Contains non-con, forced orgasms and EXTREME insertions.
Disclaimer: This story is graciously sponsored by Wilson Sporting Goods. Wilson: Feel it in your guts!
“OK, class, now we all know Wilson makes durable products at competitive prices...” Mr. Wessman was holding a standard size Wilson volleyball for the class to see.
One girl in the fourth row did not dare look up from her desk. She couldn't stomach the sight of it right now; her bowels spasmed painfully just from hearing the quality (yet affordable) brand name.
“Considering it has a diameter of 22 centimeters, can we use Hooke's law to determine how many volleyballs we can fit in this long modeling balloon? Number 11, you of all people should pay attention to this lesson.”
The laughter... how can they still find this shit funny after 4 days?
Everyone in school, even the teachers, were in on this cruel inside joke. It was obvious that the deflated red balloon represented her anal cavity, and the volleyball represented, well... a volleyball. Her name was Eliza, not Number 11, but she was the new girl and that's what it said on the back of the figure-revealing jersey she had to keep wearing until the next game. That jersey was a beacon for ridicule for all knew what it implied. She had worn her long hair in a ponytail as far as she could remember, but since her first game on Monday, she used it to hide as much of her face as possible. Even through the dirty-blonde curtain, she knew all mocking eyes were on her.
Eliza's athletic frame was just shy of 5 feet but she was a great setter despite being a head shorter than her teammates. There was no greater feeling than watching her perfect pass hover over the net as time slowed down until it vanished in a loud smash. The only upside to her family suddenly moving to this awful town was the school's undefeated volleyball team. Despite its hardcore reputation, Eliza crushed the tryouts and got a spot on the team's starting line-up. She thought she cemented her star status after helping them win the season's first game... but after an uncomfortable amount of congratulatory butt slaps, the coach informed her of 3 minor mistakes she had made during the game and how she would be punished for them.
The once cheery cutie, now with permanent wince etched on her face, looked up in horror to the thin deflated balloon that looked like a wrinkly pea pod next to the relatively giant ball. Looks about right, Eliza's rectum communicated with uncomfortable contractions like Morse code.
“Now that everyone has calculated it on paper, we can try it and see if our k value holds up in the real world. Eliza, given your... expertise, why don't you come to the front of the class and show us how it's done?”
With a pit in her stomach and leathery knots in her guts, Eliza slowly lifted her clenched buttocks from the seat of her chair. Her skintight short shorts would offer a nasty show should she allow a section of the final ball to poke through her flared anus so, ignoring how degrading it looked, she pushed a couple of fingers up the grip of her cheeks to keep her pressurized contents in place.
For things so hard to insert, the volleyballs were ready to birth themselves the second she relaxed her sphincter and the punishment for losing her balls was having to wedge an extra one in there. Her large intestine was crowded with four leather orbs since Tuesday's accident on top of the stairway... The wet sound of the bouncy balls tumbling down the stairs after escaping her asshole's grip and ripping through her shorts and the playful screams of students trying to dodge them still haunted her waking nightmare. She had resisted every microsecond of inattention since that moment, because she didn't trust her ass could survive a fifth insertion. Then again, that's what she thought of the four. That's even what she had thought of the original three. In any case, these were her last pair of shorts.
With a hand on her highest belly bulge and the other still snug between her bubbly cheeks, Eliza reached the front of the class and readied herself to indulge Mr. Wessman in his sick demonstration. Her asshole was begging her to let go and alleviate the immense pressure it was straining under. The trapped balls were alive and angry inside her colon, plotting their escape. What are they so angry about? Eliza wondered. I'd much rather be a ball than a stretched ball sack.
She took a deep breath when she was handed the volleyball and balloon and you could see in Eliza's brow the effort needed to hold her inner-globes in place without the use of a hand or a seat. The weight and girth of the Wilson on her palm was already giving her anal post-traumatic flashbacks. She pretended not to know what to do with the items to delay the inevitable.
“Come on, now, Number 11. You know what to do.” And there it was, the pat on the ass that everyone loved to give her.
Feel my ass and make me squirm in pain; two-for-one, you fucking degenerates. Eliza put the ball on the teacher's desk and distended the bead of the balloon above the wobbly sphere using every finger but her thumbs. This method was disturbingly evocative of the way she was forced to stretch and squat on the balls in the locker room, and then in the stairwell, but she didn't know how else to do it.
The rim of the balloon, like the rim of her asshole, nearly tore when it clinched the great circle. The rest of the rubber, equivalent to her abused rectum, stretched to near-transparency once it swallowed the ball. Like that faithful game day, it is through perseverance that Eliza successfully created a thin ball pouch out of incompatible materials.
The teacher bounced the strained balloon by its nose, making the ball inside loosen the rubber even more with its weight. “Wow, looks like this balloon is completely ruined. I doubt it will ever regain its original shape. Its only purpose now to keep volleyballs warm. We're going to need more of them to continue the experiment, though. I wonder where we could find some.”
Eliza's sarcastic smile dropped in an instant when her brain caught the implication. “No... No! You're not touching my balls,” she said, triggering a new bout of laughter from her peers. She was about to waddle away but did not find spandex when she thumbed her peach to keep her volleyballs where they belonged; she instead fingered the tender rim of her asshole. Her volleyball shorts had been pulled over her ass down to her ankles. Eliza turned sideways, facing the desk so the whole class would only see the profile of her naked rear-end instead of her exposed, hairless pussy.
No matter. Mr. Wessman was welcome to try and pull her hand out of her crack; she was confident in her arm and wrist strength and would hold out until the bell rang if she needed to. As far as she was concerned, his perverted plan had failed.
But Mr. Wessman's hand did not wrap around her wrist, it wrapped around her waist and his hairy fingers crept down the V of her crotch.
“What are you doing? That's not allowed!” Eliza said, as if there were rules in a school that casualized large insertions. The thick index, middle, and ring fingers took advantage of the sporty girl's thigh gap to part her inexperienced labia and penetrate the pussy. The second knuckles of the invading fingers trapped her clit in a pincer attack and rubbed it mercilessly in a rough, vibrating, jackhammer motion.
The boys in class were oohing, the girls were covering their grinning mouths, and they all went wild when Eliza's eyes rolled back into her skull and her objections turned to moans. There was no way to conceal the orgasm that took over her body six minutes later because it was accompanied by violent leg shakes and the unstoppable ejection of four volleyballs that Mr. Wessman dodged just in time. They rolled about, accumulating dirt from the floor until their stickiness brought them to a halt against various desk legs.
Eliza suffered a second wave of orgasms from the relief of empty bowels, oblivious to the curious crowd that had gathered behind her to look up her deep, gaping bum aided by the lights of their recording phones. She squirmed on Mr. Wessman's desk long enough for the bell to ring, which at least let her re-insert her balls in quiet solitude once she came to. She was about to leave when she spotted the stretched red balloon she must have accidentally kicked into a corner. She sighed... At least I'm following the rules.
Tearing the balloon off the volleyball like Christmas wrapping felt ominous but she proceeded to squat over it like a dinosaur egg hoping her rectum was made of stronger stuff. When gravity proved ineffective, she pinned the ball between her bum and calves and, as she learned, used her muscular legs to push number five against number four. This Wilson-brand ball was more rigid than all of its packed neighbors of the inferior Molten brand, and her poor, tired anus had to take an extra centimeter of girth before swallowing the sturdy ball whole.
Her teeth nearly shattered from clenching her jaw so hard. But, fueled by determination, her organs managed to squeezed themselves out of the way to let the final section of her large intestine bloom in a bulge of leather and compressed air.
Eliza patted down her protrusions, rearranging her abdomen to hide the worst of her lumpiness, then pulled up her shorts and headed to the gym, walking like a cowgirl with a pesky wedgie. She had a game to win tonight and, hopefully, despite the handicap, she would manage to make less than five mistakes to make next week a little more bearable, especially now that she was getting the hang of it.