Expectations

Author:
Inflation Types:
Popping:
Sexual Content:
Date Written: 
06/26/2010

"I think I'll do it with him."

Amy swivels about on the kitchen stool, letting the chair chase her smile around. The evening sun filters through the chantry blind, setting a golden cage about her; tigerstripes across a black blouse and charcoal skirt. This is the dangerous time and she twtiches; all energy and potential, about to burst into life.

"You're not serious". Lucy's dismissal is brief, but her eyes hold out for more. Somewhere in the background of the flat conversion, music plays. Lento, simpatico. The city sleeps between the lull of end-day and rush of evening.

"Yes, I am serious. I want to do it. With him. You know, like we practiced. I'm getting better...."

Her hair is drawn long and damp from the shower, and she brushes it back with urban haste. Some part of her is nervous, but another is caught up with the preparation. Its not really a date, she thinks, just friends. But that's a lie; she senses that they're both hoping for more, and unwilling to give it. Except in the way of least expectation.

"Amy, God, no! I'm not letting you you loose with him. He'll freak. I mean you can't....anyway, he could be a pyscho for all we know. You get to think you know these guys through email but....."

Lucy purses her lips as she heaves the pink backpack onto the kitchen table. It's heavy; ironic given her friend's intent but not the sort of thing to take to a bar. She should have figured this one out sooner.

"No, he's won't. And he's not a psycho. Even for an American. And you bloody well know it."

Amy stands, and slips her arms through the hoops of the backpack. She feels the weight settle between her shoulders, brushing against the unseen dimple to one side. She's not really aware of it now, unless she's concentrating. But it feels positively enormous now. What if he spots it? How far will disbelief extend?

Lucy leans back on the cabinet, looking almost fearful, distantly accepting.

"Well, maybe. How far will you take it?"

"Enough to..." Amy twirls one foot on tip-toe, bouncing lightly in the moment. Her smile is a blush now, teased and evasive. "Enough to...well, its not too windy out and... you know. We'll see how it goes."

"You dirty minx! I'll want a full report." Lucy laughs, suddenly. Then seriously. "But bring me the names"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't quite what you expected.

The venue she chose was bruising imperial modern; old style and new money. Mahogany and bronze fittings enthroned the bar with glasses stacked in-sentry against the walls. Set around, high-backed booths paid tribute, their emerald leather conclaves holding whispers.

And the venue was hushed, even for a weekday evening, only two other couples and pair of women at the bar festooned with shopping bags. Piped piano softened through the walls, smoothing the ambiance to melting point. You felt misplaced, even with shirt and tie crumpled from the day. And then there was Amy.

But what did you expect? Brunette, blue eyes, early to mid-twenties; certainly. On the curvy edge of slim, plain-faced but attractive in her way, especially if she smiled. This much you knew already; several months of email, a picture and a few phone calls. The anonymous words which make a person, well understood.  

But still something else. Maybe too normal, which seems foolish. Her eyes held something back, bubbling under the surface. A nervousness not of the setting or the conversation. Oh, but the conversation! It was awkward, at first, that glance of recognition.

You said hello; talked about the weather and difficulties finding the bar. You brought her a drink; she recommended the sancerre, and you took your places to one side of the bar. Beyond the plate windows the old quayside was ringed with flats, composed and sleepy. The water rippled like silk across the long concrete basin, forgetting its industrial purpose, all but given to the sea.

You looked at each other across the booth. She giggled. You smiled. The moment was ridiculous. So you said it first.

"Well then….inflation?"

"Yes" She laughed. "Balloons….and…well, amongst other things inflatable. It seems silly doesn't it? Even stranger sat talking with someone about it."

She swirled her wine, smiled. The soft blush of confession rises with her, breasts swollen with indrawn breath, as if she felt the words alone would burst her.

"I mean, there's stories, and you talk about these things online, but face to face? And not knowing how far to go? You know, I was wondering to wear a push up bra or not? Oops." She twitched in her seat, downcast eyes, "God, I'm probably coming across as such a weirdo."

"No, it's alright. Pretty strange for myself to be here too. Hey, its just…ummm….bigger is better, right?"

"Yeah, bigger is better." She looked up, one finger chasing a smile to the corner of her mouth. "Your stories are pretty good, you know?"

It was easier after that. You talked through the hours, revealing secrets you both already knew. The bar staff came and lit candles. She got a salad, you got a pizza. She made fun of the anchovies on top. Not quite a date, but enough.

"So, how long has it been?"

"A year or so. Gosh, that sounds weird. I mean, you've been around in the community for ages and you say you've always felt…but for me, it was just something that happened, kinda. A friend got me into it. I found some of the others and your stuff later."

You expect more, but she lets the statement hang. A friend, or someone special? Her phone rings, and she answers.

"Hello Luce. Yeah, fine. No, he's cool. No, we were just leaving. I'll be careful, yeah, get a lift later. Yeah. Yeah, you too. Bye."

She took her jacket from the seat beside her.

"C'mon, its time to go" She said.

It's only 50 yards from the bar to the waterfront, lighting inset to the wall pre-shadows you. She stops abruptly, yellow-light drawing back her hair and turns to you. Behind her, you can see barges tug at their moorings, yearning to float with the rising tide.

"Your hotel is central, right?" she says. "I'll walk you back to the tube. Nearest is Canada Water."

You pass few others in the street. Designer tees and open shirts, briefcases and Sainsbury bags. They brush through the semi-dark, respecting your distances. Does the fantasy make a bubble about your both? Bearing you invisibly apart, together?

It grows colder, or quieter; the silence pooling around your feet. Your path now traces through an absence of people. Amy notices it too. She anchors herself about the sound of water, facing out to the flow. Ebb tide.

"Bet you didn't think London could get this quiet, right? It's all offices over to our left. That's why that place is pretty empty weeknights after 8. But I like it. I like to share it. Kinda like with silly stories. Best with someone else."

For a moment your hands brush, the flush of unbidden excitement. But she withdraws, pauses as if considering something, sucks in breath.

"Come this way. Its quicker."

She turns and bumps into you, unapologetically, and leads you across the street away from the river. Breaking through a cleft in the impersonal glass and steel she climbs a narrow stair through a brick canyon. You follow, as the path doubles upon itself twice, becomes steep, and draws along high wall. Overhead is brick arch, framing a sighing dark. The street lighting dips and Amy runs her hand out briefly against a sign, as if navigating by touch. Stave Hill.

Then the sky opens up again as you come to a wrought iron gate breaking into urban woodland. The pavement is now speckle-paved yellow. Ahead of you, cherry and birch strain in the thin wind; some sweetness out of season comes to scent.

"One of this area's little secrets." Amy says, nonchalantly "It's a short cut. A little piece of green-ness in the heart of Docklands."

The path leads into the wood, abandoning London. Spotlights set in the borders cast the trunks into stark relief, desaturated colour. A bird chitters in the undergrowth, reprimanding you intrusion. You walk quietly, a hands breadth apart, through a solitary Eden.

"Wait". Amy halts suddenly and turns. "There's something I have to ask you."

She has stopped in a small round clearing where 3 paths meet, and direction is lost. You try to make out the form of buildings beyond, but the illusion is complete. The roar could be traffic or a distant ocean. The climbing lights are stars.

"What?" Your voice is strange, unsettled. The evening has not brushed with sensuality. Earlier she was playful, but focused. Now her movements are serious but detached. She seems, what, if not interested? Determined perhaps. You guess that she trusts you, but can't understand.

"You've….been around in the community for a bit. More than most. Well, I need some names, addresses." Amy pauses for emphasis. "You know. Kane, and all the others."

Have you misjudged her? She seemed hard enough to persuade to meet in the first place. And now she wants names?

"I can't. I promised." And you did. Some confidences are more fragile than balloons, more important than tethers. Laughter is the least of it; some folks have jobs to protect, family. They can't reveal who they are.

"But you've spoken to them? You know how to get it touch?"

"Sure, but…no. Not without asking. Listen Amy, you're a sweet girl but…"

"You don't trust me?". She interrupts, seeming more amused than hurt.

"Well, yeah. I wouldn't be stood here otherwise. But it's, like, confidential. With this kind of thing you have to respect folk's privacy."

Amy pouts, hooking her fingers into the straps of her pink knapsack.

"Tell you what, hon. I'll make you a bet. I want you to hold onto me for a minute. If you want to walk away after that, fine, otherwise…I get the names. Deal?"

What to say? She knows allure is mix of mystery and form, the unspoken word, the missing heartbeat, the secret surrendered. And she has secrets to spare.

"And….." she elongates the word, twisting on the spot. Her slim black shoes try to screw into the pavement. "I promise no funny stuff, not to scream, bite, wriggle or run away. How's that?"

"OK…." You don't know where she is going with all this.

"Great." She perks up. "Come here"

She takes your arms raises them, tracing the ghostly heat of her body in the cooling night. Your hands brush the chestnut strands of her hair, stirring her perfume through orchard and rose.

"Here, just lift them over, let them hook around the back of my neck. That's it. You can stand a little closer. I won't bite".

Of all stories, she's the hardest to follow. The motion is trepid, not the hunger of attraction. But excitement pushes through; you can see the pulse by the upturned neck, the way she swallows. Your hands clasp behind her head and her eyes catch yours; elfin blue to grey in the sodium light. Now it glistens on the blush of her muted lipstick, some kind of question unasked.

She holds your wrist with one hand and with her free one reaches behind herself. For a moment you have a glimpse of something, almost, spooling like transparent cord from her backpack. She hitches up the side of her blouse, slightly, grunts, swears lightly, and lets it drop again. Apparently satisfied she releases the grip on your wrist, and folds her arms behind her head to reach behind into her improbable backpack again. Even with her chest pushed out so she's a long way from the woman of your stories. But her look is determined, real, as if will alone could shape the world.

"Alright" She says, defiantly. "Lets do this."

Out-of-sight, her wrist flexes, once, a decision made. She lets her arms free; a moment of touch revealing a ghost of perspiration, trembling. She stands before you, impossibly Amy.

Nothing happens.

"What?" you ask, stupidly.

Amy says nothing, but half-closes her eyes. She swallows lightly, and breathes; sinking her soul deeply, breathing. Her chest rises and falls and rises. Only a B-cup for all that. She is slight, curved where she could be round; bigger-is-better yes; but for those without? Now she brushes against you, breathing as if holding a long sob. Is this what she wanted to share? Does envy edge against her? A fantasy which can be written but never fulfilled?

The light is soft, forgiving; the fabric of her blouse sparkles in the tallow-glance, shifting. Her breasts lift together in the near-embrace, appearing fuller; plumped to a hands-span and for a moment, well, the pretense of a C-cup. It is enough to let some dreams be.

But the noise is so familiar that you neglect it in the moment. It is unrecognised rather than unknown, manifested more as a purr than a hiss. Your hands tense without thought. Some part of you knows how it begins.

Amy breathes slower, the push of her breasts more pronounced, the cleavage evident. D-Cup. How could you not have noticed sooner? The dark fabric is taut, oval eyes forming between the buttons on her front. No. Not this.

"Just a second. I have to deal with something" Amy flexes her arms behind her, nonchalantly, crumpling up her blouse. She grunts as she reaches, unhooks. Her chest sways in sympathy; but finds invisible support, as if firmed and lifted within. She continues to speak as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You know I really need to have a strapless bra for this? Seriously; otherwise it just gets trapped underneath after a few second and that hurts a lot. And as for bursting out of it; forget it. Only a guy would think of that. I mean, have you guys ever tried to tear a bra off that way?"

A coldness splinters your spine. Is this a joke? A set up. A camera? Or something. The gap between fantasy and belief yawns like a chasm. Something shapeless and strange within.

In that moment the pressure of her chest pushes against yours, soft and pillowy. From somewhere a noise comes like a drumbeat, marching to her fullness. An E-Cup. Or bigger?

"Hey, eyes up here." She nudges you with her nose. "Look at me, not them."

You can't. The fabric of her blouse rides up around her shoulders, crimping where it meets her backpack, baring smooth skin at her sides. The buttons pinch in their pockets, strained by globing flesh now the size of watermelons. Bigger.

"Amy….that's…. cute…but ok…not funny….?". Nothing seems to be making sense. The hissing noise demands your silence. You fail with the word unspoken. Inflating.

The top button yields, with a soft plut, revealing pale-peach domes cupped by a shadowed cleavage. You can't think. It has to be a body suit, or something. But bigger. Another button parts. The soft pink of her nipple edge into view. You can see freckles, goosebumps, the detailed confession of skin. No. No. No.

The outermost button pings off, arcs, and strikes your cheek.

"Ooops, sorry," says Amy apologetically. "That never happens in the stories. Make a note."

Now the remnants of the blouse slide down over her shoulders, pushed away like a receding tide around mountains. Rising above it Amy's breasts swell roundly, bigger than basketballs. They convex underneath your arms, perking nipples the size of quarters, ludicrously defining her body. Hourglass and momentary. Their texture is soft, almost rubbery, the peachy-scent of her skin interrupted by latex.

"Go on. Say it!" Amy dares you, apparently oblivious to her expansion. "I know you want to."

"Oh God. Amy. You're inflating." You whisper.

You can't believe how silly it sounds, even if it's the first cogent thing you've come out with in the last minute.

"Bigger is better, right?" Amy looks at you, fey-wild with mischief. She laughs through her half-nakedness. "Hold on tight now."

You're vaguely aware she has set her hands to resting on your waist. Your arms, once relaxed, are now supported by her bulging breasts. They must be over a foot across. For a moment her expansion threatens to push you away; the pneumatic pressure intangible and irresistible.

But her breasts edge out, and up; symmetrical, bulbous, gentle and unreal in their motion. The sway as if they weigh less-than-nothing; like twin cresting balloons as the eclipse the straps of her backpack behind. Irresistibly, her cleavage finds you; embraces you. You feel yourself being drawn between the twin pink spheres which straddle like a rubber vice. The touch is soft as they contour about your body, a glove of feminine softness pulling you in even as they swell larger.

"Amy…You can't…this can't…actually…" You flinch backwards, or try to. The ductile grip of her breasts clings at you, as if sandwiched between a pair of mattresses.

""Wooah." Mumbles Amy suddenly; she flushes, tenses and arcs. Something stirs in her beyond mischief. Something not quite in her control. The purring thrum of earlier is now a persistent hiss, vibrating through her expanding form. You can feel some hidden gas defining her, shaping her body to its will.

"Wooah." She gasps again,as you twist. "That's kinda…just…try not to move so much, ok? I don't want to get us too buoy….I just need to concentrate with this."

You should let go. You think. You should let go of her right now. But your hands remain at the nape of her neck, caught between fascination and fear.

Now beyond two foot, Amy's breasts lap about your body like a tide. The gas within is more insistent now, the resistance firmer. Their roundness and pertness defy your belief, loosing the cup of gravity. With each moment it pushes out, up.

Up?

"Amy, wait. No. You're inflating. You're really inflating!" Your voice is somewhere distant, fright without fear. "And there's something else…."

"Uh-huh? Really? Oh help. Help. I'm blowing up." she recites deadpan.

Her mask cracks and she giggles coquettishly. "Oh god. I just had to say that. Really. You never could get the dialogue right for this sort of thing."

The cooling rush along your spine is somewhere between horror and wonder. Your eyes widen to embrace her. At the edge of vision cork-sized areola twist beyond the horizontal. Her breasts are the size of beachballs, playful by the half-light. The indentation of your arms atop their dimpled smoothness lessens, fighting an upward pressure as if Amy is standing on tiptoe.

Almost to answer the question, she steps forward sight-unseen, placing the toes of her feet on top of yours. One foot lifts and strokes the length of your calves. You can barely feel her weight.

"Amy….are you….getting lighter?" The answer crouches in your disbelief.

"Uh-uh. Looks that way." Amy says, smiling madly. "Wanna take a guess at what these naughty puppies are filling with?"

She giggles and her hands hook promptly into your trousers where she pulls herself forward with a rush. Her balloon-breasts bulge only slightly with the effort, their massless width curving about your sides to your waist. Her hair folds down, gripping your wrists as she looks at you with hooded eyes, and a smile like a knife.

"Helium" she whispers, "You know what helium can do."

"No, Amy". Some part of you tries to resist the strange. "You must weigh… You'd need hundreds of balloons; thousands to make any…."

Amy looks almost sorrowful, trembling in the coming knowledge. Her hands drift up your sides to part your shirt, hesitating where they meet the expansion of her breasts. Her nails dig at your bare skin, so fiercely you think you could pop. She bites her lip as she holds your gaze, fragile and confessing in the intimacy of inflation.

"Maybe….I am a balloon. If I wanna be. A big balloony-girl. And give a cute guy a big titty-balloony girl to hold and….."

Bigger than beachballs. The fierce levity of her breasts surrounds you, holds you, lifts you. Behind her head, the detail of leaves is waving in the wind. A moth dances in the air, captive and buoyed by mote-light. Capturing the moment, the orchestral hiss holds a violin pitch of tension. The thin city breeze seems to push against you like a sail; rotating in a crazy waltz. Your balance yawns before you; each footstep easier and less certain.

"Please." Whispers the girl before you. "Please be OK with this."

Her lips linger just out of touch. Your breath mingles with hers. For the first time your recognise the hardness of arousal. She must feel it too; for she pushes, tethering her body about you. The veil of her dress glides up her legs, drawn by your roughness, the rejection of gravity.

Impossibly buoyant, Amy gasps, takes you to tiptoe. Her swollen tits are the size of an over-stuffed sofa; arcing like weather balloons. Her eyes shine with tears and delight. She struggles to anchor herself about you; downward gyrations athwart an upwards body. Another half-step, then another. She is a enormous bubble, fizzing on the tip of your tongue, your thrusting needfulness. The cusp of her tender thighs yields secret heat, drawing you up and up.

The pneumatic pull becomes irresistible. The scene becomes loose, drunken, swaying in the waves of air. Slowly, over the peach horizon of her ballooned breasts, the garden falls away. You realise your feet aren't touching the ground anymore.

Amy nuzzles forward, as well as she is able. Her eyes shine with a desire lighter-than-air.

"Come float with me." She says.

You feel your feet flick in void like a hanged man, taking no purchase. Instinctively, your arms drift from around her neck, gliding over her soft shoulders to grasp the enveloping balloons that lift you. She permits your explorations with a sigh, her head askance, letting you take her as she takes you into her world.

Above, the ivy-green tree canopy falls to meet you, oak-branches slipping by fingertips. Up and up. You feel bare in the nothing, but Amy envelops you with a rush, cloaking your body with her half-nakedness. All the while, the ground drifts away; the park now submerged by trees. A nearby road is a yellow and chrome desert while low-lying residences assert themselves beyond. Sad gables spike for the sky, but your own thrusts dominate and prevail. You rise between their mass; passengers on a helium elevator; roofless, topless.

Now cupped by the air itself, Amy shudders, on the edge of sensation. Without meaning, without words, your motion finds itself softly driving against her surrender. Pumping and receiving, you are ballast and buoyed. Her hair is amber in moonlight, the glow of her naked skin ephemeral across the curve of her breasts. You see the slit of the river running through her; silver and wet. Rotating in the air she takes you in and up. Ballooning higher and higher.

"Amy…." Your throat is dry, aching for her sweetness as it buds.

"Shhhhh." She hushes you with a wrap of breath both deep and sensual; a secret helium that infuses you both. She confounds and is confounded in shared expectation.

"Hey…It's alright. Just let's…..let's get carried away; together."

And the sky is full of stars.

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