Pumping on the Beach

The soles of her strappy sandals dig ruts into the sand as you push down on the handle of the pump yet again.

It takes some effort to force it to the bottom of its travel, but your labor pays dividends in the way she squirms and shivers, the sound of her catching breath set against the faint creaking of her belly, the sight of her body pulsing fractionally outward as another pressurized jet invades her. Her 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. She's beautiful in her blissful agony, a study in soft curves and sensual swells pumped more than halfway to spherical, her strong swimmer's build no match for the pressure inside her delivered bite by delicious bite, pump by glorious pump.

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

Not that she'd ever dream of escaping her fate, for all the show she makes of resisting each time you drive the handle to the bottom of its stroke. Not after all she's done to tempt and taunt you into indulging her. Her sultry words and not-so-subtle glances, the pressing of her body and her lips to yours 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 your 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 her swelling and the sound of her pleasure would offer up the spectacle of her ruination to all the world, her ecstasy and her humiliation multiplied in the mind of every captive voyeur, every expectant cell phone camera trained upon her. But bend as she might to your appeal to the intimacy of giving her body up to you and you alone, of feeding the flame of her exhibitionism with the rapt attention of an audience of one, she'll have no compromise on her binding or her ravishing.

Nor would she relent on a venue of sun and sand and open sky where she can feel the light on her skin and the wind in her hair as she swells toward the heavens. And so here she lies, moored to the sand by her cuffs, her body throbbing and groaning in her 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 her delight, the rhythmic hiss of the pump backed by your own heavy breathing as you drive her 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 her debauchery adds an urgency to the slow and steady strokes of the pump, a tension to the sight of her belly rising to every thrust of the plunger.

Her eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded, flutter open as she looks up at you. She smiles at the sight of you admiring her, a soft moan escaping her lips as she takes in the sight of her own body stretched out before her, the rounded peak of her belly looming between the turgid foothills of her breasts.

"So big..." she purrs, and bites her lower lip in delight.

"So beautiful," you answer, your voice low and thick with desire. Mesmerizing as the volume of her curves are, it's the exquisite, unbridled tension of her form that truly captivates you. Every gleaming inch of her burnished skin strains outward on the pressure she so tenuously contains within herself, locked in a battle she can only lose by degrees. An explosion put on pause. The only greater feminine form you can imagine than the one laying captive before you, taut and turgid and vibrant, is that same body after you pump her up again, and then again, and yet again.

"...And about to get so much better," you add, and watch her eyes widen.

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

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

"That was... so mean," she pants, a blissful afterglow suffusing her face. "You almost... you almost made me..."

You give the pump a single stroke, enough to draw a gasp and a full-body shiver from her.

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

Her chest heaves, breasts like twin melons straining against their scanty crimson confines as her composure comes creeping back, and a coy and calculated smile blooms across her lips. A mischievous glint lights her eyes as her gaze flicks down to the waxing hemisphere of her belly, over the handle of the pump, and back up to meet your own. Despite herself, despite it all, her bondage and her debasement and the pressure she holds back by the tips of her fingers, she's taunting you. Teasing you. Reveling in the power she holds even now, dangling the promise of the most spectacular of crescendos before you like bait on a hook. The knowledge that she could make you pump her up to popping with a glance and a smile and a shuddering sigh. She's a bombshell in more ways than one, daring the fuse smoldering between her 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," she says, and giggles slightly as she forces you to imagine it. She bites her lower lip, a gesture both demure and devilish. "You almost... set me off." She gives a little wriggle, testing the cuffs again, and the soft jingle of the charms on her anklet is like the tick-tock of a clock counting down to her ultimate climax.

"Then I guess we better take it slow," you reply, your own threat-laden promise, as your gaze drifts down to the slick black hose snaking in between her thighs. The sheer, profane intimacy of it, the blatant violation of her most sacred space with this mundane, functional object, the thought of the steady stream of air puffing her up from the inside out... it sends a fresh thrill through you, a jolt of heat that settles low in your belly.

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

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

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

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

"I am," she says, her voice a mix of pride and awe and a desperate, trembling need. Her eyes shine with feverish light, a blissful strain and dizzy satisfaction. "But not just yet," she adds, and bites her lower lip again, splaying her legs and rolling her hips as much as her overinflated state allows. A boast, a promise, and a dare all in one.

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

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

Her eyelids flutter, her gaze hazy and unfocused, and she locks your eyes onto yours. "Please..." she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves, the keening of her overfull frame at the most minute movement.

"Please what?" you ask brightly as you give the pump another agonizingly slow stroke, but you know what she wants. What she needs. What she has been craving from the very beginning.

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

"Make you what?" you press, caressing the inside of her pumped-up thigh. You know the word. You just need to hear it from her lips. To let it hang in the air between you, a final, desperate acknowledgement of the inevitable course of her passions.

She hesitates, a flicker of misgiving warring with a all-consuming desire in her wide, hungry eyes. But her reservations melt like shadows before the radiant nexus of her need. Her 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 her restraint, its gates flung wide to invite the coming storm. She lays stretched out before you, vast and vulnerable, her fuse burnt to the nub, her body teetering on the brink of consummating her deepest, most audacious fantasy.

You don't answer with words.

Your own heart races as you survey of her magnificent form. The way her rounded belly gleams as it bridges the distance between sand and sky, her piercing a golden star in her straining heavens. The way her breasts jut out in globular competition with each other, spearing into their scanty confines of fire-engine red. The way her 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 her skin, the tousled strawberry blonde corona of her hair, the glint of the handcuffs around her wrists. The rapturous, pleading glint in her eye.

You bring both hands to the handle of the pump and force it sharply down.

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

"Oh... fuuuck..." she groans as you continue to drive the plunger down with swift, sure strokes, "Ohhh... yes..." Her eyes roll back as waves of strain and evident bliss wash through her, her ponytail whipping across the sand, her hips rolling as much as her near-spherical state allows, grinding against the slick black hose lodged deep inside her as she surrenders to the sweet and steady violation. The sight of her so lost to sensation, of her squirming and swelling and exulting in her own pneumatic debasement, is just as intoxicating 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 her creaking, groaning skin. You redouble your efforts, rising to meet her avaricious appetite as the pump resists your efforts more and more, your own desire a roaring fire as you pump her up with a vengeance, forcing her to expand, to stretch, to swell to a degree that would have been unthinkable only minutes before.

"Ohhh, more..." she begs. "Don't stop... pump me... harder!"

You don't slow down. You don't ease up. You answer her pleas with a torrent of pumps, rising in tempo, making her buck and moan with each thrust of the plunger. The resistance in the handle ramps from gentle firmness to a stubborn defiance, but that same opposition is a thrill just as potent as the sights and sounds of her swelling rapture. The feeling of the titanic pressure within her firing directly back against your hands sends a spike of adrenaline through you, a wild fervor that far eclipses the burn in your arms, the ache in your back. It's a feedback loop of pure sensation, the sight of her swelling, the sound of her pleasure, the feel of the pump's resistance all blending together as she pleads desperately for more, more, more.

And more she gets.

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

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

She's past the point of no return. All there is left is to sweeten it, to amplify it, to fling her crashing descent ever farther into the abyss. You drive the plunger down again and again, finding your own reserves of fortitude to bring about the grandest of all finales. Her breasts and her belly, her ass and her 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 her. Her entire body groans like a ship in a storm as it creeps ever more ominously skyward, her breathless cries and gasps intermingling with the hiss of rushing air, the frantic jingle of the charms at her ankle, the rattle of her cuffs as she thrashes against her bonds.

"I'm gonna..." she gasps, her 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 her navel and her ears, the chrome of the cuffs, the shark-tooth necklace tight about her throat, the slick black hose and polished metal of the pump you work with a final, reckless abandon. Her sweat-slicked skin gleams like polished bronze as it strains to hold back the rising tide, her hands balling into fists, her toes clenching in their strappy sandals as her entire overinflated frame quakes with the sheer, unadulterated force of her impending crescendo. Her back arches, her hips thrust, her thighs tremble as she clamps around the invading hose in a final, desperate attempt to contain the inevitable. Your wandering gaze meets her eyes, and she stares back at you with a wild, feverish intensity.

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

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

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

"...GONNA—!"

And then she does.