Perfect Storm, The

The Perfect Storm
By inflate123@airytales.net
http://airytales.net

I watched as my belly grew, slowly but surely. My body felt increasingly pressurized. One of the buttons on my shirt exploded off and sailed across the room.

You know, in retrospect, it was probably a bad idea.

Let me back up a few steps. Some guys like shapely legs; some guys are breast men; some guys like big butts and they cannot lie. I like all of the above, with a twist: the shape I like is rounded. Like…inflated rounded. Don’t judge me; nobody’s “normal,” and you no doubt have your own irrational fantasies. Just because I decided to act on them doesn’t mean you’re innocent. Besides, my wife knows; she’d read some of the stories, found them amusing. When the topic comes up, she just shakes her head and then shakes something more interesting, just to tease me.

Truth is, while I thoroughly enjoy stories of hot chicks swelling up like balloons, I’m also a little envious that I’m not the star of the story. I’ve often thought about what it would feel like to inflate like the characters in my stories. Ultimately, I realized the only way to get what I wanted was to try it on myself. This particular weekend, my wife was away at a conference, I was home alone, and the weather was lousy. The mind wanders. The hard drive of smut gets accessed. The aquarium tubing and spandex get hauled out from the Rubbermaid container under the bed. Only this time, I didn’t want to connect hand pumps to balloons and stuff them under clothing. I decided to do it for real.

Problem was, I didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. The stories were all conveniently written around the concepts of magic or mad science; most just grasped at the first vaguely plausible fantasy construct and then it was off to the balloon races. Sadly, other people’s fantasy was the only research I’d done. I felt like a toddler, poking forks into electrical sockets – that’s one way to find out how things work.

So imagine my surprise when I tried to stick a hose in my belly button…and it fit.

I mean, I’d done it before, just to simulate what I wanted to have happen, but this time, it sort of…well, it just fit differently, that’s all I can say. I felt something give that didn’t give before. Miracle, evolution, accident, I don’t know. But what I always wanted to have happen suddenly happened.

I stood there, stunned. At this point I had already put on an ugly collection of stretchy clothing that I usually wore for my inflatable pantomimes – black-and-yellow spandex bike shorts and a blue/gray lycra rashguard. I wasn’t thinking about coordinating colors; I was thinking about what was on clearance at various sporting goods websites. And now, out of the middle of this fashion nightmare, there stuck a three-foot length of flexible plastic tubing. It took a few minutes to come to grips with it.

Nervously, I picked up a squeeze bulb and put it on the end of the tube. I gave it a trepidatious squeeze.

It was like all my insides got tickled at once. It felt incredible. And it came with an instant erection.

I squeezed again, and then again. Each time, I felt a rush of tingling course through me; each time, I saw the spandex move slightly. I was inflating myself.

On classic-mad-scientist cue, the storm let loose with a mighty thunderclap and I heard the wind wrestle with the trees. It’s like the air outside was urging on and agreeing with the air going inside.

I couldn’t pump very fast; each increase in pressure made my knees buckle. I slowly, steadily worked the pump. Air wasn’t escaping; it was only going in. I watched as my midsection swelled, as the spandex around my middle stretched to accommodate my inflating belly.

I wanted another gauge to measure the growth. In hindsight I wished I’d set up a video camera. Instead, all I did was grab an old white dress shirt from my closet and delicately put it on. When I closed the buttons, I could instantly see the awkward fit; my belly was at least two inches larger now, and my navel was very sensitive when I buttoned up the shirt over it. Then I pumped again.

My hand was not only trembling but cramping. I spotted the aquarium pump in my stash and the idea would not go away: I wonder what THAT would feel like?

Like I said, in retrospect, it was probably a bad idea.

Carefully, I plugged in the pump, removed the bulb from the tube, and made the connection. Up to this point, I’d only used the pump for balloons under clothing; I’d never used it on my actual self. But what was I now besides a balloon under clothing? It was a low-pressure pump; I figured it was low risk with a potentially mind-blowing reward. I flipped the switch.

The tingling went from gentle waves to a steady torrent. It wasn’t a strong amount of pressure, but it was definitely more…constant. My knees gave out and I stumbled to the bed. For me, this was like an orgasm that just kept going and going; I was amazed that, despite the feeling of tight spandex on my swollen tummy and my swollen manhood, I hadn’t actually had an orgasm yet. Maybe I surprised my system and it just didn’t know what to do.

I watched as my belly grew, slowly but surely. I ran my hands down my sides, stroking the stretching spandex; I could feel the tension beneath creep forward and I saw the gap between the shirt’s buttons stretch wider and wider. My body felt increasingly pressurized, only intensified by the clinging clothing. One of the buttons on my shirt exploded off and sailed across the room.

That’s when I heard keys in the front door.

“Honey, it’s me.” It was my wife. I was paralyzed – not with fear so much as with pleasure. “My flight was cancelled; I’m still here.”

The adrenaline rush helped me manage a weak call down the stairs. “Hey,” I croaked. What was I going to do, not answer? She lives here. She’s my wife. Like we said, for better or for worse. There was no going back now.

“Oh, you’re up there,” she said, and I heard her stomp heavily on the stairs. “They delayed the plane for three hours and finally cancelled it altogether when the storm picked up. So I’m flying out in the morning. It’ll be nice to sleep in my own…”

Even though she was now looking at the bed, she couldn’t say it. Because what she found there was her husband, desperately trying to hide an aquarium pump, several feet of plastic tubing, and the fact that his belly was roughly the size of a basketball.

“What…” was all she could get out. My face was already a lovely shade of red, but she quickly turned crimson too. “Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were...um, doing your dress-up thing.” She knew about my solo sessions, but she’d never seen one. “Uh, I’ll let you…”

“Not…dress-up,” I gasped. “Real.”

She froze. “What do you mean, ‘real’?” I waved her toward me with one hand, the other still fumbling to turn off the pump. She approached, then flipped the switch off for me and just stared. “That’s…that’s you?”

I laughed a bit between gasps. “Yeah. Don’t know…how. Just…happened.”

She reached out her hand to touch the side of my beach-ball belly. When she did, it sent shockwaves through me and I writhed. “Are…you okay?”

I squinted hard. “S..sensitive,” I stammered. “Very.”

Then it dawned on her, and she smiled. “Oh my god…this is like your dream come true, isn’t it?” I smiled and gave a small laugh again. I don’t know why I kept laughing. Well, that’s not true – I was constantly being tickled from the pressure inside me. Plus, I was laughing because I was blissfully happy. This was an admittedly weird slice of heaven, but heaven nonetheless.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked with a mix of concern and wonderment. I nodded. “It’s…amazing,” I whispered.

She raised both eyebrows. “I always wondered what you did while I was out of town. And…well, I do like seeing you happy.” She glanced down at the outline of my cock through my shorts, and a thin smile crossed her lips. “And…helpless.”

With that, she reached for the top of her blouse and slowly — torturously — began unbuttoning it. She never broke her gaze as she deliberately removed each item of clothing in turn, ultimately revealing a red satin bra and stretchy black panties. “You must be feeling a lot of…pressure,” she said, running her hands over her own ample curves. This wasn’t even remotely fair.

“This isn’t even remotely fair,” she said, “but you may have noticed that I’m not interested in playing fair.”

She climbed on the bed and stroked my crotch through the spandex. “Is everything very sensitive?” she asked, peeling my shorts down. My penis throbbed with excitement; she slid her own bottoms off and mounted me. When she did, another button burst off my tortured shirt.

“Oh! Something just popped,” she said with a laugh, sitting astride me. “It wasn’t you, was it?” It took all my mental capacity not to pass out. She pressed lightly on my belly and I gasped. “No, it wasn’t you. I think you’re filled, but not full. I wonder,” she teased, “what would it take to make you full?”

She leaned over, gently resting some of her weight on my midsection, sending sparks throughout my entire body. She leaned closer, her breasts filling the red satin cups as she tilted as close to my ear as she could manage. “Let’s find out.”

The distraction worked. I didn’t see realize she was really leaning over to switch the aquarium pump back on.

I yelped. She laughed wickedly. Another thunderclap hit on cue outside. And I felt my body begin to inflate larger, this time with the added pressure of my wife’s beautiful body pressing down on me.

The inflation began to spread beyond my belly; I could feel air trickling into my chest, my rear, and my crotch. She could feel that, too, with her own startled yelp. She was filling me; it only seemed right that I filled her. Another of my buttons burst, this time with the sound of ripping stitches and a hollow, reverberating pop.

“You…are…my…balloon,” she said, bouncing on me rhythmically. Every thrust made me want to explode, in every sense of the word. I could feel myself growing larger beneath her, swelling steadily, ready to pass out any moment from the intensity. To be full of air but nearly unable to breathe was a cruel irony.

The dress shirt was almost destroyed now; the rashguard had rolled up to my chest, revealing a large domed midsection. She couldn’t keep her hands off it; her fingertips skating along my inflated skin sent electricity through my whole body.

But she could tell I was heading for the inevitable. The growth had slowed but the pump had not; she could feel me firming up beneath her. I couldn’t tell her to stop or turn it off; I could only make inarticulate gasps of ecstasy; my eyes were alternating between plastered wide open or firmly squinted shut, but both conveyed the same thing. She quickened her pace and found her own personal rhythm and angle for happiness. As she began to gasp, I felt the air completely fill the last few areas of my body that would allow it. I could not tell if the sudden squeaking noises came from the bed or my body, but I knew I could not last any longer.

We both came in unison, and she quickly yanked the tube out of my navel. It sent a shockwave through my body, only compounded by the final thrusting. It was the most glorious moment of my entire sexual life.

I don’t know why I didn’t burst right then and there; then again, I don’t know why I inflated in the first place. But with the tube removed, a soft hissing filled the room and I began to deflate. I should have popped; God knows I couldn’t hold any more air. She collapsed next to me, exhausted; we both gasped for breath, but only I did it nervously. I was afraid to put any more air in my body in any form.

The room was silent save for our heavy breathing and a steady, wispy hiss. The storm rumbled in the distance.

“You need…to show me…how you did that,” she panted after several seconds. “Because I want to do it to you again. And then,” she said, with a scheming twinkle in her eye, “we can do it to me.”