abuse author:thanemacfluff can claustrophobia foal-in-a-can poop psychological_abuse questionable sad tears unicorn


Comments - Download - Toggle formatting



The ‘Foal in a Can’ dispenser must have been fairly new. I hadn’t noticed exactly when they installed the thing against the dingy, piss-and-beer stained wall of my local convenience store, but it had to have been sometime within the last four months or so. I was more or less over fluffy torment. It was a blast, of course, but like everything, it loses its charm after a while. There were still a few dried bloodstains in my garage and some unopened cans of special ‘fluff-sketti’ flavored treats used to lure unsuspecting shitrats into my home, but it had been quite a while since I’d actually given any of the little fuckers ‘fowebah sweepies’. Yet walking by the vending machine every day on the way home and hearing the incessant wailing of foals begging for new mommies and daddies as they squirmed uncomfortably in their little glass cans slowly ignited the old fire in me once again.

I sauntered over to the machine, patting my pockets to make sure I had a few bucks to spare. The machine was done up in garish purple and green paint and plastered with decals depicting happy, well-fed fluffy foals running and playing. They bore no resemblance to the miserable creatures in the machine itself. The newer arrivals, the ones that had spent less than two days in the machine, were still sprightly. They either sucked on the rubber teat at the ends of their cans as if their lives depended on it (which they did) or stared through the glass barrier separating them from potential caretakers, bright eyes glimmering with hope. The ones that had been in a little longer simply sat in the mire of their own shit and piss, “huu huuing” quietly. On occasion one would sniffle “n-nu smeww pwetty in hewe!” or “pwease wet wittew babbeh out!” Then there were those unfortunates who had spent a week or more in their little glass hell. They were mostly brown or piss-yellow foals, particularly earthies, creatures that no one was likely to ever adopt. Many of them were struggling now not to drown in their own excrement, though just as many has simply surrendered and fallen into the infamous ‘wan die’ loop.

As amusing as it might be to give one of these forlorn wrecks hope for a new home, love, and hugs, before tearing it all away, I needed an unblemished foal for my experiment. I ran a finger over the window, hopping from fluffy to fluffy. As I passed over one, its face would light up with joy before falling again as I moved on.

“Pwease be nyu daddeh! Wiww be bestes fwuffy an awways make bestes poopies!” wailed a green unicorn filly whose legs were invisible under her own shit.

“Nu hab no mowe miwkies! Nu wike num peepees an poopies!” sobbed a brown Pegasus.

Ignoring their pathetic pleas, I selected a pink unicorn colt probably placed in the machine no more than a day ago. The can was still pristine, and he was busily sucking away at her rubber teat. He stopped for a moment to joyfully bleat “miwkies!” before resuming her gorging. I wasn’t sure who she was speaking to, or why. God I hated these things.

I surrendered the necessary five dollars.

The machine exploded with excitement as the foals banged against the walls of their cans, begging to be selected.

I punched in A7 and watched as the machine wirred to life. The metal spiral holding the pink colt in place began to retract and the can tumbled down a padded hatch into the little port at the bottom of the machine.

The colt cheeped in terror. “Scawy!”

I reached down and removed the can.

“H-hewwo! Be nyu daddeh fow babbeh?” He asked cautiously as I raised her to eye level.


The fluffies in the machine wept as they realized they had been forsaken.

I jogged the rest of the way home, colt in hand, as he giggled excitedly and proclaimed that he “wubbed wun!”

When I arrived I set him down on the desk in the TV room.

“Alright fluffy, your name is going to be…uh…I don’t know…strawberry!”

He leapt for joy and bumped her head on the can.

“Owwies! Stawbewwy hab owwies daddeh! B-bu stiww wub nyu namies, fank ou daddeh!”

“Sure thing!”

I turned to leave.


“Yes, Strawberry?”

“Can stwawbewwy weab meanie can nao? Nu wike.”

“I’m afraid not. You’re still too little.”


I raised a finger.

“Don’t question daddy.”

“O-otay daddeh. Stwawbewwy wiww stay in can. S-stiww hab miwkies.”

He sighed and resumed sucking on the fake teat.

I suppressed a chuckle and left.


When I returned the next day I found him facing in the opposite direction, towards the can’s transparent bottom. I realized it was because I had placed that end of the can facing the window, allowing Strawberry a decent view of the neighborhood park outside my house. His back to the teat, milkies were entirely forgotten.

“It su pwetty…” he sighed longingly. In the grass below, families picnicked and couples kissed beneath oak trees. A few folks had brought their pet fluffies, who ‘ran’ (that is, waddled) excitedly across the lawn, searching for others of their own species, or else playing stupid games with their owners.

“It sure is, isn’t it?” I agreed.

“Hai daddeh!” Strawberry gasped. “Daddeh an stwawbewwy can go an pway wif uddah nice fwuffies an hoomins?”

“Sure. But not today, you can’t leave your can yet.”

He sighed.

“Otay daddeh.”

“Good fluffy.”

I turned to leave again. Quietly closing the door behind me, I heard him begin to sob.

“Huu huu…Stwawbewwy wan be gud babbeh fow daddeh…buh…buh…nu wike can nu mowe! Wan wun! Wan pway! Wan huggies!”

I opened the door a crack and peaked through to see the little shit tapping pathetically on his can with a hoof.


Five days passed. Fluffy growth rates meant he had enlarged considerably. He could still turn in the can, but it was becoming harder and he brushed up against its sides every time he did. A thick layer of shit and piss began to congeal on the bottom of the can. I’d moved it a little closer to the window so that he had a better view of the humans and fluffies enjoying the sun and park below.

“Daddeh!” he wailed one day as I entered the room. “Pwease! Stwabewwy nee weab can!”

“No, Strawberry.” I clarified, my voice stern. “You need to stay in your can and be a good fluffy, understand?”

“Bu..bu…nu am wittew babbeh nu mowe! Nu hab woomies to wun. Nee safe woom and toysies! Nee fwuffy fwens! Poopies an peepees nu smeww pwetty fow fwuffies!”

His eyes were giant and wet with tears. He raised a shit-caked hoof to show me.

“W-wook. Hab poopies on hoofies!”

“Well, if you’re a big fluffy, then you shouldn’t be afraid of a little poopies.”

“Nu hab wots ob miwkies nu mowe!” He poked the rubber teat, which dented considerably. He was right, it was almost empty. Thankfully, newer models allowed refills, but I wasn’t going to do that yet.

“I’ll give you more milk later. But you can’t leave your can yet, you’re just not ready.”

I turned to leave. As I stepped out of the room I heard the weeping begin again.

“Huu huu daddeh nuuuu! Pwease huu! Wet out! Wet oooout! Wan upsies an huggies!”


A week later a mane had begun to sprout. It was a deep purple and contrasted nicely with the pink. Very festive. Actually not bad colors. But it was too late for that.

He had grown much larger and now found it impossible to turn in the can at all. His girth held him firmly in place. Thankfully, he’d gotten himself stuck facing the teat, so feeding him wouldn’t be a problem.

I heard the whining before I opened the door.

“Huu huu hu…fwuffy nu can make tuwnies…nu can see pawkies ow uddah fwuffies nu mowe…”

I opened the door, humming a song whose name I couldn’t remember.

“Hello Strawberry! Good day!”

“N-nuuu!” he objected. “It nu am good day! Fwuffy nu can make tuwnies! Daddeh sabe fwuffy!”

“Save you? But you’re good and safe inside your can!”

“Can am meanie! Nu wet fwuffy make wawkies. Nu can mobe weggies!”

“Well, I have something that might cheer you up.” I raised a bottle of mare’s milk I’d picked up from the fluff shop earlier. “I brought milk!”

I slid open the little feeding hatch on the can.

“F-fank ou daddeh…” he sniffled. “Bu…bu fwuffy am tu big fow miwkies…nee kibbwes. Miwkies am fow wittew babbehs.”

“Well.” I responded as I refilled the teat. “I’m sorry, but foals in cans drink milk, and since you’re in a can you must drink milk. That’s just logic.”

“Huuuu…” The teat slowly inflated, pushing into his face. “Nu…nu wan miwkies…bu su hungwy….”

The shit and piss were up to his belly now. He couldn’t move to be rid of them. He could hardly squirm in the can.

I exited to the delightful sound of a fluffy downing milk while sobbing quietly.

“Huu huu…hab poopies on pwetty fwuff…nu pwetty…nu hab gud nummies…”


Five days passed.

He was basically a full grown fluffy at this point, or at least as close to full grown as the can would allow.

The teat was pressed hard into his face, which he could not move away. To deflate it and relieve himself some, he had to drink, even though all he did was beg for solid food.

He hardly even asked for ‘skettis’. Kibble would satisfy, apparently. What a good fluffy.

His legs, or what I could see through the murky of his excrement, were bent at awkward angles. One foreleg was shoved under his body. Another was smashed almost vertically against the walls of the can.

His horn was growing in bent and stunted thanks to the can.

“Daddeh…” he gasped, as I arrived. “Daddeh pwease wet Stwawbewwy out…Weggies huwt. Pointy pwace hab huwties tu… smeww su nu pwetty. Poopies ebywewe!”

He wasn’t wrong about that. The shit was halfway up to his back. His face was squashed at such an angle that when he opened his mouth to drink milk or speak some shit or piss was bound to flood in.

I shook my head.

“Strawberry, I’ve told you a million times. You’re too small to leave your can. It’s for your own good.

I turned to leave again.

“Nu…nu hab miwkies fow stwawbewwy?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry, Strawberry. No milk.”

“Bu…bu den wa Stwawbewwy num?”

I shrugged.

“If there’s nothing else, I guess you’ll have to eat your poopies and pee pees.”

“But dat nu taste pwetty!”

“Well if there’s no milk then I don’t see what choice you have.”

I noticed his eyes were red and bulging. Patches of fluff had begun to fall out. All of that waste had doubtless given him a thousand infections. He twitched randomly at times.

He sobbed and opened his mouth to allow his self-made ‘nummies’ to flood in.

As I left, I noticed a few spiderweb cracks beginning to appear on the can.


I returned the next day to a surprise.

“Holy shit!”

The can had shattered. Shit and piss dripped from the edges of the desk. Broken glass littered both the desk and the floor. In the midst of this chaos sat Strawberry. He was quite a sight.

His body was bent and twisted thanks to the abnormal shapes the can had twisted it into. His horn was short and leaned to one side. His legs sprung out wildly in different directions, and it was clear he couldn’t move them besides a little wiggling. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and his eyes were jaundiced. Half of his fluff had come off and lay in the shit surrounding him. He wheezed pathetically, eyes rolling around.

“Daddeh…daddeh…daddeh…daddeh…” he chanted. I shook my head as I approached. “Daddeh…weggies nu wowk…” he sobbed. “E-eben do nee dem fow wun an huggies…pwetty fwuff go ‘way…huu huuu. Nu am pwety fwuffy nu mowe.”

“That’s right.” I said.


“You’re not a pretty fluffy, and it’s all because you disobeyed daddy. Bad fluffies become ugly, dummy fluffies.”

“Nu…nu Stwawbewwy am gud fwuffy…Stwawbewwy wub daddeh…”

“If you loved me, you would listen to me, but you didn’t. You left your can, against my express instructions.”

“Nu…Stwawbewwy twy stay in can, bu can am bweaked…Stwawbewwy twy huuu. Nu mean to weab can…wan be gud fwuffy fow daddeh.”

“And more than that, you made bad poopies all over my desk.”

“Huu huu. Stwawbewwy sowwy fow make bad poopies huu…bu nu hab wittawbawks fow good poopies.”

“That no excuse. Good fluffies make good poopies, bad fluffies make bad poopies. It’s as simple as that.”

“Huu…den Stwawbewwy am bad fwuffy? Su sowwy daddeh huu. J-jus wan upsies.”

He tried to lift his deformed leggies towards me in a vain attempt at the ‘wan huggies’ pose. He succeeded only in twitching them slightly.

“That’s right Strawberry. I thought you were a good fluffy, but it turns out you’re just a bad, awful, horrible fluffy who can’t even follow directions or make good poopies.”

“Huu huu….”

“And do you know what happens to bad fluffies?”

“Huu huuu…Stwawbewwy jus wan wun an pway…”

“Well? Do you?”

“Huu…wa happen tu bad fwuffy?”

“Bad fluffies go in the trash.”

“Nu daddeh…” he moaned. “Nu wan twashies. Pwease.” He began to wriggle about in his own filth, rubbing it deeper into what fluff he had left. “W-wook daddeh, am dancie fwuffy…am bestes dancie fluffy…”

“No, you’re not the bestest anything. You’re a trash fluffy, and you belong in the trash.”

I picked him up by one of the few patches of fluff not caked in shit and carried him outside as we wailed and promised to only make good poopies from now on.

Flipping open the trash can lid, I lifted him over the dark pit.

He looked up at me with his pitiful, jaundiced eyes. The time in the can had not allowed him any muscle development and he was too weak to put up any struggle.

“Stwawbewwy wub daddeh…” he sobbed before I dropped him inside and closed the lid.

Uploader ThaneMacFluff,
Tags abuse author:thanemacfluff can claustrophobia foal-in-a-can poop psychological_abuse sad tears unicorn
Rating questionable
Source Unknown
Locked No


- Reply
Arazur: I like it! Though how big are the cans, I have always assumed about the size of 20 oz bottle.
- Reply
ThaneMacFluff: @Arazur:

That's about the size I was imagining. Maybe a little bigger and obviously wider.

- Reply
dajinbo: >He stopped for a moment to joyfully bleat “miwkies!” before resuming her gorging. I wasn’t sure who she was speaking to, or why. God I hated these things.

Pretty much verbatim why I love abuse so much.
- Reply
Anonymous1: I don't want to start a "muh headcannon" thing here but the common idea is that foals in cans are plugged and can't poop which is why most die from ruptured guts.

Also you seem to confuse the gender of the foal many times
- Reply
ThaneMacFluff: @Anonymous:

I know I just purposely changed it for this story because I liked the idea of a foal drowning in shit.

And yeah I'm just realizing I screwed up the pronouns.

- Reply
dajinbo: @ThaneMacFluff: E'scuse me daddeh, you am misgendew fwuffy?

- Reply
UltraKek: I always love your abuse stories, Thane.

Though he should have told Strawberry that he didn't love him before dropping him in the trash. Just to completely destroy his soul before condemning him to death.
- Reply
Anonymous2: What was the experiment?
- Reply
ThaneMacFluff: @Anonymous:

Just seeing what happens when you try to keep a fluffy alive in its can for as long as possible. 'Experiment' is a very dignified word for it.

- Reply
guodzilla: I just had a thought... Why not insert a double-catheter into the foal's anus & urethra, so there's no need for the buttplug. Also, the waste reservoir can be opened so the foal can keep shitting and peeing without soiling itself or inside the can. Keep the milk full and there's no end to how long the foal can languish in there.
- Reply
Anonymous3: This has been done before and done by writers who knew basic pronoun usage.
- Reply
Anonymous4: Fuck, this hit all my sweet spots. Foal-in-a-can, psychological abuse, desperate "dancie babbeh" mode, complete betrayal.
- Reply
Anonymous5: Hehehe, nothing like good ol' foal in a can abuse
- Reply
Anonymous6: Abuse not complete until it enters "wan die" loop. Just needs a few more lines, "faintly, from within the trash the muffled speech 'huu huuuu wan die' is heard".... and proofreading.
- Reply
Anonymous7: Bonsai foals....
- Reply
Anonymous8: "Thankfully, newer models allowed refills"

Honestly, imagined the vending machine things, having a refillable milk reservoir with a one way check valve while connected in their slots. way less work, and more suffering, it's a win-win for the booru.
Thread locked for the current user.