Tags: Breast Inflation, Female Inflation, floating, helium
Text: "Hellooo."
"...."
"Uh, hellooooo there?"
"Hey.....It's Amy here. Can you talk?"
"Oh,..... heya......what'sup...... Amy; didn't thing you'd be awake so soon. Yeah....s'ok. I can talk, just a sec. I've gotta go through the kitchen because Sharon is still snoring on the sofa and I don't know where Tara is....What's up?"
"...Erm...it's nothing....umm....How are you? Is everything OK, over there, with you...?"
"Hmmm. Yeah. Good here. Ummm. Sharon lost one of her balloons getting out of the cab but apart from that we got back alright. "
"......"
"Uhhh.....I think we left the cylinder back round your place, right?"
"......"
"Amy? You still with me?"
"Yes, Its....well.....there's a problem.....I've got a problem...and...ummm...."
"What? Amy? You alright there?"
"Yeah, I'm...... its....hard to describe on the phone. Can you come around? Like, now?"
"Umm...sure....listen....I gotta wait for...."
"Just promise me you'll come as soon as you can. It's really important. Honest."
"OK, OK, I promise, I promise...give me fifteen."

5 Minutes earlier
This is really weird.
I mean this is really, really, weird.
Listen. My name is Amelia Rowlands. I'm a personnel manager, and I live in south London. I'm about the most normal person you could hope to meet. Regular upbringing, middle class family, one brother. Had my appendix out when I was 16. That was just before my exams (thanks, God). Passed my driving test, third try. Two years college, dyed hair, nearly washed out. Got a NVQ in psychology. Worked tables at Archers through summer; that sucked. Switched jobs (yay). Got promotion to deputy HR (more cheers). With me so far?
Yes, I'm so normal. 24 years old. Just shy of 5'6, and a blue-eyed brunette. There's millions of us. In case you're thinking because of what just happened I'm some kind of busty-playbunny nymphomaniac I'll have to disappoint you. I'm normal in relationships too. Been dumped (twice) dumped others (twice). I had a good and steady boyfriend until about 3 weeks ago. Bastard. But it wouldn't have helped with my current predicament, anyhow. I'm quite unexceptional; freckles cleared up in time for college even if I'm still not happy with my nose. Not bad looking, I'll grant you, yet I'm not going to make Vogue at 36B and slim-ish with a pinchable inch.
Oh. I really shouldn't have said that. It isn't remotely true.
Maybe I should tell you about the flat. That's important. Its bijou, as they say, but my little home (and the building society's, but they don't live here). Its a conversion; a lovely 18th Century Wesleyan Chapel in brown sandstone. As part of the drive for affordable urban living (read: catering staff for Docklands) it's clean lines and open spaces got carved up into 5 housing units on 3 floors. I got the absolutely best one, right at the top. A lovely big open space, with high early-Victorian vaulting 20 foot above the polished pine floor. Thin chancel windows run floor-to-ceiling on one side of the room, where I put my bed. In the morning, soft-tallow light just floods in like honey. Even the dust motes caught between the high beams feel like an echo of heaven.
I never realised just how much dust there was up there. Now my nose itches too.
Anyway, they converted the flat roof of the sacristy into a small garden and sun deck. It's accessible by the other flats but no-one else uses it. I'm looking out there right now, down through the sliding doors to the south (the double-glazing is faulty, so it freezes my buns off in winter). Guttering water spills over wash-grey slate. A small thrush hops between the thin greens of spring, sparring and jabbing at the earth. It doesn't look up.
It can fly where it wants. The lucky bastard.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should tell you how it began. And to be honest, I'm not sure myself. I didn't notice at first when I work up. You probably will find that a bit hard to believe, given what happened. But I was pretty hung-over, courtesy of about a half a bottle of wine and several Bacardi breezers the night before. It had been Sharon's birthday, so we made a bit of a girlie night of it, just the four of us. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I was a little groggy and it wasn't until I got out of the shower that I was more alert. I had the radio on and was towelling myself dry, drawing it two-handed it across my shoulder blades and down my back. And just then the towel seemed to snag, only for a moment. And I felt it. Catching somehow, under my right arm, barely out of sight. Curious more than alarmed I reached across with my left, letting fingers trace down from my armpit, probing, tracing. And.....there it was; where curious fingertips pressed against my ribcage. A lump of some kind.
Omahgod. A lump. As big as a penny. Huge. Cancer. Definitely. Omahgod. I turned sideways to the bathroom mirror, stark naked, cold sweat, and lifted my arm up. And saw something impossible.
Between my parting fingers, hidden just below the cleft of my armpit and parallel with my breasts, lay a rounded nub of puce. Skin-toned and extruded like a nipple, there was no mistaking what it was. A small plastic nozzle. Like you'd find on a pool raft or beachball. Or a blow-up doll. I stared blankly at it for a long time. I sat down on the edge of the bed, turned the radio off, drawing out a long silence.
Cautiously, I inspected it with the mirror in my make-up case. There was no doubt; it was an inflation nozzle; a tiny open-ended cylinder circled by a disc of hardened plastic. I toyed with it, nervously. When raised it stuck out perhaps 2cm. When depressed it was flush against my skin and seemed pretty much impossible to see unless you knew what you were looking for. Was that a valve I could see, translucent at the base? Jeez; I could feel myself pinching between thumb and forefinger. I had nerve endings in this thing. It wasn't just superglued. It was growing off me. Or in me. Or....it was just too weird. (Ha - I was freaked out then...if only I'd known...).
And it wouldn't come off. I tugged lightly, and it resisted. I tugged it harder. And that hurt. Ouch. I relented for the moment, thinking. Obviously I had no idea how it got there. I mean it wasn't there last night. I hope. I'd like to say I was sober enough to notice. How had it gone? The girls had come over first; we'd had the Pina Colada from the fridge, blown up Sharon's balloons and got her card ready, then gone over to surprise her. I'd have felt it, wouldn't I?
I shivered then; realising I was still naked amidst my distraction. Some things could wait. Moving to the wardrobe, I gave myself over to rummaging. Blush pink knickers, accidentally dyed. Crew socks in purple stripes for an urban tabby. Jeans.....jeans from yesterday, gathered up from the floor; the sequins tawdry in the morning light. I thought about a bra and a top, but found my fingers running once more down my side, feeling the soft bump of resistance and mystery. Defeated by its impossibility I sat back down, draping the damp towel over my bare shoulders. I poked at it again. It seemed easier to think of the nozzle as an it, rather than part of me. Normal girls didn't grow nozzles overnight. And I was normal , right? So......what was I going to do?
And I got this crazy idea. I'd prove it wasn't what it looked like.
Stored under the sink there was several foot of plastic tubing left over from a plumbing disaster last year. I fetched it, and put one end over the nozzle. It didn't fit; too loose. So I got some duct tape and strapped it on. I smoothed the seal tight with my thumb, carefully stretching the black tape as it clung against my skin. Awkwardly, I secured it around; diagonally down from my shoulder blades to underneath my right breast. Goosebumps percolated beneath my fingers, chill and nervous. I didn't want to think about how it would hurt when taking it off.
I stood up and gave the apparatus an experimental tug. It stayed firm. It looked ridiculous. Great. Now I have a further stupid plastic limb. Whatever. I slipped the tube through my hands until the other end came into my grasp. I took it to my lips. Hesitated. The transparent tube smelt of plastic and mildew, shimmered with distorted light. This can't be real. I closed my eyes and blew.
There was this strangest feeling. A sudden tightness across my chest. Invisible fingers tugged at my skin, stretching. The tightness passed. Unthinkingly I blew again, harder. This time the tightness seemed less noticeable; the same stretching sensation....My eyes flicked open. Something moved at the edge of vision. No....something felt, looked, different. Like I was holding my breath indrawn. No. Not that. My breasts got bigger.
Not much, but by a cup size at least, I swear. They did. I poked them, gingerly. They felt chill, flesh and blood kneaded beneath my circling fingers. Yet definitely bigger.
OK. I tried not to panic but....I'm inflatable part of me shrieked, I'm inflatable. Oh wow. Oh God. I'm inflatable. Or at least my breasts are. Maybe. No, really. I felt dizzy, tried to focus. Now what? Yes, there was something I really needed to know. I let go of the hose, half-expecting a sudden release, but it just flopped down on the bed. With a grimace, I leant over and pinched the valve on my side. Now the whoosh came; hollow and sharp. I saw the curves retract beneath my chin; compressing like a spent breath. Wow. Oh Wow. Definitely inflatable.
How far could I go?
Now I don't want you to get the wrong impression. Size isn't everything, and normally with boobs there is such as thing as too big. But there's also curiosity and temptation. I mean, come on, girls, you know what it's like (if you're a guy then imagine the opportunity to make something equally personal just that little bit bigger. You would, wouldn't you?).
Walking through to the bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror. I looked ridiculous; the tube dangling from my side up to my lips. And I felt....well, I felt....I don't know...nervous...excited? The sense of something forbidden was thick about me. This time I kept my eyes open, and blew.
The first breath made me twitch; my breasts wobbled, alert. I experienced it as a momentary tightness, then like a warm breeze cupping them from below. My second breath made them visibly swell, like fruit on a tree. On the third breath my nipples perked up; pointing the way as my chest pushed outward. The sensation of prickly heat grew to pluck at their surface, stretching, expanding. Oh God.
Considering what happened later I should I have stopped right there. My breasts just blew up like a pair of fricking balloons. (And what do balloons do, hmm, you stupid girl? Why didn't I think ahead?). Instead I let the tube fall mutely, aware I was staring at myself. With those three breaths I'd grown two bra sizes, maybe three. I was bigger than Sharon. I couldn't believe it. I'd just done it and I couldn't believe it. And they felt like....well. Hesitantly, I cupped myself. The goosebumps of earlier had smoothed away and my flesh seemed strangely elastic about the curves; a slight sheen that might have been perspiration. No added weight, I thought, watching them sway gently as I shook, this is air I'm filling with.
And then I was rewarded by something else; like a delayed electric shiver from the touch, my breasts flushed with heat. I gasped a little at that, aware how sensitive they were become. Was that a side-effect?
This was too much. I shook myself and pinched the valve, frightened suddenly. Again, the feeling of pressure being released, this time shaking me like a sob. Back to normal. It seemed I could at least deflate when I wanted to. And I was going to be sensible. This was not something I should play with. I was going to put my normal bra and top on, and go and see a doctor, or someone. I put my hand in my lingerie drawer and paused. But what if this didn't last? What if this was just today? What if I never got the chance to....well.....I stood there for ages, bare from the waist, before I realised something else. I wanted to get bigger. Just a bit. Just to see.
But there were some things I had to work out. Mostly, (again, this sounds stupid) it felt awkward to blow myself up. Perhaps the deep breaths made me faint, or there was something just wrong about having out and in at the same time. It tasted thick on my tongue; made me slightly nauseous. Don't ask why. The point is that this was when I got my second brilliant idea of the morning. I remembered the cylinder.
I forgot who brought it round last night, but we has used this cylinder for Sharon's birthday balloons. Last night, I had gritted my teeth through inflating two bright mylar numerals and a half-dozen ovoid extras; nervous about bursting each one. Tara shoved me out of the way, took a hit and went squeaky; cross-eyed. We laughed and snorted through the Pina Coladas, moved on into a night of numbers, losing count.
Now I dug it out from under a pile of cushions next to the sofa. It seemed less than I remembered, squat and pale. It contained helium, obviously, which is one of those kinds of gas which makes balloons float. The gauge showed half-full. Enough for some fun but...hey, I know what you're thinking at this point. Well, obviously I thought of it too; briefly. But let's be serious; there couldn't possibly be enough gas in that small tank to make someone...well, you know. That's impossible, I thought, smugly. Heh. Go figure.
I walked back to the bed carrying the mute white cylinder. Absently, the clear plastic hose trailed alongside before I gathered it up with a spare hand. I was biting my lip in apprehension as I drew fresh lengths of duct tape. This time my handiwork wasn't elegant; a mundane magic sealed the other end of the hose about the mouth of the tank in plastered strips. I sat on the crumpled sunlight of the duvet; feeling vulnerable and tethered, and tugged briefly at the umbilical linking me to the thin pressed metal of the tank. I pushed my hair back, still undried, focussing. OK, I told myself, I can do this. Even so, I hesitated before depressing the valve.
An abrupt hiss and chill. The helium was cold; elementally so. There was a harsh, almost metallic taste at the back of my throat. I took a sharp intake of breath, the gas pushing my chest out in sympathy. The tugging/stretching sensation was juddering, fast. I expanded one, two three sizes in a heartbeat. Curves appeared, defined by plumpness rather than sag. Without invitation, my nipples perked out in growing curiously. And sensitivity. Tiny tingles chase seemed to spiral from them, collecting under the cusp of my breasts, draining down my back to a soft flush. I twitched, gasped, subconsciously. My hand rotated on the control, but did not relent. My breasts swelled casually, now grapefruit-sized before me. The slight pressure on my chest eased; my skin finding elasticity as they grew. As I did, another feeling invaded my body, a sense of butterflies in my stomach, a slight dizziness and unbalancing. I should stop but.....an awful fascination had seized me as I watch them grow; a burgeoning sense of expanded femininity. Bigger. I thought. Just a little bigger. My giddiness edged on drunkenness, the tingles now a relentless buzz at the back of my mind and down my spine. Something was blossoming into lushness between my legs and I found myself grinding onto the bed, squirming, as the gas ground into me. I wasn't sure what cup size I was now; blush-pink boobs size of basketballs. Their regular shape was now rounding, nipples firmed and pointing up. Bigger and bigger. God I have to stop this.
I closed the cylinder. Felt the hiss and coolness of the helium subside within me. I was aware that I was panting, a nervous moisture formed under my arms. A strand of still-damp hair folded over my new curves, glistening. Unbelieving, I raised my arms abut my breasts, barely able to enfold their expansion. My skin was soft; pliant but somehow resilient with hidden pressure, a pressure that gives each touch sharp focus. Releasing myself, I noticed how they hung strangely, as if weakly sensed by gravity.
I thought about deflating right there and then. But I told myself there would be a lot of effort getting the hose off, and besides I felt fine. Better than fine, in fact. I felt...what? Not just the tingles (had to be careful not to touch myself, that made them worse), but another sensation. I stood up with a strange ease, awareness coming to me at the same time as disbelief. I felt pulled up. Not by much, but my balance was definitely further forward than usual, my poise lighter. Was I dreaming? I swallowed. I had to be sure.
I walked through to the bathroom, momentarily forgetting; and was rewarded by a harsh tug and the helium tank clattering to the floor. Cursing, I picked it up and carried it with me across the apartment. The atmosphere was loose with dead steam as I stooped awkwardly to read the scales. But damn, of course I couldn't see my toes anymore. I turned sideways, using the mirror; the inflated expanse of my bust looking ridiculous (but amazing) in profile. Squinted down at the number; 105 pounds.
I'd lost 25 pounds. Ohmygod. How did that happen?
Something was clearly wrong; that much helium shouldn't have any effect on a person. My thoughts wandered wildly; the scales were wrong; the tank had been filled by some secret super-gas by accident, and.....Oh, come on. I had to be serious; there was no such thing as super-helium. And anyway, there was nothing unusual about it last night. Then...was it me? Or some change within me? I left the bathroom distractedly, retracing my footsteps. I remember being conscious of my heart beating very loudly in my chest; the slip of my socks against the pine floor. Looking back, I think I already knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to take things closer to the edge. It can't hurt; I told myself. I'll be careful. Damnit. Perhaps I didn't want to admit it, but the experience was deeply sensual., deeply addictive. And to be honest, I was hooked. The whole lure of being just a bit lighter, a bit bigger, a bit showier. A teenage fantasy that I really hadn't outgrown. I admit I should have walked away, 'cos you know walking is one of those things you don't miss until you can't.
So there I was, stood by my bed, telling myself I didn't want to go too far. I placed the cylinder down slowly on the table by my alarm clock. I considering it for just a second, then reaching out with my right hand to gently release the flow of gas. My breasts flexed as the pressure resumed and the tingly sensation returned, only in spades. I cupped myself slowly with my free hand, biting my lip at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Oh Yeah. Gotta watch that. I think my other hand tipped a little further down on the lever around this point. The stretching feeling from earlier now felt more like a tide of bubbles rising inside me; gentle but insistent. My breasts were inflating like warm dough. My mouth was dry. I suppose I was wriggling a bit and.... OK; I may have been rubbing my thighs together, trying to grip the sensation that gripped me. God, I'm such a naughty girl.
I heard myself giggle. Becoming absurdly self-proud. None of my friends could boast of a chest like that. For my breasts must have been nearly 2-foot wide at this point, and definitely pointing up as much as out. Rising above the cusp, my areola seemed smoothed and blush-stretched, but there was no discomfort. Perhaps this was just due to the lack of any weight, of heft, which you know, actually felt more unnatural than the size. Though the lightness I experienced was definitely concentrated in their rounding forms, the sense of levity pervaded my whole body. The only way I can really describe it to you is it was if the air had grown solid, like a mattress of cotton wool, about me. And the strands of that mattress were pushing up and up. It was the weirdest feeling, but coming so close on the heels of the tingles I didn't concentrate on it enough.
Instinctively, I pushed myself to tiptoe, and took a cautious hop. My breasts bounced up and I followed them, rising about a foot into the air, before slowing and descending with more than a hint of inertia. Oh Wow. I was giggling like a schoolgirl. This could be fun.
From the way the curves mounted, I'd guess my boobs were the size of small beachballs. The way they tried to bound up made it difficult to see over the top of them, and holding them down was not really an option. They were certainly bigger than I could link my arms about, and I'm not sure I could have pushed them down for long anyway. Perhaps the realisation that my ballooning assets were becoming uncontrollably scared me a little. I mean, I certainly didn't want to get so big that I.... well, you know. A hot flush swept over me at the thought; I won't pretend it didn't mingle with my hidden excitement, my subdued curiosity. But I was going to stop right there, I really was, when I made my second mistake of the day.
It was one more jump, just to see. I put more effort into it, and immediately regretted the idea. I'd badly misjudged the difference in lift that a few seconds of extra inflation had wrought. I shot up like a rocket, clearing the bed by a whole yard. Immediately the plastic tubing yanked tight with a painful jerk and pulled the helium cylinder off from the bedside table. My legs gyrated out wildly as my weight caught up with me and pulled me down. I fell backwards, rotating, disorientated . My left foot caught on something cold and clinking beneath me. Sliding over a hard edge, my big toe stubbed horribly on corrugated steel; there was pain and a sudden horrible, loud, hissing. I bounced off the edge of the bed and dropped down on my bum in the most ungainly fashion. I said a rather rude word at this point.
For a moment I just sat there like an idiot, eyes closed and wide-mouthed, the surprise and pain from my foot eclipsed everything else. Then slowly was I aware of this sibilant, hard whisper, echoing through me. The flush of excitement returned, unasked for. In a heartbeat, I realised what had happened; in my erratic descent, I'd trodden directly on the controls of the helium tank. Scuffling out from under my foot, it had rolled under the bed.
And of course, I'd knocked the flow of gas wide open. I shot alert, eyes staring wide. Before my stunned gaze, my boobs were two rapidly inflating globes. Each was now three foot across, and swelling visibly with every passing second. I could feel the flush of compressed gas roughly forcing itself into me, expanding into concentric rings of tingles that spread out from my nipples. I watched, horrified (and slightly awestruck), as my flesh tautened from its natural curves; rapidly smoothing into blush-pink spheres. In an instant they resembled nothing more than a pair of beachballs strapped to my chest, and helium-filled beachballs at that. The gentle urging of their earlier lift had become an insistent tug, and I didn't want to think what that meant.
"Noooo" I moaned, in sick fright, feeling their upward pull increase with every moment. My gasps were muffled as my ridiculous tits bobbed serenely up into my face, half-smothering me. Futilely, I tried to push them back down, but it was not the best idea. Their earlier elasticity was being replaced by a pneumatic tightness, the hidden pressure and lift within my boobs easily resisting my efforts to restrain them. After a scant second my arms were pushed out from shallow indentations they made. Worse, the sensation that rebounded on me was more intense. They were so sensitive; my legs trembled with the flush of some secret ecstasy, making me want to cross and squeeze my thighs. God, what was this stuff thing doing to me? Whatever change wrought on the helium as it entered me certainly wasn't helping my concentration. Only distantly, I realised I had to turn off the tank at once before I got any bigger.
I could see its silver-white form lying half-way under the bed. Tensing my knees, I pushed myself towards it with my hands and feet. At once I skidded lightly across the floor, almost as if it were made of ice, or if my body was only lightly sensed by gravity. I collided with the bed and nearly rebounded; recognising how much of an obstruction my new assets were. Now nearly four foot across, they boinged hollowly against the metal bed frame. I had to bite my lip and breath deeply for a second as other floaty sensations threatened to overwhelm me. Recovering, I flipped over to my back, head on the cool floor. My body arced like a bridge, tits bobbing upwards before me; impossibly inflated and squishing against each other in a most distracting way. My skin glistened tautly, like stretched latex, with tiny beads of sweat formed on the surface. Like a pair of frickin' balloons. But now I could just reach under the bed and catch the controls....
There was only inches to it. So close. My fingers slipped across the smooth surface of the tank, rolling away. My hair swished gracefully down as my head left the floor; I was being pulled upright and away from the tank.... I wanted to scream in frustration, to deny the closeness of the unvoiced fantasy. With every passing second I could feel more gas entering the nozzle at my side, making me lighter and lighter. If I got much bigger I might be floating. The insistent hiss of expansion had now deepened in tone, reverberating in the drum-like balloons of my chest. I started to wonder how much helium could that damn cylinder have left? Or more to the point, how much more could I take? The tightness across my breasts was now tangible; their pressure compounding the deep arousing heat even as I started to panic. What if I popped? What if I floated away?
Suddenly, what I had left by way of focus made me realise I should be using the connecting tube to pull the tank towards me. Unsteadily I grabbed hold of the plastic length with both hands and yanked; feeling it shoot closer. There was a sharp clang as it promptly struck the edge of bed frame and wedged there. Desperately, I pulled harder; it tilted at an angle and promptly jammed. I shouted something, tears welling in my eyes. But before my half-sob was complete, my breasts surged again; each nipple perking out with the size of a coke can. At over four, or maybe closer to five, foot my boobs were now larger than any beachball I'd ever seen. I felt myself being pulled upright by the tremendous buoyancy within them. My chest arced upwards as my bum gently lost contact with the ground. My mounting hysteria slipped into the feeling of helpless surrender before the tingles that now washed over me. Every puff of gas seemed to echo across my body, lifting my senses from my concerns. Wanting only to ride the inflating promise of these sensations. Half-consciously, I caught one hand drifting down south, chasing the trail of sensation as it pooled below my hips. I wanted to touch and shiver.
Helplessly, I rose to tiptoe. My legs thrashed backwards and forwards, soles of my feet skating across the floor. Like they were trying to find purchase on someone, anything. Most of all I wanted to fasten on the sense of swelling pressure that crested within me, to squeeze it out with the core of my being. I wanted to grind down so much, but my whole body was awash with upness. I felt light as a bubble on the breeze; a breeze which cupped and lifted about me.
"Nooo." I whispered, unwilling to accept my fate, "No...please..I'm a good girl...."
Uncaring, my breasts passed five foot, rounding into perfect spheres anointed by a crest of light from the windows. So slowly, I felt myself being lifted, slipping over the edge into buoyancy. Gasping, I twisted my head sideways to see the floor falling away beneath me. An inch became a foot, one foot became two. My head was already higher than the wardrobe and still rising. I can't begin to describe how it felt. Wonderful. Sensuous. Pant-wettingly-scary.
"I'm lighter than air," someone like myself thought. "This is impossible. Fuck, I'm floating away. "
I was interrupted as my connecting tube pulled taut suddenly, ballasting me with the tank below. I realised what I must look like; a girl naked from the waist up, with a pair of peach-like weather balloons and a transparent tether. I spun gently, perhaps a yard off the ground and tilted over to the right. The rush of gas still pulsed at my side; thin stretch marks seemed to vein across my hugely inflated breasts. I felt so tight and buoyant across the expanse; as if my whole body was trembling on the edge of bursting.
"Please, no more....please...I'm going to....please," I whimpered, frantically. Yet I ached for release, twitching, touching.
Each buoyant moment brought rising shivers that lapped at all my senses. I pawed desperately at the tape binding the tube under my arm. I could no longer see the nozzle aside the great curve of my gassy boobs, but had to feel for it weakly. I moaned softly, trying to focus beyond the fuzziness and twitching that came with every touch of my expanded flesh . I could smell myself, sweat and juices, through knickers and jeans. I felt so lush.
With a purring rip, the duct-tape parted with a sudden sting. At once, the nozzled hose detached like a singing snake, loose and wide. Oh God; now without the ballast of the tank, my balloon-boobs carried me straight up. The room fell away below me; as I felt my control slip too, shivering into spasms of desire. I was a bubble on an ocean of pleasure. The rush of excitement caught in my throat, my breath a half-formed gasp when the rising tips of my nipples boinged into the ceiling. My senses swam as I rotated, buoyant breasts seeking the highest spot. My whole body was shaking in sympathy to the crescendo of tingles and ohmygodithinkImgonna....
I think I came at that point. Sozzy. That's just the way it is. I couldn't help it. Everything mushed together as I bucked and twisted astride the invisible grip of the helium. I remember bouncing off and up against the rafters a couple of times before my boobs settled at the highest point. I was shaking and moaning for a while; riding the ebb tide of sensations as it subsided to a slight buzz. I flopped loosely, hanging from my feminine balloons; moistly, spent, suspended.
Somewhere, seemingly far below, the tank finally exhausted the last of its helium with a dry hiss. I glanced down. The dishevelled mess of my bed lay about a dozen foot below my feet. They kicked languidly through the air, unsuccessfully trying to find purchase. The sensation was dizzying and I look away. Above me, all I could see was the inflated canopy of my breasts, tautened into near-perfect spheres. I blinked a couple of times, clearing the dust and wetness from my eyes. I touched them, slowly, feeling their tightness and levity. They were so real and round and I still didn't believe it. I was floating on the ceiling.
Yeah, well, at least I was indoors. If I'd been outside.... gulp. It didn't bear thinking about. Drifting helplessly up and up until....what? But my current predicament seemed bad enough; how on earth was I going to get down? You know, when I was younger I saw this cartoon when some young man gets too many balloons to hold at the fair. I always wondered why he didn't let go of a few until he descended gently. Of course, letting go wasn't really an option when it was my own body that wanted to balloon me up and away.
Then my idiocy crashed down on me. I'd forgotten the nozzle. I could get down anytime I wanted, right? So composing myself, I flexed my arm about, conscious how such motion stroked the side of my breasts, threatening to re-kindle the deep heat within me. The flesh at my side felt tender, slightly sore. The protruding nozzle flicked through my fingers, and I took it gently by the base. Even then, I hesitated. Would I ever have this feeling again? Would I ever float again? Would I ever dare? But I had to get down, to reassure myself that I was normal, and that things like this didn't happen to normal girls.
Tentatively, I squeezed the nozzle.
And nothing happens. Shit. I squeeze harder, straining for the hiss of deflation. Still nothing.
OK. What now?

So that's pretty much where you find me. Feeling lighter than air and wishing for all the world I wasn't.
The nozzle, or whatever it is on my side; it blew me up and won't let me back down. I'm stuck here, pinned against the ceiling by the helium in my weather-balloon sized breasts. Like one of those escaped balloons you see trapped in the rafters of Waterloo station.
The sunlight spills in from the patio doors below. It's warm up here, and quite peaceful. Yet I wonder if the passing of the initial gassy coolness has, if anything, increased my lift. I've tried pushing down, of course. But it's difficult, and hanging underneath my breasts I can't get a good leverage. The floor is more than a dozen foot below, and there's simply no hand-holds. Generally, I drift down just a little ways, then my bouyancy re-asserts itself and up I go again. My boobs make a hollow tonk together each time I bounce down off the ceiling, before rising into the apex. The sensations are...really quite scrummy. But every time I start to enjoy it I remember that I'm floating on the frickin' ceiling with a pair of giant balloons for tits. I feel guilty and embarrassed and dirty and deeply sensuous.
I have no idea what to do. I feel hot and sticky, and I really need to change my knickers. I hook my hands into my jeans to adjust them when they brush against something squeezed into a back pocket. My mobile. I took it out of my handbag when texting last night. Thank you, God.
I am very careful not to drop it, though I have to hold it nearly under my chin to see the screen. I suck my lips, considering who to call. I need a friend I can trust; someone practical and normal whom I can explain all this too. Someone down-to-earth who won't freak out when she see me suspended here. I can think of someone from last night.
I'll call Lucy.
I really hope she's not phased by weird stuff.