Stuffed

Erotic short. A man is handfed almost to bursting by his husband.

Cis M/M, 1.1k, rated E. Stuffing, handfeeding, D/s, begging, overstimulation, mild sadomasochism (stomach cramps etc), teasing.

CW for mentions of one character being underweight with implied disordered eating.

Lucius and Zhenzhi first appeared in:

https://johannestevans.medium.com/nesting-choices-87c4b04770be

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It’s late in the evening and Lucius is sat back against Moss’ chest, Moss’ thighs framing him in on either side, Moss looking over his shoulder at the coffee table and the plates laid across it.

It’s a Saturday, which means Lucius will have tomorrow to recover, but he still can’t help but squirm — his cock, traitorously, is slightly hard in his pyjama trousers, because Moss’ body is warm behind his and Lucius is entirely trapped by him, framed in by him, even though every moment that passes he’s more horribly aware of the plates spread out on the table in front of them — plates, and baskets directly from the steamer.

Lucius is already feeling full and his stomach is straining just a little as Moss takes up another shrimp dumpling and brings it to Lucius’ mouth. He grunts, feeling breathless and too warm, but he doesn’t disobey: he parts his lips and lets Moss slide the dumpling between them, bites down, chews.

He doesn’t want to swallow. It tastes good, tastes incredible, as does everything spread out on the table before them, but it tasting good isn’t the point — the point is that Lucius is, to put it kindly, underweight, and he naturally has a rather modest appetite, and the point of this exercise is to get him to eat more. Not only that, of course — the point is also the intimacy of it, the game of control and that he cedes that control to Moss rather than trying to hoard it for himself, but Moss is an excellent cook, and he cares about Lucius’ health.

“So thin,” he murmurs, the hand not gripping the chopsticks coming to rest on the base of Lucius’ belly, and Lucius whimpers. “If you let me do this more often, A-Lu, I could change that.”

It’s a threat — not a threat of gaining weight, because Lucius feels the winter chill painfully keenly and gets hit hard by flus when they go around, knows damn well that gaining weight would only be good for his health, but a threat of this, of this sublime torture, of being made to sit with Moss and be stuffed full of Moss’ excellent cooking until it hurts, until it aches, until he feels like he might well split at the seams.

Moss’ hand is warm and strong and sweetly painful where it presses on his stuffed-full belly, making Lucius gasp and squirm. His cock — betrayer! — jumps and jerks against the crotch of his sleep pants.

“Zhenzhi,” groans Lucius, but he still opens his mouth when Moss brings a slice of pork up to his mouth and God, God, it has no right tasting as good as it does, sweet and salty and so perfectly spiced, fatty in a way that it almost seems to melt on his tongue even before he starts to chew.

“You like that, hm? Another?”

“I can’t, I can’t — ”

“My little bird needs to be made plump for the winter,” murmurs Moss in his ear, his voice low and resonant and going right through him, making him shudder — his cock is fully hard now, straining against the fabric of his trousers as Moss’ palm spreads wide on his belly, strokes over it. “He must eat another piece, precious thing that he is. He must taste it on his tongue, let his lover nourish him.”

“I hate it when you talk like this,” moans Lucius.

“You only hate it because it makes your cock so hard,” says Moss knowingly. “I have never known a man in all my life, Lucius, so intrigued and titillated by my use of the third person as you are.”

“Fuck.”

Moss laughs, but apparently this laughter is a show of great approval because he squeezes Lucius’ cock through his pyjamas, making him grunt and thrust up into his palm, before he goes back to rubbing and palpating over his sore and overstuffed belly.

Lucius eats another piece of the pork belly, and then another, and fuck, fuck, but he craves it, feels his mouth water in anticipation of the taste of it because it’s just so perfectly cooked despite the fact that every one feels like it may well be his last. Moss feeds him another two dumplings, a noodle roll, a few pieces of stewed, spiced chicken.

Lucius’ belly really does feel painfully full now, his stomach cramping and only being soothed at the press and touch of Moss’ hand, but that soothing is also agony.

“Here,” says Moss, setting the chopsticks down on their rest, and Lucius’ soaring relief lasts for barely half a second before Moss brings the bun up to his mouth.

“Not the bao, Zhenzhi, Moss, I can’t, I can’t, I’ll die — ”

“You will not die,” says Moss sternly, chuckling afterward. “You are not to die, A-Lu — you need to eat.”

“I’ve eaten,” whimpers Lucius. “I’ve eaten so much I might fucking burst.”

“Not yet,” says Moss. “Perhaps you’ll burst later, when I fuck you.”

And that, that, fuck but that sets his nerves on fire and makes his prick strain and his body shudder, because the fact that Moss can do this to him, stuff him so full of food and then stuff him full of cock as well, it’s killing him, it will kill him, and it feels like such a painfully pleasurable way to die.

“For me, A-Lu,” murmurs Moss, and Lucius, eyes tightly closed, stomach cramping, feeling full to the absolute gills, opens his mouth and takes a bite. The bun is perfectly fluffy as he tears into it with his teeth, tastes the sweet glaze on the pork filling. Chewing is a fresh agony, his jaw moving with the horrible knowledge that swallowing will bring this mouthful down inside him, stuff him even fuller. “Another bite,” says Moss when he finally does, feels like his whole body is straining, feels like he really will burst.

When Moss squeezes his cock again, he comes unexpectedly, his balls suddenly as tight as his belly, clenching, and he sobs out a noise as he thrusts into Moss’ palm even as doing so jars his stomach — the cramps are awful, the cramps are evil, and yet somehow he comes so hard his vision darkens at the edges.

Moss chuckles.

“What a pleasure it is for a lover to please his bird,” he says amusedly, and Lucius whimpers.

“What a pleasure it is for you to torture him, you mean,” he hisses.

“Mm,” Moss agrees, shameless. “Yes. Another bite, please.”

Lucius’ mouth is open before he can think, he’s so powerless to disobey, and Moss pats his belly in a way that makes his mind go blank.