Miguel marched through the street fair set up in the town's main street. This wasn't usually his cup of tea. Mostly corny carnival-type rides, assorted farmer's market stands selling deep fried or candy-coated treats, and a few of the otherwise vacant stores temporarily populated temporary attractions. Everyone else had wandered off to go on the ferris wheel, but it was bad enough he'd agreed to come, he'd be damned if he was just going to follow everyone else around.

Toward the edge of the street fair, one of the vacant storefronts had been converted to, of all things, an art gallery of some kind. Miguel shrugged and stepped inside. The walls were covered with just the sort of thing you might expect. A few paintings and sculptures from local artists--each of the sort of quality that made it clear why these artists were still merely local--and some prints of more famous people's stuff. A young man in a white suit and a straw hat was the only staff member on hand. He'd leaned his chair against a wall and tipped his hat down over his eyes, dozing. Miguel suspected he was the only "customer" to come through that day. A cane leaned on the wall beside the man's chair.

To the man's left was a door labeled "By Invitation Only." It was partially ajar, and though the lights inside were too dim for him to clearly make out what was inside, the glimpses he got were of things much larger and grander than the stuff on display in the main room. Miguel marched toward the door.

In a blur of motion, something snapped in front of him and blocked the door. It was the cane of the employee. He looked down in time for the man to push his hat up with one finger.

"Sorry friend. I guess the sign wasn't big enough. By invitation only."

"Okay then. Give me an invitation," Miguel said simply.

The employee raised an eyebrow and stood, his chair rattling upright.

"That isn't how invitations work. Now, if you want to have a tour or the public exhibits..."

Miguel gave him a hard look. "I've seen this stuff. If you weren't sleeping on the job, you'd have noticed. But it seems to me this little private party of yours is kind of dead. How about you just let me in?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's not 'by request only,' it's by invitation. Now, I'm the curator of this collection. If you'll look here, this fine sculpture..."

"What's so special in a street fair that you need to keep it behind closed doors?" Miguel asked. "Come on. Just let me in there. I don't like taking no for an answer."

The curator looked him up and down with an appraising eye.

"I tell you what. Maybe you are the kind of person we need to see the private collection. A real taste-maker. Someone who can set a trend. Get the word out."

He reached out with his cane and pushed the door open.

"Right this way," the curator invited. "Or should I say, step right up."

Miguel smirked. All it ever took was a little confidence and a little pressure and most people folded. He stepped through the door, not waiting to be led, and the lights clicked on. Immediately it was clear that this was the real show. Unlike the bland, run of the mill stuff in the other room, this place had truly unique creations. There were vases, rugs, oversize prints, and even bizarre little puzzles. Everything was of astonishing quality, showcasing striking human figures in various states and positions. The vase was a squat female form, hollowed out and looking as though it were sleeping. Several rugs were shaped like stylized men and women in snappy outfits. In all cases the detail was nothing short of perfection.

"Kind of a weird theme for an art exhibition," Miguel said, looking over the exhibits.

"My customers, the kind who usually view this collection, have very specific tastes."

He milled about, gazing at the impressive amount of variety, and found himself quickly drawn to one of the handful of items in the room that didn't adhere to the "distorted humanity" theme. It was a large glass chamber, completely transparent but for a few black cylinders and assorted tubes running off one of its four walls. A small panel on both the inside and the outside featured a single red button.

"What's this?" Miguel said.

"Ah," the curator said, clicking the door to the front room shut. "That's one of our interactive exhibits. Here, let me help you."

Miguel stopped the  man with a raised hand.

"I don't need any help. It's not rocket science. Its a little chamber with a button on the inside." He stepped inside and gazed about. "So what is it? A photo booth?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Miguel assumed there would be a long-winded song and dance about why it was such an impressive exhibit, or else just a request that he not use it, or he be careful. It was easier just to push the button.

*Click*

A thick transparent panel, matching the rest of the walls of the chamber, flipped into place, sealing him inside.

"Careful there. Maybe you should wait until I give you the full explanation before--"

Miguel poked his finger against the glass, in lieu of poking it in the man's chest.

"What did I say. I don't need any help. This is kind of a pointless exhibit anyway."

He pressed the button again, assuming it would open the door. Instead, an odd hissing sound and a soft rattle drew his attention to the back of the chamber. The rear wall--festooned with black cylinders that he now realized were actually pistons--had begun to move, creeping toward him. He turned back to the curator. The white-suited man had his arms crossed and a grin on his face.

"Well, well. You are a man who knows what he wants. Most people need convincing to be added to the exhibition, but you just walked right in."

"What are you talking about? ... You know what? I don't even care. I'm getting out of this thing," he said.

He hammered the button a few more times. He didn't actually expect it to do any good, but as the only opening available to him, he may as well try it again. It didn't do any good. In fact, it did the opposite of good. Rather than nothing, it caused the rear wall to accellerate. Now, instead of creeping, it was sliding a few inches at a time, and there wasn't much room to spare.

Miguel turned back to the front of the chamber. The curator was smiling though the glass, leaning on the corner of the outside of the chamber.

"Are you sure you don't want help?" the curator taunted.

"Listen you," Miguel said. "When I get my hands on you..."

He felt the rear panel of the chamber press against his butt and back, shoving him forward. He placed his hands on the door of the chamber and tried to find a seam to pry it open, but after another few moments the pressure had spread across his entire back and pinned him against the front panel.

The force was irresistible, a firm coolness pressing him forward. His chest squeezed against the front panel, then his thighs. Wiry shoulders squeezed helplessly from the front and back. Gradually he could feel the pressure begin to squish and deform more and more of his arm, pinching and pressing ever-thinner parts of his body. He squirmed a bit, his face squeaking against the glass as nose and cheeks began to squidge against it.

It didn't seem possible, but the glass was still moving. It hadn't even slowed. And worse, he could feel that even his hands were pinned on either side, his fingers pinched tight. But that meant his whole body was pressed as thin as his pinkie!

The madness of it slowly began to slide away as the sensations took over. It wasn't painful. As he felt his muscles flatten and spread, what he felt mostly was relaxation. It was like a potent, massage, the deepest and most forceful one he'd ever experienced. His breath left him in a wheezing, whistling whimper as his lungs were compressed. But neither the pleasant (if intense) massage nor the concern for suffocation or being pulverized could distract him any longer from the other sensation he was feeling. He'd been squished flat enough that his manhood was feeling the pressure. It was like a strong, relentless grip was gradually tightening around him, stimulating the sensitive head of his shaft and giving his balls an aching but oddly irresistible kneading. The full-body stimulation was bringing with it a steadily growing arousal. His manhood tried to engorge, which only intensified the pressure and pinching.

By now He'd lost any concept of how much depth remained of his body. A creaking clack around him suggested the front and back of the chamber had met... but that would mean he was entirely flattened now. And yet he could hear the pistons still straining. With no more motion available, their hydraulic power was converted to heat and pressure. Every nerve was in fire with stimulation. A sensitivity he'd only ever felt on his most private areas seemed to spread until every part of his body was twitching and squirming like he was on the cusp of a climax from head to toe. What skin of was visible was blushing furiously, and he felt himself become slick with perspiration as the heat became nearly unbearable. Then, with no warning, there was a click and the pistons began to withdraw.

***SHRI-I-I-I-I-P***

He peeled away from the rear wall like a vinyl sticker. The wave of stretching, tingling sensation, combined with the tiny rebound of thickness once the pressure was released, caused him to shudder and quiver. It should have been a gusher, but every hole in his body was pinched so tight all he felt as a clenching pulse of ecstacy followed by a bit of moistness and a frustrating lack of relief.

Without pressure to hold him up, his body flopped and wobbled to the floor. He could feel the warm, glossy smoothness of his own belly as his face folded and flopped onto it, collapsing into a crumpled mass on the floor of the chamber.

The door swung entirely open and he felt the firm grip of the curator's fingers pinch his shoulders and pluck him from the ground. Miguel unfurled like a flag, waving gently in the breeze of the room's air conditioning, completely helpless as the white suited man held him up and admired him.

"Hmm... How best to put you to use?" the curator wondered aloud. "You're up over six feet tall now. Well, six feet long anyway. Nice rich brown hair. Matching eyes. I know you'll fetch a high price with that lean body of yours. I think I know just the thing."

He carried the fluttering body of Miguel over to a long display table beside some boxes of still-packed merchandise. He flicked the floppy body into the air and let it drift down to the table. It was a well-practiced motion, causing the flattened man to spread out into a nearly smooth cloth atop the table. In a few places he wrinkled and curled, but the curator carefully smoothed them out.

Miguel twitched and trembled at the touch. His entire body was in a state of constant, hyper-sensitive stimulation. The hand running across his body may as well have been sensually massaging him, because from the first light press of the fingers, his face reddened and his pulse pounded. His lust-clouded mind briefly let go of the anger and indignity of being rendered helpless as he shut his eyes and waited for the stroking motion to push him over the edge a second time.

Just before Miguel would have peaked, and with a precision that made it all but certain that the Curator knew precisely what he was doing when he did so, the man stopped smoothing him out and instead slid a piece of plexiglass up from beside the table and shifted it into place. For the second time, Miguel felt smooth, cold pressure of glass pressing down on him. It felt nice, but in a teasing, not-quite-nice-enough way to really finish what the rubbing had started. The curator adjusted the glass, squeaking it across Miguel's compressed flesh, then went about his business carefully unpacking the nearby boxes and arranging them atop the display table Miguel had been used to decorate.

~~~

Chris finished off his cotton candy and scanned the crowd. The street fair was his favorite event of the year, and even if Miguel didn't want to admit it, he like it too. Probably the reason he always acted like didn't enjoy it was that Chris was always the one who suggested they go. Miguel liked to be the one to lead the way into however they decided to spend a weekend. It had been that way for all the years they'd known each other. Chris wasn't surprised when he'd wandered off on his own, but that had been hours ago. Even Miguel didn't make himself scarce for this long.

Having enjoyed so many of the great rides, and had so much of the great food, Chris decided it was time to find Miguel. It shouldn't be that hard to find him. Watch where the crowd is going, and head the other way.

This led him to an odd little art gallery, which at the moment, was seemingly deserted. No visitors, no staff. Chris slipped inside and found some fun pieces of artwork, but nothing to really hold his interest. But there was a back door, wide open, that was just begging to be explored. And so, in he went. Inside, his eyes went wide.

“Woah…” he said, gazing at the array of strangely realistic examples of humanity in sculpted forms.

He browsed through the different works of art. There was something strangely compelling about them. Thinking of these works as actual people, imagining what it must feel like to be contorted, compacted…

Chris shook his head, and subtly adjusted his shorts, which were beginning to feel a bit tight. As interesting as the room was, he’d come here looking for Miguel, and clearly he wasn’t here. Just as the thought was passing through his mind, though, he heard a soft muffled voice.

He turned. There was nothing but a table, yet while he looked, he heard another little moan and a tiny little squeak. Chris stepped closer and, mostly hidden beneath a display of other sculptures, was something that looked remarkably like Miguel. He stepped closer. His breath started to quicken. There, pressed flat and utterly helpless, was his friend of many years. The thin (and now much thinner) swimmer's build was practically two dimensional. He didn't look "squished" in the classic way. No nose smudged up against the glass, no puffed out cheeks. He simply looked like he'd been rendered down to a decal of himself, preserved in proportion, but thin as a sheet of paper.

His head was quite near the end of the table, so much so that his hair was peeking out the end. When he came near enough, Miguel's eyes darted in his direction, dispelling any possibility that this might have been a simple picture of his friend. This was his friend.

Chris found his mind drifting in naughty directions. Miguel had always been so headstrong, so commanding and self-relied. And yet here he was, pinned behind a sheet of glass, helpless as a specimen in a bug collection. Unable to move. Completely flattened...

A tiny squeak snapped him out of his reverie. Miguel's head had slipped a fraction of an inch further out.

"Don't worry, Miguel! I'll save you!" Chris proclaimed.

He grabbed the tuft of hair and pulled hard. Miguel's head began to stretch and slide, causing a sound not unlike the scribbling of a marker on a balloon as he slid along the glass table. Slowly he began to ease out from under the pane of glass. Chris shut his eyes and pulled harder. Miguel stretched more and more until, with a rubbery snap, he slid entirely from under the glass. Both Chris and his rescued friend flew backward. Chris struck a wall and slid down. He felt a warm, rubbery form flop down on top of him. After shaking away the dizziness from the impact he looked down at the impromptu blanket.

Rather than the snappy outfit that Miguel had been wearing while compressed in the table, Chris found that he'd somehow tugged the man entirely out of his clothes. The shirt and pants were still sandwiched between the glass and the table, but Miguel was completely nude.

Chris stood and held his friend up by the head, gazing up and down at what had become of him. He was so smooth. So warm. Chris rubbed his fingers into the glossy, flattened flesh. They dimpled the surface and bulged the opposite side. Miguel was just a few millimeters thick, and he had the springy, stretchy bounce of the sort of stuff they made wetsuits out of. He experimentally tugged one of Miguel's arms, watching it stretch ever so slightly, then wobble back to shape. He was completely unable to move, rendered impossibly helpless. He couldn't help but feel a little surge of power to, for the first time, be the one helping a man who may never have truly needed help before. Someone who never would have wanted help. Seeing Miguel like this, transformed into a mere membrane between his fingers... felt oddly erotic. 

Chris looked into Miguel's eyes. Though the flattened man couldn't seem to speak, the expression showed a heavy dose of embarrasment, a flicker of anger, and more than a little of the same smoldering arousal at the touch of Chris's fingers.

There was a sound from the rear of the room. Whoever ran this place was on his way back.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Miguel," he said quitely. "But you need my help."

Chris slid one hand down and grabbed Miguel's waist, then quickly snatched the other side before he could flutter out of shape. Miguel's flattened form folded neatly over in Chris's grip, his floppy head lining up nicely with his squished feet. An other quick fold, then another, left Miguel's head flopped back atop a neat mound of lightly trembling, glossy body. He was about the size of a folded shirt, but that wasn't good enough.

"If I'm going to sneak you out of here, without anyone seeing, I'm going to have to do better than this," Chris said.

He grabbed one end of the folded form and curled it, starting a tight roll and then carefully beginning to wrap the rest of Miguel around himself.