Chapter 8: The Bedside Feast
Ling swam slowly upwards through layers of thick, warm sleep. His limbs felt weighted down, pleasantly numb. The air he breathed was different—clean, carrying a faint, expensive hint of sandalwood incense, not the stale tang of old takeout or the cloying sweetness of protein shake. He blinked, his long lashes sticking slightly. Soft, dark silk sheets caressed his skin, unfamiliar against the usual cotton. He was cocooned in a vast bed, the duvet a heavy, comforting weight.
And beneath it… the undeniable mound. His belly. Still swollen, still tender, a constant, heavy presence. He shifted slightly, and the stretched skin protested with a dull ache, a visceral reminder of the gym, the harness, the cold metal scale reading 150.0. A flush of shame warmed his neck. He instinctively tried to draw his knees up, to curl inwards, but the sheer mass of his stomach made the movement awkward, limited. He couldn’t hide it here, in this bed that wasn't his own, under these too-luxurious sheets.
Then, the smell hit him. Cutting through the incense, rich and decadent and utterly unavoidable. Butter. Real, melted butter. And under it, the sticky-sweet punch of maple syrup. Something rich and meaty, too—sausage? Grease. Ling’s empty stomach, still bruised and overstretched from the night before, gave a treacherous, gurgling lurch. Not nausea. Hunger. A sharp, sudden pang that shocked him. He hated it. Hated the way his body betrayed him, craving the very thing that was reshaping it, trapping him.
The door clicked open smoothly. Ashur filled the doorway, shirtless, his pajama pants slung low on his hips. Morning light caught the intricate black tattoos swirling over his sun-kissed chest and shoulders. His golden hair was deliciously mussed from sleep, falling over one sharp brow. He leaned casually against the frame for a moment, those predator’s eyes scanning Ling, taking in the flush on his pale cheeks, the shape beneath the duvet. A slow, sinful smirk spread across his face.
"Morning, Little Bird," Ashur purred, his voice rough with sleep but already vibrating with that familiar, possessive warmth. He pushed off the doorframe.
Ling watched, frozen, as Ashur wheeled a small, high cart into the room. On it, covered silver domes steamed, releasing fragrant clouds. A small carafe gleamed, filled with something dark and viscous. Chocolate sauce. Ling’s mouth watered, a traitorous reflex he couldn't control. The cart rolled smoothly on the spotless hardwood floor. Ling’s eyes darted past Ashur. The room… it was immaculate. Sunlight streamed through the large window onto clean surfaces. No clutter. No dust motes dancing in the light. The air was crisp, purified. He remembered the stale takeout smell, the clutter from before. Gone. Ashur hadn’t just cleaned; he’d scoured. Made a sanctuary, just like the bathroom last night. The spotlessness felt like another layer of possession, another thing meticulously arranged for him. Controlled.
Ashur parked the cart beside the bed with a soft scrape. He perched on the edge of the mattress, the silk dipping under his weight. His gaze was fixed on the mound under the duvet. "Cleaned everything for you," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate rumble. One large, warm hand settled possessively on the curve of Ling’s stomach, right over the duvet. Ling flinched at the contact, the heat seeping through the fabric. Ashur’s thumb began to move in slow, deliberate circles, pressing just enough to make Ling gasp softly. "Spotless. Just like my perfect Little Bird should be." He leaned closer, his breath warm on Ling’s ear. "Now…" The sinful smirk returned, wider now. "Let's dirty you up again."
He lifted the first silver dome with a flourish. Steam billowed out, carrying the full, intoxicating assault: golden-brown Belgian waffles, their grid pattern deep and crisp, glistening with melted butter already soaking in. Fat sausage links nestled beside them, their skins split and glistening with rendered fat. A bowl held a mountain of whipped cream, fluffy and white.
Ling stared. Dread coiled tight in his chest, alongside the persistent, gnawing hunger. His belly ached, still full and sore from last night’s ordeal. The thought of more food, especially this heavy, greasy abundance, made him feel faintly sick. But the smell… the rich butter, the caramelized sausage, the sweet promise of the chocolate sauce… it triggered a deep, primal pull in his gut. A craving he despised but couldn’t silence. He wanted to refuse. To push the cart away. To hide.
"Ashur…" Ling whispered, his voice thin and shaky. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but the movement pressed his distended belly harder into Ashur’s hand, making him whimper. "I… I can’t. Not yet. It still… hurts." He gestured weakly towards his stomach.
Ashur just chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Shh, I know, baby. I know it does." He didn't remove his hand. Instead, he lifted the carafe of chocolate sauce. It poured thick and slow, like liquid obsidian, cascading over the nearest waffle, pooling in the squares, dripping over the sides onto the sausages. The scent intensified, cloying and irresistible. "But you need it. Gotta keep that fire stoked. Keep you growing." He picked up a fork, speared a piece of waffle drenched in chocolate and butter, and held it out. "C'mon. Just a bite. For me."
Ling looked from the fork to Ashur’s face. Those golden eyes held no room for argument, only possessive expectation and a dark, thrilling gleam. The fork hovered near his lips. The chocolate smelled impossibly rich. His stomach grumbled again, loud and demanding. Shame burned his cheeks. He hated this. Hated the need. Hated how he craved the very thing that bound him.
Hesitantly, trembling, he parted his lips.
Ashur’s eyes flared with satisfaction. He slid the forkful in. The textures exploded – crisp waffle yielding to soft interior, saturated with salty butter and the deep, sweet intensity of the chocolate. It was decadent, overwhelming. Ling groaned, a sound of pure, involuntary pleasure mixed with despair. He chewed slowly, the sweetness coating his tongue.
"Good boy," Ashur breathed, his thumb resuming its possessive circles on Ling’s belly. He scooped up another forkful, this time catching a piece of glistening sausage with it. "See? Your body knows what it needs. What I want for it." He fed Ling the sausage. Grease burst on Ling’s tongue, salty and rich, mingling with the lingering chocolate. Another groan escaped him, weaker this time, as the rich food hit his already burdened stomach. The ache intensified, a deep, stretched throb beneath Ashur’s hand.
But the craving flared hotter too. As Ashur offered another forkful of dripping waffle, Ling didn't hesitate. He leaned forward slightly, taking it eagerly, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as the sweetness hit. He hated himself for it. Hated the desperate way his body responded, betraying his fear. He chewed, swallowing with difficulty against the tightness in his abdomen. Ashur watched him, rapt, his free hand reaching for the carafe to drizzle more chocolate.
"Slow and steady, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his voice thick with approval. He mopped up a pool of sauce with a corner of waffle. "We've got all morning. Just you, me…" He pressed his palm flat against the mound of Ling’s belly, feeling the heat, the tightness. "...and this." He brought the sauce-laden waffle to Ling’s lips. "Make it bigger."
Ling opened his mouth. The fork slid in. Chocolate smeared his lower lip. The sweetness was cloying now, almost too much, mixing with the salt of the butter and sausage. His stomach cramped, protesting the sheer volume, the richness. But the hunger, that humiliating, insistent hunger Ashur had cultivated, roared back, drowning out the pain, the shame, the fear. He took the bite. Chewed. Swallowed against the tightness. His hand, trembling, rose slightly from the sheets, hovering near the fork, as if drawn to it. Ashur saw it. His golden eyes gleamed with dark triumph.
"Attaboy," he whispered, scooping up a chunk of sausage dripping with grease and sauce. "That's it. Give in." He held the fork out. Ling leaned forward, his green eyes wide, conflicted, but his lips parted, ready. Craving the next dirty, delicious mouthful.
Ling leaned forward, taking the greasy sausage chunk smeared with chocolate. The salt and fat exploded on his tongue, a grotesque counterpoint to the sweetness. His stomach clenched violently beneath Ashur’s possessive palm, a deep, strained throb that made him whimper around the mouthful. He forced it down, the tight passage protesting.
"Good bird," Ashur murmured, his thumb digging possessively into the yielding swell beneath the duvet. He scooped up another dripping forkful of waffle, saturated with butter and pooling sauce. "Almost there. Just this plate." Ling’s green eyes, wide and slightly glazed, tracked the fork. He opened his mouth obediently, the movement automatic, a conditioned response to Ashur’s low command and his own treacherous hunger.
The last bite felt like a stone settling into wet cement. Ling swallowed convulsively, the muscles in his throat working hard. He slumped back against the pillows, breath shallow. The mound of his belly pressed heavily against the silk sheets, visibly taut beneath the covers. A sheen of sweat coated his pale forehead. Nausea churned beneath the intense fullness, a sickening pressure that stole his breath.
Ashur wiped a smear of chocolate from Ling’s lower lip with his thumb, then slowly licked it clean, his golden eyes never leaving Ling’s face. He surveyed the empty plate, the greasy smears, with deep satisfaction. "Beautiful," he breathed, his hand returning to rest heavily, claiming the swollen curve. "Filled you right up, didn’t I?" He traced the straining arc beneath the duvet. "Look at that."
Ling squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the discomfort. Every slight movement sent ripples of pressure through his overburdened gut. The rich smells of butter and syrup, once tempting, now felt cloying, threatening. He felt immense, fragile, dangerously full.
"Ashur…" Ling’s voice was a thin thread, barely audible. He forced his eyes open, meeting Ashur’s predatory gaze. "Please… a break? Just… just a little while?" He swallowed again, the motion painful. "It’s… it’s so tight." His hand fluttered weakly towards his covered stomach. "If I… if I have time… to digest…" He took another shallow breath, pushing the words out. "I could… I could eat much more later. For you."
Ashur’s gaze sharpened, studying Ling’s flushed, strained face, the genuine distress in his green eyes. A flicker of annoyance crossed his features, quickly masked. He drummed his fingers lightly on the taut swell, considering. Ling held his breath, the silence thick with the scent of maple and Ling’s own rising panic.
"Much more later, Little Bird?" Ashur asked, his voice dangerously low. His thumb pressed in again, feeling the unyielding pressure beneath. Ling whimpered softly, nodding, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. Ashur watched it fall onto the dark silk pillowcase.
Finally, Ashur sighed, a sound of theatrical concession. "Fine." He dragged the word out. He leaned in, his lips brushing Ling’s ear, his breath hot. "But only because you asked so nicely. And because you promised." He lingered, the unspoken threat hanging heavy. "Rest. Digest." He tapped Ling’s belly firmly. "This needs to be ready."
He pulled back abruptly, standing up from the bed. The sudden absence of his weight made the mattress shift. Ashur picked up the empty plate and the sticky carafe, placing them back on the cart with a clatter. He didn’t look back as he wheeled the cart towards the door, its wheels squeaking faintly on the polished floor.
Ling sank deeper into the pillows, relief washing over him in a cold wave that did nothing to ease the crushing pressure in his abdomen. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the perfumed silence, encased in silk, utterly immobilized by the sheer, uncomfortable mass of his own body. The ornate mirror across the room reflected the massive bed, the small figure lost within it, and the unmistakable, enormous curve beneath the black duvet. He stared at it, too full to move, too scared to sleep. Outside the door, he heard the faint, purposeful thump of the fridge door closing. Ashur was already preparing for 'later'. The humming silence pressed in.
The humming silence pressed in. Ling stared at the ornate mirror across the room, its polished surface reflecting the cavernous bed and the undeniable, straining swell beneath the black silk duvet. It looked obscene, like an alien growth. He tried shifting, a tiny adjustment, but the movement sent a fresh wave of tight, sickening pressure radiating through his core. 150.0. The scale’s digital readout flashed in his mind, cruel and absolute. He pressed a trembling hand over the mound, feeling the hard, unyielding curve beneath the soft covers. It felt like he’d swallowed a boulder coated in grease and chocolate sauce. Breathing shallowly, he closed his eyes, focusing on the clean scent of sandalwood incense, trying to banish the phantom smells of butter and maple syrup that still seemed to cling.
The bedroom door clicked open again. Ling’s eyes snapped open, fear tightening his throat. Ashur stood there, still bare-chested, those low-slung pajama pants hanging precariously. He held nothing this time – no cart, no food. Just himself, a golden, tattooed presence filling the doorway, his gaze fixed like a laser on the bulge beneath the duvet. A small, satisfied smirk played on his lips. "Room service clear the plates?" he asked, his voice deceptively light, stepping inside and letting the door whisper shut behind him. He padded silently across the cool hardwood floor towards the bed, the intricate ink swirling across his torso seeming to shift in the low light. "Made yourself comfy?"
Ling instinctively pulled the duvet higher, bunching it around his neck, trying to shrink into the pillows. "It’s… a lot," he managed, his voice thin. "Still." He swallowed, the muscles in his throat protesting. "Really full, Ashur." The admission felt like weakness, but the sheer physical discomfort forced it out.
Ashur reached the bedside. He didn’t sit this time. He stood looking down, golden eyes sweeping over Ling’s form beneath the silk. "Course you are," he murmured, his tone almost soothing. "That was just the warm-up, Little Bird. Got your belly nice and primed." His hand descended, not onto the covered mound, but onto Ling’s shoulder, pushing the duvet aside slightly. Ling flinched at the contact, the sudden cool air hitting his exposed collarbone. "Can't have you sweating into the good sheets though, yeah? Not after my thorough cleaning spree." The possessive undertone was unmistakable. His fingers traced the strap of the oversized sleep shirt Ling had found himself in – one of Ashur’s, smelling faintly of his cologne and sweat, swallowing Ling’s frame.
Ling’s heart hammered against his ribs. "I'm okay," he whispered, trying to pull the duvet back up, his hand clumsy. "Really. Just need to rest. Digest." The word felt insufficient for the volcanic pressure inside him.
"Rest is good," Ashur agreed, his voice dropping, losing its light edge. His fingers didn’t move from the shirt strap. They tightened slightly. "But you're all bundled up. Trapped." He leaned down, his face close to Ling’s, his breath warm. "Let’s get you out of these damp PJs." It wasn't a request. It was a statement of intent, delivered with that sinful softness that masked absolute control. His other hand joined the first, gathering the soft fabric of the borrowed shirt near Ling’s shoulder.
Panic flared, sharp and bright. "No, Ashur, I—" Ling started, trying to twist away, but the movement compressed his stomach agonizingly. A choked gasp escaped him. His body was a prison of its own making, a heavy, aching weight pinning him down. He couldn’t fight physically. Not against Ashur, not against the sheer mass Ashur had cultivated within him.
"Shhh," Ashur soothed, his grip firm but not bruising. "Easy. Don’t fight it. Makes it harder." His thumbs hooked under the neckline of the oversized shirt. "Just let me." He began to tug the soft fabric downwards, over Ling’s shoulders. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, humiliation burning his cheeks. The cool air hit his upper chest, then his ribs as the shirt slid down. Ashur paused, the shirt pooled around Ling’s elbows, effectively pinning his arms loosely at his sides. His gaze roamed over the exposed skin.
Ling kept his eyes closed, trembling. He felt unbearably exposed, not just physically, but in his vulnerability, his helplessness. The stretched skin of his belly felt hypersensitive, anticipating touch. He felt Ashur’s gaze tracing the new softness draping his ribs, the slight, tender swell beneath his small nipples, the pronounced curve rising from his lap like a taut drum. Ashur made a soft, appreciative sound in his throat. "Look at this," he breathed, his voice thick with reverence. "All that softness. My doing." One warm, calloused hand settled low on the exposed swell, just above the waistband of the loose sleep shorts Ling wore, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle on the stretched skin. Ling flinched violently at the contact, the touch sparking both shame and an unwelcome, treacherous flicker of something else deep inside his exhausted core.
"Beautiful," Ashur murmured, his thumb continuing its deliberate circle. "Perfect canvas." His free hand moved to the hem of the sleep shorts. Ling tensed, a whimper trapped in his throat. He felt the elastic waistband being gently, inexorably, tugged downwards over the massive curve of his hips. Ashur worked carefully, maneuvering the fabric past the obstacle of Ling’s swollen belly. The shorts slid down his thighs, catching on his knees. Cool air washed over Ling’s lower body. He was completely bare now, utterly exposed on the black silk sheets, his pale skin flushed with humiliation and the residual heat of the rich meal, the massive swell of his belly dominating his small frame, pale skin stretched impossibly tight over the colossal fullness within. He couldn’t look. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, breath hitching.
Ashur let out a slow, satisfied breath. He didn’t immediately cover him. He just… looked. Ling felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, tracing every new contour, every soft fold, every inch of strained skin. "All mine," Ashur whispered, his voice husky. His hand returned, this time sliding over the naked curve of Ling’s lower belly, fingers splaying possessively across the warm, tight skin. "Every perfect pound." He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Ling’s ear once more. "Ready for more, Little Bird?" His other hand drifted lower, tracing the crease where belly met thigh. "The fridge is humming."
Ling flinched at Ashur's hand tracing his hip crease, the touch searing against overstretched skin. "Please, Ashur." The words scraped raw. "I can't. Not yet." He gestured weakly towards his own taut belly, the mound a pale, straining island on the black silk. "It feels... it feels like it’s going to split."
Ashur chuckled, low and dark, his thumb pressing deeper into the yielding flesh just below Ling’s navel. "Split? Nah. Strong little belly, this. Took the harness just fine, remember?" The reminder of the suspension, the funnel, the cold digital 150.0 flashing, sent a cold shiver through Ling despite the room's warmth. Ashur leaned closer, his breath hot on Ling’s neck. "Just needs convincing. Warming up." His other hand slid down, fingers teasing the sensitive skin where belly met thigh again. "Like that protein shake last night. Remember how you choked at first? Then gulped it down."
Ling whimpered, turning his face into the pillow. The scent of Ashur’s cologne on the silk mixed nauseatingly with the phantom grease and chocolate still clinging to his senses. "Hurts," he whispered, the plea muffled. "Really hurts." His hand trembled, trying to cover himself, a futile shield against Ashur’s gaze and touch. The ornate mirror across the room reflected his naked vulnerability – the delicate frame swallowed by the obscene swell, Ashur’s possessive hand splayed across the tight curve.
"Shhh," Ashur murmured, but it wasn’t soothing. It was a command to endure. He straightened slightly, his golden eyes scanning the immaculate room, landing pointedly on the ensuite door. The faint, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator was a persistent bass note beneath the silence. "Hear that? Calling your name, Little Bird." He traced a path up Ling’s trembling flank, fingertips skimming ribs softened by weeks of indulgence. "Got something special mixed up. High calorie. Real thick. Needs a warm belly to settle in." He tapped the distended dome. "This one."
Panic coiled tight in Ling’s chest, sharper than the physical ache. The gym’s scale flashed again in his mind. The harness straps biting. The relentless pressure forcing sludge down his throat. "Later," he gasped, desperation cracking his voice. "Ashur, please, just… let it go down first? I’ll… I’ll drink it later. I promise." He hated the begging, the abject surrender in his own tone. "Can’t fit anything else now."
Ashur’s smirk faded, replaced by a chilling stillness. His hand stopped its tracing. He studied Ling’s face – the sweat-sheened pallor, the wide, terrified green eyes, the bitten lower lip. "Promised me more," he stated, voice flat. "After the waffles. Remember? 'Much more later.' Your words." He leaned down, his face inches from Ling’s. "Later is now. That belly’s primed." His gaze dropped meaningfully to the straining swell. "Perfectly empty."
Tears welled, hot and sudden, blurring the sharp lines of the room. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, but they spilled over, tracing hot paths down his temples into the silk. "It’s not empty," he choked out, the words thick with tears and despair. "It’s full. It hurts." He pressed a trembling hand hard against the unyielding curve beneath Ashur’s palm, the pressure radiating agony. "See?"
Ashur watched the tears fall, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, impossibly, he smiled. Not his usual sinful smirk, but something softer, almost tender. Terrifyingly tender. He cupped Ling’s damp cheek with his free hand, his thumb catching a tear. "Oh, baby," he whispered, his voice a low vibration. "Look at you. Working so hard." His thumb brushed the tear away. "That’s just the stretch. The good ache." He leaned closer, his lips brushing Ling’s temple, his breath warm. "Means it’s working. Means you’re growing. For me." His hand on Ling’s belly pressed down firmly, possessive. "This beautiful proof." He lifted his head slightly, golden eyes locking onto Ling’s tear-filled ones. "The shake’ll help. Loosen things up. Warm you from the inside." His voice dropped to a hypnotic murmur. "Be good. Drink it for me. Make it all better."
The tenderness was worse than the demand. It shattered the last fragile barrier. Ling’s breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from his chest. The tears flowed freely now, silent rivers down his cheeks. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He could only lie there, pinned by the crushing weight inside and the terrifying, possessive care above, exposed and utterly conquered. He cried. Silently. Helplessly. The fridge hummed its relentless promise just beyond the door.