A cuddly foxboy

"Morning', Pa," you say.

He glances over his paper at you. "Morning, son. You're up early. Ready for breakfast?"

"Pa," you say, rolling your bulging yellow eyes. "Don't pretend like you forgot. It's my birthday."

"Oh, right. So it is," he replies with a tusky grin. "So, I suppose you're wanting your present now?"

"Please, Pa. I feel like my nuts are going to explode!"

Your father chuckles and sets the paper on the table. "All right. Wait here." You pace around the kitchen, your heart racing, your palms sweaty. After what feels like forever, you hear the return of his heavy footsteps, along with the soft patter of smaller feet. You can hardly contain your excitement--and your erection--as your father enters the kitchen, leading a slender red foxboy on a silver leash.

"Oh, Pa, he's perfect!" you exclaim, your eyes greedily devouring the sight of him. He's small, like all femboys, though maybe a bit taller than you expected, and he's older than you thought he would be, maybe as much as five years older than you are. That doesn't matter. He's dressed in a sexy red nighty, the lace hem falling to mid-thigh and just barely concealing the bulge in his matching panties. He has red stockings on his long, slender legs and a red leather collar around his neck.

His hands are tied behind his back and a scrap of cloth has been stuffed into his mouth, probably to keep him quiet. Amber eyes filled with terror and hatred glare at you through a curtain of shaggy, dark auburn hair.

You feel like your cock is going to rip through your buckskin breeches as you reach for the leash.

"Hold on a minute, son," your father says, holding the end of the leash just out of your reach. "There's a few things you need to know about femboys."