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During the summer of my fifth year we had gone for the summer to my grandfathers as we did every year where my dad, who was a school teacher, would help him with his business during the summer school recess. Because I was too big for my crib I got to sleep on a bunk bed with my dad that was located on a second story outside porch. Near the end of the summer the nights were beginning to get very cold and I didn't really appreciate my mom tucking my hot little bod into the cold bed. I was wearing neck to toe jammies, but they were no match for the cold mattress, sheets, and covers into which I was being thrust. I discovered I could get myself warmed up quickly by lying face down and swinging my arms and legs in and out like doing a horizontal jumping jack. This of necessity resulted in my little penis rubbing about which caused it to expand and feel good.

The first few nights I didn't pay any particular attention to this phenomenon, stopping my exercise when I had gotten the bed and myself sufficiently warmed up. After about a week and a half of this warm up routine there was an especially cold evening, and following my warm up exercise I just continued wiggling my hips Elvis style. This made my little dick feel really good. I short order I experienced a sort of peeing sensation followed by the most wonderful warm relaxing feeling. WOW! When the feeling passed I quickly checked to see if I had wet the bed. Nothing. The experience was so relaxing I soon fell asleep. From that night on this fun exercise of mine became a nightly routine.

A few weeks later we had moved back home for the winter and I continued my nightly workouts. I somehow knew that what I was doing was not acceptable behavior so I was as discrete as possible, keeping undue bed noises to a minimum. During my workouts, which required from five to ten minutes, I found myself thinking about various things that had happened during my day. One of the few behavioral prohibitions that my parents imposed on me was that I was not to break or deliberately destroy any of my toys. As a result of this, I naturally found pleasure in seeing things getting broken or destroyed. I occasionally encouraged my friends to break things while I watched. I always was careful in guarding my stuff, however, only allowing certain kids I could trust to play with my toys. Somehow the concept of something of value to me suddenly becoming worthless I found stimulating. I especially liked to watch things burning.

Now it happened that as I lay on my stomach during my workout sessions my gaze fell upon three Hi-Flyer kites that were sitting on the floor leaning against the wall of my bedroom. As I worked on my orgasm I began to fantasize about the kites getting caught in trees and the thin tissue paper ripping. I also though how quickly they would burn, visualizing the flames quickly racing up the tissue paper. Soon just thinking about the kites thus being destroyed would give me a boner apart from any mechanical rubbing.

After about a month or two, however, I had completely exhausted all the kite destroying scenarios my five year old brain could come up with, so I mentally started thinking about other toys that would break relatively easily without a premeditated destructive intent being too obvious. My toy drums became my next orgasm aids. The drum heads were made of tough heavy paper in those days but I had seen what had happened to my friend's drum when I had asked him to beat it louder. The ripped paper head rendered the toy useless. I found it interesting but not stimulating at the time but now the thought of busting drum heads had a new impetus. Alas, there still wasn't a lot of scenarios I could conjure up about braking my drums.

It was a custom in my social set for kids to have relatively elaborate birthday parties. These parties generally had great numbers of balloons, both as decorations and party favors for the guests. Now I was terrified of loud noises as a young lad and as a result I hated being around inflated balloons. None of my previous three birthday parties had any balloons because I wouldn't stand for it. This had not gone over too well with my parents, especially my father. After all what parent wants a male child that is terrified of a little piece of brightly stretched rubber.

In February of the following year I was invited to a friends birthday party that was held on a week night instead of a Saturday afternoon, which was the norm. There was sufficient daylight after school for me to walk to his house, but it would be dark by the time the party would end. As a result my dad was going to come in the car to take me home when it was over. It turned out to be a first class balloon party. There were balloons everywhere; decorations on the ceiling, lying about the living and dining rooms, stuffed in piles behind furniture, etc. I was immediately on edge as soon as I walked in the door. Fortunately kids were much more disciplined in those days and there was no mad house balloon popping or any such thing; but just in the course of handling them one would go off now and then causing me to jump.

With all the inflated balloons lying about I was sure there was going to be some balloon braking games, and I unfortunately wasn't disappointed. When all the guests had arrived, our host's mom started things off with a 'bang' by having us each select a balloon from a special pile she had in the corner. We were then asked to sit on the floor and form a circle. She handed the first kid a long knitting needle and told him to pop the balloon he had selected. He immediately stabbed the rubber and even though we were all watching him closely the sudden BANG made half of us jump. She had the boy pass the needle to the kid on his right and we proceeded to sequentially pop our balloons with the knitting needle that was passed from one boy to the next.

The balloons contained pictures of the toys that each guest would get to play with and could then take home from the party. Most of the boys just held their balloon down on the floor with one hand and stabbed it with the needle. I had no problem with balloons bursting this way because I knew exactly when the bang was going to happen. It was the unexpected balloon busting that really frightened me. As though sensing my anxiety, the kid just before me trapped his balloon between his legs and then ever so slowly pressed the rather dull point of the knitting needle into the thin rubber. It finally punctured the skin and I noticed that I wasn't the only one that jumped at the expected but un-timed POP. When the 'buster' needle reached me I held my balloon as far away as I could and dispatched it with a quick jab. I retrieved the slip of paper that was inside and showed it to birthday boy's mom and she handed me a small wooden race car; no plastics in those days.

They had one other balloon game on the agenda that was pretty much of a flop. My host's mom had overestimated the motor control capability of the five and six year olds that were attending the party and the balloon race which involved transporting balloons by trapping them between the backsides of two players who then had to walk sideways in lockstep to the finish line overtaxed the coordination capability of most of the guests. After ten minutes of constantly dropped balloons and re-starts, the game was called off and we moved on to other activities.

Finally after several other indoor games we got to the cake and ice cream part and the party started winding down. Many of the other kids were being picked up by their parents so they were leaving one by one. There was still a great number of inflated balloons lying about in addition to the balloons that were used for the decorations which were still all intact. Birthday boys mom was insistent that each departing guest take a minimum of two inflated balloons with them in addition to several uninflated balloons as well. She obviously wanted to minimize the party clean up mess.

I knew dad was going to be late in picking me up, and in fact I was the last to leave. Birthday boy and his mom wanted me to take a car load of the balloons home, but I wanted none of them. I guess it embarrassed Dad a bit because he accepted two of the inflated balloons, jammed them in my hand, and hustled me out to the car. On the short trip home he asked me why I didn't want to take the balloons, and I told him I didn't like the noise of them bursting. I wasn't about to tell him being around bursting balloons frightened me really a great deal, but he sensed that was my problem. He said, "You known that is what balloons are for. You blow them up, play with them, and then break them. We will have to get you over your fear of balloons so you can enjoy playing with them the way a boy your age should."

It was just a few blocks drive from the party to our house. When we got home, dad handed me the two balloons we had brought from the party and I gathered up my other loot. I fully expected dad, the balloons, and I, were going to have a session as soon as we got in the house based on his obvious annoyance with my balloon fears. I am sure this was what he was planning but as it turned out mother was waiting for us and wanted to hear all the details about the party, how much fun I had, etc. She also had dinner ready. When we finished eating, because it was later than normal, mom decided it was time for me to take a bath and go to bed (I had a strict 8 PM bedtime). I took the balloons and party favors into my room when I undressed for my bath. I had about a half hour of tub play time before mom came in to insure I got washed all over. After the bath I was put to bed. As soon as the coast was clear I started my normal bedtime exercise, rubbing my little cock up and down inside my PJs as I lay on my stomach. As I was becoming aroused, my mind drifted to the birthday party and the fun I had experienced. I still didn't connect any sexual significance to the balloons at this time although I had been around dozens that had been popped at the party.

After a couple of days I thought my father had forgotten all about our brief balloon discussion in the car. He hadn't said anything further and the two party balloons were still reasonably well inflated in my bedroom on my toy chest.

About a week and half after the party I had attended it was a Friday, the end of the month, and dad's pay day. When he got home from work he said he had a present for me. This wasn't unusual; he often would stop at the toy store on his way home from the school where he worked and buy me some small toy. This time the toy was a big bag of balloons. As we ate dinner I had a dull uneasy feeling in my gut wondering how much he was going to scare me with the balloons; and just what scary activities did he have in mind that would help me overcome my balloon popping fear. I really enjoyed watching balloons getting broken, with the rubber pieces flying all over, but the suddenness and uncertainty of their demise while being played with limited my desire to just watching other kids getting involved with the popping, not me.

After we had eaten, dad asked my mom if she had any large pins. She produced a hat pin about 5 inches long that had a dark green ceramic bead on the one end. It wasn't particularly sharp, so father went and got his knife sharpening stone and proceeded to put a super sharp point on the pin. When he was finished sharpening the pin point he said, "We will call this the Balloon Buster. You can use it to help get over your fear of popping balloons."

We then went into the living room and dad started blowing up the large round party balloons he had brought home. He wanted me to help him, but I said I was too timid yet and I would try blowing some later. He made me stand next to him, however, and thankfully honored my request not to blow them up too big; just nice and round without the neck beginning to pear shape. When he had about two dozen inflated, he took the last one after tying it off, and started to squeeze the rubber making the balloon squeak and squeal in protest. It was all I could do to keep from running. I expected the balloon to pop at any second. It didn't because it still had a lot of room to stretch (I didn't realize how big really over inflated balloons could get). Dad saw my discomfort , handed me the balloon, and said, "Here, stick it with the balloon buster pin. It won't pop that loud."

He handed me the buster pin and I held the balloon as far in front of me as my arm could reach. I quickly jabbed the rubber skin and the balloon died with a POOF; not nearly as loud as I had expected. Well, I thought, that wasn't too bad after all.

Next he reached over and grabbed one of the other inflated balloons from the floor, stood up, and batted it with his hand across the living room. I raced after it while he grabbed up additional balloons and started propelling them in my direction. I did my best to bat them back to him. It became immediately evident that I could do a better job of returning his balloon serves if I could whack them while they were still in the air. It became a contest to see how many of the dozen or so balloons we could keep in motion and up off the floor. We were both really getting a workout; me especially. Dad had an advantage of a much longer reach so he didn't have to move about as much. In the frenzy of our game I completely forgot about my balloon anxiety and the occasional balloon popping from hitting sharp cornered objects in the room or being stepped on or tripped over by me didn't even register. In fact I soon was deliberately whacking them as hard as I could just to see if I could get them to bust.

After maybe fifteen minutes of feverishly racing around I was beginning to get slap happy as well as dizzy. At this point about eight of the balloons had succumbed to our abuse. I started kicking the balloons as well as diving after them. Several of them popped as I kicked at them when they were next to furniture and had no place to escape the toe of my shoe that I saw sink deeply into the side before they popped. Additional ones were occasionally under me and got squashed when I fell time and again on the floor. Those that got trapped under my bare legs let out a screech as the over stretched rubber slid on my skin moments before they burst. Without realizing it I had lost all my inhibitions about being in close contact with bursting balloons. It was a help that they were not inflated really hard so when they did bust they didn't die with too loud a bang.

A few minutes later mom came in and called a halt to our fun. She was afraid I would get sick; and she was probably right because I felt a tad nauseous and dizzy from all my racing around. There were still maybe seven or eight balloons left to finish off. Dad suggested I kneel on them. I went over to the nearest balloon, squatted down on my haunches and rocked forward pressing my knees into the balloon. The rubber squealed as the balloon squirted up between my bare legs. It didn't pop. OK smart ass balloon, I thought. I'll fix you. I carefully positioned the rubber orb directly under my right knee and pressed down slowly. The rubber stretched over my knee and lower leg as it fought to support my weight. Finally when I had nearly pressed my knee all the way down to the carpet; BANG! My knee hit the floor as the balloon exploded all over the rug. There were many more small pieces of torn rubber and they were much smaller then those that covered the floor from the other balloons. Hot dang I thought, that was fun. I proceeded to finish off the others the same way.

Later after I was washed and put to bed that night I had no trouble thinking of a toy to fantasize about destroying during my bedtime exercise routine. Not only were balloons easy and fun to break, but dad was encouraging me to bust them. I had found the perfect easily destroyed toy fetish to augment my nightly exercise routine.   Revised on 8/01

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