Warning: Inflation fiction follows. Well, kinda.
Lucy climbs the iron stairwell quickly, with heavy footfalls, two hands hauling on the rails. She glances sidelong at the windows she passes, almost apologetic. It's not that what she is doing is illegal, and it is a kind of emergency, but she has that guilty feeling again. The sense of being at the root of consequence. Somewhere nearby her friend Amelia is crying like a child.
On the third floor the fire escape spills onto a flat concrete roof, covered with pine decking. Here the flat transept of the old church has been fashioned into a sun deck, or communal garden for the flats it contains. Small potted fruit trees loiter amidst white plastic chairs and a suspiciously clean barbeque. In front of her the slate triangular vault of the nave rises above for another 20 foot, but she's not going that way.
In front of her twin patio doors glare silver-grey with reflected sky. They lead directly from Amy's flat onto the small roof-garden. Though this was nominally shared Lucy knew that easy access gave Amy a fierce sense of undeserved propriety. She named the plants. Set her favourite chair apart by the unused barbeque. They had sat through evening there, watching jets chase early starlight along the Thames whilst midges nipped and hazed about the light spilled from the kitchenette.
She pauses, hands pressed to knees with her breath shot between them. She's run most of the way here, and wishes that she had given up on the smoking rather than the gym membership. Her throat holds the aftertaste of spent wine and chasers. Cloyed and acrid, it draws down the fog of the night before. But then her air seems to flux; hard candy at the edge of perception. A scent which melts to a unique sweetness. She can taste helium.
What has Amy done?
Of course, the cylinder. A cheap little thing; not worth the money but perhaps enough to....Lucy looks around; she's sensitive to such things of course, but the rain has washed context out of the world. A suffuse light pools on the dark stone roof, drenched wood underfoot. Overhead, the sky is peregrine grey where thin clouds hover distantly, waiting. Her own clothes are melange of anonymity, de-saturated. Dark track bottoms and a plain white tee lie crumpled about her. This morning her hair is tied back, nondescript to her appearance, offering no angles to the wind. She glances back, down towards the street. Is she hoping that someone will take notice, up here? Demand the explanation that she is unwilling to give to herself.
But no; the street is quiet. They never pay attention. She's going to have to figure out why that is someday.
She reaches out for the doors. The scent of helium is stronger here, spent amidst steam and excitement and fear. She moans slightly in recognition. Part of her had hoped that wasn't going to happen, even as another part willed it. It tells her she is in the Strange again. At least, that's how she understands it, within herself. Giving a name to the pneumatic force that comes as it does; the rising flush of blood, the intuitive chemistry. Like a bubble of unreal forming about her; pushing back the normal world.
The door is latched, and inside it is umber dark. She peers through the patio door letting her eyes adjust. The studio flat is simply furnished in pine and glass. Strips of sunlight are thrown from chancel windows to her right illuminating an unmade bed and discarded beige towel in the centre of the wood floor. No sign of Amy but... she raps on the glass, knuckles splashing a reflection.
"Amy? It's Lucy. Are you in there?" She knows the answers already.
"Lucy?" Her friend's voice carries faintly, exhausted. There's a pause, thick with guilt. "I...I can't come to the door. You'll have to let yourself in. The spare key is under Henry....umm....that's the aspidistra, to your right."
Lucy blinks, reaching over. The hidden key is ice-cold to the touch and it turns awkwardly. She slides the long plate glass just far enough back to squeeze across the threshold. At once the scents of steam and gas are renewed, mixed with cold adrenaline and tears. She takes two steps into the gloom, motion stirring the dead air.
"Amy....." she breathes.
"Lucy....I..." The voice trails off. There's nothing to say. Somewhere in the background a clock keeps time with her heartbeat.
4 foot above her head, a pair of purple and black socks wave in mid-air. The legs they're attached to extend upwards in washed denim. At the waist, blush pink knickers peek out whilst the curve of a spine arcs up a naked back. Further above, a mess of brown hair tussles forward to bury a face long with tears. A face buried in two blush-pink globes, each the size of overstuffed armchairs.
Breasts. Unmistakably. Impossibly. Their undercurve is rounded, taut with gas and showing goosebumps. 5 foot of cleavage distends upwards, squashing against the ceiling. Amy trails suspended in the wake of their expanse. Floating. Lucy remembers to breath again, tersely, eyes wide. Amelia Rowlands, 24 years old, deputy Human Resources manager and her friend of these last 12 months, is floating on the ceiling. Hanging from a pair of breasts which resemble nothing less than flesh-toned weather balloons.
OK. Lucy breathes deeply. Not what she expected, but... the moment rushes at her. Shit. She wasn't supposed to experiment. Not so soon. Or like that. Shit. She should say something. Act. But the other girl is too real-in-the-moment, too jarring. Words threaten to spill from her in panicked exultation. She struggles to keep the sense of strange down, to hint her voice away from familiarity.
"Bloody hell..." Lucy whispers "Amy.... I....what.....are you doing..."
The other girl doesn't reply, or at least not directly. Her arms thrash limply, as if clawing at the air. Her hair is beaten back by a barely-audible whimper of shame or exhaustion. Lucy can see the dried channels of tears meshed with eyeshadow across her cheeks. Her face appears a stained counterpoint to her fulsome breasts. Her gaze is puffy and haunted such that Lucy takes a step backward, calves bumping against the bedframe as she nervously edges around the spectacle. Unconsciously her eyes widen and her arms hang open at her sides, as if Amy would swoop down to an embrace at any moment. Part of her wants that; to assure and comfort and hold. But another part demands the price of strange. That this experience is for Amy alone. Hers to live or die for. "Amy..." Lucy repeats herself, slowly, "Amy....how are you...what happened to you?" When they come, the words rush out with such vehemence that for a moment Lucy imagines her friend has burst, and will go flying across the room like a punctured inflatable.
"Cantimstuckuphereandcantcomedown." Amy edges on hysteria, drawing a ragged breath that makes her globular body quiver. "Justfloateduphere. Hurhuhuhuh. Itsmybreasts. Hurhuhuhuh. Its my stupid, fucking, breasts, ok? They just blew up and now they're balloons and I can't get down and its helium and I'm stuck here and I can't let them down like earlier."
"Amy, people can't...." Lucy draws out her words, emphasising the disbelief. But Amy anticipates her, the explanation tumbling down.
"There's a nozzle. A nozzle. Or valve, or something. On my side. I blew up. I blew myself up. Used Sharon's helium from the birthday. It was really stupid but I didn't think and was careful but it got stuck 'cos was just fooling to be a little bigger. Just tripped and now like everything's inflated and it's like I can't come down like earlier and I'm really worried. Like, just don't say anything and don't laugh at me 'cos I've been here for ages. OK?"
Lucy shrugs and throws a glance about the apartment. The sun slices through the curtains of the great window behind her. Her trainers clonk hollowly against a white cylinder as it peeks from under the bed. A stack of unopened mail lies on the buffet table near the walk-through kitchen. Somewhere outside, there comes the noise of a car parking. She thinks about putting the kettle on. Maybe later.
"I can't come down." Amy repeats herself, mournfully now. "I think I'm stuck here forever".
"Listen Amy, don't panic.... I....we'll figure out something. Can you, umm, push down or something?"
"Yeah, but...I just go up again. It's like I'm heavier up than down. Don't you think I tried that?"
Lucy climbs onto the bed, gauging distances. The purple socks wave perhaps 2 foot above her head. She shifts her weight, wondering if it will be enough. She could force her to ride it out; let tears and time draw out the secret. But no, she wants to help, to cradle wonder like an uneasy midwife. Besides; from what Amy just said, there's something wrong with the valve.
"Just do it," she says, exasperated.
Amy wriggles and grunts, her fingertips barely reaching past the curve of her breasts to push against the white plaster. She seems to bite her lip and blush at the exertion, her legs flexing strangely as if seeking to grip the air. Then her motion is swift, shuddering-strange as she comes free of the ceiling. Lucy jumps at the same time with her arms wide and eyes tightly closed. The two girls collide with a startled "Oomph" in mid-air. The impact reverbs through Amy's inflated expanse with a hollow strum. Lucy's arms pirouette about Amy's waist and she feels herself swing out and wide. Still not looking, she grabs tightly on denim and clenches. Lucy feels her face press again the cool toned midriff of her friend, burying like an anchor in her softness. The nub of Amy's belly button twitches; its motion draws down the curve of her groin. The strange smell of sudden intimacy. The girls rotate slowly, descending together under momentum of their rendezvous. Twin pairs of feet skate a helix through empty air. A closeness of hearts. A waltz to an unspoken song.
The dance pauses. Overcomes her anchor. They start to rise.
Lucy’s hands clench against Amy's bum, butterflies forming in her tummy as the floor drifts away under her. "Damnit Amy, how much helium did you...need to go down.....Wooooooooah!"
There's a soft pop as a brass button springs from Amy's jeans, followed by a purring rip. With a slithering inevitability the blue denims glide down to around her ankles and snag there. Lucy falls away clasping an empty waistline, her exclamation hollow in the air. Defeated, she sprawls unevenly on the flooring, swearing. Amy rises, freed from her erstwhile ballast, once more in her solitary element. Her breasts wobble like helium jelly, pillowing against the ceiling joist with hollow percussion. Tautening, her lithe body rebounds with their vast convexity, floating gently to a stop. Then, as she settles, something invisible, sensuous grips her. Eyes closed, she bucks gently in secret reverie. When she opens her eyes again, her face is red and strained.
Lucy picks herself up from the floor. Her hands smell of pine polish and dust. She looks up. Her friend floats above her again, now bare legged with the jeans shackled about her ankles. She can see the goosebumps raised along her claves and thighs. Her bum is blush peach, anointed with a small tattoo. Smoothed around, the washed pink of her knickers are visible only by their braided trim. If they're from M&S, I've got a pair just like them.
The soft stain runs through, revealing. Invisible grace, desire, wraps about Amy. Exhausted moisture pools between her thighs, force-fragranced in her shame. It means something. But Lucy has to make sure.
She reaches up to the dangling jeans. Surged to tip-toe her fingers are barely entangling the empty waistband. Then she is tethering the other girl like an errant balloon. She jerks down with her arm, hard. At once the force ripples the length of Amy's body, finding an echo. Her arms and legs swing out, the impulse pulling her down. She clearly wants to grind down with it. But her balloon-breasts quiver, asserting their lift. Her breaths come shallow, her mouth gulping. The air so thin, yet so supportive. For a moment she fights her buoyancy, then she is carried away. Washing upwards on an unseen tide.
Lucy lets herself watch. This is knowledge that edges on wisdom. Desire is the twine that fastens people into fantasy; binds them. On some level, Amy wanted this. Wanted enough to force the meld deep into her. Lucy says nothing, watching as her friend tries to curl up, lifting legs to cradle them below the curve of expanded femininity. She rocks slightly overhead, trembles at the air that binds her. When she finally speaks, the words are cloudy with embarrassment.
"Don't that's....ohgod.....that's....makes me....sensitive." Amy mutters, so faintly. "It...nozzle...they....does that as well. Makes me sensitive."
Lucy remains silent, both of them have to accept this, embrace this. Amy unfolds herself slowly, hanging loosely with resignation. When she speaks, a disbelieving hollow inflects her voice.
"This can't happen. Breasts do not...cannot...inflate. Women do NOT float. I am NOT a balloon. " Amy concludes slowly. "I am dreaming. This is a dream. I am asleep and I am going to wake up and be normal. Really normal....and......"
"You're not asleep, Amy." Lucy says, with infinite gentleness. "This is real..."
"Then its magic." Amy says defiantly, as if that explained everything.
"No such thing as magic." Lucy says with a certainty that surprises even her. She realises she means it too; the notion is absurd as fortunes in tea leaves or a rabbit from a hat. Lucy thinks that to know magic you'd need to know reality, and everyone she's ever met is a bit vague on that. Maybe it would make it easier if she pretended this was all magic; to make things mysterious, blameless. For Amelia wants the gift but won't accept it. And it won't let her down until she does. Lucy speaks slowly now, choosing her words with care.
"Amelia. This is real. You are floating on the ceiling, with your breasts inflated like helium balloons. And...I think they just made you orgasm. That's not going to change." She pauses, forcing nonchalance. "This...nozzle. How long have you had it?""
Amy hesitates. "I don't know. It wasn't there before. Just this morning".
Lucy knows how it got there. She remembers cutting it out from the £3.99 beachball yesterday. Playing with it. Dreaming, pondering its utility. Wanting too? Pressing it to her lips, to blow a kiss. She remembers later at the club. They went to the bathroom together. The room was wet and bright and drenched in perfume. Noise ran off the hard surfaces. She was holding Amelia, drunk. Holding her as she was throwing up in the basin. That's when she remembers reaching under the strap of Amy's dress, pressing the stubby plastic to her side. Feeling it sink in.
Honestly, the moment just came to her. She didn't do anything else so stupid all night.
Lucy moves gather the sagging jeans again in her hand. The sequins fall from the battered blue, drifting like stardust. Made a wish for you, Amy, she thinks. Above, her friend remains mute, unmoved. Adrift between despair and acceptance. Don't think of it as a thing. Think of it as you.
"This nozzle...have you tried...I mean, if you used it to....blow yourself up. " She lingers the words, faking incredulity. "...you said there was also a valve, something to let the gas out?"
"I already tried, I told you" Amy repeats, her hands moving curiously to her side. "It won't let me down."
"Look...Amelia....maybe...maybe you were panicking. You think this is something that has happened, been done, to you. But...maybe...maybe it's you. The way you moved back there, the way you felt.... you seemed....tuned. Don't fight with the nozzle. Don't pinch the nozzle. Pinch yourself. Just let yourself down."
Amelia, listens blinks back tears. Some strength gathers with her. She bites her lip, suppressing disbelief, letting her body float, her hands drift. Seizing the nozzle, herself. Hope and acceptance.
A warbling hiss fills the room. Amy half-sobs, but holds it, lets it broaden to a steady rush. Lucy feels the tension in her tether slacken at once. She can smell it cleanly now, sweet-watery to her senses. Her eyes blink, owl-brown. Cheap helium. If Amy had used the good stuff she'd have been airborne at half that size. Hell, if she'd used the good stuff she'd probably have gone through the roof.
Piped by a descending tone, the Amy's breasts contract, diminish. Slowly but visibly they deflate into her, goosebumps smoothed along their surface. Her skin slowly loses its lustre, becoming tan and matt. Five foot, then four. Now her body shifts, no longer dominated by her fantastical lifting balloons. Curving around, the expanse of her nipples becomes visible, shrinking below a hand's span. Four foot, then three. The edge of translucency fades. She thrashes lightly as first one breast then the other detaches from the white ceiling. Three foot, then two. The paleness wraps around her like a feather, drifting down. The angel of the buoyant annunciation.
"Easy...." cautions Lucy. "Easy now."
Lucy guides the falling form, spooling the jeans hand over hand to draw her half-floated friend over to the bed. Amy's legs buckle into the feathered softness. Her skin is cool to the touch at the waist. Two foot, then one. The deflating tone lowers with the descending girl. Her femininity concaves perfectly upon itself, surrendering all memory of the gas. Distinct and apart, Amy's bosom is rounding and falling to gravity. To one side the pressure relents, muting itself in a dying whisper. Behind her eyes, it lingers.
"Nuh....not...normal....". Amy rocks backwards, her arms clutch-crossed as if to hold her breasts in. She gulps down air as if drowning whilst Lucy holds her. Cradling the ship of cares whilst waves wash through. Far outside it starts to rain. Slow spring rain, drumming the patio in sympathy.
"Amelia...you're just...you're...still the same person...". Lucy tenses, suddenly unsure of her reading. She knows enough that the danger is not going up, but coming down afterwards.
"No....Lucy....no,....its alright. You were right...God, you were right." Amy struggles through the feeling. Her face shows something stronger alloyed by the heat of desire, the iron of self.
"It's just that all my life I...I've just been normal...plain old Amelia Rowlands. Telling myself to be content. Afraid to admit I always wanted something special. Something fantastic." Amy kindles with acceptance. "And even when it found me I was too scared to want it. Even with what it was doing to me. I needed to be told to accept it. To accept myself."
"And now I.....I....I'm....inflatable." The words are spoken softly. But Amy's eyes widen with something akin to wonder. "This is me. Perhaps more me than I've been for years. I'm...I'm inflatable. And that's OK. Jeez...Lucy....I...I can float! I can make myself lighter than air! Just up and up and....How cool is that?".
Amy whirls, her contemplation of delight washing against Lucy's calm. Amy gathers up Lucy's hands hopefully, as if mistaking her friend's hesitation for reticence.
"And...I think...you're OK with me being this way? I mean, I guess...you've got some secrets too? Things you don't want to talk about?" But the clasp of unspoken trust is in the moment alone. The young women form the words together; "We can't tell anybody."
They share the silence of understanding. Now their eyes meet, suddenly mischievous and wild. Loosing laughter at the serendipity. Amy smiles, gasping relief.
"Oh, bloody hell, Amy you had me worried for a moment." Lucy scowls her own smile, her hand waves upwards in intimation. "I mean....wow....just floating there like some pink balloon...I can't imagine....I mean....what was it like?".
"Oh God, it was...its kinda hard to describe. Like pillows? But all around you. Like when I was little I wondered....how many balloons... and you know. I'm not making much sense, am I?" Amy reclines, her hands flutters briefly over her thighs. "It was good though. Oh God, it was good. "
"Listen, we should get you sorted out with some clothes. Wouldn't want people seeing you in your underwear and getting the wrong idea. I'll put the kettle on...". Lucy rises, keeping her gaze steady and reassuring. Amy grabs her hand.
"Lucy?"
"What?"
"What....what" Amy swallows hard, collecting herself. "What if I....we....did it again. Outdoors? With a rope or something. At first, I mean."
"Are you sure?" The older girl hesitates. Her friend has accepted a gift, such that her joy outruns her, leaving her trailing. For a moment Lucy feels jealous, trapped in a junior confederacy. But the moment passes.
"Amy....I guess floating outdoors is....could be...dangerous."
"Yeah." Amy says, cupping her breasts determinedly. "But I want to float. I want to balloon."
Lucy guesses where the gift might take them both. But she'd answer the same way regardless.
"Well then.... I'll see what I can do."