They're breathing heavy, blood running hot. The handle of the pump and the sweat on their chest; both running down on the bump in their tummy. It's just a small bloat - a generous meal, maybe, or the early signs of a baby - but their chest rises and falls as though in labor.
Another pump. The bump grows. The curve that stuck out rises on their stomach. Their navel - how deep and dark a hole - shifts from standing atop the ball gut to pushed straight outwards. It startes straight at the pump, primed again for another.
They strain. The muscles in their neck strengthen, trying to remain calm, stay relaxed. A sheen of sweat traces shadows about their chest. The pinch of their waist becomes taut, the flesh before it stretching to accommodate its new burden. Deep breaths, deep breaths, cause the ribs to bob just beneath the surface.
The bike pump plunges again. They whine when it hits a wall of force, the feedback of every inch of their round gut telling it no more. No more, please. The pump's forced down anyway, not to be stopped by the whims of a simple balloon.
Gurgling. Groaning, whining turning to yelps. The space between their ribs, just below their sternum, is filled - the curve swallows every bit of their torso that can stretch. Their breaths turn shallow, sweat running down the creases between inflated, bulging mass and frantically tight bone structure.
More. Their rib cage slows, out of room to inhale, the air within demanding more and more of what space they can give. The groans turn to growls, violent warnings as deep, forceful belches escape their lips. They look visibly relieved; a sort of chuckle almost passes between pants.
No, that won't do. Their restraints already held them down, but fingers on their chin had to hold them steady. The tape placed tightly over their lips would keep them nicely plugged. Had they always looked so terrified? Were their eyes so silently pleading? It didn't matter. They'd let out almost an entire pump's worth.
It's sad - They have no choice but to hold what's put in them, now, but all their gasping complaints turned muffled. It was almost worth ripping off, allowing them to release what they would just to hear them whine. Another pump and they start to shake, chest joining gut in distended, grotesque curve. Their skin pulls tight around their sides, folding on itself trying to appease the mounting pressure. Their back had arched long ago, but now it looked sharp. Forced, as though bound. The tears in their eyes made clear: it hurt to be this full.
Not long now. The tiny bit of give left after another pump gave to short, quick, desperate breaths. Their eyes lulled in their sockets, pulled too tightly between pain and pleasure to see straight. Their whole body creaked. The guttural whine turned to a low, constant grunt. Their skin glistened. A foil party toy, overfilled, ready to tear at the seams.
The pump sat primed while they struggled. Hands bound, hips bound. Mouth sealed. What little means of expression left to them yielded to the sensations overloading their brain, and the mindless pleading was impossible to decipher. Did they... want more?
Maybe it was delirium. Maybe despair. Maybe it felt so good, so divine to be pushed from their own body that they begged for release like a pup with a full bladder. Whatever the case, the panic had gone. Pleasure turned grunting into a faint, low moan. No yield remained in their body to draw air to beg. The exhalation from their nostrils became a constant stream, little jets working overtime to relieve the pressure. Pressure that promised to rip them apart.
What choice was there to deliver? To push them over the edge, to force the plunger down as if punching the inside of their overworked gut. To work for the bang. The fatal release. The explosive red fault line that started from their flattened navel and tore their muscles up the center of their body. The rush of force blasting from them as the air escaped all at once. The faint whine and rolled-back eyes of orgasm well earned. And the slumped, stretched, ragged remains of a used-up balloon.
