Witness Protection

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Megan stirred at the sound of footsteps, but she was too exhausted to bother opening her eyes. It had been a long night already, and she didn’t have to check the clock to know it was far from over. The police had insisted on a patrol past her door every thirty minutes and a physical checkup every hour on the hour. It was an insane amount of bother, but at least it was all ending soon. Tomorrow – today, she thought blearily – she’d take the stand, and then there would be nothing left for anyone to fear. But for the moment, everyone was paranoid bordering on fanatical. They’d even told her to stay ready and on alert, which seemed to be at odds with sleeping. Eventually she’d grumbled her case, kicked off her shoes and curled up on top of her covers in her blouse and her slacks. If that was less than satisfactory, they didn't pester her further.

The footsteps drew up next to the bed and stopped. A pair of fingers dug into Megan's neck, pressing in to feel her pulse. She twitched slightly at the sudden touch, but otherwise lay still as the visitor tapped out a silent ten count. That done, the touch withdrew and returned to pull down on Megan's chin. She let her jaw swing open obediently to accept the thermometer, and received a thick wad of fabric in her mouth instead.

She opened her eyes with a muffled cry, blinking at the haze of her fatigue as a slim, black-clothed figure vaulted onto the bed. A mask covered their mouth and nose, but the shape seemed feminine. She pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt with a soft tinkle of chains and bent over Megan, seemingly intent on using them.

Silently Megan fought. Furiously. And briefly. The intruder countered her adrenal thrashing with practiced ease, shackling one wrist and slamming her arm down, then threading the connecting chain through the headboard and attacking her other arm to lock it up likewise.

In short order Megan lay panting, defeated, both arms bound above her head and sweat trickling over her scalp. The intruder straightened up and shook back her charcoal ponytail. She pressed a short length of tape lovingly over Megan's lips and walked her fingers down her victim's blouse. Between her breasts. Down her stomach. A little pop between Megan's hips. An invasion of cool air. She looked down the length of her prone body and shook her head violently. The dark figure opened up the front of her slacks with deliberate slowness, pulling down her zipper so that the teeth clicked audibly. “Mmphh!” Megan cried, kicking out, but she couldn’t stop her slacks from slipping away. Couldn't catch the fabric peeling down her legs until they were completely bare. The night was cold against her naked skin, her face hot and flushed, her white silk panties shining in the moonlight.

The figure settled herself in, catching Megan's legs in the crook of her knees and pulling them apart. From over her shoulder she pulled something tall and slender and plopped it onto the covers. It seemed to be an ordinary bicycle pump, but no bike pump Megan had seen before caused her to struggle and squirm and try desperately to shrink away like this one did. The intruder considered Megan's reaction, raising the end of the hose between two fingers. After a moment, she spoke. "Nothing personal," she said, twitching aside Megan’s panties, and pushed the bracingly cold nozzle up inside her. Then she drew up the handle with both hands, and pumped.

Megan arched her back, curled her toes, rattled her bonds as the air rushed into her. She squirmed at the power of the sensation, slippery smooth and shamefully sensual as it slithered deep inside her. Her cheeks burned and her thighs quivered as the figure pumped her up again, and then again. She voiced a muffled cry, but it was no use. There was no freeing her calves from her captor’s grip, no unbinding the chains around her wrists, no pushing back the swelling knot that coiled inside her abdomen like a snake. Again and again the assailant worked the pump, and Megan could only lay back helplessly as she filled with flowing air. And slowly but surely, Megan felt her stomach rise.

Each pump brought another spike of pressure, building up the mass of air inside her and forcing it outward throughout her body. Slowly, inexorably, it seemed to fill her out, sliding beneath her skin to search out the nooks and crannies of her body. Her stomach rose and her chest tightened. Her thighs plumped, and her breasts perked up. It spread into her arms and her calves, reaching into every extremity, welling up inside her cheeks. Everywhere her felt her skin stretching with the reluctance of an overfull balloon. Tears began to trickle from her eyes. Her entire body was pulsing, straining, expanding to the beat of the hissing pump.

Megan's stomach rose before her as one vast, curved expanse. Up and down the assailant's hands moved, dipping below the growing horizon of her body each time they descended to pump her ever larger. And everywhere that smooth, slippery sensation of air rushing against the walls of her cavernous belly. Bigger and rounder she grew, tighter and tighter, limbs like sausages and her stomach straining, and then-


A button shot off the front of her blouse, disappearing into parts unknown. A diamond patch of taut, pale skin shone through the gap that opened in its place. There was a momentary relief as she swelled to fill out the extra room, but the steady work of the intruder quickly packed her tighter than ever. Threads began to pop again, and


The assailant slammed the plunger down, forcing Megan's stomach up and ripping another button free. Even through the mask and the dark of the room, it seemed to Megan that the slim figure was smiling down at her, savoring her work, making a game of filling her victim carefully out before blasting each button off with a sudden burst of growth.

Bit by bit Megan tore through her own blouse until she lay nearly naked in the silvery moonlight. Her tight-packed turgid frame curved out almost comically, breasts jutting skyward with shameful intensity, stomach so swollen she seemed to be pregnant with a whale.

The black figure forced out another pump, slowly, and Megan groaned as she expanded to contain it. She could no longer see rise and fall of the plunger behind her pneumatic bulk, but she could feel the surge of pressure that came with every inch it descended.

Once more the intruder forced the handle down with apparent effort then stopped and wiped her brow. Surely she was nearly done, Megan thought. How much more could she manage? How much bigger did she intend to pump her victim up? Or—a deep-seated creak accompanied the protracted struggle for another quarter inch of girth—did she intend to stop at all?

As if in answer, the intruder produced a pair of earplugs and fitted them into her ears. She cracked her knuckles and drew herself up in a brief stretch, and then attacked the pump with fresh purpose.

Megan squirmed and gasped, but her body stretched so full and taut that she doubted she could move even if she had the freedom. She wasn't sure what was stronger inside her: the feeling of a sudden detonation so barely sequestered, or the endless kiss of slippery air against the tightness of her body.

There was a sound like footsteps from outside the door. Was that her salvation, patrolling down the hall towards her? Or just her imagination and the throbbing in her ears as she strained in her effort not to burst?

The pump handle went down an inch, and Megan trembled before it sprang back up. The assailant grunted with effort and pushed it down again, further. Megan's body throbbed. A loud creaking noise sounded and the handle shot back up again.

Narrowing her eyes, the assailant leaned her entire weight onto the pump. An overwhelming wave of pressure blossomed inside Megan, and strengthened instead of passing.

One too many. She could feel it. That moment of suspension before the crash. Like a Jenga tower about to tip over. But the tortuously unconcerned footsteps of her savior were clear now. She just had to keep it all inside, though it seemed as impossible as fighting the rising tide.

The figure in black kept pumping, or tried to. Her cool, collected manner was gone now and she was looking over her shoulder, taking sharp breaths and working her arms to no effect. She leaned in, pressing a deep divot into the mattress. Megan groaned ominously, but a million PSI forced back the incoming air where there was no room for it. Any moment now, the door would swing open. A few more seconds, and the intruder's plan would be thwarted.

The door handle rattled. The assassin coiled herself, sprang up, pounced like a cat. Megan's eyes widened. The pump handle went down, and Megan went


Average: 4 (23 votes)
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Now that really scratches a

Now that really scratches a long time itch! It is perhaps a bit dark and domineering but in its macabre it holds significant pleasure. A certain degree of lust found in powerlessness, in the struggle against an unknown captor of ambiguous intent and the steady rise to a deadly climax...death is hardly erotic, but it is certainly final, and finality is just what was needed at the end of such an encounter. Thank you for the fine work and for the time you spent creating it. Simple fetish fiction can work wonders for a sad and lonely man, on a sad and lonely day.


(PS hand pump in vagina, nice choice! Also, if you are going to make a habit of producing such good content, have you perhaps considered a career in writing? Niche though they may be, erotic novels are a booming industry in their own right. 

Of course it may be a bit ridiculous to take career advice from some random anon on an obscure fetish site ;p)

GaryMega77's picture
Poor Megan, but great story.

Poor Megan, but great story.