Christmas Protocol

“I said no.”

“C’mon,” I whined. “We’re both adults. Let’s do the presents now.”

“No!” cried Carol. “I told you, it’s only fun if you follow protocol.”

“There’s Christmas protocol?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” she said exasperatedly. “There are three distinct stages to every gift that make it worth giving and getting. Stage one is anticipation – you know you’re getting something, and I know I’m giving you something, and that’s fun on its own. Then stage two is unwrapping – peeling away the layers of brightly colored paper is its own ritual, and it can be even more exciting than stage one if you really savor it.”

“You…savor it.”

“Yes!” Carol. “Someone put a lot of thought into picking the right paper, wrapping your present up neatly, getting all those folds right, and making an impression before you even lay a finger on the gift itself. You need to respect that. Think of the joy you take in the effort they put forth as part of your reward for enduring stage one.”

“You have thought about this way too much.”

“Stage three is enjoyment,” she said, ignoring me. “Now you finally know what you were waiting for, and you’ve appreciated the effort that went into the presentation – then you enjoy whatever the item is and the spirit in which it was given.”

“So,” I asked, “why we can’t just swap gifts now?”

“Because – it’s not Christmas yet,” she said matter-of-factly.

I had long ago learned to simply run with Carol’s determination. She was funny, she cared for my well-being, she was a smokin’ hot brunette – if she had some quirky Christmas rules, I wasn’t going to fight them.

Soon enough, Christmas morning arrived. “Merry Christmas!” said Carol, appearing near the tree in a fluffy red robe. “Have you enjoyed stage one?”

“Yes,” said, mock rolling my eyes. “I have anticipated my gift. I have followed protocol.”

“Good, because I know what you want for Christmas — what you have always wanted,” she said with some gravity.

Carol opened her robe to reveal an unusual outfit – wrapping paper. Green metallic foil, carefully folded into intricate layers, ultimately creating a halter top and bikini bottom. It was as if she were wearing origami. Her waist was cinched with a black corset; I didn’t ask why.

“Is it time to…open the presents?” I said, a little more lecherously than I’d intended.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “But let’s not forget the ritual. My advice to you is…savor.”

Distracted as I was, I hadn’t noticed Carol had been hiding the end of a hose in her hand, and now she held that hose to her lips. She inhaled deeply from it, and I heard the paper rustle. The neatly tucked segments began to slide, slowly unfolding as they gave way to increasing pressure. She greedily took deeper and deeper breaths; she tried to watch me for my reaction, but she couldn’t help closing her eyes. Whatever gas was in that hose was making her inflate – and it was clear that her blowing up like a balloon was having a similar, thrilling effect on both of us.

More rustling sounds; more paper revealed itself, sliding around her curves. With breasts the size of basketballs and hips not far behind, Carol’s outfit contained fewer and fewer folds as she expanded. Carol clutched at her midsection with her free hand, clearly feeling pressure. The waist cincher offered no reaction, forcing the air into her chest and hips, giving her an outrageous hourglass shape.

The rustling had stopped; now I heard the paper pull taut and tear as the pressure mounted. The foil caught the light, accenting her cartoonish curves. Carol looked like she was struggling to swallow more and more air, actively fighting the pressure from the hose as her cheeks billowed. I reached out but she held out her own hand, waving me off. This was a battle of will against the hose; she squinted and forced herself to expand.

All at once, the paper outfit exploded off her, creating Christmas confetti. As her hips and ass flared out voluptuously, scraps of green wrapping paper drifted lazily to the floor, revealing her naked body in all its hyperinflated glory. Carol’s spherical breasts — nearly two feet wide — were crowned with jutting nipples, as if the pressure had filled them tightly too.

Once she felt the last remnants of the paper outfit tear away, Carol finally spit out the hose with what I can only describe as a soft popping sound. Red-faced and panting, she staggered slightly, groping herself to gauge how big she’d gotten. Her eyes went wide as she now not only sensed but also felt how round and tight her breasts had become – and they were the size of beach balls. She pressed on them experimentally to find almost no resistance. Her fingers traced down her sides and found her exaggerated, inflated hips and enormous bubble butt, similarly round, firm, and fully packed. She suddenly clutched at her belly as it desperately tried to free itself from its corseted prison.

“It’s a miracle…” she gasped, “it held.” She gestured toward the tortured strings of the waist cincher. “I guess I’m lucky…everything else held, too. I felt like…I was going to pop.” She locked eyes with me, regaining her breath. “I FEEL…like I could pop.” She glanced back at her overblown curves, gingerly tracing the outline of her bustline. Then she looked at me again, with a slight smile. “Don’t you?”

I was feeling everything all at once. Carol was right – it was everything I’d ever wanted. And it seemed like both of us were trying desperately not to pass out. “So…” she said, delicately waddling to the bed. “Anticipation was stage one. Unwrapping,” she said as she reclined, “is only stage two.”