Please Visit Our Sponsor

BACKGROUND
My initial balloon play session with dad had locked in my balloon fetish for life. Although I am sure there was no intent on dad's part to get me sexually aroused (and in fact I wasn't at all during our first riotous balloon play and popping session) my pre-disposition, due to my early discovery of self stimulation, had caused me to search for an object being destroyed upon which I could mentally focus while pleasuring myself. Balloons were an ideal candidate because, aside from decorative uses, their primary function in life is to ultimately go POP. Their destruction is sudden, total, and complete. Balloon bursting is a socially acceptable and natural outcome of playing with a toy that is so vulnerable to sudden catastrophic destruction, especially in the hands of a five year old boy in knee pants.

My Father had indicated that we could only have balloon play sessions once a month, and then only if there was a little extra money available. After our second balloon play night the following month I greatly looked forward to future play sessions. I quickly incorporated the various ways in which the balloons had been broken during our play into my nightly exercise sessions. As I reached orgasm I occasionally would think of other 'stimulating' things that I would try with the balloons during our next pop off.

The two balloons that I brought home from the birthday party nearly a month earlier were still about 3/4 inflated when I discovered where they had fallen behind my large toy chest. For a week or so after I brought them home they had been lying on the top and when they vanished I just assumed mom had gotten rid of them. I fished them out and was greeted with a luscious sweet aroma from the now soft and squishy rubber. The balloons Dad and I had played with a couple of weeks earlier had a rubbery smell but nothing like the balloons I was now holding. I handled them very carefully, not because I was afraid of the pop at this point, but because I wanted them and that 'smell' to last.

That night I incorporated the balloons into my 'exercise' routine for the first time. I held one of the balloons against my face during my masturbation session allowing the aroma of the aging rubber to add additional stimulation to the mental balloon popping images from the party and my initial balloon pop session with Dad that my mind was re-living. This went on for about two weeks when I noticed upon arriving home from school one day that mom had cleaned up my room that morning and my rubber playthings were no where in sight. I asked about them and she said that they were old and smelly and she had gotten rid of them. I didn't want to appear too concerned, but I was dying to know what she had done with them. I smilingly asked, "How did you pop them?"

"Why I just tore them with my fingernails," Mom replied.

"Did they make a loud bang?" I wanted to know.

"No, just a tired poof sound," she replied. "Why are you so interested. I thought you really didn't like balloons."

What I was really interested in was where the remains were. I hung around the house the rest of the afternoon waiting for opportunities to sneak a peek in the trash or garbage cans. Later that night after mom had cleaned up the kitchen from our supper I finally located the tissue thin rubber sheets in the garbage can under the remains of our dinner. YUCK! So much for that glorious aged rubber smell.

It seemed to take forever, but the end of the month finally arrived. I was hoping dad would have some extra money and would show up with another bag of rubber toys for us to enjoy. I had mixed emotions, however. On one hand I had the most fun of my life during my first balloon play session with dad and I was anxious to repeat the performance. On the other, I was still afraid to handle tightly inflated balloons and would only inflate them 3/4 full. Since the rationale for our balloon busting sessions (at least as he had explained to mom) was to get me over my gun shyness (fear of unexpected sudden loud noises) I was concerned that dad was going to press me to exhibit more manly fearless balloon popping during our future balloon play sessions. Nonetheless I made a special point of being home when he arrived from work. Alas, he had nothing with him. I tried not to appear disappointed. I would have to wait to get my hands on more balloons. I realized that one way or another, my balloon busting enjoyment would eventually conquer my balloon fears.

The following Friday night I was late getting in and dad was already home. We ate dinner and afterwards he said he had something to show me. WOW! it was an entire box of brightly colored balloons like we had played with the month before. He explained that his friend that ran the toy store had sold it to him at cost and he had saved over 50%. I don't think mom was any too pleased. She didn't like to see me get overly stimulated physically, especially at night when I was supposed to be winding down for bed. So far she and I am sure dad had no idea I was getting stimulated by balloons in other ways as well. Father indicated that we would ration the balloons to a maximum of 24 per session and that we would only play with them once each month on Friday nights, so the somewhat later than usual bedtime wouldn't impact school or getting up for church.

We started our session that night with me sitting on his left knee while he inflated the first few balloons. He was making them bigger; blowing them to a near tear drop shape. It made me nervous being so near such potentially explosive rubber 'bombs' but I held my ground as his powerful lungs filled the brightly colored bags. Suddenly as he was putting the last puff of air into it, the balloon he was inflating apparently had a weak spot and burst in his face. We both jumped. Prior to the party a month and a half earlier, I would have run off to mother crying, not because of the destruction of the balloon, but because of the scare I had experienced. This time dad gave my leg a squeeze and said, "Good boy. The pop didn't frighten you too much I see. I guess It must have had a hole in it to make it break so soon."

I think that the unexpected pop, which had startled dad and made him jump as much as me, gave me courage for the moment. He blew up a few more and tied them off without incident. Then he said, "You're a big enough boy now. If you want to have fun breaking them then you have to help blowing them up."

I stood up as he handed me a balloon. I was surprised at how hard the initial blow was to get the balloon inflation started. After a couple of false starts I got the hang of holding the neck and squeezing it tightly when I wasn't blowing so that the balloon didn't loose half the air I had just forced in. The balloon began to bulge out in front of my face and it was soon larger than my head. I felt really proud of myself, but then the ever expanding balloon started to pull the neck rubber out of my fingers, and the fear of it popping right in my face as the one had with dad caused me to stop and examine the results of my efforts. The balloon was as big as I wanted it to get; just beginning to tear drop. Dad was very pleased. As he tied it off for me he said, "Well, now you have blown up your first balloon all by yourself. I'm very proud of you. Now what are you going to do with it?"

I held the tight rubber between my hands and said, "Can I go show mom and then put it in my room to look at?"

He smiled and said, "Sure. but just this first one. Remember you are supposed to play with these balloons until they break. Popping them is what balloons are intended for and what I want to do is get you over your fear of being around them and having them pop suddenly so you will be comfortable playing with and breaking them like other boys your age."

Mother seemed pleased at my effort when I showed her the balloon and I dropped it off in my bedroom. By the time I got back to the living room dad had about 10 balloons fully inflated. He slowed his inflation effort to give me time to blow up 5 or 6 more by myself. We soon had our allotment of 24 balloons for the night inflated except for the one that popped while dad was blowing it up.

Dad picked up several of the balloons from the pile next to his chair and started batting them toward me. I was hitting them back to him as best I could, trying to keep all the balloons that were in play off the floor and in the air. The balloons however, just weren't flying nearly as well as they had when we played this way a month earlier. The fact that they were larger and harder because they were blown up tighter drastically reduced their bounce and the distance they would fly when hit. They also broke much more readily, with a louder sharp BANG instead of the POP sound like balloons the month before that hadn't been so fully inflated made when they burst, when they would hit the sharp corner of a table or ashtray. Our balloon batting game was not nearly as much fun as the first time. I'm sure this was partly the result of the tightness of the rubber and my still present fear of having loudly bursting balloons near me. I was making a point of carefully picking them up when they landed on the floor instead of trying to kick them back to him. I also purposefully avoided flopping on them and crushing them under my knees and butt as I had enjoyed doing when we had played with them the previous month. My popping fear was inhibiting my enjoyment and as a result I was not sexually aroused at all this night as I batted the balloons about.

Father sensed my disappointment and anxiety and did not replace the balloons that broke with additional ones from the pile on the floor. We had reduced the initial 6 or 8 down to just two which allowed us to control our serves fairly well. After several additional minutes of balloon volleying they were still intact. Finally I was really getting tired and winded from all my running about so I began to really hit them with a vengeance hoping they would break; but they didn't. Father finally said, "Tough buggers, aren't they. Why don't you squash them under your foot. We have plenty more here we have to get rid of."

That didn't seem too much for me to handle. I tapped the balloons out to the middle of the floor, raised my leg and stomped on the first one. It made an unbelievably loud BANG and dozens of small pieces of rubber flew all over the rug. I moved over and was getting ready to stomp the life out of the second one when dad yelled, "Stop. That's how sissies do it. Press down nice and slowly and see how much of a fight it will put up before it busts."

I said something to the effect that I didn't like doing it that way but dad's disapproving eyes told me I had better not stomp. I slowly pressed my shoe down on the helpless toy while I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth for courage. BAM! I almost lost my balance as my balloon support suddenly gave way. I was surprised that it hadn't taken as much pressure to pop it as when I had crushed balloons under my knees the previous month, and the pop caught me by surprise. "Good, that's the way men bust them," dad beamed. "I guess we shouldn't have blown these up so big if we were going to bat them around," he added.

The remaining balloons were knotted so there was no way to let some of the air out. I was faced with the prospect of us having to eliminate nearly a dozen and a half reasonably well inflated balloons. I asked dad what we should do with them since they weren't much good for our balloon volleyball. I was leaning toward a few quick jabs of the extra sharp balloon buster pin dad had made, but dad's initial suggestion was that I should try sitting on them. That had been fun a month earlier. Then the partially inflated balloons had readily supported my weight and only burst when I flopped down hard on the floor on top of them. "Won't the balloon hurt my behind and legs when it breaks?" I queried.

"No your shorts are heavy enough. You shouldn't feel a thing. You are a big boy now and if a balloon stings the back of your legs I am sure you will be able to handle it," he replied.

I didn't feel all that confident. I still had a strong flight and cry response to sudden loud noises and I wasn't all that good in handling pain control either. The balloons were a good foot in diameter and I had to position my buns over the balloon from a more or less squatting position because my arms weren't long enough for me to raise my butt off the floor sufficiently to get the balloon under me. As I rocked backward I fully expected the balloon to support my weight. Wrong. The rubber let go with a loud sharp pop as my ass bounced on the floor. Dad grinned. I wasn't sure the pain I felt in my buns was the result of the balloon exploding or the sudden drop to the floor. Dad indicated he wanted me to break some more that way and I obliged. However, when I sat down on the forth balloon, it was forward more under my thighs instead of my buns and when the balloon popped I got a good sting on the back of my bare legs below the hem of my shorts. I jumped up and went crying to my mother. Dad came running after me. She started giving dad hell about scaring me with the balloons as she quickly got me calmed down and made everything better with hugs and kisses. I partially lied not wanting mom to outlaw further balloon play, "No no, it wasn't the balloon popping. When it busted It stung the back of my legs when it broke. That's what made me cry."

I didn't want dad to think I was still afraid of the balloons breaking, even though there was little doubt in my mind that I was. Dad said, "Let's see what we can do with the rest of your balloons," as he led me back into the living room.

There were still more than a dozen nice and tight balloons scattered on the floor awaiting their doom. I popped another three or four under my foot, nice and slow like dad wanted me to. I was getting used to the expected pop even though I wasn't exactly sure of the exact moment. Dad tried to get me to break a few using body contact beside my shoe, but the thought of additional rubber stinging me caused me to flat out refuse. This annoyed dad somewhat and at one point he pressed one of the balloons down on my left knee while I was sitting on his leg. I started screaming and he released his pressure on it without breaking it.

Dad was getting exasperated so he asked me how did I want to get rid of the remaining balloons. I told him I wanted to stick them with the balloon buster pin he had made. He said that would just be a waste of the balloons and that he should just throw the rest of them out. I said, "No no. I like playing with them and finally busting them. These are just too big and they hurt me when they pop."

"OK, I know what we can do to them since you want to stick pins in them," Dad replied. We went into the kitchen and he and got two wooden matches. He cut off the heads and made two cuts perpendicular to each other in one end He then cut two small rectangular pieces of heavy paper and pushed them into the slits he had made in the one end of the match. Next he had me fetch two straight pins from mom's sewing basket. He cut the heads off the pins and proceeded to stick the cut end of the pin into the other end of the match stick. He had made miniature darts.

I couldn't wait to get back to the inviting targets on the floor in the living room. Father showed me how to hold the miniature darts and threw them at the sofa across the room. They really flew nice and straight when dad threw them; not nearly as well when I gave it a try. We lined up our rubber targets in front of the sofa on the floor.

My first few throws were very poor. The darts either stuck into the rug in front of the balloons or into the cushions of the sofa above the balloons. On about the fifth or sixth throw my dart hit one of the balloons and it suddenly disappeared with a loud pop scattering it's neighbors. I carefully lined up the remaining balloons and started tossing away. Within a few minutes I had reduced all the balloons to torn chunks of rubber laying on the sofa or scattered about on the floor.  Revised on 10/01
<Continue to Early Years #3>

Sponsored by: Ashley's Sex Toys and Adult Video Store