Masochistic Fluffy 3 (end)

>You are the owner of a masochistic fluffy.
>Her name is Candy.
>Since your incident with the rack, you’ve made sure to make her extra comfortable.
>The next day you bought her a new pet bed.
>And you made sure to pick her up and give her hugs every time she saw you.
>She still limped (worse than usual) for the next day and a half, but you made sure to pick her up and take her to her bowl and litterbox when she needed it.
>Anything to make up for what you did to her.
>Of course, Candy has her own ideas.
>All the time while she was in your arms she squirmed and fidgeted and tried to get out of your hugs.
>And when she looked into your eyes you could see inside that she was genuinely afraid of you.
>The kind of instinctive, primal fear that animals learn after being burned by fire once.
>Fluffy ponies may not be natural, but they are made from animal parts, and the instinct is hard coded into their bodies as much as any other creature on the planet.
>But she also knows that she needs you for her fix.
>Amongst providing other necessities, you’re the one with hands that can provide her satisfaction.
>Still, she doesn’t ask for you to do anything for a couple of days.
>She must still be reeling from her last encounter.
>It tears you up inside that you hurt her so badly, but it’s what she wanted.
>You’re drinking some cider in front of the TV when she hobbles in.
>She crawls over to your feet in front of the TV and sits on her haunches, thrusting her front legs towards you in the universal sign for pick up.
>You happily oblige. Anything for the creature you caused so much pain to.
>”Fank ‘oo daddy!”
>You place her on your lap and go back to watching TV, making sure she can see too.
>In a quiet lull on TV you can her quiet sobbing.
>You look down at Candy on your lap, and see her fluff shaking in rhythm with the sobs you hear.
“C-candy! What’s wrong?”
>”Why daddy no wuv fwuffy? Why no gif owwies?”
>Oh no. She’s doing this again.
>Well, you didn’t know she was ready for any more pain yet, but you suppose she is “healthy” enough.
“Daddy loves you, Candy! Do you want the sorry stick?”
>She turns around on your lap, falls on her back and starts flailing every limb she has.
>”Nuuuu! Candy wan’ big owwies! Wan’ booboo juice!”
>No... Not again.
>You’re not sure you can go through that again.
>You don’t want to cause her any more pain, yet it’s through pain that she gets her happiness.
>What’s more important? You or your pet’s happiness?
>...
>You aren’t the one getting hurt here.
>You don’t have to heal from these injuries externally.
>Just internally.
>You’ll do it.
>You’ll show her how much you love her.
“Ok, Candy. Daddy will find us a new game to play.”
>Her anguish seems to stop immediately, since her tantrum dries up upon hearing your words.
>”YAY! Candy wuv daddy!”
>Looks like it’s back to the internet to see what techniques are being used on smarty friends these days.
>Oh god. Some of them are awful. Good thing that’s what you’re looking for.
>You’re going to have to crack out the hard liquor before you can do this though.
>Half a bottle of whiskey later, and you’ve got Candy hooked up to a 9V battery via crocodile clips to her teats.
>She’s restrained to the rack again, but this time it’s just to hold her in place.
>No need to let it go to waste, you suppose.
>And hopefully this low voltage is enough for her to cope with.
>The look of excited anticipation on her face is what you do this for.
>She’s so happy in moments like this.
>You’d take a photo, but in this incriminating situation it’s wholly inappropriate.
“Are you ready, Candy?”
>”Yesh daddy! Gib big owwies pwease”
>Well, here goes.
>You complete the circuit, and Candy starts spasming in the rack.
>Her eyes go glassy, and her breathing is laboured, but all the while she has the biggest smile on her face that you’ve ever seen.
>After 20 seconds you take the power off. You don’t want to hurt her too badly.
“Candy? Are you ok?”
>”MOAR!”
>You’ve never heard her scream that loudly before.
>She must be really enjoying it.
>You move your hand back to the switch and hesitate.
>No. You steel yourself. This is how you will show how much you love her.
>You flip the switch again.
>She spasms again, this time harder since she’s not trying to resist and this time she gets a front hoof out.
>It flails wildly in the air, as she reverts to her instincts to run away from danger and pain.
>You quickly turn off the power.
>You rush over to her and undo her restraints.
>You know that she’ll be fine. 9V isn’t enough to be lethal. But you could swear her fluff is smoking.
>She’s completely out of it. Her eyes stare off to some unknown part of space.
>You quickly bring her into the kitchen.
>You don’t really know why, but if you need to get her anything it’s right here.
>Still, you don’t know how to treat electrical injuries.
>You simply lay her on the counter and watch as she very slightly twitches every now and again.
>Your tears fall liberally as you realise you fucked up again.
>No. She wanted this, didn’t she?
>A squeak pierces your thoughts as Candy seems to be trying to talk.
“Candy! Are you ok? Speak to me!”
>”W-why... dada... stop wuv... Candy?”
>You stopped loving her?
>She’s right. You stopped. You turned the power off.
>You’ll show her your love.
>You’ll show it for the world.
>You reach into one of the kitchen drawers and pull out your cook’s knife.
>Candy looks up at you, regaining some semblance of consciousness.
>Fear corrupts her face and contorts it only for a second.
>It’s that primal fear again. She knows what the knife is and what it can do to her.
>But then her face softens. She knows what the knife is for and what it can do to her. And she likes it.
>Your resolve is ironclad now.
>You’ll show her that you love her in the ultimate way.
>You bring down the knife.
>Shock runs through her entire body as it jerks with the sudden movement of the knife.
>Her face is fixed in a shocked gaze, and her eyes look pleadingly up at you.
>That means she wants more, right?
>The knife goes up and down. You’re not even controlling it anymore.
>Finally, exhausted you brace yourself on the counter, towering over your handiwork.
>Blood drips loudly, slopping off in gouts onto the floor.
>Somehow Candy manages to look at you with kind eyes and says,
>”Fank ‘oo... Daddy...”
>And then... she expires.
>If only you could see your face. You’d be able to see what Candy was so happy about.
>Your smiling, tired visage, wet with tears and covered in blood.
>You looked just like her old daddy.