Pumping on the Beach (Alt PoV)

The soles of your strappy sandals dig ruts into the sand as she pushes down on the handle of the pump yet again.

Her effort is apparent in forcing it to the bottom of its travel, but her labor pays dividends in the way you squirm and shiver, the sound of you catching breath set against the faint creaking of your belly, the sight of your body pulsing fractionally outward as another pressurized jet invades you. Your skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, taut and glowing in the warmth of the summer sun, a vast expanse of smooth olive gleaming with a warmth and richness far beyond well-tanned. Your reaction makes clear the beauty of your blissful agony, a study in soft curves and sensual swells pumped more than halfway to spherical, your strong swimmer's build no match for the pressure inside you delivered bite by delicious bite, pump by glorious pump.

A cool salt breeze blows through the secluded beachfront, tousling the bleached strawberry blonde of your hair, your ponytail splayed out across the sand in an artful disarray and your bangs falling in a playful slant across your face. You're absolutely enormous, your fire-engine red bikini all the more delicious for the way it fails to fully contain your curves. Its ties slice into your back and your hips, the cups speared through by nipples sharp as rapiers atop your glorious mounds, the scanty scrap between your legs cleaving dark and wet to the greedy cleft that imbibes every burst of air through a black rubber hose that slithers out from the base of the pump and strikes into your most intimate depths. A dozen more adornments decorate you as you strain against the inevitable; golden piercings glinting at your ears and the summit of your navel, a necklace of shark teeth and seashells close about your throat, an anklet of charms jingling softly with every twitch and shudder. But best of all is your favorite pair of handcuffs binding your wrists together above your head, looped around a stout length of driftwood driven deep into the sand, leaving you utterly defenseless against her pneumatic assault.

Not that you'd ever dream of escaping your fate, for all the show you make of resisting each time she drives the handle to the bottom of its stroke. Not after all you've done to tempt and taunt her into indulging you. Your sultry words and not-so-subtle glances, the pressing of your body and your lips to hers and the whispers of how much more that slender figure could become, the proffering of the pump and the cuffs and that tiny bikini. It took all her convincing not to do this at the most crowded public beach you could find, staked to a parasol and pumped up amidst the throng where the sight of your swelling and the sound of your pleasure would offer up the spectacle of your ruination to all the world, your ecstasy and your humiliation multiplied in the mind of every captive voyeur, every expectant cell phone camera trained upon you. But bend as you might to her appeal to the intimacy of giving your body up to her and her alone, of feeding the flame of your exhibitionism with the rapt attention of an audience of one, you'll have no compromise on your binding or your ravishing.

Nor would you relent on a venue of sun and sand and open sky where you can feel the light on your skin and the wind in your hair as you swell toward the heavens. And so here you lie, moored to the sand by your cuffs, your body throbbing and groaning in your bondage in a cove only two steps away from the most populous of shores, the sounds of merrymaking not far off. The breeze carries fragments of conversation and music and the distant crash of waves, mingling with the chorus of creaking skin, the staccato breaths and gasps of your delight, the rhythmic hiss of the pump backed by her heavy breathing as she drives you onward to ever-more wondrous heights. You're still in public, still exposed, and the thought that someone might surmount the little ridge leading down to your secluded stretch of beach and witness your debauchery adds an urgency to her movements as she makes slow and steady strokes of the pump, a tension in her gaze as she watches your belly rise to every thrust of the plunger.

Your eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded, flutter open as you look up at her. You smile at the sight of her admiring you, a soft moan escaping your lips as you take in the sight of your own body stretched out before you, the rounded peak of your belly looming between the turgid foothills of your breasts.

"So big..." you purr, and bite your lower lip in delight.

"So beautiful," she answers, her voice low and thick with desire. Mesmerizing as the volume of your curves are, it's the exquisite, unbridled tension of your form that seems to truly captivate her. Every gleaming inch of your burnished skin strains outward on the pressure you so tenuously contain within yourself, locked in a battle you can only lose by degrees. An explosion put on pause. The only greater feminine form you can imagine in this moment than your own, taut and turgid and vibrant in your captivity, is that same body after she pumps you up again, and then again, and yet again.

"...And about to get so much better," she adds, and watches your eyes widen.

"Nooo, you're gonna make me burst!" you cry, your protest belied by the arching of your back, the rolling of your hips, the splaying of your thighs ever wider in unmistakable invitation. The true, wordless plea she's all too eager to answer.

She grips the handle of the pump tightly and forces it down once, twice, thrice in quick succession, each hiss answered by the rattle of chain against driftwood, the tinkling of charms around your ankle, the deepening groan of overstretched skin stretching further skyward. Each stroke of the plunger is a sweet violation of your divinity, every thrust of air inside you a deep-tongued kiss into your puffed-up, defenseless inner walls. You pant and tense, trying desperately not to moan, not to give in to the pleasure and the strain, but your body betrays you; another pump, and another, and a blissful cry rises from your throat, high and sharp and all the sweeter for how dearly you struggle to contain it. A second follows as you twist against your bonds, and then a third; the pure, unadulterated symphony of your glee. She conducts you along for a few measures more, watching your bikini tighten and your eyes roll back as you swell to the rhythm, letting the tension build inside you until you're shuddering with the effort of holding back the tide of your own ecstasy, and then she eases off, letting you drift down from that soaring, straining high. She waits, her own breath held in thrall to the sight of you, until your hips settle and your panting softens, until your eyes focus back on her once more.

"That was... so mean," you pant, a blissful afterglow suffusing your face. "You almost... you almost made me..."

She gives the pump a single stroke, enough to draw a gasp and a full-body shiver from you.

"Almost made you what?" She prods, her voice a jaunty counterpoint to your breathlessness.

Your chest heaves, breasts like twin melons straining against their scanty crimson confines as your composure comes creeping back, and a coy and calculated smile blooms across your lips. A mischievous glint lights your eyes as your gaze flicks down to the waxing hemisphere of your belly, over the handle of the pump, and back up to meet hers. Despite yourself, despite it all, your bondage and your debasement and the pressure you hold back by the tips of your fingers, you're taunting her. Teasing her. Reveling in the power you hold even now, dangling the promise of the most spectacular of crescendos before her like bait on a hook. The knowledge that you could make her pump you up to popping with a glance and a smile and a shuddering sigh. You're a bombshell in more ways than one, daring the fuse smoldering between your widespread legs to burn down to the quick and spark the grandest eruption of sound and fury this beach has ever seen.

"Oh, you know," you say, and giggle slightly as you force her to imagine it. You bite your lower lip, a gesture both demure and devilish. "You almost... set me off." You give a little wriggle, testing the cuffs again, and the soft jingle of the charms on your anklet is like the tick-tock of a clock counting down to your ultimate climax.

"Then I guess we better take it slow," she replies, her own threat-laden promise, as her gaze drifts down to the slick black hose snaking in between your thighs. The sheer, profane intimacy of it strikes you, the blatant violation of your most sacred space with this mundane, functional object, the thought of the steady stream of air puffing you up from the inside out... it sends a fresh thrill through you, a jolt of heat that settles low in your belly, and you can see in her eyes that she feels it too. That the knowledge of your absolute vulnerability, your complete submission to her whim, is as potent a drug for her as the sensation of being pumped up is for you.

But it's that same thrill that moderates the motion of her response. There are such greater delights to be wrung from you, so many more notes to be played in the symphony of pleasure and strain before your final, thundering chord. So she works the pump again with deliberate slowness, savoring the way your breath hitches as her hands close around the handle, how your thighs tense in anticipation as she leans into the stroke. You moan softly as she drives the plunger down in one long, smooth thrust, your eyes unfocusing and your coy smile melting into an expression of pure, unadulterated bliss as your entire body body balloons inexorably outward, every curve and contour engorging as you fight to keep it all inside.

She follows it up with another, and then another, pumping you up inch by breathless inch in an unbroken rhythm of steady, measured strokes. The creeping pace of her assault is a torment of its own, a sensual tease that makes you pant in aching desire for the rapid-fire bursts of before. You offer up in return the growing resistance against her palms as the pressure builds inside you, the deepening creak of your belly, the pure thrill of being the one to force your already-overfull body to accommodate yet more. And with each creeping thrust, each fresh violation, you shudder and pant, lost to the overwhelming sensations of being filled, of being stretched, of being so delightfully, dreadfully, deliciously close to the brink. You can see her revel in your impatience and your exultation as she turns every iota of your expansion into its own adventure, building up the cresting tsunami drop by drop. You know she desires nothing less than to stretch the moment even further into infinity, but it's the stark reality of your finite capacity that makes this game so intoxicating, the knowledge that each injection of air is one precious pump closer to your limit that makes you such tantalizing prey, the thought of how much less you can take with each passing second that sweetens the sight and the sensation of straining ever harder to hold it all in.

At long last she pauses again and wipes the sweat from her brow before reaching out to press her palm against your belly. You're breathtakingly tight against her touch, taut as a drumhead, yet with a hint of give left in you, a springy resilience that serves as both mocking reminder of your once-supple flesh and tantalizing indication of how much more you can become. She slides her hand up your distended belly and traces a finger in a circle around your navel, the golden piercing there glinting in the sun. You gasp and shiver at her touch, arching your back into your caress, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"You look like you're about to explode," she marvels, her fingers dancing along the crest of your belly, savoring the smooth tautness of your skin, the heat of your swollen flesh.

"I am," you say, your voice a mix of pride and awe and a desperate, trembling need. Your eyes shine with feverish light, a blissful strain and dizzy satisfaction. "But not just yet," you add, and bite your lower lip again, splaying your legs and rolling your hips as much as your overinflated state allows. A boast, a promise, and a dare all in one.

She accepts your challenge with a grin and another deliberate push of the handle all the way down to its base. Your breath catches in your throat and your skin gives a high-pitched groan of protest, a sound of strain so sensual that it makes her own breath quicken. She continues pumping, her free hand still resting on your belly, feeling the incremental swell, the subtle shift in tension as you expand against her with every press of the plunger. Your thighs, thick and taut as marble pillars, shiver like leaves in the wind at the steady, rhythmic invasion, the tinkling of charms at your ankle accompanying your constant, feathered moans. Your head lolls from side to side, your strawberry blonde hair a rose-gold halo in the brilliant sunlight. You're an angel of excess, a devil of desire, a goddess of glorious overindulgence bound to your own altar and bursting at the seams with your blissful sacrament. Your belly is a great, gleaming globe, a sun-kissed sphere of straining skin looming ever higher, tightening like a bowstring against her touch. Your breasts, already magnificent mounds threatening to spill from their inadequate confines, balloon further, the bright red fabric straining to its limits, the dark points of your nipples spearing through, hard as diamonds. The hose slithering into your depths seems to pulse with every thrust, a black mamba delivering venomous ecstasy, its rhythmic hiss a sibilant song of your impending doom.

Another pump. Another moan. Your skin feels impossibly tight against her touch now, the give gone, replaced by an unyielding rigidity like burnished bronze. Deep-seated vibrations rumble against her touch, the thrum of a storm aching to breach containment. You're a living, breathing balloon, a monument to magnificent pressure, a helpless, willing vessel stretched beyond all reasonable limits.

Your eyelids flutter, your gaze hazy and unfocused, and you lock your eyes onto hers. "Please..." you whisper, your voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves, the keening of your overfull frame at the most minute movement.

"Please what?" she asks brightly as she gives the pump another agonizingly slow stroke, but she knows what you want. What you need. What you have been craving from the very beginning.

"Ohhh," you pant as the air enters you and she traces one finger in a sinuous curve downward from the apex of your belly all the way to where the hose dives beneath the tortured hem of your bikini bottom. "Please... don't stop. Pump me... make me..."

"Make you what?" she presses, caressing the inside of your pumped-up thigh. She knows the word. She just needs to hear it from your lips. To let it hang in the air between you, a final, desperate acknowledgement of the inevitable course of your passions.

You hesitate, a flicker of misgiving warring with a all-consuming desire in your wide, hungry eyes. But your reservations melt like shadows before the radiant nexus of your need. Your lips part again.

"Make me... burst!"

The word hangs in the salty air, a single, perfect note of utter surrender. A confession. A command. The key to the final bastion of your restraint, its gates flung wide to invite the coming storm. You lay stretched out before her, vast and vulnerable, your fuse burnt to the nub, your body teetering on the brink of consummating your deepest, most audacious fantasy.

She doesn't answer with words.

Awe colors her face as she surveys your magnificent form. The way your rounded belly gleams as it bridges the distance between sand and sky, your piercing a golden star in your straining heavens. The way your breasts jut out in globular competition with each other, spearing into their scanty confines of fire-engine red. The way your thighs, pumped into turgid pillars, splay in final, helpless invitation, the black hose a serpent of sweet sin disappearing in between. The gleaming tension of your skin, the tousled strawberry blonde corona of your hair, the glint of the handcuffs around your wrists. The rapturous, pleading glint in your eye.

She brings both hands to the handle of the pump and force it sharply down.

"Oh!" you squeal, high and sharp, as your skin creaks and your overstretched frame shudders from head to clenching toe. The chain of the cuffs rattle against the driftwood, the charms on your anklet jingling like tiny, festive bells as your entire, impossible-swollen form swells further still. You pant, you moan, you shiver in your bonds as she pumps you up again, and yet again, and your breasts and your belly bloom skyward on the rhythmic injections of air.

"Oh... fuuuck..." you groan as she continues to drive the plunger down with swift, sure strokes, "Ohhh... yes..." Your eyes roll back as waves of strain and bliss wash through you, your ponytail whipping across the sand, your hips rolling as much as your near-spherical state allows, grinding against the slick black hose lodged deep inside you as you surrender to the sweet and steady violation. You find yourself drifting on a sea of sensation, squirming and swelling and exulting in your own pneumatic debasement, and know that it drives her just as wild as the sounds that fill the sun-bleached cove with each pump, the staccato gasps and breathy cries backed by the sibilant hiss of rushing air and the rising chorus of your creaking, groaning skin. She redoubles her efforts, rising to meet your avaricious appetite as the pump resists her efforts more and more, moving like a woman possessed as she pumps you up with a vengeance, forcing you to expand, to stretch, to swell to a degree that would have been unthinkable only minutes before.

"Ohhh, more..." you beg. "Don't stop... pump me... harder!"

She doesn't slow down. She doesn't ease up. She answers your pleas with a torrent of pumps, rising in tempo, making you buck and moan with each thrust of the plunger. You can see her working ever harder each time she brings the handle down, but the effort only seems to embolden her, feeding her desire to see you bigger, tighter, fuller. You present her with a feedback loop of pure sensation, the sight of your swelling, the sound of your pleasure, the feel of the pump's resistance as you plead fervently for more, more, more.

And more you get.

"Pump me... oh, God, pump me..." you pant, your voice high and thin and full of a desperate, shivering bliss. "Make me... bigger... Ohhh, I need to be bigger!" Your thighs quiver uncontrollably as she grants your fervent, lustful wish, your hips rocking in a frantic rhythm against the hose lodged so deeply in between. It's a wonder you haven't simply exploded yet from how large you've grown, how tight and turgid you've become, how dearly the pressure within you fights for release beneath every inch of your straining skin. And yet you endure, holding yourself together through a combination of strength and sheer force of will, your desperate desire to experience one more pump, to savor every last second of your rapturous expansion. You cling to the edge of your own oblivion by your fingertips, your fuse down to its final spark, your body quivering on the verge of a climax even you can't hold back forever.

"Please... I can't... oh, I'm gonna—!"

You're past the point of no return. All there is left is to sweeten it, to amplify it, to fling your crashing descent ever farther into the abyss. She drives the plunger down again and again, finding her own reserves of fortitude to bring about the grandest of all finales. Your breasts and your belly, your ass and your thighs all creak out asymptotically toward their limit, growing tighter rather than larger as each burst of pressurized air fights for a shred of space within you. Your entire body groans like a ship in a storm as it creeps ever more ominously skyward, your breathless cries and gasps intermingling with the hiss of rushing air, the frantic jingle of the charms at your ankle, the rattle of your cuffs as you thrash against your bonds.

"I'm gonna..." you gasp, your body wracked by spasms of rapturous strain. "I'm gonna... oh, I'm gonna...!"

The very air between you seems to quiver with anticipation, a palpable thrum of impending release. The sun beats down on the secluded cove, glinting off the golden piercings at your navel and your ears, the chrome of the cuffs, the shark-tooth necklace tight about your throat, the slick black hose and polished metal of the pump she works with a final, reckless abandon. Your sweat-slicked skin gleams like polished bronze as it strains to hold back the rising tide, your hands balling into fists, your toes clenching in their strappy sandals as your entire overinflated frame quakes with the sheer, unadulterated force of your impending crescendo. Your back arches, your hips thrust, your thighs tremble as you clamp around the invading hose in a final, desperate attempt to contain the inevitable. Her wandering gaze meets your eyes, and you stare back at her with a wild, feverish intensity.

"I'm gonna..." you repeat as the symphony nears its crescendo, your voice high and keening as she throws her entire weight into one frenetic pump, and then another. You seize, your body going rigid, your head thrown back, your strawberry blonde hair a tousled halo against the sand in your apotheosis.

"...I'm...gonna..."

Your words catch in your throat as she buries the handle of the pump to its hilt. She raises it up again, the sibilant sliding of the internal plunger a final, fateful whisper amongst the cacophony of your pneumatic climax. Your breath hitches. Your lips part. Your eyes, still locked onto her own, grow suddenly wider.

"...GONNA—!"

And then you do.