Drunken Rage Part 1
Authors Note: This is my first venture into YIffy writing, and I apologize for the lack of material. I am going to await a comment or two before continuing, as I want to verify that there is any interest in my story before spending a large amount of time on it. I really don't know if this is any good or not, but I hope you enjoy.
Kyler woke up with a start, his short black hair matted to his forehead, glistening with sweat. Small beads of moisture ran down his cheeks and neck, having left a small imprint on the pillow on which he lay. His breath caught in his throat as he gasped for air, his lungs burning as if he'd ran a mile while dead asleep. Flashes of his nightmare shot in front of his eyes, glimpses of the horror from mere moments ago, slowly fading to a distant memory. The small kit brought his minute paws to his face, running the padded hands through his slowly drying hair as he struggled to regulate his panic breathing. Rolling over with intent of joining the rest of the unconscious world yet again, he felt a small squeezing in his loins. He had to pee.
Wiping the sweat from his lightly furred brow, he swung his equally saturated legs from under his covers, planting both feet upon the solid wood floor of his bedroom.
Gently rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the young feline made his way from his room and into the hall. Dragging his soft feet across the cool planks, he stumbled lightly as his striped blue pyjama bottoms found their way under his left foot. The waist of the thin pants fell as the bottoms were tripped over, the small cub's cute rear now exposed to the sleeping members of the household. Still half-asleep, he made his way into the washroom as his pants continued to descend, noticing only when he went to pull them down as he stood in front of the toilet. Once realizing why his bottoms were not where they should have been, he aimed his un-erect member at the toilet bowl and went about his business.
Once finished, Kyler quickly washed his paws, his tired limbs begging for sleep. Making sure to use the foamy soap which he adored, he rinsed his hands thoroughly before drying them off and making his way back to his room. Only mere steps from his bedroom door, the kit felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by a slurred, grainy voice.
"What'er you doin' up?"
Turning towards the speaker, Kyler did all he could in order to suppress the groan his felt like breathing to the world. Before him stood his father Miles, a drunk of a parent who spent the majority of any given week waist deep in a bottle of Bourbon. Tonight, he had a smell of Rum on his breath. Judging from the deep bags under his fox eyes, he'd polished off at least a bottle, maybe more.
"Hi, Daddy," Kyler muttered, a feigned tone of glee forcefully mixed in with the cub's less than sincere salutation.
The larger male offered no response, answering only with a drunken stare. In front of the inebriated animal stood a cub. His cub. Black hair lay on top a face of light brown fur, centered perfectly with two orbs of dazzling blue. Below was a partially naked body covered in orange-brown fur, topped off with a small tail poking out from the pyjamas.
Skyler, thought Miles, his name is Skyler... No, that's not right. Ryler? Riller? Killer? Kyler! he pondered to himself, nearly crying out his son's name the moment he remembered it. His name is Kyler. My son's name is Kyler, and he's... "Nine," muttered the drunkards son, being sure to speak quietly so as not to be heard. Having encountered his father while under the influence before - many times before, actually - he was well aware of the older fox's thought pattern.
"I said, "What are you doin' up?" came the slurred question again as Miles extended a hand to his son, tussling the soft black hair while staring his son in the eye, awaiting a response while he was still able to remember the question he had asked.
"I had to use the washroom, Daddy," Kyler responded, staring his father eye to eye. He wasn't sure why, but he felt a chill run down his back as he gazed upwards at the fox. Something about his demeanour was different this night, somehow more...aggressive. The eyes at which he stared resembled a shattered sidewalk, as red cracks ran from one end of the bleary spheres to the other.
The larger fox's face twitched once before changing drastically. The eyes of solemn daze changed to fiery orbs of anger as the feline's brow furrowed with rage. The droopy ears on either side of the drunken animals head immediately perked as he squeezed his fist close on a tuft of black hair, pulling his son closer to him. "You're a fuckin' boy, you pussy. I'm not your goddam Daddy. I'm your father, your SIR," he said fiercely, roaring out the final word as he shoved his son away, knocking him into a wooden table, spilling a vase of flowers from off of it.
"I'm sorry Daddy - " the small kit said without thinking, immediately wishing to take back the words that he had just spoken. He felt his throat close tightly in fear as his father's enraged face drew closer, having heard his son's words. He was used to the spectacle of his alcohol-filled father, but never had he caused him harm in any way. This was new.
This was terrifying.
"That's fuckin' it," cried his father as he grabbed his offspring's arm, pulling him to his feet. "I'll teach you a lesson in authority," he muttered loudly, his words slurring uncontrollably as he struggled to lift the kit from his feet. Still grumbling angrily, he ripped the belt from his trousers, doubling it up and snapping it once for good measure. Holding it rigidly in one hand, he lifted the cub against the wall by pressing the small chest forcefully against the dark green wallpaper. "I'm sorry, please!" Kyler cried out, tears now welling in his eyes. He had received beltings from his father only once before, and had not been able to walk for near a week, and he was horrified of the prospect of a repeated occurrence.
Miles paid no attention as he grabbed the waistband of his son's bottoms, pulling them down to his ankles as he gripped the belt with intent. Raising it behind his head, he brought it down mercilessly upon his son's exposed cheeks, a red mark appearing within seconds of the first SMACK. As his father repeated the lashings, he began noticing just how cute a rear the boy had on him, the way it flinched with each strike.
"I'm sorry!" the cub cried again, his cheeks streaked with tears and matching in colour to his scarlet bum.
Silence was again given as response to the poor child as his father continued the lifting and lowering of the belt. After his eight strike, the rapid movement of his arm caused his pants to shift just enough to fall to his ankles, the lack of belt acting as catalyst to the disrobement. "Please, I'm sorry. Please, sir!" he begged, his chest quickly becoming sore from the forced pressing against the wall. The lashings stopped suddenly, as he heard his father muttering from behind him. Suddenly, he felt two large paws resting on his sore little cheeks, kneading painfully.
"No, you're not," came the rough reply.
"Not yet."
To be continued