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During the ensuing weeks I mentally incorporated my balloon play experiences into my nightly masturbation sessions. I re-lived every pop and squeal of tortured rubber as I rubbed my little 'toidy' vigorously on my bed sheet.

The first balloon I had ever totally inflated from our second balloon session had a place of honor in my bedroom. I hadn't touched it for the first few weeks because it was pretty well inflated and I thought it might burst right in front of me if I even touched it. After two weeks though, it had lost some of it's air, was nice and soft, and OH what a delightful honeysuckle sweet smell from the rubber. I immediately started using the balloon as an adjunct for my sexual stimulation as I had the two balloons I had gotten from the birthday party I attended two months earlier.

One night I was so tired that I fell asleep without reaching orgasm and mom came in the room and found the balloon in my bed. She put it back where I kept it and when she came in the next morning to wake me she made it clear she didn't want me playing with any toys in my bed when I was supposed to be sleeping; especially balloons. I think she was beginning to suspect that balloons were more significant to me than just another toy. She brought the balloon over to me and said, "This balloon is old and smelly and it is time to get rid of it."

Before I could object she pressed the fingers of both her hands into the soft rubber skin as she pulled her hands apart. The balloon protested with a squeal as the rubber stretched over her fingertips. Then she curved her fingertips so her nails dug into the thin rubber skin. In short order mom's nails punctured the balloon which suddenly died with a tired 'POOF' sound. Seeing my beloved toy so readily destroyed gave me an instant hard on which was fortunately hidden in the folds of my jammies.

I was not overly anxious for another Friday night balloon play session with my dad because playing with the well inflated balloons the previous session had been somewhat traumatic as a result of my bare legs being stung by a balloon that burst when I sat on it. After four weeks had passed I wasn't sure we would have another play session. I checked regularly and the box of balloons was still on the shelf in the hall closet so I knew that they hadn't been thrown out.

The next Friday night after supper dad asked me if I was ready to play some more with the balloons. I tried to sound enthusiastic with my "Yes." Dad grabbed a fist full from the box in the closet and sat in his chair. I made a point of reminding him that we shouldn't blow the balloons up too tightly because they didn't bat around very well. (I was actually more concerned about the loud violent pop when they would burst). He handed me a balloon and said, "OK, you blow them up as big as you think you can be comfortable with."

This put me in a quandary because my still present fear of balloons dictated about a 3/4 full inflation point and my desire not to let dad know I was still very much afraid of the rubber toy's unexpected pops required that they be fully inflated. I realized anything less would disappoint my father. So with eyes closed, and hoping the balloon wasn't a defective, I blew the balloon up until it began to push the neck out into a teardrop shape. It was a good compromise as Dad was pleased at my seeming confidence; however the balloon was rather hard like the ones we played with the last time. I handed it to him to tie it off and started on the next balloon. Before he knotted the neck, however, Dad let some of the air out making the balloon softer and rounder. Figuring why waste the effort (plus risk having one suddenly pop in my face) I only inflated my next balloon to a nice round size. Dad frowned and indicated that they would be softer if they were fully inflated first to really stretch the rubber to the maximum. After first having them tightly inflated we could then release some of the air so they would be nice and soft and bouncy; so he pressed me to blow them as big as I could. I'm sure he was hoping one would bust in my face to get a feel for my unexpected sudden balloon pop tolerance level. Dad sat there watching me blow several more of them up at which point I was getting pretty well winded.  He helped me finish blowing up the rest, making a point of really pushing the envelope (pun intended).

We started our play by batting about half of the balloons back and forth to each other in the living room. Great; they flew around as well as they had the first night when he had initially brought the balloons home. They actually seemed to bounce around far more than the previous month when they had been far too tightly inflated. I soon got totally caught up in racing around trying to keep as many balloons off the floor and in the air and hit them back to dad as I could. I both kicked them and batted them with my hands. I soon got dizzy from my spinning and racing around and started tripping over and falling on balloons that were bouncing about on the floor. POP, POOF, BANG. Soon I was spending more time on the floor rolling, kneeling on, squeezing, and otherwise purposefully abusing the balloons, with the actual intent of having them burst and seeing the rubber pieces fly. As always I was wearing short pants and as I fell over and on them the balloons were being scrubbed against my bare legs and flattened under my knees; and it felt so gooooooood. The screech and groans of the distorted rubber sliding on my bare skin as the balloons squirted out from under me really added to my 'excitement'. In short order, without even realizing it, my little dickey was soon at full attention.

After probably 15 minutes dad called a halt. The sweat was dripping off me and I remember some of it got in my eye and burned. After a cool down period dad had me come over and sit on his knee. Fortunately my erection had dissipated while I was cooling off on the floor so I didn't have any tell tale lump in the front of my shorts. I probably wouldn't have thought anything of this under normal circumstances because mom had told me it was natural for my 'toidy' to get big from time to time. However I was really well aware of the fact that the fun I was having with the balloons was responsible for my enlarged condition and I suspected my dad would not be too pleased if he knew. There was no doubt of late when I was around balloons or even thinking about them they created a 'big time' in my shorts.

Dad picked up one of the balloons from the floor next to his chair and started to squeeze and rub it between his hands. The balloon squeaked and squealed with each movement of his hands and fingers. I began to have an anxiety attack as Dad's strong muscular fingers rubbed the thin rubber skin harder and harder. "How tough do you think this balloon is?" he queried. "Let's see how much it will take to bust it, shall we?"

I was surprised that it hadn't popped already. More pressure. More twisting. Squeak squeeeeak POW! Finally the rubber had enough and the balloon suddenly burst. We both jumped. It was comforting to know that it's demise had surprised dad as well. He reached over and grabbed another and pressed it into my chest, saying, "Here, lets see you bust this one the same way".

I gingerly started to squeeze it and twist it between my hands as dad had done not knowing really how much pressure and rubbing he had actually applied to bust the other one. Because of it's size I had the balloon in my lap; and more and more as I pressed harder the squirming balloon was rolling around on my crotch and my bare legs. Again I got that really gooood feeling as I felt my stem begin to rise. This took my mind off my immediate fear of the balloon popping right in front of me. After a minute or two of raucous squeaking dad indicated that I had to squeeze it harder and that I should dig my finger tips more into the rubber. I finally actually became annoyed that the pretty rubber toy I was squeezing in my lap would not break; and I loved to see things break. I pressed the balloon back on my stomach with the tips of my fingers and this did the trick. The balloon popped into several large sheets of rubber that flew spinning off onto the floor and I really felt a sense of accomplishment. Dad was definitely pleased with my destructive labor.

There were no more balloons within dad's reach so I got off his knee and grabbed another balloon and started squeezing and rubbing it as before. Dad picked up a large sheet of rubber off the floor from the balloon I had just popped and started stretching it between his fingers. As I tortured the balloon I was holding he pressed his nails again and again into the thin rubber sheet. Finally his nails ripped through the rubber and as he pulled it apart, the sheet tore in two and each section snapped back into the palms of his hands.

I was standing in front of him and he suddenly reached out and grabbed the balloon out of my grasp. I immediately tried to pill the balloon back away from him and we were soon playing what we would soon call balloon wrestling. This basically consisted of trying to pull the protesting balloon out of each others grip. There were no winners in this game; just the loosing balloons when they had enough abuse and would finally break. It was very noisy play, not aside from the ultimate POP, as the tight rubber slid about under the pressure of our hands and fingers. I enjoyed this activity as much as batting the balloons around although it didn't give me as much sexual stimulation as other balloon play that brought balloons into contact with my bare legs and crotch region did.

At this point we were now down to ten or so balloons. Mom was getting annoyed at all the noise we were making wrestling with the balloons and was threatening to come into the living room and get rid of them for us. I was taking a breather and was flopped laying on my back on the floor in front of dad with my one leg pulled toward me so my knee jutted up in the air. I was holding one of the balloons lightly on my chest. Dad grabbed the balloon away from me with one hand and pressed it down on my knee while he twisted it. The balloon screamed in protest as he pushed it down over my bare knee. I tried to move my foot forward to lower my leg but Dad's foot had it blocked. I could see my knee protruding into the balloon through the translucent rubber skin just before it popped with a loud BANG. Dad had a wide mischievous grin as he smirked, "There now, that didn't hurt at all now did it."

It hadn't, and I attributed that to it being my lucky day. In fact the rubber sliding around on my bare leg was adding to the good feeling I was getting down in my crotch. "Let's try that again," he added.

I reached over and snagged another balloon and handed it to him at the same time sticking my other knee up as well. Yes indeedy; I really liked the feeling of balloons being pressed and scrubbed about on my bare knees. This created more of a load bearing surface for the balloon to press down on and dad took his time twisting the balloon back and forth on my knee caps. This quickly got me really excited down in my ball room. I don't to this day know if dad realized how much he was turning me on. Because the thighs of my legs were angled upward there was plenty of extra material crumpled up in the front of my shorts to hide the rock hard erection I was experiencing.

The balloon just kept on squeaking and squealing as dad kept the pressure on the balloon just below the point where it would break. Finally mother came storming into the room to find out what all the noise was about and was not pleased with what dad was doing to me. She said it might make me silly. I do know it sure made me feel good.

Dad removed the pressure on the balloon and I quickly got up. Mom looked at me sternly and said, "It's time for your bath. Get rid of the rest of these balloons and go into your room and get undressed for your bath."

"Ma," I whined. "Can't dad and me have some more time to have fun with them first?"

"No, you are already excited enough for tonight," she replied. "I will get you a pin from my sewing basket to stick in them or you can have your father burn them with a cigarette."

"Can't I just keep them in my room and we can finish playing with them tomorrow," I shot back.

Mother reminded me about the balloon she had found in my bed a few weeks earlier and indicated that she really did not want me to have inflated balloons lying around the house at all. Dad butted in at this point and indicated he didn't think letting my inflated toys live until tomorrow night should be a big deal. Then Mom turned to me and said, "If you promise not to touch them or play with them in your bed you can keep them. If I catch you playing or being silly (there was that term again) with them I'll immediately destroy them for you."

I couldn't wait to get through my bath and get tucked into bed. That oh so good feeling I had experienced earlier in the evening when dad was rubbing the balloon on my knees was still fresh in my mind. I couldn't wait to get started on my self stimulation activity as soon as mom left the room. I wanted to capture every nuance of feeling I had experienced while playing with dad. I really had no intention of touching the five surviving balloons from our evening play. There was no doubt in my mind what would happen to them if mom were to catch me playing with them.

I was so stimulated the orgasm came very quickly; too quickly in fact. I lay there in bed reliving the evenings balloon play with dad. The more I thought about the fun I had had, the more I desired to hold and caress the rubber toys that were laying on the floor some distance from the bed. I finally couldn't resist and gave in to temptation. I knew I would be able to hear if someone was heading toward my bedroom in plenty of time to get the balloons off the bed and over to the other side of the room, so I figured that I could cover up my balloon play should anyone pop a surprise inspection.

I started my second masturbation for the evening. Just as I reached climax I heard mother coming down the hall. Damn what bad timing. I couldn't force myself to give up the fantastic pleasurable rush at such a critical time. Finally I had a second super orgasm. I immediately got the balloons off the bed and myself into a feigned sleeping position. Unfortunately, although I figured everything would look OK, I had not reckoned on how long it would take the balloons I had tossed off the bed to stop bouncing and rolling around on the floor. Mother spotted the residual movement and sternly informed me in a loud voice, since she knew I had to be still awake, "I told you that you were not to play with these balloons in your bed. You have been a bad boy and disobeyed me so I am going to get rid of these balloons once and for all."

Somehow she managed to gather them all up and stormed out of the bedroom. Since they were each at least a foot in diameter with no attached string I would have expected her to just pop them right in my room and then walk out with the torn rubber. She evidently was really beginning to suspect the sexual attachment I had for my rubber toys as well as the stimulation I experienced in seeing them broken. As a result she wanted to deny me the pleasure and enjoyment of seeing her bust them.

With extreme determination I forced myself to stay awake. I knew what the fate of my balloons would be, and if I couldn't watch them being destroyed, I could at least hear the pops as she or dad finished them off. I figured since I didn't hear anything immediately that they would wait until they thought I was asleep before popping them off. I was right; and after an interminable time mother came back to check on me. I feigned sleep as she looked in on me, then she quickly walked away.

I didn't have long to wait. I quickly got out of bed and put my ear to the bedroom door. I heard a muffled "OK he's asleep now" from the direction of the kitchen. Then there was a faint laugh as dad said, "No problem dear."

Within a few seconds a POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, sound came from the direction of the kitchen and I knew my fun rubber toys were no more. I crawled back into bed but the mental thoughts of their demise, exactly how did they get busted, caused me to have a third erection that night. As I was getting ready to take care of a hard situation once again in my jammies I heard dad go out the back door of the house into the yard.

I had always wondered why I could never find any torn rubber remains of the broken balloons in the trash or garbage can from our previous two balloon play nights. When I heard him go outside I thought I would take a look see out my bedroom window which faced out into the back yard to see what dad was up to.At the far end of the yard was an incinerator where we would burn our paper trash. There was a bright moon and I could see dad carrying a small bag in his hand. It looked like he set the bag down in the opening at the front where we would pile the trash in. I then saw him strike a match. It was about 80 feet from my window to the incinerator so I couldn't make out much detail, but he obviously applied the flame to the bag he was carrying because it started to burn with a bright orange yellow flame. There was also a lot of black smoke, I was able to make out, passing in front of the whitish concrete chimney of the incinerator. Now I knew what was happening to all the torn remains from our previous balloon fun.

I couldn't resist asking my mother the next day what she had done with my balloons, since I didn't think she really liked popping them when they were really tightly inflated. Her curt response was, "Your father burned them with his cigarette."Revised on 10/01
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