MAKE ME BIG
By Latecomer
When I heard the bell on the door jingle, my first thought was that I had a real live customer- which would have been my first in three weeks- and that I might actually make the rent on the figure salon that month. But the slim girl who came bustling into my otherwise empty figure salon in the middle of an otherwise empty afternoon turned out to be Denise, and she looked like she was on a mission.
“Hey Denise, what’s up with you?” I asked. She plunked her shoulder bag down on the counter in front of me and started digging around inside it.
“Look at this!” she exclaimed, waving a sheet of newsprint in the air and then spreading it out on the counter for me to read. It was the business page from yesterday’s local rag with a headline that read, “Playboy Club Set To Open”. I had seen it too, and given it about five seconds of top-of-mind awareness before using it to escort the coffee grounds and a grapefruit rind into the trash earlier that morning. The delusional joker who was energetically transforming a croaked shoe store franchise downtown into an “exclusive gentleman’s club” just 5 blocks away from my figure salon had bought himself some cheap advertising by announcing he would pay one hundred dollars an hour to the first buxom young greeter applicant with a fifty-inch bust.
Yeah, right. “What’s that got to do with us, D?” I asked, sliding the paper aside. “I don’t have the waist for a job there, and you don’t have the boobs.” Which was true. However much I might have needed some way to pay the bills, I am a big girl, with curves in places where your typical Playboy Bunny wouldn’t even have places. Denise, on the other hand, had the build all right but she was simply too shy in the top end to fill the bill. She leaned over to me and got serious.
“Tricia…“ she started, drilling me with those big blue eyes of hers, “you are in the boob business, aren’t you? You could do a job on me, couldn’t you? I’d even pay you for it!” Which was partly true. I was indeed in the figure-enhancement field (ok ok, call it the “boob business” if you want) but there was no way I or anyone else with an inflation pump in their back room could change a 34A into a 50-whatever without making the rest of her look like me in the process, and Denise knew it. And on top of that, I knew she was just as broke as I was.
“Listen, girl… If I put you on that surplus anesthesia pump of mine and blew you up that big, you’d be too fat to get through the door, much less waddle five blocks down Second Street to hand in your application without wetting yourself. Give it up! Fifty inches? Come on- that article is just a cheap publicity stunt. Even if I had a genuine bunnypump I couldn’t do it without giving you an ass like mine. Plus you’re as broke as me.”
She paused a beat or two, but didn’t break eye contact. Her hand went back down into her bag and she lowered her lashes and murmured, “Are you ready for this?” In the shank of an otherwise dead afternoon, I was ready for anything she could pull out of that bag of hers- or so I thought. But I was wrong.
With a dramatic flourish, she exclaimed, “Ta-daaa!” and produced from the depths of it a bright green cylinder of… diving rescue gas, single-use size, all pretty and shiny and new and with an intact safety seal on the neck of it.
Holy shit.
Diving rescue gas was the favored drug of the sorority set. A single-use bottle of that contained enough pressurized fun to make a midnight bedroom full of giggling rich girls as dumb, numb, and fluffy as a flock of fattened sheep. It had a street value of a couple hundred dollars and the Cosmetology Board would yank my ticket in a heartbeat if they ever found out I had any of it in my salon. That stuff was dangerous.
“Denise, you dumb ditz!” I yelled. “Get that stuff outta here! You want me to lose my license?” She slipped it back into her bag with a sly grin and replied, “What would you say if I told you I have twenty-six more just like it in the trunk of my car?”
Holy holy shit.
“I’d say you were out of your mind! They’ll throw you in jail for just huffing the stuff at someone else’s party! Where the hell did you get that stuff, anyway?”
Denise lowered her voice and said, “Close up shop for a bit, Tricia. I have a business proposition to talk over with you- in the back room, where it’s… private.”
“Oh God, all right” I said nervously, and hurried over to flip the sign on the front door to show back at 3:30. Anything to get her and that handbag of hers out of sight.
We went down the corridor to the cozy little room where I kept my inflation equipment and went inside. The muzak system was playing one of my old Barry White disco beat tapes and I reached up to the shelf to shut it off. Stupid stuff. Who was it told me that the clients like to listen to that garbage while getting pumped up a bit for a nice jazzy weekend? And me, desperate enough to believe it would help my business…
I closed the door and Denise sat down on the recliner and pulled the gas cylinder out of her bag again. She started talking fast. “The swim club where I work weekends just went through their annual safety inspection, and they pulled all the rescue gas cylinders that were more than a year old. Every one of them. Something about the valves maybe not working right all the time? So they installed brand new ones in all the first-aid stations and the safety boxes in the pools and I watched them put the old ones in the dumpster out back. My car was parked right next to it, can you imagine? After closing time I pulled them all out of the trash and put them in the trunk. Only took a minute.” She sat there with the cylinder in her lap, drumming her nails on it, her eyes nervous but expectant.
“Lot of money in that trunk of yours, D” I said. “Or a lot of jail time if you get caught with that stuff.”
She got serious and lowered her voice still more and leaned forward in earnest. “I’m not going to sell it, Tricia. That Playboy club- I’m serious. I, that is, we… are going to use it- I mean, I need your help to…” She trailed off. The room was silent except for the air conditioning and the occasional truck driving by on the street, one way five blocks south and past the new Gentleman’s Club. I started catching on.
Denise really, really wanted that Playboy greeter gig- and for a hundred bucks an hour just to stand around in the foyer with a coy smile while sporting a fifty-inch bustline in a bunny costume, who wouldn’t? But for that she needed a certain sort of help, which is what brought her to me. True, I was good enough with that second-hand, ex-operating room anesthesia pump and respirator that I could put more than just a few extra inches almost anywhere the client wanted, but what she wanted… no way. However, anyone who watched the human ballooning event at the Inflation Olympics last month also knew about the magic that could be worked through the creative use of a different sort of inflation gas. Gas that was rumored in some circles to be, well, not unlike that contained in the shiny green bottle now resting in her lap, and all its brethren hidden in the trunk of her rusty Toyota.
“Denise, I know you could blow your boobs up big as beach balls with balloon gas, but it isn’t the same thing as rescue gas. That stuff is drugged to make you limp and it’s got far too much helium in it and-“
Denise interrupted, pointing to the closet where my machine was stored. “Your pump can do blends, right? Well, can’t you just screw the rescue gas bottle in instead of the helium and thin it down with oxygen so I won’t pass out while you are filling me up… please? And… and… look what I’ve already got.”
She pulled from her bag a bright pink satin bunny costume, complete with a little cotton fluff bunny tail and bunny ears on a headband. “I slit out the seams in the bust to hold really big boobs and tightened the elastic in the waist so my belly and butt won’t blow up too much, see?” She held the costume up in front of me. She had done a careful job. The strapless cups in it were gigantic and stiff with reinforcement ribs. “And, and, I’ve got these fishnet stockings that are really sewn out of super-tight spandex so my thighs won’t fill up either and… don’t you think this would work? …please could we maybe try?”
It was amazing. Denise had really thought all this out. She planned it, worked at it… but how could she have got this scheme put together so quickly after finding the gas bottles? Unless…
“Uh… Denise… who told the inspectors about the gas bottles? About the valves not always working right?”
The room stayed silent a bit too long. Another truck drove by. Clutching the bottle to her chest, Denise squeezed her eyes shut and started to cry, rocking the bottle back and forth. “It’s not just the hundred dollars an hour,” she sobbed. “And I only wanted one bottle, just one to take home with me that night… I had no idea they’d throw all of them out… I wanted…” she sobbed. “I always wanted… to be… b-b-big. Like… like… you. Only… only…”
I sat down next to her and wrapped her up in a very large hug. Fortunately for Denise, I’m built for that sort of thing. I squeezed her pretty firmly and held her head against my chest and felt her tears drop down my front. Poor girl. She sobbed for a while and I reached out for a Kleenex and dabbed up the wet.
“D…D…D… here you go, girl. Here you go. It’s OK. It’s OK.” I held on to her. She really is a slender little thing, and I kissed her wet cheek because at the moment, that was what I was there for. “It’s OK.”
We drew apart and seeing as her mascara had started to run I did some more work on her with another kleenex and I said, “You know, I’ve never worked with balloon gas before, or rescue gas for that matter… I’ve heard it’s dangerous stuff, you need training to use it safely. I’d be afraid of doing something wrong, girl… like giving you too much gas, or not enough oxygen, or blowing you up too big… I wouldn’t want to hurt you…“
“But... but you’ll help me? We can try, can’t we? I’ll… I’ll be able to tell you if everything’s going OK while you are pumping me up. I can signal if I need more air, or if I’m getting too much. And when to stop- see, there’s no elastic in the cups, so when they’re full my boobs will stop getting bigger and you can shut off the pump in time…”
We were both silent for a bit. I held her hands in my lap. Then she sighed and said, “I trust you, Tricia. Please… help me. Use the gas- make me big. Fifty inches big. Just like you. OK?”
“OK, fifty inches big. Just like me, your best friend. OK.”
With that, we set to work. While I opened the closet and wheeled out the anesthesia machine on its black rubber casters, Denise stripped down and climbed into the bunny suit and stockings. It was a very snug fit on her everywhere except her bust, as advertised, and when done she climbed onto the recliner and snuggled down into the cushions, all ready to go. She explained more of her plan as I plugged the machine in and switched out the gas cylinders.
“That rescue gas is worth a lot more if we use it to get me that job instead of selling it to the sorority bitches. I figure one bottle will be good for at least three inflations, if the only things we are blowing up are my breasts... and if a shift at the club runs like four or maybe six hours, I’ll still be big enough by quitting time to meet and greet the guests, so that’s about fifteen hundred bucks a bottle. You get half.”
Holy shit.
My take for 78 inflations could be as much as twenty thousand dollars. I could pay the lease a year in advance and still have enough working capital left over to replace that damn pump with something that wasn’t an ugly, dangerous antique from the Eisenhower era. Maybe do a little advertising too.
“OK Denise, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here,” I said. “I still have to figure out how to blow up your boobs without suffocating you, or turning you into a girl blimp that won’t fit through the doors of the Playboy club.”
She turned to look at me, those perky bunny ears bouncing about a little. “I trust you, Tricia. Just do your best. I know you can do it without hurting me.”
Yeah, well. This was going to be tricky. “I think we’d better use a strap-on mouthpiece and nose clip, that’s better at holding pressure than either a mask or a full-face respirator. We’ll use a soft breathing bag with it to make it a little less stressful for you, OK?”
“Sure,” she replied, but I could tell she was starting to get a little worried about all this because her eyes never left the big, pale-green console of the anesthesia respirator which now lurked right next to her recliner. I was by then sitting on my little rolling stool in front of the control panel; with all its bright chrome valve handles, indicator lights, control levers and pressure gauges, it was a distinctly sinister-looking machine and more than one of my clients from the last year had remarked on how creepy its noises were once it was on and running. The console itself chugged, clicked, hissed and squeaked rhythmically, and the noises transmitted by the breathing hose sounded like someone blowing up a huge air mattress. And it was both tireless and insistent: once I had it set, the client could not fight the pump. No matter how hard she tried, it would have its way, and though she might struggle, she would nonetheless inflate. This could be more than a bit uncomfortable, which was why I normally used it with a rubber breathing bag to smooth out the pressure and give the girl on the receiving end of the hose a little slack.
(How did I know all this? Simple. While learning how to work the machine, I tested it on myself and discovered all sorts of stuff and had more than a few close calls- either getting so big I could hardly reach the shutoff valve, nearly passing out from too much helium, or struggling to get the face mask latches to snap loose after the pump quit cold in the middle of a belly job and left me with no air to breathe. And yes, I did wet myself several times in the process, but not one of my clients so far had suffered that indignity.)
I reached over with the air hose and mouthpiece and straps and gently put the plug in her mouth and cinched the straps down around her blonde head. She gazed up at me trustingly and in response I patted her cheek. For the moment I left the nose clip off so she could still breathe normally while I got the machine adjusted for her weight, lung capacity, and whatnot. The creased black rubber bag protruding from one side of the mouthpiece swelled and shrank slightly as she breathed in and out. We were almost ready.
“Wait a minute, D. I just thought of something- isn’t this gas supposed to make you float as you inflate? You’ll rise right out of this chair unless we have some way of holding you down.” She nodded and said “uh-huh” into the mouthpiece. I went back to the closet and pulled out some spare rubber mask straps and tied her wrists and ankles as gently as I could to the arms and foot extensions of the recliner. She wiggled around a bit to test the straps and get comfortable. They seemed to hold OK.
“Denise, I’m going to put your nose clip on and give you just a little squirt of gas to begin with, so you can feel what it will be like once I start the pump and you begin to fill up.” With the nose clip on, the only air she would be getting would be what the pump delivered, and keeping her conscious and relatively comfortable would be entirely my responsibility from that point on. I pressed the TEST button down, and a burst of gas mixture coursed through the hose and into her lungs. The hose coiled about, the breathing bag suddenly inflated into a black sphere, and Denise’s chest rose. She gasped and swallowed and with her cheeks distended, she looked at the rubber balloon inches from her face and then at me. She was scared now. I released the button, and with the pressure off she exhaled into the mouthpiece. I patted her hand.
“Are you OK with that?” I asked, realizing that I would have to take things slowly and as gently as I could, seeing as how this was her first time on the pump. She nodded Yes which I knew wasn’t true- she was just being brave- but she had placed her trust in me, and it was time for us to start.
Pump ON, pressure UP, cycle START, watch her chest and tummy. Air in the tummy. Back off on INHALE DURATION. Better. Lungs full at the peak of the pump cycle? Yes, good, lock it there and hold for three seconds and… OFF. Breast growth? Yes. Reset and switch to PROGRAM/AUTO and monitor growth and respiration.
The pump went to work. With each pump cycle, her belly rose briefly but the elastic in her costume fought it and held tight. I could see her little teacup titties swelling up as the pump pushed the gas mixture into her mouthpiece. Her eyelashes fluttered and sagged a bit and she moaned- too much nitrous? More oxygen and a little more pressure. Yes. Alert again, she looked imploringly up at me and I reached out to squeeze her hand. “You’re doing just fine, Denise- try to relax and inhale when the machine wants you to, OK?” “Uh-huh,” she replied, between gasps and grunts.
After a minute of this she sported as fine a pair of D-cup numbers as you could please, but the cups in her suit were many sizes bigger than this and we kept at it. By now I knew from firsthand experience that she could not only feel her breasts stretching out, she could actually see them herself, rising up bigger and rounder with each inhalation that the machine administered. Her swollen breasts crowded each other on her narrow chest and I realized that she would now enjoy the utterly new sensation of them actually touching and pressing softly up against one another as they continued to fill out the top half of her suit.
Per its program, the pump was slowly ramping up the pressure and hold duration of each inhalation while simultaneously decreasing the exhalation window. More and more gas entered her body. Denise’s brow became furrowed and her gasps and grunts grew steadily more emphatic and labored. Good! She was in time with the pump, working with it, bearing down on each cycle like a pro as her bustline continued to expand, inch by inch.
At that moment it began to look as though we would actually make 50 inches by the time we had used up about a third of the rescue gas in the cylinder that fed the mixing pumps, but to my shock and dismay there came the sound of someone knocking insistently on the glass door of the salon.
Suzette.
I had completely forgotten about Suzette, one of Denise’s co-workers from the pool, who had breathlessly called in for an urgent last-minute appointment the afternoon before. For 3:30 today. Oh My God. I was totally stuck. I quickly got up off the stool as the knocking continued out in the reception room.
“Denise, I gotta answer the door, I’ll be right back in a minute, OK?” Denise didn’t look up. She was transfixed by the sight of her own gigantic boobs. They were just at the point when the nipples atop each swollen mountain of fat were starting to tickle against the inner surface of the cups in her suit- another new sensation for her to experience. Her thighs and belly were fattened up and the elastic material covering them was stretched very tightly.
Then, just as I realized that I had neglected to lock the front door, I heard the knocking stop- and the door bash open against the stop. “Tricia? Tricia! Are you in here? Tricia!!” It was Suzette, all one hundred and eighty pounds of unstoppable Suzette, and she was excited about something. Quick footsteps across the linoleum and then that bimbo was banging away on the round silver bell on the countertop next to the telephone, ding ding ding ding! “TRICIA!!”
“Dammit Suzette, I’m right here but I’ve got an emergency in the pump room, you gotta give me just a second-“
“No no Trish, I’ve got something to show you-”
“NOT NOW, SUZE! I-
Back in the pump room, I knew Denise’s nipples would now be chafing against the constraints of the cups and unless I could dispose of this dumbass Suzette, Denise’s costume would be completely full, leaving her unable to breathe until I could turn off the pump. Or her costume burst. One or the other…
“YES NOW, TRISH!” yelled Suzette, flushed in the face from her rush and dancing in her high heels to block my way back to the pump room. “Look at this newspaper article- there’s a PLAYBOY CLUB opening and they-“
“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” I yelled, as she pulled a familiar green bottle from out of her little pink knapsack and waved it in front of my face.
Muffled squeals of panic came from behind the closed door to the pump room, loud enough to distract Suzette for just long enough for me to knock her to one side. I dashed for the door and Suzette came after me with her tank of rescue gas and newspaper clipping. I fumbled with the door knob. More desperate squeals, then four sharp popping noises in quick succession. The straps. They broke!
Meanwhile Suzette was babbling away like a maniac and stamping her foot on the linoleum, “I know what’s going on in there and why!! I want you to blow me up just as big as Denise or else I’ll report you to-”
I crashed the door open and tumbled into the room just as the overtaxed seams on Denise’s silly costume burst and with a muffled FWHOOOOMP her body suddenly blimped out into a sphere and she rose right out of the recliner and came to rest quivering against the ceiling. Tatters of overstretched pink spandex flew everywhere and Denise’s fuzzy little bunny ears fell out of the air and landed askew right on top of Suzette’s head. I jerked the pump’s power cord out of the wall and the pump lapsed into silence.
The gauge on the rescue gas bottle now read EMPTY. Denise had been blown up like a helpless balloon with a full charge.
The only sounds now were Denise’s muffled cries and grunts. The mouthpiece held fast and her breathing bag was grossly blown up into a dangerously thin beach ball. I reached over to get my hands on the air hose and pull the poor girl down off the light fixtures.
Suzette stood there with her mouth agape and Denise’s bunny ears drooping down on her forehead, her precious bottle of pilfered rescue gas in one hand and another hot pink bunny costume hanging half out of her knapsack. Presently, she said,
“Well OK, not quite as big as Denise…”