Pop Yourself

The night had been wonderful. You and he had descended to the lounge fashionably late and impeccably dressed. Your guests, the socially elite and scandalously indiscreet of the city, had been arrived for well over an hour, and the liquor was already flowing freely. You mingled and danced and drank separately from each other. This was part of the fun for you two. You pretended almost as though you were strangers among the throbbing bass and low strobe.

You had chosen an intimate red dress for the party tonight, cut so low as to nearly reveal everything but tastefully so. You would give up everything to the right man but only if he treated you right. Everyone tonight had wanted to treat you right, and you were well taken care of. Hands gripped your waist, slowly moving you to the rhythm of the music, and you returned the favor in kind, grinding yourself against their manhood until you felt them stiffen at your every move. You moaned at the sensation of pressure, and they nearly begged you to come back to their hotels. But you only gave a sly grin, finished the drink they had offered you, and moved on to the next one.

This continued until you and he were once again together, pressed face to face in the middle of a surging throng, so close you could have kissed if you wanted. But that was not the game. You groped at each other, you tugging at his pants and he giving your ass a squeeze so gentle it may have been a mistake. He leaned in close and asked whether you wanted to go somewhere more private, his lips just brushing your ear and causing you to shiver with desire.

There, off to the side in a semi-secluded love seat, you sat among the candles and poured each other thick drinks and drank in each other’s beauty. He, of course, was a statue, muscled and grizzled and full of a deep, mysterious love. You, blonde and buxom and possessed of an equally mysterious and deep passion. Little conversation passed between you, only casual remarks on the guests and the occasional sweet nothing said more with your eyes than your mouths.

And then the music changed, the dancing giving way to more of a swaying, electronic beeps and whirs shifting to the drum and bass that marked the dreamers’ period. It was well after midnight now, and everyone who remained at the party was past tipsy and into drunk, the two of you included. The melodies enchanted the guests, sending them into their own personal spheres of delusion where they were either the centers of the whole world, or they were mere observers to the one they truly inhabited. The throng naturally broke apart, some descending into adjacent seats for the beginnings of orgy, others isolating themselves into stronger and stronger drinks, the better to understand the music.

You adjusted your dress and prepared to go once more into the ensemble, but he grabbed your wrist as you made to rise.

“Tonight,” he said, softly, and he caressed your breasts with his other hand, moving down towards your trim stomach.

Butterflies filled you as you realized what he meant, and you nodded eagerly. You rose together, slipping up the stairs towards the master bedroom without any realizing you had left.

Once inside, you make your way to the bed, pausing only to slip out of your heels. You won’t be needing them this night. You kneel on top of the plush covers and make yourself comfortable as he retrieves from the large closet several of the toys you will be needing tonight. The first of these is the most exciting, you think. It is a high-speed aquarium pump, designed to keep large tanks aerated. Tonight, it will do the same to you.

While he prepares the pump, you insert a plug between your cheeks, a specially-designed model with a valve to allow air in but not out. The tubing from the aquarium is inserted, and you push it as far inside yourself as you are able. Once ready, you turn to look at him, standing respectfully at a distance from the bed, finger on the switch on the pump. As much as he might like the game you play, it excites you even more. This is your party now, as the moon crests its peak and begins its slow journey towards its end.

“Go,” you say breathlessly, and he flips the switch. At once, you feel the air push itself inside you, filling your intestines nearly before the word has left your lips. It burbles through you quickly, filling you up on its way to your stomach, the current path of least resistance. As the seconds tick by, your flat belly begins to expand underneath your dress, the first swell of inflation pressing out across your thighs. You gasp in excitement and grin up at him. He smiles back, happy to see you fulfilling your desires once again.

Before you are ready, the tickling sensation of those first moments ends as the air reaches your stomach and begins to fill you out more quickly. The burbling continues, but is overpowered by a stronger sensation: the pressure. Your stomach is not naturally large, and the volume of air being pumped into you presses it out beyond its normal capacity at once. You can’t help but let out a deep moan as the first surge hits you, your stomach ballooning outwards almost comically as you give in to the pump. Panting, you grip your stomach and massage gently. This is where the real game begins.

You could cum even now, looking as though you are barely five months pregnant. But you restrain yourself, focusing on anything else in the room to keep the fog of lust from clouding your mind. It has been mere minutes, and you would hate this time to end so quickly. He is smiling at you from across the room. He knows you can be bigger. And so you massage your growing gut and smile back and begin to take deep, purposeful breaths. You count to ten in your head and recall the most recent book you read. You come up with nicknames for the men tonight who you can remember the features of. All the while, the pump hums and your stomach grows and tightens. You see it blow out from under your breasts, and you feel the silk fabric of your dress sliding across your thighs as the garment is pulled higher and higher to try and accommodate the enormous mass that is your gut.

The pump stops suddenly. He moves quickly across the bed to you, a sweet tenderness in his eyes. He places his firm hands on your belly and helps to rub the tightness away. You look full-term now, and you feel an unbearable tension in your skin. There is a burning aside from the pressure, and an itching that accompanies becoming this large in so short a time. He knows you feel this, and he wants to help. He is everything, and you reach up and grab his face. At once, you share a passionate kiss, both your hands moving quickly from each other’s faces back to your belly as the sudden motion jostles your cramped organs.

He breaks apart from you, panting slightly, happy.

You are happy too, but…you are not done. You know you can take more. You can be bigger. You need to be bigger. Tonight has been a wonderful night, and you want it to be wonderful still.

“More,” you pant. “More.”

He understands, though he detaches the aquarium pump from you and moves to the closet to procure something more thoughtful for the second act. He leaves you to marvel at your own size, and you truly do marvel. Though you know you can inflate yourself, there is something about it tonight. Perhaps it is the drink, perhaps it is the dress. Perhaps you are simply so enamored with love and life that everything feels as though it is the first time. You are enormous. You are a balloon, growing bigger and bigger. Tighter and rounder. You slide a finger along your dress and are rewarded with a small squeak from the silk. You shudder in pure bliss, imagining that sound to be your own skin, but you quickly open your eyes. You must still focus. It could all be over so soon if you let it.

He returns with a bicycle pump, something that will allow him control over the amount of air you take in. You agree with this choice and slide the new tube into your plug. Before he can even step back from the bed, you take his hands and force him to push the plunger down.

This new air is different. Forceful. It rushes into you like a shot, filling your stomach so quickly you nearly fall over. The aquarium pump had been continuous, inflating you in a steady trickle. This pump did not allow for finesse or half-measures. Each pump would demand a certain confidence that your stomach could hold it. You swallow hard and nod at him to continue. He does, giving you a pump every ten or so seconds to allow you time to adjust. Each burst pushes your stomach out another inch, adds another measure of pain to your already enflamed insides.

You focus on counting your probable circumference, adding one to an ever-growing total, imagining with some giddiness that sixty inches must not be too far off. You set a mental goal to count to sixty before stopping. Forty-four. Forty-five.

Your dress rips, then, stretched to its absolute limit and then some by your hedonism. The sound of ripping floods your ears, much louder than it actually is. You imagine it is the sound of your own stomach, bursting apart like an overinflated balloon. Stretched beyond its reasonable capacity, it explodes like any balloon should. The fantasy of bursting nearly pushes you over the edge, and it takes every last ounce of your self-control not to cum. It is a lovely fantasy, though. Your mind races.

He chides you briefly for ruining such a lovely dress, then helps you stand up. He helps you remove the remains of the thing and gropes you feverishly as he does so. One hand squeezes a soft breast as the other rubs the underside of your quivering belly. You can feel him, hard as a rock, behind you, and you obligingly bend as much as you are able and rub against him. He groans in pleasure, and you reach blindly behind you for his neck. Finding it, you pull him down and give him a deep kiss over your shoulder.

“You’re so big,” he marvels.

“Make me bigger.” You say it gently but firmly. He doesn’t respond, so you turn around and attempt to place your hands behind his head. Your belly is so gargantuan, though, that the best you can manage is pressing your hands up against his shoulders. You don’t repeat yourself, and he stares deeply into your eyes, searching for…something. Then, presumably finding what he was looking for, he smiles softly.

“Okay,” he says, and he slowly gives you another pump.

You blow him a kiss, unable to reach his mouth from this angle, and motion for him to follow you over to the wall. He does, maintaining his pumping though far slower than before. The air eases into you again, like it had done at first with the aquarium pump. This is less sexual but far more erotic, and you squirm in anticipation as you fill the air finding every last bit of space inside you. You’re becoming rounder but without the spasming pain. You will get bigger, certainly.

At the wall you find the speaker system, and you begin to play the same music as they are listening to downstairs, connecting you back to the party and the people. The drum and bass begins to play lightly through the bedroom, carrying you back at once to the heady dreamspace of the party. From the same wall panel, you dim the lights. Perfectly sensual for a perfect time. You return to the bed, eager to take more.

Two hours pass, a whirlwind of pumping, touching, and hot breath. His pumping was unbearably slow at first, but you soon realize that by going slower, he’s giving your body more time to adjust, to adapt to what it’s becoming. Each cylinder of air is given an opportunity to work its way inside of you, bloating you larger and rounder. Your stomach is given a chance to stretch and prepare itself for the next bout rather than constantly quivering. The result is that you are bigger now than you ever have been before, bigger than you even thought possible.

You surpass all measures of pregnancy; you can only look at yourself in terms of a yoga ball, or a weather balloon. You sit on the bed, legs outstretched, belly long since past your knees and pressing towards your toes. Your skin is thin now, so thin. Instead of a consistent delicate peach color, there are strange patches of light blues and reds. You realize with a thrill that you are becoming so full that you can almost see your organs. When you dare brush your belly with your fingertips, you have to stop almost at once, so sensitive is the skin.

Your breathing, too, is changed. Gone are the slow, deep breaths of midnight. Your stomach has gotten so large that it is pushing dangerously against your lungs. You have to fight for air and have started taking shuddering, shaky breaths that sound closer to gasps. As less oxygen gets to your brain, the feelings of drunkenness, already amplified by the pounding, shimmering music, increase. You are awash in a sea of air. You are bliss. All you can do in the waking world is make tiny squeaks and moans as you edge. Despite your size, despite the insane amount of air inside you, despite feeling as though you a single moment from bursting…you do not let it end.

You’re jostled from your stupor and notice he has unplugged the bicycle pump. You look at him in innocent confusion, and he pulls you to your feet. Slowly, delicately, he fully undresses you. You are naked now, resplendent in your magnitude. Though the beginnings of dawn are beginning to creep into the sky, it is still dark enough that you are able to see your reflection in the large window. You hardly recognize yourself, and you hardly believe that what you’re seeing is real. Your stomach balloons several feet out in front of you, perfectly round and taut. It is mesmerizing, but he pulls you away from the window and into the large bathroom.

You stare in mute confusion as he draws a warm bath, filling it with lavender bath salts the way you like. Then, gently, he helps you into the tub and lets you lower yourself into the enveloping warmth. The warm water is a balm on your otherwise inflamed flesh, though it is nothing compared to the raging pressure inside you. Still, you let yourself soak as the lavender scent and the distant sound of bass begins to steady your heart and calm your breathing.

As you begin to settle in and prepare to finish, you feel a splash behind you and a quick jab between your cheeks. You gasp in shock and turn to see him holding a small bulb pump in his hands, the kind you used to use when you were first beginning to explore this side of your desires. You giggle breathlessly as he gives it a tiny squeeze, and you feel yourself expand just a little bit more.

“I’m so full,” you whimper, the truth of the words hitting you. “I feel like I might p-pop.” You choke the words out, the thought of it again nearly sending you into oblivious orgasm.

His only answer is to squeeze the bulb several more times, wringing an aggrieved moan from your throat as your belly quakes in retaliation. You can feel it now. You really are running out of room. Your skin burns with the tension, and the pressure inside you has mounted to a degree where the only thing you want, the only thought left in your head is to release it. You reach up to begin massaging your nipples, the stimulation of which is guaranteed to make you cum and send you to bed before the sun rises.

Before you can grab yourself, though, his strong arms reach around you from behind and press the bulb pump into your hands. He folds your fingers around the rubber and squeezes hard, making you fill yourself with a tiny bit more air. The gas purrs into you, inflating you almost imperceptibly. The feeling of pressure nearly doubles, and you gasp in pain and pleasure.

“W-w-what?” you manage between shaky breaths. “I-I d-don’t-”

But he squeezes your hand again, sending a second wave of air into you. As you pant and shudder again, he gently kisses your shoulders, your back, the nape of your neck. You roll your head and groan in pleasure. Then, he nibbles your earlobe and places his lips just on the cusp of your ear. His breath is hot and moist.

“Pop yourself,” he whispers.

Your heart skips a beat. You must have misheard him, so you say nothing. The lavender washes over you, and the bass thumps, but the only thing you can hear is his words echoing inside your head. It must be a joke. A fantasy you both want to act out, this close to the end. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a gurgle, so constrained are your lungs.

He continues to kiss you from behind, peppering your head, your cheeks, your arms. The sensations are mindblowing, and you feel an urge rise inside you. Your logic is gone, all sense of reality is gone. The alcohol, the lavender, the music, the air, all of it compels you. You are a balloon. There is only one ending to this game.

You squeeze the bulb. You grow bigger, but barely. Your stomach shakes with each gasping breath you take. You lean as far back in the tub as you can, the better to free your lungs. You squeeze again, relishing the feeling of having only an eighth of an inch skin, a millimeter of skin, between your insides and the outside. You squeeze again. You wonder whether your skin would rip first, like the dress, or if your stomach would explode. You wonder whether it matters.

Your skin is on fire. Your belly begs for release. You are so, so, so close. This next squeeze is the one. You’ll pop or you’ll cum. Or both. Whichever it is, you have had such a wonderful night. You look across the tub at him, and he smiles at you in such a loving, approving way. You smile back.

And you squeeze.