Chapter 13: The Funnel Feast
The aquarium’s hum was a distant memory, replaced by the sharp clang of a pot hitting the stove. Garlic sizzled violently in hot oil, its pungent scent cutting through the lingering sweetness of cream that seemed baked into Ling’s skin. He blinked, disoriented, the harsh overhead bulb stinging his eyes after the bedroom’s blue gloom. He was sitting slumped at Ashur’s rickety kitchen table, wrapped in a huge, soft bathrobe that gaped open over the impossible swell of his belly. It rested heavily on his thighs, a warm, solid planet of flesh beneath the terrycloth. Every internal shift, every gurgle deep within, vibrated through him.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Ashur’s voice cut through the kitchen din. He stood at the stove, bare-chested despite the morning chill, tattoos stark against his sun-kissed skin. He flipped something in a pan with a practiced flick of his wrist, golden eyes glancing back, sharp and assessing. "Or should I say, Sleeping Belly?"
Ling groaned, shifting carefully. The movement sent a fresh wave of internal sloshing through his middle. "Feels like I swallowed a boulder," he mumbled, his voice thick and sleep-rough. He tentatively smoothed a hand over the immense curve beneath the robe. The skin felt hot, stretched drum-tight. The faint pink constellations of new stretch marks near his hips pulsed faintly. "Did... did I really drink all that cream?"
Ashur chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a shiver down Ling’s spine that had nothing to do with the cool air. He turned, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze raked over Ling, lingering on the vast expanse of belly pushing against the robe’s belt. "Every. Last. Drop," he confirmed, his voice a sinful purr. "Watched it happen. Watched you become... magnificent." He pushed off the counter, crossing the small kitchen in two strides. He didn't sit. He loomed beside Ling’s chair, his presence suddenly overwhelming the cramped space. One large, warm hand landed possessively on the crest of Ling’s belly, pressing down gently. Ling gasped at the intense pressure, the sheer thereness amplified by Ashur’s touch. "Still full?" Ashur murmured, his thumb finding Ling’s deep navel outie and rubbing slow, deliberate circles.
"Y-yes," Ling breathed, squirming slightly under the touch that was both comforting and intensely stimulating. "Very full. Still...gurgly." As if on cue, a long, liquid rumble echoed from within the depths, making the taut skin under Ashur’s hand tremble visibly.
"Good," Ashur declared, his smirk widening. He removed his hand, leaving Ling feeling strangely cold. "But 'full' isn't the goal today, Little Bird." He turned back to the counter where a powerful blender sat, surrounded by an alarming array of ingredients: tubs of protein powder, jars of peanut butter glistening with oil, a carton of heavy cream identical to last night’s, bananas spotted brown, and a bag of frozen berries. "Today," Ashur said, scooping a massive dollop of peanut butter into the blender carafe, "is about 'too full'."
Ling’s eyes widened, green pools of dawning apprehension. "Ashur... no. I can't. Not yet. I feel like I'm going to burst already." He instinctively wrapped his arms protectively over his belly, feeling its immense, warm solidity.
Ashur ignored him, dumping in protein powder like cement. "You said it felt amazing," he countered, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. He poured cream with a thick, glugging sound. "Last night. When you were full. When you touched yourself against it." He paused, meeting Ling’s gaze over his shoulder. Golden eyes burned with an intensity that stole Ling’s breath. "Imagine how much more amazing 'too full' feels." He slammed the lid on the blender and hit the button.
The noise was monstrous. A high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else, vibrating the worn wooden table under Ling’s elbows. Ling flinched, pressing his hands over his ears, his belly wobbling with the motion. He watched, horrified, as the blades churned the ingredients into a thick, viscous sludge the color of wet concrete. It looked dense enough to stand a spoon upright in.
The blender stopped abruptly, leaving a ringing silence. Ashur unscrewed the carafe, the smell hitting Ling like a physical blow – overly sweet berries, cloying peanut butter, and the underlying fatty richness of the cream. Ashur grabbed a large, clear plastic funnel from a drawer – the kind used for changing oil. Ling’s stomach, already impossibly full, clenched in primal dread.
"Ashur, please," Ling whispered, pushing his chair back, trying to stand. His legs trembled. The sheer weight anchored him. "I can't. I really can't."
Ashur was beside him in an instant. His hand clamped down on Ling’s shoulder, not painfully, but with immovable strength. "You can," he growled, the playful lover gone, replaced by something primal, commanding. "You will." With his other hand, he yanked the bathrobe open, exposing Ling’s nakedness and the breathtaking expanse of his stretched belly to the harsh kitchen light. The cool air pebbled Ling’s skin. Ashur’s gaze burned over him – the flushed skin, the prominent stretch marks, the sheer, undeniable mass. "Look at what you’ve become," he breathed, awe warring with possession in his voice. "Look at this miracle." His hand slid from shoulder to the back of Ling’s neck, firm, guiding. "Now open."
Panic flared. Ling pressed his lips together, shaking his head frantically. "No! Ashur, stop!"
Ashur didn't hesitate. His fingers gripped Ling’s jaw, forcing it open. The cold, hard plastic rim of the funnel pressed against Ling’s lips. "Every drop, Little Bird," Ashur purred, the sinful sound terrifyingly at odds with his actions. He tilted the blender carafe. The thick, beige sludge surged into the funnel’s wide mouth.
Ling gagged instantly. It was cold, thick, and cloying, filling his mouth with an overwhelming sweetness that bordered on nauseating. He tried to twist his head away, but Ashur’s grip on his jaw and neck was iron. The sludge poured relentlessly, flooding his mouth, forcing its way down his throat. He choked, sputtering, creamy droplets spraying onto his chest and the vast curve of his belly.
"Swallow," Ashur commanded, his voice low and relentless. He tipped the carafe further. The flow increased. Ling had no choice. He gulped convulsively, the thick liquid scraping his throat on the way down. It hit his already packed stomach like a lead weight. A sharp, protesting cramp seized him. He cried out around the funnel, the sound muffled and wet.
Ashur watched, golden eyes blazing, utterly focused. He saw the tears spring to Ling’s wide, terrified green eyes. He saw the violent tremors running through Ling’s slight frame, making the immense belly wobble like agitated jelly. He saw the counter’s edge digging into the lower curve of Ling’s belly as Ashur pressed him back against it, trapping him. He poured steadily, ruthlessly.
The carafe seemed bottomless. Ling’s swallows became desperate, ragged gasps between torrents of sludge. His belly, already monumental, visibly distended further beneath Ashur’s gaze. The skin stretched impossibly tighter, the pink marks darkening, new silvery lines appearing like lightning forks near his navel. A low, pained groan vibrated through Ling’s chest, trapped by the funnel. His hands, which had been pushing weakly at Ashur’s arms, fell limp at his sides, trembling.
"Good boy," Ashur murmured, the praise a dark caress. "So greedy. Taking it all." He tilted the carafe almost vertical. The last thick dregs of the smoothie sludge oozed into the funnel. Ling choked, gulped, his eyes rolling back slightly. Ashur pulled the funnel away with a wet pop. Ling gasped, coughing violently, thick beige liquid trickling from the corners of his mouth. He slumped forward over his belly, panting, trembling uncontrollably.
Ashur set the empty carafe and funnel aside with a soft clatter. He didn't touch Ling immediately. He just looked. Really looked. Ling was pinned against the counter by the sheer, obscene weight of his own stomach. It was a vast, taut dome, pushing his thighs wide apart, the skin pulled so tight it seemed translucent in places under the harsh bulb. It rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, each movement accompanied by deep, liquid groans from within. Sweat beaded on Ling’s forehead and upper lip. Tears streaked through the splatters of smoothie on his cheeks.
Slowly, reverently, Ashur reached out. His large hands settled on either side of the immense swell, just below Ling’s ribcage. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the frantic pulse beneath the stretched skin, the terrifying solidity. He pressed gently inward. Ling whimpered, a high, broken sound. The resistance was absolute. Rock hard. Unyielding.
"Perfect," Ashur breathed, the word thick with awe and a terrifying kind of love. He leaned down, his lips brushing Ling’s sweat-damp temple. Ling flinched weakly. "Look at you," Ashur whispered against his skin. "Couldn't move if you tried, could you?" His hands slid lower, tracing the agonizingly tight curve, feeling the counter’s edge bite into the yielding flesh beneath. "Just where you belong. Full. Heavy." His sinful smirk returned, edged with something darker, more possessive than ever before. His golden eyes locked onto Ling’s dazed, tear-filled ones. "And this," he purred, his fingertips grazing the sensitive, stretched skin near Ling’s groin, trapped and utterly inaccessible beneath the conquering weight, "is just the beginning of 'too full'. Rest now, Little Bird." He pressed a kiss, startlingly gentle, to Ling’s trembling lips, tasting peanut butter and salt. "The next one’s blending soon."
Ling slumped against the counter’s edge, the cold laminate biting into the immense, straining swell of his belly. Every shallow breath was a battle, a frantic gasp against the crushing weight pinning him down. Sweat slicked his pale skin, mingling with splatters of thick, beige smoothie. The deep, liquid groans from within him drowned out the frantic hammering of his own heart. Ashur’s words, "The next one’s blending soon," echoed like a death knell in his oxygen-starved brain.
He tried to whimper, "No more," but it emerged as a wet, choked gurgle. His hands, trembling violently, scrabbled weakly at his own sides, fingers slipping on sweat-slicked skin stretched impossibly tight over the vast dome of his stomach. It felt like granite beneath a thin sheet of silk, unyielding and terrifyingly full. The counter dug deeper into the lower curve, the pressure agonizing, a constant reminder of his immobility.
Ashur moved with deliberate calm amidst the chaos, gathering new ingredients. The clatter of another frozen bag of berries hitting the countertop made Ling flinch. The sight of Ashur scooping another obscenely large dollop of glistening peanut butter into the clean blender carafe sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through Ling’s packed gut. "Ashur...please," Ling managed, the words thick with desperation and the cloying aftertaste of the first monstrous smoothie. Tears welled, blurring the harsh light. "Hurts...too much...can't..."
"Shh, sweetling," Ashur murmured, not looking back. He poured fresh cream, the thick, white stream glugging into the carafe like liquid cement. "Pain is just sensation. Focus on the fullness." He dumped protein powder with the casual indifference of someone adding salt. "Remember last night? How good it felt? How right?" He finally turned, golden eyes locking onto Ling’s terrified green ones. His expression wasn't angry. It was terrifyingly serene, filled with a possessive certainty that stole Ling’s breath more effectively than the weight crushing his diaphragm. "This," Ashur gestured loosely at Ling’s immobilized body, the vast belly dominating the space, "is you becoming perfect. Embrace the ache."
The blender lid snapped shut. Ling squeezed his eyes closed, bracing for the shriek of the motor, the sound that heralded more torment. But it didn’t come. Instead, he felt Ashur’s warmth as he stepped close again. Large hands settled gently, impossibly gently, on the agonizingly tight curve of his belly, just below his ribs. Ashur’s thumbs pressed inward slightly, testing the terrifying solidity. Ling gasped, a sharp sound of pure overwhelm.
"Look at me, Xiao," Ashur commanded, voice low, resonant. Ling’s eyes flew open, meeting that intense golden gaze. Ashur’s fingers traced the lightning-bolt stretch marks flaring near his navel, the skin hot and sensitive. "You’re magnificent," Ashur breathed, genuine awe softening the edges of his possession. "A miracle I made. My miracle." One hand slid up to cradle Ling’s jaw, his thumb brushing away a tear track. "But miracles require sacrifice. Trust me. Can you do that? Can you trust me to take you further?"
The question hung in the thick, sweet-scented air. Ling stared into those golden eyes, seeing the obsession, the terrifying devotion, and beneath it, a fierce, unwavering certainty that this was Ling’s purpose. To be filled. To be reshaped. To be owned. The frantic panic, the desperate need to escape the crushing pressure, warred with something deeper, older – the secret yearning he’d barely admitted to himself. The craving for total surrender. To be completely in someone’s care, even if that care was this… overwhelming.
His gaze flickered down to his own body, to the impossible expanse of taut, marked flesh that used to be his stomach. It felt alien. Monumental. Utterly claimed. The counter’s edge was a cruel anchor, but also the only thing holding him upright against this conquering weight. Another deep, protesting gurgle vibrated through him. He was beyond full. Beyond reason.
Ashur’s thumb stroked his cheek. Waiting. The unblended smoothie ingredients sat on the counter, a silent, terrifying promise. Ling took another shallow, agonizing breath. The fight bled out of him, not with a whimper, but with a slow, sinking exhale. His trembling hands, resting on his monstrous sides, went slack. His head leaned, just slightly, into Ashur’s palm. The resistance dissolved, washed away by exhaustion, pain, and that terrifying, seductive pull of absolute surrender.
"Yeah," Ling whispered, the word barely a sigh, raw and broken. He closed his eyes again, not in fear, but in weary acceptance. His body sagged fully against the counter, the immense weight settling with finality. "Yours, Ashur. Just... yours."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Ashur’s face, radiant and possessive. He leaned in, his lips brushing Ling’s sweaty temple. "My perfect, greedy Little Bird," he murmured, the sound vibrating against Ling’s skin. His hand slid back down, resting possessively on the crest of the straining belly, feeling the frantic pulse beneath. "Just you wait," he breathed, his other hand reaching towards the blender switch. "See what perfect feels like next." The motor screamed to life.