Grace And Beauty Erotic Stories and Sex-Positive Articles
Blow Up   ~   by M. Christian

"How big?"

I spread my hands apart. "About this size?"

"Hummm...” she said, smiling at me. Her nametag said Betty. She was really pretty, or at least I thought so. Voluptuous I guess you'd call her: short, but with round up top and below. She really filled her Toys
R Us, putting a lot of strain on that bright orange apron. "I think I might have something you'd like," she added, smiling again , but keeping the smile going for a lot longer than before. My heart began to beat faster; I felt lightheaded.

"G-great," I managed to stammer, covering it by coughing into my fist.

"This way," she said, crooking a finger, leading me towards the back of the store. Her ass rolled as she walked. "I think we have one more left in stock. Or at least I think so -- it was here the other day." Just
following her I was getting really excited, and even more nervous.

"This is where I saw it last," Betty said, digging around in some boxes at the end of the Hula-Hoop, Squirt Gun, and Kids' Sports section. Her plump breasts swung as she bent over, pushing brightly colored
boxes aside. "Ah, here it is -- viola! We do mean to serve." Betty breathed deeply, making her round little body gently swell up. In her hands was a box: Big Bouncy in cartoon letters on the side, "4' when
inflated" right below. "Suitable for children of all ages" beneath that. "Is this what you were looking for?" her voice was deep, slow, and breathy.

My cock was hard. Very hard. She probably noticed, I realized, and my face blushed hot. "T-that's perfect. I'll take it." I took the box, positioning it to hide the evidence in my pants.

"You know, I don't do this very often but, well --" she blushed too, very quickly, but then she dropped her head just ever so and looked up at me through her dark eyelashes. "-- if you want to, you know, go out sometime..." Her number was written on a claim tag. I couldn't let go of the box, so I trapped it against the cardboard with a finger.

"T-that'd be great," I said, grinning wide, very glad for the box in my arms.

"I think so too," Betty said, as we walked up to the front, where I bought my ball and -- with her waving goodbye -- went out, and home.

#

Preparation is half the fun. Well, maybe not half, because when you get right down to it, when I get right down to it, it's a lot of fun. But getting ready is still a thrill: knowing what's coming, thinking about
it, building anticipation.

I used to just leap in, but I got so excited I was a little ... rough, and it blew up in my face. So now I take my time, stretch it out. For instance, the right kind of lotion is essential. I used to use hand lotion, but while it left me feeling smooth and soft it also clotted up. I even tried Crisco, hearing that gay men used it; and while it worked really well, it also had this smell ... made me hungry for fried chicken. Kind of distracting.

I finally settled on basic, good old-fashioned baby oil. It's great: nice and slick, doesn't get all gummy, and a little goes a real long way -- and no one looks at you funny when you buy a quart of it.

The best, though, is shaving. There's just something about it. Methodical, careful, with a bit of danger involved. You don't rush when you shave. You have to have control, patience. Shaving's the best part,
except for the act itself, of course.

When I have enough time, or I just can't contain my excitement any longer
-- like today when I came home from Toys R Us with the Big Bouncy in my arms -- I carefully clear all the furniture from my living room, pushing aside the sofa, the coffee table,the ugly lamp my mother gave me, and all the rest. Then I roll up the Persian rug. I love my floor; it's the best part of the house. When I bought it five years ago I saw the bad plumbing, the ancient wiring, and the crumbling plaster in the bedroom, but I bought it because of the living room floor. Exposed, even a bit dusty, it glowed. It always made me think of a tropical sunset, though I've never been out of LA. It was a warm floor. Seeing it, knowing what was coming always made me feel calm, serene - but also, bubbling down deep, excited.

Next I dust the floor, being careful to get all the dust and grit off it. I usually start with a mop, then finish with a soft chamois and some Pledge. When I'm done, the floor doesn't just glow, it shines. Brilliant gold. Sunlight. Beautiful.

I had a painter's tarp for a long time, but there was something about covering up that wonderful floor with cheap blue plastic that made me just a bit sad. Not that the floor was all that important, but it was pretty. I hunted around and was lucky to find a clear sheet of plastic just the right size, so now I not only get a great space, but I can see it when it ... well, when I do it, of course.

With the plastic down, I get in the bathtub with my shaving supplies. Nothing special about them, not really, but I quickly learned not to get shaving cream with anything in it. Nothing like menthol or mint. It burns. Just plain shaving cream. It's not easy to find, surprisingly, but a few months ago I stumbled on a little market that had some, so I bought all six cans.

Then I start to shave, starting with my face and then on down. I really wish I didn't have to work, because I'd really like to shave my head. Sometimes I think of that, imagine how wonderful it would be to be completely hairless, my whole body exposed, nothing between us but a thin coating of oil. Some day maybe, but for now I have to settle for shaving my chest, crotch, and legs. My penis and balls are the hardest -- mainly because by then I'm very hard -- but I take deep breaths and go as carefully and methodically as I can. A cut on the face can be painful enough, but nicking yourself down there is so bad it can make me cry; and I never cry, not usually.

After I go from my face to my feet (this usually takes at least half an hour) I shower all the foam off, trying not to get too much hair in the drain at the same time. By then I'm very excited, my cock very hard. I always smile at that, how hard my cock gets, as if it knows what's coming and keeps pointing at what it's hungry for.

When I'm naked and clean it's almost time. Just a few more steps, but I'm so excited my heart's pounding in my chest and I feel as dizzy as I am eager. Back in the living room, I carefully slowly cover myself with
the oil: my neck, even my face, down my chest, around my little belly (should work out more), as much of my back as I can reach, down my thighs, down my calves, my feet and between my toes. I don't use a lot,
but I use enough. When I'm finished, I'm shiny and slick and my cock is hard and throbbing.

Now it's time to inflate. I know, I realize that I should do that before I'm coated in oil, but while it's sometimes difficult to hold the deflated ball it doesn't bother me. No, it does, but I like that. It's
like ... I don't know, like foreplay, or maybe petting, I guess: some guys struggle with bras, getting pants down, I have to struggle with a soft dead weight, a slippery nipple, and running out of breath. This part of it, like the hunt before the catch. I don't know, maybe I'm getting overly philosophical; I just like it. It adds to the whole thing.

I used to puff it up in a hurry, rushing to get to the really good stuff. But I after the second time passing out before I was finished, I decided to take it nice and slow. I also really try and keep my hand off my dick. It's so tempting; the rubber nipple hard in my mouth; the almost-fruity smell of the warming plastic; the soft, undulating ball in my arms, growing bigger and firmer with every dizzying breath. Sometimes, when I'm in a hurry, and I have a ball around, I'll lay in bed and cradle it in my arms while I jerk off. It's so seductive: the texture and aroma of the plastic, the way I can wrap it around my body, tight and wonderfully restrictive ... that's when I don't have time, but usually -- because it's even better -- I make the time.

This part takes time, suspense building with every breath, but eventually I get it done. If it's a good ball, it's rubber -- not just plastic -- and slick, smooth. No patterns, like a volleyball (too small, anyway), because they can rub your skin raw. Good size is about four feet in diameter. I've done bigger, but they're even harder to find, and smaller doesn't work.

Sometimes, when it's been awhile, I'll find myself getting ... well, hard, at the weirdest times. I'll be sitting there at a stoplight, for instance, and I'll look up and see a Philip's 76 station, with it's huge orange ball, and my body will just start to react on it's own. I know it’s weird, but it thankfully it doesn't happen all that often.

There's just something beautiful about it. Often I'll sit and stare at it for a little while before starting, just looking at it. It's like a woman in many ways, like all the good parts of one in one neat shape. Round like big breasts, or a big butt, smooth and bouncy like a plush woman. Other times, when I don't have one around -- a ball I mean -- I'll see a woman, a girl, and see her roundness, her curves, her well-cushioned body, and my cock will do a Philip's 76 on me. Like that girl in the Toys R Us today. Her number's around here somewhere....

But there's the ball. Next I put some oil on it, slowly, seductively rubbing it all over the round, resilient surface. The smell is wonderful: warm sweet, my sweat, and the oil. The sight is glorious: the fullness, the way it's perfectly round. The texture is incredible: warm like skin, and firm like skin. Touching it, looking at it, smelling it -- it just reaches a part of me nothing else really can. It's the best. That's what it is, really, for me. It's the best.

Now it's time to start. There's a trick to it. Lean too far forward and you bang your head on the floor. Not far enough and your knees get cramped. I worked it out perfectly: just far enough back, far enough forward. Just right.

I've never told anyone, of course. I know what they'd say. Still, how can they say anything if they've never done it: never fucked a ball?

I don't have the words for how it is for me, how it feels. Warm and soft, pressing against my whole body, my cock pressed between my stomach and the firm rubber. I slide, slowly at first, back and forth, up and down, lost in all that and more. I don't have to worry about what anyone else is thinking or feeling. The ball doesn't care. I can do whatever I want to it and don't have to worry about what it'll say or do. Its just rubber, firm, hot, pliant, resilient ... and there's nothing else like it.

Back and forth, slowly, carefully, rubbing my body against the big red ball, every little bit of sensation making me breathe quicker, my heart beating faster and my cock -- somehow -- growing even harder. Back and forth, oil sliding between me and the plastic, with each stroke both getting warmer, hotter.

My hips get that fucking reflex after a time, and I start to really thrust against the roundness, the firmness, and the softness. After a point there's nothing but the ball and me. The ball and fucking the ball. The smell of the ball, the way the ball seems to push back as I push down, my cock sliding between it and my stomach. Then it hits me, from my balls at first -- they get very tight -- and then quickly spreads down my dick and my whole body jerks really hard. I grab hold of the ball as tight as I can, squeezing it, screaming, crying into the rubber as my come jets out of my dick and gets all sticky and stringy on the ball.

Then it happens. Not always, but often enough. If it doesn't, then that's great because I get to do it again; but if it does happen it's like something added to my come, an extra BANG that smashes right through my
fun plastic time leaving me heaving and exhausted on the floor, my burst balloon flat under me.

I rest and pant for a long time, my heart still hammering, my eyesight still blurry. Eventually I get up, feeling the couple of bruises that'll be big and purple by morning. I shower, feeling regret as the oil and the smell of the ball twirls down the drain. Gone, finished -- popped.

Eventually, maybe a day or so later, I feel it starting build again, but every toy and sporting goods store comes up dry. Eventually, I think of Toys R Us so I dig up the tiny slip of paper with Betty's number on it.

Sure, she'd love to have coffee sometime; and by the tone of her voice, husky and sultry and deep, I know she'd like to come over and fuck. That'd be nice, and it might be fun, but I really hope she'll do something else for me, something that matters even more. I hope she'll let me know the instant they get more Big Bouncys in stock.

That would be terrific. Better than anything.

The End

"Blow Up" and other stories of TecnoErotica are featured in Rude Mechanicals ~ by M. Christian, available for Kindle devices.


www.mchristian.com

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