The Fluffy Factory: Crash Course (2/3)

>Two days hence, and the stallions are beside themselves with fuck-lust.
>They snort and stomp in their cages, trying to get the mares' attention.
>They've been exposed to forty-eight hours worth of horny mare scent.
>All the ready mares are split between the sex pits, waddling around and comforting each other with hugs.
>The insanely aroused stallions terrify them.
>Steve and Tiffany arrive.  Steve, being the inventory guy, immediately notices something wrong with the cages.
>”Hey, where are the envelopes?”
“We don't need them anymore.  Lineage doesn't matter, just quantity.”
>It's time to get to work.
>You can't just let the stallions out of the cages; they will kill themselves trying to get to the mares.
>Gotta grab them and put them in, two at a time.
>The stallions begin chasing mares around the moment their hooves strike the floor.
>”Nuuuuuuu!  Hewp!  Why fwien' scawy wun?  No wike dis game!”
>Stallions corner mares and begin raping them.
>Once more than ten are in each pen, they form roving packs, tackling mares and banging them as hard as they can.
>Once all the stallions are in there, you all watch as the literal definition of 'fucking chaos' comes to life.
>Stallions fuck everything.
>They fuck the mares.
>They fuck each other.
>They also try to fuck your arms as you carry them, but you put a stop to that quickly.
>You direct Tiffany to step in one pen while you enter the other.
“Keep cycling the mares, listen for the ones that aren't complaining about funny place pain and find someone to mount them.  And separate the boys!”
>She nods.
>You shuffle crying mares out of clumps in the corner, throwing them into circulation in the center of the pen.
>”Nuuuuuuuuuuu!  No wan' scawy pwace, pwease hewp!”
>The middle of the pens are a swirling cyclone of non-consensual sex.
>You break up a gaggle of twelve stallions trying to pound one shrieking mare.
>She's blind now; her eyes quite literally have been fucked out.
>Probably deaf too, given the amount of gooey whiteness in her ears.
>”You gonna throw her away?” Tiffany asks.
>You shake your head.
“She got some in the right place, and she doesn't need sight or hearing to bear foals.  She stays.”
>There is no time for sympathy during the crash course.
>Everything is directed toward the production of foals.
>You and Tiffany direct traffic, overseeing a show that would put any number of girls and cups to shame.
>The fearful mares try the usual method of fluffy pony self-defense: shitting.
>They shit on the stallions.
>The stallions have no fucks to give on this front.
>All the fucks are going toward whatever hole in whatever mare they can latch on to.
>Fetid stallions tackle and sex up equally fetid mares, until every fluffy in the pens is at least partially brown.
>Stallions collapse out of exhaustion, getting run over by others still full of horny rage.
>You start removing the fallen.
>They're not dead, just tired.
“Get these out of here.  Make room for the others.”
>Steve collects the panting, sobbing males and places them in a pile outside on the floor.
>By the time the males are all done, it's half past one in the afternoon.
>They've been fucking everything that moves for over five hours.
>Even Tiffany is amazed at the sight.
>Mares are covered in every fluid imaginable; blood, shit, piss, semen, tears and drool soak their fluff.
>To a mare, they are all huddling on the filthy floor, covering their eyes and 'hiding', sniffling about the pain and begging for help.
“Find the dead mares and throw them out.”
>This is very easy; any living mare that gets touched screams 'pwease no mo' huggies!'
>The silent ones get tossed.
>In total, you somehow lost only four mares to the fluffy orgy.
>Tiffany and Steve look at you for instructions.
>The pen floors are drenched with the unholy fluffy fluid cocktail.  It's too slippery to walk.
>This is why you left Steve outside the pens.
“Steve, hook up the hoses and clean us a path out.”
>He nods.  Without the usual lining, the pen floors are concrete like the rest of the floor.
>He powerwashes a corridor for you and Tiffany, and you exit the pens.
“Now clean the mares.”
>Steve's quite good at this, only blasting mares who are pointing away from the stream.
>You direct Tiffany to hook up the other hose and help him while you examine the stallions.
>They complain of pain in their legs and 'no-nos', but as long as they're breathing and mobile they stay.
>Six died from exhaustion, ironically after they made it out of the pens and to safety.
>They go into the trash.
>You leave the remaining stallions in a pile on the floor to be powerwashed.
>It's fifteen after four when the fluffies are all 'clean' again, and back in their cages.
>”Fucking hell,” Tiffany groans, looking at the brownish muck on her jumpsuit.
“You haven't seen anything yet.”
>”You've gotta be joking!”
>You look at the mares; they're crying, begging for hugs, hugging each other, sniffling with pain.
>The blind and deaf mare, with bandages now around her head, makes a series of fearful warbling noises.
>She's already forgotten how to speak.
“Well, that's all for now.  All we'll need to do is feed them and keep an eye on the mares."
>”Then what happens?” Steve asks.
>You smile a little.
“Then you will see things I promise you have never seen before.”