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Old 10-12-2020, 09:56 AM
Heliumpongo Heliumpongo is offline
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Default Dress
I usually prefer larger balloons than these eighteen inch numbers, but size is a relative thing, and when the balloon in question is filling your vision to the point its latex is grazing your eyeballs, is pressing around your head to cover your ears, and is blocking your nostrils and mouth, it might as well be the size of the entire world, or the universe. I can’t breathe and what noise does enters my ears from the outside world comprises the taunting of my tormentor, alternating with their moans of ecstasy. Mostly I just hear the squeaking as the tortured latex works itself over me, enveloping my head. If I could breathe in I would smell nothing but the equally arousing scents of latex and hot pussy, but I can’t breathe in. I can’t breathe out. I’m good at holding my breath but I know I’m past halfway to blacking out, and that she’s taking a lot longer teasing this balloon with its inevitable demise than the previous ones. I don’t know if I’ll be conscious when it pops. If it pops. Perhaps she’s planned this whole deal as a murder, a snuff scenario for the kinksters watching on the video feed and frantically fucking their Geo Doughnuts or their Geo Blossoms, depending on their endowment, or each other, depending on their social situation.
In spite of my predicament my vision, blurred and beginning the tunnelling effect that presages hypoxic black out, is still feeding me the most divine sight: engorged pussy lips smooshed on the apex of my transparent, impermeable, rubbery cowl. Pale thighs drape either side of my head, their curves concaved by the pressure pressing out against them as they seek to press in. The lighting is dappled and accented red and blue by the air filled sacs comprising the dress that got me into this mess.

The dress thrust itself into my life as a commission. I can twist you a poodle and tie you a swan but my handiwork with Qualatex 260s is more widely known in fashion circles. It falls out of favour as quickly as it rises in popularity, mirroring its balloon nature, I guess, but every five years or so people dig up my phone number and re quest a spate of inflated latex clothing and for six or so happy months I attend soirees, parties and fashion parades where the new cohort of designers think they’re the first to ever imagine Pneumatic Haute Couture. Happy months because I’m feted as a minor genius, paid well, and I get to dress gorgeous women in the medium they look best in. And they enjoy it. I don’t think anyone ever considers how delightful air filled latex feels against skin other than looners, but the models all know the secret after I’ve knotted them through their costume changes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve upped the number of looners in my town simply by exposing those women to a new sensation.
It was during one of the lulls in this fashion industry sine wave that the commission came in – a red and blue bubble dress for one Madam Bangs. She sent her measurements through, gave me some sketches and I set to work thinking about the curves described by her measurements and mapping the necessary knots. I enjoyed figuring out how to make the requested patterns work over her shapes and I stayed up late ensuring I could twist and knot my way through the sequence efficiently and effectively. The finished bubble map (you can’t actually start working on the dress itself until the day it’s needed or the balloons oxidise and deflate) fired my imagination. I spent a long time staring at the plan, a set of mathematical instructions that would tell me the colour, length, twists and knots applied to each balloon in its turn, imagining how it would move over Madam Bangs’ body, also still a set of numbers to me, at that time. I found myself erect and took care of business with a sleeved-triplet, assembled almost without looking and inflated on my helium cylinder as a cheeky afterthought, the unmistakable sex toy lofting my semen to the studio ceiling when I was done. Anyone who saw it would know what I got up to that evening, but anyone who saw it would know who they were dealing with and, while keeping a careful few steps out from beneath the aerial sperm bank, not bat an eyelid, let alone judge.
Madam Bangs met me at the door of her apartment building, a red velvet dress clinging to the curves my mind for numbers already mapped for me, but the fire-engine hair and striking blue eyes lay beyond numeric description. And her smile, couched in a luscious purple lipstick, hit me like a physical blow. “Minx,” I thought, struggling to keep my stride purposeful while my knees tried their hardest to make me a stumbling cliché of male ineptitude as I followed in the wake of this vision of womanly beauty, grace and charm. Oh, the charm. That was similarly elemental in its onslaught. She could have told me to get down on all fours and I would have been howling at the moon before I knew it. She didn’t ask that of me.
What she did ask was, ‘Are you comfortable making my dress while watched by a large audience?”
“I could perform it in my sleep, if necessary. The numbers make that part easy,” I replied. “You’ll be the one in your underwear as I work.” I savoured the thought.
“Oh, I don’t intend wearing any underwear.” I savoured that thought, too, but not for too long as I didn’t want to spring a boner in the elevator she led me into. She selected a penthouse suite from the panel and we were on our way.

I’m accustomed to working in bedrooms – some people want their dress to be part of a romantic evening at home – but the huge bank of large computer monitors covering the entirety of the inner wall was a new one on me. Madam Bangs set me up with an armchair in front of the panoramic window and made us coffee, sustaining our small talk from the kitchen as I set up my wares and ran through the preliminaries while taking in the spectacular view of the city. My host joined me in the adjacent armchair, placing our espressos on the table between us.
“So, our audience, today, will be joining us digitally.” She drew a slim remote from the table and pressed its single button. The screens lit up. One by one they filled with grinning faces. Fifteen, sixteen. Twenty-five filled the first quarter of the wall and the screens kept filling until over a hundred broad smiles stared out at us, seventy-nine solo men, twelve solo women and nine couples, three of these being pairs of women.
“Hello everyone. This is Matt. He’s here to help me out, today.”
The hellos from a hundred microphones and one hundred and nine throats greeted me.
I responded, “Erm, hello,” my meekness at odds with my previously asserted confidence.
Madam Bangs began exchanging pleasantries with her wall of friends while I got to work inflating the first of the 260s but my technique stole her attention.
“Oh, my. I’ve never seen anyone blow those up with their lungs.”
“Well, there’s a trick to it. Not everyone who works with these balloons knows it,” I responded, not mentioning that I like my creations to carry my breath, some element of my essence, in close proximity to the bodies I clothe.
I continued applying my trick that not everyone who works with these balloons knows while Madam Bangs continued with the small talk, catching up with her audience’s various peccadilloes. Concentrating on my task, I only half heard most of the exchanges but there was a definite prurient theme developing. Much mention of body parts, things done with or to body parts, and balloons of every kind. Found my tribe.
“Shall we begin,” I asked, all business and competence, trying to act as though my “Erm, hello” never happened.
“Oh, yes please,” Madam Bangs responded, clapping her hands, blue eyes lit up like Christmas. The wall of faces gazed out at us expectantly, rapt attention silencing all chit chat.
She all but tore the velvet from her shoulders and wriggled clear of her dress, standing skyclad before the huge window, the feed from the camera inspiring a ripple of excitement among the digital viewers. “Where should I stand”
“If you could just come a step nearer… that’s right, and facing away from me…there. I’ll get the support loops sorted first and build from there.
I applied the limp, uninflated balloons, making snug, unshakeable circlets around neck. She closed her eyes and sighed gently as I brought the cold rubber into contact with her peach soft skin and tied my knots. A barely audible gasp escaped her lips as I parted her thighs to ply my trade and by the whiff of moist pussy I received full in the face, all jasmine and promises, as I worked down there this was no play acting. She was genuinely aroused. I breathed deep, thinking some mindfulness might help assuage my own arousal but this gave me a big lungful of the scent. I crab-walk-fell back into the armchair to try to keep the bulge from showing up on camera but it wasn’t any use. Several grinning faces and pointing fingers alerted my host to my tumescence and there was much giggling.
“I’m sorry… so unprofessional. I’ll understand if you…”
“Shush. She purred. I wouldn’t have contracted your services if I didn’t think you’d enjoy coming to play with me. Please, continue. And feel free to undress as much or as little as makes you comfortable.
Desperate to regain some degree of the suave and debonair mode I like to think I project I tried to carry on fully clothed. The nearest I could get was swave and debonehead as I worked balloons around her waist, beaded and wove them around her bubbly rump, and festooned her gorgeous breasts with them. She noticed me struggling, my urgent erection and tight trousers forcing me to adopt an Igor posture as I worked. Her hands gently but insistently worked my flies open and she knelt to pull my trousers down, the sly squeaking of her half finished garment making my cock spasm, bopping her on her cute nose through my boxers. She tolerated this comic attention as she helped me step clear of my leggings before raising her hands, putting them in my underwear and releasing my cock through the silky folds.
“You shouldn’t put yourself under such pressure. That’s my job,” she giggled, slipping her mouth over my bell end and taking my entire length into her face with a fluid and most surprising motion. It was only seconds before my wet dong was bobbing in the air before her face again but I nearly passed out from the intensity, the shock of how quickly and completely this glorious creature took over my whole world.
“Back to work, please. We’re only half done.” She preened in her scanty balloon dress, barely covering her rude bits and still leaving her curves largely uncovered.
I resumed twisting and knotting the squeaking, bulbous threads into my hourglass tapestry. Increasingly she swayed and bowed, curtsied and crunched, clearly enjoying the drape and the movement of the drape as it passed over her bare skin. Her scent grew stronger. I found the work slowing, my hands taking longer to apply each successive balloon, lingering on her curves, testing the give around her buttocks and rubbing gently at the cups supporting her breasts to see if anything needed reinforcing. Nothing did, but I applied it anyway, savouring the experience of making both of us increasingly aroused while decreasing her nudity.
The audience were enjoying our performance. I couldn’t focus on any one screen but I saw a lot of colourful latex in play – people putting things on things, things into things, blowing up things. Lots and lots of squeaky, joyous things happening on the far wall. Madam Bangs watched the screens like a hawk. As I guided her to turn this way and that to receive more and more balloons her head swivelled to keep the bouncy, squeaky fun in view. The scent grew stronger and she bit her lip.
I tied a black one around her throat as a choker.
“It’s finished,” I whispered in her ear, nuzzling at the alabaster lobe.
I don’t know if she came but there was a tremor running through her entire frame as she posed for the audience, taking in the adoration whether it came as applause, oohs and ahhhs or a blob of cum flying toward a camera. She worked through a series of positions, each requiring maximum squeaky shifts, the latex working over her skin and occasionally catching a protuberance, such as a hard nipple, in a gap between air cells. The tremor kept growing with each posture. I don’t know if the sequence ended because she came or if she came because she’d reached her final pose, but her body convulsed. She shook violently, hands raised to the ceiling, legs akimbo, breasts flailing against the confines of her blown up bodice. I thought she might swoon and rushed to catch her, my erect penis bobbing in the air almost in time to her vibrating body. She fell back into my arms like we’d rehearsed it and I carried her to the bed, laying her down with a maximum of fawning and pawing to ensure she was okay and that the orgasm lasted as long as possible.
The audience burst into applause. Most of it burst into applause. Some of it burst into Geo Doughnuts, pussy balloons and other members of the audience. I stood there, unsure what to do, cock throbbing but unable to parse how to act in this situation. I wanted, urgently to fuck Madam Bangs, but the apparent sex coma she lay in precluded consent. I wanted to wank myself to relief but felt that might look like a defeat in the eyes of the hundred and nine members of our viewing audience.
Stirring on the bed. Gentle squeaking. A beckoning hand. I heeded the signal, drawing closer and the hand grasped my shaft and drew me onto the bedclothes. I unbuttoned my shirt while kneeling over this vision in red and blue latex. She drew me down for a kiss and it was while I held this cantilevered position, my arms behind my back, still struggling to get clear of shirt sleeves, that she applied principles of leverage to trade places with me. She was so quick, so unexpectedly strong, so deft that I was on my back with her astride me, flicking hand cuffs onto my wrists and drawing my arms to the bed frame, so quickly that I didn’t even try to resist. The audience laughed, imitating my expression of surprise, guffawing at my predicament, staring enviously at me as I lay, naked, beneath a balloon clad goddess. Madam Bangs lowered herself over my crotch, grazing my cock with her slick nether lips, the hem of the dress stretching slowly, creaking enticingly as she spread her thighs to grind against me. She lay her chest on mine, the balloons, the breasts, splaying between us as she reached beneath the pillows, drawing out a handful of clear balloons. Eighteen inchers? My mind goes to some odd places at odd times.
The wall of grinning, blushing, perspiring, blowing, sucking faces called out their approval.
“You go girl.”
“Madam Bangs for the win.”
“No-one will find the body. She’ll eat him alive.”
Madam Bangs drew a balloon to her lush, purple lips. She took in a deep lungful of air, causing a sussuration of rustling squeaks as the balloons gave way to her blossoming bosom. She blasted the air into the balloon, bouncing her slippery pussy lips against my iron hard cock. I tried, futilely, to move my arms. I wanted so much to grasp her rubber and air clad hips and impale her on me but the handcuffs were the real deal and instead I just writhed in a combination of pleasure and frustration.
Puff, puff, puff. The balloon grew quickly, firm, shiny, tight. Deft fingers tied a knot and Madam Bangs lifted herself to her feet. She gave a little jump, throwing her legs askew as she descended, placing the balloon at her crotch just in time to catch her weight, the balloon squishing between her nethers and mine as gravity balanced the equation. My cock felt like it was in a pressure cooker and I nearly came, but a mixture of fear and fascination held me there, balanced on a high plane of arousal but not allowing me any higher, yet.
Madam Bangs bounced gleefully on our latex chaperone, drawing another balloon to her lips and blowing like a nor-wester, making another gloriously transparent orb that bobbled between her boobs and her forehead while the stem remained fixed between her lips. As this balloon neared fullness the bouncing became increasingly vigorous.
POP!
She collapsed into me, arms and legs flailing but balloon clenched tightly in her fist. My cock took both the stinging slap of the rebounding rubber and the ass first entirety of my host. Giggling and squeaking she knelt and pushed her new balloon between my thighs, resting its extremity against my balls. And then she blew into it again. Blue. Red. Hair. Eyes. Balloons. I didn’t know what was what but I did know that the insistent pushing, that pleasantly familiar but increasingly alarming pressure against my most sensitive parts, could only end in a loud and stinging report.
BANG! Latex shards flew. I could feel welts rising on my inner thighs and my scrotum sent urgent messages to my brain stem that I should get the hell out. Stainless steel shackles prevented a reflex response, but my frontal lobes would have worked overtime to quell any autonomous insurrection – I wanted to be exactly where I was.
Another balloon came to life in Madam Bang’s hands. She fell forward to rest it on my sweat slicked chest. Eye to eye she taunted me between breaths, raising herself skyward with each exhalation into the orb flattened between us.
“You think you deserve release? You gonna pop, balloon boy?”
I nodded vigorously.
“Who do you love more? Me, or my balloons?
A trick question?
“You, Madam Bangs.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re going to give your offering up to the gods of the air, not the goddess before you.”
This was hard to refute. I was extremely close to cumming and she didn’t seem to want me inside her.
“Please, Madam Bangs, ride me. I’ll worship you with my semen.”
“I have one last test of your fealty,” she goaded, drawing wild whooping from the pixelated punters.
“What is my t…” I didn’t get the words out. She pushed the full balloon into my face, tying it off as she slid her hips forward, leaving a lava hot trail of juices over my belly and chest. She pushed up on her knees enough to bring her plump pussy down on the latex directly above my shocked face and ground down, hard. I saw the splayed, shiny, rubber enveloped labia pushing toward my mouth and I tried, oh how I tried, to rise into the balloon to meet it with the low nubbin that was the best my tongue could impress into the balloon from my side. Missed it by millimetres. And that’s where you joined me in this story.

I want those moist flesh balloons on my face but the latex is in the way. I know it’s futile but I press my tongue out and wriggle it against the balloon, my rapidly receding intellect somehow hoping the motion will transmit through the latex, through the air, and touch my captor as I would if I could.
I’ve never tried breath play before but I’ve heard the rumours – orgasm at the point of oxygen deprived black-out is as distinct from normal cumming as sex is distinct from masturbation. The rumours are true. There’s existential dread and there’s frighteningly uncontrollable thrashing of limbs, but at the core of it all there’s a hurricane of hormones that kick aside your conscious mind and let you know, for a brief but shining moment, that your extinction is a cheap price to pay for such ecstasy.
I feel my cock twitch and my lungs try to inhale distended latex. My world draws in on itself, a recursive series of waves of pleasure all spinning into a singularity, an orgasm event horizon and beyond it death with a big sloppy grin on its face. My face. I’m cold in my face and my skin and hair hurt but there’s something soft and warm and wet tending to the welts on my cheeks. And I draw in air, cold and sweet and heavily scented with cum and sweat and pussy and bloons.
I hear words. I know they’re words but I don’t speak that language. It echoes more than… what was that language that I do speak? The words slowly become themes that become ideas that resolve into the precise and concise meanings of words. I hear the words. And the laughter and clapping. And the words say “…and so as a penalty for loving the gods of air more than the goddess before him, Matt shall pay a forfeit. He shall bear my mark all his life as a reminder that I demand henotheism from my supplicants, that their orgasms are my offerings, and their cum my votive candles.”
I know where I am. I’m on that bed. The one with the guy on it. That guy who can’t move his arms.
Ha ha. He’s all sticky. That’s funny. And he’s giving that woman oral pleasure, his face is buried in her crotch and he’s licking and nuzzling like a newborn puppy at a teat. Hey, that’s me.
I feel a sting near my crotch. A buzzing. A burning. I can’t see past the belly and boobs above me and the thighs clamped around my ears. I lick and nuzzle, suck and nibble and the words cease, replaced by moans and grunts. The stinging won’t go away. Why won’t my goddess smite whatever insect is stinging me in the crotch? The heat around my face increases. Strong thighs squeeze my head as though they want to see what colour my brain is. My licking and nuzzling reach a frantic crescendo but that fucking stinging won’t stop, spoiling my concentration to the point I don’t spot when Madam Bangs reaches climax. The next that I know is that she’s pushing me forcefully away from her, gripping my head by the hair and lifting herself from me, shaky on her legs and working hard to keep me from returning to my fleshy cavern.
“You’ll have to give me a few minutes. It gets a bit too sensi… Oh. Damn. I think I’ll make a good acolyte out of you. And look, Andree is finished with the mark.
I hazily tilt my head to look along my body, though the thighs and boobs above me make it hard to concentrate, and see a white coated gentleman working a tattoo gun against my thigh. He gives me a brief smile and nod and returns to his task while the crowd goes wild. I hear a panoply of sexy slurping, squeaking, moaning and popping coming from the cumming on the monitors. The stinging comes to an end and Andree dresses his handiwork after receiving Madam Bang’s blessing.
“May I sleep here, please, Madam Bangs?” I whisper.
“You may. Indeed, you may not sleep anywhere but here, now that I own you,” she assures me.
“I like the sound of that,” someone thinks as I drift off into a warm, sticky, blissful slumber.
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  #2  
Old 16-12-2020, 12:40 PM
Little Looner's Avatar
Little Looner Little Looner is offline
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Default Re: Dress
Madam Bangs say's if you want to take part in her adventures then here is a link which gives only these forum members that have read this story - 24 hours free access to have taste of what she's putting out. DM me ...

Last edited by Little Looner; 04-02-2021 at 10:16 AM.
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