Chapter 4: The Cake Ceremony
The rich, cloying sweetness of the cream drink still coated Ling's tongue, a thick, greasy film he couldn't swallow away. It lay heavy atop the mountain of pancakes, bacon, and syrup churning sluggishly in his tortured belly. He lay propped against a mountain of plush pillows on Ashur’s bed, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows that made the pronounced swell beneath his charcoal sweater seem even larger, more monstrous. His breath came in small, shallow sips; any deeper expansion sent a fresh wave of agony radiating through his core. The soft, dark bedding felt like sandpaper against his oversensitized skin. Beeswax and a ghost of incense couldn't mask the internal scent-memory of maple and grease.
Ashur moved around the room with predatory grace, the candlelight gilding the hard planes of his tattooed torso. He’d discarded his jeans, clad only in low-slung grey sweatpants that did little to hide his own evident arousal. He hummed, a low, satisfied tune, as he opened a large white box on the cluttered dresser. The scent that bloomed into the air was decadent, sinful; deep, dark chocolate and sweet, buttery frosting. Ling’s stomach clenched violently in protest, a sour, burning reflux rising in his throat. He gagged, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth.
"None of that now, Little Bird," Ashur chided softly, not turning around. He carefully lifted the cake from the box – a towering layer cake, frosted in thick, glossy chocolate, decorated with dark curls and whole raspberries. It looked obscene. "Look what I found. Pure indulgence." He carried it over, the heavy scent preceding him, and placed it on the nightstand beside the empty glass that had held the cream concoction. Ling whimpered, shrinking back into the pillows. "Ashur… please… I can’t. Not again. It still hurts. I feel… I feel like I’m going to explode."
Ashur just smiled, that sinful smirk that never failed to send a treacherous shiver down Ling’s spine despite the dread. "Shhh. Trust me," he murmured, climbing onto the bed. He didn’t ask. He simply straddled Ling’s hips, his powerful thighs caging Ling’s slender legs. The immediate pressure on Ling’s dangerously distended belly was excruciating. Ling cried out, a sharp, pained gasp. "Ashur! Get off! You’re crushing me!"
"Am I?" Ashur’s voice was a low purr. He shifted his weight slightly, just enough to alleviate the worst of the crushing sensation but not enough to let Ling escape the contact. His hand, warm and possessive, settled on the swollen curve where the sweater had ridden up, revealing the taut, pale skin of Ling’s lower belly. He traced the stretched skin with a fingertip, his golden eyes dark with fascination. "God, look at you. Still so fucking round from this morning. Beautiful." His thumb pressed in, not hard, but enough to make Ling gasp again, feeling the immense pressure inside. "Needs a little something sweet on top, doesn't it?"
He reached over without looking, his fingers sinking into the thick chocolate frosting. He pulled out a large, glistening dollop. Ling watched, paralyzed with horror, as Ashur brought the frosting-coated fingers towards his exposed belly. The cool, sticky mass landed with a soft splat right below his navel. Ling flinched violently. "Cold!"
"Just warming it up," Ashur murmured. His hand began to spread the frosting, slow, deliberate strokes across the swollen expanse of Ling’s belly. The coolness quickly gave way to the warmth of Ashur’s palm as he smeared the rich chocolate in broad circles, coating the pale, stretched skin. It was an intimate violation, the slickness, the possessive touch mapping the territory he’d conquered. "Look at that," Ashur breathed, his gaze fixed on the glossy sheen, the way the frosting clung to Ling’s skin, highlighting the incredible curve. "My perfect, stuffed Little Bird. All shiny for me."
He leaned down, his golden hair falling forward, and licked a long, slow stripe through the frosting, from Ling’s hip bone up towards his navel. Ling gasped, the sensation – wet, warm, obscene – sending a jolt through him that had nothing to do with hunger. Ashur hummed against his skin. "Mmm. Delicious. Almost as sweet as you." He dipped his fingers back into the cake, scooping out another, even larger chunk of frosting mingled with crumb. This time, he brought it directly to Ling’s lips. "Open."
Ling shook his head frantically, pressing his lips together. "No! Ashur, no more! I’ll be sick! Please!"
"Ling," Ashur said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. It was pure command. His eyes locked onto Ling’s, unyielding. The hand not holding the cake-frosting mess tightened its grip on Ling’s hip, pinning him. "Open. Your. Mouth." The pressure on his belly increased subtly. "Now."
Tears welled in Ling’s green eyes. The pain, the pressure, the sheer dominance in Ashur’s gaze… his resistance crumbled like dry sand. With a shuddering sob, he opened his mouth. Ashur immediately pushed the sweet, crumbly mass inside. The intense chocolate flavor exploded, rich and cloying, overwhelming Ling’s already saturated senses. He choked, trying to chew the dense cake, the frosting smearing his lips and chin. Ashur watched, rapt, as Ling struggled to swallow the enormous bite, the bob of his throat visible, painful. "Good boy," Ashur breathed, the praise dark and possessive. "Taking it so well. Look how fucking round you are. Needs more filling, doesn't it?"
He didn’t wait. He tore off a slice of cake itself – thick layers of chocolate sponge soaked in syrup, separated by even more frosting. He held it near Ling’s mouth, dripping. "Another."
It was relentless. Bite after bite. Ashur fed him methodically, his eyes never leaving Ling’s face or the expanding swell beneath his hand. Ling chewed and swallowed mechanically, tears streaming silently down his temples, lost in a haze of sugar, pain, and helpless submission. Each swallow felt like adding rocks to a sack already bursting at the seams. His belly felt impossibly tight, stretched beyond capacity, pushing up against Ashur’s weight, the frosting now sticky and smeared across his skin. Ashur murmured constant, filthy praise: "That's it, take it all." "Look how fucking big you're getting." "My perfect, fattened slut." "Love your stuffed cunt of a belly." The crude words mixed with the sweetness, making Ling whimper.
When half the cake was gone, Ashur paused. Ling slumped back, panting, his belly a taut, glistening dome under the candlelight, smeared with chocolate and sweat. Ashur’s gaze wasn’t on his face anymore. It was fixed lower, between Ling’s legs, where his own hardness pressed obscenely against the worn denim. Ashur’s hand, sticky with frosting, left Ling’s belly. It slid down, past the bunched sweater, past the waistband of Ling’s jeans. Ling cried out as Ashur’s fingers, slick with chocolate, found his cock through the briefs. He was hard, achingly so, a traitorous response to the overwhelming stimuli.
"See?" Ashur growled, his fingers rubbing firmly, the friction intensified by the sticky frosting. "Your greedy little body loves this. Wants more. Needs it." He unbuttoned Ling’s jeans with his clean hand, yanking them and the briefs down just enough to free Ling’s cock. It sprang up, flushed and leaking. Ashur wrapped his frosting-smeared hand around it. The slick, cool sweetness combined with the rough friction was overwhelming, perverse. Ling arched off the pillows with a strangled cry, torn between agony and the sharp, unwanted pleasure ripping through him. "Fuck, yes," Ashur groaned, stroking him faster, his thumb swiping through the mess of pre-come and chocolate on the head. "Look at you. Puffed full of cake, belly tight as a drum, and your cock’s fucking dripping. Such a perfect little piggy."
He released Ling’s cock suddenly, leaving it twitching, smeared dark brown. Ashur shifted his weight, kneeling back. His own erection strained against his sweatpants. He pulled them down, freeing his thick cock, flushed and heavy. He reached for the cake again, this time scooping out a huge handful of frosting and crumbs. Ling watched, dreading understanding. Ashur coated his cock thickly with the chocolate mess, stroking himself slowly, the obscene slick sounds filling the room. His golden eyes burned into Ling’s. "Gonna stuff you even fuller, Little Bird."
Ling shook his head weakly, terror flooding him. "No… Ashur… inside… can't… too full… please…"
Ignoring the plea, Ashur grabbed Ling’s plush thighs – soft flesh yielding easily despite Ling's slight frame – and hooked them over his own. He pinned Ling’s thighs apart with his knees, spreading him wide. The position arched Ling’s back, forcing his swollen belly even more prominently forward. Ashur spat crudely into the chocolate mess coating his cock, mixing it, before lining himself up. The thick, frosted head pressed against Ling’s tight entrance. Ling sobbed, trying to squirm away, but Ashur’s grip on his thighs was iron.
"Take it," Ashur commanded, voice guttural. He pushed forward.
Ling screamed. The intrusion was brutal. The stretch was immense, burning, tearing through the unprepared muscle, compounded by the overwhelming pressure of his stuffed belly pushing his organs down. The slick frosting offered little ease; it was cold and gritty with crumbs, making the slide feel alien and violating. Ashur groaned, a sound of pure, dark pleasure, as he forced himself deeper, stretching Ling impossibly wide. "Fuck… so tight… fucking gripping me… around all that cake…"
He didn’t stop. He pushed relentlessly, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, excruciating thrust. Ling arched like a bowstring, a scream ripped from his throat that dissolved into frantic, shallow gasps. He was impaled, stretched to splitting, his belly a solid, agonizing wall pressing against Ashur’s hips. Every nerve screamed. Ashur pulled back almost all the way, the drag agonizing, then slammed home again, hard. Ling’s body jolted, his distended belly wobbling obscenely. Ashur set a punishing rhythm, deep, powerful thrusts that shook the bed.
"Yes! Fuck! Feel it!" Ashur snarled, his hands gripping Ling’s hips hard enough to bruise, driving into him. "Feel my cock stuffing you! Feel your belly full! All of it! Every fucking inch!" His thrusts grew harder, faster. The headboard slammed against the wall with each drive. The air filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, Ashur’s ragged grunts, and Ling’s broken, breathless sobs. The conflicting sensations were a maelstrom: the deep, tearing burn of penetration, the crushing fullness in his gut making each thrust vibrate through his core, the sticky mess between them, and the horrifying, shameful spark of pleasure that flared with each brutal impact against a spot deep inside. "Look at your belly bounce!" Ashur gasped, pounding into him. "Look how fucking round! Stuffed with cake and my cock! My perfect, ruined Little Bird! Gonna fucking breed this fat little cunt!"
The crude words, the relentless pounding, the impossible stretching – inside and out – pushed Ling over an edge he didn't know existed. With a final, choked scream that was pure agony and unwanted ecstasy, he came, untouched, his cock pulsing weakly against his chocolate-smeared belly, adding to the mess. His body clamped down viscously around Ashur’s invading cock, milking it.
Ashur roared, slamming home one last time, burying himself impossibly deep as he erupted. Ling felt the hot pulses flooding his already stretched passage, adding another layer of internal fullness. Ashur collapsed forward onto him, his weight crushing the swollen belly, forcing a pained gag from Ling’s lips. Ashur panted against Ling’s neck, his body shuddering through the release. He stayed buried deep, his hand splayed possessively over the shaking, glistening curve of Ling’s belly, feeling the frantic tremors beneath the sticky chocolate mess. "Perfect," he rasped, the word thick with sated possession. "So fucking perfect. Full everywhere." He shifted slightly, grinding his still-hard cock deeper, making Ling whimper. "Just wait ‘til you see what I feed you tomorrow."