Pumped Up Mission

(Disclaimer: Any acts of transformation, expansion, or mental altercation have been consented to by the owners of the characters affected. Any acts depicted are meant as explorations of the fetishistic psyche, hold artistic merit, and are compliant with the TOS of Patreon).

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Commission for Mel!

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To everyone else the blinking red light above the city square was just another police helicopter, no one cared enough to peer closer. Wrecking Ball wondered if anyone had noticed the shape it was attached to. Round as a hot air balloon, and covered in black and purple latex. Its gondola was marked with a purple biohazard symbol, though it was currently turned off, and lacked its signature menacing glow. The blimp also had a face, wearing an enormous breather that funnelled lifting gas into its face. Its name was Mayor Thompson, emphasis on was. A corrupt politician who capitulated to Biohazard Ben after being humiliated in front of his constituents. Wrecking Ball smiled, it was good to see his handiwork in action. He had been put in charge of the mayor’s transformation. A pity it was the dead of night, and that no one but him and his fellow henchmen would know the truth about the red light.

“You look like a proud mother watching her chicks take flight,” Blastzone said. The other lieutenant grade henchman Ben had sent to assist in the operation. “Surprised he blew up so well. I know politicians tend to be full of hot air and good for pumping, but his capacity surprised even the boss. He’s not even maxed out. We might be able to use him to carry the whole organization if he keeps on stretching.”

Blastzone was taller than Wrecking Ball. He stood at ten feet tall, and like most henchmen, was almost the same in width. He had prominent hips, breasts, and thick arms he purposefully overinflated. He liked to look like, in his words, ‘a curvy, explosive bruiser, who can do as much damage with his thighs and tits, as his punches.’ The organization was full of strange people, everyone had a different preference for how they wanted to inflate. Once you graduated past minion, you were free to customize your suit and proportions however you liked. Blastzone, though bearing a unique silhouette, was far from the most bizarre among the lieutenants.

His thighs rubbed together when he walked. Wrecking Ball could always hear him before he saw him, heralded by the creaking of pressurized limbs, sealed under a sheet of latex always one step from breaking. He left his forearms and biceps, his lower legs, and half of his thighs uncovered. It let those areas expand without restriction, he always looked like he was about to explode from the confines of his nanostretch suit. The purple biohazard symbol blazed on his right breast.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood today pal,” Wrecking Ball said. His own nanostretch garment was full coverage, except for his eyes and mouth. The entire lower half of his face was free, and sported a thin blonde beard. His suit was plain when measured against Blastzone’s eccentric casing. The Biohazard Symbol was displayed on his belly, instead of his breast. A symbol of status, which ranked him higher than Blastzone. He secretly took pride that Biohazard Ben thought so highly of him, but he never told a soul. His swollen ego was a secret, and he thought that by keeping it to himself, he could expand faster; his secret self-importance was a mental canister of helium, just for him.

Blastzone walked to the edge of the skyscraper, fearless of the distance between him and the ground. Balloons didn’t fear heights, and they didn’t fear impacts. They floated, bounced, and boomed day and night. He grinned, making his cheeks creak. “How come you’ve never customized your suit?” He asked Wrecking Ball.

Blastzone had an incredibly fat face. His cheeks were plump, and when he smiled or grinned they dimpled. It gave him a mischievous look, one that Wrecking Ball struggled to decode at times. It was hard to tell when he was smiling earnestly, or when he had ulterior motives behind his smirk.

“‘Cause it’d ruin the fantasy.” Wrecking Ball said.

Blastzone tapped his biohazard symbol. A voice spoke through the earpiece under his mask. It was a quick conversation. When he removed his hand from the symbol, he spoke. “What do you mean ruin the fantasy?” He also left the crown of his head uncovered, and let his messy brown hair peek through. He ruffled it in confusion.

“You blow up because you want to be known as the biggest, strongest, human balloon that there ever was, right?”

“Damn straight,” Blastzone inflated a few inches from his own pride.

Wrecking Ball shook his head. “That’s not me. I don’t want to be a human balloon, I just want to be a balloon.” He ran his hands down the black-purple latex in a sensual manner, and he grew aroused at the prospect of losing his humanity to pressure. “I want to ‘just’ be a balloon. A big, perfect sphere. I want people to see me looming over them in the middle of the city, a field, the world, the universe, it doesn’t matter so long as I’m big - and inhuman - and nothing but a terrifying BALLOON of an ORB.”

Blastzone blinked. “Uh huh. Okay I… that’s… well we all have our own style. That was mission command by the way, it’s time.”

Both henchmen reached behind their heads to grab a silver nozzle. It was connected to the 6ft long, 3ft wide tanks of blastdrogen. A special mixture with the instability of hydrogen and a little ‘extra,’ courtesy of their boss’s chemical engineering. They connected the nozzles to the insertion ports located over their belly buttons, where the suits fused to their skin underneath. With a click, and a mechanical purr, the nozzles rattled. Thick tubes leading from the tanks fattened up, and deposited the blastrogen straight into their hollow bellies. They moaned in unison, unable to hold back at how good the first long pump of a mission felt.

Blastzone took to the air first. He enlarged to the size of a large van, and kept going until he was capable of filling an average person’s living room from wall to wall. His midsection, belly, torso and back, rounded out into an almost perfect sphere. His thick limbs, partially uncovered - shiny peach rubber, formerly his human flesh - refused to submit to the dominance of his middle. So he sort of hovered there, with the bodily proportions of a mascot inflatable. The sort you saw at a used car dealership, except with an all encompassing sphere for a belly. His cheeks made his expression impossible to view, but Wreckingball knew he was grinning like an idiot. Probably wondering what he was going to shout before he burst.

Wrecking Ball inflated in the more traditional matter. He took a deep breath inward to relax his rubber body, and allow the gas to fill him succinctly. He felt his palms and the soles of his feet turn into balls, with his fingers popping out of them like wide nubs on an inflated rubber glove. His toes could still wiggle, just barely, but his feet were just squeaky ovals under his boots. His limbs fattened up as he achieved liftoff, but they rapidly disappeared. His human form was swallowed in an instant by a hungry black sphere, leaving nothing but puffy facsimiles of his hands and feet sunk into divots as the last proof of his personage.

Wrecking Ball took point and floated ahead of Blastzone. “Cable, fire.” He said, and from the utility belt stretched taut around his circumference, a suction cup zoomed out attached to a wire and stuck to Blastzone’s left breast. “Cable, tighten.” The wire pulled up and lost its slack. “Motor, start.” A motor attached to the base of Wrecking Ball’s gas tank revved up and provided forward momentum. The two of them ascended slower than they progressed, but they continued to gain altitude. Wrecking Ball’s cheeks were taut and made speech difficult, but he still retained the barest amount of strength to see the city below him disappear in his periphery. His vision adjusted to look straight ahead a few seconds later, as his neck fully disappeared, and his head was half-sunk into a divot like his hands and feet. Only it was thicker like a tire.

“So you remember what the mission is, right?” Wrecking Ball said, his voice transmitted over the suits internal microphone, letting his partner hear him despite the wind that whipped past them.

Although Wrecking Ball couldn’t see Blastzone, he could hear the sussurant hiss of gas entering his belly button in greater amounts than needed. “Ohhhhhh yeah…”

Wrecking Ball groaned. “If you pop early, you’re going to get stuck on suit-washing duty. You know that right?”

That made him stop, the hissing became quieter. “Oof, no thanks. Have you ever been in the lab where they make them? ‘Suit cleaning’ is what they say when they send people in to wrestle up the goo they use to create the nanostretch suits, that stuff has a mind of its own. I heard that a team of ten goons went in last month and every one of them got turned into a pumpdrone. Complete ego death, they go off at the slightest provocation.”

Blastzone continued. “Ben was on a video call with some superhero, and he got mad, and said ‘blow it up your ass.’ One of the pumpdrones overheard it, and sat on one of the steam vents in the lower labs. Stayed there until he was basically a big squeaky cube filling every inch of the room, then bang!”

Wrecking Ball stopped and fantasized what it would be like to be a pumpdrone. The thought scared him. But what scared him more was how erotic he found the idea of being even less of a person. A pumpdrone was basically the closest thing to being a true balloon, they didn’t even have the capacity to think like a human. “Wonder what it’d feel like…”

“Uh, Wi--, I mean Wrecking Ball?” Blastzone said over the comms.

“What is it?”

“We’re here.”

Down below was the town square. A superhero named Valiandiferous was in the middle of giving a speech, and boasting the accomplishments of his agency to the town. He was the target. Ben’s organization existed to expose and humiliate the superhero industry, and this little demonstration was about to do just that.

“What kind of a name is Valiandiferous?” Blastzone asked.

“He couldn’t decide between Valiant and Splendiferous so he went with both. Detach cable,” the plunger inverted and broke its airtight seal. “Good luck, make sure you get him good and proper.”

“Oh I will. Engage self destruct.”

Blastzone’s body pulsed bigger with every second. He managed to bend one of his cartoonish herculean arms to bite down on his thumb, so he could blow against it and push himself to his breaking point in record time. He commanded his tank to engage a small pair of thrusters that rocketed him towards the stage where the hero had been in the middle of giving his speech, before a fat, parade balloon on the verge of busting his seams, filled his vision. “And BOOM goes the dyna--”

Blastzone burst into a spray of purple gas and purple goop before he managed to finish his sentence. It covered the crowd, the stage, and most importantly the hero. The nano-bots inside the transparent liquid detected his unique superhuman genes and began to encase him in a formless purple bodysuit.

“What are you doing to me!?” He said.

Wrecking Ball engaged the thrusters on his own tank, and came careening down from the sky. “Engage self destruct,” he said. He pulsed bigger, and bigger. His own body swallowing up his head as black-purple latex covered his vision on all sides like he was being forced down a tunnel of creaking rubber. He snorted out purple gas like a bull, and everything went quiet to him, replaced by the roar of blastrogen leaking out of his ears. No one in the crowd knew he was even human, they all thought he was a weapon.

“It’s a bomb!”

“It’s shaking, it’s gonna blow!”

“Everybody run, IT’S GONNA BLOW!”

And it did. Wrecking Ball felt himself go warm all over. Then he was enraptured by a passionate feeling, so hot and unstable, that it blew him apart into featureless pieces of rubber confetti. He was no longer just the balloon, he was the explosion itself. A mushroom cloud of purple rose up. No one was harmed, the force of the blast was low, everything was just for show. And the greatest show was soon to come. With the combination of Blastzone’s goopy aftermath forming a suit, and Wrecking Ball’s full on kaboom, a signal had been sent to the nano-bots.

As Valiandiferous rounded out and took to the sky, every dirty secret from money laundering, to false nutritional info, to HR scandals were being displayed on his new purple body like a screen. And the larger he grew, the more his agency’s reputation tanked.

“Mission complete,” Wrecking Ball thought before his consciousness became temporarily scattered, and he waited in post-pop limbo to be reformed and congratulated for a job well done.