Chapter 6: The Weigh-In
The word hung thick and broken in the incense-choked air: "Fatten me." Ashur went utterly still above him, his predatory glee momentarily replaced by a deeper, almost frightening stillness. Then, a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face, wider and more genuine than any smirk. It wasn't playful. It was the smile of absolute victory. He lowered his head, pressing his lips hard against Ling’s temple, a seal on the surrender.
"Finally," he breathed, the sound vibrating against Ling’s skin. He shifted his weight off Ling’s agonizingly swollen belly, the sudden release a gasp-inducing relief that immediately warred with a terrifying sense of emptiness. Ashur moved with swift, efficient purpose. He bundled Ling, sticky with drying cream and trembling, into thick towels, ignoring feeble protests about the cold floor tiles. "No more hiding, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, lifting him effortlessly. Ling’s head lolled against Ashur’s shoulder, exhaustion warring with a strange, hollow ache where defiance had been. He barely registered the journey through Ashur’s dim apartment, the clang of a heavy door, the sudden shift in atmosphere.
The private gym hit Ling like a physical blow. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, starkly illuminating every curve and shadow. The air was thick, humid, saturated with the sharp tang of sweat, rubber mats, and metal. Somewhere unseen, weights clanked rhythmically against plates. The hum of resistance machines was a constant, oppressive drone. Ling shivered violently in Ashur’s arms, the towels doing little against the chill and the stark exposure after the velvet sanctuary turned prison.
Ashur carried him past gleaming racks of dumbbells, past a monstrous leg press machine, towards a corner that seemed deliberately isolated. There, incongruously, sat a brightly lit conveyor belt sushi station, plates of colorful rolls circling endlessly beneath a large digital timer currently blank. But Ashur bypassed it, heading instead for a strange apparatus bolted to the ceiling beams: thick leather straps, padded cuffs, and a heavy-duty industrial scale bolted directly beneath it. Ling’s heart hammered against his ribs, pressing uncomfortably against his still-tender, distended gut.
"Time for a proper weigh-in," Ashur announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He laid Ling down on a padded bench near the harness. "See how well my Little Bird’s been growing." His golden eyes raked over Ling’s towel-wrapped form, lingering on the pronounced curve hidden beneath terrycloth. "Gonna need a baseline."
With practiced ease, Ashur unwrapped the towels. Cold air prickled Ling’s damp, sticky skin. He instinctively tried to curl in on himself, to hide the undeniable softness mantling his hips, the soft swell of his chest that felt heavier, more present, the belly that was still visibly rounded despite the emptying ache from the morning's cream. Ashur caught his wrists. "None of that," he chided softly, but firmly. "No hiding here. This is your truth now." He began strapping thick leather cuffs around Ling’s ankles and wrists, the buckles cold against his skin. Each click felt like the turning of a lock. The harness itself was complex – wide leather bands designed to encircle thighs just below the new softness of Ling’s hips, another thick strap around his thickened waist, and a broad yoke that settled across his shoulders. Ashur tightened each strap methodically, the leather groaning softly under tension.
Ling felt tears welling again, hot and humiliating. He was being trussed, displayed. Ashur attached heavy-duty carabiners clipped to sturdy chains hanging from the ceiling pulley system. With a grunt of effort, Ashur cranked a thick lever. The chains tightened, lifting Ling off the bench. He gasped as his full weight settled into the harness straps, biting into his flesh. The pulley groaned overhead. For a terrifying second, he hung suspended a few inches off the bench, utterly vulnerable, swaying slightly. Then Ashur cranked again, lowering him carefully until his bare feet dangled just above the gleaming platform of the industrial scale.
He hung naked, suspended in the harsh light. The leather straps dug into his soft thighs, his rounded hips, his waist. His belly, free from compression, sagged gently against the waist strap, a soft, pale mound. His chest, exposed, showed the undeniable plumpness Ashur had called "little tits." Every new curve, every softened plane, was laid bare, highlighted by the unforgiving illumination. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look down at the scale display Ashur was intently watching.
"Look," Ashur commanded. His voice wasn't harsh; it was thick with dark pride.
Reluctantly, Ling opened his eyes. The digital display blinked: 147.8 lbs. It meant nothing to him, a number divorced from the body he’d known. But Ashur let out a low whistle. "Look at that," he murmured, stepping closer. He ran a warm, calloused hand possessively over Ling’s suspended belly, making him flinch. "All that cream, all that cake… it stuck. Beautiful." He tapped the display. "Remember when you first stumbled into that tattoo shop? Could barely tip the scales past ninety soaking wet. Look how far my Little Bird’s flown."
He moved away briefly, returning with a large stainless steel pitcher filled with a thick, pale beige liquid. The smell hit Ling instantly – artificially sweet vanilla, underscored by something chalky, chemical. Protein shake. Ling’s stomach, still aching, clenched in protest. Ashur attached a wide-bore funnel to the pitcher’s spout.
"No," Ling whimpered, pulling uselessly against the straps. "Ashur, please… I can't. Not more."
"You can," Ashur stated, utterly certain. He positioned himself directly in front of Ling, his golden eyes locking onto Ling’s wide, fearful green ones. He lifted the funnel. "You will. Because you asked me to fatten you.Remember?" The funnel touched Ling’s lips. It tasted cold, metallic. "Open wide."
The memory of his own broken plea echoed – "Fatten me." It felt like a sentence. Defeated, exhausted, hollowed out from his earlier surrender, Ling’s jaw slackened. Ashur tilted the pitcher.
The thick, cold sludge poured into his mouth. It was cloyingly sweet, thick as cold pancake batter, coating his tongue and throat instantly. He gagged, choking, trying to swallow against the relentless flow. It was nothing like the rich cream; this was artificial, punishingly dense. Some spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin onto his exposed chest and belly. Ashur watched, rapt, his gaze fixed not on Ling’s face, but on the scale display beneath his dangling feet.
"Swallow," Ashur urged, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate murmur. He tilted the pitcher higher. The flow intensified. Ling gulped convulsively, tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the spilled shake. Each swallow was a battle, forcing the heavy paste down into his already protesting stomach. It felt like swallowing wet sand. Cold. Relentless.
"Good," Ashur crooned."So good. Feel that? Filling you up. Packing it in." His free hand stroked Ling’s suspended thigh, then slid up to cup the soft swell spilling over the waist strap of the harness. "Look at the scale, Little Bird."
Ling, fighting to breathe between gulps, forced his eyes down. The numbers flickered: 148.1... 148.3... 148.6... The ascent was slow, agonizingly visible. Each fractional increase coincided with another painful swallow, another cold lump settling deep inside him. Ashur poured steadily, his voice a low rumble near Ling’s ear. "See that? Every swallow. Every ounce. Every pound." His hand squeezed the yielding flesh of Ling’s hip. "That’s you. That’s my work. That’s your surrender." He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Ling’s ear. "And every single pound you gain…" His voice dropped to a husky whisper, full of dark promise. "...I'll celebrate it. Right here. With my hands. With my mouth. With my cock. Deep inside you."
The words vibrated through Ling. The cold paste choked him. The straps dug in. The scale numbers climbed: 149.0... 149.2. Yet, beneath the suffocating discomfort, beneath the humiliation of hanging exposed and force-fed, something else flickered. Ashur’s absolute focus, his possessive touch, the raw intensity of his desire… it wasn't just cruelty. It was attention. Devotion, warped and terrifying, but undeniable. And the promise… a dark, visceral reward woven into the punishment. Ling whimpered around the funnel, but this time it wasn’t purely pain. A strange heat bloomed in his gut, low and insistent, tangled with the nausea. His hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk against the harness straps, seeking friction against Ashur’s hand still gripping his hip.
Ashur felt it. He stopped pouring momentarily, pulling the funnel back just enough for Ling to gasp for air. His golden eyes scanned Ling’s tear-streaked face, saw the confusion, the unwanted flush creeping up his neck, the slight tremor that wasn't entirely fear. A slow, sinful smirk spread across Ashur’s face, far more dangerous than anger. "There it is," he murmured, his thumb stroking Ling’s sticky lip. "Starting to feel it, aren't you? The pleasure in the giving up? The warmth when you let me fill you?" He traced the fresh spill of shake dripping onto Ling’s rounded chest. "It feels good, doesn't it? Being mine completely? Being fed? Being molded?"
Ling couldn't answer. He could barely think. The conflicting sensations were overwhelming: the agonizing fullness, the bite of the harness, the chilling vulnerability, the heat of Ashur’s touch and voice, the terrifying allure of the promise. He looked down again at the scale: 149.6. His belly felt stretched, heavy. He felt… altered. Owned. And the dark seed Ashur had planted – pleasure as reward for growth, for surrender – was taking root in the wreckage of his resistance.
Ashur saw the dawning, horrified realization in Ling’s eyes. He chuckled, low and dark, and lifted the pitcher again. The funnel pressed back against Ling’s lips. "Let's hit one-fifty," Ashur breathed, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. "Then we celebrate." He tilted the pitcher. The cold sludge flooded Ling’s mouth again. This time, amidst the choking and the tears, Ling swallowed deliberately. He watched the scale flicker: 149.8... 149.9... He braced for the bite of the strap, the ache in his gut, focusing instead on the heat in Ashur’s golden eyes, the rumble of his voice promising dark, consuming pleasure. The number blinked: 150.0. Ling closed his eyes, letting the thick shake coat his throat, a shuddering moan escaping him – a sound tangled equally with despair and the first terrifying tendrils of surrender-feeding back into something dangerously like desire.
Ashur’s answering growl vibrated through the chains as he lowered the pitcher, his gaze fixed on the triumphant number. He didn’t unhook Ling. Instead, his hands, slick from the spilled shake, slid down, palms sliding possessively over the cold, pudding-soft flesh of Ling’s suspended belly. "Beautiful," he rasped. "Perfect." His thumbs pressed inwards, testing the yielding firmness, making Ling gasp. "Now, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his eyes flicking towards the brightly lit conveyor belt where colorful sushi rolls circled endlessly beneath the unlit timer. His fingers dipped lower, tracing the crease where belly met groin, already stirring renewed heat beneath Ling’s exhaustion and fullness. "Let's see how much more you can hold." His smile was a promise of relentless expansion. The timer above the sushi belt flickered to life, its digital countdown beginning silently. Sixty minutes. Ling whimpered, the sound lost in the gym's metallic hum, his body swaying helplessly in its leather cradle, caught between dread and the horrifying, burgeoning need to be filled.
The digital timer above the conveyor belt blinked: 59:48. Ling’s stomach, packed with cold, heavy sludge, churned beneath the harness strap. He felt monstrously full, yet the promise in Ashur’s golden eyes ignited a terrifying, treacherous heat low in his belly. "One-fifty," Ashur breathed, his voice rough with satisfaction. He discarded the empty pitcher with a clang that echoed sharply, the sound swallowed by the gym’s ambient hum. "My perfect, plump Little Bird."
His calloused hands, smelling of metal and shake residue, slid possessively up Ling’s suspended thighs. They bypassed the aching swell of his lower belly, tracing the sensitive skin just below the hip straps. Ling gasped, his breath hitching. Ashur leaned in, his lips brushing Ling’s ear, his tone a dark caress. "Told you I’d celebrate." His thumbs pressed into the yielding flesh just above Ling’s groin. "Gonna claim every pound right now." Ling shuddered, a whimper escaping him that wasn’t purely fear. The harness held him wide open, vulnerable. He felt raw, exposed, the air cold on his skin except where Ashur touched. The dread was still there, a cold stone, but it was being eroded by the relentless tide of Ashur’s focus, his desire.
Ashur’s fingers traced lower, finding Ling’s spent cock nestled against his pubic bone. He stroked it slowly, deliberately, the friction rough against sensitized skin. It wasn’t gentle. It was an assertion. "Look how eager you are," Ashur murmured, watching Ling’s hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk against the restraints. "Even packed full, your greedy body wants this. Wants me." Ling squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the conflicting sensations – the brutal ache in his gut, the rough scrape on his cock, the horrifying warmth unfurling inside him. He felt Ashur shift, heard the rasp of his own sweatpants being shoved down. Fear spiked, sharp and bright. "Ashur, I... I can't... it's too much..." he choked out, his voice thin.
"Shhh," Ashur soothed, the sound utterly dissonant with his actions. One hand remained on Ling’s cock, stroking insistently, coaxing a reluctant, traitorous flicker of life. The other hand gripped Ling’s hip hard, pinning him against the harness's sway. "You can. You will. You begged for this." His voice dropped, husky and dark. "Beg for me now, Little Bird. Beg me to claim my prize." The pressure on Ling’s cock increased. The rough touch scraped, demanding a response his exhausted body was struggling to give. Ashur’s other hand slid around, fingers probing lower, finding the tight furl of muscle between Ling’s spread cheeks. A single, slick finger pressed against him. Ling cried out, arching uselessly against the straps. "Beg," Ashur commanded, his voice brooking no refusal. The finger pressed harder, breaching him shallowly. It burned. It stretched.
Something inside Ling fractured. Resistance felt like drowning. The relentless pressure, the humiliating exposure, the dark promise tangled with Ashur’s touch – it coalesced into a terrifying surrender. The words tumbled out, raw and desperate, coated in tears. "Please! Ashur, please! Claim me! Fuck me! I need it... I need you!" He gasped, the admission tearing through him. "Please, take what's yours!" It was a dam breaking. The hidden craving to be utterly consumed, buried deep beneath layers of fear and shame, surged to the surface, raw and undeniable.
Ashur’s triumphant growl vibrated against Ling’s neck. "That’s it. My good, greedy boy." The finger withdrew. Ling heard the rip of a condom packet, the slick sound of Ashur preparing himself. The blunt, insistent pressure returned, larger this time, pushing relentlessly against his unprepared entrance. Ling braced, expecting agony. Ashur gripped his hips, leveraging the harness straps for perfect leverage, and thrust forward in one powerful movement. Ling screamed, the sound tearing through the gym’s metallic drone. It burned, stretched him impossibly wide. Tears streamed down his face. Ashur didn’t pause. He buried himself to the hilt, the thick heat of him filling Ling completely.
He paused, buried deep, letting Ling feel the stretch, the weight of him, the way his body accommodated Ashur’s intrusion. "All mine," Ashur growled, his breath hot on Ling’s shoulder. "Feel that? Filling you up inside and out." He pulled back slowly, torturously, then slammed forward again. Ling choked on a sob, the force jolting through his suspended body, making his swollen belly sway obscenely. The pain was intense, radiating through his core. Yet, beneath it, beneath the humiliation of being used like this while trussed and exposed, a spark ignited. Ashur’s thrusts were deep, claiming, possessive in a way that resonated with the hollow space inside Ling that craved belonging. The friction, the fullness... it began to blaze a path through the pain.
Ashur set a brutal pace, using the harness to hold Ling immobile, hammering into him with deep, powerful strokes that shook the chains overhead. Each thrust forced a gasp or a cry from Ling. Tears spilled freely, mixing with sweat on his cheeks. But his body, betraying every shred of resistance, began to respond. His cock, trapped between his belly and Ashur’s own, stirred fully to life, trapped painfully against the leather strap and Ashur’s muscled abdomen. Heat pooled low in his gut, coiling tighter with every punishing push inside him. A low, broken moan escaped him, muffled against Ashur’s shoulder where his head had fallen.
"Feel it, don't you?" Ashur panted, his voice thick with exertion and dark pleasure. He gripped the harness strap near Ling’s hip, using it as an anchor as he drove deeper, grinding hard on each inward thrust. "Feel how good it is? Giving yourself over? Being claimed?" One large hand slid around Ling’s thick waist, palming the swollen curve of his lower belly, pressing down possessively as he slammed home. Ling’s eyes flew open. The pressure on his overstuffed stomach was intense, almost painful, combined with the deep penetration. It blurred the lines between agony and ecstasy. "Yes!" Ling gasped, the word ripped from him. "Yes! Ashur!"
He arched against the harness, his own hips straining to meet Ashur’s thrusts despite the restraints. The pleasure was a wildfire now, consuming the pain, consuming his thoughts. He was nothing but sensation: the bite of the straps, the heavy fullness inside his belly, the deeper, driving fullness inside his ass, Ashur’s rough hands claiming his flesh, Ashur’s voice growling dark praise. "So fucking tight around me," Ashur groaned. "My fat, perfect Little Bird. Taking it so well." He adjusted his angle slightly, hitting a spot deep inside that made Ling scream, a high, keening sound of pure, shattered pleasure. His cock pulsed, trapped and desperate.
"Gonna come?" Ashur demanded, his thrusts becoming frantic, the chains rattling wildly. "Gonna spill for me while I fuck you full? While I claim you?" Ling could only nod, frantic, incoherent sounds tumbling from his lips. "Say it!" Ashur roared, slamming into him hard enough to lift Ling slightly in the harness. "Say you're mine! Beg for it!" The wave crested, unstoppable. "Yours!" Ling screamed, the word echoing off the concrete walls. "All yours! Please! Make me come! Please!" He shattered. His body convulsed violently against the straps, cock pulsing hot spend against Ashur’s stomach and the unforgiving leather, untouched. The orgasm tore through him, rippling out from that deep, claimed place inside, obliterating everything else in a white-hot burst of surrender.
Ashur roared, burying himself impossibly deep as his own release slammed into him, his body shuddering against Ling’s suspended form. He held himself there, pulsing inside Ling, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Ling’s hips like claws. The gym air hung thick with the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and the lingering artificial sweetness of the protein shake. Ling hung limp, utterly spent, gasping for air that scraped his raw throat. Every muscle trembled. The stretched ache inside him was profound, almost as deep as the lingering pressure in his belly. Ashur finally pulled out slowly, the separation a sharp, intimate sting. He stayed close, his forehead pressed against Ling’s damp temple, his breathing ragged. His hand remained on Ling’s swollen stomach, possessive.
"One-fifty," Ashur murmured, his voice hoarse but saturated with dark triumph. He ran his thumb over the flushed, stretched skin between Ling’s legs. "Good start." He craned his neck, looking past Ling’s heaving chest towards the still-circulating sushi rolls. The timer blinked: 48:12. Ashur’s lips curved into that sinful smirk against Ling’s skin. "Plenty of time to pack more in before weigh-out."