My oiled body glistens as I enter stage right and stroll naked past the seated musicians in their formal attire. Shocked gasps from the sold-out arena are soon overtaken by thunderous applause. I wave to the curious crowd and flash a sultry smile. The official program for this evening does not mention a nude woman, let alone a thoroughly lubricated one. These people have no idea what they’re about to witness.
I stop next to a clear glass gallon jug sitting front and center on the stage. As the applause subsides, I nod to the conductor. She smiles and turns to the symphony orchestra, raising her baton. For several seconds, silence reigns under the stars. Then, our performance begins.
The flutes lead off as I slowly circle the jug, my eyes locked on its one-inch-diameter neck. When the clarinets join in, I kneel behind it. I follow the mouth of the jug with my right index finger, tracing the smooth circular edge. The trumpets begin playing as my slick digit slips inside. I tease the narrow opening much like a lover might, all the while locking eyes with a man in the first row, a mere six feet away. He shifts in his seat but holds my gaze.
When the trombones start, I slide my middle finger inside to join its neighbor. It’s a tight fit but not uncomfortable. Spreading my knees wide, I pump both fingers up and down while licking my lips. Then, still staring at the same man, my left hand wanders perilously close to my womanhood. His face turns bright red, much to my devilish delight.
The rest of the brass instruments join in as a drumroll begins. I withdraw my two dripping digits, press all five fingertips together, and push at the jug’s opening. Progress is slow initially, but I persevere, leaning over the bottle and gradually applying more force. My fingers slide into the neck as I bear down. Finally, with a well-timed cymbal crash, my slippery hand compresses and pops through the opening before unfurling in the jug’s interior.
Jaws drop throughout the crowd, accompanied by a collective gasp. Our performance doesn’t skip a beat. The brass falls silent, yielding to the violins. As the musicians draw their bows across the strings, I slide my arm into the jug up to my elbow and then pull out to my wrist before plunging again. As I did before with only two fingers, I pump my oiled forearm like a piston into the inch-wide opening. My hips rock in time with my arm, as though I’m grinding on an invisible partner, while my other hand squeezes and kneads my breasts, alternating between the glistening pair of double-Ds. The violins play on as the stunned crowd stares at my shameless naked gyrations.
When the violas and string basses come alive, I reluctantly let go of my breasts and place my left palm on the stage next to the jug for balance. Next, I swing my left leg forward and position my foot vertically above the jug’s opening. Then, I push my toes into the mouth next to my right forearm. Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I press down with my left foot. Soon, the ball of my foot overcomes the resistance and slips inside. My left heel pauses briefly at the opening before it, too, slides through the neck and into the jug. The momentum carries my well-lubricated left leg further inside, up to the top of my calf. Without pausing for an audience reaction, I swing my right leg forward and jam my other foot into the bottle as the cymbals crash. My now-malleable shins bend and fold like rubber inside the jug while my feet compress to half their normal size.
Now comes the most precarious point in my performance. Carefully, I lean away from my left hand, the shift in weight allowing me to lift my palm from the stage. I briefly wave to the incredulous crowd before plunging my hand into the bottle to join my other three limbs. Another cymbal crash punctuates the powerful thrust up to my elbow, but the force of the movement upsets my body’s delicate balance. The jug starts to wobble with me inside, bent over and hog-tied by the narrow glass opening.
Uh oh. Not good.
I rock back and forth, opposite the shifting sway of the jug, trying to counterbalance it. The orchestra continues with all instruments together as I battle valiantly to stay upright. A smile spreads across my face when I glance at the audience. My naked struggle transfixes them. If I can regain control and finish my performance, I’ll pretend this was all planned.
The wobble progresses to an undulating roll around the bottom edge of the jug, causing it to turn in place until my glistening ass is on full display to the crowd. I swing my hips in a circle like a hula hooper in a vain attempt to stabilize myself. It’s not working, though I continue to turn until I face the audience again. Miraculously, I survive four more unplanned revolutions, though the rolling motion is becoming more erratic. If I don’t switch up my strategy, this may end with a concussion.
My only hope is to lower my center of mass. And there’s only one way I can do that. I try to pull my hips downward by bracing my forearms inside the jug. The force required is extraordinary. Sweat emerges from every pore, mingling with the body oil coating my flesh. After ten agonizing seconds, my legs start to move. One knee and then the other enters the bottle as its neck compresses my slick thighs. The roll around the bottom edge slows but doesn’t stop. My downward slide halts at my hips. It’s time to dig deep.
With a mighty heave, my hips and ass are extruded through the one-inch opening. I arch my back and moan as my lubricated loins elongate and slip through the bottle’s neck. The momentum carries me downward as my ribcage compresses and slides inside with my elbows. My progress comes to a halt when my ample bosom meets the lip of the jug. I now resemble a statue bust with only my head, shoulders, and breasts still outside.
The orchestra builds toward a climax. The bottle finally stops wobbling, like a spinning coin settling on a table. Crisis averted. And I’m facing the audience again. Even better. I scan the faces of the enraptured fans, all laser-focused on the naked drama unfolding before them. The moment of my grand finale has arrived.
I drop my left shoulder, which flattens and pulls my left breast into the jug. Momentum crushes my other double-D, squeezing it through the opening and narrowing my shoulders. Then, with my jugs inside the jug, my downward slide pauses again. With a final heave, my shoulders fold together and drop into the bottle. The force drags me inside up to my chin. This is it! My head tips back, the orchestra reaches a crescendo, and, with a dizzying skull compression, the rest of me slides into the jug. I gaze out from my tiny glass prison, my entire naked body squeezed and folded around my head, and wait for the crowd to react.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, the audience leaps to their feet for a raucous standing ovation. Impossibly packed inside the gallon jug, I watch and listen as they cheer my jaw-dropping nude performance. The conductor appears next to me, hooks her finger through the jug’s small handle, and triumphantly lifts it—and me—over her head. I bask in the satisfaction of our slick symphony as the ovation continues with no sign of stopping.
If the crowd is amazed now, I can’t wait until my partner climbs in on top of me. That’ll blow their minds…
Copyright 2023 Olivia Quinn
Photo by Manuel Nägeli on Unsplash
Story notes
“Slick Symphony” is my first attempt at a compression story, though it won’t be my last. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it! Without a doubt, this is the sexiest tale I’ve told thus far. Some earlier drafts were much hotter than the final version, so I dialed the debauchery back a few notches to keep it R-rated and not NC-17. Perhaps I should share the steamy “director’s cut” somewhere.
Article Tags: Compression · Fantasy · Female · Nudity · Volunteer
