"Gonna Squeeze Me Paper-Thin?"
Added 2025-02-11 14:08:56 +0000 UTCShe lowered herself, letting her soft cheeks press into the opening. The metal frame hugged her hips as she wiggled, settling in. Then—click. The rollers engaged.
Her breath hitched. A squeeze. A firm, steady pull.
The first thing she felt was warmth—unexpected, as the machine embraced her, pressing, stretching. Her round curves met the unforgiving steel, molding, spreading. The pressure built, teasing, relentless, until she could feel her shape begin to change.
She gasped, gripping the edges, half-laughing, half-trembling.
"Ohhh… it’s really pulling me in," she murmured, twisting her fingers against the cold surface. "Smoothing me out already?"
The rollers worked up her hips, flattening them effortlessly. Her thighs followed, pulled taut, stretching into sleek, flawless form. She moaned, half in shock, half in something else—her body reshaping, remolding, becoming something perfect.
Her stomach smoothed next, drawn into the machine’s tight embrace. She arched her back instinctively, but there was no escape—the rollers wanted all of her.
"You’re really doing it," she whispered, breathless. "Turning me into a perfect little sheet for you."
Her ribs slid in next, pressing down, compressing—every breath shallower, thinner. Her shoulders flexed as they reached the brink, her arms lifting, fingers trembling as the machine claimed the last of her.
She tilted her head, gazing at you, teasing even in her final moment.
"Hope you like me flat."
Then the rollers swallowed her completely, and she became exactly what you wanted.
The machine let out a final mechanical sigh, then fell silent. A single, pristine sheet slid from its rollers, warm to the touch, gleaming under the dim lights.
There she was.
No breath, no movement. No playful teasing or sly glances. Just a perfect, flattened print of what she once was—stretched thin, glossy, weightless. Every detail remained: the soft curve of her lips, the delicate shape of her fingers, the gentle arch of her body now sealed in smooth, laminated stillness.
She was art now. A masterpiece, pressed and purified into something beyond flesh. Her once-lush form had been refined into a sleek, flawless sheet, her depth reduced to a perfect plane of color and shine.
You lifted the poster carefully, marveling at its weight—or lack thereof. She was impossibly light, paper-thin yet firm, no longer soft, no longer shifting, just a smooth, polished rendition of herself. Her image caught the light as you turned her, the glossy finish making her appear almost unreal.
You ran a hand over her surface. The warmth from the pressing still lingered, but there was no life left in it. No rise and fall of breath, no lingering tension in her limbs. Just a perfect, motionless print.
You traced a finger over where her lips had been, once full and teasing, now sealed in quiet permanence. Her eyes, frozen in an expression of serenity, no longer held the spark of playful mischief they once had.
She was complete.
No resistance. No movement. No voice. Just a perfect image, forever smooth, forever still.
The machine had done its job. And now, she would remain exactly as she was—flawless, silent, yours.
