"Gonna Squeeze Me Paper-Thin?"

"You're really gonna do it, huh?" Her voice was playful, teasing, like she was daring me. She sat in the metal tray of the machine, her bare skin catching the cold industrial gleam, her blonde hair tousled like she just rolled out of bed—or out of a magazine spread.

She ran a hand through her hair, smirking. "You really wanna press me flat?"

The machine loomed behind her, a beast of polished steel, its heavy rollers primed, waiting. It was meant for fabric, posters, billboards—anything that needed to be stretched out perfect, smooth, flawless. Not for a woman.

And yet, there she was, slipping down into position like she belonged there. Like she wanted it.

I hesitated. "You sure about this?"

She chuckled, curling her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest. "Scared I won’t pop back up on the other side?" She shifted, leaning back against the cold steel frame. "C’mon. Don’t you wanna see what I’d look like all stretched out? Paper-thin, glossy, smooth as silk?"

A shiver ran down my spine. The thought of it—her body feeding through the rollers, pressed tighter and tighter, spreading out like a fresh-printed image—was as surreal as it was intoxicating.

She stretched her arms above her head, her back arching as she adjusted. "I bet I'd look gorgeous as a poster. Hung up on a wall, a perfect image, no imperfections, no little human flaws..." Her fingers trailed along the tray, her nails tapping against the metal.

I swallowed. "And if you don't pop back up?"

Her grin widened. "Then I guess you’ll just have to keep me that way."

The machine hummed to life. The rollers rotated, slow at first, like they were testing the air, waiting for their prize. She shifted, sliding herself into the feed slot inch by inch, her toes just brushing the gap.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Last chance. You wanna press me flat?"

My hand hovered over the controls.

And then, I pushed the button.