Chapter 6: The King's Submission
He came back to himself in stages. First, the feeling of the damp denim clinging, cold and sticky, to his thighs. Then the sound of his own ragged breathing, too loud in the quiet room. Finally, the scent—his own release, yes, but overlaid and dominated by that darker, saltier aroma still painted across his muzzle.
Doggo’s hand withdrew from his trousers, giving his softening cock a final, patronizing pat through the soaked fabric. “There we go. Got the first one out of the way.”
Asgore blinked, dazed. Shame, hot and prickling, began to crawl up his neck. He’d just… in his pants… like some overexcited teenager. He opened his mouth, an apology or an excuse forming on his tongue.
He never got to voice it.
Doggo moved with that same effortless, predatory grace. He planted both hands on Asgore’s broad chest and shoved. Asgore, spent and off-balance, stumbled backwards. The back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he fell onto the bed with a soft whump, the springs groaning in protest beneath his weight.
Before he could even process the fall, Doggo was on him. He swung a leg over Asgore’s hips, straddling him, pinning him to the quilt with his lean weight. The rough denim of Doggo’s abandoned jeans, still pooled around his ankles, scratched against Asgore’s thighs.
“Wha—?” Asgore managed, his voice weak.
Doggo leaned down, bracing his hands on the pillow on either side of Asgore’s head. His uncut cock, freed from his briefs and fully erect, lay heavy and thick against Asgore’s sternum, a searing brand of heat. It was massive, ruddy and tipped with a bead of clear fluid that smeared against Asgore’s fur. But Doggo wasn’t aiming for that.
He shifted, lifting his right arm. He brought it down, his hand curling behind Asgore’s head, not with the earlier violence, but with a deliberate, inescapable pressure. He guided Asgore’s face to the left, turning his head, until his nose and mouth were once again buried—this time in the dark, humid hollow of Doggo’s other armpit.
The scent here was slightly different. Fresher, but no less potent. The heat was astounding. Asgore whimpered, a muffled, pathetic sound against the damp fur.
Doggo began to move his hips in a slow, grinding rhythm, his hard cock dragging through the coarse fur of Asgore’s chest, leaving a slick, sticky trail. The friction against Asgore’s own sensitive, spent flesh through the wet denim was a strange mix of oversensitivity and reigniting sparks.
“Mmm, that’s it,” Doggo murmured, his voice a low rumble right above Asgore’s ear. His breath was hot. “Breathe it in, big guy. You love it, don’t you? Smells like me. Just me.”
Asgore nodded helplessly, his nose twitching as he inhaled in shuddering gulps. The musk flooded his brain, washing away the last clinging shreds of coherent thought. His body, confused and hypersensitive, began to respond again. A low, aching throb started deep in his groin, defying the recent climax.
Doggo felt the faint, tentative hardening beneath him and chuckled, the sound vibrating through his ribs. He ground down harder, the pace of his hips increasing. “Already? Fuck, you’re greedy. Round two, your majesty?” The title was a filthy joke, a reminder of the power dynamic that had been utterly inverted here in the dark.
He was drowning in it. The scent, the heat, the weight, the relentless, claiming grind. Asgore’s hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, came up. They found Doggo’s bare flanks, fingers sinking into the short, dense fur, holding on as if for salvation—or as if to pull him closer.
Doggo’s rhythm became sharper, more focused. He was rutting against him in earnest now, his breath coming in faster puffs near Asgore’s ear. The wet tip of his cock bumped against the base of Asgore’s throat with each forward thrust.
“Gonna fuckin’… mark you up,” Doggo grunted, his composure slipping. “Gonna make you reek of me. So you don’t forget.”
The promise, the possessiveness in those words, sent a final, seismic jolt through Asgore. His back arched off the bed, a broken cry smothered by Doggo’s pit. He didn’t come again, not really, but his body convulsed in a dry, wrenching climax, a helpless surrender to the sheer animal dominance of the act.
Doggo followed with a choked-off snarl, his body stiffening. Heat bloomed across Asgore’s chest and neck in thick, pulsing stripes. The scent in the room deepened, transformed, now mingling the sharp, salty musk of sweat with the richer, more pungent smell of Doggo’s release.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their panting and the soft, wet sounds of Doggo’s softening cock sliding against Asgore’s fur as he caught his breath.
Then, Doggo pushed himself up. He looked down at the mess he’d made—the streaks painting the golden fur, the dazed, submissive look in the king’s eyes. He smirked, wiped his own cock carelessly on Asgore’s shirt, and rolled off to lie beside him on the ravaged bed.
Silence. The scent of sex and sweat hung heavy in the lavender-scented air.
Asgore stared at the ceiling, his mind a blank, humming static. The cold stickiness on his chest and in his pants was a grounding, uncomfortable reality. The scent on his face was another. He was a ruin. A claimed territory.
Suddenly, he moved. He swung his legs off the bed, the motion abrupt. He stood up, ignoring the protesting ache in his muscles and the damp chill of his trousers.
“Hey,” Doggo said, propping himself up on an elbow. “Where you goin’?”
Asgore didn’t answer. He walked, strides purposeful yet slightly unsteady, across the room to the large, dark wooden closet. He pulled the door open, disappearing into its depths.
Doggo watched, his head tilted. Amusement and a fresh, hungry curiosity flickered in his gold eyes. He could hear rustling, the sound of hangers being pushed along a rail, a soft grunt of effort. “Seriously. What’re you doing in there?”
No answer came from the closet, only more focused rustling.
Finally, Asgore emerged. In his hands, he held a pair of beige denim shorts. They looked… small. He held them up, examining them with a strange intensity, his broad back to Doggo.
“Oh,” Doggo said, a slow smile spreading. He sat up fully, leaning back against the headboard, getting comfortable. The show, it seemed, wasn’t over.
Asgore toed off his boots with clumsy kicks. His fingers, which had been so sure a moment ago, now trembled as they worked the button of his soiled trousers. He pushed them and his briefs down in one agonizingly slow movement, letting them puddle around his ankles. He stood there for a second, naked from the waist down, his thick thighs and heavy ass on full display, Doggo’s drying come stark against the fur of his belly and chest.
He ignored it. All his attention was on the shorts.
He stepped into one leg, then the other. He bent, his back muscles flexing, and began to pull them up. The denim, once loose a year ago, immediately protested. The fabric strained, biting into the muscular curve of his thighs with a soft, threatening creak. He tugged, his breaths becoming labored grunts. His ass, full and round, presented a formidable obstacle. The trembling in his hands was violent now, a mixture of frantic excitement and sheer, desperate horniness.
He wrestled with them, pulling and adjusting, his face flushed with effort. Finally, with one last heaving tug that made the seams shriek, he dragged the shorts over the broad expanse of his rear. They settled, but just barely. He let out a huge, shuddering sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping.
But they weren’t on. Not really. The waistband gaped open, the button and zipper a laughable distance apart over the soft swell of his lower belly. He was panting, his gut rising and falling rapidly. He sucked in a massive breath, trying to draw his stomach in. With grunting, concentrated effort, he pulled the left side of the waistband toward the right, the denim stretched taut as a drum. His thick finger fumbled for the button.
It was no use. The gap was a good three inches. He exhaled in a frustrated rush, the belly returning to its soft state. He tried again, sucking in until he saw spots, his face turning red with strain. The button hovered near the hole, but his trembling hands couldn’t force it through.
“C’mon, you fucker,” he growled at the shorts, his voice ragged.
A shadow fell over him. Doggo had padded over, silent on his feet. He stood close, smelling of sex and satisfaction, watching the struggle with rapt, gleaming eyes.
“Hold on, big boy,” Doggo said, his voice husky. “Let me try it.”
Asgore froze, his breath held. He gave a tiny, ashamed nod.
Doggo stepped in front of him. “Okay. Suck it up. All of it.”
Asgore exhaled sharply, then drew the deepest breath he could manage, pulling his stomach in so hard his ribs flared. His gut receded, creating a temporary, taut plane.
Doggo’s fingers, more nimble and steady, took over. He grasped the stiff denim on either side of the button, aligning it with the hole. He pressed, his knuckles white with effort. The metal rim bit into the denim, resisted, theni t slid through with a definitive snap.
Asgore instantly let go of the breath he’d been holding. It exploded out of him in a whooshing sigh. The button, now fastened, issued a low, sustained creak as his stomach expanded back to its natural state, pressing against the constricting fabric with formidable pressure. It groaned audibly, a sound of profound structural complaint.
Face flushed, Asgore glanced down and reached for the zipper. He pulled it up. It moved an inch, two, then jammed irrevocably halfway, the teeth straining against the impossible curve of his full belly and the pronounced bulge beneath, now dramatically outlined by the tight beige denim. It was as far as it would go.
Doggo took a step back, his gaze traveling a slow, scorching path from Asgore’s feet upward.
The shorts were a revelation. They were losing a war on every front. The seams along the inner thighs were stretched to translucency, screaming with tension. The fabric across Asgore’s ass was so tight it gleamed in the low light, outlining every muscle and curve without apology. The crotch was a scene of intense confinement, the soft denim forming a deep, straining V that ruthlessly cupped and displayed the heavy weight of his cock and balls beneath. And his belly… the button looked ready to sacrifice itself at any moment, the zipper a monument to failure, the denim across his lower gut pulled so tight it looked painted on, highlighting the soft fur and the solid mass beneath.
Doggo let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Damn, Dreemurr.” His own cock, which had softened, was already beginning to thicken again, stirring against his thigh as he drank in the sight. “Just… damn.”
Asgore stood there, panting softly, imprisoned in the shorts from a simpler time. He felt every inch of the strain, every groan of the fabric. The humiliation was there, a sharp spice. But under it, powered by Doggo’s nakedly hungry stare, was a flood of something else—a powerful, dizzying arousal. He was on display. He was wanted. He was full.
Doggo’s grin was all teeth. He took another step forward, his hand coming to rest on the groaning button, feeling the fierce, living pressure beneath it. “Now,” he whispered, his other hand drifting to his own hardening length. “Let’s see how long these things last.”
Doggo’s fingers toyed with the straining button, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “They look ready to blow,” he murmured, applying a subtle, teasing pressure. “Bet they’re fucking killing you.”
Asgore nodded, a sheen of fresh sweat already coating his brow. The denim was a vice, cutting into his hips and thighs, the zipper teeth a row of dull knives against his swollen flesh. Every shallow breath made the fabric protest. “They’re… very snug.”
A rough laugh escaped Doggo. “Snug? Jesus.” He palmed the immense bulge trapped behind the tortured zipper, feeling the heat and weight. “This ain’t snug, big guy. This is a public service announcement.” He leaned in, his nose brushing Asgore’s throat, inhaling the mingled scents of lavender soap, old sweat, and their earlier sex. “You’re a fucking spectacle.”
Asgore shuddered, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. The humiliation was a live wire, but the arousal it fed was a roaring furnace. Being seen like this, being appraised with such crude hunger, stripped away decades of reserved composure. He was just a body, straining at its seams.
“Tell you what,” Doggo whispered, his lips moving against Asgore’s fur. “Let’s help them out. Show me how much you wanna be out of them.” He stepped back, his gaze drilling into Asgore’s. “Flex.”
Confusion flickered across Asgore’s flushed face. “What?”
“You heard me. Flex for me. Right here.” Doggo tapped Asgore’s right bicep. “Make a muscle, your majesty. Put some real pressure on that button.” His voice dropped, a command wrapped in gravel. “I wanna see you try to break them.”
The request was absurd, degrading. It was also irresistible. A low groan built in Asgore’s chest. He shifted his stance, his focus turning inward. He curled his right arm, the movement deliberate. The muscles in his forearm corded, then his bicep began to swell, pushing against the short sleeve of his shirt. He tensed further, the muscle hardening into a solid, imposing knot.
At the same time, driven by a perverse instinct, he pushed his gut forward, leaning into the constriction instead of fighting it.
The combined pressure was the final straw. The denim, strained beyond endurance at its focal point, gave way with a violent, decisive crack.
POP!
The button didn’t just come undone. It shot across the room like a bullet, pinging off the window glass with a sharp tink before vanishing into the shadows. The shorts, their integrity shattered, flew open. The zipper gave a metallic sigh and sagged.
Asgore gasped, a huge, shuddering inhalation. It was the sound of relief so profound it was almost painful. His belly, finally free, settled into its full, soft weight, the furred skin now exposed to the cool air from navel to the thick thatch of blonde hair below. The shorts slumped uselessly on his hips, held up only by the desperate clutch of fabric on his thick thighs and ass.
“Fuck yes,” Doggo breathed, his eyes wide and avid. He closed the distance between them in one stride. His hands went to Asgore’s hips, fingers digging into the softness above the denim, feeling the heat of the released flesh. He dropped to his knees with a thump, his face level with Asgore’s liberated stomach. He nuzzled into it, a low, appreciative rumble in his throat. “That’s what I wanted. To see you come apart.”
Asgore looked down, his hands hovering over Doggo’s head. The sight of the hound monster nosing into the folds of his belly, kneeling amidst the puddle of his discarded, soiled trousers, sent a shock of pure, uncut lust straight to his already-straining cock. It stirred heavily behind the sagging fly of the ruined shorts.
Doggo felt the movement against his cheek. He grinned, a flash of white in the dim room. With a single, sharp tug, he yanked the shorts down Asgore’s legs. The denim caught at his calves, but Doggo didn’t bother going further. He left them there, a binding around Asgore’s ankles.
Now, Asgore was fully exposed, utterly vulnerable, his heavy cock swaying thick and full between his thighs. Doggo leaned back on his heels, looking up the vast landscape of fur and muscle and softness. His own cock was painfully hard, jutting aggressively from his own fur. “Mine,” he stated, the word simple and absolute.
Asgore could only nod, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Gonna taste you,” Doggo said, as if commenting on the weather. “All of you.” He didn’t start with Asgore’s cock. He leaned forward again, his tongue dragging a broad, wet stripe from the base of Asgore’s heavy sac up the underside of his shaft. The sensation was electric, coarse and slick all at once. Asgore cried out, his knees buckling slightly.
Doggo’s hands clamped on Asgore’s thighs, holding him upright. He took the head of Asgore’s cock into his mouth without ceremony, his jaw stretching wide to accommodate the girth. He sucked, hard, his tongue swirling around the corona, lapping at the bead of fluid already gathered there.
“Oh, god… Doggo…” Asgore choked out, his hands finally landing on Doggo’s head, fingers twisting in the fur between his ears. It wasn’t gentle. It was a grip born of pure, mindless need.
Doggo hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Asgore’s core. He began to move, his mouth a hot, relentless pressure, sliding down until his nose was buried in the coarse blonde fur at the base. He gagged, pulled back with a wet pop, and went down again, deeper this time, establishing a rough, greedy rhythm. Saliva dripped down his chin, coating Asgore’s balls.
The sounds were filthy: wet suction, choked gasps, the creak of the floorboards under Doggo’s knees. Asgore’s hips began to jerk, tiny, involuntary thrusts. “I’m… I can’t… I’ll…”
Doggo pulled off, a string of spit connecting his lips to the swollen, glistening tip. “Yeah, you will,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But not like this.” He pushed himself to his feet, his movements fluid. He grabbed Asgore’s shoulders, his strength surprising, and manhandled him backwards until his legs hit the bed. “On your back. Now.”
Asgore fell back, his body a yielding weight. Doggo climbed over him, but not to straddle his hips this time. He turned, presenting his own ass, lowering himself until his entrance hovered inches above Asgore’s dripping cock. He looked back over his shoulder, his gold eyes burning. “You got anything? Lube? Oil? Something.”
The practical question shattered the last pretense of fantasy. This was real, and it was happening now. Asgore fumbled a hand toward the nightstand, yanking the drawer open. He shoved aside books and papers, his fingers closing around a half-empty bottle of lotion he used for his dry hands. He thrust it at Doggo.
Doggo snatched it, popped the cap, and poured a reckless, glistening stream into his own palm. He reached back, his fingers working between his cheeks with a brutal, efficient urgency. He prepared himself with quick, rough strokes, his face a mask of focused concentration. Then, his wet hand gripped Asgore’s cock, slicking him from root to tip with a single, rough pull that made Asgore see stars.
Without another word, Doggo aligned himself and sank down.
The resistance was fierce, then it gave way with a tight, burning surrender. Doggo’s head fell back, a strangled gasp ripped from his throat as he took Asgore inside, inch by devastating inch, until his ass was flush against Asgore’s hips. He was incredibly tight, a scalding, velvety clamp around him.
“Fuck,” Doggo hissed, his whole body trembling. “Fuck, you’re big.”
Asgore could only moan, his hands flying to Doggo’s narrow hips, holding on as if for life itself. The feeling was unimaginable—total, consuming heat, a pressure so intense it bordered on pain. He was buried to the hilt inside another being, a fact so profoundly shocking it stripped his mind bare.
Doggo began to move. He rose up, almost letting Asgore slip out, then drove himself back down with a force that shook the bed frame. His rhythm was punishing, a raw, piston-like drive aimed at his own pleasure. Each downward stroke forced a punched-out grunt from Asgore’s lungs.
The room filled with the sounds of their collision: skin slapping against fur, the bed’s incessant groan, their mingled, ragged breaths. Doggo’s tail whipped wildly, his claws digging into Asgore’s thighs for leverage. He reached a hand between his own legs, stroking his cock in time with his brutal pace.
“Yeah, take it,” Doggo snarled, fucking himself desperately on Asgore’s length. “This what you wanted? Huh? This what all that fuckin’ shyness was about?”
Asgore couldn’t speak. His world had narrowed to the blinding friction, the sight of Doggo taking him with such savage abandon. His own climax built like a tsunami, unstoppable, wrenching itself from the depths of him. A ragged, broken roar tore from his throat as he came, his hips bucking off the bed, pumping his release deep inside the clenching, milking heat.
Doggo cried out a second later, his body seizing. Stripes of white shot across Asgore’s belly and chest, mixing with the earlier mess, as his own orgasm crashed through him. He collapsed backwards, off of Asgore, onto the mattress, lying beside him panting and spent.
Silence, again. Deeper this time. The air was thick with the pungent, unmistakable smell of sex—sweat, spend, and the sharp, electric scent of release.
Asgore stared at the ceiling, his body humming, utterly hollowed out. Doggo’s warmth radiated beside him. The ruined shorts were still tangled around his ankles. The button was gone, lost in the dark.
After a long while, Doggo propped himself up on an elbow. He looked at the sticky, painted mess on Asgore’s torso, then at Asgore’s face. He reached out, not with gentleness, but with a strange, quiet insistence, and wiped a smear of spend from Asgore’s jawline with his thumb.
“Tomorrow,” Doggo said, his voice raw but steady. “We’re finding that button.”