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Old 17-01-2019, 04:23 PM
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Benga Benga is offline
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Default My first story
This is actually my first post overall in this thread, other than a couple of brief responses to other stories recently. I decided to become active just for the sake of posting this story, though I am confident that there'll be other things to post soon. This is one of my very first works of erotic fiction.

Story elements: [balloons, bully, fear, with non-consensual actions and passing masturbation references, but no actual sexual content]

The Plush Bed

Kyla was gonna get it.

Zoey’s plan, this part of it anyway, had started nearly 15 hours earlier. Pretending that she needed help with her dress for the ceremony in two days, Zoey had woken up her little sister at just after 7 AM, about two hours before the time that she knew that Kyla would normally, comfortably awaken. While Kyla protested, thrashing around lethargically in her plush bed, Zoey slowly began to persuade her of why this task needed to be done immediately, why there was just too much else to do to prepare for the party—cake, flowers, ice for the drinks. In her barely-awake state, Kyla had neither the logical acumen nor the bandwidth to poke holes in her sister’s argument, even though something vaguely seemed weird about it. Why couldn’t these things simply be rescheduled to let her sleep for another couple of hours, especially when she had just begun to enjoy life after the daily grind and early mornings of high school? But alas, she knew that Zoey was smart and persistent, and that not only did she usually get what she wanted, she could usually make a compelling case for why it was a priority on her mental wishlist.

Throughout the day, Zoey made sure that Kyla engaged in either tedious or menial tasks. “It’s your party, after all, sis, and those are the rules—you have to work hard to party hard.” Of course, Zoey did have to take one break from micromanaging her sister. Her “errand to the store” a bit before dinner was part of The Plan. Kyla baked the lasagna, continuing to exert herself tirelessly, while her sister headed out to pick up the perfect paper goods for Saturday’s festivities.

Only she didn’t. The paper goods had been in the trunk of Zoey’s car since yesterday, covered in blankets so as not to be detected early. Instead, the car made it about half a mile down the road before pulling onto a side street, then onto an empty patch of asphalt near the elementary school—the one that the girls had once worn near-matching uniforms while attending. There had been a different sweater pattern for every grade, so Kyla, only 2 years Zoey’s junior and of similar build, could certainly have been given a slightly threadbare hand-me-down sweater, and in truth an entire hand-me-down uniform. But because Kyla was Kyla, her uniforms were always brand new.

Once the engine turned off, Zoey looked around for a few seconds, mostly as a reflex that had been subconsciously ingrained in her psyche for whenever she was doing something naughty or impertinent. After a moment, though, she realized that this extra measure of caution was completely unnecessary. Laughable, even. Not only did no one else know what the devious brunette had in mind for later that night, they probably wouldn’t even have comprehended it if she had painted it on a giant sign and pressed it against the windshield. Moreover, after two years away from this town, studying at a college nearly 400 miles away, she didn’t know if she was even going to see anyone she knew, let alone anyone capable of possibly disrupting her plan. So, content with the secure parameters of her endeavor, Zoey eased back the seat to full recline. And then she took a 45-minute nap, her phone set to alert her of when she needed to recompose herself and get back to the house. She knew that she needed, without fail, to be wide awake for the evening.

And so, at a bit after 10pm, as Zoey stood ominously over the exhausted sleeping body of her little sister, her grin was as much a testament to her day-long commitment to crafting this moment as it was in anticipation of the next few minutes. All of those hours of work had made her sister turn in early and get some rest. And now it was making her own grin turn up more and more.

Normally, Zoey’s expression when peering at her sister’s sweet unconscious face might have been one of disdain. Their older sister, Lauren, had gotten a graduation party, and the younger sister Kyla was about to get one in 2 days, but none had come for Zoey. Lauren had been the family’s precious first little angel, and this led to no expense being spared on whatever new whim caught her eye, from horse-riding to martial arts lessons. By the time Zoey reached the same point in her life, nearly 5 years later, her parents had begun to regret the largesse they had showered upon Lauren, and resolved to treat their second daughter more prudently. More pragmatically. Which meant far fewer parties, and a much more sober assessment of which achievements should merit any ostentatious response at all. This notable under-appreciation had done nothing to improve upon their previous notable over-appreciation, other than to prove that two wrongs clearly did not make anything right.

If the discrepancy between Zoey’s upbringing and Lauren’s hadn’t been enough to give the younger girl a lasting resentment, the parental treatment of Kyla cemented and pressurized this emotion into a little explosive ball of antipathy, one that Middle Child Zoey often had to work hard to mask. By the time Kyla had reached the “horse-riding and martial arts age” that Lauren had been through (though Kyla’s passion actually turned out to be tennis instead), the parents’ calculus had again been shaken by two unexpected deaths in the extended family, tragedies that occurred within 7 months of one another. This had led to a bit of a panic among the parents, that “life was too short” and that it was a blessing just to have three healthy little girls. So they once again made it a point to cascade gifts upon their third daughter, as upon their first. It wasn’t that they were intentionally slighting Zoey, who they loved dearly, it was just a subconscious thing by then. Lauren was the independent one, quickly rocketing toward womanhood and less and less in need of guidance. Zoey was the tough one, who was seemingly just ordained to handle rejection and austerity with a stiff upper lip. And Kyla was the needy one. So the gifts for the baby of the family kept coming.

It was Zoey’s bed that Kyla was now sleeping in. Or, more precisely, it wasn’t Zoey’s bed anymore, hers was back in her college dorm room, and Kyla had simply usurped her older sister’s room and claimed the plush, comfy bed as her own. But in Zoey’s mind, it was still her fucking bed, and every subtle movement that Kyla’s sleeping body made upon it was the hostile act of an imposter. As Zoey watched the blissful unconsciousness of a sister fatefully unaware of what was about to happen, she noted to herself that at least this unavenged travesty had one silver lining. The bed tended never to creak, even when someone put a bit of extra weight on it, and it never disturbed someone who was sleeping in the middle of it, even if someone sat down right next to him or her. It was a really well-built, firm mattress by such measurements. And it was one of the silent co-conspirators in Zoey’s plan. Kyla was gonna get it.

In Zoey’s palm rolled forth a dark maroon object. Well, to be fair, it could have been dark purple or even black if someone wasn’t studying it too closely. A casual observer would have to have had his view of the object magnified somehow in order to definitively determine that it was maroon. Luckily, this wasn’t going to be a problem; It was an 18-inch balloon, and Zoey was eagerly about to make it self-magnify. Eighteen inches—one inch for every year of Kyla’s life. And Zoey’s goal included blowing it to at least 20 inches, signifying her own age, if not to 25 inches in homage to Lauren’s. The mischievous brunette only lamented, during this very moment, that there hadn’t been an even older sister to aim for, in inches. Either way, it was about to be VERY obvious how maroon this monster actually was.

Crucial to the plan was to not wake Kyla, so as Zoey began to blow, she made sure to time her puffs with her little sister’s breathing rhythms. In this way, it was almost like Kyla herself was blowing up the balloon by proxy. Every breath of her sleeping body collecting in one steadily-growing rubber time bomb, all while she was surely dreaming of the cake and flowers that would be at her party. A party decked out with many festive accessories, but with no balloons, a decision that had been arrived at long ago by both intentional decree and universal affirmation.

“I’ll give you a balloon, Kyla. Since you won’t have” phhhhhht. “any at your party, I’ll make sure you have one right now.” phhhhhhhht. “It’ll be like our own little pre-party, right here in this bed.” The thoughts danced through Zoey’s brain delectably, as she steadily blew. But she dared not speak them out loud and give her sister’s brain any subconscious clues, at least not yet. Instead she relished the fact that the only sound in the room was two sisters breathing in sync, and a balloon imperceptibly creaking bigger.

Kyla had always hated balloons, at least as far back as anyone could remember. Even as a child, she skipped several birthday parties because of the off-chance that classmates might squeak balloons near her, let alone pop them. Spending a third of the party with her fingers on standby near her ears wasn’t fun at all, and was sometimes the stuff of nightmares. The brain always had a way of making tiny balloon molehills into tightly-overinflated balloon mountains. And while holding a balloon at the end of a string was more tolerable for the sprightly little scaredy-cat, this too met a dramatic end on the day when 8-year-old Kyla crossed paths with a woman whose cigarette was carelessly jutting outward from between her fingers, as she spoke to a friend on her phone. The wind took Kyla’s balloon a few fateful inches toward the cigarette coal, and the resulting sharp loud BANG took Kyla a few fateful steps toward another concentric ring of phobic dread.

10-year-old Zoey could sometimes mentally justify, or at least posit, that she had begun popping balloons near Kyla in order to try to get her over her crippling fear. “It’s for her own good” was enough of an excuse for Zoey to grinningly convince herself of her noble benevolence. It was a sop made all the more tenable by the fact that she wasn’t really scrutinizing this “therapy plan” very diligently, and that she didn’t really take any plans to adjust her “helpful” methods, even as they reliably would result in “failures” of the sobbing, horror-struck variety for her sister. One might even perhaps view the older girl’s intentions less charitably—i.e., that Zoey simply enjoyed tormenting Kyla, quite happy to see her timid sibling jump and beg and suffer. And balloons provided absolutely delicious torment. Easy to acquire, easy to hide from Mom and Dad, both visually and aurally terrifying to phobic girls as the danger grew, and always with a satisfyingly loud finale at the end of the fright show. Furthermore, the bigger Zoey made each balloon, the more “therapy” she could altruistically bestow upon her little sister, all packed air-tightly into one intense “session” after another. More BANG for her buck, as it were. For Kyla’s own good, of course.

“That’s it.” Phhhhhhht. “It’s just therapy, little sis. Now let the doctor cure you by” Phhhhhhhhht. “blowing this bad boy up a little bigger. You can tell Doctor Zoey how you feel about” Phhhhhhhhht. “getting your eardrums blown the fuck out in a minute or two. I’m listening, sweety—you have” Phhhhhhht. “doctor-patient privilege.” Zoey grinned.

Inevitably, a few thoughts swirled into Zoey’s head while the latest puffs of air were swirling into her big new latex accomplice. “Should I just wake her when it gets close, and give her a warning? Is it better to have her live in paranoid fear every time she goes to sleep, without actually getting in as much trouble with Mom and Dad?” Zoey calculated that she was never going to be able to find all of the tiny pieces of this behemoth after it exploded, and one piece of evidence would be all Kyla would need to confirm her story to their parents. Otherwise, it was just one girl’s word against the other’s, and Zoey had plenty of cover stories saved up for just such an occasion. Masturbating in her college dorm bed while thinking of perfect ways to torture her little sister had led to several productive brainstorms. And after all, the parents being out of the house was part of The Plan. They weren’t expected home for another hour or so, which was why it had been so important for her to tucker Kyla out early enough so that she’d be asleep within this window of time.

“Stop or pop, little sis?” Phhhhhhhhhht.

This had been a game that Zoey had enjoyed playing with Kyla. Kyla didn’t enjoy the game one bit, but Zoey’s love for it evened out the “average” between the two, procuring a commensurate amount of joy in accordance with the amount of Kyla’s horror. Did Stop or Pop always end with the loud latter option? No, but the threat of this exclamatory conclusion did provide most of the memorable highlights from the Game Logs. For some reason, though, even as it was a far less dramatic path, Kyla always seemed to choose the “Stop” option. It was only Zoey that decided that “it wasn’t really a fun game unless “Pop” was on the table." On the table, and also in the bathroom while Kyla was showering, and also in the shed behind the school, where Zoey would sometimes kidnap her little sis for some mid-day Stop or Pop “fun.” And now on this plush bed.

Zoey hadn’t actually blown up a balloon next to Kyla in years. When boys began to catch the brunette’s eye, there was suddenly less time and less impulse to terrify her sister. Part of the reason that tonight was such an incredible rush was that it was a nostalgic throwback to a sepia-faded time of guilty mischief. Not every memory remained of Kyla’s many victimizations, but some were even more potent tonight, having being buried in Zoey’s mental file cabinet for some time, and only now re-remembered. As she blew, her brain-fingers began metaphorically rumbling through the Good Old Days of Booms Past in order to quicken her lil troublemaking pulse more and more. And they soon found their way to the “C” drawer. “Carnival.”

Perhaps the scariest moment of Kyla’s life (though one might contend that maybe the next couple of minutes were going to best this record) was at a carnival when she was 9. Somehow, the little princess had found herself about 2 feet from the “clown mouth water-gun balloon” game. You all know the one. Usually 9-inch balloons were used, as this made the booth safe and unobjectionable for children’s races, but since two attractive female adult contestants had spent several minutes joking around with the carny today, and the booth hadn’t gotten any other action for quite a while, he eventually dug his hand into a small metal bucket near the cash register and pulled out two 14-inch balloons, and began working them onto the two middle clown-head valves.

Zoey had known to look for this booth in her previous two trips to this carnival. Both times she had asked Mom if she could participate, and there had been good news and bad news. She did get to gun-aim her balloon up nice and big on both occasions, but she twice faced Lauren, whose water-gun skills were markedly superior. Kyla? Mom always made sure that Dad had taken Kyla away as far away from the booth as necessary, and preferably inside somewhere, because everyone in the family knew that this clown game was a major reason that Kyla had, the last time, stomped her feet and screamed in the car that she didn’t wanna go. It was thus to the youngest sibling’s great relief that the booth appeared to be gone this time—no longer in its usual spot. But it was to Zoey’s even greater happiness when she eventually discovered that the booth had found its way to the little corner of the carnival that the girls happened to be right next to. And as luck would have it (actual luck this time, not one of Zoey’s Plans), the parents had given the two girls permission to walk around on their own for a while before they would meet back up for lunch. Smart and persistent, Zoey had thus far made a trusted chaperone. But her eyes nearly popped out of her head in glee when she realized that 14-inch balloons—good-quality ones, by the look of them, not old oxidized duds—were the weapons of choice in this upcoming round, and her little sister had no fucking idea yet about any of it.

Knowing she had to keep Kyla distracted, so that she wouldn’t be aware of the danger until it was too late to run, Zoey began to improvise, counting down the time in her head before those big balloons were air-kissed onto their paths of loud glory. “Let’s wait here a second, Kyla, I have a bit a cramp in my shoulder, can you knead it a bit to loosen it up? Oh, look, my shoe isn’t tied tightly enough. Sweety, why don’t you bend over and re-tie your shoes, and then I’ll bend over and get mine. Mom said that we always need to have our shoelaces tied really nice and tight. You don’t want to get in trouble, do you? Let’s have a look.” As serendipity would have it, the mischievous brunette’s eyes caught the carny looking over at them at the moment when Kyla was bent over, attending to her shoelaces (which, of course, were already adequately tied, but Zoey had insisted on a re-tie). His expression seemed to be one of “this is ok with you girls, right? You’re ok with a loud bang? I gotta ask, since you’re close and everything, and I don’t want you purty lil sugarplums to get scared.” And Zoey’s expression back to him, as well as her “thumbs up,” was one of “No, we’re good. My sister and I don’t scare easy. Blow our socks off, Mister.”

It took several delicious seconds for Kyla to process and identify the hissing sound. By the time she zoomed her head around, she discovered that the “relief” part of her day was over, and it had just been supplanted with a new reality of pure terror, which was going to encompass the next 10 seconds or so (and then the next 6 weeks of her dreams). And the show was right in front of her face, a slow-motion oncoming mack truck collision that she couldn’t prevent, much as her mind tried to will It otherwise. Of course, Zoey’s intentionally melodramatic faux-worried “Oh my God, Kyla, THEY’RE GONNA POPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” warning just behind Kyla’s head only added to the chalky fear in the scaredy-cat’s throat. 5 seconds had elapsed, 5 more to go. Dropped plastic vuvuzela, fingers tightly in her ears, crouched down in a silent scream, eyes closed. And then nothing….nothing…noth…BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! The woman in the red sweater had won the teddy bear. But Zoey felt that she had won the real prize.

Phhhhhhhhhhhhht. “Did that scare you, Pobrecita? Does it still scare you even…” Phhhhhhhhhhht. “…today?” Grin. I’mma show you scary, little sis. Really fucking scary. I bet those balloons were so LOUD for you!!!” Phhhhhhhhhhhht. “I know you like ‘em loud, princess, that’s why this monster is brand new, fresh outta the package.” Phhhhhhhhhhhht.” Never been blown up before. This is its maiden voyage. Just like the Titanic. It’s King of the World, isn’t it…”. Phhhhhhhhhhht.” All hail your new overinflated king. Royal Proclamation: More Air!” Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht.

The images just kept rushing into Zoey’s mind. Kyla had gotten a bigger prom corsage than Zoey had. “I’m gonna show you fuckin’ biggggg, you little bitch!!!” Phhhhhhhhhhht. The ribbon-decorated basket on the dining room table was so loaded with presents from friends that it was too full to carry to the ceremony without removing some. “I’ll show you what ‘too full’ looks like, cupcake.” The jury in the case of Stop vs. Pop had now heard all of the evidence, and so it unanimously rendered its verdict. Consequences, Schmon-sequences. If Zoey might face discipline anyway, at least she was gonna reap her money’s worth, paid out heartily in copious decibels. And Kyla was gonna get it.

The balloon had now reached well beyond 20 inches. The neck alone was now several inches long and nearly as many inches fat. Even if Zoey had decided to stop blowing right now, which she utterly had no interest in doing, the balloon might have exploded deafeningly anyway, the result of just too much pressure applied mercilessly on its trepidatious, thinning walls. But Zoey needed for it to get bigger. Creak a bit more urgently. Hold more of the proxy-breath her sister had been metaphysically “puffing” in with each rise and fall of her chest. After all, I mean, it was Kyla’s own fault for not having the wherewithal to simply not breathe as she slept, right? Good enough excuse for Zoey. She needed to show her little fucking angel of a sister just how proud she was of her upcoming graduation. She needed to give Kyla the BIGGEST gift possible.

“Here’s your gift, sweety,” Phhhhhhhhhhht, “and the card even has a poem on it. ‘Scary blowy, Care of Zoey.’” Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhht. “Luckily, this is one present you won’t be able to re-gift, am I right? Since Self-Destruction Mode has already….” Phhhhhhhhhhht. “been fucking activated.”

The nap had helped, but Zoey’s mind was going to be going crazy either way. Her only lament was that she couldn’t somehow fill this throbbing fucking Attitude Adjuster with hydrogen, and blow the whole fucking house up in order to spite her little bitch of a sister. She wished she had recorded the whole thing, to watch again and again at her leisure, probably with her lil Middle Child hand in her panties when she got back to school. Or probably later that night. And then again. And then again the next night. Heck, she began to think about whether she could actually just come in and DO this again the next night. It’s not like Kyla could go anywhere, right? It’s not like their parents were going to install a lock on the door; there was way too much to do before the party. And Kyla had to fall asleep sometime, right? Zoey grinned.

But the grinning soon came with a realization that she had to refocus on the task at hand, and that this would involve cautiously studying the balloon after each puff, looking for defects, and determining “how tight was maximum tight,” all the while balancing her meticulous performance with the knowledge that, within 60 seconds or so, the ol’ Boom, Boom, Shake the Room train was pulling into this station one way or another.

Twin demons began to dance grinningly through her mind, each impossibly trying to conquer the other one, since satisfying both at once would not be possible. So instead they competed fiercely for dominion over every bit of the dwindling space in Zoey’s mind, much like the air molecules competed existentially for any extra little millimeter of space in a balloon that could hardly if at all get any bigger. Just tighter-packed. Just more explosive.

“Don’t wake up until it pops, Kyla.” Phhhhhhhhht. “Don’t pop until Kyla wakes up, balloon.” Phhhhhhhht. “Don’t wake up until it pops, don’t pop until she wakes up. Don’t wake up until” Phhhhhhhhhht” “it pops, don’t pop until….” Zoey was so flustered with orgasmic anticipation that her brain couldn’t even keep repeating the twistedly-perverse paradox.

Kyla’s sleeping brow increasingly furrowed, indicating that her brain was beginning to tell her that something was wrong, but she couldn’t quite place it. Her subconscious began, first slowly and then more frantically, to determine what the curious-yet-ominous sound was. The breathing. The tight drum-like fingernail taps. “Yoga?” A car tire? One thing connected to another, to another as she processed the noise, eyes still closed.

And then confusion turned to terror. “Balloon!!!!” And when Kyla’s eyes flung open, her hypothesis was confirmed in a boundless, petrifyingly-awful landscape of near-transparent maroon. And her grinning sister all but winking at her from the other side of the nozzle.

All Kyla could see was “balloon.” It was so big that it had commandeered her peripheral vision—just like she had commandeered Zoey’s plush bed. Strange bedfellows indeed, a deathly phobic girl and a balloon that represented her worst nightmare. Or maybe Zoey’s lips on the nozzle was her worst nightmare, if one wanted to parse the moment technically. But it didn’t matter—both horrors were viscerally present in front of Kyla, working in malicious tandem. Her brain took a second stock of her predicament. Ohhhhh fuck, it was all….she….could….see. And while the time bomb hadn’t gone BOOOOOOOOM yet, all Kyla could hear were the erstwhile echoes of outrageously, brattily super-loud explosions of years past. Endless torments. And she knew that this one was probably going to be the loudest of all. Brand new balloon, with tough, durable latex stretched as tightly as she had ever witnessed. A balloon bigger than any toy balloon ever had to a right to be, but still much bigger than even that, since it was many dangerous inches past its rated size. And it was right against her face, inches from her panicking ears. And Zoey, ever smart and persistent, had knelt over her in such a way that she couldn’t possibly get her hands up to her ears without pressing into the balloon, which would clearly make this fireworks show end with a BANG anyway.

“Oh my god, PLEEEEZ don’t!” was the only line in the script that Zoey had written for Kyla.

“Happy graduation, little sis. I’m sure your party is gonna be a blast.” Grin. Phhhhhhhhhhhht.





Kyla was gonna get it, and she got it.

Last edited by Benga; 06-03-2019 at 04:30 AM.
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Old 17-01-2019, 11:05 PM
lyckr lyckr is offline
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Default Re: My first story
Part of me loves the cruelty in this (the other part just wants to run away as quickly as possible) and the way we get to know the characters through Zoey's thoughts and memories.
It's not all that sexy as such, which is perfectly fine, even a bit refreshing.

Hope we get to see more of this in the future
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Old 20-01-2019, 01:47 PM
Tdo8888 Tdo8888 is offline
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Default Re: My first story
Wow. What an epic!

I love the interwoven history and the touch of sadism mixed in.

I’d love more from ya!
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Old 21-01-2019, 04:18 PM
theballoonyspinny theballoonyspinny is offline
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Default Re: My first story
my dude, this is literally the best story I've seen on this website, if not the best balloon fetish story I've seen in general.

i love literally every single bit of it, if i had to make one little criticism it would be some grammar/spelling errors here and there that kind of break the grimdark mood.

i'd love to see more of this stuff though, you keep on writin'!
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Old 21-01-2019, 07:23 PM
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Benga Benga is offline
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Default Re: My first story
I have editing capability--can you point me toward the spelling / grammar issues, so I can see if there are things I'd want to fix? Sometimes, I intentionally might overemphasize something, just to Make. It. More. Emphatic., or might say "Frite Nite" instead of "Fright Night," for example, to make it seem more satirical or campier, or more like the mannerisms of what the main character might say or think.
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b2p, bully, fear, masturbation, non-consensual

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