Percy's Perilous Pump Up

Commission for: https://twitter.com/percybulloon

[TW: Forced inflation, belching, farting/pressure release, genital expansion, humiliation]

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Pneumatic Powerhouse Obliterates Metropatrol Alpha.

The headline was punchy, they usually were regarding supers, but you found the contents of the article lackluster. They only showed images of the fight where the inflated bodies of the heroes were obscured, and they filled the rest of their quota with stock photos of the team before their fall. You thumbed further down the page, finding it amusing how carefully they worded the reason behind the fight. You worked in superhero admin, you knew the routine.

Everyone knew Metropatrol Alpha ran a protection racket, with mercenary supervillains ready to launch if someone couldn't pay their dues on time. The article made it sound like an isolated incident only involving one member of the team, when it was obvious every one of them was in on the scam.

You didn't have much sympathy for crooked heroes, even if you had to work for your city's own bad batch. You were just an ordinary brown bull in his twenties, trying to save up enough money to rent a bigger apartment. Hopefully you didn't wind up the target of Biohazard Ben's unmasking campaign, then you would never fit into a building ever again, let alone your apartment.

A man bumped into you prompting you to drop your phone. He came out of nowhere, a great round shape draped in a double breasted coat and a large fedora. He stopped and looked down at you, he was looming and his shiny black ensemble tinted purple when it caught the light. He canted his neck, and spoke with an earthy yet conversational voice. Scottish, distinct, and deep.

"Sorry about that lad, let me get that for you," he bent down to pick up your phone. His coat squealed, the way his arched form teased the seams was criminal. Maybe a little hot, but you tried not to let it show in your face.

"Ah, it's no problem," you replied, feeling small.

The man noticed the phone cover. Standard issue superhero admin steelcase. Your phone contained sensitive information for your work, it made sense your job provided extra protection. The man seemed intrigued by it.

"You work for the city's hero office?"

"I... uh, just email sorting and stuff," you would have ordinarily replied with a prompt and curt yes. However, something about the man's question felt like a threat.

"There's a storm rolling in," the man raised your phone to his face before he returned it. You noted how warm it was now.

"Best get to cover," he chuckled and disappeared into the crowd as easily as a man with the heft of a city bus could. He stuck out like a big black balloon, surrounded by a sea of commuters' heads.

You assumed the person who screamed "oh my god" was referring to him as he walked away, and not you.

“He’s blowing up!”

You looked at the woman who exclaimed you were blowing up. You were about to correct her when you noticed your right hand, still clutched around your phone, was five times its natural size and hissing. It sounded like an air compressor had been lodged under your skin. You tried to open your fingers but your dexterity was gone, and instead of just one finger moving at a time, all four straightened up with a cartoonish bouncing sound.

Bwoomp.

Your phone went flying in an arc and landed face down. Purple smoke rose from the case. You realized, horrified, that you had just been infected by the gas of a supervillain. You had just been targeted by none other than Biohazard Ben. You wheeled around trying to spot him in the crowd, cursing yourself for not recognising him. Who else would wear a double-breasted coat made of rubber in the middle of Summer, let alone in his signature shade of midnight purple?

“Help!” You yelled, hoping someone had a cure. Supervillain attacks weren’t rare, but they weren’t entirely common either. Someone might have a protective… something. Your left hand inflated and the inflation spread along your arms, forcing you into a T shaped pose like a mockup video game character. You staggered forwards, while people avoided you, they feared being infected more than they cared for your predicament. A clearing in the crowd had opened up around you, making you the center of attention.

“Get away from him, he’s gonna blow!”

“Not yet,” someone else said. “Look, he’s not even leaking yet. Who knows how big he’s going to get?”

“Probably gets turned on by this sort of thing, ugh, freak.”

You blushed so hotly you thought your cheeks might catch fire. They didn’t, but they did puff up. You kept calling for help but your lamentations were reduced to indistinct fragments of speech, muffled by your facial cheeks blowing up to the size of basketballs. You kept trying to force your voice out, and felt your throat bulge; you thought that was a good sign, how naive you were. Your mouth was forced open and something erupted, but it wasn’t speech.

BWOOAAAAAAAAARUUUUUP!

You belched. Loud enough to rattle nearby window panes. A man’s glasses shattered, and your eyes widened in horror. Every time you tried to speak, another raucous belch flew out. They grew deeper in pitch with each subsequent blast, the gas wasn’t done changing you. Somehow you could tell.

The inflation had puffed up your hooves and made it more difficult to walk. You also felt your hips twinge with an alien sensation that was neither pain, or pleasure, it was a simultaneous tightening and hollowing of your body. You felt so paradoxically tight, all over, yet more spacious and free. A sign that your insides had become hollow, and your existence as a person had been revoked.

You were a balloon now.

A subtle purple tinge covered your body and your body grew rounder, not just bigger like you had gotten used to with your arms and hooves. Your flat stomach blew out like a sail caught in a gale force wind, and your back rounded out in equal measure. You grew wider, and fatter, at a much faster rate than your height was increasing. You flailed, still hoping you could get some sympathetic member of the crowd to help you. To squeeze you, put a pin in you before the pressure climbed too high, something - anything - to relieve the pressure that filled you from head to hoof.

“Someone PLEASE, help me. I don’t want to be a balloon!” Is what you thought you said.

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARP!

That… is what you actually said.

You swiped at someone out of pure frustration, having to tilt and whirl your entire body to move your outstretched arm. They stepped backwards, with their phone aimed directly at you. You slipped on your puffy hoof and lost your balance, but instead of slamming against the concrete you felt yourself floating ass-first into the air.

The inflation accelerated, again, to your chagrin. You could tell by the shadow you cast on the ground, and it was only growing wider by the second. You felt a pinching sensation in your flank and winced. It reminded you that balloons were vessels to be filled up, and that every vessel would eventually break if overfilled. You wondered how much you could take before you broke, and what it would feel like to burst.

“Look, he IS getting off on this!”

A combination of internal pressure, and your own admittedly fucked up thoughts, had resulted in a phalic shaped impression on your now skin-tight blue jeans. You heard the first death knell of doomed clothing, fabric tearing and stitches popping, until the pressure in your legs exceeded the tensile strength of your favorite pants. Your boxers didn’t survive the explosion either, and left the bottom half of your body naked. Your average sized member had come to resemble an abnormally thick tube balloon, attached to a pair of brown fur covered party balloons. Something about the way people were paying you attention triggered the horny center of your brain, and now everyone in the city knew it.

“Oh wow, isn’t that Percy?”

Your coworkers had arrived. Just in time to watch your green hoodie unzip from the force exerted by your giant balloon of a gut. It managed to unzip to the chest before it exploded off of you with a pow, and a bang.

“Who knew Percy was such a freak?”

“Pumped up Percy, am I right?”

“More like Percy goes Pop! He’s gonna pop, right?”

“Oh yeah totally, he’s the size of a fucking house. There’s no way he’s not going to bust.”

You were so beyond embarrassed at this point. Despite how hard your cock was, you just wanted this to be over. Ordinarily you would wish for the ground to swallow you up, but since you were airborne and that wasn’t an option, you just wished you would burst already.

Hisssssss…

The gas inside of you reacted to your thoughts.

“No!”

Bwooooarp.

All you could do was belch.

You felt your eyes bulge, the pressure was so intense, and the gas was looking for everywhere it could to occupy in lieu of your packed midsection. Your skin was pliable like latex rubber, and the gas was unrelenting. It made you bulge out in ways you wouldn’t expect a normal balloon to. Your chest filled up, giving you the appearance of being well endowed. Your cock didn’t grow any longer, or bigger, but it did keep swelling outward until it was basically a comparatively tiny orb against your looming body. Purple gas whistled out of your slit, like a heated kettle would to warn people it had finished boiling.

Then there was something else. You were probably fifty, maybe sixty feet off the ground. Whenever your body rotated and you caught sight of the onlookers, you noticed they were fixated on a specific part of you. Someone yelled out “holy shit look at his ass,” and peals of laughter swept through your audience. The gas had apparently made your cheeks extra-stretchy, and you could now feel how catastrophically tight each of them were.

Gurgle… hissss…

To someone who had just arrived you were not Percy the bull, victim of a sudden and cruel inflation attack. You were a great brown orb, with various other orbs, oblong shapes, and squeaky protrusions. You were just an embarrassingly gas filled medley of spheres, who had stretched for a commendable amount of time and were predicted to blow at second.

Fwwssshhh.

You felt some pressure release itself from between your cheeks. The part of your pressure-addled mind that felt relieved gave away, almost instantly, to the realization of where it was leaking from. “Oh no, nononono…”

Your cheeks rumbled. There was a silence over the crowd.

FRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPTTTTTTTTT-FWOOOOOOM-FRRRRRTTTTT!

Purple gas geysered out of your ass. It was a fart of explosive proportions. The power of the blast sent you rocketing against a building, crushing its walls in and destroying its windows. The angle of the escaping gas meant you continued to spin, making your trajectory wildly unpredictable. You flew across the busy street, destroying store fronts and flattening onlookers into the ground. While tight, you still had some give to you. No one seemed seriously injured, but you were too heady with thoughts of gas and explosions to think about that right now.

Can’t take it anymore… !

Hissssss…

I’m too full… !

HISSSSSSSS…

The gas seemed to double its production rate to make up for whatever volume you farted out. You ended up shooting skyward after a point, your body surging out over the city street. House sized, the size of several houses. You grew bigger in pulses that left your skin feeling delicately thin after they ended, and finally you grew too big. The split second where your belly opened, and a tiny hole became a giant rupture in your rubbery body, felt like an eternity.

One moment you were Percy, the bull; then you were Percy, the belching, farting, unwilling balloon with a boner; then you were Percy, period. Were, past tense. You felt a rush of warmth fill you past your physical and mental capacity, it was like every inch of you had become a sensitive carnal nerve. An orgasm to end all orgasms literally tore through you, and you blew apart.

KA-BLAM!

All that remained was one large sheet of indistinct brown latex, a cloud of stormy purple gas, and smaller confetti-like shreds of latex that snowed on the street below. Once you had detonated, everyone else went about their day.

On top of a nearby building sat Biohazard Ben wearing his typical attire. His midnight-purple skinsuit, marked with his glowing purple biohazard emblem. He held your phone in his hand, and wondered if anyone had noticed when he snuck back to grab it; or if they were too enamored with your humiliating display. He smirked and used your phone to call one of his henchmen.

“Look up everything you can about the person this phone belongs to. Once he recovers from his little incident, I think he’ll make a fine addition to the team.”