literature

Volunteer (Part 3: Discoveries)

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YppleJax's avatar
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I am balanced, uncomfortably, on the open mouth of a small wastebasket.  It's one of those gray metal mesh ones, office-chic.  Slightly wider at the top than the bottom, and fortunately very sturdy, since even at its widest it's only about ten inches across, and my butt doesn't fit more than a couple inches into it.  I feel a bit silly.

"Are you sure you can't just give me a little push?" I ask.  Julie rolls her eyes at me.

"Yes.  The whole point is for you to do it without help...you won't get nearly as much out of this if you don't have full control."  I try not to sigh.  I know she's trying to help, and I love her to death, but I've gathered that she's been doing this stuff for years, and I don't think she remembers how hard it was in the beginning.  Plus, if I'm not being "forced" into it, even consensually, it just doesn't have quite the same thrill, and she said to try to recreate how I felt the first time.

I stand up, adjusting the waistband of my pajama pants, and study the wastebasket, thinking.  Maybe if I'm getting more pressure from gravity?  I brace my hands on the top edge of the basket and tense my arms, supporting myself, then lower myself in, knees first.  This is working a little better, though my knees aren't quite reaching the bottom before the combined width of my thighs and ankles becomes too big to fit.  I gradually take the weight off my arms, letting it rest all on my legs.  The pressure quickly grows uncomfortable, my body weight trying to force me into a space too small, the metal mesh walls unyielding.  There's a sharp line of pain where my ankles are hitting the wastebasket's rim, and I don't know how long I can stand it.

I close my eyes, focusing on the pressure rather than the pain, imagining how it felt in the illusion when I began to fit, when the magician was pushing relentlessly, and there was nowhere to go, until there was that sudden-

I feel a "pop", and the pain at my ankles is gone, replaced with an even pressure from my toes up to my ribcage.  My eyes spring open, and I look down.  I have to lift up my pajama top to see the rim of the wastebasket, which now comes up to just below my breasts.  Below, it looks like I'm wearing some sort of angular metal corset, and a firm training one at that, except that it ends not at my legs, but at the floor.

"I did it!" I say, surprised.  Julie laughs and claps perfunctorily.

"Mostly, anyway.  You look like a bust, I should find a roman column for you," she jokes.  "But at least you've proven you can do it...now it's just a matter of practice."  I put my hands against the floor and push, lifting myself and the wastebasket a few inches off the carpet.

"That's weird!  It's not nearly as hard to do this as it ought to be...I guess some of my weight has...what, gone somewhere else?"  My redheaded besty shrugs.

"Beats me...this is your trick, not mine.  But I wouldn't lean too much on concepts like 'ought to be'.  'Ought to' based on what?  Physics?"  She cackles derisively.  "You're a Sorceress now, physics is your puppy, and it will sit quietly when you don't want it around, or get a newspaper across the nose."  I laugh.

I press my hands against my sides and try to force them down into the basket.  Slowly, they slide downward, the feeling of even pressure spreading up them, until my arms are flat at my sides.  I look at where they're pressed between my side and the basket, and they don't seem misshapen or flattened exactly, and yet I know there's even less room for them now.

"I wouldn't try to figure it out visually, people have gone mad that way," Julie warned, answering my unasked question.  I nod, then try to bend my arms inside, sliding my hands back up to the rim.  It's difficult, but I manage to work my fingertips out, curling them down over the rim, my breasts resting on top of them.

"Ok, here goes nothing..."  I grip as best I can and pull upwards.  It feels like the time I was digging in a closet and found the Little Mermaid sleeping bag I had when I was six, then tried to fit my sixteen-year-old body into it.  It feels like I'm pulling the rim up, but it's the rest of me that's slowly sliding downward...chest, neck, then face.  As my face presses into the backs of my hands, my vision goes a little swimmy, and it's hard to make out the view through the mesh of the wastebasket.  "This feels really weird," I try to say, but the pressure on my lips makes it come out more like "Thm fmls rmmy mrrrd."

"Very eloquent," says Julie.  I feel her tousle the top of my hair a bit.  "I'm curious..." I feel her fingers brush against the back of my neck, then slide downward.  It gets confusing, her hand doesn't seem to be going in a straight line anymore, pressed now against my back, now my ankles, my stomach, my rear.  It tickles a bit and I try to protest, but don't manage more than a few unintelligible high-pitched noises.  Her fingers continue to rove somehow randomly across me, and when they brush my toes I let out a muffled squeak and buck, my back bending, trying to evade the feeling, but my kinesthetic sense is all messed up, moving my body in a particular direction doesn't make sense anymore.

She's clearly tickling me on purpose now, her nails sliding across my soles, with the weird pressure it's like I'm wearing tight boots but her hands are somehow inside them.  I try to thrash and nothing really happens.  In desperation I thrust my arms and legs outward in every direction, and suddenly I'm collapsing on the floor, the pressure gone, wastebasket flying across the room to bounce off a wall.

"Well, I guess someone is ticklish...sorry, I was just..." Julie trails off as she realizes I'm not really listening.  My hips are thrust upwards, bridging my back over the floor as sharp jolts of heat shoot through my body, my mouth open in silent shock.  The waves of sensation break slightly, enough for me to draw in a ragged breath and immediately let it out in a half-moan, half-scream of pure release.  I collapse to the carpet, the cotton of my pajamas mildly damp from sweat.

"Holy crap," Julie says, mildly.  "Are you okay?"  I don't answer for a minute, just breathing and letting the echoes of the amazing feeling slowly fade.

"Well," I say, slowly, "that was...that was a thing, it was.  Does that happen every time?"  Julie rises from her knees where she'd been leaning over me and resumes her seat on a chair nearby.  She shakes her head, frowning a bit.

"Um...if 'that' was what it sounded like, then no...at least not to me.  Sorry," she says, awkwardly.

"God, don't apologize!  I mean, I think I know what you mean, that you didn't intend that...right?"  I'm not sure if I'm imagining the hint of color in her cheeks, but she definitely looks away before she answers.

"Right.  Right..." she says.  We're such amazingly good friends that it's a shock when I realize we've never really talked about intimate things, and here I basically put on a floor show in front of her.  Awkward.  I fold my legs to the side and sit up, leaning forward to put my hand over one of hers, on her knee.

"Honestly, I'm good either way, Jules.  You're my best friend in the world."  Our eyes meet, and I can't figure out why she suddenly looks so sad.
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1classybadger's avatar
another fine entry,  also liking your descriptions of the feel of magic.