FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Six rings of the bell echoed through the now silenced arena as the audience looked on at what happened in the square circle. When the Grumpig Referee gave the signal, the Exploud Announcer made the call. "And your winner by Knockout...THE STRIIIIPED BANDIIIT!" he shouted, and the crowd went wild with their fanfare and disappointment.

The naked Incineroar let out a roar to celebrate his two victories that night, prompting the stripe-shirted swine beside him to cover up his ears. The Electivire lying in the center was ignorant to all this as he continued to drift about in dreamland, staining his gloves with his own seed in the real world. "Maybe you'll think twice before stepping up against El Bandito Rayado!" the Fire-Type boasted at his fallen adversary, not caring whether the Electric-Type could actually hear.

When the big cat was done talking down the fallen monster, the Psychic called out to a Gogoat in the stands. When the Grumpig gave the signal, the Grass-type tossed up two bottles filled with white liquid. Before the glasses could reach the ref, however, The Striped Bandit snatched one out of the air, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and chugged its contents in seconds. After wiping his muzzle, the two-time victor vaulted over the top ropes and strutted back to the locker rooms, tossing the empty container behind him. The Ref, known as Rudy to his friends, had to telekinesize the glass to keep it from shattering against the floor. Relieved that he averted a major safety hazard, Rudy took a deep breath before attending to the knocked out.

While the Grumpig helped the Electivire back to the land of the living, a young Infernape in the stands had just finished rolling his eyes at The Bandit's grandstanding. "What is it with that guy?" he asked to himself before looking back at the Passimian sitting next to him. "And why didn't they stop the Electivire?"

The older monkey had just finished wiping up after "round 2." After stowing his used napkin in his back pocket, the Passimian answered the relative newcomer, never taking his eyes off of the ring. "Yeah. This fed opens the ring up to the fans after each match," he explained while shooing away an Ambipom's tails from his trademark berry. "But I'll admit that I'm surprised as well. It's been a while since anybody stepped up. I'd love to myself, but you know, I got kids and work to think about."

After a nod of his head, the young Infernape excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned, the Grumpig finished cleaning up the ring and the Passimian was smiling. Curious, the Infernape asked why. "You know how that Electric brute pushed his way into the ring at the beginning?" was the start of the Berry-head's explanation. If the Fire-type felt like arguing, he would've argued that The Bandit was the real brute in that situation. "That's actually how a lot of the boxers here made their debut. The guy on stage right now is a prime example. He's even facing off against the guy he first fought against."

When the Infernape looked up, another hooded fighter was already in the squared circle. Unlike the two relative giants that stood in the ring, this boxer wasn't much taller than the young Fire-Type, but the sheer width of his body would've been enough to overshadow the toned monkey. Purple Horns were poking out from the Boxer's head, identifying him as a Poison-type. Just like the Incineroar and Electivire before him, the only things the Nidoking was wearing underneath were his gloves and a pair of boots that covered the entirety of his stubby legs, both a vivid shade of green. All the kid could think was how he managed to climb up the apron.

While the Nidoking, nicknamed "The King of Plagues," posed for the intoxicated fans, another robed Pokemon was making his way up to the stage. From where he was sitting, the Infernape could see what looked like a grey conch on the other side of the ropes. The face he saw several degrees down identified the owner as a member of the Slowpoke line. His eyebrows rose in surprise; he didn't expect to see any other Psychics besides the referee in the ring. "The King of Tides," as this boxer was known, turned to the left and walked to the outside corner. It was at this time that the young monkey remembered that this ring had stairs.

Instead of squeezing through the ropes like most fighters, the Slowking merely lifted his body with telekinesis and floated back down into the ring. Chuckles and sighs could be heard among the spectators, but the young Infernape asked his new friend why.

"Honestly, I don't really blame Marcus for that," the Passimian replied, laughing as he recalled the night when the Psychic's crown got tangled up in the ropes. "Poor guy. Probably gonna remember that moment for the rest of his life with that shell on."

While the young Infernape grinned in agreement with the older primate, "Marcus" as the Passimian called him, stepped toward the ring with his baby-blue-gloved hands behind his back. Accusations of potential cheating were thrown left and right, but it never fazed the Psychic, even as he stood face-to-face with his old rival. His eyes drooped a bit, but the smile on his face remained. Very few can tell whether his smile is genuine, or if the Shellder Crown was plotting something.

The Nidoking, whose name was Earl, was among those few, and he greeted his opponent with a playful smirk. "Nice to see you back from yer vacation," he chuckled, shedding the silken piece and handing it off to the referee. "So, how're the nephews?"

Marcus followed suit, and within seconds, both Kings were only in their gloves and boots. Even before anything got started, the boxers were already sporting stiff rods beneath their pressing bellies. "They're growing up nice and healthy when I last saw them," he recalled, brushing a glove against his striped collar. "Still stinging a bit from their bites, but that's what happens when your brother marries a Garchomp."

The sight of the Grumpig Referee stepping in reminded the pair that they had a match ready to start, and both contenders took a step back. Tides and Plagues nodded subtly before each other, a silent signal that they can continue their conversation after someone blows. As the stripe-shirted Psychic brought the green and light-blue gloves together for the traditional tap, the Kings' faces straightened up. Regardless of how much the boxers wanted to get back to catching up, neither one dared to hold back just for that.

Both sides took a deep breath to take in the odd incense that permeated the ring, and when that iconic bell rang, both fighters stepped back before getting into their stances. Now that they were apart, fans could see the kings' scepters already standing proud, even before either could throw a single punch. "They really can't wait to get into it, huh?" The young Infernape commented, himself already packing heat underneath.

As expected by the older regulars, Earl made the first move, throwing fists left and right in an attempt to weave one through the pink boxer's defenses. Even if The King of Plagues never found purchase in the Slowking's naked body, each blocked strike still gave him some ground and gave his opponent little jolts down to his tails. After a half-minute of pressure, he had Marcus in the corner, and threw a hard straight to capitalize on what was a catch-22 for the Psychic: If he blocked, the knockback would send him into the turnbuckle with his arms opened up. If he got hit, the same would apply, with an extra bit of head trauma. Dodging was out of the question, at least in his mind.

Even under the assault from his Poison counterpart, Marcus' smile never faded. It took him a second, but when he finally grew wise to the Nidoking's plan, he waited for that straight to shift his body to the side. When the fist just grazed his chest, The King of Tides capitalized on the whiff to send a handful of baby-blue leather flying up at his opponent's maw. Some spectators cried fowl at the last-second dodge, accusing the Slowking of abusing his powers, but it was familiarity that guided his motions, not any sort of mind-reading.

It was this same familiarity that reminded Earl of what happened the last time he got the Slowking in the corner. Even though it slipped the Nidoking's mind when he threw that straight, he was able to react in time to make the uppercut strike his horn instead of possibly cost him some teeth. Though he managed to avoid getting his clock cleaned, the sudden force tilting his head up still disoriented him long enough to let Marcus nail him in his flank. A sharp grunt was knocked out of his mouth, as well as several drips of drool. The spittle splattered onto the canvas, along with drops of the Poison-type's pre.

As much as it hurt, and as hot as the impact got him, a single punch wasn't enough to make Earl flinch. Instead, he grit his teeth and fought back with a right hook of his own, driving his green glove deep into the Slowking's padded chest. He wasn't the type to let his opponent go unscathed in an exchange.

The King of Tides swayed with the strike, moaning as he was knocked to the side. Were it not for their natural resistances, these punches would have stunned either fighter for much longer. Even still, the tingling sensation from the bruised area continued sending sparks down to his tails.

The back and forth continued for another few minutes, with Marcus' quick thinking and well-placed counters pushing his Poison counterpart back into the ring's center. The Plague King's white underbelly was starting to match the purple of the rest of his body, and his hardened rod was slick with his pent up lust. But in spite of all this, Earl still managed a few decent shots on the Slowking, as evidenced by his open-mouth breathing. Just before the bell rang to call the end of the first match, both boxers went in on the offensive, and right as the Grumpig pulled them apart, their crowns brushed against each other for a moment, exchanging silver before they backed up into their respective corners.

While both kings got rehydrated and tended to by their respective corner crews, they exchanged knowing grins. The chill of the ice on Earl's gut made him shiver just as it did when he first stepped into the ring, but neither could knock the soothing feeling the cold press left behind in their wake.

"Why not ice their dicks as well?" the Infernape asked, only now recognizing how rare it was to see any match last more than a single round.

The Passimian shook his head before giving his explanation. "More guys are here for the payoff than the actual fight, so the Puruglys up top made it a rule to leave them untouched. That and they've had too many boys blowing on them during the break."

Another minute passed, and Tides and Plagues got back to their feet for round two. Where Marcus rolled the fatigue off of his arms, Earl jabbed feeling back into his well-iced face. "This takes me back," the Slowking sighed in soft reverie as he ran his glove over his battered belly.

"Yeah. It's just like our first match!" The Poison-type cheered back, empathizing with his opponent's feelings of nostalgia before raising his fists for the tap. "Of course, I'm gonna be on top this time." Marcus merely smiled back as he brushed his gloves up against the Nidoking's.

Just as it had a few minutes back, the bell rang twice, and both boxers stepped away from the center. With their bodies warmed up to the ring, Earl and Marcus took much more aggressive stances, and the fight for a favorable position turned into a violent back and forth. Each king took massive hits from the other during this lightning-fast struggle, compounding upon the bruises laid out in the previous match. Pain and fatigue built up tension between both fighters, and it all went down to their shafts, matting the canvas in the process. The crowd was going wild at the sight, desperately moaning for release in this decade-long conflict.

After a minute of exchanging blows, the Slowking's mouthy breathing got louder, but the sounds he made blended with those of his horny spectators. Aching for relief, or at least a rest, the Psychic-type leaned in close to the Nidoking and threw his hands over his broad shoulders, pulling him in close for a labored clinch. The close contact heated both boxers, and their sweat mingled as it evaporated off their bodies, releasing pheromones as potent as the Musharna's mist. His touch and smell overloaded with pain and pleasure respectively, the normally composed pink hermit could only flail his right arm at the lapine's body in his attempts at putting up an offense.

When their bodies clashed, the Kings' scepters mashed up against each other, and the Nidoking splattered pre all over both bellies. The Plague King's arms hooked under those of The Tides, and their mouths were close enough to kiss. Where Marcus' mind was muddled by the heated atmosphere, Earl was completely out of it, rolling his hips against the Slowking and making out with his neck. All the while, his rod pulsed with a monstrous vigor, threatening to spill at any moment.

It was only thanks to Marcus' jabs that the Nidoking snapped out of his horny stupor. Drooling, dripping, and drowning in his ecstasy, Earl had just enough sense to shove his opponent away and back off for some much-needed breathing room. After a breath of relatively-fresh air, The King of Plagues was hanging on the edge by a needle. At this point, the only thing keeping him from succumbing to his arousal was seeing the Slowking in a similar state of distress.

Marcus' legs shuddered with every step he had to take before he could steady himself from Earl's shove. Too tired to bring his gloves up to his face, the King of Tides could feel his tongue flopping out from his gaping mouth, but he could see that he still had a chance to reign supreme. After pulling his tongue back in and gritting his teeth, the crowned boxer leaped forward and wound up a hook, backed by any remaining strength he could muster. However, the mix of musk and Mist muddled the Psychic's insight, so he didnt see that his opponent was thinking of the same thing.

THUD THUD

Baby-blue and neon-green leather found their homes in light purple and pink flesh respectively, leaving both fighters immobile with their eyes agape. In this brief moment of ecstasy, Earl's horn pressed up against Marcus' crown, and when their eyes met, their aghast expressions relaxed into a state of pure bliss. As if by magic, the Kings' scepters gave up their bounty in perfect unison, coating the ring in their royal glory. For a good minute, the royal pair shared dominion over Cloud Nine, reveling in their pleasure before being cast back down to Earth. The return trip took a toll on their regal bodies, and they collapsed into an unceremonious heap.

The sheer suspense of the moment left the referee oblivious to even his own orgasm. He just stood there dumbfounded and splashed with the Seed of Tides for a good moment before the welling drool in his mouth snapped him back to reality. After swallowing it all down, the suited Grumpig raised both his arms before arcing them out to either side. The bell-ringer, just as dumbfounded as the ref was until that moment, got the signal and ended the match with seven strikes to the round bell. A double-knockout.

The Infernape in the stands, having brought his own handkerchief, wiped off what he could from his white belly fur before zipping up his pants and pulling down his shirt. Satisfied for the night, he smiled at his senior spectator before asking him, "So anybody can go up and challenge a victor?"

"If the winner so chooses. Nowadays, only The Bandit issues those kinds of invitations, but given his track record, he's bound to win his next match in a few weeks."

With that, the young Fire-Type rose from his seat and thanked the old Passimian for holding his seat and taking the time to answer all his questions. After a mutual wave and one more farewell, the flame-headed Fighter left the building, meditating upon how to show the showboating Bandit up after his next match.

"Somebody has to teach that cat a lesson, after all."