Breast Inflation

Deep underground in a small tunnel, a red rubber woman paced impatiently in her confinement. Her name was Poke, a name she was never too proud of: it sounded too much like her specie’s name, the Pooka. She was your average young adult Pooka, red rubbery skin , a clean visor, an expert in all matters of pacing back and forth underground, and a tail-like stubby air nozzle squarely above her butt-cheeks. At a distance, one could mistake her for a human in an odd bodysuit. Poke was rather frustrated at the moment; she had to endure her ten hour shift in one of the watchtunnels today.

“So why do you want me to follow you guys again?” An Woman clown said, she had white painted skin, a small red-colored nose, pink blush on her cheeks, a pink dress decorated with bows and frills, fingerless opera gloves, a choker with a little bell on it, and her dark pink hair in long ponytails.

“For special reasons, we want you to help us with something,” Pastry said excitedly.

“Yeah, don’t act all pessimistic or that we're going to do something bad to you,” Vykoo added.