The Velvet Fist
by: Fluffy Poodle
Copyright n' Disclaimer
Character Malcolm Evron Brandt, and all other characters and/or artwork herein depicted are Copyright \xA9 Fluffy Poodle 2002 unless specifically otherwise disclaimed.
Legal Notice: This story is Copyright \xA9 2002, 2003 by Fluffy Poodle. All rights to story content are reserved to the author.
This story may not be sold or used for commercial profit in any form or fashion. This story may not be modified in any way. This story may not be posted on a mirror site or any other Internet site without the written permission of the author. This story may not be distributed on print, magnetic, electrical or optical mediums. Any reproduction of this story will be considered a Copyright violation.
This story has no connection, implied or otherwise, to "Tales of the Velvet Glove" by Iron Badger. Any similarity to persons, living, dead, real, or imaginary is purely coincidental.
WARNING: This story is rated XXX for Mature audiences only. This story is described as a violent anthropomorphic sexual fantasy. As such, the reader of this work can expect exactly what is described: anthropomorphic violence and sex in a fantasy setting. By reading this story you are acknowledging this warning and therefore signify that you are accepting responsibility for your own actions and will not complain to either my Host or myself for story content.
It wasn't easy.
Nothing worth earning ever is, it seems…
Malcolm Evron Brandt was the last born child to a disastrous litter of six cubkits, of which he was the only one to survive. His conception was a mistake, an utterly unwanted pregnancy that ripped his tenuous family apart, forever separating his panda/ferret hybrid father from his pureblooded tiger mother. The doctors were certain that the deformed whelp would never survive beyond a few weeks, if it were horribly unlucky. But nobody knew just how unlucky the runt of this litter really was, for Malcolm not only grew, but thrived. By his tenth birthday he was almost as tall as his mother, and nearly as powerfully built, though a lot slimmer and exuding the limitless strength of youth.
It wasn't his unnatural height that marked him as a freak among furs, although that certainly didn't help. No, it was the fur pattern that can only be accurately described as bizarre. He was predominantly white and black, not unlike typical panda markings, but he was covered head to toe in black, white and mainly, orange stripes in no recognizable pattern. Besides his tall, sinuous stature, his ferret blood made itself know mainly on his head, giving him a strangely sloped muzzle with long, thick whiskers that didn't know how to behave. His ears picked up part of his mothers feline heritage and, instead of being small and round like a panda or ferrets, were peaked, but not sharply so, giving them a weird, rounded appearance, as if they'd been docked. But what marked him most of all as the bizarre of the bizarre, what titled him freak and unwanted abomination, was the tiger-streaked raccoon mask around his eyes. Jagged orange stripes streaked through the mask, across his cheeks and forehead and into his short, silver-gray hair that he wore pulled back in a tiny ponytail. And then there were his eyes.
His eyes were vertically slit, like a felines, but not any color a feline ever wore. They were a pale, almost lusterless yellow, flat and emotionless, like insect eyes, eyes that did not have a soul behind them. To look into Malcolm's eyes was to look into a pit of nothingness, a cold, calculating intelligence that had no moral boundaries. To look into Malcolm's eyes was to see the devil, riding in on the coattails of the cold, black night. The only way anyone could look into Malcolm's eyes and stand their ground, was if they were as dead inside as he. Even his own mother couldn't stand to look into those ghastly, evil, eyes.
His mother also
blamed him for his father leaving, seemingly every day of his life, making his
home life an unbearable hell that he only retreated to for sleep, when he was
allowed to have it. His mother made him
do strange things, dirty things, things that he knew
he could never tell anybody about, if there were anyone who cared to
listen. Malcolm had no friends, nor did
he care, as his intellectual pursuits consumed him whenever he could escape the
clinging grasp of his abusive mother.
His solitary life served him well, advancing through school at a
phenomenal pace. He graduated grade
school a full year early, and high school almost two
years before any of his peers. He
finally escaped his household of hell when he was declared a near-genius intellect,
and awarded a full scholarship to the prestigious
Things weren't much better for him in college, as he was two years younger than almost anyone else at the school. And, because of his age, was placed in a half-way home for his care, as the university was unable to locate any family that could tolerate having such a strange fur in their midst for very long. Malcolm continued to grow, and now towered over most everyone, standing nearly six foot, and only sixteen years of age. The femmes at the university utterly ignored him, not even deeming to give him the time of day, and he felt a deep well of contempt build in him for every damned rejection, until he learned to stop asking in the first place. It was the one, and only, time that he tried to join society on societies terms. After that, he knew what he had to do: He had to make society come to him, on his terms.
He plunged back into his studies and worked harder than he ever did in his life, completing a six year Masters degree in only four and graduating college with honors, again, nearly two years before any of his contemporaries. He was immediately recruited into the ranks of the multi-national petrochemical conglomerate EssoTech, where he did little more than work to prove the engineering theories he developed while at university. Once he was satisfied that what he'd created was patent and copyrightable, he promptly quit EssoTech and made a beeline for the patent office. When EssoTech got wind of the patents Malcolm received they immediately filed lawsuit after lawsuit against him claiming that any work he did under their roof belonged to them and not Malcolm. His lawyer team was able to get EssoTech to settle out of court for an undisclosed sum, rumored to be in the millions, since Malcolm's meticulously documented work clearly showed the actual timeline of the theories he based his patents on. Most important of all, he got to keep the patents and formulae copyrights, which he either sold off directly or worked with other petrochemical companies.
After his two-year stint with the business world, and his bank account growing fat with the dividends from his remaining patents and processes, he sunk most of his money into investments in the growing internet technology companies, and even a few of the early dot.commers. He plowed the rest of his money back into his education, this time going to a prestigious medical school and securing a Doctorate in Biological Molecular Research as well as a Masters degree in Genetics within five, hard years. It was at that point, in 1999, that Malcolm Brandt finally felt that he was ready to confront the world on his terms.
His investments paid
off handsomely, but he was wary of the growing dot.com bubble, and wisely
cashed in most of his investments before it burst in 2001. With the money he made on his investments
alone, he was able to purchase a remote mansion in upstate
Upstairs in the Castle he had his medical and chemical labs, staffed by several full-time researchers, technicians and assistants, his cook, wait, cleaning and chauffeur staff, live-in employees, all. He had a garage full of vehicles of almost every description and style. He had a computer lab that would be the envy of most large governments if they even had a hint that it existed. He had high-speed access to the internet via satellite, cellular and land lines that let him do his freelance biological, genetic, or petrochemical work from home. And he had a virtual army of furs to ensure that his privacy went unmolested.
He steadily bought up as much of the surrounding land as he could, isolating himself, and severing his physical connection with the world that had wrought him. When he went out into that world, it was almost always to go hunting. Sure he was still a freak to look at, but he was a freak with money. And that bought him power. And people are always drawn to people with power. And Malcolm knew that, and used it, drawing, ever so slowly over the last year those that reside in the Castles Dungeon, his playroom as he likes to think of it; two levels of hell below the earth where he is GOD, and his Slaves tremble before his might!
End Prologue.
The Story will pick up with the introduction of Female Slave Number 6.
Hope you'll come back now, hear?
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