Chapter 7: The Aftercare
The silence in the gym was heavy, broken only by the fading echo of chains and Ashur’s ragged breathing. Ling hung limp in the harness, a puppet with cut strings, every inch of him trembling. Sweat and stickier things cooled on his skin. The industrial scale beneath his dangling feet still glowed: 150.0. A monument to surrender.
"Easy, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his voice rough but already regaining its usual low thrum of control. He reached up, his movements surprisingly gentle compared to moments before, and began unbuckling the harness. Each strap released with a heavy thunk, the pressure easing. Ling gasped as his weight settled fully onto his own legs. They buckled instantly. Ashur caught him before he hit the cold concrete, scooping him up effortlessly against his bare, tattooed chest. The sudden warmth was a shock. Ling instinctively pressed his face into the curve of Ashur’s neck, breathing in the mingled scents of sweat, sex, protein shake, and Ashur’s own musky skin. His oversensitive belly pressed against Ashur’s hard abs, a reminder of the brutal fullness within, yet the proximity sparked a traitorous flicker of comfort.
Ashur carried him, not towards the exit, but deeper into the apartment maze, away from the clang and hum of the gym. The air shifted, growing warmer, damper, perfumed with the expensive, woodsy cologne Ashur favoured. Ling’s bare feet brushed cold marble as Ashur pushed open a heavy door with his shoulder.
The bathroom was a haven of dim, golden light. Steam curled from the massive, sunken tub already filling with water. The marble floor was shockingly cold under Ling’s soles when Ashur carefully set him down near the tub's edge. The oversized sweater Ashur must have grabbed on the way – one of Ling’s own, smelling faintly of laundry soap – hung loosely around his shoulders, mercifully covering him from neck to mid-thigh. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, hiding his trembling hands within the long sleeves, instinctively curling forward over the aching swell of his stomach. The sweater’s hem strained across the new, undeniable curve of his lower belly.
"Look at you," Ashur murmured, his voice softer now, almost awed. He knelt beside Ling on the cold marble, heedless of the dampness. One large, warm hand smoothed the messy black hair back from Ling’s damp forehead. The gentleness was jarring after the harness, the funnel, the claiming. Ashur’s golden eyes, usually sharp with mischief or dark desire, held a different intensity now. Possessive, but reverent. "My perfect, plump Little Bird. Took it all so beautifully." His thumb traced the delicate line of Ling’s cheekbone, catching a stray tear track. "Such a good boy for me."
Ling flinched at the praise, shame warring with a bone-deep exhaustion that made resistance impossible. He just wanted the cold stickiness gone. Wanted the ache soothed. Ashur’s hands went to the hem of the oversized sweater. Ling tensed, a small sound escaping his lips. "Shh," Ashur soothed, his fingers pausing. "Just me. Taking care of what's mine. Remember?" He didn't wait for permission. Slowly, reverently, he lifted the sweater up and over Ling’s head, baring him completely to the warm, steamy air. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at himself, at the body Ashur was reshaping.
Ashur made a low sound in his throat. Not a laugh, not a growl. Pure appreciation. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing every new contour. The softening shoulders. The slight, tender swell beneath Ling’s small nipples. The pronounced curve of his belly, pale skin stretched tight and shiny over the impossible fullness within, looking even larger without the harness strap bisecting it. The thicker flesh mantling his hips and thighs. "God, look at you," Ashur breathed, his voice thick. He ran his hands lightly down Ling’s arms, over the softness of his sides, coming to rest on the swollen dome of his belly. His touch was impossibly gentle, almost worshipful. "All soft. All mine. Perfect."
Ling shivered, not just from the cool air, but from the intensity of Ashur's focus. It was terrifying. It was the only thing holding him up. Ashur dipped a hand into the tub, testing the water. Steam curled around his wrist. "Just right." He slid one arm under Ling’s knees, the other supporting his back and shoulders, mindful of the distended stomach. "Easy now." With exquisite care, Ashur lowered Ling into the warm water.
The heat was a shock, then instant, profound relief. It seeped into his trembling muscles, loosening the knots of tension clenched since the gym. The water embraced him, buoying his heavy body, taking the weight off his sore feet and aching back. He sighed, the sound shaky and involuntary, his head lolling back against the smooth porcelain rim. Ashur watched, that reverent expression still softening his usually sharp features. He knelt on the bathmat, rolling up the sleeves of his own shirt.
He picked up a large, soft sponge and a bottle of expensive-looking lavender bath oil. Squeezing a generous amount onto the sponge, he worked it into a rich lather. The calming, floral scent instantly filled the steamy air, layering over Ashur’s cologne, chasing away the last chemical traces of the protein shake. Ashur started at Ling’s shoulders, washing with slow, deliberate strokes. The sponge dragged gently over skin still humming with sensitivity. Ashur paid particular attention to the new softness, the places where flesh yielded easily under the sponge's pressure – the tops of his shoulders, the curve beneath his arms, the slight swell of his chest. His touch lingered, not demanding, but exploring, appreciating.
"Feels good, yeah?" Ashur murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the water. He rinsed the sponge, squeezed it, then lathered it again. "Just relax. Let me take care of you." He moved down Ling’s arm, lifting it gently to wash the delicate skin of his underarm, then his hand, each finger. The care was meticulous, almost obsessive. He repeated the process on the other arm.
Then, his hands moved to Ling’s belly. Ashur paused, his gaze fixed on the taut swell breaking the surface of the water like a pale island. He poured oil directly onto his palms this time, warming it between his hands before spreading it slowly, carefully, over the stretched skin. His touch was different here. Not just washing, but massaging. Strong, warm thumbs pressed in slow, deep circles around the sides, avoiding the overly sensitive center. He worked the strained muscles just below Ling’s ribs, kneading gently, coaxing the tension from flesh pushed to its limits.
Ling whimpered, the pressure both uncomfortable and deeply soothing. Ashur’s hands were magic, easing the sharp ache, replacing it with a deep, warm throb. He sank lower into the water, his eyes drifting shut. The shame, the fear, the humiliation... they hadn't vanished, but they were muffled, drowned in the warmth and the relentless, possessive care. This was what he’d secretly craved, wasn't it? To be completely handled. Owned. Tended to. The cost of it – the force-feeding, the suspension, the claiming, the terrifying promise of more – loomed large, but in this hazy, lavender-scented moment, it felt... inevitable. Necessary, even, to earn this.
"See?" Ashur murmured, his voice a low vibration near Ling’s ear. He leaned closer, his breath warm on Ling’s damp temple. One hand continued its slow, deep massage of Ling’s flank, the other smoothed warm, oily water over the crest of his belly. "This is what you need. What you asked for. To be cared for. Completely." His thumb traced the ridge of Ling’s hip bone, now softened by a new layer of padding. "To be full. To be soft. Mine." He dipped the sponge again, washing Ling’s thighs with the same reverent attention, the sponge gliding over the plush curves Ashur was so determined to expand. "Gonna take such good care of you, Little Bird. Keep you warm. Keep you fed. Keep you growing." He rinsed the sponge and gently tilted Ling’s head back, carefully washing the remnants of tears, sweat, and sticky shake from his face and neck. "Perfect."
Ling kept his eyes closed. The warmth, the touch, the low, possessive murmurs… they were weaving a dangerous spell. He felt boneless. Adrift. Ashur’s hand returned to his belly, not massaging now, just resting possessively on the warm, oiled curve beneath the water. A claiming touch. A promise. Ling sighed, the sound long and shuddering, and let his head rest fully against the tub’s edge, his damp black hair fanning out. He didn't pull away from Ashur’s hand. He pressed into it, just slightly. A surrender whispered in the steam.
Ashur smiled, that sinful curve of his lips softened into something terrifyingly tender. He cupped Ling’s jaw, his thumb brushing Ling’s bottom lip. "That’s it," he breathed. "Just rest. Let me worship you." He reached for a jug on the side, dipping it into the bathwater. "Got a long day tomorrow," he murmured, pouring warm water gently over Ling’s shoulders, rinsing away the last of the suds. The water cascaded down his chest, over Ashur’s hand where it still lay possessively on Ling’s belly. "Gotta get you ready. Gotta see how much more this perfect little belly can hold." His golden eyes gleamed in the low light, fixed on the waterline where Ling’s body disappeared beneath the surface. "Really excited to see how much."
Ashur’s thumb traced the waterline where Ling’s belly swelled above the surface, a pale, taut moon. "Really excited to see how much." The low promise vibrated in the steamy air, mingling with the lavender scent. Ling flinched inwardly, the words conjuring the gym’s harsh lights, the funnel’s metallic chill, the relentless climb of the scale numbers. His belly clenched, a phantom echo of that brutal fullness, even as Ashur’s warm, oiled hands continued their slow, possessive massage of his flank.
"Shh, none of that now," Ashur murmured, sensing the tremor. He dipped the sponge again, squeezing warm water over Ling’s collarbones. "Just focus on this. On my hands." He moved the sponge lower, over the soft swell beneath Ling’s small nipple, the touch deliberately gentle yet utterly proprietary. "Feel how good it is? Being tended to? Being cherished?" Ashur’s gaze remained fixed on Ling’s face, watching the flicker of fear war with the drugging lassitude the warm water and massage induced. "This is your reward for being so good. For taking it all."
Ling tried to hold onto the fear, the memory of being suspended, claimed, the protein sludge choking him. But the heat seeped deeper, dissolving resistance like sugar. Ashur’s hands, skilled and knowing, worked the deep ache from the muscles strained by carrying the sudden, alien weight. He rinsed Ling’s back, the water sluicing away the lingering stickiness of the gym, the sex, the shake. "Gotta keep you pristine," Ashur mused, his fingers tracing the delicate knobs of Ling’s spine, now softened by a layer of plushness. "My perfect little feast. Can’t have you getting cold either."
He lifted Ling’s arm gently, washing the pale, smooth skin of his underarm, the tender inner elbow. The care was unnervingly thorough, an intimacy beyond the violation of the harness. Ling’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The steam thickened the air, making each breath a warm, damp effort. Ashur’s voice was a low, constant rumble, weaving promises and praise. "Remember how light you were? Like a feather. Now…" His hand drifted back, palming the warm curve of Ling’s submerged belly with a satisfied groan. "Solid. Real. Mine." He dipped his fingers into the water, finding the crease where belly met groin, the skin still tender from earlier. Ling gasped softly. Ashur chuckled, a dark, warm sound. "Still sensitive there? Good. Means you remember."
Ling wanted to protest, to pull away, but his body was lead. The warmth, the scent, the relentless, claiming touch… they were a sedative. He sagged lower, the water lapping at his chin. Ashur supported his neck, his touch firm. "There you go. Just let go. Let me hold you." He began washing Ling’s legs, the sponge gliding over plush thighs, down to his slender ankles and small feet. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, worshipful of the new weight. "Beautiful," Ashur breathed, massaging the arch of a foot, his touch surprisingly tender. "Every inch. Every soft pound."
The rhythmic motion, the enveloping warmth, the low drone of Ashur’s possessive monologue… they merged into a haze. Ling’s thoughts fragmented. The gym’s terror felt distant, blurred by steam and exhaustion. The only anchor was the warm, heavy pressure of Ashur’s hand occasionally returning to cup his belly, a constant reminder and reassurance. Ashur leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of Ling’s ear, his voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur. "Sleep now, Little Bird. Deep and safe. I’ve got you. Always." His breath was warm. "Dream of being full. Dream of being mine. Of how much bigger you’ll be tomorrow." The words curled around Ling’s consciousness, soft and suffocating as the steam.
Ling’s last conscious sensation was the warm water cradling his heavy limbs, the faint scent of lavender and Ashur’s cologne, and the possessive weight of Ashur’s gaze. His breathing slowed, deepened. The tension bled from his muscles, leaving only the profound ache of expansion and the terrifying comfort of surrender. His head lolled fully against Ashur’s supporting arm, damp black hair clinging to his temple. A faint sigh escaped his parted lips, the sound barely audible over the gentle lap of water. The trembling stopped. His body went utterly slack, buoyed by the water, held by Ashur’s hand beneath his neck, the other resting possessively on the swell below the surface. He sank into the warmth, the darkness, the silence.
Ling’s breath deepened, slow and rhythmic against Ashur’s forearm. The water lapped gently at his chin. Ashur watched him, the fierce possessiveness in his golden eyes softening momentarily into something resembling tenderness. He carefully slid his supporting arm lower, letting Ling’s head rest fully against the porcelain rim. The steam curled around them, thick with lavender and the fading echoes of exertion.
"Out you come, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his voice barely disturbing the humid quiet. He hooked his hands under Ling’s arms and knees, mindful of the heavy swell of his belly. Water sluiced off Ling’s pale skin as Ashur lifted him, dripping, from the tub. Ling remained limp, a pliant weight, head lolling against Ashur’s shoulder. His damp black hair clung to his neck and Ashur’s damp skin.
Ashur set him carefully on the thick, plush bathmat. The marble floor was cold beneath Ling’s bare feet, but he didn’t stir. Ashur grabbed a large, impossibly soft Egyptian cotton towel, warmed slightly by the steam. He wrapped Ling completely, cocooning him from shoulders to calves, blotting the water with gentle, efficient pats. "Dead weight, huh?" Ashur chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest. He rubbed Ling’s hair vigorously but carefully with another corner of the towel, soaking up the moisture from the long black strands. Ling mumbled incoherently, leaning heavily into Ashur’s solid frame.
"Easy," Ashur soothed, supporting Ling effortlessly. He worked the towel down Ling’s back, over the soft curve of his hips, the plush swell of his thighs. His touch lingered on the faint red marks left by the harness straps, tracing them lightly. "My mark," he breathed, almost to himself. He knelt, drying Ling’s slender legs and small feet with the same meticulous care he’d shown in the bath. The towel absorbed the last droplets clinging to pale skin stretched taut over Ling’s rounded belly.
Ashur scooped him up again, towel and all. Ling instinctively curled into the warmth of Ashur’s chest, his face buried against the familiar scent of cologne and skin. Ashur carried him through the dim apartment, past the closed door to the gym – a silent reminder of the scale, the harness, the funnel. The air grew cooler. Ashur nudged open the bedroom door with his foot.
The bedroom was bathed in soft, low light from a single lamp. Ashur laid Ling down on the cool, high-thread-count sheets. Ling sighed, nestling deeper into the pillow, still wrapped in the towel. Ashur peeled it away slowly. The cool air prickled Ling’s skin, making him shiver slightly. Ashur pulled the thick duvet up, tucking it securely around Ling’s shoulders, smoothing it over the pronounced curve of his belly beneath. He adjusted the pillow under Ling’s head, brushed damp strands of hair from his forehead.
"Sleep deep," Ashur whispered, his lips brushing Ling’s temple. His hand rested heavily, possessively, on the mound of Ling’s stomach beneath the covers. "Grow for me." Ling’s breathing remained deep and even, lost in exhausted oblivion. Ashur watched him for a long moment, the soft light catching the planes of his face, the intensity in his golden eyes undimmed. He leaned down once more. "Tomorrow," he breathed against Ling’s ear, the word a dark promise. "We fill you fuller."
Ashur straightened up. He moved quietly across the room. In the ensuite kitchenette, the soft whir of a high-powered blender suddenly cut through the silence. Ashur poured thick, beige liquid – smelling of artificial vanilla and chalky protein – into a large, lidded shaker bottle. He placed it deliberately in the center shelf of the stainless steel fridge. The hum of the appliance joined the quiet rhythm of Ling’s sleep. Ashur glanced back towards the bed, towards the shape beneath the duvet, his expression unreadable. He flicked off the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the faint glow from the ensuite. He stood in the doorway, a silhouette, listening to Ling’s steady breath. The fridge hummed. Tomorrow waited.
The fridge hummed, a low thrum undercutting Ling’s deep, exhausted breathing. Ashur stood in the bedroom doorway, backlit by the weak glow from the ensuite kitchenette. Golden eyes traced the mound beneath the duvet – the distinct, rounded swell of Ling’s belly pushing up the covers. A possessive heat flickered in Ashur’s gaze. Tomorrow would come. It needed preparation. Sanctuary wasn’t just soft sheets. It was intention.
He moved silently, drawn first to the closed gym door. He didn’t open it. The cloying scent of protein shake and sweat still clung faintly to the air outside, a stark reminder of the harness, the scale’s relentless digital climb to 150.0, the choked swallows. Sanctuary meant erasing that harshness, replacing it with comfort, ease… surrender. He turned away, padding barefoot towards the living area.
His bare feet hit the plush living room rug, a stark contrast to the gym’s cold concrete. Morning light, grey and weak, was just starting to bleed through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The lingering scent of last night’s takeout – greasy and stale – clashed with the expensive cologne he’d used in the bath. Wrong. Sanctuary needed purity. Control. He cranked open a window, letting in a sharp, damp breeze that cut through the staleness. Cold air prickled his skin.
Ashur moved with quiet purpose. He snatched up discarded takeout containers, crumpled napkins, an empty soda can. The detritus of a life barely lived outside of his obsession. Into the bin with sharp, efficient movements. Wiped down the sleek coffee table with a damp cloth until it shone, reflecting the grey dawn. Fluffed cushions on the deep sofa, arranging them just so. Sanctuary needed order. A blank canvas for Ling’s growing form.
He stalked into the small, modern kitchen adjoining the living space. The sink held a few dishes – remnants of a quick meal he’d shoved down before the gym session. Clatter. Scrape. Hot water hissed. He washed them meticulously, dried them, put them away in precise, designated spots. Every surface gleamed. Wiped down the stainless steel fridge door, smudged from his hand after placing the protein shake inside. He paused. Opened the fridge again.
The large, lidded shaker bottle stood in the center of the top shelf, filled with thick, beige sludge. Beside it, Ashur began placing other items: a tub of high-calorie meal replacement powder, a jar of creamy peanut butter, a pack of full-fat Greek yogurts, a carton of heavy cream. He rearranged crisper drawers, stuffing them with dense fruits like bananas and avocados, pushing aside the sparse, healthier options Ling might have chosen weeks ago. Sanctuary meant abundance. Temptation. Easy fuel.
He closed the fridge. The hum seemed louder now, a promise buzzing in the quiet apartment. His gaze swept the living room again. Not enough. He strode to the corner near the window where Ling sometimes curled up to read. Ashur dragged the deep, plush armchair closer to the side table. Made sure the reading lamp was perfectly angled. Placed a soft, faux-fur throw blanket folded neatly over the arm. Sanctuary meant comfort. Accessibility. Ling wouldn’t have to struggle far.
Back in the bedroom doorway. Ling hadn’t moved. The duvet rose and fell steadily with his breath, the curve of his belly a defining silhouette in the dimness. Ashur leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. His eyes traced the shape with fierce satisfaction. He thought of the sponge moving over that tight skin in the bath, the lavender scent, Ling’s exhausted whimper as the massage eased strained muscles. Sanctuary meant care. Tending. His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something darker, hungrier.
He pushed off the doorframe and moved to the walk-in closet. Inside, he shoved aside racks of his own clothes – tight tees, leather jackets. He made space. Deliberate, empty space on the hanging rod. Then he knelt, opening storage bins. He pulled out several of Ling’s enormous, baggy sweaters – the ones he used to hide in. Ashur held one up, the soft knit dwarfing his own frame momentarily. A relic. He folded it with surprising neatness and placed it in the newly cleared space. Not for hiding. For witness.
He added the few pairs of Ling’s increasingly tight sweatpants beside the sweaters. Then, from another bin, he pulled out brand new purchases. Sweatpants two sizes larger, the waistbands wide and elastic. Soft, stretchy t-shirts in XXL, deliberately oversized but destined to cling to new curves. Two thick, cable-knit cardigans that looked like they could swallow Ling whole even now. He hung them beside the old clothes. A timeline. A future. Sanctuary meant provision. Anticipation.
Closing the closet door softly, he returned to the bedroom. Ling sighed in his sleep, a soft, vulnerable sound. Ashur knelt beside the bed, the cool wood floor biting his knees. He didn’t touch, just watched. The pale skin of Ling’s exposed shoulder. The dark fan of his eyelashes against his cheek. The impossible swell under the duvet. Ashur’s voice, when it came, was a low vibration, barely audible.
"Sleep, Little Bird," he murmured, the words thick in the quiet. "Grow soft. Grow heavy." His gaze fixed on the duvet’s rise and fall. "This place is yours now. Made for you. For this." He leaned infinitesimally closer. "Tomorrow, we fill you again. Deeper." He paused, letting the promise hang. "Every pound… a celebration." His hand hovered, itching to feel that warm, stretched skin beneath the covers. He didn’t. Not yet. Sanctuary required patience. Ritual.
He rose silently. Cast one last, lingering look at the sleeping figure, at the sanctuary he’d meticulously crafted – the clean lines, the stocked fridge humming in the kitchen, the new clothes waiting in the closet. Everything bent towards one purpose. He turned, padding back out into the pristine living room. The grey dawn light was strengthening. Ashur walked to the gleaming fridge. Opened it.
The stainless steel shelf glinted. The large shaker bottle full of thick, beige liquid sat prominently in the center, surrounded by its arsenal of fat and calories. Ready. Waiting. Ashur stared at it, his golden eyes reflecting the fridge’s cold interior light. He slowly closed the door. The latch clicked. A soft, final sound in the silent, immaculate apartment. The sanctuary was prepped. Ling slept, swollen and vulnerable. The fridge hummed.