Juxian Tang's Fiction
 
Main Page
Slash/Yaoi Fiction
Original Fiction
[+] Livejournal
[+] E-mail Juxian
Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Insolence
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Deep Space Nine
Pairing: Dukat/other
Rating: NC-17
Status: complete
Archive: yes
Feedback: juxiantang@hotmail.com
URL: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Disclaimer: Dukat and Cardassia belong to Paramount Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning: extreme underage abuse, incest.
Comments: Well, should I add that it could upset you and so for and so on? I think I should. Stop reading if you don't feel too well about the topic now. It is going to be worse when you start reading :-)
Timing: pre-Emissary... long, long 'pre' :-) Dukat's childhood.
Summary: An episode from Dukat's childhood.

INSOLENCE

"You are late!"

The blow was stunning. He swayed but managed to stay on his feet. The place on his jaw where his father's fist connected with his face felt numb only at the first moment and then the heat started blazing up his cheekbone. He knew the inside of his lip was split against his teeth and touched the place tentatively, tasting the slowly oozing metal-blended trickle.

It was a mistake - when another blow tossed his head to the other side, his tongue was between his teeth. His couldn't stop a short painful sound as his jaws clenched involuntarily - and there was suddenly very much blood in his mouth.

"Come on," the hand clasped his neckridge, shaking and steadying him. "You know the order, boy. Prepare yourself!"

His father's dark shape moved away from him, giving him some room to obey the order. The circles and squares of pink moonlight made an odd pattern on the floor, cut out delicately by the lines of stain-glass window and the naked branches of trees behind it. The trees were still, there was no rustle of wind outside, no sound. He heard very clearly his father go to the locker, pull out the drawer, heard the soft clacking sound the whip's handle make when taken - but he didn't look there. His stare was frozen.

He was stalling... he had to hurry. It was easy - to pull off his clothes - his mother really didn't deserve the trouble of mending them afterwards - to take the pose against the back of the chair: half-bent, ready to accept the blows on his back and ass. It would come off itself as soon as he would start moving. He had done it enough times to have it in his blood. Instinctive. Too instinctive. His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively. He didn't move.

The house was quiet. His mother and sisters were upstairs - they didn't usually go to bed so early - but not on the nights like this. They knew better.

He swallowed a mouthful of blood. The corner of his mouth curved downwards treacherously and he dug his fingernails deeply into his palms. He wouldn't make you cry. Couldn't make for last few years - and there was certainly no reason to let it happen today.

He had other plans for this night.

"So, what is it about?"

There was mockery in the voice; too much amusement for real anger. Yet. He still couldn't look away from the glimmering pools of light on the floor but he knew that his father was turned to him now. It was not too late yet. Just do it. Maybe, he would let it go, wouldn't make you pay too hard for this delay... this insolence. Something like thirty lashes instead of twenty. It was bearable.

He didn't want to bear it. In the school lavatory this evening, delaying his coming home as much as he could, he looked at his drawn face in the mirror, his blue-green gloomy eyes like pools of muddy water, the pale lips whispering tightly:

"Today or never. You can't let it go on."

Why not? Everybody let. Pink moonlight on the floor. The rays caressing lazily the spiral bottle of kanar, half-empty. Slightly out of control but not really drunken. A blow. Just let him have it. You know it is not your fault - it is just the problems with Gul Fenok again, the promotion that is postponed for another time. He just needs to let himself loose. It is the way the things go.

His father's father must have used the whip like this on him in his time. It was what made them Cardassians tough.

When did he decide that it was enough?

Cold glass, his reflection staring back at him grimly.

"You can do it. You know you can. You'll fuck the world one day, Dukat."

If only he could look now... Slap, slap. The whip's handle hit his father's palm with a soft light sound.

"Bare your ass, boy - and I promise I won't cripple you."

Thank you very much. He chuckled. It was an ugly sound, caught somewhere in his throat - and he didn't intend to make it. But it came off and a moment later he knew it was a wrong thing. The fist was hefty - the whip's handle in it making the impact heavier, the carved wood slicing his cheekbone while the knuckles smashed his nose. He gagged on the blood that leaked into his throat. It leaked outside, too, two thick flows from his nostrils. He was not given time to re-group. Another blow, upward hook. His teeth chattered and something yielded in his jaw as his head snapped back. Oh no! He found sharp edges with his tongue and wanted to spit the crumbs but didn't dare. One more blow - right in his face - and he slammed into the wall, dazed immediately, his feet letting him down.

"Don't piss me off, you little bastard!"

Now there was hatred. A hiss. Start begging now... Maybe, he will show mercy to you. Revengefully he bit into the inside of his lip at this thought, not tasting more blood, there was too much of it all the same.

The room was swinging. Pink light and dark shadows. His pulse hurt beating in his scull and he raised his hand tentatively, reaching to the back of his head. His fingers touched wet.

"Take off your clothes and get ready!" his wrist was captured, twisted upwards. His father's face was very close, spitting the words in his face. "You already earned double lot, don't make it worse!"

"Let me go."

It was not even 'fuck-off'. But it was enough.

The wall seemed close but the impact was breathtaking. He was so stunned that he didn't realized when he was off his feet, collapsing at the wall bonelessly, swallowing the blood that suddenly was too abundant, choking him. A kick under his ribs was vicious. He wanted to curl around the tender place, to shield himself from more pain but his body seemed too lazy, not moving as fast as he wanted it to. The dance of the room was sickening. He swallowed quickly again and again, fighting the nausea. His father was over him, very close, groping for his clothes.

"Well, I think I'll help you, boy..."

He wanted to comply. He knew it was not reasonable to resist any more - it was ruining - not only for him but also for everything, for his world. It was not worth it! This imaginable victory - and he felt he was not able to reach it anyway - this pact with himself he had made in front of the mirror in the school lavatory. He had to give in. It was his father!

The moonlight was too bright, hurting his eyes. He let the blood leak out of his mouth. It was not a good spit - his broken teeth hindered - just some bloody liquid trickling out - but his father took it for what it was. He thought he knew how people could piss themselves with fear when he saw his father's face change into the mask of icy anger.

He would like to curl into a ball quickly, to protect himself from what was going to happen - but he didn't have time. His father's fist hit again, in the same place under his ribs, pain exploding like a huge flower of iridescent white.

"You dare..."

He felt he was grabbed and raised, the wall smooth and cool behind his back - and then smashing blow sank in his belly. He knew his father didn't restrict himself. For the first time he didn't co-size his strength and his son's age - but strangely, Dukat was glad with it. For the first time they were equal.

The dizziness was overwhelming. His belly felt very vulnerable, reverberating with pain every time when his father's fist drove into it - and he would desperately like to cover it but his arms seemed maddeningly weak, dangling uselessly along his body. The fist went slightly higher and the sound it made - sickening and very loud of cracking rib - made him gasp, more in fear that in pain. Pain delayed only a few moments to come - keen and burning in his left lung as he breathed in and realized for the first time how agonizing this simple thing could be.

"You think you are a big guy? You think I cannot sort you out?"

Yes, he thought so. Apparently he was wrong.

He was like a rag doll - he knew he wouldn't even be able to stand if his father let him go now - but he didn't let him go. He grabbed Dukat's arm, turning him around, slamming his face into the wall that was already smeared with his blood. Dukat dug his fingers into the wall desperately, feeling how his arm was twisted upwards and pressing his opened mouth to the cool coating, muffling the sound of his howl.

"You fuckin' idiot, you think you can fuck with me?"

His father had never cursed in his presence before. It was bad for morals, he always said. The meaning of it made him shiver.

"You think I don't deserve respect? You think I am nothing? A loser? You think you can stand over me? I am not a loser, I'll show you who is the boss here!"

He doesn't speak to me. The realization was slow as all his thoughts were. It was not him his father wanted to put down now. Who? One of his insolent subordinates? His arrogant commander? For a moment he felt a flood of unreasonable pity filling him. Bad days... again and again. Unsatisfied vanity, failures, wrong choices made, wrong people supported. He never won, his father.

But now he wanted to win.

"I'll make you lick my boots, you piece of shit!"

His arm was wrenched higher and higher, the pain so unimaginable that he felt his tongue sticking out of his mouth. He can't really want to do it, right? Oh you know he can. His father was a military, he knew how to use regenerators, even the bone regenerator.

When the bone snapped in his elbow he must have screamed. Blackness wrapped him, thick and lulling, as he fell on the floor, away from everything for those few moments. He didn't know if it was for long - but then he was getting back and the pain grasped him eagerly, burning-hot in his unnaturally twisted limb and spreading its smaller shots all through his body.

A bit of his mind wondered absently if his mother heard him screaming. Would she interfere? He knew she never would. It was not her place to hinder her husband to educate her son.

"Get up," he was on his side and the kick reached him between his legs. He wanted to crawl away but couldn't. His father must have understood it, too. He squatted over him, his hands pulling on his clothes. The irony of it struck and made Dukat laugh... if it sounded like a laughter. It was coming to it all the same... was it worth starting!

The air was cool on his bare skin, contrasting strangely with the source of flame in his ribs and arm. He recognized the sharp sting of the whip on his thigh, the splash of hot where his skin split. But he won't make you count... not with your teeth broken and your mouth full of blood!

Well, he didn't.

The strokes were sharp and fierce, scalding so bad that he could never get used to it. The plaiting of the whip was special, able to go through the scales. Curled on his side, he just took it - as he always did. His good hand was cupped around his balls - reasonably, taking into account that his father didn't try to be too precise.

He didn't know how long it went on. Perhaps longer than ever. He could feel the warm trickles of blood crawling over his legs on the floor... his mother would have a problem to clean the carpet tomorrow. He was not quite conscious when it stopped. His father straightened over him, the whip idle in his hand. Panting - the sound so loud that it almost silenced Dukat's own, desperately sob-like, breath.

"You dumb bastard."

Dumb. Maybe. He couldn't think about it now. He felt so tired, he just wanted it to be over - to get to his room, to have a shower, to mend himself a bit. He would get better if he could stay alone.

His father continued to stand over him. And then - there was another sound - like fumbling with the clothes, a very quiet sound, Dukat didn't quite know how he managed to discern it through the rustle in his ears. He thought he needed to turn back to see what was going on but he couldn't. It was made for him - his father squatted again, grabbed his arm - his broken arm, making him convulse in pain so sharp that he couldn't imagine before - and tossed him on his back.

His father's face was like a mask of white clay, the blanched eyes gathering all light in them, almost white. He couldn't see his reflection in them, they were so glazed.

"Look where you got with it, you scum," the lips were white, too, trembling as he spoke. "I'll teach you a lesson, you sucker! And I want to see your face then..."

Good choice! His welts hurt bitterly as he had to lie on his raw back. Then he felt his father's hands on his thighs. Very hot - and gripping hard, he knew he wouldn't be able to struggle against them even if he had any strength left. He was opened obscenely, not for beating, even in the anger like this his father wouldn't beat him there on purpose. His head dangled helplessly, he was so weak that he couldn't keep it straight. His father moved closer over him, between his spread thighs.

The rough touch of the thumbs against his groin ridges was shocking. He flinched, trying to cover up but one of his arms was captured under his own body and the other one was useless, horrifying to think about moving it. The touch was almost a caress, abominable, unavoidable, the thumbs pressing hard as they slid down to the soft place of his perineum.

"Don't..." he couldn't put it in the words what 'don't'. 'Don't humiliate me like this, what have I done to deserve you treating me like this?' Wasn't beating enough a punishment?

With a sharp stab his father forced one of his thumbs into his anus. The pain was not so bad itself as the realization of total wrongness of what happened. Whipping was all right, he knew it, it was natural. But this was not natural. And it did hurt - started hurting worse when his father twisted his thumb in the opening, widening it brutally.

He jerked trying to get free from it, anger and fear making him fight desperately. It was useless, he knew it. His father was too heavy - and leant with more of his weight when he felt Dukat's attempts.

The thumb emerged taking the pain away, just the memory of the violation staying - but as soon as he gasped in relief, there were two other fingers shoved into him, forefinger and the middle one, even more brutally, the fingernails cutting his flesh but not drawing enough blood to make entering smooth.

"You are going to like it, you whore, I'll teach you how to please your father..." the voice was pattering, the panting so quick that the words were almost incomprehensible - and senseless, anyway. His father's other hand reached for his face and even though he wanted to evade it, he was too dazzled to muster his motions. The palm clasped on his jaw, sending the waves of pain through his broken teeth - and then he felt his father's mouth clasped on his, the tongue filling his mouth, right into its bleeding core.

He moaned in anger and shook his head, moaning again when this motion brought waves of pain and nausea. He felt his father's teeth on his lips, cutting, gnawing, the bites so violent that they easily drew blood.

But his mouth was not the worst source of pain - not worse, anyway, than his throbbing arm - and the newest one - his anus-ring tearing around the intruding fingers. He arched in convulsion and slumped as the fingers were retrieved out of him - but it was not over, he knew it somehow, no matter how he wanted to believe it was.

He felt sick when feeling the wide blunt tip against his opening. He guessed what it was.

I won't let him in. A moment later he knew it was not possible, even if he were ready to go through the pain that his resistance would cause. And he couldn't go through it. He just didn't have enough self-control; pain and sickness messed his thoughts. The last thing that stayed clearly in his mind was that he didn't want to scream. His father wouldn't get it from him! But he howled in the clamping mouth anyway when the ridges started entering him.

His father's cock was long and burning, so wide that a part of his mind felt slightly amazed that he could take something so big into himself. The pain strangely located not only in his bottom but in his abdomen, too, as if the cock was that long and injured him somewhere inside. His father let his mouth go when pulled out - and his growl was louder than the gasp Dukat made. The hand was hooked into his hair, yanking his head from side to side wildly.

"You like it, don't you?" he couldn't discern his father's face but the voice was there. "Tell me you like it, you fuckin' slut!"

He thought he couldn't speak - it was unthinkable - if he could make a sound, it would be a scream, certainly - but he just couldn't. Then he heard his own voice, so quiet, strangely unfaltering but very slow - as if he was not sure in the language he spoke.

"I am not... your slut."

His father laughed, slapping him with open palm but it just dazed him a bit more, not really hurt him. He knew he couldn't be more hurt than with the torture that was going on in his bottom. His insides seemed sucked out with every outward stroke - an unspeakable feeling - then shoved back rudely with every thrust. His groin muscles felt turned outwards with the size and weight of his father between them, the wide pelvis grinding him down.

He waited for it to stop. He had no more hatred left, no more dignity, no illusions, all his thoughts were focused just on that - let it stop. And yet he knew it was going to go on longer - minutes longer. And he was right, it went on, crueler and more violent and his father was muttering incoherently, kissing and biting his lips again and then crying out and falling on him - still thrusting a few times, but not so deep, just short convulsive movements. His arms were locked around Dukat, elbows pressing on his neckridges, palms on his cheeks as he continued to kiss and bite his face ridge.

"I am nobody's slut."

It was so difficult to speak and he knew he was not coherent, anyway. It was difficult to breathe, too. The weight was too heavy on him, his injured ribcage fluttered, trying to expand, and barely could. But he knew it wouldn't kill him - and the cock in his ass didn't kill him. It felt still too big, still hurt - but at least it didn't move - and it grew softer. He survived it.

Survived it? A wild chuckle trembled in his throat and his father raised his head to look at him blankly. Of course, he survived it! He was tough. He would survive it again. If his father... decided to do it again... Would he? Maybe.

Nobody would know. Not only because it was better to be the son of the Glinn, even if not promoted for the last six years, than the son of the rapist. But it was his father. It was their family business.

I will kill him if he tries.

But let him not try it again! For a moment this burning wish, almost a prayer, was the only thing he knew. Let it be forgotten. Let him be able to love his father again.

He didn't know how long they lay locked. His father's body was very hot but he shivered, he must have been cold despite it - and when the shudders coursed through his body, his father clasped his arms tighter around him.

"You stupid bitch..." he whispered into his ear, with sudden intimacy in his voice that Dukat recognized. This way his father's voice sounded when he eavesdropped him speaking to his mother in their bedroom. "Why did you make me do it?"

You didn't make him. Don't let him make you think that you... He closed his eyes. The world was crumbling around him.

His father got on his hands and knees, releasing him at last. Dukat convulsed when the cock, already soft, was retrieved from him, a violent flow of fluid - blood and cum - leaked immediately out of his gaping opening. He rolled on his side dully; he wanted to curl but could do it only with shocking slowness, pulling his knees up to his chest and cradling his arm in the crook of his other elbow.

Just leave me alone.

His father didn't - the regenerator appeared, hovering hesitantly as if he didn't know what to start with, then lowering to his cheekbone and nibbling on the gash there. He waved his hand trying to get rid of this nuisance - and then, at last, there was the wave of blackness covering him. He gave himself to it and let it take him away.

THE END

[+] Back