Hugh liked to do everything big: big house, big cars…Hugh liked to think of himself as a big man, though a more accurate description would be “round.” Hugh had big appetites to match his big attitude and it showed prominently. He liked to make a big scene and be the center of attention, even though people were more disgusted by him than impressed.
Hence the gasps of surprise when he showed up at the masked costume party dressed as the Hindenburg, all dark gray latex, his massive belly jutting out as he entered the room. While disguised, everyone knew his gait and form by sight and tried to avoid him as he pushed his belly into other people. After ten minutes of mingling, he found his mistress, spotting her in her Wonder Woman wetsuit costume—no mistaking those voluptuous curves. Going up to her (the costume was her idea), she ran a lingering hand down his belly.
“Got a surprise for you in the upstairs on the balcony,” she whispered, taking his hand as her hips sashayed, chuckling as he pressed his gut into her ass. As they entered the balcony, she continued to run her hands over his belly.
“Nice costume, nice belly. Can your belly get bigger, you know, so you can make a bigger scene?” she whispered. Hugh shook his head.
“Thought about putting in a little gas canister to look real big, but then I’d be too big, dear.”
She ran her hands all over his belly as he closed his eyes. “Sweetie, in my line of work, ain’t no such thing,” she announced in a normal tone of voice as she unmasked.
Hugh cried, “What? You’re not…” Glancing down, her glimpsed a hypo in her hand, then saw it plunge into his fat gut. “What the…”
A swift blow knocked him down. Hugh opened his mouth to cry for help, but was treated to the view of the strange woman’s ass descending on his face
“Thank you for the costume choice,” said the female assassin. “This is compliments of an irate sister-in-law.” Hugh was shocked as a terrible bloating feeling struck him, causing his body to slowly expand in all directions as he (feebly) tried to get his face out from under her sexy ass.
“If you’re wondering, the serum has the dual effect of slowly and temporarily paralyzing your voluntary muscle movement while converting all body fat into hydrogen gas—like I said, thanks for the costume choice, it’s rather appropriate,” said the assassin
Hugh tried to cry, but could barely produce a feeble whisper. A hissing sound arose from Hugh as a great pressure started in his belly and rapidly spread to the rest of his limbs. As it got louder, his limbs started to visibly distend, she slowly unlocked her legs from under his head. Pulling him up, she produced a twine and briefly tethered him.
“Sweetie, I don’t care your past. Ah, you’re filling out nicely right now, it shouldn’t be long now,” she said as her nails ran over him.
A terrible hollow feeling overtook Hugh as his girth swelled massively; as his internal pressure increased, he couldn’t help but wonder how this would end.
“Wow, honey, my compliments to the maker of your costume. You must be a good fifteen feet across by now, yet it’s still holding up.” His enormous belly was still expanding, though now at a slower rate, Hugh couldn’t help but notice that the pressure in him was still increasing. He feebly tried flapping his arms in an effort to do…something.
“Party isn’t over yet,” she said. “When I told you I liked your costume choice, I wasn’t kidding. You know how the Hindenburg ended,” she said a she held up a block of four M80’s. Looking on in horror, she taped them to his belly as she eyed his overpressurized form. “Safe flight!” she cried as she lit the six foot fuse and cut his tether, letting him float away. “Oh the humanity,” she murmured.
Hugh desperately tried to wriggle his arms, hoping against hope that he just might get the fuse out and then “somehow” expel this gas. Wriggling and struggling, he discovered that he regained some use of his sausage-shaped arms. Looking down, his heart sank as he realized that the fuse had burned to the point where he couldn’t see it over his horizon
He had just enough time to clutch his belly in a futile attempt to forestall the inevitable.