Blowing Her Socks Off

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She breathed deeply, again and again, and each time she was slightly plumper than she had been with the previous breath. It wasn’t immediately obvious to the casual observer, but I’d been studying her curves and I could see as she began to fill out. When her belly finally gained a bulge, she nodded, giving me the go-ahead; lookings overtime fortouching.

I placed my hands on her hips and tugged her, pulling her roundness into me and holding her tight. I kept one hand on her back and with the other grabbed a handful of her soft-but-tight derriere, holding her as she continued to press against me.

“Someone’s excited,” she said between breaths, rocking her bulging pelvis into mine. “But you know you don’t get me until I’m full.”

I never prided myself on pillow talk, because in times of passion I tended to say the stupidest things. I just nodded and held her close.

I knew how big she could be, it was part of how we met, so it wasn’t a secret that she wanted to blow herself up into near-immobility. Part of our dance was the mutual tease; she would tantalize me with her body while I found that nothing pleased her more than overcoming the limits of clothing. Consequently, we made frequent stops to thrift shops and other secondhand stores, picking up articles that she could shred without too much guilt on our finances.

Tonight’s ensemble was a long skirt and halter top, both many sizes too large, of course, and a pair of dark stockings that reached up to mid-thigh. There was nothing else underneath the skirt; we’d given up on the expense of replacing underwear, and she said it was uncomfortable in its final stages. Still, I had a fine view of her midriff, and the skirt would accentuate her hips and ass later on. Before long, an obvious pinch ran around her where the skirt held her tight as she filled up above and below its waistband.

“What do you think will go first,” she asked, “The skirt, or the shirt?” Her breasts were bigger, of course, though it had always amused her that I was much more interested in gazing on her bloated lower half than in the massive breasts she always ended up with.

“The shirt’s got more weak points, with the buttons and the neckline, but the skirt has to be under more pressure.” I squeezed her breast and her thigh, respectively, noting the tautness of the clothing over both.

“I don’t know,” she said. “These stockings are pretty tight. They might be holding me back.”

We had our answer a few delicious minutes later: the lowest button on her top, valiantly straining against her belly and sides, gave way, followed shortly thereafter by the others, like a terrified regiment waiting for the first soldier to break and run so that they could all flee together. Her breasts heaved forward and outward, and she gasped at the suddenness.

“The skirt wins!” she crowed, then made her way to the bed to devote her energy to inflating herself instead of standing. Said skirt was clinging to her very tightly; I could feel the fine mesh of the stockings through the skirt’s material, and her thighs were filling the skirt’s bottom entirely, pinning her legs together to further accentuate her cartoonish curves. It looked like she was sitting primly on the edge of the bed with her knees closed, but there was intense pressure straining to break free.

“Careful,” she sighed, “It’s about to go. I can feel it.” She began to suck in air quickly. One, two, three more breaths, and finally there was a low purring as the skirt tore across the widest part of her magnificent rear and exposed her cheeks, which surged out of captivity and tore the fabric all the way from the waistband to the hem. She howled with delight at conquering another restrictive piece of clothing. Now freed, her legs sprang apart, but to my surprise, the stockings were still holding strong.

“I can’t see,” she said when she had recovered. “How close are the leggings to giving in?” She stopped growing momentarily as she leaned left and right, trying to see around her own bulk, but to no avail.

I ran my hands along her legs and gave them a close inspection. “Not even a run in these things. Whatever it is, it’s strong stuff.”

“That’ll just make it more exciting when they finally burst,” she said with a grin, and resumed her efforts. Her belly crept out, filling her sides, and her breasts began to point akimbo as her entire body swelled from within. Her thighs above the lip of the stockings inflated, giving her legs a slight muffin-top look. The area within the stockings barely grew any more at all, though, and her calves were hardly the size we both knew she should be at this point.

After minutes of concentrated breathing, she lay back as much as she could. “Look at me! I can still move my knees!” She kicked her thickened legs back and forth for emphasis. “This is ridiculous! Where the hell did you get these things?”

I tried to recall, though the erotically inflated vision before me was playing hob with my memory. “I think… maybe the army/navy surplus store? I remember thinking that the silk must have been recycled parachute material.”

“Whatever it is, it is not letting up.” She patted her side, frustrated. “I’m not a sexy balloon yet.”

“How can you say that!?” I asked, coming along beside her and placing my head atop her mountainous belly.

“I still have my legs. I’m not fully round.” She scowled, then reached out and grabbed my hand. “We need to tag-team these bastards. Blowkiss me.”

“B-Blowkiss!?” We’d tried doing that once before, but she had gotten too big, too fast, to enjoy the growth. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not giving up. Come on, let’s do it.”

I leaned over her face, seeing the hunger in her eyes to be bigger, and the competitiveness that was filling her as much as the air. With a nod, I took a deep breath and kissed her, blowing into her with all the force I could muster.

With the two of us inflating her, her body swelled quickly. Her breasts and belly merged into an enormous ball, and her arms began to be absorbed into her sides. Neither of us could see what was happening on the other hemisphere of her immense body, but from time to time she would grunt “Still… there…” and we’d continue.

After several minutes of this, we finally called it quits. I went around to see the damage, and discovered that though she had never split the stockings, her swelling legs eventually pushed the fabric all the way down to her feet, which poked out from the room-filling ball of her body.

“They’re still there,” I said, rubbing at a spot I thought was a thigh, “but let’s call it a draw.”

“Take a picture,” she growled from the other side. “There’s going to be a rematch.”

Author's Note: 

This was an entry in Prose That Blows X, which centered on inflation scenes with a focus on clothing. It was my first entry in the contest series, and I'm surprised it was as well-received as it was. It also taught me that I'm far wordier than I know what's good for me.

With a word limit of 1200, I had to drop the revelation that the stockings were a form of the pressure hose worn by fighter pilots to keep blood from rushing into their legs during high-G maneuvers. Maybe some readers picked up on that, though?

Average: 3.8 (11 votes)
kuumuzu's picture
So damn yummy. ~_~

So damn yummy. ~_~