Explosive Ending

(CW: Implied/ambiguous lethality, permanent popping)

Commission for AbbyInflatableTabby

(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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“I... will... never... pop!”

Balloon-069 was a slim man with short brown hair and a spark of defiance which the government found distasteful. He ‘was’ a slim man, when he wasn’t filled to the point of rupture with hydrogen, and staring down a Detonator who was diligently dipping his arrow in lighter fluid in preparation for what came next. He stared the gas mask wearing arbiter down, trying to either inspire sympathy, or intimidate him. It was hard to tell. When a person reached the size of a hot air balloon, and had puffy cheeks the size of basket balls attached to their face, the meaning of an expression became unattainable. It didn’t help that he was starting to enter the final stage of an inflatee’s psyche, which was ‘burst euphoria,’ which relaxed his face and made him blush, and moan uncontrollably. Though it was difficult to hear anything over the din of his body’s final protests. If left to keep expanding on his own terms, Balloon-069 would burst at the seams and be rendered into so much rubbery flesh-tone confetti. He would even reform in a matter of minutes.

That’s why the Detonator ignited the arrow and shot it at the man’s crotch. The fire ignited the specially made bodysuit they required every numbered balloon to wear. 69 had chosen to wear plain grey as a political statement, though it was vague and confusing, and didn’t really make much sense in hindsight. The gas within him ignited and his size multiplied tenfold. He was a glorious, divine balloon among men, shining red and gold and casting his shadow over his captors for a few, precious seconds.

Then he exploded. A fireball so intense it incinerated his scraps. The commentator gave a rundown of his crimes, arson, disobedience, public inflation without a permit. They kept going, listing the usual offences which the Proper Etiquette Council used to justify their destruction of human balloons.

James bit his lip, he had been eagerly watching the public popping. He could feel the wetness of his pre-cum underneath the turquoise bodysuit. He wanted to rub at his bulge and see if he could get one last orgasm in before he was sent to the blasting stand, but that was impossible with the way his hands were shackled behind his back. Prisoners were kept under strict watch. Human balloons were crafty. Some had escaped by prematurely bursting themselves. Either by deep breaths, or time release capsules to fill them to the brink before the Proper Etiquette Council had enough time to introduce an incendiary to prevent reformation.

James had a little something in mind for his final pop, but he wasn’t going to avoid his sentence, oh no. For an explosion artist like him the last time was the most delicious time. He had always been a morbid boy growing up. Something about cartoons, and fireworks, and the way things grew exponentially before bursting excited him. The way it left the audience in shock tempted him. When puberty began, he pleasured himself by blowing up balloons and grinding them down until they burst between his thighs. The momentary sting on his cock from the snap and pop of the latex, which had been so full of pressure stimulated a dark part of his psyche. One that he was all too eager to explore.

The day he found out he was a human balloon was the happiest day of his life. Early thirties, a dead-end job. A customer hurled abuse at him as normal, but then something inside of him snapped, and he started huffing, and puffing. He was snorting like a bull before he even realized he filled out his work uniform. The man who had been full of bluster ran for cover, screaming, “he’s gonna blow!”

And then James took a quarter of the store with him on his first pop. He was hooked. It was just a blast of hot air, but it was so wonderful, so fulfilling. He reformed butt naked with the afterglow of an orgasm that had been building for months. Even better than that, he didn’t feel the post-cum guilt that followed when he masturbated. He felt the opposite. He felt... encouraged, he felt expansive, he felt like he wanted to explode. So he took a deep breath until he outpaced his first burgeoning, and took to the skies.

Public inflation without a permit was a perma-poppable offence. Doing it naked and letting his dick bob in the wind like a fleshy Goodyear Blimp was beyond forgiveness. He was surprised the Public Etiquette Council didn’t just launch a flaming arrow at his car sized balls and be done with it when he taunted them last week and mooned their head office. James was tempting fate every time he indulged. He knew that. It was part of the fun.

“Balloon-70, you’re up next,” a muscular giant in black latex walked up to the bars of James’s cell. He wore a heavy gas mask with two breathing cylinders on either side of the mouthpiece, filled with antidotes to all manner of compounds human balloons were known to release when they popped. His skin was covered from head to toe in a sleek bodysuit that James envied, it was high quality, more than he could ever afford. He was a rubber enthusiasts wet dream, and if he had a few hypnoses spirals he would be a drone fetishist dream too.

“Oh that is most upsetting. I just missed out on being number 69? Imagine the staying power I would have in the minds of my audience. Such a pity it went to that boring self-confessed anarchist, at least he made a handsome balloon. I would have quite liked to ride him before he met his end, mm. Re-enact the infamous ‘cowboy riding the bomb’ scene from Doctor Strangelove.” James spoke in his usual tone. He had an odd accent. Despite being Canadian, he sounded like a stereotypical Dracula with drawn our vowels and an emphasis on odd words. His penchant for breaking into sustained, cackling laughter, didn’t do much to dissuade his friends from their opinion that he was secretly a vampire.

“You must be my Detonator.”

“You assume correctly,” the Detonator spoke with a deep voice, altered to be even deeper and unrecognizable by his mask. The work of a person who permanently popped people wasn’t glamorous, and to ‘protect’ the identity of their executioners, the Public Etiquette Council required them to wear full body suits and voice altering gas masks.

James felt his cock stiffen again at the sight of the Detonator. “You look more fit to burst than I do right now. Especially in that suit. I don’t suppose I could tempt you to join me for a bang?”

The Detonator chuckled at that. “You are very brazen, and very eager. It will be my pleasure to give you all the pressure you can handle, and more.”

James shuddered. “Oh dear, are we flirting? What a tease.”

“Why should your last moments of being whole and unpopped be boring?” The Detonator’s own bulge was vacuum sealed within the confines of his suit, but it was still noticeable. James wondered what kind of monstrous appendage he was blessed with for it to be visible despite his uniform’s tightness.

“Why indeed,” James cooed. “If I am destined to go the way of a big brass bomb with a lit fuse, then I am quite pleased it will be at your hand. Am I permitted to ask your name?”

“No,” the Detonator reached through the bars and drew a hand down James shirt. He was allowed to wear some personal effects over his turquoise suit. A Dig Dug shirt, a pair of his favourite black shorts, and some red high-top sneakers. “You really are shameless. Wearing ‘this’ to your final show?”

James laughed. “Are you feeling underdressed? We could find you a puffy white suit, some blue face paint, and a drill pump I’m sure of it.”

The Detonator opened the door to the holding cell, spun James around, and unlocked his cuffs. “It’s time. I assume your affairs are all in order?”

“They will be my handsome friend.” James cackled. He was flirting with his executioner; the notion was so absurd it made him giddy. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you? We’d make lovely music together, all that stretching, moaning, and creaking as we reach our climax in front of the camera crews.”

The Detonator undid his cuffs and led James out of the holding area and into a large open arena. Grey stone walls, cracked and charred by so many explosions. It was a miniature colosseum built to contain the blast wave of the trialled. James couldn’t resist exclaiming, “hail, puritanical bastards, we who are about to explode salute you!” He gave a middle finger to one of the large cameras and its crew up on the wall, who gasped at the vulgarity.

“This will be rather quick I’m afraid. I feel as though you would much prefer to take your time.” The Detonator removed a box from his utility belt. He opened it, and inside was a tiny black orb with a white skull marking. He held it out to James, who didn’t need to be forced to swallow it. “Burst well, try to give me plenty of points, ‘fygar.’”

James took a breath. He could feel every single molecule in his body tingle under the effects of the explosion pill. His pot belly grew into an encompassing sphere the size of a medicine ball, and steadily grew to overtake the rest of his anatomy with a continuous, certain gait. His chest had never been anything impressive, he once dreamed of being a beefcake with the power to make men weak by flexing his overpowered biceps, but now it was disappearing completely. Lost to the curvature of the sphere which used to be his stomach.

“Oh, maybe I should quote Aesop?” James giggled. “So many famous scenes, so little time. This is... rather... potent, isn’t it?” James ballooned obscenely in record time, it was too fast, he barely had time to think. His back arched out and joined his front half, forming a round ball at his centre. The ball expanded, his slim arms and legs becoming bulbous and fat looking. His palms turned into straining orbs, and his fingers became sausage-like, fitting into divots. It looked like he had pairs of latex gloves for hands, like they had been blown up by bored students in science class.

“This is marvellous,” he looked up and saw a pair of surly government officials on top of the arena wall. He smirked and hopped a few times, purposefully losing his hold on gravity. Buoyancy took hold and he floated gently, but sadly not too high, the Detonator stepped forward to chain his ankle to the ground. James still felt a bit devious however, and strained himself. He had enough control over his own body from years of repeat inflation to direct the pressure, and so he put all his efforts into pumping his dick until it rivalled the size of his stomach.

James was the size of a hot air balloon. He wondered, if he had been born sometime between the late 18th century and the early 19th, would he be celebrated? Would he be inflated as an object of fascination for the victims of balloonomania, and their obsession with the novelty of hot air and stretched canvas. Instead of being disposed of like a dirty thing. It was an interesting musing, but he had no sustained interest in what-ifs, just the now.

His face grew round as the explosive pressure welling up throughout his body lacked any other avenues to express itself. His skin flushed a hot, angry pink, and sweat dripped from his forehead. His dig dug shirt failed to contain him, as did his shorts. Both his belly and crotch were straining the reflective material of the turquoise bodysuit. His round pumped up feet burst through the sneakers. He was starting to feel gloriously delirious, and horny beyond saving. He felt that if he came, the orgasm wouldn’t just erupt from his nether, but his whole body. He was one big phallic ‘thing’ now, a sexually deviant balloon, on the cusp of the final task every balloon had to undertake when things reached their climax.

The Detonator readied his flaming arrow.

James cackled. His voice was deeper, a side effect of the explosive gas. “Watch me, everyone, all eyes on me. Watch the most beautiful, most egotistical, most disgustingly perverse balloon you have ever seen in your very lives. Cum and kaboom on live television, for you all!”

The arrow was shot into his bulge. Sexual oblivion spread throughout his body, and he grew tenfold in size. He felt like a god, Apollo, the sun itself. Fire jetting out of him where he was weakest, like a supernova. The moment lasted for a brief eternity, and he basked in the romanticism and the eroticism of his own final blast. Until time sped up again, and he razed the ground beneath him. The force of him blew out chunks of the arena walls, and melted the cameras. The people manning them were saved by jumping off the edge and sustaining a few fractured bones.

James’s cackling laughter was carried into the explosion, and his sweaty, pre-detonation face, all fat and smiling with perversion, could be seen in the dark cloud that followed his fiery demise. He had been lacing his rubber skin with a special compound for months, and when the fire touched it, it amplified the explosion far past the predictions of his destroyers.

The Detonator survived the blast. His suit was impervious to flame. He looked up at the desolation and a strange look crossed his face. As though he regretted turning down James’s offer to blow with him. He looked down at his belt, and tapped one of the boxes containing an explosion pill, and wondered.

“I wonder what it feels like to be so decadently explosive...”