High Pressure Lesson

(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 Abe!

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Pumpington University was an old institution that dated back to the 19th century, when hot air balloons and non-rigid airships were in high regard and thousands would come to see their unveiling. That love for enormous vessels filled to their limit, voluminous in the tautness of their seams as they climbed heavenwards, ignited a similar but utterly strange passion in a few. Instead of joining the waiting crowds to admire the newest feat of airborne ingenuity they would take the noble gasses used to hoist their coveted balloons aloft, and drank it into their bodies directly from the hose. With a whistle of the tank, or squeeze from the bellows, these strange balloonists became living feats of aeronautic engineering. And as their love for being sky-borne reached a fever pitch, they would embrace one another. Their globular bodies glistening with sweat, they would moan violently as they collided. This eventually started a trend with ladies of the night, men of pleasure, and as the world evolved the practice became more advanced - and becoming an inflatable was seen as an odd, perverse, but somewhat respectable profession.

Professor Abraham Barbardos was the most recent in a non-hereditary lineage of inflationist scholars. He had studied under his teacher in France for most of his twenties, and enjoyed a relaxed, bohemian lifestyle. His relationship with his teacher was close, and often sexual. They were not romantic partners but they trusted one another enough to share their flesh, as it turned to rubber and expanded beyond the rational girth of normal men. Inflation, the act of filling a vessel with pressure, had powerful roots in sexuality. It made sense for two men devoting their lives to the art to indulge themselves, and one another, though Abraham often found himself at the mercy of his senior.

He remembered Professor Gustave La Glaceair as he was the first time they submitted to their mutual carnality, and took turns one Summer evening on the rooftop of his château pumping one another with a bike pump the professor had customized. Its output took Abraham by surprise. He overestimated his own ability to stay upright, and underestimated the ageing polar bear’s arm strength. A blast of air on Gustave’s turn pushed Abraham past the size of a bus, the sudden upset to his equilibrium made his head spin, and when he regained himself a rubbery white moon weighed upon his horizon.

“Oh, Abraham, you creaking fool,” the polar bear teased and pulled back, then thrust down. His humping started off slow and heavy, and picked up pace with his breathing, Abraham huffed and puffed just as fast, but there was an out of control staccato to the way air entered and exited his taut, orange body. “So reflective, so virile, so stretchy. You will impress many one day, but for now, you are my bright orange sunburst. Now pop for me, Abraham, go boom. GO, BOOM!”

Abraham could practically still remember the way cum rushed out of him, moments before he experienced his first full body orgasm and detonated. The murky feeling of semi-consciousness before reforming stuck with him too, he remembered how dreamlike it was. When he popped he became nothing but air and rubber. More accurately, latex. Abraham specialized in transforming into latex because he liked the smell, and the way it yielded under a person’s body heat and weight before it was fully taut. The experience of becoming nearly nothing, and yet, being everywhere, before you coalesced into a single point and returned to your corporeality was... difficult to describe.

“Abraham...” Gustave rasped. At his fullest, soliciting the cat for a kiss to rend him asunder. His white, rubber muzzle, inches away. The air he could not contain spilled out from between his vinyl teeth, he was clenching his jaw to keep it inside and failing. He was a man at the crossroads between instability and orgasmic self-destruction, begging for someone to press themselves against him and pop him. Like a soap bubble. Beautiful and ephemeral, but so, so momentary.

“Burst for me, Gustave. Scream my name as your body tells the world its perversions,” Abraham kissed Gustave.

“... Gustave? Wasn’t that your old prof?”

Gustave flew apart in a whirlwind of faceless rubber pieces and Abraham woke up, to see the face of a rubberised mouse staring up at him over the edge of his desk, instead of an aged and grizzled polar bear.

Abraham flushed. He was not in France, and it was not the nineties. It was firmly the 2020s and he was, as he was every day, made entirely of latex. His air-blown muscles were held hostage by an Argyle sweater vest and matching slacks. The fabric of his pants strained with an erection which could not be more obvious. It made a deafening creaking noise rubbing against the seams. “Sorry, I uh... appear to have been a touch overtired, I didn’t get much rest last night.”

The mouse sipped coffee flavoured hydrogen from a mug sized tank with a handle. “Uh huh,” he tilted his head. “Stimulating dream. Remembering your old mentor?”

Abraham sighed. He unbuttoned his slacks and shimmied out of his underwear. He looked over his desk. It was only him and the mouse in the faculty office for the ‘Adult Recreational Inflation’ department. “You don’t mind, do you? I need to deflate myself a tad or I’ll burst mid-sentence during my next lecture.”

The mouse took another puff of his coffee-gas. “Nope. I’d say pump it up bigger if you didn’t have to go out and teach in a few. Maybe you should get your dick removed, like me. Don’t knock going null until you try it!”

Almost every member of staff in the A.R.I department was an active ‘Pneumatic Escort,’ which was the polite society nomenclature for inflatable sex worker. Most of the time they walked around their faculty office naked and kept a set of spray-on clothes, or a set of decorative towels, for when people from other departments came to discuss with them. Abraham still liked to ask, sometimes, he was nothing if not polite. So he politely stood up, located the white plastic valve at the base of his penis, and pried it open with his finger and his thumb. The woosh of air made him feel numb in his nether region. The tight, inflated orange rubber phallus deflated into a limp, small thing. When he was sure he had exorcised the thoughts of Gustave, he closed the valve again.

“Gods, I need to explode.”

The mouse waddled over to his desk and bounced himself into his oversized chair. “How long has it been?”

Abraham counted. He had a lovely encounter with a purple panda, but that was months ago. He had yearned for a good popping since then but had never found the time. “Too long, I think the last time I properly indulged in my explosive inclinations was June.”

The mouse spluttered. “JUNE? It’s September! How are you not CONSTANTLY on the verge of exploding. Don’t you remember what happened to Frederick when he tried No-Nut-November? He LITERALLY destroyed the old gymnasium because someone stroked his beard and set him off!”

“Gustave’s training was intense. Though, as much as I love talking about my dry spell, I have a class to teach.”

The mouse snorted. “Enjoy. I’ve got the afternoon off. They want to use me as an example of mega-macro over inflation tonight, so I’m taking it easy until I go full Hindenburg.”

Abraham bid his colleague farewell.

When he entered the classroom the sound of strain was already present. In the back seats, furthest from the teacher’s desk at the back of the tiered room, were a pair of students having a friendly match of chicken. One was an older student perma-balloon like Abe, fatter at his base size than his opponent, and confident in the advantage being bigger by default gave him. He was an ox, and his opponent - by sheer coincidence - was a frog. They were not a fully transitioned balloon, and had to apply the transformative spray to become as stretchable as their opponent. They overflowed their seat, vocal sac and belly stretched gossamer thin. With an unceremonious pop, their thin latex scraps fluttered to the front of the room.

“I see that you all arrived bright and early for that truly gladiatorial display of pneumatic combat. Mister O’horn, please make a call to student services. We need a reformation accelerator for Mister Green. Try to avoid stepping or damaging his scraps until that happens,” Abe said with the casual weariness of a professional inflator bored at the sight of amateur competitions.

“Now before I begin, would anyone else like to wildly overestimate their limitations and blow themselves to pieces?”

The class giggled. Except for one student, seated at the centre of the front row, so close that Aberaham could taste his eagerness to deride him. “Aren’t you the foremost expert on that, professor pops-a-lot?”

Abraham suppressed a groan. The taunt came from Growe Maximus, a handsome great dane who - despite being uninflated, and untransformed into a balloon - looked as swollen with muscle as the perma-balloon students were with air. He sat front and centre, piercing Abraham with his sharp tongue and blue eyes like he could pop him if he stared hard enough. It was difficult to tell if his chiding came from genuine animosity, or overwhelming lust which confused even him. Abraham had experienced both in his career, and they twisted more than people expected.

Another creak filled the classroom. Growe’s teasing riled Abraham but he hid it with a veneer of professionalism. He opened his briefcase as loudly as he could, shuffled his papers into organization on the wooden lectern, and tried to disguise the creaking of his slowly inflating loins as a protest from the old, mahogany teaching stand.
“Right class. As though Mister Green had been an unfortunately explosive Nostradamus, he did in fact predict the subject of today’s lesson. Popping. Specifically, why do things pop?”

“Because they thought doing No-Nut-November as a balloon was a good idea?” Someone called from the middle row.

Abraham chuckled. “Right, right, settle down. We all remember the literal minefield the campus became last year because of that silly trend, and Mister Frederick’s rather… spectacular impromptu indoor fireworks demonstration. Which cost us thousands in repairs, lovely as it was.”

The class tittered again. “Now, on to the lesson,” Abraham waited for the laughter to settle. “Pneumatic pressure, the literal lifeblood of us perma-balloons, and the reason we’re all here under Pumpington’s roof.”

“Or in your case, breaking through it on your way to blow up.”

Abraham grabbed the remote for the wall-mounted screen behind him. He clicked it until it flashed with a depiction of pneumatic pressure, and a visual representation of internal and external pressure. “Alright, this should be fairly simple to understand. As inflatables, as balloons, we primarily fill ourselves with air.”

He clicked the remote again. The visuals changed. “What keeps our hollow forms in shape at a relatively low level of pressure, is the external pressure. Which is a force pushing inwards on us. Now that begins to change as we both expand, and ascend skyward.”

“For all to see, right?” Growe smiled.

Abraham soldiered on. “And when the internal pressure exceeds external pressure, the air within us seeks an exit. Which can cause a rupture, and thus, we pop. Sometimes we blow open and become inanimate; sometimes we only end up in one or two pieces of scrap; and most popularly, we explode and become confetti. Which requires an IMMENSE surge of internal pressure, hence the myriad of special equipment and techniques we employ at Pumpington.”

Most of the class were taking notes, or hiding their arousal. As much as the university put up its front as a formal, disciplined place of learning, it was still a place of carnality. Full of hopeful inflators looking to entice others, or bring large, shiny pleasure to other balloon lovers. Taking a break every now and then so that students wouldn’t self-destruct from arousal-triggered-overinflation was common. Abraham felt like he might need to do so for his own sake, his bulge, much to his chagrin, had inflated to the size of a beach ball behind the lectern.

“So much for $200 ‘inflation-resistant compression slacks,’” Abraham said quietly.

Growe put his hands behind his back, leaned the back of his chair on the tier behind him, and kicked his feet up on his table. “You have plenty of experience going to pieces, right prof? You know what your nickname is among the students, right?” His grin was as wide as the painted-on cartoon smiles of the parade balloon department post-transformation.

Abraham was at his breaking point. If he tried to deny the swelling mental pressure in his head any more, it would overflow him as blistering hot air. He would expand beyond the confines of the classroom, press the students to the walls, and blow the structure apart with his detonation. He looked Growe in the eye, and fired a smirk. The return of confidence unnerved the great dane, who adjusted his trucker cap and leaned forward.

“I think a live demonstration is in order,” Abraham bit down on his thumb. He inhaled through his nose and blew, hard, against his thumb. It channelled the air downwards, through his throat, and spread it to the corners of his sculpted latex body. The ridges of his synthetic muscles swelled, torture for the argyle sweater tasked with keeping them contained. Abraham kept a normal pumper’s cadence. Three seconds in through the nose, six seconds blowing to give his bodily latex time to adjust. He continued until the angled pattern of his sweater separated. It blew apart, the hues of his orange body gracing open air. He allowed his students a moment to drink him in, before he forced his claws under the band of his compression slacks, and ripped them apart like wet tissue paper to bare his legs.

Growe snorted a laugh. He eyed the only piece to survive Abraham’s inflation besides his shoes. An oily black speedo with a bright yellow bomb, and a white fuse, printed right on the apex of the exercise ball sized balloon his bulge had become.

Abraham’s speedo was made from some thick rubber, Abraham would have told him, as it removed the definition of his genitals from view and reduced it to a big, uneven sphere. Abraham preferred it that way. It made it look like his swollen loins had transformed into a literal black powder bomb. The cartoonish sort, with a comically fiery rope-fuse, that never really existed in history. Allowing himself to inflate had released some pressure, but like a cartoon bomb, his fuse was still burning, albeit mentally. He was going to blow sooner or later, he might as well work it into the lesson plan and do his favourite thing. Go boom, and get paid.

“Everyone, follow me to gymnasium 2B, 1B is still undergoing repairs.” Abraham strutted, mister universe eat your heart out he thought. Blowing up altered the psyche, Abraham tended to become somewhat unhinged. This time it had manifested as ungodly confidence and an ego swollen enough to biblical proportions that it could make goliath feel small.
“Mr.Growe, pick up the specialty pump would you? A strong lad like you ‘should’ be able to handle it,” Abraham teased, and shepherded his students through the building.

Growe picked up the monstrosity of red steel and tubes that was the ‘manbuster 2000,’ and hefted it keeping pace behind the other students. “Lad?” He said. “I’m twenty four dude, I’m not an old sack of sweaty rubber like you.”

“Merely forty eight, my canine friend. And still as shiny as I was in my twenties. Best hurry up if you want to outclass me before you hit your prime darling. You might not have very long left,” returning fire felt good. Abraham was no longer intimidated by Growe, or put off by his teasing remarks. He was on top of the world. As he strutted through the university, people stopped to marvel at him. A few teachers mentioned something about ‘tension madness,’ but he ignored them.

The class arrived and gathered around Abraham at the centre of a gymnasium large enough to host an army. Its ceilings were glass roofed, reinforced, and so high it was difficult to make out just how tall the walls actually were. Abraham admired himself in the reflective floorboards, then snapped for Growe to approach. The class parted to admit him, a gladiator into the arena. Abraham standing in for the lion. Though neither party looked frightened. There was just a palpable tension, somewhere between malicious and sexual, that you could pop with a knife.

“I imagine you have been waiting a long time for this, Mister Maximus,” Abraham opened his navel valve and allowed himself to deflate for a scant few seconds before Growe shoved the nozzle head and locked it in place.
“Give everyone a good show, won’t you?”

Growe readied the buster. It resembled an oversized bike pump. Shiny candy red, with a stiff difficult to raise plunging mechanism that took a muscle bound inflationist like Growe to handle. He straightened his back, and tensed his muscles. At his full six foot four, he could have given Abraham a real run for his money as a muscle-balloon. He gripped the handle and raised it, then rammed it back down. A thick slug of air crept along the tubing connected to Abraham, and entered him, too slow for Growe’s liking apparently. The dog pumped again before the first dose of pressure had settled inside his teacher, and then again, and again.

The crowd of students took a furtive step backwards. Their teacher blew up in record time. He went from six feet standing to ten in moments, growing taller, as well as wider. He purred and swelled bigger, his foot-paws finally blowing away the leather shoes he wore to class with a simultaneous bang. The sound of exploding leather drew more people to the gym, adding to the sea of inflatophilia that rang Abraham and his pumper.

“Ready to blow your top yet Professor Pop? You’re looking a bit strained,” Growe pumped, over and over. He handled the buster on autopilot, the rest of his energy reserved for taunting his victim. He showed his teeth, fangs and all, when he smiled. He probably imagined himself sinking them into Abraham’s overblown thigh, rending it into confetti with a satisfying gush of hot air.

Abraham revelled in his enthusiasm. His stomach bulged forward and out, it lost the carefully made abs, and became a sphere that rapidly tried to swallow up the rest of him. The edge of the curve forced his thick, synthetic pectorals to flatten against the growing edge of his body. He winced. His draw-string tight traps, biceps, lats, delts. Everything that made up the intricate curves of his muscular limbs were pumped into oblivion, leaving a set of four squealing cones in their place.

“Quite the contrary, I’m enjoying this immensely, my pupil,” Abraham laughed. His voice grew deeper with every pump. It had the desired effect, it made Growe want to pump even harder. Was it because it made him feel small, emasculated? Who cared, not Abraham. He just wanted the angry little dog to do a good job blowing him to bits. The cat’s grin was squashed when his facial cheeks became spherical, like the rest of his body, and trapped his expression between orbs of orange rubber. He looked like he had two transparent basketballs strapped to his face.

“I’d like to hear what you sound like… when you’re about… to BURST!” Growe said. He was covered in sweat, gaining a faint sheen akin to his professor.

Abraham expanded to the size of a shipping container, and could probably have stretched to the size of the whole damned ship if he wasn’t so unbearably horny. His bulge yawned wide over Growe and the crowd, now twice the height Abraham had been in the classroom and even wider. It pulsed and bounced within the speedo, announcing to Abraham that his detonation was fast approaching. His pupils became spirals, he saw stars, and his rubber thinned. He was going full bomb. Bomb la bomba, bomb la bomba, boom boom balloon. Stupid, nonsensical, incoherent lyrics of things that could be songs about blowing up like a balloon filled his head, while Growe pumped to fill his body.

His limbs sank deep into the edges of Abraham’s perfect sphere body. The wrinkles around the divots where his powerful arms and jogger’s legs used to be, were the only indication that he had been anything other than two tones of orange painted over a latex orb. His head was spared the same fate by the size of his cheeks acting like a buoy, stopping the area which used to be his shoulders from swallowing his head. And though his head was hidden from view over the horizon of his own, overtaxed rubber flesh, the thinness of it let them see his madman grin. They could see through him, physically and mentally.

“Hahahah, HAHAHAH, take NOTES everyone! Whoever uses the most agreeable adjectives when writing up the report of my inflation for next class, will receive additional credit! Now, go on, Growe. Do it. Rend me asunder, pop me, make me Professor POP!”

Growe huffed and puffed. “I can’t.”

Abraham boomed, vocally: “You’ve wanted to burst me since you enrolled, and now you’re chickening out? For shame! Judas! Monster! Weakling!”

Growe rolled his eyes and approached, momentarily stunned by the fact he was staring at a dude’s bulge literally taller than he was. He produced a pen from his pocket, and clicked it. “I meant the pump handle is rock solid, gasbag. Now prepare to get got by Growe the… uh… teacher popper?”

Growe shoved the pen into Abraham’s bulge. It stabbed through the thick designer rubber of the garment, into Abraham’s balloon skin. It pricked a tiny hole, and that was enough.

Over fifty people were thrown to the ground. Those closest to the walls were squashed flat by the air force, and would need re-pumping. A few of the smaller students flew in arcs, away from the blast zone. Growe himself was sent bowling into a crowd of students who had been practicing self-inflation in their own class, before coming to see, and was spared a hard landing. Though he did pop a brown dog-balloon peer on impact.

All that remained of Professor Pop, Abraham Barbados, was a rain of fine orange confetti. The lesson had been adjourned.