Part 4: Reinforcement
Part 4: Reinforcement
You sit at home, beer in hand, at 3pm in the afternoon, considering once again how well the job is turning out. You mainly rely on commision, and the retainer you’re paid in between is small enough that you can more or less come and go as you please. At least, you hope so, as your phone rings with an unfamiliar number.
“Hi Anon, it’s Steve from work, are you around?”
“Nah, I went home. Giving the smarty some time in the sorry box.”
“Yeah, I figured. Just he’s gone into a ‘wan-die’ loop.”
“Oh, that was quick.”
Steve chuckles. “Alright, I thought it might have been your plan. What did you do to him anyway? When he’s not begging to die, he’s screaming.” You give him a brief rundown, and he laughs again. “God-damn son. Well, as long as you don’t do that to fluffies anyone cares about.”
“Oh god no, of course not. But I figured out pretty quick that the sorry stick wasn’t gonna do anything.”
You chat for a little longer about smarties, sorry stick techniques (which Steve is fascinated by) and the brunette in Room 237, before Steve bids you a good afternoon. You check the time. 3:20. Just under 18 hours left for the smarty. You smile and crack another beer.
The following day, a few people are standing outside your office, as the sound of “Huuu… hewties fowevah… huu huuuu… su sweepy… huuu… wan die… huuu… wan die…” You smile politely at the onlookers as you enter. The noise becomes much louder as the door opens, but as you close the door, the fluffy realises someone is there.
“Hewwo? Huu… pwease hewp fwuffy… huu huuu huuuu… wowst hewties… wan die… wan die… huuu huuu huuuuuu…” You roll your eyes and set your possessions down on the counter before lifting the blanket off the cage. The fluffy is the picture of misery. His entire face is completely soaked in tears, the head of his penis is black and necrotic, and, his testicle appears to have burst at some point, leaving the clip affixed to a slightly deflated looking scrotum. His hooves have more or less scabbed over, and you’re relieved to see no sign of infection. He panics when he sees you. “NUUUUUUUU! PWEASE NU MOWE HEWTIES! NU-NU STICK AN HOODSIES AN POOPIE PWAVE HAF WOWST HEWTIES!”
You speak gently. “It’s alright, your punishment is almost over for now.”
He whimpers “Awmost?” You lift him out of the cage, and set him back down on the table, before removing the clips. He screams as blood rushes back into his dead flesh. “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE! WOWST HEWTIES! JUS GIF FOWEVAH SWEEPIES! WAN DIE! WAN…” He calms down a little as you stroke his face. “It’s ok. You don’t want to die, you just want to be a good fluffy, right?”
“Huuu huuu… wiww be gud fwuffy… just pwease nu mowe… huuu…” You take a moment to check out his burned rectum. It’s covered in angry blisters, and looks incredibly painful, but should still be operational. “Alright, it’s almost over, but you just have to tolerate a few more hurties, ok?”
“Nuuuuuuuu huuu huuu… nu wan hewties…”
“It’ll hurt less after I’m done.”
“Huuu… o… otay…” You waste no time in deftly severing the dead flesh of his member, which unfortunately for him, is the entire head. The fluffy lets out a weak “screeee….” and then just wheezes. While he’s distracted, you hold him over the litterbox, and slip out the plug, which releases a small amount of shit. You then set him back down on the floor, and untie him. He doesn’t move however, and just lies there, sobbing feebly. You sit back down at your usual post.
“Alright fluffy, here’s the deal, in case you forgot. You go one hour with good behaviour, I’ll give a toy. Make it to 4 hours, and I’ll give you some nummies.”
“Huu… fwuffy be gud… fwuffy… be…” He drifts off. Slightly concerned, you check his pulse. It’s weak, but there. Must have just been exhausted. You shrug and sit back on your stool, dicking around with your phone.
An hour passes while the fluffy sleeps, so true to your word, you set a small, pastel-yellow ball near the sleeping fluffy. An hour later, a small pile of blocks. Fifteen minutes before he wakes up, you set a huggy toy in front of him, considering he’s still a foal. When he wakes up, it looks like he can hardly believe his eyes. “Dese… dese toysies! Dese toysies am fow fwuffy?” You nod. “Tank’ou daddeh! Fwuffy wuv ‘ou! Wuv toysies!” He forgets about his mangled feet and tries to stand, before chirping in pain and falling over. “Huuu… wai hoofsies nu wowk?” He looks down at his mangled feet. “Pwease hoofsie, wowk fow fwuffy. Wan pway. Huuu….”
You slowly approach so as not to alarm the foal, and set the huggy toy up against him. “Fank’ou daddeh… wuv huggies fwend” He curls up against it, cooing softly. It’s amazing how sweet these things are when they behave. You almost feel bad for what you’ve done to it. Almost.
An hour later, the foal is still babbling happily about “Wuv huggies fwend!” and seems to be distracted from his pain. So you fill a small bowl with kibble, and another with cool water, and set them before him. “Well, you’ve been a good fluffy all day today, so there are some nummies for you.” He looks between you and the kibble a few times. “Wat dis?”
“That’s kibble. That’s what good fluffies eat.”
“Bu’... “ he looks at you sweetly. “Can babbeh pwease haf skettis? Skettis am bestest nummies!”
You respond, frowning. “No, you can’t. Eat your kibble like a good fluffy.” For a moment or so, it seems an internal battle plays out inside the foal, but finally… “Nu! Nu wan dummeh kibble! Gif smawty sketties nao ow get sowwy hoofsies!!”
You sigh heavily, and the fluffy seems to have realised his mistake. “Nuuu huu huuuu… fwuffy nu mean be smawty… fwuffy sowwy… huuuu....”
“No fluffy. I can’t believe how dad you’ve been.” He tries to curl into a ball, but you press him back onto the X-frame on which he still lies and tie him down. The smarty flies into panic. “NUUUUUUUU! NU WAN WOWSTEST HEWTIES! NUUUUU! PWEASE DADDEH! HUU HUUU HUUUUUUU”
“You leave me no choice little guy.”
You remove a razor-sharp hacksaw from a locked cabinet, loom over the fluffy. “Wha’...wha’ dat?”
“This is what we use to take bad fluffy’s leggies away.”
“NUUUUUUUUU! PWEASE NU TAKE WEGGIES! Nuuuu huuuu huuuu-SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” He howls more in despair than pain as you cleanly sever a leg in one brief cut. The tightness of the restraints against his shoulders and pelvis is sufficient enough to stem the flow of the blood until you’re done with the amputations. The second and third legs come of with similar ease, but on the final one, the saw sticks in the bone.
“SCREEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEE! CHIRP! CHIRP! SCREEEEEEEE!” The fluffy hows in torment as you tug at the saw, trying to dislodge it. After a few attempts, you grunt in annoyance, and fetch a hammer from a drawer, giving the back of the saw a sharp tap, which cracks through the rest of the bone. “HUUUU HUUUUUUUUUU.... WAN DIE WAN DIE WAN DIE!”
You make your way through the rest of the flesh, and note with irritation that the the bone has splintered instead of breaking. You’ll have to fix that, but first, the other legs. You look through a drawer of medical supplies, and find what you’re looking for, a long, curved needle, disinfectant, and surgical twine.
You get to work on the howling fluffy, stitching what little remains of his legs into neat x-terminated stumps. The fourth leg, however, presents problems. Problems for the fluffy, that is. In a medical setting, it would take you ages to properly set the bones and cause minimal suffering, but that not what you’re trying to achieve. You open another locked cabinet and find what you’re looking for: a belt sander.
As you plug it in and fire it up, the tortured fluffy whimpers at the noise. “Don’t cry yet little guy.” You press the sander to the splintered bone with a high pitched buzz. You can barely hear him over the grinding, as blood and bonemeal splatter across the back wall, but you can see on his face that he’s in a personal hell. Once you’ve filed the bone done to a neat, circular terminus, you switch off the sander, and the fluffy’s voice fades in. “.....eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! CHIRP CHIRP! WAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII!? SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” You get to work stitching the wound closed, and within minutes, you have an expertly created pillow-fluff.
“Huuu huuu huuuu… weggies haf wowst hewties… wai daddeh take babbeh weggies?”
“I told you this would happen if you kept up the smarty shit. This is your punishment. Oh and by the way,” While he’s distracted, you line up a pair of surgical scissors in such a way that you can simultaneously sever what remains of his genitals. “I’m not your daddy.”
For the second time, the fluffy cannot even vocalise. The combination of agony, loss, misery and shock seem to be too much for him, and he wheezes desperately a few times before finally passing out. You quickly stem his bleeding with surgical clamps while you wait for him to wake up. You want him conscious for the stitches.
Sure enough, he comes to after a few minutes with a faint, “Huu huu huuu… “ which picks up to a “HUUU HUUU HUUUUUUU” as you begin sewing the wound closed. You free his neck from its restraints, and remove the bindings from his shoulders and hips, and set him back down on the ground, his food and huggy toy just out of reach. “Huuu huuu huuu.... Fwuffy nee’ nummies… haf wowstest weggie hewties, speshul pwace gone… huuu huuu huuuu…”
You crouch down in front of him. “Now listen here fluffy. This doesn’t have to be the end.” He sobs quietly, but looks at you with wet eyes. “You made me do this to you, but if I didn’t you’d have forever sleepies.”
“Huu huuu… pwease gif fowevah sweepies… haf su many hewties…”
“The hurties will go away in time. But you can never be a smarty again. When you end up with a mummy or daddy one day, you’ll be completely dependent on them. You can’t make demands, you can’t try to hit them, you can’t give them sorry poopies. Nothing. You have no choice but to be a good fluffy.”
“Huuu.... wan weggies…”
You look at him seriously. “But this is your last chance. If you demand anything again, if you call yourself smarty again, if you show the slightest bit of defiance… well, do you know what a litter pal is?”
He looks at you curiously, head cocked. “Nu. Wat am witta paw?”
“Well, a litter pal is a very, very bad fluffy. It gets all its teeth ripped out, sometimes gets it see-places taken away, and gets all its pretty fluff shaved off.” The fluffy looks horrified. “But that’s not all. The litterpal’s job is to eat all the poopies of good fluffies, and lick their poopie places clean.”
“NU WAN! NU WAN!” He tries to reel in terror, and end up cheeping in pain as he strains his stitches.
“This is your last chance fluffy. I’ll be watching you for the rest of the day, and tomorrow. That’s two bright times.” You hold up two fingers. Fluffies rely on their legs to count, after all. ”If you can be a good fluffy for that long, you’ll go back to the store, and you just might get a new mummy or daddy.”
The foal bows his head, utterly defeated. “Fwuffy be gud.”