Bartz Balloon

A trade for a friend that's long overdue, oops!

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[TW: Forced inflation, humiliation, fart/gas-release]

Beautiful dark purple hi tops with the Parade-B logo scuffed the warehouse floor. Heels pushed up to the wall. Bartz had wanted them more than anything, even if they were far above his price range. Against his better judgment and several warnings from his friend, he took out a short-term loan to foot the bill. He had managed to strut about town for all of a single day before the collectors came calling, and upon realizing he didn’t have the means to pay back their investment, chased him through alleyways and the old streets until they cornered him. He looked about the dark warehouse for an escape route, but he was surrounded completely by thugs in red tracksuits. 

The sea of red goons closed in on him, pounding their fists into their palms, and swinging their led pipes to ready themselves for the main event. Bartz closed his eyes and hoped the beating would be over quickly.

“Make way boys,” sounded a voice wracked by a smoker’s rasp. A cat blue dark blue fur and narrow yellow eyes like fog lights parted the henchmen, and his presence appeared to abate their anger. They became still as statues and looked towards the cat, obedient and silent. It was like a switch had been flipped in their mind. Bartz wondered what kind of person could command such authority.

The cat wore a shiny red pinstripe suit. It creaked whenever he so much as breathed, suggesting it was made from some kind of rubber. His pants were fitted so tight they could have been painted over his legs, and his golden wing-tipped shoes were sharpened to points. He loomed over Bartz with a dispassionate stare, as though he were a solid hot air balloon that could descend upon him and crush him at any time.

“The money,” he rasped. “Do you have it?”

Bartz shook his head.

“He don’t have it Mr.Morrow.” 

“It’s Big Morrow, remember? Titles are important.” The cat shook his head. “You know who steals from Byggs Morrow, pup?”

Bartz shook his head again.

“No one,” he lit a cigar and stuck it between his teeth. He leaned forward and gripped Bartz’s chin. He looked him up, and down, and then guided him to turn around. He studied the bull terrier like he was eyeing him up for a new suit. Bartz had a grim feeling in his stomach, something told him he wasn’t going to walk away without being punished. He had heard of “Big Morrow,” he ran the largest protection racket in the city. He also had some unusual proclivities, but Bartz - like most who didn’t want to end up on the gangster’s bad side - assumed they were just that, rumors.

“What’s your name?” Byggs released Bartz’s head and chuckled out a waft of smoke.

“B-Bartz.”

“Well, Bartz. Do you like theme parks?”

***

Bartz had been blindfolded and shoved in the back of a van once he was escorted out by Byggs’s goons. He had been made to drink something which tasted like sugar and pure alcohol until they stopped, removed his blindfold, and pushed him out in the middle of a closed theme park. The only people around at this time of night were Byggs, two of his henchmen, and Bartz himself. He quite liked theme parks, but there was something sinister to seeing one devoid of the life it possessed in the daytime.

“What are we doing here?” Bartz asked quietly, not wanting to rouse the anger of his captors.

Byggs stalked towards a closed wooden storefront which read ‘Loonland Premium Balloons.’ He leaned over the counter and gripped the edge of an enormous orange helium tank, the industrial sized ones they used at the park during the day. They were a proprietary marvel of helium-storage technology and held enough noble gas to pump millions upon millions of balloons, or pop them. Bartz felt a trickle of sweat at the base of his neck. 

“Do you know what we do to people who borrow money for us with no intention of ever paying it back?”

Barts piped up. “But I was going to pay you back, I swear. I just really wanted the shoes, that’s all. Come on, I'm not going to be any trouble. Just give me a chance to work off my debt, you don’t have to hurt me!” 

Byggs shrugged. “Sorry, you failed to pay us back and I’m Byggs Morrow, I have a reputation to uphold. If I went soft on one of you freeloaders, I’d be inviting everyone and their sick grandma to come take advantage of my generosity. Now, choose. In the mouth, or up the butt?”

Bartz blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Butt it is. You got a nice voice there, big stuff, I want to hear you loud and proud when you start going skyward. Pump him up boys!”

One goon held Bartz still while he kicked and snarled in an attempt to get free. The second goon walked behind him and carried a jar of strange green liquid in his left hand. Bartz got a quick look at it, “Loonland Pump-Lube Extra.” He felt the night air on his butt cheeks when the first goon pulled down his jeans. He winced at the application of something cold against his fur, skin, and deeper into his anus. It wasn’t completely unpleasant, but he grit his teeth anyway.

“Stretch him out.” 

The henchmen were strong. They were able to lift Bartz up in a coordinated effort, then held him over the bright orange helium tank. They pulled at his ass, in opposite directions, and stretched him like taffy. Bartz exclaimed wordlessly, how was this possible? Was it the lube? Was it that stuff they made him guzzle in the van? Whatever it was it allowed his anus to eat the tank until only half a foot of tank could be seen sticking out from between his ass.

“Any last words before you start your new job, up there?” Byggs thumbed above him.

Bartz looked up and saw the park’s famous balloons. They were so realistic. It wasn’t until he saw one of them look BACK at him that he realized they were people. One was a pink and gray badger who had been pumped up into an almost perfect sphere, seconds away from exploding at any point during the day. One was a black bull, his body made to take on helium and swell up with a cartoon semblance of muscles. If he flexed too hard, he could definitely burst a seam. When he heard the first hisses of the tank his blood ran cold, and he stared at the fat cat with a pleading expression.

“Please, I don’t want to be stuck as a ballOOOOOOOH~”

Bartz’s well-fed stomach, which he cultivated to support his power lifting, surged out in three dimensions to the proportions of a basketball. He slapped his gut, pressed hard against it, thinking he could just force the air back out. He succeeded as a stream of helium wheezed out of his open mouth, but the cruel cat just had his goons increase the flow of helium via remote. His stomach blew up twice as fast as punishment, and his shoulders, back, and waist joined the process. He felt himself grow lighter from head to toe, until his body was anchored solely by the weight of the tank itself.

Bartz was a tall and muscular dog. His white and lavender tufted fur was sought after by many for its luster, and he wore his head fur in a messy lavender mohawk.

"You sure do blow up nicely. Try not to squirm too much, it makes it harder to keep you all symmetrical. If you end up lopsided we have to squeeze you until all that helium rests juuuuust right," Byggs snapped his fingers. The tank buried in Bartz's ass pumped faster. "And my boys can be real rough and tumble sorts, we don't want to risk you getting popped."

Bartz watched in horror as his biceps blew up beyond any natural level of swell, and into freakish territory. His forearms expanded just as much, and he felt his digits puff up into short stubby claw-tip balloons. One by one.

His shirt tore open, first at the shoulders, then straight down the middle. His torso had become an almost perfect sphere, with his pillow sized pectorals rapidly filling up to block his vision. He grunted and blushed. Air wooshed out of his nipples. It was a damning sign, proof he was more balloon than person.

The goons grabbed him and pulled him down, his ass sliding over the helium tank. He felt it enter him until a spherical metal disc was the only proof of his existence. To any onlookers, it just looked like someone had corked him deep with an orange disc.

"Stop, please! I can't take any more!"

Bartz filled with helium to the point he could float. The gas inside of him had negated his weight, and the weight of the tank itself. He whimpered, wishing someone would just pull some plug and let him deflate like a cartoon. He also tried to deny how good it felt.

His jeans exploded with a loud bang. Scraps of blue fabric rained like confetti. His thighs were the size of weather balloons, and rubbed together to produce a squeaking sound.

"Haha. I've heard of thunder thighs, never heard of squeaky thighs!"

More of Byggs' henchmen were coming from their posts throughout the park to watch Bartz blow up.

If not for his ultra-stretchy underwear and his shoes, he would have been utterly naked. He could do nothing except slowly soar skyward, staring up at the stars. He sighed and took some small relief that no one knew how the inflation made him feel. The tightness of the tank in his ass, and the way helium gently leaked out from the imperfect seal. He would rather be back to his normal size but that was a distant fantasy. Reasoning with his predicament was the best he could do.

Then he heard it. The sound of his foot paws pumping up against the canvas of his shoes. The expensive Parade-B high tops that got him into this situation. 

"No no no. Take them off, they're gonna burst!"

The laces strained, and snapped one by one. The soles began to fray.

"Pleaseeeee they're limited edition!"

"Hahahahaha ahahahah idiot's more concerned about his shoes than his body."

"Airhead!"

Bartz winced as the shoes exploded like fabric fireworks. "Ah damn it," he lamented over the loss of his new favorite footwear.

“At least it can’t get any worse.”

Bartz felt immense pressure around his hole. His skin was drum tight, his fur was laid thinly across his pulsating body which refused to grow any bigger. The gas continued to gush out of the tank buried deep in his ass, but Bartz couldn’t grow any bigger. He was apparently strong enough to resist tearing or rupturing, but he wasn’t elastic enough to expand a single inch more. He felt a blockage begin to form between his massive ass-cheeks and, with an absolute death knell of embarassment and pressure…

FWWWWWWWWSSSSSHRRRRTSSSSSHHHHHHFWWWOOOOOSH!

Helium blasted out through whatever gaps it could find between his anus and the tank’s edge. The henchmen below erupted in raucous laughter, and exchanged innumerable jokes about Bartz being “full of hot air” and a “windbag.” 

The sun was beginning to come up. He saw a rope flung over his spherical body, and when he was properly secured, the henchmen oriented Bartz over the theme park's main promenade.

For weeks on end Bartz had to endure being the biggest balloon in the park. People began to recognize him, and laughed at him. Once word got out people would record videos of him for posterity. Even if he somehow managed to deflate to his original size.

He was always going to be known as the furry balloon dog who got blown up for a pair of shoes.