Chapter 14: Beneath the Softness
The scent of sandalwood incense coiled through Ashur's dimly lit bathroom, thick and cloying, a desperate attempt to mask the lingering, sweet-fat smell of cream and peanut butter that seemed permanently etched into Ling’s pores. It didn’t work. The humid air hung heavy, pressing against Ling’s skin, already slick with sweat and the warm water sloshing around him. He sat submerged in the overflowing claw-foot tub, the waterline lapping high on the vast, pale dome of his belly. It rose before him like a moonlit hill, displacing so much water that it threatened to spill over the porcelain rim with every slight shift. His reflection in the steamy mirror across the room was a distorted, bloated parody, his delicate face flushed crimson above the impossible expanse of flesh.
He’d barely managed the walk here from the kitchen, a humiliating, waddling shuffle, his breath whistling painfully in his chest, hands braced under the immense weight that strained his spine and pulled him forward. The memory of the second blender load, thicker and colder than the first, forced down his throat while he was still convulsing from the previous one, sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his packed gut. He’d thrown up a little afterwards, a pathetic trickle of beige sludge that Ashur had merely wiped away with a towel, his expression unchanged. "Making room," he’d murmured.
Now, Ashur knelt on the marble floor between the tub and the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his thin t-shirt. The candlelight danced over the intricate black tattoos coiling his forearms, catching the predatory gleam in his golden eyes as they roved over Ling’s submerged form. Water beaded on Ling’s shoulders, dripped from the ends of his long, black hair clinging to the taut skin of his belly’s crest. He felt monstrous. Unrecognizable. Trapped inside this aching, alien softness.
"You look like a goddamn fertility idol," Ashur remarked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the humid air. He dipped a washcloth into the warm water and brought it to Ling’s chest, wiping gently at the sticky residue near his collarbone. The touch was incongruously tender. "A very, very well-fed one."
"Don't," Ling whispered, turning his head away, the movement making the water slosh violently against the tub’s sides, amplifying the internal groaning symphony within his belly. "Just... wash me. Please." Shame burned hotter than the water. He wanted to disappear into it.
Ashur chuckled, the sinful sound echoing off the tiled walls. "Patience, Little Bird. Gotta get the important bits." His hand, holding the washcloth, drifted lower, skimming the immense curve. The cloth snagged slightly on the fine, dark hairs that had thickened along the stretched skin near his navel. Ling flinched.
"Easy," Ashur soothed, but his eyes held that familiar, unnerving intensity. He let the washcloth sink beneath the water’s surface, his fingers following. Ling felt the pressure on the lower swell of his belly, Ashur’s hand pushing gently against the yielding flesh. "Gotta clean properly," Ashur murmured, his gaze fixed on the waterline where the vastness met the murk. "Can't neglect the hidden places."
Ling knew what he was searching for. He squeezed his eyes shut. It had been... difficult. Awkward. Since the explosive growth, what felt like mere weeks ago, everything down there had become buried, obscured by the soft, heavy curtains of fat spilling from his lower belly and inner thighs. Reaching himself was an impossible contortion. He’d resorted to careful, clumsy wiping with a long-handled brush, a humiliating ritual he performed quickly and with the lights off. The thought of Ashur seeing, touching… it was a new level of exposure.
Ashur’s fingers pressed deeper, parting the pillowy softness where Ling’s lower belly met his pubis. The water swirled around the intrusion. Ling gasped as Ashur’s knuckles brushed against something sensitive, something trapped.
"There you are," Ashur breathed, his voice thick with a reverence that bordered on obscene. He wasn't looking at Ling’s face anymore. His entire focus was locked beneath the water, on the small, half-hard length he’d uncovered, nestled and confined within its fleshy prison. "Hiding away."
Ling whimpered. "Ashur, don't—"
But Ashur was already leaning closer. He withdrew the washcloth, tossing it onto the floor with a wet slap. His hands returned to the water, both of them now, framing the parted flesh, thumbs pressing gently but insistently to keep the soft barrier open. He lowered his head. Ling felt the displacement of water, a surge against his belly, then the sudden, shocking heat and wetness of Ashur’s mouth enveloping him.
A choked cry escaped Ling’s lips. Not pleasure, not exactly. Overwhelm. Shocking, visceral contact. The sensation was muffled, distant, filtered through layers of taut skin and water, yet intensely intimate. He could feel the suction, the rhythmic pull, the scrape of teeth, all focused on that small, hidden part of himself Ashur had unearthed. The obscene wet sounds – sucking, water sloshing – filled the small room, louder than Ling’s ragged breathing.
He tried to squirm, but the weight pinned him. The water heaved, slapping against the immense jiggling sides of his belly with audible thwaps. Each movement amplified the deep, liquid groaning within him, a constant, gurgling counterpoint to Ashur's attentions. Tears pricked Ling’s eyes again, blurring the candle flames. It was too much. The crushing fullness from the smoothies, the burning stretch of his skin, the heat of the water, the overwhelming, almost clinical intimacy of Ashur’s mouth on his trapped flesh. He was a vessel, overflowing and being explored.
Ashur’s hands remained firm, holding the soft flesh apart, his mouth working relentlessly. His golden eyes were half-lidded, focused, utterly absorbed. He wasn’t just giving pleasure; he was claiming, mapping a territory he considered his own creation. Ling could feel a treacherous spark of unwanted arousal flicker beneath the suffocating layers of discomfort and shame, a betrayal by his own body. His hips gave an involuntary, tiny jerk, restricted by the water and his own mass.
Ashur made a low, approving hum around him, the vibration traveling straight to Ling’s core. He lifted his head slightly, breaking contact just long enough to murmur against the slick skin, "See, Little Bird? Even buried, you react. Still mine." Water dripped from his chin. His smirk was sinful, possessive, illuminated by the flickering light. "Every inch." His mouth descended again, hungrier this time, his hands pressing deeper into the yielding fat to get better access, making the water surge violently around Ling’s colossal midsection. The sloshing crescendoed, mingling with the sucking sounds and Ling’s broken gasps, a symphony of possession in the candlelit steam. Ling slumped back against the cool porcelain, utterly pinned, utterly exposed, the lines between care and consumption, desire and domination, dissolving in the warm, scented water.
Ling slumped back against the cool porcelain, utterly pinned, utterly exposed, the lines between care and consumption, desire and domination, dissolving in the warm, scented water. Ashur’s mouth was relentless, a hot, wet pressure that sent conflicting shivers through Ling’s bloated frame. Each suck felt like a brand, claiming the small, hidden part of him Ashur had excavated from its fleshy tomb.
Water sloshed violently with Ling’s involuntary twitches, waves crashing against the sides of his immense belly with rhythmic thuds. The gurgling symphony inside him seemed to grow louder, a counterpoint to the obscene, wet sounds emanating from below the waterline. "Ashur… please…" Ling gasped, the plea barely audible, lost in the humid air thick with sandalwood and exertion.
"Please what, Little Bird?" Ashur murmured, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening, eyes dark with intent. He didn't wait for an answer, diving back down, his hands pressing deeper into the yielding softness framing Ling’s trapped flesh. His thumbs dug slightly, widening the gap he’d created in the pillowy lower belly fat.
Ling’s breath hitched, sharp and ragged. The sensation was overwhelming – the crushing fullness from the kitchen ordeal still a leaden anchor, the burning stretch of his skin, the sheer vulnerability of his position, and now this targeted, intimate assault. He felt a treacherous heat blooming low in his gut, unwelcome yet undeniable, a physical betrayal of his swirling shame and exhaustion. His fingers scrabbled weakly against the smooth tub edge, finding no purchase.
Ashur hummed again, the vibration traveling straight through Ling, making his trapped cock jump. "Knew it," Ashur breathed against slick skin, triumph lacing his voice. "Buried under all this softness, you still sing for me." His tongue flicked, exploring, possessive. "Always singing."
Tears welled, blurring the dancing candle flames into smears of orange light. He felt like a specimen pinned down, every inch of his transformed body on display and under Ashur’s control. The cool porcelain against his back was the only anchor in a world reduced to sensation: water, heat, pressure, and Ashur’s demanding mouth. He wanted to push him away, to crawl into a dark corner and hide, but his body felt like it belonged to someone else, heavy and unresponsive.
"Look at you," Ashur rasped, pulling back slightly, golden eyes raking over the vast expanse of pale, water-slicked flesh rising from the tub. His gaze was proprietary, hungry. "My masterpiece." One hand left its post holding the fat apart, sliding up the taut curve of Ling’s belly, tracing the stretched skin near his navel where the fine hairs thickened. The touch was almost reverent, yet undeniably assessing.
Ling flinched, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. "Stop… looking at me like that," he whispered, voice trembling. The casual possessiveness in Ashur’s tone was as suffocating as the steam.
"Like what?" Ashur challenged, a familiar, sinful smirk playing on his lips. His exploring hand drifted lower again, rejoining the other to resume its task, fingers sinking back into the softness to expose his target. "Like you're the most beautiful thing I've ever made?" He leaned down once more, his breath hot on wet skin. "Like you're mine?" His mouth closed over Ling again, sucking harder, more insistently, his tongue swirling with deliberate pressure.
The unexpected intensity ripped a strangled sound from Ling’s throat. It started as a gasp, choked off by a surge of conflicting sensation – shock, shame, and a sharp, unavoidable lance of raw pleasure slicing through the numbness. His eyes flew wide, staring unseeing at the ceiling as his back arched fractionally off the tub, a silent scream trapped in his chest.
LING MOANS LOUDER.
The moan ripped from Ling’s throat, raw and involuntary, echoing off the tiles before he could choke it back. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a tremor that vibrated through his entire waterlogged body, making the surface slosh violently against the tub’s edge. Ashur immediately stilled, his mouth a searing brand against Ling’s trapped flesh. Golden eyes, dark and intense, snapped up to meet Ling’s wide, horrified gaze.
"Little Bird?" Ashur murmured, his voice thick, rough. He pulled back just enough to speak, lips slick, water dripping from his chin onto the vast curve of Ling’s belly. "Was that…?"
"No!" Ling gasped, the denial frantic, tears spilling over despite his efforts. "It wasn't— I didn’t—" His face burned hotter than the bathwater. He tried to squirm, to shut his thighs, but the sheer mass and Ashur’s hands anchoring his softness made it impossible. The internal groaning from his packed stomach surged, a nauseating counterpoint to his panic. He felt exposed, dissected.
A slow, sinful smirk spread across Ashur’s face, replacing the momentary surprise. It was the look he got when he’d cornered his prey. Triumphant. "Oh, it was," he breathed, leaning in again, his breath hot on Ling’s wet skin. "Sounded pretty damn loud from where I was kneeling." One hand slid slowly, possessively, up the immense swell of Ling’s belly, tracing the stretched skin near his navel. "Your body remembers what it needs, even if that stubborn little brain tries to fight it."
Ling flinched at the touch, a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over him. The memory of the kitchen was still sharp – the funnel, the thick, cloying smoothie coating his throat, the terrifying pressure building until he thought he’d burst. "It remembers being… violated," Ling whispered, turning his head away, staring at the flickering candle’s reflection in the steamy mirror. His bloated silhouette seemed monstrous.
"Fed," Ashur corrected, his voice dropping to a low purr. His thumb rubbed a slow circle on Ling’s taut skin. "Cared for. Filled up." His other hand drifted back down, fingers once more seeking the heat and wetness between the parted folds of soft flesh. "Protected." He found his target again, the trapped length now fully hard despite Ling’s shame. Ashur made a low sound of satisfaction. "Look at that. Buried treasure, wide awake."
"Stop calling it that!" Ling choked out, the plea hoarse. The conflicting sensations were maddening: the sore, stretched ache from sheer volume, the heat of Ashur’s touch, the unwanted spark flaring low in his gut where Ashur’s fingers brushed. He felt fractured. "It’s not… It’s just… biology. Reflex." He hated how weak his voice sounded.
Ashur chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against Ling’s skin. "Biology, huh?" His fingers didn’t stop their gentle exploration, tracing the sensitive ridge. "This feels like more than just nerves firing, Xiao." His use of Ling’s full name felt like a physical touch, deliberate and intimate. "This feels like want." He dipped his head lower, his breath ghosting over the slick skin. "Buried deep, maybe. But screaming to get out."
Ling squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the candlelight, the steam, the overwhelming presence of Ashur and his own traitorous body. He focused on the porcelain cool against his back, the sloshing water, the endless internal gurgle – anything but the heat pooling low, the insistent thrum Ashur was stoking. He remembered the helplessness in the kitchen, pinned against the counter, the smoothie relentlessly pouring. Powerless. Cared for. Full.
"Admit it," Ashur murmured, his lips brushing Ling’s skin. The touch sent another jolt through him. "Just a little bit. You liked the feeling. Of being so full you couldn’t think. Couldn’t move." His tongue flicked out, light, testing. Ling’s hips jerked involuntarily. "Couldn’t do anything but take what I gave you."
The words were a key turning in a rusty lock Ling hadn't known was there. The crushing fullness hadn't just been agony. There was… relief in it. A terrifying, seductive relief in the surrender, in the cessation of resistance. The fear of bursting had been tangled with a dark, shameful thrill of being pushed beyond his limits, by him. The sheer impossibility of escape, of refusal. Ashur’s hands supporting his weight as he’d waddled here, the careful washing… it was control, yes, absolute and terrifying. But it was also… care. Twisted, all-consuming care.
A low whimper escaped Ling, different from the moan. Softer. Needy. His body felt like a plucked string resonating at Ashur’s touch, his words. He was floating, unmoored, in the warm water, anchored only by Ashur’s hands and the immense weight on his frame. The shame was still there, a burning coal, but something else was coiling beneath it, dense and desperate.
Ashur felt the shift, the minute yielding. He made that approving hum again, the vibration traveling straight to Ling’s core. "There it is," he breathed, victorious. His mouth covered Ling fully again, sucking deep, drawing another choked gasp. His hands pressed firmly into the yielding fat, holding the soft barrier wide open, claiming access. The sounds were obscene: wet suction, water sloshing against the vast, jiggling sides of Ling’s belly, his own ragged, catching breath.
Ling’s head fell back against the tub rim. His hands, which had been weakly gripping the porcelain, slid off, falling limply into the water. He couldn’t fight. Not the sensations, not the exhaustion, not the terrifying truth unfurling inside him like a poisonous flower. The ache, the stretch, the overwhelming pressure from the kitchen… it hadn’t just been a violation. It had been a promise. A dark, seductive promise of being utterly filled, utterly controlled, utterly needed to fulfill Ashur’s desire.
He was drowning, not in water, but in the terrifying realization. His body arched slightly, not away, but into Ashur’s mouth, seeking more of that searing, shameful contact. A ragged sob tore from him, but beneath it, tangled in the gasps and the sloshing water, the words bled out, raw and barely audible, yet unmistakable in the sudden stillness Ashur created by pulling back just a fraction. "M-more."