When the day of the event came, she showed her pass and was shown through a special doorway. There, along with a bunch of back stage equipment, she found a man in an expensive suit. He asked for her ID and, upon seeing the name, smiled at her.
"Well," he said. "So you're our press girl."
"One of them, I'm sure," she said.
"Are you kidding? We were shocked to get one. Anyway, here's your all access pass. Just make sure you're back here at 4 PM on Saturday to fulfill your obligation," he said.
"Sure thing!" she squealed, holding the treasured pass like it was made of gold.
~~~
After three long days of collecting discounts, samples, priceless trade secrets, and networking with the luminaries of her field, Margaret was almost ready for a break. It was just before 4 PM, so she hurried back stage. There would be some sort of an interview, she assumed. She wasn't much of an interviewer, of course, but she could bluff her way through one. The same man smiled at her when she arrived, assuring her she was right on time, and led her up to the stage.
"This interview isn't going to be in front of an audience, is it?" she asked.
"Interview?" he said, ushering her to a small glass booth along the back of the stage.
It was part of a line of similar booths, though the only one large enough for her to stand it. It put her in mind of those isolation booths they had on old game shows, a clear glass cubicle with a hinged door. He led her inside.
"Yeah, you know. I mean... why else would I be here?"
"Well, this is the press event," he said, clicking the door shut behind her.
"Uh huh. So, who am I interviewing? Or am I just taking notes."
"Oh... Oh! You think you're doing coverage of the event!" He pulled out his phone and started thumbing through his email. "You should have filled out the Media registration, then."
"Aren't they the same thing?"
He found what he was looking for and grinned wider. "Nope!"
"Then what did I sign up for?"
"The Press."
"What's the difference?"
Cheesy music swelled on the other side of the curtain as the event was about to begin.
"You clicked that you read and understood the terms, so I suppose you'll find out."
With that cryptic statement, he stepped off the stage, leaving her in her glass booth. She shrugged and turned to the others beside her. There were seemingly random things in each of them. One had a butterfly fluttering about. Another had a rose. There was even some barbed wire in the far end.
Before she could work out what those things had in common with each other, let alone her, the curtains opened.
"And so I am proud to announce, The Press!" remarked the spokeswoman on stage. "The newest innovation in skin augmentation. As you all know, the best tattoo artists come at a high price, and they are in extreme demand. Now, the skill of a tattoo technician can never be replaced, but what if I were to tell you that, for a fraction of the price of hiring a full time artist, you can manufacture your own temporary tattoos? We're talking things of peerless realism."
She marched up to the booth containing the rose. The spokeswoman then hovered her finger in front of a button, which for the first time Margaret noticed was present on the front of every one of the booths.
"Now, I for one am a fan of the rose. A classic tattoo, right? But one that can still go terribly wrong in the hands of an unskilled artist. Not anymore."
She pressed the button. With a sharp hiss, the back panel of the rose's booth collapsed against the front. From Margaret's point of view, the rose entirely vanished. Only when she clicked open the booth and a paper thin flower slid free did Margaret realize what happened.
"There! Absolutely realistic, because it is absolutely real." She slapped the rose against her upper arm and rubbed vigorously. "A little bit of friction and heat seals it to the skin, and for 6-8 weeks, you've got what appears to be a top dollar tattoo for the low-low price of a single long stem rose. Plus merchant markup, of course."
Margaret blinked in disbelief at what she'd seen. It wasn't possible, was it? That was some sort of trick.
She was still trying to figure out how they did it when she realized someone else was stepping on stage.
"...our lovely volunteer, Dana!" the spokeswoman crowed, welcoming Margaret's friend to the stage.
Dana gave her a devilish smile and waved.
"Dana here has been trying to find a way to properly pay tribute to her friendship, and a tattoo seemed like just the right way. But we've all seen the nightmare of a poorly done likeness tattoo right?" the spokewoman said, approaching Margaret's booth.
She hovered her finger over the button.
"Well not anymore!"
The spokeswoman pressed the button and an awful lot happened in an awful little amount of time. Margaret heard an odd hiss, then felt something smooth and cool bump into her from behind. A fraction of a moment later she felt her breasts plop against the front of the both. Constant, steady pressure squeezed her. She felt a pinching, squishing sensation all over her body, but not in an unpleasant way. Maybe it was because her nipples--already one of her more sensitive bits of anatomy--were the things squished first, but the spreading pressure of her perky breasts being compacted down felt downright titillating. Soon she felt the smoothness of the booth's wall spreading across her thighs as well, both front and back. Her tush pressed against the back wall while the front wall made her flat tummy progressively flatter.
It all seemed to be happening so slowly, but that may just have been because the sinfully delicious, sensitizing sensation had flooded her brain with stimuli. Barely a heartbeat had passed when she felt her hands pinching between the glass. When the motion finally stopped, she was far too fixated on the sensations in her nipples, and between her legs, to spare a thought for how she was utterly incapable of moving, such that even her eyes were plastered facing front and unblinking, taking in the view of the enthusiastically applauding audience whether she wanted to or not.
"There! And quite a candid pose," the spokeswoman said.
Taken by surprise as she was, Margaret had been pressed flat mid-flinch. One leg was slightly raised, her hands were still pressed out behind her as they'd been when the wall had hit her, and her face was frozen in a look of confusion.
"You'll note, the proper proportion. The speed of our process does not allow lateral spread, meaning that Margaret here maintains the same true-to-life fidelity she would have in a photograph. Some minor deformation in the soft tissue--ladies, expect to gain a cup size--is the only artifact of the pressing process. But wait, there's more! Naturally it would take one remarkable canvas to host this work of art. For things like the rose or butterfly, life size is just right. But for larger subjects, a modest additional fee gets you custom resizing."
The spokeswoman pressed the button a second time and Margaret heard a new hiss. Something was pumping into the paper-thin space she occupied. It filed the available volume instantly, then began to press on her from around her edges. If she'd had the mobility, she would have squirmed and giggled as her body slid across the smooth glass, receding inward to the center. Once again, the distracting sensation--this time an amplified version of the already mind-blowing enhancement of her sense of touch--meant that she didn't immediately determine what was happening. Only when she realized the audience in front of her was creeping upward in scale did she reason that she, in fact, was creeping downward.
When the button was released, Margaret wasn't more than three inches tall. The spokeswoman clicked the case open and eased a fingernail behind Margaret's head. With a long, slow delightful peel that put a blush on her cheeks, Margaret was pulled from the glass and held between the dainty thumb and forefinger of the spokeswoman. Her paper-thin body fluttered in the air conditioning as the woman handed her to Dana.
She caught a brief glimpse of Dana's mischievous look, then saw her hike up the edge of her skirt. After hooking a thumb under the edge of her panties as well and pulling them upward to reveal where thigh met butt, she was turned away from Dana and, in a startling motion, slapped onto the thigh.
Margaret reveled in the warm feeling of the flesh beneath her. She could feel every nuance of the jiggly motion of Dana's rear end wobbling from the impact. Then came the rubbing. Up and down the hand went, mashing Margaret against the cheek. Friction turned the pleasant warmth into punishing heat, something that would have become uncomfortable if not for the rubbing putting other, more sensual thoughts into her mind. Again, if she'd had the ability, she probably would have been gasping for breath and moaning in delight.
The palm pulled away and, after more applause, Dana pivoted her butt cheek toward a mirror to admire the results. This treated Margaret to a view of her own tiny body, now little more than a startlingly realistic tattoo on the upper-thigh/lower butt of her 'friend' Dana. The glimpse of herself was brief, though, as a sheer pink fabric--Dana's panties--slid down over her eyes and then darkness came in the form of her skirt dropping into place.
There was probably more to the presentation, but it was lost on Margaret. She was too busy soaking up the body heat of her friend, drinking in the lovely feeling of every bounce and brush of her butt, and thinking about how interesting the next 6-8 weeks were going to be.
"This interview isn't going to be in front of an audience, is it?" she asked.
"Interview?" he said, ushering her to a small glass booth along the back of the stage.
It was part of a line of similar booths, though the only one large enough for her to stand it. It put her in mind of those isolation booths they had on old game shows, a clear glass cubicle with a hinged door. He led her inside.
"Yeah, you know. I mean... why else would I be here?"
"Well, this is the press event," he said, clicking the door shut behind her.
"Uh huh. So, who am I interviewing? Or am I just taking notes."
"Oh... Oh! You think you're doing coverage of the event!" He pulled out his phone and started thumbing through his email. "You should have filled out the Media registration, then."
"Aren't they the same thing?"
He found what he was looking for and grinned wider. "Nope!"
"Then what did I sign up for?"
"The Press."
"What's the difference?"
Cheesy music swelled on the other side of the curtain as the event was about to begin.
"You clicked that you read and understood the terms, so I suppose you'll find out."
With that cryptic statement, he stepped off the stage, leaving her in her glass booth. She shrugged and turned to the others beside her. There were seemingly random things in each of them. One had a butterfly fluttering about. Another had a rose. There was even some barbed wire in the far end.
Before she could work out what those things had in common with each other, let alone her, the curtains opened.
"And so I am proud to announce, The Press!" remarked the spokeswoman on stage. "The newest innovation in skin augmentation. As you all know, the best tattoo artists come at a high price, and they are in extreme demand. Now, the skill of a tattoo technician can never be replaced, but what if I were to tell you that, for a fraction of the price of hiring a full time artist, you can manufacture your own temporary tattoos? We're talking things of peerless realism."
She marched up to the booth containing the rose. The spokeswoman then hovered her finger in front of a button, which for the first time Margaret noticed was present on the front of every one of the booths.
"Now, I for one am a fan of the rose. A classic tattoo, right? But one that can still go terribly wrong in the hands of an unskilled artist. Not anymore."
She pressed the button. With a sharp hiss, the back panel of the rose's booth collapsed against the front. From Margaret's point of view, the rose entirely vanished. Only when she clicked open the booth and a paper thin flower slid free did Margaret realize what happened.
"There! Absolutely realistic, because it is absolutely real." She slapped the rose against her upper arm and rubbed vigorously. "A little bit of friction and heat seals it to the skin, and for 6-8 weeks, you've got what appears to be a top dollar tattoo for the low-low price of a single long stem rose. Plus merchant markup, of course."
Margaret blinked in disbelief at what she'd seen. It wasn't possible, was it? That was some sort of trick.
She was still trying to figure out how they did it when she realized someone else was stepping on stage.
"...our lovely volunteer, Dana!" the spokeswoman crowed, welcoming Margaret's friend to the stage.
Dana gave her a devilish smile and waved.
"Dana here has been trying to find a way to properly pay tribute to her friendship, and a tattoo seemed like just the right way. But we've all seen the nightmare of a poorly done likeness tattoo right?" the spokewoman said, approaching Margaret's booth.
She hovered her finger over the button.
"Well not anymore!"
The spokeswoman pressed the button and an awful lot happened in an awful little amount of time. Margaret heard an odd hiss, then felt something smooth and cool bump into her from behind. A fraction of a moment later she felt her breasts plop against the front of the both. Constant, steady pressure squeezed her. She felt a pinching, squishing sensation all over her body, but not in an unpleasant way. Maybe it was because her nipples--already one of her more sensitive bits of anatomy--were the things squished first, but the spreading pressure of her perky breasts being compacted down felt downright titillating. Soon she felt the smoothness of the booth's wall spreading across her thighs as well, both front and back. Her tush pressed against the back wall while the front wall made her flat tummy progressively flatter.
It all seemed to be happening so slowly, but that may just have been because the sinfully delicious, sensitizing sensation had flooded her brain with stimuli. Barely a heartbeat had passed when she felt her hands pinching between the glass. When the motion finally stopped, she was far too fixated on the sensations in her nipples, and between her legs, to spare a thought for how she was utterly incapable of moving, such that even her eyes were plastered facing front and unblinking, taking in the view of the enthusiastically applauding audience whether she wanted to or not.
"There! And quite a candid pose," the spokeswoman said.
Taken by surprise as she was, Margaret had been pressed flat mid-flinch. One leg was slightly raised, her hands were still pressed out behind her as they'd been when the wall had hit her, and her face was frozen in a look of confusion.
"You'll note, the proper proportion. The speed of our process does not allow lateral spread, meaning that Margaret here maintains the same true-to-life fidelity she would have in a photograph. Some minor deformation in the soft tissue--ladies, expect to gain a cup size--is the only artifact of the pressing process. But wait, there's more! Naturally it would take one remarkable canvas to host this work of art. For things like the rose or butterfly, life size is just right. But for larger subjects, a modest additional fee gets you custom resizing."
The spokeswoman pressed the button a second time and Margaret heard a new hiss. Something was pumping into the paper-thin space she occupied. It filed the available volume instantly, then began to press on her from around her edges. If she'd had the mobility, she would have squirmed and giggled as her body slid across the smooth glass, receding inward to the center. Once again, the distracting sensation--this time an amplified version of the already mind-blowing enhancement of her sense of touch--meant that she didn't immediately determine what was happening. Only when she realized the audience in front of her was creeping upward in scale did she reason that she, in fact, was creeping downward.
When the button was released, Margaret wasn't more than three inches tall. The spokeswoman clicked the case open and eased a fingernail behind Margaret's head. With a long, slow delightful peel that put a blush on her cheeks, Margaret was pulled from the glass and held between the dainty thumb and forefinger of the spokeswoman. Her paper-thin body fluttered in the air conditioning as the woman handed her to Dana.
She caught a brief glimpse of Dana's mischievous look, then saw her hike up the edge of her skirt. After hooking a thumb under the edge of her panties as well and pulling them upward to reveal where thigh met butt, she was turned away from Dana and, in a startling motion, slapped onto the thigh.
Margaret reveled in the warm feeling of the flesh beneath her. She could feel every nuance of the jiggly motion of Dana's rear end wobbling from the impact. Then came the rubbing. Up and down the hand went, mashing Margaret against the cheek. Friction turned the pleasant warmth into punishing heat, something that would have become uncomfortable if not for the rubbing putting other, more sensual thoughts into her mind. Again, if she'd had the ability, she probably would have been gasping for breath and moaning in delight.
The palm pulled away and, after more applause, Dana pivoted her butt cheek toward a mirror to admire the results. This treated Margaret to a view of her own tiny body, now little more than a startlingly realistic tattoo on the upper-thigh/lower butt of her 'friend' Dana. The glimpse of herself was brief, though, as a sheer pink fabric--Dana's panties--slid down over her eyes and then darkness came in the form of her skirt dropping into place.
There was probably more to the presentation, but it was lost on Margaret. She was too busy soaking up the body heat of her friend, drinking in the lovely feeling of every bounce and brush of her butt, and thinking about how interesting the next 6-8 weeks were going to be.