"Hand over the purse, lady." It's a gruff voice out of the night, a threatening bark that leads me to gasp and start involuntarily even though I've come down this forbidding road intentionally in a quest for my unusual brand of fun. It's an adrenaline shot through my whole body, like boiling water through my veins. It's time. I hug my purse protectively closer to my rib, and slowly revolve to face my assailant. He's there in the yawning shadows between the two dim streetlights, the knife edge a gleaming ribbon in the dark.
"No," I say, smiling as I recover from the surprise. "No, I don't think so." He's quite cute, in a rough fashion. Broad shoulders, nice jawline. His close-cropped hair doesn't obscure the particulars of his handsome face. His eyes are pools of onyx, hooded from the streetlight by his brows, but I've seen enough. I greatly desire to ruin his waistline. I taunt him a little, to get things rolling. "Maybe you should come take it from me?"
He repeats himself more loudly. I'm bemused, perhaps he thinks I didn't hear him the first time. "Hand it over! Nice and simple. You don't want to get hurt, now." He takes a step forward, lunging at the strap of the bag.
With my free hand, I whip the canister out of my pocket and let him have it with a big, juicy shot of the Balloon Spray. He reflexively snaps his eyes shut and tries to ward the spray off with his arms as I sluice the oily liquid across his head and neck. He grunts like he's been slugged in the tummy as I move the spray south across his chest and waist, soaking his shirt. There's a harsh medical smell, like spearmint and rubbing alcohol.
His tummy begins to bulge. There's a hollow, hissing, rubbery echo from inside him. He emits a strangled, gagging sound, stumbling backwards as he gropes at his growing belly in futility. He's mine, now. I let the can of Balloon Spray fall from my fingers absently, awed by the sight before me.
"Oh god, YES," I moan in ecstatic obsession. No matter how many times I watch this, it never fails to send an electric, sensual elation through me. It just feels so very right, watching them blow up into helpless balloons.
He widens, becoming more of himself. As the relentless filling of his tummy continues, his shirt begins to ride higher upon that sensual swell of belly. He looks at his tummy in shock, struggling with his malfunctioning clothing and paunch as if he can somehow divorce himself from this thing that is happening to him. The knife slips from his chubbying hands and falls to the sidewalk, narrowly skating past his fattening side. As he wordlessly voices his discomfort, his surging middle begins to overwhelm his figure and his limbs begin to inflate. Clasps burst. Buttons fail. In the end, a laden, near-nude balloon of a man develops before my eyes. The pressure inside him must be astounding; his virility stands out as the turkey thermometer of his fullness. He squirms in helpless exertion, unable to even achieve proper purchase on the ground.
Now, he's perfect. Watching his globular, unleashed waist growing air-fat in the gleam of the streetlight has awakened a whole host of sinful thoughts in my mind, dark desires skittering from the darkest recesses of my psyche. The things I suddenly find myself musing about doing to him shock even me, but there's no time. No time. Someone could come along at any moment, and thus I must be necessarily brief. I roll him backwards, right off his feet, his bare tummy aimed at the moon.
As he goes over backwards, he groans, curses and bleats at me, a tumult of demands flung in my direction.
I laugh at him and hug myself to his fat, spherical body. Throwing my arms wide, I grope and squeeze as much of the helpless blimp of a man as I can reach. The resilience of his skin beneath my questing palms screams about the heady quantities of pressurized gas gooshing about within him. "Men are balloons," I reply, chuckling as I squeeze him. "It's what you're for. You just deserve it a little more than most."
He moans as I caress his fat, tumescent curves. I'm not sure if it's from his discomfort or arousal at being so infinitely full. Either way, his sounds are the ultimate ambrosia to my ears. I kiss his belly, long and deeply, fighting the nagging urge to giggle as the faint fuzz on his belly tickles my nose. In that moment, feeling his air-filled tummy alive and taut beneath my lips, my fantasies are truly fulfilled. I've done this to him. I made him this way. As I press against his body, he interrupts my reverie and struggles to speak with a diaphragm stretched a hundred times too wide. I stand back up, gazing at his fantastic middle. "Please," he groans, "the pressure, I'm so full, it's too much! It's too much!"
"I can fix that for you." Mmm, he's so big.
My expression becomes a dark grin, full of mischief and peril. I begin to reach for him with one bold finger outstretched like a descending judgment. The feverish rush of my overwhelming arousal will allow nothing less. He's there waiting for me, provocative, ripe, ready, the too-tight skin of his spherical body utterly inviting and golden in the yellow streetlight above. His eyes go wide with horror as he realizes my intent: one quick poke into that taut, vulnerable sphere of his gargantuan tummy.
Happy to oblige.