As you stare at the excited orange earthy mare with your wide, fake smile, you cannot help but imagine how it will die screaming like all the rest. Your rapturous smile at this point the other captured fluffies have cottoned on to the fact that another will be taken from their presence. Some have even come up to you from their various food bowls and TVs to beg to be taken instead.
“Fwuffy wan’ go too!”
“Fwuffy no bad fwuffy! Pwease take fwuffy instead!”
“Pwease nice wady, take fwuffy?”
Each of their pleas fell onto deaf ears, as you have already selected the pitiful mare in front of you as the latest victim. You deftly scoop the fluffy up with one hand while it muttered something about upsies, then about face, reassuring the others that their time will soon come. Pretty much the only truth they will ever hear from your mouth.
“Otay, bye nice wady!” The leftover idiots yelled at your retreating figure.
The moment you exit the safe room you alter your grip to painfully grab a handful of the fluffy’s chest fluff and rotate your hand, so it is hanging from your side upside down. A good beginning for the fluffies painful end, as the only positive human contact it had had arriving here was you, the psychological damage would be much more acute than the physical.
“Huuu, nice wady why you huwt fwuffy? No wike bad upsies no mo’! Make bad poopsies!” The response was music to your ears, except for the shitting, but that’s what the custodians were for.
“Quiet you, this is only happening because you are a bad fluffy who can’t appreciate what I was doing for you. So now you are going to make yourself useful for whatever purpose I want.” Usually you would just ignore the little cretins, but research shows that fluffies have a more desirable psychological response with direct verbal put downs and abuse.
“Huuhuu, Fwuffy am not bad fwuffy! Pwease wet down!” The fluffy cries out with increasingly warbling tones. Faint chirps are starting to sound as it struggles to comprehend what you are telling it. Deciding to enact your coup d’état you bring the fluffy to eye level in a painful swing that had some of the fluffy’s fur rip in your hand,
“You complained to me not five minutes ago!” you scream at the fluffy. Loud noises, especially noise with angry connotations have immediate effects with fluffies. The orange fluffy was stunned momentarily by your excessive shouting and jerky movements but recovered quickly with tears streaming down its fat face, soft peeps and chirps interspersing its words.
“Fwuffy *peep* sowwy, *chirp* nice wady. *Peep* *chirp* no wan’ woo be mad at fwuffy!” The apology of course failed to move your big heart. Admittedly the fluffy lost points due to the piss and shit still streaming from its behind, those washable boots you got from your boyfriend coming in handy. You’ll have to show him your appreciation tonight after work for saving you a lengthy cleanup.
“You had your chance.” Was all you say in response. You had arrived back in your laboratory. It really wasn’t anything special, the most expensive thing in here was the fume hood keeping the more interesting elements of torture safe from human – and fluffy – hands (hooves?). Your trusty work station occupied pride of place in the center of the room, you liked to call it ‘the altar’ out of some sick sense of irony. Many a fluffy sacrificed on the cold stainless-steel altar of your ambition. You walk up to it and quickly get to work strapping in the fluffy. With practiced hands you get all four limbs tied down, ready to be hooked up to various monitors. Grabbing another syringe outfitted with your custom needle you begin pumping the fluffy full of drugs that would help keep it awake and alive through what it was about to endure. There was no fun if the fluffy wasn’t screaming the whole time, right?
“huuhuu fwuffy no wike cowd tabew.” The fluffy was quick to give its opinion on its predicament, which reminded you. The fluffy garble sounded even more childish with your hand prying open its mouth. “Wha gab mouf?”
As response, you grab a serrated scalpel out of a side drawer and remove some sterile lamination off its cutting edge. With ease begot from experience you pinch the tongue of the fluffy with the hand you were using to keep its mouth open.
“eeeEEEE, mouf huwties!”
And that was the last thing the dumb beast got out before you sliced the tongue in half.
“SCREEE, HAF *COUGH* WUWEST MOUF HUWETIES!”
You could have taken the whole tongue in one cut, but where was the fun in that? How often would a fluffy get the chance to have its tongue sliced out of its mouth in pieces? You were thoughtful like that. Another relatively quick motion with your scalpel, another bloody chunk of fluffy tongue comes loose. Relatively quick for you, agonizingly slow for the fluffy with the cocktail of drugs you have running through him.
“SCREEEE, SCREEEEEE!” The fluffy can only scream now, you have completely removed her tongue after several passes with your trusty scalpel. You could have stopped there, the creature’s ability to vocalize cognitive thought was effectively neutralized, but your inner perfectionist came out in these scenarios. Leaving the fluffy to scream and garble out attempts at speaking, you move to your trusty fume hood and remove another dangerous acid. Not your ‘last rites’ liquid, but just some common muriatic acid, the same stuff you use to control the pH in your pool. It isn’t the most exciting thing you get to play with, but this fluffy is still in the early stages of refinement, so you don’t want to kill it yet. You still must be careful though. Only enough acid to cripple the fluffy’s vocal cords, but not enough to burn through the throat or the stomach lining when some was inevitably swallowed. To help along with this task you open a side drawer and grab an instrument not unlike a pair of prongs, only instead of grabbing, this tool was meant to stretch open the fluffy’s mouth. You apply the reverse prongs to the fluffy while it attempts to scream, search for the trachea at the back of the throat, and daintily pour about a teaspoon of acid to the correct spot. Just enough to melt the vocal cords but lose potency if trying to corrode any further into the fluffy’s body. Quickly removing the prongs, you grab the fluffy’s mouth and hold it shut. The look on its face is orgasmic. The eyes are completely red, like some sort of fluffy alcohol addict, tears streaming out as it vibrates with restrained screams and attempted thrashing. But your hand holds tight and the restraints are unimpressed with the fluffy’s efforts. After you allow the acid to do its work, you eagerly remove your hand and allow the fluffy to continue its screams.
“EEEEAAAAAAAAA!” The fluffy screams have mutated from your ministrations, no longer a high-pitched screech, but a slightly lower undulation that originates from the lungs. With no vocal cords or tongue to manipulate air flow, the screaming becomes that much more raw. You live for it, this music borne from your hard work. You are a conductor, and the fluffy your orchestra. But this was only the first act, you have much more work to do.
Your next task is to start on the flesh. Everyone knows a fluffy’s pride and joy is its fluff, so you will take this next. A simple razer will suffice, no need to reinvent the wheel after all. Just to give it a little bit of extra oomph though you decide to fuck with the creature a bit too.
“Ok fluffy I think you have had enough now. If you want this to stop and go back to where the other fluffies are then all you have to do is tell me.”
“… *kaf* hhhhhuuuuuuu, *kaf* huuuuuHUUUUUU!” The fluffy gave it everything it had, but no words were coming. Not that it would have gotten off that easy even if it decided to regrow its tongue and vocal cords. “Ack, *KAF* *KAF* HUUUUUU.” Hacking coughs continued to punctuate the fluffy’s efforts to speak. You put on your best disappointed face, miming what you think an Asian parent looks like when their child returns home with a 95 on their mid-term.
“Well I guess that settles it, you’ll be staying here. I’ll be taking your fluff now.” And without preamble you begin roughly shaving the fluffy. It seems to recover a bit as you make your way through each of the limbs, likely starting to forget the discomfort of having its vocal cords melted with acid. You guess it was trying to bargain or threaten you to not remove its fluff, honestly it was adorable with the frantic wheezes and coughing it got out. You are soon done though, the fluffy now a naked version of itself. It is squeezing its eyes shut, as if refusing to look at what it has become will somehow make everything better. You decide to help the fluffy out and force its eye open to stare at the abused, naked skin. You may have pushed a little too hard when shaving the poor thing, its skin is raw, and there are several shallow lacerations trickling blood. The crying is renewed again as it stares in horror at the fluffless skin. This reminds you, the fluffy is probably burning through fluids at an enormous rate with all of the pissing, shitting, crying, and bleeding. You grab an I.V. kit from a medical drawer and a stand from the corner, the fluffy is then administered a drip to ensure maximum hydration so it can cry as long as it has the energy to do so.
You take a moment to gaze upon your handiwork, the prostrate fluffy is in abject terror. It has no tongue to enunciate his displeasure, no vocal cords to produce any sound whatsoever that isn’t a hazy cough, or a wet cough. The fluff has been removed, leaving only a bastardization of what some could call a child’s toy. The chill has already gotten to the fluffy, it is shivering uncontrollably. Or maybe it is just in shock. Either way you still have a lot of work to do before you can call it a night. Looking around briefly, you spot the time on the clock above the hallway door, an iridescent 6:17 P.M. blinks slowly above the frame. Shit, you were already late for pizza night, you will have to make this quick. You slap the fluffy lightly across the face to clear the shock, and smack the stomach several times with loud, open-handed strikes. This serves the purpose to further humiliate and sadden the fluffy, violence from one whom the fluffy loves often leaves a more lasting impression, and the bracing strikes should help to reorient the creature’s mind on the present. You don’t want it retreating to far into its mind or it won’t be able to fully experience the wonderful tortures you have in store for it over the night! Checking to make sure the table is cleared from the I.V. drip you gave it, you flick a switch on the center island to send a weak current through the bindings of the fluffy. Relatively weak for a person but agonizing for a small creature with virtually no pain tolerance. You may as well be injecting molten steel into the fluffies veins. But the shock is mild enough that no real damage is being done. A perfect middle ground for when you can’t administer pain to the fluffy directly, such as the case where you must leave the laboratory for the night. Double checking the restraints to ensure each is secure and noting the fluffies look of pain, you decide to call it a night from there. Tomorrow is a new day.
To be Continued.