Jane / Quick&Dirty flattening

Jane was elegance incarnate, drawn to the unveiling like a moth to the soft, deceptive glow of power. The demonstration hall thrummed beneath the feet of the elite, the rich and terrible bored with bloodsports, craving something cleaner, more aesthetic.

The WRX-9 stood gleaming beneath white halogens. A marvel of design: smooth as sin, silent as confession. The presenter smiled as Jane approached—curious, amused, playing at fearless.

“A volunteer?” he asked, eyebrows lifting like a challenge.

The room stirred. She laughed—confident, disbelieving, yet intrigued. “What, this? It just... flattens people?”

“Not people,” he said. “Art. Would you like to see how perfect you become?”

A pause. Cameras ready. Eyes hungry. Something inside her thrilled at the attention. Jane stepped up, heels clicking. The host’s gloved hand gestured toward the machine’s open maw. “For best fidelity, no garments. Skin compresses cleaner. Pure lines.”

There was a hush. She considered. Then, in one graceful motion, she disrobed—more performance than submission—tossing her dress aside as if it were yesterday’s name tag. The room inhaled. Her body, unblemished and poised, shone under the lights.

She stepped between the rollers, arms slightly raised, chin lifted like a dancer in the final pose.

Then whirrr—the sound came like a purr from the machine’s core.

Her eyes widened the moment it touched her—warm and unyielding, like air made solid. Shock flared in her features: her mouth opened just a little, eyebrows lifted high, a perfect expression of disbelief and sudden helpless awe.

Her form moved inward inch by inch, hips drawn taut, breasts pressing forward, flattening with surreal precision. She didn’t scream—there wasn’t time. Just a breath held in surprise, caught and kept forever.

The rollers whispered her through, and when she emerged, she was immaculate.

A single sheet of her—glistening like lacquered canvas—unfurled into the handler’s hands. Her body preserved in exquisite detail: arms out, fingers splayed, toes pointed, mouth parted in eternal shock. A poster of astonishment and beauty, blank of voice but full of presence.

They hung her next to the others. Jane, now Exhibit #47.

And for the rest of the night, the guests sipped champagne and admired how well the machine worked.