I'm Your Balloon, Pop Me

Something far more NSFW than my previous works. It was originally a more secretive commission, but I've since edited the names to make it suitable for upload. Enjoy!

“You’re sure that you want to go through with this?” he asked, and I could only muster up a shy nod in return.

“Alright,” he said. “First, we need to get rid of your clothes. I don’t want to ruin them.” He softly laid his hands on my body and leant in for a passionate kiss, exploring my mouth and filling it with the taste of the chocolate dessert we shared before venturing downstairs, into the basement, that had been prepared for our final activity. With a deftness that surprised me, he undressed me. My buttons were already strained from the bulge of my stomach, and the relief that came with each one he unclasped was wonderful, my belly released as he popped open the final constraint near my waist.

“Byron,” I called weakly. “I really do want to do this, for myself, just as much as you.” I bit my lip; my belly always was my weak spot. I wonder if Byron knew just how much it excited me to have it played with.

Free and unrestrained, my stomach pushed against his torso. It was wide enough to envelop him by a few inches, and he was consumed even further when he pressed harder against it, effectively pinning me to the sofa. I felt like the softer cousin of an exercise ball, ridden by an overly-enthusiastic gym-goer. It had been months since someone touched me, let alone kissed me, and that was enough to trigger the change.

Hissing began in my body, deep within my stomach. I tried to keep proper eye contact with Byron, but a rush of endorphins hit me like a truck. I moaned like a donkey in heat, undignified and loud with a cracked vocal tone. He barely had enough time to prepare himself before my belly was overtaken by latex sheen and swelled in only two-seconds to twice its girth, jutting out from under my ample moobs and over my knees like a flesh-tone balloon.

“Whoah,” Byron must have been taken aback, horrified even, I was sure I could hear it in his voice. I was sure he wanted to abscond from the situation, and rush to tell his friends about the time he nearly made love to a fucking balloon.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, and I kept staring at the ceiling, afraid to look him in the eye.

“N-no…” my toes curled, and my erection grew. Did it hurt? No. The opposite. It felt wonderful, too wonderful. Like a full body erection, my stomach was both tense and limber at the same time. It was as sensitive, perhaps more now that it had become convex and air-filled, as my cock. I wanted so desperately for Byron to arouse me until my entire body followed my gut’s example, but I could hardly tell him that could I?

“It’s beautiful.” Byron’s warm hand may as well be the divine hand of god for a touch-starved man like me. He met resistance trying to glide across my orb, eliciting a cacophony of sounds that you would expect from a real, non-living balloon. The staccato of krk-krk-krk noise only served to excite me more, another bout of pressure brewed in my guts. I was about to cry out a warning when it came.

I moaned, deeper this time, with a little more dignity. My stomach grew with reckless abandon, glancing the light from the overhead lamp, and pushing Byron to his feet. I writhed and grit my teeth, ruby cheeks betraying my unfiltered joy. A FWOOMP preceded my arms transmogrifying into the same shiny latex-like texture of my belly; then a BWOOMP signalled an identical treatment to my legs. I winced, as the denim of my jeans – Christ, why did I wear denim – showed the first signs of ripping.

Heated patches of peach latex filled small holes in the fabric, that became larger holes, that became long tears, that were eventually set free when my fat, air-pumped thighs exploded the jeans I had bought two-sizes bigger to avoid this exact scenario from taking place. 

“I’m sorry,” I quaked. “I’m making a mess, I… I promise it’s not contagious, and it’s not dangerous.”

“What are you talking about? Sorry? You have no idea how amazing this is!” Byron’s elation took me fully by surprise. “Look I have something to admit, I have a bit of a fetish.” Was this really happening? A coincidence this perfect? “I like… balloons; and fat men.” Byron approached, I could tell by his footsteps. 

My shoulders were locked by my inner pressure, and I could feel my chin pressing into my bouncy chest now that my neck had been subtly swallowed up by the transformation. I retained a faintly human shape, if that human had been plugged into a military-grade air compressor and left to inflate for a few minutes. My fingers were fat little sausages, that I could bend with strenuous effort, but still lack the dexterity to do anything meaningful with them. My feet were plump and round, and my toes could barely curl now. The soles had become semi-circles, and the times I tried walking in my inflated state, I found that they would cause me to bounce if I took a step. Walking, right now however, was out of the question. The angle I had inflated at; diagonally against Byron’s admittedly comfortable sofa; meant that I was incapacitated until I deflated.

“I didn’t want to make you feel like I was fetishizing you—not that I knew about this! I mean, when you were just, really… really fat! But I’ve actually err, imagined things like this.” I could feel the shame in his voice. “You made such a handsome blimp in my mind; the real thing is even more gorgeous. I actually wouldn’t mind seeing you grow bigger.” 

“… you have no idea—” I groaned, getting comfortable, “how happy I am to hear you say that.” I felt so happy, so happy that I could burs—No. Nope. I had to keep those thoughts at bay for now.

“Then what do we do from here on?”

“I… have something I’ve always wanted to try.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s a bit kinky. You know there’s only two ways for me to get back to normal. The first way is I… remove the pressure. That takes a few hours.” I blushed again, but out of actual embarrassment; not sexually charged shame.

“What’s the other way… ?” Byron asked in a very slow and deliberate manner, I think he already knew what I was going to say.

“… I need to orgasm, and uh, well—when I get turned on I swell up—so when I finally blow, I literally—”

“Pop.”

“Yeah,” I giggled to myself. “You’re not worried that I could explode for good?”

“Hah, not a chance.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well let’s see.” Byron thumped my belly. “You’re a man in your twenties, with a healthy sexual appetite, and you’re telling me that you basically go nuclear every time you squeeze one out.” The teasing note in his voice got me, I wanted him to put it to better use. “You’ve probably exploded dozens of times.”

“Hundreds… probably,” I don’t know why I corrected him on that, was I proud of the fact I could explode like some cheap balloon? God, fuck, I really am messed up.

“So how should I set you off.”

“… don’t say my name.”

“Okay, little bit weird.”

“And… uh, tease me. Pretend you’re arming a bomb. I like that. Something about feeling like a big, fat, explosive waiting to go off. It stirs something deep in me, and I sweat, and moan, until I go off. I want you to treat me like an actual bomb, an object. Could you uh, do that?”

Byron rubbed my stomach and kneaded it. The touching alone was enough to continue the inflation. “Weird, I thought I heard something… bombs shouldn’t talk.” That was it, that was the trigger. I knew from that moment on I wouldn’t be able to stop pumping up, and that my fate for the night was sealed by the bizarre roleplay scenario I’d asked for.

“Oh. So big and round. I bet I could level the whole town with this baby. Fill it up just right, make it stretch and swell, hell even the Hindenburg couldn’t hold a candle to it.” I felt my temperature rise, and my human anatomy shift to an air-filled parody of what a man should look like. My arms grew thicker than long, and my sausage-fingered palms were receded gently into the all-consuming blimp my body was becoming. 

“Mm… m-more, I’m not ready to pop yet.”

Byron smacked my gut, so hard that for a moment I feared I was about to burst prematurely. It was like electricity ran through my veins. I was hyper-awake, hyper-alert, ready to spend the energy accumulating in my fair skinned globe-body; but I was paralyzed, completely immobile, so all I could do was shake and vibrate. It was true, I was becoming a bomb. Only the added thrill of someone else teasing me to completion had added a fire to the mix; I had never gotten so hot and sweaty before; I felt like I was a volcano building its magma stores to erupt!

“Ssshhh, bombs don’t talk – they go boom.”

Thunderous noises erupted from me, as my fat legs and waist jointed the circular curve of my belly. Well, it was my belly. I guess right now, I was all belly; or all balloon. My body heat became feverish, and my brain must have gone gooey because it was hard to keep a straight train of thought. The only image I had in my brain was myself – several hundred times my size in reality – fed to the size of the Hindenburg, no, beyond that, to the size of a sixty foot fucking blimp in all black latex.

I imagined that I had been turned into the worlds largest bomb, complete with a long fuse squeezed between my butt cheeks. Byron was there, tanned skin, and cute moustache, dressed in a supervillain outfit. A candy-blue and orange skinsuit, with a harness. He had a bike pump plunger in his hands, and he had a mad near-demonic look in my eye as he squatted and rose like a man possessed to push great thick globules of air into my mouth. The hose bulged almost as much as I did, and lost in my daydream; I really felt wonderful; like a tool of mass destruction. A monstrous bomb-boy, who had to go to such extremes and place himself at the mercy of a supervillain, just to achieve release.

“Good. You’re reaching your maximum, you have no idea how good you look right now. I almost wish that I could do what you do. Think dirty thoughts, and pump up. Bust out of my house, swell out through the doors and windows, and keep getting tighter and tighter. Until… you know.”

In my imagination, the hose was connected to an elaborate semi-covering gas mask that prevented me from speaking. In reality, Byron was humping my dangerously full belly, and I was denied the right of speech because my fat facial cheeks had blown up like watermelons that pushed my lips together and reduced me to guttural moans for communication.

“I want to see you put the Hindenburg to shame. I want you to make everyone run in terror, and yell HE’S GONNA BLOW. I’ll be right there at ground zero, still pumping, and pumping, and fucking pumping. I want you to pop, so -I- can pop with you. Come on…” he nearly said my name, but remembered. “… you fucking balloon, I know you can’t keep this up forever.” In reality, I felt my cock throb, and twitch. It was ready, I was ready, we were going to… going to… !

“Aaaaaaaah,” my voice raised in pitch, in time with my glossy pink body. Steam rose from me, and blasted out of my ears and nostrils like a ten ft kettle. I came as the whistling reached its fever pitch, but I could feel Byron humping, pumping, and a second rush consumed me. Pleasure erupted from my belly, ran along every inch of my body, and I finally detonated with the orgasmic force of a fucking supernova.

BLAM!!!!

In the dust cloud of my own combustion, I laid buck naked on the sofa which had been turned upside down. Byron resting on top of me. Sweaty, still a little delirious, I could barely hear his voice; but he said to me; “… so, when can you go again?”