Date Written: 

"Urg.  *burp*."

The dead silence of the small abode is punctuated by the moans, groans, and various emissions of its single occupant.  Light shines through the windows, the sun greeting sleepyheads the world over to a joyous Saturday.  Jessica, however, is having none of it, shielding her face with the blue down comforter clutched in her right.  It's no use, of course.  She's fully conscious and full of aches and pains.  It's time to get up, get to the kitchen, and take something.

Throwing back the blankets, she slowly swings her swollen legs over the side of the bed, and gingerly brings her feet to the floor.  Her left hand pushes her upright, while her right gently rubs her balloon-like belly through her flannel nightshirt, buttons straining against an oversized wearer.  Head hung forward, tangled locks of brown hair cascading across drained face and filled bosom, Jessica begins her bouncy waddle to the kitchen.

Left, right, left, right, went the mantra in her head, feet following in time.  Her arms she holds out at her sides for balance.  Bounce and swing, bounce and swing, the light pad of bare feet against wooden floor.  Creaks and strains emanated from her overtaxed clothing, seams threatening to give way, the light slosh of fluid within her underlining the audible symphony.  Bounce and swing, bounce and swing, *gurgle* and *creak*, her belly perks and swells ever so slightly, but it is enough.  Both feet are off the ground now as Jessica slowly rises, silent save for a hollow *tunk* as bottom button of her shirt lets go, gassy girth taking up the slack.

"Whoa!  *burp*."

The gas comes up and she goes down, barely having cleared an inch or three.  She resumes her buoyant march without missing a beat.  Left, right, left, right.  Arms move in carefully to comfort the raging swell of flesh, a gentle rub against uncomfortable fullness.  The button is reset, barely hiding a thing, but providing comfort nonetheless.

She takes a break at the verge of the kitchen, running her hands over her impressive thighs, smoothing out some nonexistent wrinkles in her skin-tight sleeping bottoms.  She bounces to the other side, past the sink full of soiled dishes.  She saunters up to the step stool before the spice and medicine cabinet, then merely pushes it away with the side of her foot.  Opening the door, she spies the small glass container of candied ginger, an ingredient used only once and left to languish on the topmost shelf.  Closing her eyes, Jessica readies herself for this one flight of fancy, crouches, and...


Blush quickly comes to Jessica's countenance.  Still crouched, a hand moves about her backside, revealing a gaping hole and overtaxed underwear.  An annoyed pout leaves her nostrils, as she returns to the task at hand.  Arms move back to her sides, as she quickly springs back upright and feet leave the floor.  The air pushes back, slowing her forced accent, yet she still drifts within distance of the tiny spice jar.  Her left grabs the shelf for stability, and her right grabs her prize.  Ginger secured, Jessica lets herself drift back down to the tiled floor.

The table was already spread with the things Jessica needed: saltines for sustenance, ibuprofen for her head, simethicone to try and coax out the gas, the newly acquired ginger to settle her stomach, and both a pitcher and a glass of water to wash it all down.  She sits before the modest offerings, inflated rear and thighs providing a cushion against the wooden chair.  With stomach still slightly achy with pressure, the ginger goes first, the sweet taste a welcome break from the dry crackers.  With pills taken and water consumed, Jessica notes her stomach is much more at ease.  It's still under pressure, but not uncomfortably so.  Hands begin to poke and prod her belly, pain abating and curiosity unfolding.  Experimentally, she presses down with both hands, hoping to force release.

Pressure builds with the press, and Jessica feels the gas displace.  The two halves of her bottom expand out the hole in her pants and into her seat.  Her legs swell and stiffen, knees pneumatically locked.  Her bosom ballooning beneath her blouse, buttons straining, flesh further peaking through the gaps.  Even her arms receive the gas, sleeves tightening with false muscle.

Jessica relents, and her previous proportions return, belly ballooning once more.  "Should have known," she muttered under her breath.  She pushes herself away from the table, then stops at the telltale gurgle.

Fizzing and hissing meets her ears as the pressure begins to build once again.  The weight of her body lessening in her seat, Jessica quickly grabs the sides of her chair.  It does not take long for her swelling stomach to be restrained by cloth, and soon her shirt resumes its taxed utterances.  One by one the buttons burst open, bottom to top, following the curve of her gassy girth.  Breasts fill with unwanted lightness, bursting yet more buttons, until they hang bare above her rounded stomach, resistant of gravity's touch.  Jessica's shirt now hangs loosely about her, a single button at her collar holding it on, and yet, even without the restricting shirt, the pressure keeps building.

The material of her pants groans in protest as thighs and legs swell with gas.  Jessica's legs once again lock straight in front of her, hanging parallel to the ground.  The tear in her bottoms widens as her bottom widens, proud flesh on display for an audience of none, thank goodness.  The seams along her legs begin to give out, bubbles of skin pushing out between taught threads.  Gas filled hips squirt out the top of her constraining waistline, creating a monstrous muffin-top that would strike fear in even the most fashion unconscious.

Swelling sides begin to threaten her grip, belly becoming wrap around, forcing her arms away from their purchase on the chair.  Arms refill and add to the struggle.  Like her pants, the seams in her sleeves split, bubblegum-like protuberances of skin poking out.  Undeniable lightness now pervades her and continues to fill her, the chair tipping back on its two hind legs, lifted and balanced by the inverted pendulum Jessica has become.  In the end, Jessica's exertion is her own undoing, as sweaty hands no longer find purchase on polished wood.

She is much fuller than when she went airborne in the hallway.  Jessica's rise is quick, clearing a foot in a second or two, the chair clattering to the ground below her.  A few seconds more, and she is pressed against the ceiling, her belly's gurgling abating.  Breasts and stomach rub against the textured plaster, giving Jessica a rather boring view.  By the time she has rolled herself around, looking down upon the table, the swelling has stopped, and all that can be heard is the gentle sloshing of her stomach once again.

Clothing hanging about her trunk, pants and sleeves drawn tight against her body, there was nothing else she could do but sigh.

"This is what I get for playing fast and loose with expiration dates," she said, eyes darting to the garbage can, an empty can of beans perched on top.


Author's Note: 

This was my entry for Prose that Blows X: We're Dedicated Swallowers of Fashion (I don't get the title, but oh well).  The goal was to write an inflation fiction focused primarily around the destruction of the inflatee's clothing at or under 750 words.  Stories could either be written to compete in the theme of Stretchy, where the wearer wears something with a lot of give, or Squeezy, where the clothing is a bit more restrictive.  Sick, a Squeezy entry, came in third for Best Overall Story and tied for second in Best Scene of Clothing Destruction.

I did something a little different here.  I've broken out of my usual habit of writing inflation as a very pleasant experience and instead wrote it as uncomfortable and an annoyance.  Buoyancy in a world where everything has been designed to work from a standing or sitting position is just a hindrance, after all.

There were a number of other stories in the contest that I thought were better than mine, so the third place overall kinda threw me, and also makes me question my fellow body inflation fetishists' tastes.  I mean, a newcomer to the field wrote a poem in which a female warrior inflated out of platemail, and one of the established old hands/one of my favorite writers wrote a piece in which two lovers share a tender yet slightly silly and emotionally confusing inflationary moment.  I honestly think somebody else's entry should be in that third place overall.
Average: 4.3 (19 votes)
I love inflation
I love inflation's picture

Let's do a roleplay on this.

Alexis Styles