Big Mood

The voice in the back of her head kept telling her that she had made an enormous mistake.

It was either due to carelessness, desire, or curiosity that it happened: While spending time alone with a tank of air, her hand lingered on the valve just long enough for it to be pushed away by her swelling belly, out of reach. She grew, larger than she had ever been before, perhaps unwisely, as her breasts billowed and her stomach pushed them up to her face, blocking her view.

The tank ran empty before she was full - or too full - and despite filling the most of room there was still a remarkable amount of give to her skin. She could feel her belly pressing against her mattress, the bedposts, everything else in reach, and most of all, against her as it held her against the wall.

She made several efforts to move, pushing into herself and feeling herself push back. When she was younger she played with balloons and beach toys, learning more than she thought about herself in the process, but inflating herself was different, and this extraordinarily so. Warm, soft, and sensitive enough that she could feel beads of sweat roll down her navel in the distance, it was a mixture of being with and -being-, confined by one's own enormity.

Turning her head to one side she reached one arm up and over, pressing her right breast down; it was so large that she could barely reach her nipple, yet it was the smallest part of her. Between herself and the wall she could see her dresser, pushed out of reach, the object of her search resting on top of it beside a strip of condoms and a freshly-opened package of batteries. With a frustrated growl she moved her other arm down, squeezing past her side before sliding two fingers into herself. She rocked forward in time with her motions, her breathing deepening as she bounced and pressed into the elastic skin of her inflated prison.

In the end, it wasn't the worst mistake she had made.