It was February of 1951 and I was nearly 16 years old. I had developed a sexual attraction to balloons when I was 5 which had been reinforced by monthly balloon play and busting sessions I had with my father. The family, consisting of my father, much younger stepmother, and her son who was 4, lived in a rural area about 5 miles from a medium sized town. Two brothers Dave and Mike, one my age and the other a year younger were my only playmates save for a few male friends that lived in town. The availability of good balloons was near non-existent. The five and ten cent store in town didn't carry balloons at all and the general store down the road only carried penny 312 sized airship balloons that were displayed along with several varieties of penny candy that they carried. For several years these were the only bought balloons I had available to play with.

My father was involved in a small local civic association that raised their yearly budget by staging a carnival each summer. I had offered to help them the previous year by building and operating a novelty concession stand where parents who were not skillful at the game booths could buy their kids the prizes. Along with all the prizes that were available at the game stands I also sold air filled balloons tied on bamboo sticks as well as helium balloons on strings.

The first year I ran the stand we had good weather that drew in relatively large crowds. As a result I sold out most of the balloons and I was not able to get more than about four dozen balloons for myself. Most of them were ugly synthetic rubber helium balloons. The second year I made a point of insuring that my father, who would make the yearly trek into the city to pick up the carnival supplies, would pick up more balloons than the previous year. This would insure that my stand would be stocked with a larger supply of both Helium as well as stick balloons. I hoped this would result in a larger number being left over and available for me to buy. As it turned out that year the weather wasn't as good and there were about a gross and a half of unsold balloons after I shut down the last night. I made a point of insuring that probably a half gross or more went home with me.

These were the only round balloons I had. The cheap stick balloons were 100% natural rubber and could be nursed to about 14 inches in diameter before they would burst. I saved up my allowance and paid the normal selling price for most of them because the association kept track of the inventory and profitability of each of the carnival stands. Even if I had paid just the association's cost for the balloons, which would have been returned to the novelty wholesalers for credit in any case, they might have spotted the loss of profit which would have put me in a very bad spot.

After the second year of running the novelty stand at the carnival I had amassed in my stash about a gross and a half of the 312 airships which were my main busting balloons, along with about 5 dozen of the round balloons from the previous year's carnival. Of these perhaps 2 dozen had been previously inflated since these were my playing with and rubbing balloons. I had my balloons hidden under some loose floor boards at the foot of the stairway that led from the second floor to the attic. The previous owner had used the hiding place to hide his booze from his wife and my father and I had found it because the floorboards would feel loose and clank when stepped on in a certain way.

It was a week night in February and I was working in the cellar on one of my numerous projects. My stepmother and brother were down at her mothers place so just my father and I were home. Dad had gone up to the attic for something, and apparently taking note of the loose floor boards, came down to the cellar to get a hammer and some nails. I asked him what he was up to and you can imagine the flip flop my stomach made when he told me he was going to nail down the floorboards at the foot of the attic stairs. I don't know if I was more concerned about his discovering my balloons or the fact that I probably would never be able to gain access to them again.

After a few minutes I heard the pounding as he nailed down the loose boards and I immediately started trying to figure in my mind how I could get the boards up one more time to retrieve my rubber loot without making the board removal too obvious.

Dad finished up and came down the cellar steps, dropped the hammer on his workbench in the other part of the cellar and came up behind me. I tried to look busy with my project on the workbench but my balls had that heavy aching feeling and I could feel a 'stiffy' growing in the gym shorts I was wearing. I was startled when from behind me he said " I believe these are yours".

I whirled around and there he was holding a shoe box. I didn't need to guess what was in it. He went on "I really wasn't looking for anything, I just found your balloons by accident when I slid one of the floor boards back to re-position it. I suggest as a minimum you put these little boy's toys of yours somewhere where your step brother and mom will never find them".

I felt a sudden flush in my face as my father handed me the box. As I glanced up at him he added, "I didn't really think you were taking this many balloons from the carnival."

Since he didn't really accuse me of stealing the carnival balloons I didn't feel I needed to defend myself in this regard, which was good because I really didn't know what to say to my father in any case. Thankfully dad didn't press my discomfort and as I took the box with my precious toys from his hand he turned and went upstairs. I heard him leave the house I assumed he headed out to our barn. While he was gone I quickly ran up to my room and buried the shoe box in the back of one of my bureau drawers behind a mound of clothing. With my toys concealed I quickly returned to the cellar.

Naturally being suddenly outed precluded me from any form of concentration on my project, so I finally gave up on my tinkering and went upstairs to watch TV. I knew there was little chance that he wasn't going to ask me more questions about the balloons and what a fifteen year old boy was doing with them. In addition he surely would want to know if there was any connection between my balloon 'thing' and my constant desire to wear gym shorts around the house all the time. Even worse he would really want to know what relationship the balloons had with the boy scout shorts my uncle had given me that I insisted on wearing even in cold weather when I would go down in the woods for hours on end by myself. There was little doubt in my mind that he would realize that they were connected and surely all my balloons and short pants would be history come Saturday when he would have time to take my fetishes up to the township dump and watch while he made me put a match to them. The mental thought of them blazing away caused me to develop a damp spot in my Jockey under shorts I was fortunately wearing under my gym pants. I sat without paying attention to the TV as my mind raced to generate plausible answers to his likely questions.

Dad came in a few minutes later and sat down to watch the TV as well. I dreaded any thought of conversation because I knew he had to have a lot of questions that I didn't want to have to answer. But the inevitable station break with its multitude of ads came on and he took the opportunity to turn to me and gruffly said "What did you do with all those damn balloons of yours?"

Dad was obviously disappointed with me and for good reason. In response I told him that I had securely hidden them. After a dreadfully long pause he somberly said what I was really expecting but dreaded to hear, "Don't you think you are a little too old to be playing with balloons, boy? What in the world do you do with all of them anyway?"

I stared hard at the floor in front of me as I mumbled, "Well I, uh, blow them up, and uh, just bat them around until they bust. Like you and I used to do before the war."

"You really don't expect me to buy that that's all you do with them," Dad growled.

I had no response to his insinuation. After an other interminable pause father continued, "You know if I were you, I would go get your childish balloons that are just making you silly and take them down to the cellar. Then open the furnace door, stir up some really nice hot coals, and toss your balloons in. Really for your own good you know that's where they ought to go. I can assure you your silly rubber playthings will burn nice and easy. This is a nice quick and easy way to get rid of all of them once and for all without I suspect getting yourself all steamed up that blowing them up and playing with them I'm sure does. What do you think?"

My dick that had been oozing since he confronted me in the cellar roared to life and my balls suddenly felt like they were going to explode. Steamed up; dad had to be kidding. The thought of watching my precious rubber toys suddenly being destroyed in a blaze of glory had me in a sexual frenzy. I was afraid that I might have a spontaneous orgasm right there in front of my father.

Again I was mute and after another lengthy uncomfortable pause father continued, "Let's be honest son. We both know you get more enjoyment out of playing with balloons than you should. I am well aware that contact with inflated balloons gets you worked up sexually. I also think your balloons have something to do with your wanting to dress like a little boy, running around wearing shorts all the time when other boys your age wouldn't be caught wearing them. I don't even want to think what you are doing when you are down in the woods wearing that boy scout uniform your uncle gave you. The last thing this family needs is to have someone catch you in your cute shorts jacking off with a balloon in your hand."

No question all my fetishes were about to become history. All I could think of was that in a matter of minutes my balloons, thin cotton gym shorts, and my precious scout uniform shorts were going to be getting dumped on the hot coals in the furnace and how quickly they would burst into flame and be destroyed.

I would get a hard on just watching the torn rubber from balloons I had already busted burn. Visualizing perfectly good balloons that I had such a hard time getting a hold of to begin with quickly going up in smoke caused my balls to really ache. I prayed that my sexual distress wasn't overly obvious to my dad. I had gotten a similar sexual arousal when I burned the torn gym shorts that dad had ripped off me a year and a half earlier. Watching or even thinking about any of my fetishes being destroyed provided me with unbelievable sexual stimulation. Fortunately my father didn't press the issue any further.

The next several days I was in a state of high sexual arousal; more so than I have ever been in my life. I would get a hard on every time I was with my father fearing that at any moment he was going to turn his suggestion that I destroy my balloons into a demand. However he never brought up the topic or said anything further regarding either my balloons or short pants until the third week of June.     Revision Date 2/03

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