Birthday Blow-Up

Starring Blackshirtboy! A quick birthday story about becoming a real big cat. Explicit.

Happy birthday! Sorry I couldn't be there to blow up your balloons. Hope this makes up for it!

'This?' Was there supposed to be something with the card? I flip it over, check the back, pick up the envelope, peek inside. Nothing. Weird.

That's when I hear the hissing sound. It's in the back of my ears, like the sound of running pipes or a faucet left on. It's the sort of sound you never think much about until it happens when it's not supposed to. It's not coming from the kitchen or from the bathroom. It sounds more like—

I glance down. Just past the collar of my tee shirt, my chest is swelling outward. Each side is barely enough to fill a palm right now, but they're growing so quickly I can actually watch my skin expand.

Oh god damn it. I was going to go out for dinner soon!

Take a deep breath. This is fine, I'm under control. Yeah, I'm growing, but it's slow, just a gradual swell pushing against my shirt. Maybe a little tender, but that's the worst of it. I lift a hand to my chest. I prod at the edge of the swollen mounds; they give way beneath my fingers, as if they're filling up with air. Maybe I can just squeeze them back in, problem solved.

I clap my left hand flat against my chest. The pbbt sound against my ribs makes me flinch. So does the sudden shift of volume. On the left, my hand squeezes my chest flat, but the right side bulges outward in an instant, stretching twice as far as before, letting out a squeaky whine. I gasp. My hand jerks away. Without the pressure keeping it flat, the left side of my chest surges forward, until it's also twice as full and round as it was before.

For a few moments, all I can do is breathe and watch my chest rise and fall against my black tee shirt. Maybe there's another way I can hold them back. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull down. The soft hissing sound continues, a constant presence at the edge of my hearing. The taut fabric squeezes back against my chest, but it doesn't stop it from growing. The pressure's mounting, but instead of expanding outward, it's filling up all the available space between my ribs and my shirt.

I let go, and my chest springs forward, then settles into a tight, rounded shape. I curl my back and look down at myself. They've gone from modest to attention-grabbing. There's no way I can pass these off as anything but what they are. I've got breasts.

I take a breath. Breasts aren't the end of the world. I might even be able to fix this before dinner. I grab the birthday card again, planning to take a closer look at it. But as I pick it up, the hissing sound gets louder. Which means more of me must be growing. I drop the card and take stock of my own body. One arm gingerly holds back my breasts, so I can peer down past them. I glance back over my shoulder. Nothing.

Then I look at my left hand, holding the birthday card. It starts with my pointer finger—the fingertip puffs out, pulling the skin taut. The bulging fingertip isn't sore, but it is warm, and leathery to the touch, like an animal's paw. Then it spreads outward across my hand; my other fingers start to form their own swollen pads. My palm bulges outward, smoothing out its creases as it swells.

My other hand grasps the one that's growing. The pads squeeze underneath my grip and bulge around my fingers. With a series of rubbery pops, each finger on my left hand twitches, and a curled claw flicks out from the tip. I let go and wiggle my changing hand: plush pads, sharp claws, and thick fingers. Balling my hand to try to make a fist feels like squeezing a stress ball, complete with a little squeal of pressure. I can't close my fingers around my palm.

Something in my hand goes piff and my fingers splay out. Thick black fur poffs out of my skin, covering my hand from my fingers to my wrist, trailing off to wisps along my arm. I wiggle my fingers. The fur brushes between them. They're hard to move independently, with their fat pads and sleek pelt.

I've been so focused on my left hand I haven't even thought about my right. It's clenched into a fist, but with a sudden squrk it springs open and new thick pads swell out to match the ones on the left..

Why couldn't it have just been breasts?

Between the fur and the padding, it's like wearing thick winter gloves. I grab my right arm as best as I can. The claws are already popping out one by one, but I've got an idea. It's a stupid idea, but it's the best one I've got to stop this. I run to the bathroom, with my breasts jostling for space and stretching the white B on the front of my shirt.

I know I've got safety pins in one of the drawers. I reach for the first drawer on the left. My paw pads thump against it and miss the handle entirely. I have to grope and squeeze and do a scissor-pincer thing with my fingers just to pull the drawer open. The whole time I'm fumbling with the drawer, the hissing sound builds up inside me again, but I don't have time to stop and try to hunt it down.

All that's in the first drawer is a bunch of towels. Great. I bat it shut and go for the next one, and this time I start with the scissor-pinch to open it. Spare toothpaste and my travel toothbrush. As I slam that drawer shut, a sharp POP from underneath me makes me spring into the air.

My feet are already inflating by the time they hit the ground. They split straight through the toes of my shoes; all that's keeping them on is the laces. Standing on the swelling paw pads is halfway between standing in platform shoes and standing on top of a pillow. It's hard to balance on them, despite how big and broad they are. Even bigger than the pads on my hands.

I don't stick around to watch, but I can feel and hear the popping claws and the shff of fur spreading up past my ankles. Soon, even the laces aren't enough to hold my shoes on. They split down the side, and I kick them away, and stand barefoot on my thick black paws.

This is getting worse, but I'm not giving up on my search. I bend down toward the right-hand drawers and bump my chest right against the counter. There's a rubbery whine; one breasts squeezes, the other surges outward. The stitches of my shirt dig into my armpits. I'm frozen there for a moment. If I don't move, the other side of my chest won't swell out. But I can't just stay like this. I have to stand up. As I do, my bustline evens out again, wobbling from side to side as it settles on my chest.

I reach for the drawer again. My arm brushes up against the side of my breast. They're big enough that I have to start reaching around them. The hissing is still steady; they're still growing. The sound makes my ears pop, literally—they spring up on top of my head, cupped and rounded and covered in black fur. They splay against my head as I comb through the drawer with my fat paws. No safety pins. I shove the drawer shut and go for the last one.

The hiss is sudden and sharp, right between my ears. I get maybe a half-second's warning, then the front of my face springs forward with enough force to knock me backward. My glasses fly off my face and fall onto the floor somewhere.

I stumble, I blink, I shake my head. My eyes focus on the bridge of my nose, stretching out longer right in front of me. With a yelp, I shove my snout back against my face, but it spreads underneath my hands. The broader nose and thicker cheeks fight against the taut paw pads until finally, I can't hold it back any more. My hands part. A broad muzzle bounces out in front of me. I try to squish it down again, but it only squeezes back about halfway before bulging around my palm. With a ffthhp, it pops back out to its full length, tipped with a fat, broad feline nose.

From the tips of my ears to my neck, I'm covered in black fur. I hold my paws around my muzzle, like I might try to slam it back into my face, but it's useless to try. Instead, I gingerly lay my paw pads on my muzzle. My claws thread through the whiskers and I accidentally stick my thumb in the side of my mouth. Thumb in cheek, I pull back my lip and wrinkle my snout. Everything feels just too big.

Every second, it's a little harder to breathe, as my breasts fights my lungs for space underneath my shirt. I think I'm going to have to pull it off, but suddenly there's a polite little pop. My tee shirt bursts off my shoulders, scattering little shreds of black like a popped balloon across the floor. Now I'm wearing a spandex top with a neckline that plunges halfway down my chest—but same solid black, same white B on the front. (A bit smaller, since there's less space for it.) I take a few deep breaths, and my breasts rise and fall freely.

I have to clap my arm around my chest as I lean back down. I can feel my nipples right through the spandex, and they're pretty tough to ignore. But I ignore the hot little breaths I'm making, and yank the last drawer open. There they are. Safety pins. I fish one out of the drawer on the tip of a claw. It's only once I'm looking at the little thing in my overstuffed paws that I realize the flaw in my plan: how am I supposed to use a safety pin with these paws?

So I'm bent over the counter, pinching the pin between my claws, trying to unhook the tip. I can hear the hissing building up behind me, but I try to ignore it. I try not to think about the swelling feeling sliding up my hips and squeezing around my crotch. I try not to think about grinding my soft thighs together, or how tight my jeans are squeezing around my crotch. I try not to think about the fur sliding up underneath the denim, wrapping around my thick hips and creeping up my back. My toes knead their claws into the bath rugs, knees pressed together, thighs grinding slowly. Pop. There go my jeans. Shreds of denim fall to the ground, leaving behind just a set of denim cutoffs with my reluctant erection still squeezed inside.

Finally, I push the safety pin open, pinch it between my paw pads, and get it aimed toward my palm. I bite my lip and tighten my body. There's a thhpt as my tail unfurls from the small of my back, flicking up thick and round into the air. I take a breath, then jab the pin into my palm.


I flex my paw a few times, staring at the little red mark. I tap my thumb over it a few times. Nothing. I lift my paw to my ear, just to see if I can hear any air escaping. Nothing. Great, I guess I'm just metaphorically filling up with air.

I can hear hissing, but it's not coming from my hand. It's coming from deep inside my core. It's tight, and it's hot and it's making my heart pound faster and faster. My stupid erection throbs against the front of my shorts. The swelling is stirring in the pit of my stomach.

With one paw, I hold onto the counter. With the other, I reach between my legs and fumble the fly on my shorts open. My shaft slips free, but I don't try to grab it. I don't trust my claws with delicate work like that. Instead, I start to knead around the base with my paw pads. My whole crotch is stiff and swollen and puffy. I dig the soft pads against my skin, and my hips flex forward, pushing against my hand. A deep groan—but not as deep as I'd expect—slips from my mouth.

The more that I rub, the more the swelling takes on a defined shape inside of me. My pads roll over my shaft. It's still stiff, still tender, but despite the swelling, it's beginning to sink back into my body, pulled inward by the same force that's pushing out around it.

For lack of anything better to hold onto, I wrap my other paw around the sink faucet and pull. My feet dig their claws into the bath mat under me.

Where my cock's sinking in, it's forming a small cleft, a depression, surrounded by tight, swollen skin. I can feel the pressure right underneath the surface. My paw grinds against that small cleft, brushing the thick pads back against the head of my shaft. My hips curl again and my eyelids flutter.

My knees buckle and I squeeze my thick thighs tight around my hand. The his grow higher, tighter, like it's almost filled up all the way. I rock my hips, I dig my paw pads tighter into that cleft. My fingers curl into me, and it's just enough extra pressure that—pop! pop! pop! The sudden rush makes my eyes roll. My thighs clench around the pair of fat, puffy folds, the thick, rounded clit, and the large paw squeezing in between them.

"God damn it," I gasp between breaths. My voice's translated an octave or two, softer and smoother, but it's still familiar, at least.

The swelling feeling comes back to my chest, hissing against those great, big mounds. My nipples perk and stiffen and fatten against the front of my top. They buzz like they're begging to be touched. They're thicker than my thumbs, and with paws like these, that's saying something.

I can't just stop now. I need this over with. A shudder rolls down my spine; my feet cramp and I'm sweltering under all this black fur. Two fingers slip between my folds, sliding up inside of my pussy. My whole body grinds back against my paw.

I dig my teeth into my dark lip. I hear the hissing, and I feel it puffing out, bulging around my fangs, black and glossy and plump. I let go, run my rough tongue over it, and make a freshly-pouty grimace. Just great.

With my fingers pumping away and my chest rumbling like a washing machine and my thighs grinding together, I finally tip myself over the edge. The orgasm that hits me is like doing the best stretch in the world. It burns in my muscles and locks my legs. I twist my back and squint up at the bathroom lights long enough that when I finally come down from that peak, big blobs of color hang in front of my eyes.

I pant to catch my breath. My chest heaves in front of me, stretching the spandex with each rise and fall. My knees and ankles groan as I pull my legs together and straighten up. My eyes fall on my own reflection in the mirror. The oversized black panther looks back at me, with a rack wider than her ribs and a firmly-packed build and a passionate pout on her lips.

I close my lips and reach up to brush back my hair. With a soft fsss like escaping gas, it fluffs out under my paws, flowing down my back, long and straight, with close-trimmed bangs just above my brow. I wait for a few seconds afterward, and then for a few seconds more, expecting some last little spurt.

All right. It's over. I need to find my glasses, then cancel dinner, then get help.

I wrap an arm across my chest so I can bend over. Absently, my thumb and forefinger slip around one of my nipples and start squeezing it. I don't bother to stop, even though it's making me feel hot and humid between my legs. Ugh. It's weird to be all stiff and not have an erection. It makes you just want to take your paw and fill yourself up...

I find my glasses on the floor over by the hamper. It's almost as delicate a job as using the safety pin, squeezing my fingers around the the frame, picking them up, maneuvering them onto my nose. They take some squeezing and adjusting, but I manage to get them settled onto my new snout.

After some struggle, I get my phone out of the miniscule shorts I'm wearing, and lay it out on the counter. I switch which arm is holding back my chest, and bend down over it to see the screen. Each paw pad takes up practically a third of the screen, though, so just opening up the phone app to dial is a fight against my own fingers. Dialing 9-1-1, it turns out, is entirely beyond me. I sigh, and rub my paw across my thick, puffy face, kneading slowly.

Then I hear the hissing. My ears perk up and my tail stiffens. It's like it's coming from inside my skull, between my ears, and there's nothing I can do before—

Ffthp! It pops right inside my head. I clutch the counter to keep from falling over.

I blink. My tail flicks and I twitch my whiskers. What was I just doing? I glance over my reflection in the mirror, but I'm the same panther I've always been. I can smell my own juices on my paw. A contented rumble rises from my chest. Ahh, that's what I was doing. I lift my hand and lick each finger clean one by one. My free hand slips up to my chest and starts rolling my nipple between thumb and forefingers.

Since my throat still feels dry, I crank on the faucet and lean down to lap up some mouthfuls of cool water.

My back paws curl their claws and knead at the bath mats, tearing up little tufts of rug. I tug down one side of my top to wrap my paw around my nipple. The paw I just licked clean slides down between my legs and presses its plush paw pads between my folds.

Hey, it's my birthday. I can finger myself as many times as I want.

It doesn't take me long before I'm rumbling like a laundry machine, one hand pinned between my legs and another wrapped across my chest. My thick tail flicks through the air and I let out a loud, low groan.

And then the doorbell rings.

"Crap!" I gasp, jerking my paws away. Guess I lost track of time somewhere. I'm lapping one hand clean while I'm pulling my top back up and trying to even out the white B stretched across the middle. I grab the bathroom door frame and squeeze through sideways, make it halfway to the front, then have to turn around and shimmy back into the bathroom to grab my phone.

It's a good thing, too, because wedging my phone back into my shorts makes me notice that my shorts are still wide open. With a little blush behind my black fur, I hike the waistband up, button and zip.

"Coming!" I call out. I comb my claws through my hair, then lick the back of my palm and try to tame a few flyaway strands. I give my top one last tug, smooth down the fur on my chest, and take a deep breath, then shoot myself a fangy grin in the hallway mirror.

As I swing open the front door and duck through it, the last thing I'm thinking about is that birthday card back on my table.

21 September, 2017