Just for You
Thump, thump, thump.
The sound of my fingers tapping against the taut skin of your belly is not unlike that of a basketball being passed from hand to hand by a focused player; an appropriate analogy considering the nearly ten-inch dome of flesh now protruding from your midsection, appearing as though you had recently swallowed such a ball. The only other sound permeating the suspenseful silence is your quiet, shallow breathing.
“H-huff...huff…huff…” Beads of sweat form on your forehead while the rest of your body experiences an eerie chill. Every nerve has long since given up on processing the extent to which your supple skin has stretched. Your stomach suddenly drops, accompanied by the slow fsssssh sound of a tiny bike pump’s plunger compressing between my careful hands.
“Relax, you’re just a couple pumps away from being completely full,” I console you while the plunger completes its oscillation. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as your mind flashes to a scenario in which this is it: this is the pump that bursts you.
But it does not.
Your stomach gradually settles, resting above the almost painfully full organs succeeding it in the digestive tract. An x-ray would reveal bloated intestines and a colon so overly distended it would make any medical professional question their knowledge of anatomy. All of the fragile membranes are kept in check by a thinning layer of skin that threatens to rupture if pressed any further. I pull back on the plunger to give you just one more good pump, but stop myself when your pleading eyes turn to meet mine. I know that look. You’re truly, utterly full.
I smile and set the pump down on your nightstand, giving your strained belly a soft rub with my other hand. “I’m so proud of you,” I whisper into your ear, “you took two more pumps than last time.” So much air pressure pushes up on your diaphragm that words cannot be formed. Careful, shallow breaths are all you can muster to ensure you don’t go over the edge. This continues for over 30 minutes: us in silence outside of quiet breathing and the gentle sweep of my fingers across your turgid midsection.
“I’m r-ready now,” you squeak out at last, ending the calm. I can see your once-pained grimace has evolved into a gentle grin now that your body has had some time to rest and adjust to the massive pressure within. You lean back against the pillows I arranged for you and cradle your bulbous gut as if it were a child, always impressed how far a simple bicycle pump can push it. The pressure has subsided just enough that we can safely have our fun now.
“I’ll be gentle,” I promise while sliding my hand past your belly button and down into the gap between your smooth thighs. It’s hot and damp already from anticipation.
“Don’t worry, I can hold it in,” you affirm. My fingers soon hit their mark, eliciting a soft moan as your eyes close. Your right hand shoots to the top of your belly as a futile backup in case the internal pressure grows any more. Down below, I’ve gingerly parted your lips and taken to rubbing the strange pinkish surface just behind them.
“Mmmmmmm-AH! That’s it right there. Ohhgosh…”
This was the part you had eagerly waited for. When sufficiently pressurized, your intestines pushed and stretched your g-spot from behind until it rested neatly at the opening to your vagina, seemingly attempting to escape had your labia not resisted. The ease of access and heightened sensitivity of stretched nerve endings paved way for the simplest and most mind-blowing orgasms you had ever achieved. A gentle rub was all it took for you to become putty in my hands.
Of course, I’d never stop there. I knew you. I’d lazily pleasure you just until the zenith of arousal before suddenly doubling my speed, the shock of which caused you to squirt like clockwork. Today was no exception. The first gratuitous blast more than soaked my hand and sprayed up towards my face, washing away every vestige of civility I had preserved up until that point.
“Oh, you’re in for a treat now!” I bark, speeding up my lust-filled reciprocations to keep you climaxing over and over. The discrete spurts of fluid meld into a steady stream, drowned out only by the sound of your powerful moans. “Unnnnngh, keep going!” you command.
Shlick shlick shlick shlick…
I oblige, watching your belly pulsate dangerously with each passing orgasm. The outer skin heaves and compresses as vaginal muscles futilely attempt to contract around the unnatural balloon of air inside you. It feels like you’re about to split in half, yet I persist harder and faster. The pleasure momentarily numbs you to the pressure inside; so much that I watch as your belly surges outwards half an inch before you regain control just shy of ripping open.
“OHMYGOD, STOP!” you scream, prompting me to quickly wind down my oscillations while your river finally ebbs, leaving an admirable puddle in the bedsheets. A face of genuine panic surfaces momentarily, but it becomes clear you aren’t still in imminent danger of bursting. All that persists is your belly’s light aching from the pressure as the afterglow begins to set in. “I nearly exploded this time, dork!” you jokingly chastise, knowing full well it was our most exciting session to date.
In retaliation I pick the pump back up and motion to press the handle down, watching a jolt of fear shoot through your gaze. “Just one more, babe,” I tease. Before you can even think to shout that another pump will finish you, I instead pop the hose off the nozzle of the pump, allowing the air to rush out of you with a satisfying high-pitched hiss. The immense volume of gas takes several minutes to work its way out, but before long your cute tummy deflates down to its former self. Drained of all available fluids and energy you collapse back into the pillows, clutching your sore abdomen while I lovingly run my fingers through your hair. It’s always worth it, just for you.