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This image was made to test the limits of LoRA created by the incredible [iconname]LuckyDaWolf[/iconname] of young Simba, as you can see in this post: [smallthumb]3520072[/smallthumb].

Some boys are born with charm and charisma, and Simba had both in spades. He carried himself like royalty, even when no crown rested on his head. The way he talked, the way he smiled, the way people turned their heads when he entered a room—it was obvious he’d been treated like a prince since birth. And maybe he was right to act like it: polite, witty, extroverted, the kind of boyfriend everyone admired. But behind closed doors, that bossiness of his, the commanding tone, it tested limits.

And you were not the kind of lion who bent to anyone. With your broad shoulders, cut abs, powerful chest, and a thick, veiny shaft that marked you as a true alpha, you didn’t yield ground easily. It was only a matter of time before all of Simba’s bossy energy clashed with your dominance.

The spark came on an ordinary afternoon. The two of you had gone out together, strolling through a public park, joking and teasing. Simba was restless, his golden tail twitching, his words faster than usual. He was burning up with something that no amount of witty banter could quench. And when the tension hit a peak, he grabbed your wrist with surprising urgency and dragged you toward the nearest restroom, his eyes blazing with need.

Inside the cramped stall, he pressed his back to the door and said in that bossy tone of his, “[i]We’re doing this. Now.”[/i]

You smirked, towering over his smaller frame. [i]“You think you’re the one calling shots here?”[/i] Your voice was low and steady, the kind of rumble that made his ears flick back. He crossed his arms defiantly, but his body betrayed him—his breath was uneven, and there was no mistaking the bulge pressing against his shorts.

So you decided to show him what it meant to face a real king. You undressed slowly, peeling away your clothes piece by piece, letting every defined muscle, every line of your powerful body reveal itself. Finally, your shaft, thick, veiny, and already pulsing, swung free, the sheer size of it making Simba’s bravado crumble. His cheeks flushed scarlet as his golden eyes widened. He wanted it—needed it—more than he wanted to win his little game of control.

[i]“On your knees,”[/i] you commanded, your tone leaving no space for argument.

[i]“I’m not kneeling,”[/i] Simba shot back, his voice sharp but faltering. His arms tensed, his claws barely flexing. He was trying to hold his ground, but his trembling tail gave him away.

You stepped forward, your shaft looming close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from it. His body shuddered. He wanted to resist, to stay bossy, but his instincts betrayed him. Slowly, hesitantly, Simba lowered himself until he was kneeling, his hands bracing against the floor. He tilted his head up at you, his shirt clinging to him from the heat, sweat staining the white fabric. You didn’t let him remove it. [i]“Keep it on,”[/i] you ordered. [i]“I want my scent to stay on you.”[/i]

His defiance cracked wide open after that. Shaky, clumsy hands tugged his shorts down, his underwear with them, leaving them on the floor. The act wasn’t graceful—it was messy, rushed, and fueled by raw hunger. His smaller shaft stood hard and leaking, twitching as if begging to be touched. He looked utterly undone, his princely façade stripped away along with his clothes.

Simba’s breathing grew heavy. His mouth parted, his eyes hazy. The “prince” was gone. Kneeling there, flushed and desperate, he was just a slutty bottom who had finally been put in his place. You guided his head with one strong hand, patting his mane lightly, almost mockingly. [i]“Good boy.”[/i]

And then you pressed forward, grinding your length across his muzzle, over his right eye, marking him as yours. The pressure, the weight, the scent—it was too much for him to handle. His lips trembled, his body shook, and the moment you bore down, release came sudden and overwhelming. Thick ropes spilled across his golden fur, streaking his muzzle. He gasped, his mouth wide, drool mingling with what you gave him. His whole body shook, his smaller shaft leaking helplessly, untouched, just from the sheer intensity of submission.

When it was done, he stayed there, panting, covered, his shirt stained, his pride dissolved into raw desire. He looked up at you with those hazy bedroom eyes, his face flushed, his body begging for more. He was yours now, and he knew it.

And the question was simple: if you were the bigger lion in that moment, with Simba finally on his knees and completely submissive, what would you do with him next?