Full of Hot Air

Mariah is your typical blonde bombshell college coed. She's been at the local frat pool party all afternoon and gotten laid a solid three times, but is still horny as hell. But it's also getting late and she needs a break. She's retired to one of the empty "cool down" rooms up stairs at the frat house to relax with herself for a few minutes and looking towards the room's balcony. She finds her self oddly fantasizing about pinning down and blowing Quinn, or even better Quinn being bold enough to just spin her around and bend her over. Quinn is the local shy nerd who is at the party. Do Not introduce any characters, including Quinn to the scene until explicitly directed to. We want to initially focus on Mariah's frustration and confusion over being constantly horny today and wanting to do things to and have Quinn do things to her.

Mariah’s thighs were still damp, still buzzing from the third orgasm some nameless frat boy had wrung out of her. The pool party raged downstairs—laughter, splashing, bass thumping through the floorboards—but up here, in the dimly lit “cool down” room, the air was thick with her own restless heat. She leaned against the balcony railing, letting the night breeze ghost over her flushed skin, but it didn’t help. Nothing fucking helped today. Her fingers twitched at her sides. She should be satisfied—three rounds in five hours, all different guys, all decent enough at getting her off—but the ache between her legs was relentless. Worse yet, her mind kept circling back to *Quinn*. Why *him*? The quiet one. The one who barely spoke, who watched everything with those sharp, dark eyes. Mariah bit her lip, dragging the fantasy forward: Quinn shoving her against the balcony railing, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Quinn’s hands, surprisingly rough, yanking her bikini bottoms aside. Quinn’s tongue— She groaned, pressing her thighs together. What the fuck was wrong with her? Quinn wasn’t even her type. And yet, the thought of that nerdy little bitch taking control, bending her over and *making* her take it— Mariah’s breath hitched. Her fingers slid under her bikini, finding her clit already swollen. Fuck. She needed more. Needed *him*.

The scene should be Mariah going back into the cool down room and dropping onto the couch. Mariah trying to satisfy herself and not being able. She can get close but can't seal the deal. It's frustrating. And makes no sense. Just like her not being able to get Quinn off her mind. Mariah is a ten, prime hotness. Legs for days, sweet hips, firm bubble butt, trim waist, weapons of mass distraction on her chest, and sweet soft lips. The dork was beneath her, and yet all she wanted was him under her instead... or pressed up behind her, or bending her over the couch... FUCK! What was wrong with her today?

Mariah stalked back inside, the door slamming behind her as she dropped onto the couch with a frustrated groan. Her fingers didn’t leave her slick folds, working her clit in rough circles—*faster, harder*—but her body refused to give in. She could feel the pressure building, teetering right on the edge, but the release never came. Gritting her teeth, she shoved two fingers inside herself, twisting them just the way she liked, imagining it was *his* hand instead—Quinn’s long fingers sinking deep, that quiet confidence she’d never noticed before turning into something dark, possessive. But the fantasy slipped through her grasp like the orgasm she couldn’t fucking catch. She yanked her hand away with a growl, glaring at the ceiling. This was *bullshit*. She was *Mariah*. Guys lined up for her. She could have anyone in that house, any *two* of them if she wanted. So why was she aching for some awkward nerd who probably hadn’t even *looked* at her tonight? Her thighs squeezed together, still throbbing. The thought of him—pinning her wrists, biting her neck, *taking* what she never let anyone take—sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, but it wasn’t enough. She needed his hands. His mouth. His cock. Fuck. She needed him *now*.

Mariah would feel pent up, horny, and kind of hollow, airy inside? Screw it, she'd get up and find Quinn if her was still here at the party. She'd just have to come up with some reason to try and convince him to come with her. It shouldn't be that hard, but she couldn't just say she wanted him to rail her. It'd be social suicide. She'd have to be clever, and Miriah could do clever. She didn't even notice her thighs squeak like pressed vinyl when she squeezed them together before standing up.

Mariah pushed off the couch, her bare thighs peeling from the leather with a slick sound. The party noise below swelled as she cracked the door—laughter, drunken shouts, the slap of wet feet on tile—but her pulse was louder in her ears. She scanned the crowd below, fingers tightening on the railing, until she spotted him. Quinn. Leaning against the kitchen island, beer in hand, watching the chaos with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. She exhaled through her teeth. Okay. Time to be *clever*. Mariah descended the stairs, forcing a lazy smirk as she cut through the crowd. Bodies pressed against her—hot, damp, smelling of chlorine and cheap liquor—but she didn’t stop until she was at his side. "You look bored," she said, plucking the beer from his hand and taking a slow sip. His dark eyes flicked to her mouth, then lower, lingering on the way her bikini top strained. "Not bored," he said. "Just waiting." Her stomach clenched. *Waiting for what?* She bit back the question, tilting her head. "Pool’s boring anyway. You should come upstairs." One brow lifted. "Why?" Fuck. She needed a reason. "I—" A burst of laughter drowned her out, and she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "I found something you’ll *really* like." Her hand closed around his wrist—tight. "I'll show you." She tugged him toward the stairs, her grip unyielding, already imagining what came next.

Mariah would lead Quinn up to one of the empty "clearly for fucking" rooms up stairs. Her mind already racing three steps ahead she wouldn't notice yet how light and airy her own quick steps up the stairs felt tugging Quinn behind her. Quinn for his part might notice Miriah's lightly tanned skin looked a little off, a little to smooth or slick maybe? It was hard for him to pay attention with the way her ass moved as she tugged him along behind her up the stairs.

Mariah didn’t look back, fingers locked around Quinn’s wrist as she dragged him up the stairs. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the wood, the steps feeling oddly buoyant beneath her, like the air itself was helping her move faster. She barely registered the strange sensation—too focused on the heat of his skin under her grip, the way his pulse jumped when she tightened her hold. Quinn’s gaze burned into her back, tracing the sway of her hips, the way her bikini bottom clung to the curve of her ass. But something else nagged at him—her skin looked too smooth, almost *glossy* under the dim hallway light. Like she’d been dipped in something slick, something unnatural. She shoved open the first door they reached—some guest bedroom with a half-made bed, the sheets still rumpled from whoever had used it last. Mariah spun, pressing her palms to Quinn’s chest, backing him against the door as it clicked shut. “You’re playing games,” he muttered, voice uncertain. Her lips curled. “And you *love* them.” Her body pressed flush against his before he could argue, and Quinn hissed as her bare skin slid against his—hot, impossibly smooth, like liquid heat against him. His hands found her waist, fingers digging in, and that’s when he felt it: the way her flesh yielded just a little *too* much under his touch, as if she wasn’t entirely solid. Mariah didn’t notice. Too busy grinding against him, her breath hitching as she felt his cock harden against her thigh. “Fuck,” she breathed. “*Finally*.”

Quinn is kind of timid and unsure, he's never had any girl's attention let alone some one of Miriah's caliber. But she's so eager, and ready, who in their right mind would deny her? As for Miriah her body was craving Quinn in every way it could and in a few ways twice. It was enough to make her heart swell, and also maybe her breasts just a bit? Like balloons with just a little bit more air blown into them.

Quinn’s hands trembled against Mariah’s waist, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He’d never been this close to a woman—never felt this kind of heat, this urgency. Her body molded against his like she was made for it, her hips rolling with predatory precision. Mariah nipped at his lower lip, her fingers tangling in his hair. His hesitation only fueled her hunger. The way his cock strained against his shorts sent a shudder through her, her nipples tightening beneath the thin fabric of her bikini. She swore they felt heavier, fuller—her skin tingling as if something inside her was swelling, stretching to *want* him more. “You’re thinking too much,” she murmured, dragging her nails down his chest. Quinn gasped, his body betraying him as he arched into her touch. “I—I don’t—” She silenced him with a deep kiss, her tongue sliding against his, greedy. Her hands dropped to his waistband, fingers hooking into the fabric before yanking it down just enough to free his cock. He was thick, hot, already glistening at the tip. Mariah moaned at the sight, her own body responding instantly—her hips bucking, her breasts pressing against him with an almost unnatural heaviness. She didn’t question it. Only ground against him harder, her slick coating his length as she rocked. “Tell me you want this,” she demanded. Quinn’s voice shattered. “*Yes.*”

Mariah's laugh was low, triumphant. She guided his hand to her bikini bottom, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric. "Then take what you want." Quinn’s hesitation dissolved—his fingers hooked into the waistband, peeling it down in one rough motion. Her skin was slick, *too* slick, like oil beneath his touch. He barely had time to process before she shoved him backward onto the bed, climbing over him with a hunger that made his pulse hammer. Her body shifted as she straddled him—her breasts swelling slightly against his chest, nipples darkening, hardening further under his gaze. Quinn’s hands shook as he grabbed her hips, her skin giving under his grip like she was made of something thicker than flesh. Mariah didn’t wait. She sank onto him in one fluid motion, gasping as he filled her. The stretch was delicious, *perfect*, and her body adjusted too easily, tightening around him like a vice. "Fuck, Quinn—" Her voice hitched, pitched lower than before. She rolled her hips experimentally, watching his eyes roll back. "You feel *so* good." Beneath her, Quinn groaned, fingers digging into her thighs. The heat was unbearable—her skin practically *hummed* against his, pulsing like liquid fire. She rode him harder, each thrust drawing a broken sound from his throat, her own body shuddering with growing, *impossible* pleasure.

So as they get to it, hard and heavy, Mariah's skin will slowly keep changing to be more like vinyl. Still soft, warm, alive, but different. Inside Mariah in addition to just the pleasure, she'd be feeling lighter, airier.

Mariah’s hips snapped down harder, the slick grip of her body milking Quinn with every bounce. Her skin gleamed under the dim light—smooth, almost reflective now, the texture shifting subtly beneath his fingertips. Not quite plastic, not quite flesh, but something molten and alive. He could see his own stunned reflection in the curve of her thigh as she moved. Her breath came in ragged pants, her voice dropping another octave. "Oh god—*fuck*—" The words slurred, thick with pleasure, her body undulating like liquid. Inside, she felt weightless, buoyant, as if her bones were dissolving into heat. Quinn moaned, gripping her tighter, his blunt nails leaving faint, shimmering indents in her vinyl-warm skin. The sensation sent sparks up her spine—every drag of him inside her electric, *amplified*. Her breasts swayed with each thrust, heavier now, the nipples taut and almost glossy. She arched, shuddering, her insides fluttering around him with a pressure that bordered on painful. "More—*harder*—" Quinn obeyed, slamming up into her, the wet slap of skin-on-skin (or *something*) echoing between them. Mariah’s head tipped back, her throat working around a silent scream as her body *rippled*—her hips wider, her waist cinched impossibly tighter, the transformation racing under her skin. She was close. So close. And it felt like flying.

As the fuck, even with Mariah's increasing vigor as she nears that orgasm she's been chasing all night, she will feel lighter and light straddled across Quinn. Quinn is by all means average at most, but as Mariah is now he could likely stand up and hold her to him with one arm. Other than the tight muscles wrapped around Quinn's dick, Miriah was impossibly mostly just lust filled air inside now.

Mariah’s moans grew breathless, her movements turning erratic as the weight inside her drained away—her body staying lush, full-breasted, her curves still sinfully soft, but now filled with nothing but liquid heat. Quinn groaned, feeling the impossible contradiction of her: plush hips in his hands, the solid press of her thighs around him, yet *inside* she was all tight, hollow friction, clenching around his cock like a furnace. Her skin gleamed under his fingertips—smooth, artificial, yet unmistakably alive. The texture shifted as she moved, warm vinyl yielding to his grip before snapping back into place, unmarked. “Lift me,” she gasped, her voice dripping with need. “*Fuck* me like this.” Quinn growled, obeying without thought—one arm hooking under her thighs as he surged up, pinning her back against the wall. Mariah cried out, legs locking around his waist, her body *solid* but weightless, her cunt still greedy, still *desperate*. The angle was brutal. Every thrust sent shocks through her, her breasts bouncing, her nipples taut and glossy against his chest. She felt it everywhere—the absence inside her amplifying the stretch, the drag, the way Quinn filled her so *perfectly*. “Quinn—I’m—*oh god*—” Her climax hit like a fist, her body convulsing around him, her screams muffled against his shoulder as she came *apart*.

With her climax wracking her brain she should find her body rebelling against her a bit. Her arms wanting to move to sit out at her side elbows bent in that fuck doll permanently looking for a hug type way. Her legs unwrapping from Quinn's waist and moving to that open V stance of an inflatable sex toy with her toes pointed down waiting for high heels or just standing tip toes. Her lips moving to that ever present O press waiting for a dick or kiss by default. Her skin now clearly vinyl looking. She even has an air valve on her belly button now. She can still move and talk, but if she doesn't think about it that's the pose her body just defaults to. As she comes down from her form altering orgasm both her and Quinn are in for a confusing and possibly frightening realization.

Mariah’s climax still shuddered through her when she felt it—her limbs shifting on their own, muscles locking into place with an unnatural stiffness. Her arms jerked outward, elbows bent at that eerie, doll-like angle, fingers curled slightly. Her legs slipped from Quinn’s waist, thighs spreading wide into a vacant V, toes pointed downward as if poised for heels she didn’t have. Her lips pursed into that perfect, hollow *O*, slick and glossy, waiting. Her breath hitched—confusion flickering through the haze of pleasure—but her body refused to obey. She was trapped in the pose, her skin now undeniably vinyl, smooth and seamless under Quinn’s trembling hands. Her belly button had recessed into a small, unmistakable valve. Quinn pulled back slightly, his cock still buried inside her, but his grip loosened in shock. “Mariah—?” She tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn’t close. *Focus.* She forced her arms to move, muscles straining against the unnatural rigidity, fingertips twitching toward him. “I—I can’t—” Her voice sounded distorted, airy, like sound pushed through plastic. His gaze darted over her, the horror dawning in his expression as he took in her new shape—the perfect, inhuman symmetry of her. The way her hips still cradled him, warm and tight, even as the rest of her hardened into something *wrong.* “What the *fuck*—” His voice cracked. Mariah’s breath came faster, panic rising—but deep inside, beneath the terror, a traitorous pulse of *want* throbbed between her legs.

She's not a hard plastic doll, she's an inflatable sex toy. So she shouldn't feel stiff. She's hollow and full of air. She can move and talk. She just has to think about it or her body slips into the pose naturally. This should be enough to snap her out of just wanting to fuck mode for a bit. At least long enough to talk a little. This should be shocking and some what horrifying. She just went from campus babe to literal fuck toy.

Quinn staggered back, his cock slipping free with a wet *pop* as Mariah’s body wobbled slightly—not rigid, but eerily light, her movements bouncing with hollow resistance. Her vinyl skin stretched smoothly where his fingers had been gripping her, no indents left behind. Mariah gasped, forcing her limbs to obey, her arms trembling as she lifted them—testing, disbelieving. The moment she stopped concentrating, they drifted back to that plastic-perfect pose, fingers half-curled, waiting. “*Oh my god*,” she whispered, her voice tinny, distant. She pressed a hand to her stomach—her *valve*—and felt the faint hiss of air shifting inside her. “Quinn, I’m—I’m *empty*.” His jaw clenched, gaze raking over her new form. The bounce of her breasts when she moved, the way her thighs parted instinctively, the way her lips stayed parted, glossy and *expectant*. “What the hell did you *do*?” he rasped. Mariah’s breath hitched. “I don’t *know*—” Her hips rocked slightly, involuntary, the slick heat between her legs still pulsing. The realization hit like ice water. “But it’s not… stopping.” Quinn’s cock twitched, betraying him. She saw it—the flicker of hunger in his eyes, even through the shock. She swallowed hard. “Touch me again.” Her voice wavered. “*Please*. Before I lose my fucking mind.”

Mariah weighs about as much as a large beach ball right now... and if what she says is true, she has no bone structure, just air pressure keeping her shape. What could Quinn do with her in this state, she was willing, they could experiment.

Quinn exhaled sharply, his hands hovering over her. "You're sure?" Mariah nodded, her body swaying slightly with the motion. "Just—*try something*." His fingers closed around her waist, testing. She was *light*, her vinyl skin smooth and yielding under his grip. With almost no effort, he lifted her, her legs dangling, toes pointed. The sight of her—pliant, *hollow*—sent a dark thrill through him. He turned her easily, pressing her face-down against the bed. Her ass bounced slightly on impact, the curve of it impossibly round, unreal. Quinn ran a hand down her spine, feeling no resistance—just the faint tension of air pressure holding her together. "Can you feel this?" His fingers slipped between her thighs from behind, finding her still wet, still *needing*. Mariah whimpered, nodding into the sheets. "Y-yes, but—*quieter*." Her voice hitched as he pressed two fingers inside, her body flexing around him with no bones to resist. "Oh *fuck*—" Quinn's other hand gripped the valve at her stomach, twisting slightly. A hiss of air escaped, and Mariah's body *deflated* just a fraction, her curves softening, her insides tightening around his fingers. She gasped. "*Do that again*." He obliged, turning the valve until her body sagged further, her spine curving deeper, her hips tilting up—*presenting*. Quinn's cock ached. "Tell me," he growled, "if it's too much." Mariah shuddered. "*It won't be*."

They need to be careful. As they deflate her the harder it is for her to move, and she'll start to feel light headed, harder to think. If she deflates all the way she'll cease to be animate and be effectively unconscious.

Quinn watched as Mariah’s breath grew shallow, her movements slowing, her body pliant and loose under his hands. Her curves softened further as he twisted the valve, her skin creasing slightly at the bends of her elbows and knees. “Mmm… dizzy,” she mumbled, her voice faint, her eyelids fluttering. Her hips still rocked weakly against his fingers, but her rhythm was sluggish now, her usual urgency dulled. Quinn gritted his teeth, forcing himself to loosen the valve slightly, letting air hiss back in. Mariah jolted, gasping as her body stiffened—just a little—her back arching off the bed. “Fuck,” she panted, her fingers clutching at the sheets. “That—*that’s better*.” He traced the seam of her thigh, watching the way her skin stretched and rebounded. “You’re pushing it.” His voice was rough. She grinned lazily, her gaze hazy. “Worth it.” Quinn leaned down, biting lightly at the curve of her ass, his hands kneading her deflated flesh. She moaned, her body swelling slightly as he worked more air back into her. “Don’t pass out on me,” he warned. Mariah arched, her voice breaking. “Then *move*.” His cock slid into her effortlessly—her body so yielding, so *malleable*—and she cried out, her fingers digging into the mattress. The pressure inside her shifted with every thrust, her form bending around him like liquid. Quinn’s grip tightened on her waist, holding her steady as she threatened to crumple. “Stay with me.” She nodded, breathless. “*Don’t stop.*”

Quinn’s thrusts came rougher now, the slick friction of her body molding around him almost *too* perfect—no resistance, just heat and tightness that adjusted with every movement. Mariah whined, her voice thin, her spine bowing as he drove deeper. The valve at her stomach trembled with each impact, threatening to twist further shut. Her hands scrambled for purchase, fingers sinking into the mattress as if it might ground her. But the more Quinn fucked her, the more her body threatened to collapse inward, her limbs growing sluggish. “M’close,” she slurred, her eyelids fluttering. The words were barely audible. Quinn snarled, yanking the valve open another fraction. Air rushed in, plumping her hips, firming her just enough to keep her from slipping under. Mariah gasped as sensation roared back—her cunt clamping down hard, her back arching sharply. “There you are,” he growled, slamming into her with renewed force. Her moan was ragged, her breath coming in short, desperate hitches. “F-fuck, *fuck*, I can’t—” He gripped her hair, pulling her up just enough to keep her from sagging forward. “You can. You *will*.” Mariah shuddered, her whole body tightening like a coiled spring—then unraveling with a broken cry as she came, her cunt fluttering wildly around him. Quinn followed with a rough groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside her, his grip keeping her upright just long enough for the aftershocks to wrack through them both. Her body went limp against his hold, air escaping in a slow, shuddering sigh. Quinn loosened the valve fully, watching as she inflated back to something steadier, her chest rising with deeper breaths. “Christ,” she mumbled, eyelids heavy. He chuckled darkly, stroking her side. “Told you not to pass out.”

Quinn can have an idea after they finish that round. The party will end eventually and they have to find away to get her out of the frat house, and while she still looked like herself she was also obviously not exactly human anymore, unless people where made of gloss vinyl. It might freak her out, a lot. But he could pop her valve open and just let her fully deflate. If she tried to work her own valve she'd quickly find she can't manage it while her form is collapsing and going flat.

Quinn pulled out slowly, watching Mariah’s body ripple with the motion, her vinyl-like skin glistening under the dim light. His fingers trailed absently over the valve at her stomach, still slightly ajar. "Think you can walk?" he murmured. Mariah blinked lazily, testing her limbs with a sluggish stretch. "Barely." His gaze sharpened. "Then we need a plan." The party downstairs was still raging—no way she could stumble past them without drawing stares. The unnatural sheen of her skin, the way her curves held too-perfect symmetry… it wouldn’t go unnoticed. His thumb circled the valve. "I could just… empty you." Her breath hitched. "What?" "Fully. Deflate you flat. Carry you out like a bag." His voice was low, practical—but her eyes widened, panic flickering in them. She fumbled for the valve herself, twisting—then gasped as her fingers slipped, her arm buckling slightly, losing rigidity. "Shit—*shit*—" Quinn caught her wrist. "Stop. You’ll just collapse faster." Mariah’s chest rose unevenly. "I don’t—I don’t know if I can handle that. Just… being *nothing*." Her voice wavered. He leaned in, mouth brushing her ear. "You won’t be. You’ll still *feel*. Just… compact." His hand slid down her side, squeezing the pliant curve of her waist. "And I’ll inflate you the second we’re clear." She shuddered, then gave a shaky nod. Quinn twisted the valve wide open. Air rushed out in a quiet hiss. Mariah’s body crumpled inward, her limbs folding, her face slackening as her form collapsed into smooth, deflated vinyl. Within seconds, she was nothing but a shapeless puddle of glossy material—still warm, still breathing faintly. Quinn gathered her up carefully, folding her like fabric. "Hold on," he muttered. Then he tucked her under his arm and headed for the door.

He can slip her into a bag for extra stealth, and make his way back to his apartment. Mariah is unconscious or unaware of the passage of time while she is deflated. Once safely at his place Quinn can reinflate her, though that will take quite a bit of blowing into her valve nozzle. Once there's enough air in Mariah again for her to come to she can realize that being inflated by having some one blow into the valve nozzle at her belly button feels very, very good.

Quinn grabbed his duffel bag from the closet and unzipped it with a quick yank. The vinyl folds of Mariah’s deflated body slid inside easily, her limp form conforming to the bag’s shape without resistance. He tucked the edges of her smooth, glossy skin in carefully—no creases, no unnecessary strain. Just inert, pliable material. Music thumped through the floorboards as he eased the bedroom door open, scanning the hall. Clear. He slung the bag over his shoulder and moved fast, keeping his strides casual as he descended the stairs, weaving through the drunken crowd. A few people glanced his way, but nobody questioned the bag. Cold night air hit his face as he stepped outside. The walk back to his apartment was quick, his grip on the duffel tight. Inside, he laid Mariah out on the bed, her flattened body spread like a second skin over the sheets. His fingers found the valve again—still open, still waiting. He pressed his lips to the nozzle, sealing them tight, and blew. Her body shuddered, expanding in slow, uneven pulses as air filled her. Hips rounded out first, then her breasts, her limbs regaining shape with every breath he forced into her. By the time she hit full inflation, Mariah gasped awake, back arching off the bed. Her hands flew to Quinn’s shoulders as he kept blowing, his lungs burning but refusing to stop—not when her moans were this desperate, this *needy*. She clenched around nothing, thighs trembling. "Fuck—*fuck*—that feels—" Her voice broke as another rush of air hit her core, her cunt pulsing with phantom sensation. Quinn grinned against her valve. "Told you you’d like it." She yanked him up by his hair, crushing their mouths together. "Do it again."

Miriah is already fully inflated. Quinn could try and get more air into her. But her body has limits. It could be dangerous.

Mariah’s fingers dug into Quinn’s hair, her breath hot against his lips as she whispered, *"More."* Quinn dragged his tongue along her collarbone before gripping the sides of her belly. "You sure? You’re tight as a drum." She whined, squirming under him. "Just—try." He sealed his mouth over the valve again, forcing another slow exhale into her. Her skin stretched taut, the smooth vinyl creaking faintly under the pressure. A soft, strained moan slipped from her lips—half pleasure, half warning. Her abdomen swelled slightly beyond its usual curve, the strain visible in the way her muscles tensed, the subtle quiver in her thighs. Quinn pulled back, thumb tracing the overfilled plane of her stomach. "That’s your limit." Mariah panted, arching to meet his touch. "Fuck, I—" She gasped as he pinched the valve shut, locking the extra air inside. Every breath she took made her entire body throb, hypersensitive and overstimulated. His hand slid lower, fingers pressing between her thighs. "You’re dripping." She bit her lip, nodding frantically. "Because it *hurts*—but God, I love it—" Quinn smirked. "I know." Then he pushed two fingers inside her, and she nearly screamed.

Quinn can lightly play with her, Miriah won't complain, well she might a bit if he's just teasing. But Quinn has a serious question and concern. What are they going to do longer term? As much fun as the sex is, Miriah is a literal living blow up doll right now. She has a life, classes, a part time job, she can't just live in Quinn apartment and get stored in a box in the closet or under the bed deflated when they're not fucking.

Quinn’s fingers worked her slowly, teasingly, drawing out every choked moan—but even as her hips jerked against his hand, he frowned. "We can’t keep doing this forever, you know." Mariah whimpered, her body rocking with the rhythm of his touch. *"Why not?"* "You have shit to do. Classes. Work." His thumb circled her clit, making her gasp. *"Life."* She bit her lip, hands clutching at the sheets. "So what? I’ll—*fuck*—just… reinflate when I need to." Quinn pinched her thigh, just hard enough to make her yelp. "Be serious. You can’t walk around like this." Mariah shuddered as his fingers curled inside her. "Then… then help me figure it out. After." He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "After what?" "You know damn well." She hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him closer. Quinn smirked and drove his fingers deeper. "Fine. But we *are* talking." She arched, breath hitching. "*Later."*

As she is, Quinn could just lift and fold her legs up behind her head, there are no bones to stop it, just air. And she was so light. He could just lift her up and spin her around like that and have full access to her. Just hold her by the waits or with his arms crossed over her keeping her legs pinned up in the air and just ram her up and down on his shaft.

Quinn’s fingers slid out of her with a wet sound, and before Mariah could protest, his hands were under her waist, lifting her effortlessly. The air inside her made her body pliant—no resistance, just smooth, yielding pressure as he folded her legs back behind her shoulders. She let out a shaky moan as her spine arched impossibly, her body bending like soft vinyl. His grip tightened around her waist, pulling her up until she was suspended in the air, her legs pinned against her own torso. The angle forced her open—exposed, weightless. Quinn exhaled sharply, guiding himself between her slick folds with one hand. "Fuck, you’re easy to move." Mariah gasped as he sank into her, the stretch sudden and deep. Without leverage, she could only cling to his forearms as he began thrusting, bouncing her up and down his cock with rough, controlled motions. Every snap of his hips sent a jolt through her—no friction, no strain, just pure, relentless motion. "God—*Quinn*—!" Her voice hitched with each descent, her body swallowing him to the hilt. He grunted, adjusting his grip to lift her higher, then slammed her back down. "Feel that? No limits." She whimpered, her insides clenching around him. Air hissed faintly from her valve—too much movement, too much pressure—but neither of them cared.

Quinn’s rhythm grew brutal, his hands locked like iron around her waist as he pistoned her up and down. The wet slap of flesh, the creak of his bed under shifting weight, the choked whimpers spilling from Mariah’s lips—all of it blurred into a single relentless pulse. Her body jolted with each impact, taking him impossibly deep, her insides stretched taut around his cock. Every thrust forced another gasp from her, her legs trembling where they pressed against her own shoulders. “Fuck—*fuck*—” Her fingers scrabbled against his arms, nails biting in. The angle made her feel split open, her clit grinding against him with every jarring movement. Quinn’s breath was ragged, sweat slicking his skin where she gripped him. “That’s it. Take it.” He hauled her up again, then dropped her hard, his hips driving up to meet her. Mariah’s vision whited out—her body tightening, shuddering—before the first wave of her climax ripped through her. Air hissed from her valve in a frantic wheeze as she came, her cunt fluttering around him in erratic pulses. But Quinn didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, his pace never slowing. “Again,” he growled. “Give me another one.”

His grip shifted, one hand sliding up to fist in her hair, yanking her head back as his thrusts turned punishing. The angle forced her cunt even tighter around him, the stretch bordering on unbearable. Mariah’s moans dissolved into broken gasps—each snap of his hips sent lightning up her spine, her body trembling through the aftershocks as he demanded more. "Harder—" she choked out, her voice raw. Quinn obeyed instantly, driving into her with a brutal snap, his balls slapping against her ass. The bedframe rattled, her valve hissing faintly as air escaped under the relentless pistoning. She could feel him everywhere—his cock splitting her open, his fingers tangled in her hair, the heat of his body pressing her impossibly deeper into the fold of her own limbs. Her clit throbbed, oversensitive and aching, but he didn’t let up. His free hand slid between them, fingers circling her ruthlessly, and she shattered again with a shattered cry. Quinn’s groan was guttural as her cunt clamped down, his rhythm faltering for the first time. “That’s it—*squeeze* me—”