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Night Ride

Lean and fit, mid twenties, he walked along in the night. Something in the road had poked through his bike tire, though thankfully he’d had a patch kit on him. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a means to re-inflate the repaired wheel, and with a few miles yet to go, stopping briefly at a nearby gas station to fill it back up was all he could do, even at this hour.

Dropping the kickstand, he walked to the compressor and popped in a couple of quarters, the machine ticking to life, the hose hissing on its holster. Pulling it free, he yanked it toward his bike, tossing it to the ground as he knelt down to unscrew the wheel cap. Filling the tire until it was solid as a rock, he set the hose down beside him and replaced that cap. A sudden scuff of feet caught his ears, the hissing of the hose suddenly shifting locations, a hand grabbing a tuft of his short hair and yanking on it, pulling his head back.

Forced into his mouth as he shouted a curse, his teeth scraped the rubber hose. His cheeks bulged from the rushing air, the pressure making him gag as it hit the back of his throat. Another shove sent it deeper, the tip painfully scraping his esophagus. His lungs took the brunt of the air, spreading his ribs to their limit before it began to rush to its intended target. The fleshy balloon of his stomach swelled with air, lifting his shirt and exposing his formerly slim belly.

Protruding awkwardly, his upper abs pushed outward around his stomach, the white line between them growing less defined as they spread. A light cracking emanated from his chest, his lower ribs pushed farther apart, his sternum begin forced to flex beyond its ability. His mind repeatedly told him to reach up, to fight, but his hands refused to move away from his sides, afraid of what might happen if his chest lost the added support.

An odd mix of belching crossed with a low whistle escaped his mouth as the pressure hit its utmost within him. His throat bulged, the mass of air flowing back up and out of his mouth. Yanking the hose from him, he was release to fall to the ground, belching and vomiting air as he clutched his taught belly. Tears streamed down his face, he gasped, his engorged stomach lodged against his diaphragm, substantially shortening his breath.

Too distracted with pain, he couldn’t hear the ‘click’ of the pen knife. A firm hand grabbed his belt from behind, pulling his pants tight as the blade slid down the back seam. Rough fingers slid into the cut, and ripped the seat of his pants wide. He tried to stand, to run, but a thick arm caught him in a headlock before he even got to his knees.

The sharp edge of the hose was as forgiving to his rump as it was his mouth. The feeling of the hose being forced deep into him quickly faded as his colon filled, further stretching his taught belly. Sputtering and belching, his bloated internal organs fighting for precious space inside him, he could almost make out the sound of his belt straining over his own wails and pained squeaks.

Scratching his belly, the blade slid between him and the thick leather, slicing it apart, letting his flesh stretch freely once again, if only briefly. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his abs as much as he could to try and contain himself, but his strength was fading all too quickly. Little by little his belly pushed forward, until the last of his strength left him.

Round and tight, his belly looked ready to tear, yet as his muscles gave out, he was granted a small salvation. The hose, being thinner than most objects that had been in his tail in the past, allowed air to flow freely out of him as he relaxed. It wasn’t the most dignified of things, but propriety goes out the window in matters of survival.

Strong and rough as sandpaper, a thick hand slid with the hose between its fingers and firmly cupped his pucker, sealing it closed with an unceremonious squeal. Immediately he felt it, the pressure rapidly increasing inside him. The thin knife cut from a moment ago stung painfully as it spread wide. Choking, the feeling of knives runs up his abdomen, his skin beginning to tear, forming long, red marks.

He wanted struggle, to cry out, anything, but it was all he could do just to breathe, and with every passing moment that became a greater struggle. Despite having his head locked staring straight onward, he could faintly see his grotesquely marred belly slowly creeping into view. So taught was his skin that it glistened in what little light reached here from the road. So large and round it had become, the nerves so damaged that he’d lost feeling.

It was hard for him to fully comprehend what had happened when his body suddenly jolted, in the blink of an eye, and it was no longer there. The arm dropped him to the ground, the dark, crimson puddle splashing about him. Rapidly his mind flickered between trying to comprehend what had just happened, and finding help. Hands rummaged through his pockets, a dark figure hopped onto his bike, and rolled off. Within moments, however, it no longer mattered.