My Little Scootaloo

     After her little escape attempt I decided to give little Scoots the benefit of the doubt. All I did was break her wings and give her a little warning that things would be worst next time. For the first few weeks I could hear her crying every night in her corner, desperately preening and massaging the feathery appendages, hoping she might save them, yet slowly but surely they healed into broken, useless things. If she buzzes them hard she can sometimes make it a few inches off the ground, but she seems to have accepted she will never fly. I was foolish enough to think that meant she had accepted her fate as my play toy.

     About two weeks after her first flight, she tried again. Tracking her down on foot was easy.

     “Remember I said if you tried that again you’d get punished?” I asked her.

     “Wh…What are you gonna do?” she whimpered, cowering in her corner.

     “Just wait,” I grinned. I went up to the tool shed on the roof. When I came back I had with me a hack saw and a roll of duct tape.

     “Please Daddy,” she’s taken to calling me that seeing as I’m the closest thing to a parent she has…quite pathetic, “don’t hurt me anymore!”

     “Now Scoots, if I didn’t stick to my word where would we be?” I grabbed at her but she dodged between my legs and hid under my futon couch. This is a common occurrence. I got down on my stomach and tried to reach for her, but she was backed all the way up against the wall. I went to move the couch but she had already darted back to her corner, curled up into a little ball, hiding her lavender eyes behind her purple mop of a tail. She was letting out long, guttural sobs. The sound of her crying irritated me.

     “You want something to cry about? I’ll give you something to cry about you naughty filly!" She started to tremble. That either meant she was a fucking idiot or really smart, because she was either just realizing that I was angry, or she knew exactly what was coming. I think it was the latter. I was on her before she could run agian. I grabbed her by the mane, lifting her up to my eye level as she kicked and struggled, buzzing her wings desperately. My other hand grabbed her by the ear and twisted, forcing her to stop squirming and look at me. I smacked her hard across the cheek. I gripped her mane by the very roots with one hand and with the other I plucked a metal picture frame off the wall – me and an old friend I never talked to anymore – and began beating her over the head with it. The glass shattered on the first whack, little shards embedding themselves in her forehead. She screeched and tried to wrench free of my grip, but I held fast. I struck her over and over and over, driving the glass shards in, then turning the now bent-up frame and slashing her across the cheek with its edge. Blood splattered all over me as I beat her with absolutely no mercy. I cackled, reveling in the sadism of it all.

     As my weapon started to bend and give out, I rained down one final series of blows so savage that the hair by which I held her tore out and she fell to the floor, her face an unrecognizable, battered hunk of meat. Her eyes were swollen shut, black and blue. Both top and bottom lip were split open. There was a ragged strip of the tender scruff of her neck attached to the chunk of mane I had ripped out. She lay motionless on the carpet a few feet from me. I grabbed my handle of gin and downed half the remaining contents in one long series of gulps, then lobbed the bottle at her with all my drunk, enraged might. It shattered when it connected with her skull, driving more splinters of glass into her head and dousing her in alcohol. She was shocked back to consciousness as the booze seeped into her cuts and gashes, burning like hellfire. She tried to move but she was blind and spinning in a world of hurt. I was upon her in an instant, stomping on her ribcage. I could feel the bones flex, then crack, one of them perforating the skin, coming to stick out the side of her belly. Finally I got tired and stopped. Scoot’s body looked like her face now, a bloody, quivering, barely recognizable mass of flesh. A soft whine escaped her lips. I gave her face one last kick. She shuddered violently and soiled herself.

     I picked her up again and took her into the kitchen, slamming her down on the table. Rainbow Dash watched us silently, her head mounted on the wall. I kept it there to remind Scootaloo both of her failure and what happens to naughty ponies.

     When she heard me unzip my fly she stared bawling at the top of her lungs, “NO! PLEASE! PLEASE DADDY NOT AGAIN!” as she screamed I rammed my throbbing member into her backside as hard as I could. She screeched and blood began trickling out of her ruined anus. She banged her little hoovsies on the table and wailed in agony as I fucked her. I could feel her whole body vibrate as she shook with fear and shock, and it felt wonderful. It wasn’t long before I came, pulling out and ejaculating in her eyes. She flailed about, blinded trying to escape but I held her down. “WHY WHY WHY?” she lamented. I just grabbed the duct tape and wrapped some around her muzzle, muting her pleas for mercy.

     “Now now,” I said, shaking my finger at her, “we can’t have you trying to run off again, can we?” I lined the hacksaw up with the Achilles tendon on one of her back legs and with a swift ripping motion, severed it.

     “MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHH,” came the muted, throat-tearing wail. I did the same to her other leg and it elicited a similar reaction.

     “There,” I smiled in satisfaction, now you’re not going anywhere. The mutilated filly had stopped hollering and was now sobbing quietly, her entire body mangled.

     “I told you I’d give you something to cry about. Cry. About. That.” I spat the words at her, then went and sat down on my futon and drank until I blacked out.