📚 confessions of a tuba fetishist Part 3 of 3
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Confessions Of A Tuba Fetishist Ch 03

Confessions Of A Tuba Fetishist Ch 03

by blowhyoooge
10 min read
4.5 (1000 views)
adultfiction

So, where was I? Oh yes, I was going to finish what I started, and tell you about my recent exploit, blowing the world's biggest tuba.

I bet I know what you're thinking. "She blew Big Carl!" No, not Big Carl. But speaking of Big Carl, if you're not familiar with this eight-foot-tall tuba, google Big Carl Tuba. (There's a video of a certain famous female tubist giving it a blow, and it's breathtaking. Literally. She stumbles away after emptying her lungs into him.)

Yes, I knew about Big Carl. I wanted to blow him so bad. Still do. I actually traveled to New York City a few times, all the way from Los Angeles. First time I just wanted to walk by and look at him. The second time I was going to go in and ask to blow him, but I chickened out. As I did on my third visit. And then I learned that there was a bigger tuba, and that it was coming right to my front door.

I work at the prop house of a movie studio, and for one of our films, the director wanted a giant tuba. It wasn't going to be played, but he was famous for his love of authenticity. (The set designer and all of us in props were so fucking sick of this guy. Is that authentic? Is that authentic? I know it's period-correct, but is it authentic?" "No," I always wanted to say, "but my pussy is, so why don't you eat me out and shut the fuck up?" For once I understood how annoying my constant tuba-tooting and balloon-busting must have been to my parents.). He wanted an honest-to-goodness real instrument, and I was asked to commission it and get it built. I spent hours on the phone talking about tubas. I started bringing extra panties to work, stuffed away in a desk draw.

The tuba cost something like $50,000 to make. It was fifteen feet high. The valves were as big as my fist. We had it shipped in on a specialized truck. It was a fully working tuba. The shop that built it demonstrated it with a special pump they made because no one on their staff had the lung power to get a good note out of it.

I thought I knew someone who did. A woman I spotted in my mirror every morning. And every night when I practiced my tuba and blew my balloons.

The company that made the huge tuba finished ahead of schedule, and the big brass monstrosity sat in our warehouse for a long time. I'd work late, staying after everyone left, sitting on a chair and just looking up at it. Sometimes I'd set my chair up in a place where I knew the security cameras couldn't see (I had to blow a security guy to get that information; well worth it) and I'd masturbate, thinking what it would be like to blow what I, and few other people, knew was the world's biggest tuba.

I wanted to blow it. I had to blow it. I was afraid to blow it. I couldn't blow it. I needed to blow it.

Finally, today, I got up the nerve.

Where were we before I went off on this whole tangent about my tuba history? About my big breasts, about Billy stretching my cunt with his huge cock while I blew an oom-pah beat on my sousaphone... Oh yes, I remember. My lungs were inflated to their own bursting point, my cheeks puffed out to the size of grapefruits, the pressure building up behind my lips. That's where we were.

Shall we continue?

We don't have to. If you want to hear more about tuba-fucking, I could tell you about another time, kind of a dare from a friend. We were at a party, all a little drunk, and I said nothing could distract me when I was playing. He said prove it, so I did. Oh, I had a dress on, no one saw anything (well, not too much), I got out my sousa, straddled him, and...

Sorry... you do want me to continue. You don't have to shout.

I gradually relaxed my lip muscles and blew, a big lung-full of hot breath that would generate a nice low note from my tuba or my sousa...

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But from the giant tuba, all I got was a pathetic hiss.

I inhaled again, and blew harder, then harder still. I blew hard enough that, were I playing my contrabass, the neighbors would complain. (I knew because I had blown it that hard, and they did.)

The giant tuba made a soft sigh.

Fuck, I thought. I was right, I can't blow this thing!

I tried again. I inhaled deeply, then I inhaled some more. My bra dug into my rib cage. It hurt. Well, what the fuck, no one could see. I unbuttoned my blouse, then undid the clasp between my tits. Good thing I wore the front-release bra today. I didn't take if off entirely--might have to get dressed in a hurry--but it felt good to have my boobs hanging free. My nipples were already big and hard (they weren't as impressive as Billy's massive cock, but close), and the cold air in the prop house made my areolas break out in goose pimples.

I inhaled as much as I could, and unconstrained by my bra I was able to draw a little more air into my big lungs. I put my lips to the giant mouthpiece, pushed my face in to get a nice tight seal, holding my breath even though I felt like my lungs would explode. I closed my eyes and blew into that giant tuba as hard as I had ever blown in my life, straining my diaphragm and inflating my cheeks so big they felt as if they would pop like a balloon.

What came out was not a hiss. It was not a sigh. It was a note--a long, low, beautiful note, deeper than anything I'd ever blown from any of my tubas, so low it literally made the room shake. I mean it. The glass in the cabinets was rattling (I could see it in the reflections; no way to hear it over the big brass BOOOOOOOOMPF I was blowing), and I see the china behind the glass shifting around as well. I blew as hard and as long as I could, emptying my lungs, standing on my tip-toes and bending to press every last molecule of air out of me and into the tuba. I blew until I thought I would pass out. Blowing hadn't made me dizzy since I was a little girl, but this time my head swam.

The cream from my cunt ran down my thighs like Billy's cum had that time when he fucked me while I blew my sousaphone.

I stood there, my ears ringing from the big bass note I had blown.

I'd done it!

I'd blown the giant tuba!

And then, with a delayed reaction I have never experienced before or since, the orgasm hit me. No, it didn't just hit me, it ran me the fuck over, jolting my body so hard I had to grab on to the giant tuba to keep from falling off the stepladder. I am a moaner, as many, many men and several women can tell you, but this time I had to stifle a scream.

The scream! Had I alerted anyone? I stood, quietly, clinging to the tuba, my big breasts pressed against its cool brass.

I heard nothing.

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Brass against skin. It felt so good. I had to blow again. But first...

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my jeans and kicked those away, too. I squeezed myself against the tuba, feeling its cool brass against my breasts, my thighs, my cunt.

I inhaled, filling my lungs until I was sure they would explode. The expansion of my chest pushed my breasts nearly flat against the tubing of the tuba.

I put my lips to the mouthpiece.

I sealed my lips. I inflated my cheeks, then sucked a little more air in through my nose to top off my lungs. And then I let my lips go loose and contracted my diaphragm as hard as I could.

The note I blew was even lower and even louder, blasting through the warehouse like a ship's foghorn. The vibrations through the tuba were intense, conducted through my sensitive tits and my soaking snatch and carrying into my whole body. This time there was no delay, just reaction. The orgasm started right away, and I couldn't tell the tremors of climax from the vibrations of the giant horn. Blowing this hard, I knew I would quickly empty my lungs, but I determined to keep it going as long as I could. I blew and blew and blew, my body quaking from the orgasm and the tuba. Again the glass rattled, and this come I could hear it. I heard a faint thump as something fell over. It turned out to be a couple of books vibrated right off the shelf by the low-frequency note I was blowing.

Was I blowing the tuba, or was it sucking the air out of me? No, I was blowing, keeping up a positive pressure that the thin skin of my cheeks could barely contain. When my lungs were empty, I squeezed the muscles in my big puffy cheeks and emptied that last bit of air into the tuba, riding the note and the orgasm as long as I could. The note trailed off, and so did my climax.

I half-stumbled, half-fell off the steplader and collapsed on the ground under the tuba, breathing heavily as my body strained for oxygen. I was painting, my head was spinning, and I had the thought that if you put a 16-inch balloon to my lips, I'd blow it to bursting in seconds just from breathing so hard. I looked up at the tuba, towering above me like a high-rise building. I did it, I thought, I blew that massive tuba--and orgasmed again. My heart was pounding a billion beats a minute, and I wondered if it was possible to masturbate to death. I bet I was close.

I laid there, back on the cold concrete, legs parted, my body covered in sweat and pussy juice, staring up at the giant tuba. The big tuba that needed a machine to blow... a tuba-blowing machine like me.

The next night I found myself in much the same position, but instead of staring up at the giant tuba, it was my boyfriend of the moment, pounding away hard and fast, waves rippling through my big tits with each thrust. I cried out with orgasm after orgasm. Later, shortly after he pulled out of my pussy to cum in my mouth--he was so excited he didn't make it--he laid back, exhausted, and told me that was the best fuck he had ever had. He'd never fucked a woman who responded so enthusiastically.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't him I was thinking of.

EPILOGUE

If you're going to masturbate, may I suggest you do it now, before you read any further? Because, fellow tuba fetishists, aside from the big load my boyfriend blew all over my tits and face (and the little bit he actually got between my lips, which I dutifully swallowed), this story has no happy ending. After filming, the tuba was carted off to its doom. The director didn't want it becoming a famous artifact that might outshine his film (which, though I have not seen the final cut, I hear is turning out to be pretty terrible). The company that made the tuba signed an NDA. At least you can see it in the movie, right? No. One of the actors in that scene got arrested and sent to rehab, and with no money for re-shoots, the scene was cut.

I guess there is one happy aspect: Only one human being in the entire world ever blew the giant tuba that was, for a short time, the world's biggest.

For a while, only I knew who she was. Now you do, too.

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