty-five to thirty feet in the air now, so hopefully it wouldn’t cause any collateral damage. It wobbled out over the main street, where it finally exploded with a deafening BANG that somehow didn’t quite muffle the “screeeeee” sound of the dying fluffy. Several car alarms on the block went off; a red mist and some blue-colored chunks rained down onto the street below.

“Oh, shit!” I cried. I figured I should probably get the hell back into my house before anyone looked outside and saw me here. The last thing I wanted to do was answer a bunch of awkward questions from the fire marshal. If they figured out that there was a fluffy attached to that rocket, they’d probably just assume it had been the delinquent kid down the street who had set it off. All I had to do was get back inside–

“Excuse me, sir?”

My hand froze just above the gate handle. Slowly I turned towards the east end of the alley, the direction of the public street where the explosion had gone off just seconds ago. To my dismay, a uniformed police officer was standing there, with a few spatters of red on his shirt and a fragment of blue fluff on his shoulder.

“Uh, yes officer?” I asked, trying to play it cool. The officer took a few steps towards me and then stopped.

“My name is Officer Waczynski with the Clackamas County Sheriff’s department,” he said. I swallowed and tried to look nonchalant. “Sir, are you aware that it’s illegal to set off fireworks in this neighborhood without a permit?”


So much for playing it cool. The officer reached up towards his breast pocket, and I assumed he was going for his citation book, or maybe his handcuffs. However, his hand didn’t stop at his pocket. It continued its journey upward, and then stopped at his shoulder. Suddenly, he shot me a wry smile, and then pointedly brushed off the fragment of blue fluff. I gazed upon his eyes, and in that moment I knew that Officer Waczynski was my nigger.

“I’m afraid you can’t shoot off any more fireworks in this alley,” he continued. “You wouldn’t want to see kids, pets, or anything important get hurt, would you?”

I shook my head, and the officer shot me that sly smile again.

“I’m sorry, officer,” I finally stammered. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking.”

“Just don’t let it happen again, or I will have to write you a citation,” Waczynski said, and turned to go. He paused, then turned back to me. “By the way, if you go a little way past the other end of the alley, there’s a path down to the river. It’s pretty much all open space down there. It’s usually deserted, so if you want to mess around, do it there. Just keep in mind that we do have noise ordinances in this neighborhood.”

Without another word, Waczynski turned and went back to his duties. Meanwhile, the last of the blaring car alarms was finally silenced by its owner. I turned to go back inside my house.


Later that night, I was sitting in the living room watching more old reruns. It was a show called Laverne and Shirley this time. This old-timey TV was pretty good, I was thinking, and I figured I’d keep watching this channel for awhile. I heard a sound coming from the hallway, and looked up to see Heather emerging out of the shadows.

“How are the shitrats?” I asked. Heather shot me a disapproving but loving glance.

“They’re fine,” she replied, not taking the bait. “Say, have you seen the little blue one around here? I couldn’t find him in the safe room, and all Ramona will say is that “blue babbeh” went “‘splorin’.” She doesn’t seem too worried, but, well, you know how fluffies are…”

I frowned, as if remembering something. I made a show of hesitating, then cleared my throat.

“Well,” I said, “I noticed earlier that the game roo–uh, sorry; the safe room door was open a little way. I shut it, and I didn’t see any fluffies in the hall, but it’s possible that one of the babies might have wandered out.”

“Damn!” Heather made an irritated face, then she shrugged helplessly. “Well, I hope he’s alright…”

“Don’t worry,” I said, beckoning her towards the space on the couch next to me. “If he’s in the house he’ll turn up.”

Heather plopped down next to me, but she didn’t let the subject drop.

“Yeah, but what if he doesn’t?” she exclaimed. “You know how fluffies are…”

“Yeah, I know how fluffies are.” I put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Look, I know you’re pretty serious about this fluffy thing, but you heard what the guy at FluffMart said. Those things are delicate, they wander off, they get into trouble…you shouldn’t get too attached to them, especially the babies.”

“Yeah…” she stared off despondently, still clearly anxious. I gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on,” I continued, “I’m sure he’s fine. How far could a little fluffy foal get? It’s not like he went into space or something.”

She smiled, and snuggled her head against my shoulder.

“Hey,” she said after a moment. “I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate how supportive you’ve been about all of this. I know fluffies aren’t really your thing.”

“Yeah, well…” now it was my turn to trail off. I shrugged. “I guess if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

She cuddled up closer.

“You’ll get your game room back some day,” she murmurred. “For now, I’m just…”

Her obvious drowsiness was beginning to affect me too, and my lids soon closed. I instantly saw Faggot in my mind’s eye, his neck fastened to the rocket with a zip tie, his eyes bulging out; that last expression of pure hopelessness on his face when he realized that he was going to die. I could feel myself beginning to get an erection. Heather noticed, though she completely misinterpreted the reason.

“Hmm, what’s this?” she said, stroking me gently. I groaned a little, and tightened my grip around her shoulders.

I shut my eyes again, and this time I saw Faggot blasting off into space. The rocket launched perfectly this time, carrying its brave little passenger upward, into the cold depths of outer space. To boldly go where no fluffy had gone before.

“Semper Fi, little buddy” I whispered.

“What?” said Heather. I opened my eyes, and she was looking at me with a quizzical expression.

“Nothing,” I said.

I leaned forward and kissed her.


And, that's it. iirc I was going to write more of this but just forgot about it. If anyone wants, I can probably continue it.
Excellent story. You got all the terminology covered and used appropriately. I like how this Anon was such a sadistic asshole and still got away with it.
>Hey, that’s great, Faggot!” I cried, all cutesy-wike. Like. Cutesy-LIKE. Fuck, now even I’m talking like these things.
Keked at that.
>Why are you bumping this thread with no content?
The question is why (you) would not. Huh?
>I'm going to dump the retarded fluffy-abuse story I wrote forever ago.
Hell yeah.
Shitpost away!!!
Glad you thought of me anon
you're still all inhuman garbage