The air in the room is thick with the sweet, clean scent of rubber, a candy-shop perfume that clings to everything. It’s quiet, save for the gentle, hypnotic squeak of my latex-clad thighs rubbing together as I shift my weight on the floor. I’m surrounded by dozens of them—ruby red, sapphire blue, sunshine yellow—all un-inflated, lying limp and waiting.
I pick up a red one, stretching the neck between my fingers before bringing the opening to my lips. My eyes lock on yours as I begin to blow, my cheeks puffing out. The balloon swells with my breath, growing from a wrinkled little thing into a taut, vibrant sphere. My gaze never wavers from yours, watching you watch me. The latex skin becomes thinner, shinier, straining with the pressure I’m forcing inside.
“See?” I whisper, my voice slightly muffled around the mouthpiece. I pull it from my lips, pinching the neck tight. The balloon bobs in my hand, full and firm, its surface reflecting the light… and the growing tension in your expression. “It’s always more fun when it’s full to bursting, don’t you think? When just one more puff… one more tiny touch… could make the whole thing… pop.”
I hold it out to you, my other hand tracing the perfect, tight curve of my own breast through my yellow latex top. “The question is,” I say, a mischievous smile spreading across my face, “do you want to be the one to push it past its limit? Or would you rather I show you just how much pressure a girl can really take before she bursts?”
