Asgore finds Asriel's stash

It’d been a few months since Asriel had discovered his mom’s secret stash of lewd articles. Having erased the lingerie out of shame and keeping the dildo out of sentimental lust. Having not been discovered by any other members of the family, Asriel had taken to using his parents’ checking account they’d set up for him to make purchases from Tootimid.com, the number one site for clandestine deviant devices. Toriel, spoiling her only real child, never really checked his online purchases and always made sure there was plenty of cash on hand for her special boy. Asgore, however, took a mild curiosity when he noticed the bank statements showing charges to some strangely named corporation he’d never seen before. He confronted Asriel about it and was relieved to hear his son explain that it was simply hardware for his desktop computer, which was indeed a flashy monstrosity of a mechanism, with flashing lights, antennae and a snaking system of coolant-pumping pipes running in and out. Asgore thought to himself that it was an obnoxious and ominous device, but did not protest it, as his son was somewhat obnoxious himself, keeping those edgy and oft-ridiculous markings on his fur after Frisk had once told him how cool he looked.

Asgore tried not to judge.

But as these bills began to climb higher and higher, the Dreemurr patriarch began to suspect that not all was as appeared in his house. As more and more packages arrived and were snatched away before he could have a chance to even inspect the label, the empty shells of boxes left abandoned on the counter or sticking hugely out of the recycling Asgore began to feel that something was amiss and he should investigate.

So he waited, Toriel was almost always out of the house, teaching at the school, and Frisk was more often than not called away on his increasingly-frequent ambassadorial missions. With age comes responsibility, as they say. Asriel however lived a less-scheduled life, having no job to speak of and been spoiled rotten by Toriel, Asgore would begrudgingly admit that his biological son was something of a shut-in, often spending the whole day in his room on his computer, posting on “The 4chans” as he called it, whatever that was. He’d only come out for food or to complain about something he’d read online, such as the actions of “feminists, Jews, Arabians” and someone called Poutine. But sometimes even this indoor goat felt the pull of the outside world, where he’d disappear for the day and explore the city after a certain level of cabin-fever built up.

During one such day, Asgore gets his chance. Asriel said his quick goodbyes, stating he’d come back later that evening, giving his father a quick hug before all but sprinting out the door. Immediately Asgore spun like an enormous industrial-sized top towards his son’s room. Opening the door gently and tiptoeing his way inside, the bulk boss monster looked fairly ridiculous playing the family detective. The room itself was a fucking mess. Clothes were scattered about the floor, pushed into piles so as not to block a path from the door to the bed and the computer. Empty bags of Doritos and licorice filled the trash-can next to Asriel’s desk. Asgore thought to himself that if he found nothing wrong that he would instruct his son to perhaps clean the room.

Crouching low the enormous boss-monster lifts up the bed, finding naught but some clumps of off-white hair and an outline of dust. Nothing too out-of-the-ordinary for an undisciplined teenager. He makes a slow circuit around the room, nudging through the piles of clothes with his hands, finding nothing and carefully replacing the piles, leaving no trace. He begins to feel confusion and guilt, perhaps Asriel HAD simply been buying additions to his computer. He looks at the thing and shakes his great head, his horns threatening to scrape the ceiling. Too many packages had come through his house to all be packed into that abomination of a personal computer.

They had to be somewhere, whatever “they” were.

And then he sees it. Like finding the solution to a frustrating math equation after an incalculable amount of time, the answer was like a moment of mental ecstasy.

The closet.

The boy’s clothes were scattered about the floor, meaning the closet was used for something else, something far less innocent, that it needed to be hid in a closet was evidence enough.
Carefully stepping through the piles of clothes both clean and unwashed he reaches the door and stretches forth his massive hand, encircling the cool metal of the handle and turning it. Inhaling sharply, preparing himself for any conceivable horror he pulls the door open. And finds himself unprepared for what lay on the other side.

Arranged across the shelves in a candy-store variety of shapes and colors from garish pastel bright neon shades to dull flesh-colored tones was an unfathomably large collection of sexual devices and clothing. Lingerie, mesh stockings, latex sleeves, collars, ball-gags, blindfolds, pasties, nipple-clamps, cockrings, chastity cages, buttplugs, anal beads, fleshlights in the form of human mouths, muzzles, vaginas and assholes. Full silicone buttocks of male and female configuration, and even one brandishing a hermaphroditic arrangement, whole gallon-jugs of lubricants.

And the dildos! So many dildos!

Human dildos ranging in size from five to 20 inches, arranged by size like one would industrial parts, dildos of inhuman shape and design, mechanical thrusting dildos with rotating subsurface beads to stimulate the farthest reaches of those most intimate of places, dildos with tubes leading to pumps that could be filled with whatever the user desired, dildos of equine, feline, dragonoid and even fictional alien design!

And still there was more, like an army plucked forth from the most degenerate of lands to stand ready and waiting for anyone brave or foolish enough to seek their services. All arranged before Asgore in his son’s closet.
Asgore’s mouth hung open, his face frozen in an expression of surprise and incredulity. He’d expected something illicit, like drugs purchased or stupid cultural paraphernalia. His son had reached that age where certain, sexual curiosity was expected, but it seemed that a spoiled financial freedom and maybe the boredom of a household child had pushed him to the extreme.
Again appropriating the whole of the situation with his eyes, Asgore bring an enormous hand to his face, pushing closed his mouth and rubbing his chin through his beard as he ponders the situation. He does not hear the front door open or Asriel return, saying he forgot something. He only pulls himself from this Slaaneshian vision when his son enters the room and stands frozen in horror at seeing his dad in front of his open closet.

Asgore turns to his son, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Son. We need to talk.”