abuse(ish) bleach christmas eyelids fire foal foal_abuse miniature_fluffy


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An Average Christmas Story

As the clock struck midnight, Ferris rolled out of bed, stirring the slumber of his wife, Courtney, as he slipped on his loafers and hobbled toward the door to his bedroom. Slowly, he opened the door, cringing as the old hinges attempted to announce his presence to everyone in the building. The last thing he needed was for his children to awaken and rush into him on the trip downstairs to try and catch a glimpse of Old Saint Nick.

The same thing he feared had happened two years running, and each successive time had ended up the same way, with two disappointed children being herded back to their beds by Ferris’ wife. He wanted to avoid that annoyed but understanding look she would always give him as their eyes inevitably crossed paths. Slightly muffled by her own drowsiness, of course, but it had the same meaning none the less.

If not just to allow her and the children to sleep in; they deserved as much for dealing with his shit, he figured.

Having mastered the stairs he’d been living with for the past seven years, Ferris made his way down, selecting all of the correct spots to slide down without making a sound, he slid into the darkness.

He had prepared himself, sensing it all the way from the top floor, but the aroma from the candles his wife liked to light smacked his sensibility. It had been an hour or two, but the density had yet to dissipate. If there was anything he wanted for Christmas, it would be enough money to install better ventilation, even with all the issues that would come along with it.

Finding his mind wandering, Ferris walked through the darkness to a second door and set of stairs that led down to the basement. These hinges, which had always been kinder to him, squeaked slightly, but not enough to wake anyone upstairs, or even stir them for that matter.

Ferris clicked on the light and walked down the discolored carpet into the basement, the level of shit he was willing to deal with decreasing every second he heard tiny voices calling out into the darkness for their “mummah” and the fact that the sudden old orange-white light hurt “widdew fwuffy’s see-pwaces”.

He would have to talk to the pet shop afterwards though, the fact that one of the fluffies had called itself a “widdew fwuffy” instead of “babbeh” would mean he had been sold either a runt or a mini-fluff when he had specifically asked for two foals.

The harder soles of his loafers clicked against the linoleum floor of the washroom as he pulled a perforated shoe box off the top of a storage shelf located within the space for an old shower that had never been used for its intended purpose. Ferris sighed as the bottom of the box had three distinctly wet spots.

Apparently the foal and its dwarfed companion hadn’t been “fixed” properly when he bought them earlier in the day.

Ferris and his wife had always taught their young children that fluffies were only a treat and wouldn’t last long. Having nothing against the creatures in general, the couple had agreed to only give their children temporary pets until they were both old enough to take full responsibility for their fluffies. Ferris had the strong opinion that he wouldn’t be caught dead walking a fluffy and Courtney just didn’t like fluffies as creatures, citing her numerous interactions in both childhood and college.

However, both parents understood how seductive the appearance of the rats could be to children, and Courtney, having worked with young children for most of her adult life, came up with the idea to treat them as a sort of elf-on-the-shelf treat that came once a year. These fluffies would be part of the household for about 3 days before they returned to “Santa’s Workshop” until the next year.

In reality, they were bloated with piss and shit and probably wouldn’t survive more than two or three hours in the trashcan surrounded by the cold weather of the Northeastern US, especially in the years following the massive onset of fluffies and their impact upon climate.

“Mistah gon’ be nyew fwend? Gon’ feed fwuffy? Am suuuuu hungwy!”

“Babbeh hab su many hungies tu! Mistah nee’ feed babbeh! Babbeh nu can feed babbeh!”

Ferris’ body shivered as his ears were assaulted by the fluffies’ consistent babbling. The little assholes had been relatively expensive, even for darker variants of red and green that were common among holiday shops past Thanksgiving.

Since they’d been buying Christmas foals over the last few years, there’d been a system that had settled into place.

As he cleared off the top of the dryer to serve as a makeshift table, Ferris went over the process in his mind. First of all, the little bastards had a tendency to never shut up, two thick rubber bands over the muzzles always served the correct purpose. If the bastards tried too hard to be heard anyway, the band could always be double wrapped, but never a third time as the brittle bones would snap the muzzle into a mesh of gristle, bone and fur.

Second, a small tub was filled with a small amount of bleach and then properly diluted so that the foals could be dunked and their fur color subsequently lightened. Having helped his wife bleach her hair in the past, Ferris knew that while you should never bleach hair with Clorox itself, had fluffies been more organic than artificial, he might have ended up damaging both the fur and the fluffies. As the things’ fur was more like carpet or a fabric than fur anyway with how it reacted to chemicals, any harm done to the foal’s body was acceptable.

What made this part the most entertaining however, was the fact that the fluffies’ weak skin could burn horrendously underneath the fur and they could make an overnight recovery without losing any hair whatsoever. Even their eyes, which Ferris had found to be too much of a hassle to try and save, could recover in the small amount of allotted time so the foal could see, unless of course, the eyelids hadn’t sealed together as the chemicals seared the malleable flesh.

Even though this was somewhat common place, as Ferris had found, if he dunked the foals quickly without their knowledge, they would have little time to close their eyes while underwater and subject to the highest concentration of the chemical, therefore minimizing the chance of solidified eyelids.

Or so he thought, he’d never called himself a scientist, but it made the most sense in his view.

One eye being sealed shut was commonplace though, but a foal only needed one eye anyway. Besides, Ferris just had to tell the foals that they eye would grow back after several days if they played with the children and didn’t complain. The foals, placing too much trust in humanity, would eat this up and by the time they got around to breaking their end of the deal through complaining or asking for their eyes back, a solid lid and maybe a bag of trash or two would muffle it for Ferris.

While Ferris didn’t outwardly hate them however, he couldn’t deny the entertainment value these things could provide, while at least being muffled in his opinion. Even though he was as normal as you could get for a man of his age, there were always those carnal interests that simply didn’t have a release before fluffies stormed across both hemispheres, spurring the interests of both normal and psychotic minds alike. He certainly didn’t love to see the things suffer, it was his natural morbid curiosity, the kind that causes everyone to click on that video of a person being torn to shreds or blown up.

At least that’s what he told himself. Ferris was also of the mind that one bad day could send him down the deep end of abusing the things or anything else for that matter.

When the worst-case scenario did occur, that’s what step two-point-five was for, and unfortunately for the second fluffy, the assumedly foal-like one he’d been skimped out on by the dealer, Ferris’ favorite pocket knife would slit two horizontal lines lightly across the resulting mono-eyelids.

Knowing from experience that the eyes could only recover from chemical burns, any physical damage, being that of the blade specifically, was absolutely unacceptable unless Ferris wanted to listen to incessant complains, throw the fluffy out prematurely due to rage, and have to run out to find a red foal on the streets or in the wild in the winter months of a particularly cold region.

Hence the light cuts.

The fluffy, however, still wasn’t going to get off easy, as the species’ god-awful luck would see them served their somewhat divine justice.

While his eyes certainly weren’t physically able to heal, his eyelids sure could, and Ferris, grasping only the skull of the fluffy firmly in one hand, took his opposite fingers, and slowly inserted his nails into one incision, causing the foal in his grasp to squirm and mumble in-between the crushing grip of the rubber band.

Ferris slowly pulled the fluffy’s eyelids apart and recoiled slightly at the unexpected shot of blood that came out. He continued to pull at the flesh slightly until the eyelids look of a natural proportion, tears from the redirected ducts flowing between the crevices of his hand.

Remembering what he had heard in the store long ago, along with the fact that at least one of the foals wasn’t properly fixed to be a Christmas present, Ferris pointed the foal away from him and pressed his thumb hard into the small fluffy’s gut.

Sure enough, a stream of piss shot out of the fluffy accompanied by more tears following the trails of their predecessors. He’d have to fix that in a moment, but first things first, Ferris still had one more eye to do.

With pressure already building up from enclosed tear ducts, the fluffy’s other eyelid had already split slightly apart, sending a cascade of diluted plasma into the thing’s fur, causing it to mat noticeably to the fluffy’s cheek.

Ferris unceremoniously finished step two-point-five by being rather rough with the final eyelid, seeing as there was no real chance that the fluffy’s eye would be damaged.

Step three for the newly light-colored fluffies was the genitalia check.

While normally a formality, with the foals being corked and commonly having their dicks sealed off in one way or another, the current misfortune of having a wet spot and a clearly unsealed fluffy meant that a lighter would see some action on something other than the end of the cigars Ferris occasionally liked to smoke.

Ferris was always surprised at how the thing’s flesh melted when in contact with a flame. The flesh tended to liquify when it got to a higher temperature, even beginning to slough off in droves of patchy skin with bubbling muscle attached like some grisly cotton candy you’d expect at a Halloween festival when it reached somewhere above 120 degrees Fahrenheit, or a little below 49 degrees Celsius for the rest of the world.

A muffled “squeee!” sounded from the fluffy as his genitalia seared itself shut. The little red legs kicking back in forth to fight off the non-existent “munstah”. He was even making use of his new eyelids, clamping them shut in response to everything, even his own nerve endings, telling him to “fucking do something, pussy”.

Ferris held the flame for a couple seconds longer just to make sure the foal was ready to go. His gaze inevitably turning to the now light green foal, who stared wide-eyed having managed to sit up on his rump.

As the two beings eyes met, both were struck with very important thoughts.

Ferris realized that even for a fluffy and a foal, three wet spots was an awful lot of piss for just one fluffy. He didn’t want to risk letting one go and piss on his wife’s carpet. She’d probably take his own cock as payment in her fit of rage.

On the flip side, the foal didn’t have any thoughts of his own, being the fucking retard his lack of mental capability allowed him to be.

Common Sense had a thought for the foal, being “Bitch, your ass is next.”

Management, being unresponsive as it normally is even in the human world, had to send a memo to common sense asking what exactly that meant.

Common Sense walked into the office himself, slammed his hands on the desk, knocking pencils, papers, and a #1 Certified Asshole mug onto the floor, and said: “It means RUN, faggot!”

Management took a deep breath, put his hands together, told Common Sense that he understood he was angry, took a deep breath, sighed, then pulled out the intercom, and ordered all hands on deck.

Being able to think for himself, Ferris had finished with the red fluffy, placed it back into the box and had already made a move on the foal, picking it up as it began to scamper to the edge of the dryer. In the long run, this had helped the foal. As, with how intelligent Common Sense was for foals, it hadn’t exactly had the experience to calculate that a drop from the top of the machine to the floor was certain death, although then again none of them ever seem to realize this, not even Alicorns, as all fluffies either die in the experience or forget what they saw 20 seconds down the line.

Fluffies will be forever vertically challenged in every way, no matter how intelligent they may seem to be.

Especially pegasi.

Especially pegasi.

Flame, however, is not vertically challenged, and the foal found himself parting with what remained of his cock and balls as they melted down onto the floor.

Ferris then made sure the obligatory cork was in place of each fluffy, having to wrench the miniature fluffy’s tail out of it’s padded hooves. The thing had been crying into the puffy tip, attempting to shield it’s crotch from any more damage. Ferris flicked the cork in the fluffy’s rear, sending little shockwaves through the tiny framework of bone and muscle, causing the fluffy to recoil and cry anew at whatever pain he imagined he was about to receive.

Unfortunately, no pain came, and the second foal was placed next to him in the box that they’d originally been taken home in.

With both fluffies thoroughly incapacitated, there would be no point in trying to get across whatever message he needed to tell them, therefore step four with all its lies and false promises would have to wait until after the blubbering had ceased. He placed the sobbing box back onto the makeshift table and walked upstairs. He’d have to get his wife to stall for a few minutes for breakfast as he finished his work in the basement.

Flicking on the soft set of lights on the Christmas tree, Ferris sighed with annoyance and a significant amount of content. He was pleased with himself, fluffies be damned. He imagined the joy his children would get over the next few days as they played with their new toys as he turned the lights off and made his way back up the stairs.

As he got back into bed, grasping at whatever part of the blankets that hadn’t been unconsciously hogged by Courtney, Ferris fell back asleep until two pair of hands talking hurriedly of Christmas presents and Santa wrestled him from his slumber several hours down the line.

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