A roar shook the savannah. It filled the animals of The Pride Lands with dread and made both prey and predator alike turn tail and run.
At the epicenter of the sound stood a chimera. Tall and covered in brown fur, it stood on wolf legs and dragged behind him a wolf tail but had the thick arms of a bear. Its head was lion-like with a pair of horns and tusks jutting from forehead and lower jaw respectively. A dense mane accentuated the beast’s slouching posture. Beast. That’s who and what he was. Once a spoiled human prince, he had been cursed with a monstrous appearance by an enchantress who he had denied shelter to in his luxurious castle.
The castle… A prison for Beast… One he willingly confined himself in. He needed a change of scenery, badly. Thus his many servants had arranged for a solo camping trip out in the African savannah, hoping that would cool the prince’s explosive temper.
“Damn pests!” Beast rumbled in a tone that matched his looks. As he’d finished pitching his tent next to a sun-bathed pond and prepared to relax under the cool shade of an acacia tree, he’d spotted a herd of gazelles approaching. Irritated, the prince roared them away, perhaps a bit too loudly.
Atop a tall rock formation overlooking The Pride Lands stood a different monarch. Simba wore nothing but a loincloth, his fur was his golden mantle and his mane was his red crown. The lion’s eyes scanned the plains for the source of the chilling roar.
“My king!”
He turned around to find a meek gazelle. She was pale in the face. “What is it?”
“There’s someone– something by the watering hole! I-It’s huge! The sound it made… Oh the sound–” She sobbed.
Simba stepped forward and put his hands on the poor woman’s shoulders. The firm touch of the lion king seemed to dispel some of the terror from the herbivore’s eyes.
“Easy. Calm down and take a deep breath,” Once he was sure the gazelle wouldn’t die of a heart attack, he spoke again. “You said you saw it near the watering hole, right?”
Night fell on the savannah and the king made for the watering hole alone. He would scout it and evaluate the threat with his own eyes before calling upon his guard to drive it away. He stalked along the familiar plains until he spotted it: A square-roofed tent large enough to house four people. Flickering light spilled from its entrance. Scanning his surroundings once more, the feline crept towards the camp and when he was close enough, he peered around the half-drawn leather curtain to find… No one. The tent was empty.
“What have we here?”
Before he could react, tree-trunk arms wrapped around his torso in a tight bear-hug.
“Hey! Let go of me!” He kicked and bucked, but Beast was both larger and stronger than the comparatively twinkish lion. The chimera dragged him towards the acacia tree from which there hung a rope and soon his wrists were bound tightly, pulling his arms above his head.
“You should not disturb my slumber, little lion.”
“I am Simba, king of Pride Rock.” The lion declared. “You’ve frightened the locals so you’re gonna have to– OOF!” He was cut off by a blow to his stomach.
“I don’t care,” Beast punched again, harder. “But I do care about sleeping, which is what I’d be doing if it weren’t for you.”
Simba felt vulnerable. He knew he could take it, he didn’t earn the title of ‘King’ without merit. But Beast was relentless, his blows met the feline’s gut again and again until merely holding up his arms ached. And his’ were currently held up for him.
“C’mon, pretty boy!” He hit the bound lion again, forcing air out of his lungs. “Maybe I should claim this ‘Pride Rock’ you speak of for myself, lead the pride and all. Subduing its king should grant me that right, don’t you think?” Simba didn’t answer. He’d give Beast no such satisfaction. “And you were so chatty just a minute ago,” He put his hands on the lion again but not to cause him pain, this time. Instead, he squeezed his sides.
“A-Ah!” Simba yelped. Immediately, Beast knew he had struck gold, his mouth twisted into a ferocious grin.
“Ticklish, huh?” He bared the claw on his index finger and traced it along the light fuzz under his captive’s belly-button and down along his happy trail.
“S-Stop that!” The lion held his laughter but it was way too late. He’d already revealed his greatest weakness to the ill-tempered, sadistic torturer. Nothing could help him, now.
“I don’t believe it. A king who’s ticklish! Where else are you ticklish, huh?”
During his visit, Beast hoped to explore the savannah for picturesque locations but instead found himself exploring the body of a king for ticklish spots. Sharp claws ran along his victim’s muscular abdomen before zig-zagging them down up and down the sides.
“C’mon, roar for me, Simba! Coochie coo!”
Tickle talk. The true mark of a tickling sadist. If Simba wasn’t sure before, he most definitely was now: He was screwed. His resolve collapsed as Beast assaulted his armpits, ruffling his fur and stimulating the sensitive skin underneath.
He collapsed into a giggle-fit that would have him mistaken for a cub and hopped from leg to leg like a drunk rabbit.
“There we go! Let out those giggles, little lion!” He stood directly behind Simba and dug all of his claws into the king’s ticklish pits, experimenting with different movements to see which ones earned him the strongest reactions.
Poor Simba never knew his armpits were such a weak spot and he’d rather not have found out. He wriggled and twisted like a hyperactive worm but the rope held his arms taut above his head and Beast was laser focused on ravaging the exposed hollows.
“Daww, I bet you’ve never been tickled this bad, huh king?” Beast took great pleasure in teasing the laughing lion, the kind of sadistic pleasure that evil rulers tended to develop sooner or later. Eventually, he changed his tactics: the claws on his right hand kept scratching one of his armpits while the other poked around his belly-button, rendering shrieking laughter from the humiliated king. “Coochie coochie coo! I think I found your tickle-button!”
“Hahaha!! Please, stop it now!”
Beast growled in arousal. “I just can’t! I’ll keep tickling you as much as I want!”
He hated this. He longed for the torture to end. He’d rather Beast gut him instead of making him suffer such humiliation. These were the lies Simba told himself to try to keep his mind off of the growing tent under his loincloth.
“Oho! Do my eyes deceive me?” Beast ripped off the garment unceremoniously, forcing even more vulnerability unto the lion. A warm breeze caressed Simba’s cock as its pre-coated tip glistened in the moonlight. The chimera’s own arousal beckoned him to pull his victim’s foreskin back to skitter his claws across the flesh underneath.
“No! Not there! Plehehease!!” A satisfied growl rumbled out from the chimera’s throat upon hearing the lion’s pleading. Never in a million years did he think he’d get to capture and subdue the king of The Pride Lands and never in a million more did he expect such an act to arouse the lion.
“Cooochie coochie coo!!” Taunted Beast, sing-songy. “Do they allow kings with ticklish cocks around here? And ticklish armpits? And a ticklish belly-button?” Fuzzy fingers poked at the spots one by one as they were named, driving Simba mad with lust-laced tickles.
Out of nowhere, he produced a small feather and teased its soft fibers over and around the lion’s cockhead while simultaneously skittering his claws over the underside of his scrotum. This pushed Simba to new heights of ticklish arousal. It truly did feel like the more his genitals were tickled, the more sensitive his whole body became in turn as if to reward and welcome the sensations. The poor king’s mind was slowly turning to mush.
Regardless of how much fun he was having at the moment, Beast knew there was a way to make this kitty mewl even louder. He began pumping the lion’s shaft with one hand while its twin darted around his torso to poke, prod, squeeze and scratch at random.
‘Defeated’. That was the word that best described Simba’s mental state at that moment. ‘Horny’ was a close second with ‘conflicted’ not too far behind.
With a pathetic pantomime of a roar that came out as a dry squeal amid peals of laughter, Simba shot rope after rope of sticky cum, convulsing with each individual blast. His mind shut off all sensation save for the powerful jolts of pleasure that ran across his spine and spread out to envelop him in the pink clouds of bliss.
That lasted a grand total of two seconds.
“Good kitty! You just love being tickled, don’t you, little lion? Well don’t worry, I’ll give you aaaaall the tickles you want!” The stroking didn’t stop and neither did the tickling. Instead, they sped up, yanking the lion straight out of his state of post-coital relaxation.
“WAIT WAIT NO STOHOHOP!!” Simba’s nerves lit up like a wildfire. His whole body felt like one big ticklish spot. Any touch at that point would have been torturous to the oversensitive lion, nevermind being tickled and having his spent cock milked like a cow’s teat. The king had never felt anything like that before. He couldn’t describe the feeling save for how everything in him screamed for it to stop.
Beast, on the contrary, hadn’t had this much fun in years. Perhaps he may have had an active passion for tickle-torment in the past but if that was the case, he’d long since forgotten. Regardless, he was sure he had such a passion now and planned to make the most out of it. He re-focused his efforts on the royal cock and began polishing its tip with the furred palm of his hand. Simba screamed.
“The night is still young, little king. You and I will enjoy ourselves oh so very much!”
The morning sun shone on the plains as Simba shuffled towards Pride Rock, exhausted. After a night of intense torture, he managed to strike a deal with Beast.
The chimera would move his camp somewhere secluded, where no animal came to hunt or sate their thirst. In exchange, the lion would have to voluntarily meet up with him and offer his body for more torture every night for the remainder of Beast’s stay in the savannah.
He despised this deal. He hated Beast. He did it only to protect his subjects. These were the lies Simba told himself to try to keep his mind off of the growing tent under his loincloth.