Chapter 5: The Cream Ritual
The stale sweetness of chocolate still clung to Ling’s skin, a phantom itch beneath the oversized charcoal sweater Ashur had wrestled him back into hours ago, after… everything. His belly, a taut, heavy globe under the thin wool, pulsed with a deep, residual ache. Every breath was a conscious effort, inflating his ribs against the unyielding pressure within. The room swam in the dim, flickering light of the single candle on the nightstand, casting long, dancing shadows from Ashur’s form as he moved. The scent of incense was stronger now, cloying, almost suffocating, mingling with the lingering smell of sex and sugar.
Ashur returned to the bedside, a large, chilled metal pitcher gleaming dully in the candlelight. Condensation beaded its sides. He placed it beside the candle with a soft clink, his golden eyes fixed on Ling, who lay propped against the pillows, looking utterly spent, his long black hair fanned out like spilled ink. Ashur’s gaze travelled over the pronounced curve straining the sweater, down to where new, soft fullness rounded Ling’s hips and thighs, visible even through the fabric. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"Morning, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something darker. He ran a hand possessively over the swollen mound of Ling’s stomach. Ling flinched, a soft whimper escaping him as the touch sent fresh waves of discomfort radiating through his core. "Still nice and round," Ashur purred, his fingers digging in slightly, testing the yielding firmness. "Held onto every bite, didn't you? Good boy."
"Ashur… please…" Ling’s voice was thin, strained. "It hurts. Really hurts. I feel… stretched. Like my skin can’t…" He trailed off, green eyes wide with a mixture of pain and apprehension as Ashur picked up the heavy pitcher.
"Shhh," Ashur soothed, the sound utterly at odds with the intent in his eyes. He swung a leg over Ling’s thickened waist, settling his weight directly onto the soft swell of Ling’s lower belly and hips. The pressure was immediate, crushing, forcing the air from Ling’s lungs in a pained gasp. Ashur ignored it, adjusting himself, his own sweatpants-clad thighs pinning Ling’s arms loosely to his sides. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to Ling’s. "You know what fixes that feeling? More filling. Helps smooth everything out. Makes it… permanent." He grinned, that sinful smirk that made Ling’s stomach flip even now. "Time for your cream."
Ling’s eyes flicked to the pitcher, then back to Ashur’s face, panic flaring. "No! Ashur, not that! I can’t… Last night… the cake… I’m still so full! I’ll be sick!"
"You won’t," Ashur stated, matter-of-fact. He lifted the pitcher, the cold metal radiating chill. "You’re mine. My Little Bird. And I want you soft. Rounded." His free hand tangled in Ling’s hair, not roughly, but with absolute control, tipping his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat. "Open wide."
The cold spout touched Ling’s lower lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. "Please…"
"Now." The command brooked no disobedience. The pressure on his belly increased, emphasizing the threat.
A sob hitched in Ling’s chest, but his jaw slackened. Ashur tilted the pitcher. A thick, viscous stream of pure, chilled heavy cream poured into Ling’s mouth. The shock of cold made him gasp, but Ashur didn’t stop. The cream flooded in, impossibly rich, cloyingly sweet, coating his tongue, filling his mouth faster than he could swallow. He choked, trying to gulp it down, but the flow was relentless.
"That’s it," Ashur whispered, his voice thick with dark satisfaction. He watched the cream spill over Ling’s lips, tracing a glistening path down his chin, dripping onto the exposed hollow of his throat, soaking into the collar of the sweater. "Swallow it, Ling. Take it all for me. Look at you… already dripping like a good little cream puff." His thumb brushed away a rivulet of cream tracing Ling’s jawline, then pushed it back between his lips.
Ling’s throat worked convulsively. Each swallow was a monumental effort, forcing the heavy cream down past the tightness in his chest, adding to the unbearable pressure below. His belly, already distended, began to visibly rise further, pushing out against Ashur’s weight with a low, internal groan. The sweater tightened across his chest, revealing the new, soft fullness there – subtle curves where once there had been sharp angles. Cream dripped steadily now, landing in thick, white splotches on that newly rounded plane.
"So beautiful," Ashur breathed, tilting the pitcher higher, increasing the flow. The cream wasn’t just filling Ling’s mouth; it was cascading over his chin, down his neck, pooling in the dip of his collarbones, saturating the worn wool. "Look how you’re changing. Filling out so nicely. Your little tits getting plump… that belly getting gloriously heavy. Perfect for holding all this cream, isn’t it?" He shifted his hips slightly, grinding down on Ling’s swollen middle, forcing another choked gasp. "My perfect piggy. Just keeps taking it."
Lungfuls of air became impossible. The cream kept coming. Cold sweetness choked him. Panic seized Ling’s chest, sharp and primal. He tried to turn his head, to signal he was drowning, but Ashur’s grip in his hair was unyielding. He gagged violently, cream spurting from his nose. His eyes flew open, wide with terror, pleading silently.
Ashur paused the flow, pulling the spout back just enough. "Easy," he murmured, though his eyes burned with a feverish intensity. "Easy, Little Bird. Breathe. Just swallow." He watched, rapt, as Ling struggled to clear his airway, coughing, creamy drool spilling down his chin. Ashur’s other hand slid under the sweater, warm and rough against the cool, sticky skin of Ling’s ballooning belly. He palmed the tight curve, fingers splayed wide, feeling the strain of skin stretched taut over the grotesque volume within – the remnants of cake, the relentless tide of cream. "Feel that? So full. So fucking round. Could bounce a coin off it." He pressed down, hard, eliciting a pained, wet gurgle from Ling’s throat. "Needs more. Needs to be overflowing." He brought the pitcher back.
The renewed torrent was worse. Ling was beyond protest, reduced to desperate, reflexive swallows. His body was a vessel, forcibly filled. His belly pushed up against Ashur’s weight like an overstuffed sack, the skin tight and shiny under the cream and sweat. The sweater was soaked through across his chest and stomach, clinging obscenely to the new, undeniable softness – the plump swell of his pecs, the deep curve of his gut, even the beginnings of softer rolls at his sides where Ashur’s hips pinned him. Cream dripped steadily from his chin, landing with soft plops onto the soft, rounded flesh of his chest, tracing paths through the damp wool.
Ashur watched the cream drip onto that softness, his breath catching. "Look at that," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. "My cream, marking my territory. Making you perfect." He poured the last dregs of the pitcher slowly, deliberately, letting the thick liquid spill over Ling’s open lips, down his chin, and onto the soaked sweater covering his rounded chest. Ling’s swallows were feeble now, more like convulsions. His belly felt like a solid, hot stone, pressing against his spine. He felt monstrous, inflated. Tears mixed with the cream on his face.
Finally, the pitcher was empty. Ashur set it aside with a soft clatter. He didn’t move off Ling. He leaned down, his lips brushing Ling’s ear. "So good," he whispered, the praise a dark caress. "Took it all. Look at you…" He ran a hand over the crest of Ling’s belly, feeling the terrifyingly solid mass beneath. "So fucking round. My perfect, fattened Little Bird. Soft in all the right places." His hand dipped lower, under the sweater’s hem, fingers tracing the deep, sensitive crease where Ling’s swollen belly met his groin. Ling gasped, a shudder running through him, the conflicting sensations of agonizing fullness and unwanted arousal a terrifying vortex.
Ashur chuckled, low and dark. "See? Even stuffed like this, your greedy body reacts. Can’t help it." He ground his hips down again, the pressure intense, deliberate. Ling cried out, a strangled sound. Ashur pressed his lips to Ling’s sweaty temple, his voice a possessive growl. "Just wait. This is just the start. Gonna make you so soft… so perfectly, deliciously big." He shifted his weight, settling more heavily onto Ling’s shuddering, cream-slicked form, pinning him completely beneath the weight of his own transformed body and Ashur’s relentless desire. The flickering candlelight danced over the scene – the glistening cream, the distorted, stuffed silhouette under the soaked sweater, the golden predator claiming his prize. Ashur sighed, a sound of deep contentment, his fingers still tracing the straining curve beneath the wool. "Tomorrow," he murmured, the word a dark promise hanging heavy in the incense-laden air, "We see how much heavier you can get."
The single candle guttered, throwing monstrous, trembling shadows against the velvet-draped walls. Ling lay pinned beneath Ashur’s weight, his world reduced to the crushing pressure on his swollen belly and the sticky chill of drying cream plastering the oversized sweater to his newly rounded chest. Each shallow breath was a battle against the solid mass within him, a constant, aching reminder of the cream still churning against the remnants of cake. Ashur’s scent – sweat, incense, and something darker, possessive – filled his nostrils, mingling nauseatingly with the cloying sweetness. He felt like a discarded pastry, overfilled and leaking.
"Just the start," Ashur murmured again, his voice a low vibration against Ling’s temple. His hand, still resting possessively on the straining curve under the damp wool, began to move. It wasn't a caress. It was a slow, deliberate exploration, mapping the terrifying new landscape Ashur had sculpted. Thick fingers traced the deep, sensitive crease where the swollen dome of Ling’s belly met his pelvic bone, pressing in just enough to make Ling whimper and arch uselessly against the weight pinning him. "Feel how tight the skin is here? Like a drumskin." Ashur’s thumb swiped over the pronounced curve below Ling’s navel, visible even through the soaked sweater. "So fucking round. Perfect."
He shifted his hips, grinding down deliberately. The pressure intensified, forcing a choked gasp from Ling’s throat. Ashur chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Still sensitive? Good." His hand slid lower, fingers dipping beneath the bunched hem of the sweater, finding the waistband of Ling’s jeans. "Let's see how greedy you really are, Little Bird." He didn't fumble with buttons. He simply yanked the denim and the damp briefs beneath down, baring Ling’s cock to the cool air. It lay flaccid, exhausted, nestled against the terrifying swell of his lower belly, a stark contrast to the monstrous fullness above.
Ashur’s sticky fingers, still coated in traces of cream and Ling’s own sweat, closed around him. The touch wasn't gentle. It was demanding, possessive. He began to stroke, a slow, rough pull that ignored Ling’s spent state, focusing solely on eliciting a response. Ling cried out, a sound thin with pain and unwanted sensation. "Ashur... stop... please... hurts..." His hips tried to twist away, but Ashur’s knees clamped tighter on his thickened waist, immobilizing him. The friction was an intrusion, scraping against oversensitized skin, adding a layer of raw discomfort on top of the deep, internal agony.
"Does it?" Ashur purred, his golden eyes fixed on Ling’s face, watching the tears well and spill over. He didn't ease his grip. His thumb found the head, pressing down hard on the slit. "Or does your greedy little cock crave it? Even stuffed full, even hurting... look." He increased the pace, the rough pull becoming insistent, relentless. Dried cream flaked off his fingers, mingling with the fresh moisture he was brutally coaxing. "See? Responding already. So fucking eager." Ling’s body betrayed him, a traitorous flicker of heat igniting low in his gut, warring violently with the nausea and pain. He sobbed, shaking his head, but his cock twitched in Ashur’s unforgiving grasp, beginning to stiffen against his will.
"That’s it," Ashur growled, leaning closer, his breath hot on Ling’s ear. "Give it to me. Come for me again. Show me how much your body loves being mine. Loves being full. Loves being ruined." His strokes became punishing, a brutal rhythm focused solely on forcing release. The pressure on Ling’s belly was crushing, the friction on his cock was agony, the conflicting sensations – pain, unwanted arousal, utter helplessness – collided like storm waves. He arched, a strangled scream ripped from his throat, not of pleasure, but of sheer, overwhelming violation as his exhausted body was forced over the edge. Hot, thin fluid spilled over Ashur’s knuckles onto the taut, glistening skin of Ling’s lower belly, adding another slick layer to the mess.
Ashur held him through the shuddering aftershocks, his grip unyielding, watching the tears stream down Ling’s face. He didn't let go until Ling went utterly limp, gasping like a landed fish, the fight completely drained out of him. Only then did Ashur slowly release him, his sticky hand resting possessively back on the crest of Ling’s swollen stomach. He looked down at the wreckage beneath him – the tear-streaked face, the heaving chest straining the wet sweater, the obscenely distended belly, the come-smeared skin. A dark, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Beautiful. Absolutely fucking ruined."
Ling felt hollowed out. Broken. The pain was a constant throb, a physical manifestation of Ashur’s dominance. The unwanted climax left him feeling filthy, used beyond comprehension. He stared up at the canopy of shadows on the ceiling, the flickering candlelight blurring. Ashur’s words echoed – ruined, full, mine. The crushing pressure, the relentless stuffing, the brutal control... it had stripped away everything. Resistance was futile. Pain was inevitable. A terrifying emptiness yawned inside him, deeper than the physical fullness. He craved... something. Not the cream, not the cake. An end to the struggle. Surrender. Complete surrender.
His voice, when it finally came, was a shattered whisper, raw and broken, barely audible over his ragged breathing. "Ashur..." It wasn't a plea for mercy. It sounded like defeat. Ashur tilted his head, golden eyes sharp, predatory, waiting. Ling swallowed thickly, the movement sending fresh agony through his packed gut. He looked down, not at Ashur, but at the monstrous curve of his own belly, the sticky evidence of his violation smeared across his skin. Shame warred with a terrifying, desperate need. He closed his eyes, the tears still leaking. "Please..." he breathed, the word thick with despair and a terrifying kind of longing. "Fatten me."