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Man I couldn't wait to get home. It was the last week in April and we were off from school for the day due to teachers conferences and I had just reconnoitered the new Dollar Outlet store that had opened just this past Monday. It hadn't take me long to discover they had quarter pound bags of balloons that they were selling for only a buck. Dad was at work and my mother had gone over to visit her sister after which they were planning to do some shopping for the afternoon. I figured I would be home alone until suppertime giving me plenty of time to really check out my purchase in the comfort of my room.

I quickly unlocked the house door and raced up to my room. I tossed the small paper sack with the two plastic bags of rubber toys on the bed. Then to stretch out my anticipation and excitement I shucked the jeans and underpants I had been wearing and quickly slipped into a pair of comfortable well worn gym shorts that had been a party to numerous balloon busting adventures. This way I would be all set for some good rubber skin contact.

Excitement had been building in my loins since, with some trepidation, I had plunked down my available extra allowance and watched the teen aged girl with the pretty smile deposit my treasure in the small paper sack. I had felt the sudden tingle in my cheeks as she scooped the bags full of balloons off the counter and shoveled them in while she said, "A big boy like you should have a lot of fun playing with these."

With my balloon play pants secured I flicked on the ceiling light and pouncing on the bed ripped open the top of one of the balloon bags. I then dumped the contents out on the quilt. WOW! From what I could see through the printing on the bag when I picked them out of the bin at the store they had appeared to be a decent size; not the small penny balloons that you usually find for a dollar a bag. I was not disappointed. They were all bright colored rubber and I quickly counted six large, twenty one that appeared to be the normal party size, and ten eight or nine inchers.

I selected a bright yellow medium size balloon to start my fun and laying on my back across the bed quickly had it up to about eight inches in diameter. It was nice and round indicating that it had the potential to get far larger. On the bag it was indicated that the balloons were factory seconds and there was no mention of the manufacturer, only the outfit that had packaged them. Although I had conquered my fear of balloons bursting in my face I still didn't relish unexpected surprises, so I stopped and held the rubber orb up to the ceiling light and carefully inspected it's translucent skin. To my surprise I found no thin spots or other signs of weakness, so I returned the balloon to my lips and continued to force in air until the rubber had reached it's limit. At this point the neck bulged outward making it difficult to keep the bead of the neck trapped between my lips.

I sat up and inspected my now light bulb shaped yellow rubber toy. The rubber was really tight and as I tapped the balloon on my knee it made a PING PING sound. Rousting myself from the bed I walked over to the corner of my room and retrieved the yard stick that I primarily used to access the size of my inflatable toys. I was impressed. The balloon had survived several seconds at a respectable twelve and a half inches across the width. Still holding the neck shut I waved my toy around the room and banged it against my thigh. PING PING, I loved the sound of tight rubber on the verge of ripping.

Then I flopped on the bed and allowed the air to escape. The balloon quickly collapsed to a silky thin bag at least half again larger than when I had started with it. I proceeded to re-inflate the balloon; this time standing so I could command the full blowing capability of my fifteen year old lungs. After fourteen deep blasts I felt the balloon again had reached its limit. A second measurement check showed it had gained almost an additional inch and a half in girth. WOW fourteen inches and there were twenty one balloons like it in just this one bag. Had I ever hit a balloon bonanza or what?

I had little doubt the balloon would not last very long so over inflated, so I allowed a bit of air to escape. For play purposes soft and squishy was the norm; so I allowed the balloon to contract to a more durable size. Not envisioning my fragile rubber toy lasting beyond the present play session I permanently tied the neck off.

Next I turned my attention to one of the large balloons. Based on the performance of the mid size these had to be sixteen's at least. I quickly set to work and without even thinking to perform a rubber inspection soon had it up to it's max that produced a well bulged neck. The initial measurement came in at sixteen and three quarters. Upon re-inflation it had grown to a tad under eighteen. Again I released about a third of the air until it retracted to a nearly round shape. The rubber was heavier and although it was larger than the yellow balloon, it was nice, squishy, and soft. I enjoyed siting on the edge of my bed after I tied it off trying to flatten it between my bare knees. What great luck. Just the six large balloons alone were worth the dollar the entire bag had cost me.

My stem had been semi-excited since I spied the large bin filled with the rubber goodies in the store and was oozing a bit when I donned the gym shorts that were more than a bit familiar with my boy juice. At this point my preoccupation with inspecting my fortuitous purchase had somewhat dulled the excitement in my lower reaches. Instead of immediately applying the balloons I had inflated to sensitive areas, which surely would have generated an orgasm in jolly quick time, I elected to inflate all the balloons spread about on my bed. I figured there were plenty more where these came from and I could afford to buy two bags a week. That would provide me more balloons each week than I had popped off in the last four months. For the first time in my life I could afford to have a real balloon bust.

I inflated each of the balloons to the max and then allowed some air to escape getting them to a tear drop shape. I decided to blow up all the smaller balloons that turned out to be ten inchers as well as the remaining twelve's. I figured I would save the larger balloons for special occasions, so I ripped open the second bag and stuck the five remaining large balloons in with the others so they wouldn't get mixed in with my current rubber stock. Then I hid the bag in the box containing my existing stash on the high shelf in the rear of my closet out of sight and beyond my mother's reach.

As I blew up all the balloons the first defective I discovered was one of the small balloons that had a pin hole in the side. The bigger the balloon got the bigger the hole became and soon the air out go was equal to my input. I covered the hole with my finger to stop this nonsense and got a couple of additional breaths into the rubber bag before the stress at the hole was too much and the balloon POPPED. The only other defective was a white medium size balloon that let go with a mighty BANG as I was inserting my final breath. The others survived their over-inflation ordeal and seemed to be content to roll lazily about on my bed and the floor. Wowie zowie. I never had so many inflated balloons around me in my entire fetish life.

I began kicking them up in the air and batting them around the room. There was no way I could keep even half of them air born at one time. Because of the initial over-inflation they were all nice and bouncy and floated about banging off the furniture and ceiling. There weren't too many balloon unfriendly objects in my room so after about fifteen minutes of batting them around only two had gone to balloon heaven with nice sharp POPS. All the while, however, there was always that uncertainty knowing that sooner or later another balloon would hit something and pop, and the anticipation of suddenly flying rubber got my thingy all big again. In addition my balls felt real heavy as they always did when my environmental situation got me all steamed up.

Finally I felt I couldn't hold off any longer so I corralled the big balloon and a few of the smaller ones with me on the bed. Then I pulled down the waist band of my gym shorts and began rubbing my knees and upper legs with one balloon while I pressed the large one into the side of my face so I could enjoy the olfactory aspects of my toys. The rest of the balloons were on the floor in front of me and I fantasized that the balloons were being busted by boys from my scout troop.

I visualized the scouts stomping, ripping with their fingernails, sticking their scout knives into the soft thin rubber, pressing their bare knees into the yielding rubber as they kneeled on them, endless fun ways of them getting busted. Oh wow. In no time I was ready to go. It only took a few swipes of the balloon on my throbbing stem before I gave a mighty thrust and my juice shot all over the balloon in my hand and onto the floor beyond. I flopped back across my bed and just lay there in ecstasy as I unsuccessfully attempted to wipe the cum off the balloon onto my bare thigh. Man was I one 'laxed dude. Too relaxed it turned out. I promptly fell asleep.

I was suddenly jarred awake by the sound of our front door being closed. Yikes someone was home. I had no choice but to try to get my very bulky rubber toys somehow into my closet. It was surprisingly difficult, especially since I was in a rush and was hoping against hope that none would decide to let go as I frantically tried to get them rounded up and stuffed in. After what seemed ages I managed to get them all pushed inside without causing any explosive loud noises and got the door shut.

It was mother who was home and while I was struggling with my toys she called up the stairs in a loud voice for me to come and get the stuff she had bought out of the car and into the house

The next order of business was to get some clothes on. If mom or dad caught me sporting gym shorts for pants it might cause them some wonder since older boys loathed wearing shorts even though I found them sexually stimulating. This was especially true for Boy Scout shorts when worn by some of my scouting friends that had good looking strong muscular legs. The fact that shorts and knee socks were mandatory for weekly scout meetings as well as most outdoor activities was unquestionably the most stimulating aspect of my Boy Scouting experience.

On several occasions when it was really hot and muggy mom had suggested that I would feel cooler and more comfortable in shorts, but I was emphatic in my refusal, knowing full well what would happen to me when my friends got a gander at my bare legs. The ridicule would have been the thing. A bit of ripped skin and blood I would gladly tolerate as badges of short pants wearing courage.

Then there was the matter of my goo on the floor. I grabbed the first piece of material I came across in my room to use as a wipe-up cloth which happened to be a scout neckerchief. It did the job, however, and except for a few streaks with an unusual glisten on the floor boards, all evidence of my earlier fun was eradicated.

Mother called up once again in a more demanding voice ordering me to go out and unload the car from her afternoon shopping foray. To save time I simply pulled my Levi's over the gym shorts and scurried down the stairs to greet my mother who commented as I rushed past, "What were you doing up in your room? I would think you would be outside on a nice day like today and maybe get your yard work done."

Oh oh. Mom was already suspicious. Maybe she had noticed I was a bit flushed and beads of sweat had formed on my brow as a result of my hurried clean up coupled with the adrenaline rush of nearly being discovered.

As I was lugging in a long roll that appeared to contain carpeting mother ordered me to carry it up to my room. Turned out she had bought a large throw rug to cover the expanse of bare floor in the center of my room that I had so recently christened with my boy goo. I was hoping the rug laying project would be put off until I had a chance to engage in some controlled deflation, but she followed me up the stairs and had me extract the rug from the shipping tube. My super sharp hunting knife slit the thin cardboard tube lickety-split. All we had to do was unroll it and it would be good to go. Looked like I was in the clear.

Wrong. Mother decided the entire room had to be cleaned and dry mopped and ordered me to get numerous piles of my junk and gear off the floor while she went to fetch the requisite cleaning equipment. I quickly scooped the stuff off the floor and onto my bed and made a hasty exit passing her in the hallway. She scowled as I passed and commented, "What have you been up to? You are sure acting strange."

I went outside to sit on the front porch with the realization that the chance that mom wouldn't discover my closet was jammed packed with inflated balloons was nil to none. My mind raced as I tried to come up with some culpable explanation.

A few years back when I was ten I had had a couple of inflated balloons hanging on my wall and she had scolded me then saying that big boys don't play with balloons. Then she insisted that I destroy them while she watched. I asked her how and she told me to just step on them. That experience had really sexed me up. Then on a couple of occasions I forgot and left balloons in my pants pockets when I tossed them in the wash. She always made a point of letting me know that she had found them and had taken care of them for me. My stem began to rise as I contemplated a command balloon bust for my mom involving the over two dozen balloons crammed in my closet.

It had been a quarter of an hour or more and I couldn't imagine mother requiring much more time to get the floor mopped before laying the carpet. Maybe I was going to somehow luck out after all. While I was thus mentally engaged my father swung into our driveway and got out of his car.

Crap, now I was really in for it. I would surely have a confrontation with both of them if for any reason mom opened my closet door. I don't know if mother had ever told him anything regarding our previous balloon related encounters or the occasional discovery that I had been playing with rubber toys. I suspected not, because my father was quite insistent that I should exemplify manly qualities at all times. My being a teen and playing with balloons I don't think would have quite cut it.

I went over to dad and asked how his day had gone and we engaged in some idle talk. Suddenly I heard a dull POOM from inside the house. Shit, one of my toys had taken a most inopportune time to bust. Then POOM, POOM, POOM... Uh oh, mother was taking care of my balloons for me again.

I wanted to rush upstairs, not that she wouldn't have them all busted before I could possibly get there, but just to see them pop and watch my pretty toys rapidly turned into torn sheets of rubber flying about in the confines of my closet. I didn't move, however, because dad had me riveted in his steely gaze as he demanded, "What the hell is that popping sound in the house?"

The fact that I could feel my face flush when I heard the first pop made it clear to him that I had the answer so I had no choice but to say, "Well, uh, mom bought a rug for my room and decided to dust mop the floor. I, a, em, had a couple of balloons in my room and I guess they must have got in her way.

Dad suddenly looked very displeased as he snapped, "A couple? It sounded like a whole room full to me. What the hell were you doing with a room full of balloons this afternoon while you were home alone? I thought your mother made it clear to you years ago that big boys don't play with toy balloons. Now here you are fifteen and I find you have a whole room full of them. What do you do with them? Use 'em to jack off with?"

I was staring intently at the floor. Dad barked, "Look at me boy. You need balloons when you play with yourself, is that it? Damn, why don't you have normal desires for girls like a real man. You can't screw a balloon; or can you? Answer me."

I mumbled, "No I guess not."

"What do you do with them then? Rub them on your dick until you get off?"

"Uh, yes , usually," I replied hesitatingly.

Father gave me a puzzled look for a few seconds then said, "Why the hell do you need so many balloons? Just a couple in case one busted before you shot your load I would think would be plenty. Why so many? Did you think you were having a party or something?"

"Well, ah, um, no," I stammered. "Just batting them around and squeezing and rubbing them until they bust gets me all excited; not just rubbing them on my body."

"I see," dad intoned flatly. "Seems like a pretty good waste of your allowance if you ask me. Rubber balloons sure aren't a very durable investment. All they are good for is to break them."

The two of us just stood there with father glaring at me. The silence seemed to go on for ever when finally he said, "I'm going to have to punish you far more severely than I ever have in the past. You have forced me to do something drastic that you will remember for the rest of your life. It's perfectly normal at your age for you to have an outlet for your sexual drive, but by damned it's not going to be toy balloons if I can help it."

At this point we heard mother coming down the stairs. In addition to the cleaning gear she was carrying a small sack, the one I had brought the balloons home in. As she walked by us to the cleaning closet in the laundry room she handed me the bag and said, "I've told you several times now you are too old to be playing with balloons. What were you doing with all of them up in your room this afternoon anyway? In any case you won't have to worry about them any more. I destroyed them all for you."

Without considering how much more it might add to dad's irritation the achy feeling I felt in my balls had to be satisfied. So I just couldn't resist asking mom how she had busted them. She must have punctured them with something because the balloons broke too rapidly for her to have picked them up and popped them with her fingernails or rounded them up and stomped on them. I doubted that she burned them with her cigarette because she didn't smoke when she was working or when she was upstairs.

Mom gave me a funny look and said, "Why do you care. They are gone now. I busted every last one of your silly balloons and put the torn rubber in this bag that I want you to take out back and burn right now; understand? Then they will be totally gone."

Dad turned to mom and gave hr a tired look as he said, "Our son here uses balloons to get himself all sexed up. Tell him how you destroyed his precious toys so he can get his jollies."

I figured mom would flip out but she simply said, "Yes I know what he uses balloons for and I don't think he should get any further stimulation from the ones I busted. However if you must know I just stuck them with your hunting knife."

More, more, I needed to know more. My stem was beginning to ooze in earnest. Mother seemed to sense my thoughts and need for sexual relief as she gave me a disgusted look and continued, "Yes you really have got the point of your knife nice and sharp and it went through the rubber with no force at all. They all busted real easy; especially the big one. They all ripped into nice big pieces of rubber that will burn real easy as well."

"Those busted balloons aren't the only thing that's going to burn," Father intoned sternly. "Where are the rest of your balloons. I want you to round up every last balloon you have and get them down here right now, understood. I will be more than happy to take care of them for you."

The balloons from my new found source were as good or better than the couple of gross I had accumulated over the years so I had no hesitation in running up to my room and fetching my entire stash. In any case with the angry mood dad was in I couldn't rule out a search of all my stuff. I didn't want to think of the consequences if he were to find even a single balloon that I might withhold .

With downcast eyes I presented my balloon box for dad's inspection. It was fairly well packed with the other quarter pound bag of balloons on top. He fingered through the mass of soft rubber bags and said disgustingly, "What a hell of a waste of good money. Now you are going to see a good deal of your allowance go up in smoke."

I couldn't help but point out the bag on top that only cost a buck. Dad looked it over and tore the plastic bag completely open adding the contents to the pile of loose balloons underneath. He didn't seem impressed at the amount of rubber a dollar had bought me. He picked out one of the large balloons and stretched the emerald green bag between his hands so that his nails dug into the taut rubber. The balloon resisted his destructive force for a second or two before one of his nails punctured the skin causing the rubber to rip and snap sharply back against his other hand. Dad looked up at me and smilingly said, "See how easy balloons are to get rid of. Wait until you see how easily and quickly they burn."

Dad grabbed the bag of busted balloons mother had brought down and plopped it on top of my balloon box which he then shoved into my hands. "Come on, boy, lets go out back and watch your sex toys go up in smoke."

As we hiked out to the back of the yard my balls felt like lead weights. My dick was oozing big time and the front of my gym shorts were fairly wet with the pre cum. I was hoping it wouldn't wet through my nearly new Levi's and really blow dad's cool.

The rear of our yard was fairly isolated and with the trees and shrubbery was not visible from other houses. We had a cement block alcove where I would bring trash each week to be burned and dad had me deposit the box with my rubber toys on top of the existing ashes. When I had finished this task I noted that dad had pulled out his pocket knife and was in the process of cutting a branch off the willow tree that dominated our back yard. I suddenly realized I wasn't going to totally enjoy the final moments of my toys. It was a fairly thick branch, a good half inch in diameter and it took him a minute or two to hack it off, trim off the secondary leaves, and cut the far end free. When his work was finished dad had fashioned himself a three foot long switch that was most certainly going to be applied to my backside.

Dad walked up to me a curtly said, "OK boy. Stand over there where you can get a good look at how easy your silly balloons burn.'

I hastened to do his biding. When I had reached a good vantage point dad added, "Now drop your pants. I want this to hurt more than anything you have ever felt before. I want you to remember this real good for the rest of your life."

Oh geeze. All I had on were my thin cotton gym shorts. My regular underpants wouldn't have provided any more protection but having dad discover I was wearing gym shorts, not to mention the fact that they were obviously wet with my boy juice, could only add to my humiliation and disgrace.

I balked at his command but dad soon made it clear that he was prepared for bare knuckle combat if that's what I wanted. The desire for survival quickly preempted my other concerns and in a few moments my Levi's were a crumpled blue mass around my ankles.

"Oh ho," Dad exclaimed. "So those are the pants you use when you play with balloons. It figures when you play with little boy toys you dress like a little boy; right? Get a lot more feeling of balloons on your body too, I'll bet. I guarantee you will get a lot more feeling from this switch on your ass. Now bend over and take your punishment like a man"

Dad walked over to the balloons and grabbed a fistful that he then stuck under the cardboard box. He drew his lighter out of his pants pocket, flicked it to life, and applied the flame to the hapless balloons under the front of the box. In a moment the heat had seared through the sides of two of the balloons and they burst into a bright orangish flame that quickly spread to the neighboring balloons. Within seconds most of the balloons under the box were blazing away and burning molten blobs of melting rubber were cascading down on the ashes below.

I heard the whistling sound a moment before the searing pain of the willow switch brutally yanked my attention away from the tremendously sexual scene I was witnessing. I had never felt such intense burning pain in my life. I thought someone had sliced across my ass cheeks with a red hot saber. I instinctively let out a howl and tried to stand up. Father quickly reached over and grabbed my neck and forced me to again bend over. Whack. Another searing slice across my hindquarters.

The flames crawled up the front of the cardboard box which resisted penetration for a surprisingly long while. Then the cardboard parted and the flames had direct access to the hundreds of balloons huddled inside.

Soon the entire wall of balloons were burning as the melting flaming rubber collapsed into rivers of boiling black flaming goo that slowly ran down the ash pile the balloons had been placed on like black lava.

Whack whack. "How does it feel boy? Are you enjoying watching your sex toys burn?" Dad's voice drooled sarcasm. "Lets give it a go on your pretty bare legs, shall we?"

Whack. As much as I tried my eyes were welling up with tears. The last stroke landed across the back of my thighs below the hem of my shorts. Whack whack. Two more strokes on my bare flesh and my legs just gave way. I crumpled into a heap on the grass at the feet of my father.

"Get up boy," father commanded sternly. "I want you to take off those damn shorts you like to play in. You can slip back into your jeans."

Dad was standing over me with the switch still gripped in his hand as I struggled to get the gym shorts down over my lacerated behind and legs. Just moving my body without even having anything touch my raw flesh just added further to the unbearable pain. Somehow I managed to crawl out of the shorts without having my burning flesh touch the grass. I was on my hands and knees as dad walked over and dropped my Levi's in front of me saying, "Here, put these on."

How I was going to accomplish that escaped me for the moment. I couldn't picture how I would be able to take the added pain of the heavy cotton denim being pulled up over the back of my raw legs and buttocks.

While I was thinking about this dad hooked the end of the willow branch under the waist band of my gym shorts and picked them up. The soft thin cotton hung down loosely in folds as he carried it over to the flaming rubber goo that was all that remained of my balloons. He let the hem of the one leg dangle in the flames and in a moment the material scorched and burst into flames as well that raced quickly up the thin material. Before the flames actually reached it the rubber in the waist band died and the pants drooped down into the bubbling burning rubber. Within less than a minute the entire pair of shorts was gone and all that was left was the dangling ring of the heavier waist band that finally parted and dropped into the cauldron of burning rubber.

Father tossed the willow stick aside and finally realizing the pain I was in gathered my jeans and worked them up over my sneakers and lower legs. With this accomplished he helped me stand and pull them up over my hips. He did his best to keep from dragging the material over my still flaming backside.

We stood and watched for several minutes as the black rubber goo continued to burn and bubble. When it finally started to subside we turned and headed very slowly back to the house. I had both of my hands behind me as I tried to hold the seat of the jeans away from my buttocks. Father turned to me and apologetically said, "I hated having to do this to you but you have to understand that this foolish sexual play with balloons has got to stop for your own good. I would have far rather found you were reading sex magazines and looking at pornography than getting your sexual stimulus from rubber balloons. If I find out you are playing around with balloons again before you grow up and leave my house than I will whip you again even harder. Is that understood?"

I slowly nodded acquiescence realizing that any future balloon play would entail acceptance of severe consequences.   Reformatted on 5/24/02     Post 6/02

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