Cynthia tugged at her overalls and glanced at the clock. It was her first night on the job as the late shift janitor for the arena, and she was already behind on her work. It wasn't her fault though! She didn't realize when they'd hired her that she'd be working solo. How did they expect one person to clean and polish the entire basketball court to a high gloss in a single night?

She grumbled and looked down at the monstrosity she'd been fighting with for the last hour. That was the answer, of course. The owners of the arena had equipped their staff with the state of the art in industrial, semi-autonomous equipment. In theory, the rotary buffer on the floor in front of her would allow her to buff the whole court to a show-room shine in twenty minutes. But in all their infinite wisdom, they'd neglected to give her any training. She didn't even have the manual!

"Come on, you stupid thing," she muttered.

After flipping a dozen switches, the most she'd been able to do is get the three-foot wide buffer to slowly, haltingly rotate. It wasn't moving nearly fast enough to do any decent polishing, and after every second or third rotation it would seemingly drag to a stop, like the friction on the floor was too much for it.

"Maybe it just needs to get moving to a certain speed..." she reasoned. "Like when you bump start a car."

She squeezed her fingers around the trigger in front of the handle and edged her foot forward, trying to nudge the wheel with her toe. It was a bit of a stretch to hold the throttle AND reach the buffer, so she found herself slipping her foot into an awkward position and getting progressively further off balance. But after a second and third shove, it seemed to have some life in it. If she could just get one good spin, it'd probably kick into overdrive and she'd have a fighting chance of getting this last bit of her job done before the morning shift.

Cynthia held tight to the handle, slid her foot to the side, and swiped it across. Her toe turned out to be pointed down a bit too much, as it slipped under the edge of the fluffy buffing wheel. With a yelp, she tried to yank her foot free. The sudden motion proved too much for her over-extended balance and she started to fall over backwards. In her flailing attempt to keep from hitting the ground, she released the throttle and just grabbed tight to the grip.

At that point, she made a handful of important discoveries just a LITTLE too late for them to do her any good. First, it turned out that lever she'd been squeezing was the BRAKE, not the throttle. Twisting the handle was the real throttle. And she'd been steadily ramping up its maximum settings for things like wax dispensing and horsepower by fiddling with those switches.

The motor roared to life, the buffing disk whirred until it was a blur, and it launched forward, roaring along the court without her.  She flopped back and thumped her head on the ground, then dizzily tried to get up. For some reason, she couldn't quite move her foot. She propped herself up on her elbows and gazed down at the offending extremity.

"Uh oh..." she murmured.

Her shoe had been pulled free and was probably bouncing off the arena's back wall right about now. The heavy-duty buffing wheel had slicked her foot with a nice thick coat of wax and plastered it down to the floor. The patented pressure-shine system had spread and flattened her foot a bit, more or less gluing it to the floor.

"Oh gosh darn it. This is going to look really good on my job assessment," she muttered.

She leaned down to try to lever her foot up, but a steadily increasing mechanical rumble drew her attention. When she looked up, she saw that the buffer had reached the end of the court, pivoted, and was returning.

"No no no no no," she rambled, tugging madly at her ankle.

When it became clear she wasn't going to free herself in time, she released the ankle and held her hands up defensively. The buffer hit her like a charging bull. With a tug and a tear, it neatly ripped her overalls from her body like a magician removing the table cloth without upsetting the place settings. If she'd had the time to do so, she might have marveled at how such an unlikely thing could have occurred, but presently there were greater concerns. The buffer squeakily passed over her, spraying her with a wax coating and mashing her into the floor.

The weight of it pushed her flat against the floor and slathered her with glossy buffing compound. In the space of a second, she'd been squished against the floor. At her thickest points--basically her head, her bra-clad breasts, and her hips--she might have been an inch thick. Some of the excess mass had gone to spreading her out a touch, giving her a somewhat more hourglass figure than she had prior to being buffed, but mostly she was just compacted. She blinked her eyes and tried not to think about how she was in her underwear, stuck to the floor in a huge arena. Better to focus on correcting that issue.

She wriggled and writhed... or at least, she tried to. The wax layer over her had hardened a bit, depriving her of much more than the ability to blink, look around, and release a muffled murmur. Flattened muscles didn't really provide much in the way of leverage--at least not along the z-axis, which was really where she needed it.

With monumental effort, she managed to peel one hand off the floor, and was now trying to work her flattened fingers under the edge of her head to peel it up. Bit by bit, with a strangely satisfying *shhhrrrrrrrip*, her diminished head pulled off the floor. It curled up enough for her eyes to look down along her body and across the floor.

Again, at another time, she might have marveled at the perfectly glossy, barely contoured decal she'd essentially become. She'd always been a little self-conscious about her figure, but looking at it now, rendered in barely more than two dimensions, she was quite striking in her pink panties and bra. But the more striking thing was the buffer, which had completed a circuit around the floor and had now switched to its "final polish" mode--a much slower, much more thorough buffing. And it was just about to reach her feet.

As the spinning disk layered on some more wax and applied its rotating pressure, she tried to wriggle free. It was so intense, the vibrating, squeaking brushes mashing her body down from an inch thick to little more than a sheet of paper. It felt so warm and so smooth as it moved along her, like a rattling massage chair set to maximum power. If it wasn't so anxiety-inducing, it would have been incredibly relaxing.

She pulled harder, but her head wasn't coming free fast enough, so she released it and held out her hand to--no doubt futilely--try to stop the buffer. It has worked past her knees, treating her thighs to its wax massage. At about the same time, met her hand and her groin. In its quest to create a perfectly smooth floor, it simply laminated the hand right down over the groin and merrily continued.

At this point, any fear or attempts to escape were wiped from her mind by the heavy, smooth, vibrating pressure pinching and mashing its way over her most sensitive area. The creeping blush of embarrassment turned to one of lusty arousal as her hand was mercilessly buffed onto her crotch and the wheel continued along her trim tummy. It squeaked a bit louder as it smoothed her breasts down. It had to work especially hard to even out her very erect nipples, and every vibrating pinch made her gasp and moan more sharply.

Her flattened body was positively humming with ecstasy, and she probably would have shrieked with bliss if not for the buffer rumbling over her head just as she hit her peak. Thus, her climax was marked by an almost imperceptible murmur lost among a symphony of squeaks.

With its job done, the buffer rumbled off the court and shut down. Cynthia's foggy brain, slipping down from lustful glee to almost coma-inducing relaxation, faintly assessed her situation. She was in panties and a bra. One hand was mashed against her sex. She'd been reduced to a few fractions of an inch thick, and seemed to have been glossed over with a thick and almost plastic-hard layer of floor wax. And in less than two hours, the morning crew would show up.

She felt a hot blush on her cheeks. This was going to be a tough one to live down... especially if they couldn't peel her up before the basketball game that afternoon...