After five full minutes, the raucous applause finally subsides. From my vantage point inside the gallon glass jug, I hear the audience gasp when my co-performer emerges from stage right and strolls up beside the conductor. Of course, like me, she’s nude and well-lubricated with body oil. That is, after all, professional attire in our peculiar line of work.
The conductor nods to the performer, sets the jug containing me on the stage, and returns to her podium. As the orchestra begins to play, my partner circles the jug twice before kneeling behind it. She slips a finger inside, then two, pressing against my compressed flesh. She pulls out her fingers, stands up, and deftly slides her left foot entirely inside the jug, pushing down on me. Her right foot is next as she balances precariously. Then, she bends down, grips either side of the jug with her hands, and yanks.
I swoon as the bulk of her body slides in on top of me: calves, knees, thighs, ass, and torso up to her breasts. Through the glass, I hear the audience gasp again. My partner doesn’t skip a beat as she slides her hands through the jug’s neck and pulls from inside. Her ample bosom slips through, followed by her arms and shoulders, and finally, her head. Our bodies slide past each other as we adjust to the tight fit.
The third member of our act, a man in a tuxedo, wheels a cart from stage left with a black silk sheet draped over it. He stops next to us and, with a flourish, pulls the sheet away, releasing it and allowing it to flutter to the stage. Jaws drop throughout the theater when they gaze upon an industrial-grade paint shaker.
The man picks up our jug, screws a cap on tightly, mounts it in the shaker, and carefully secures it. Then he flips the switch with a devilish grin. The machine shakes me to my core, causing an orgasm to start building within my impossibly twisted and folded body. I can’t even tell where my womanhood is at that point, but I can certainly feel it as the sensation grows. I hold back as long as I can until it releases in a cascade of pleasure. My body’s spasms add to the shaking from the machine, extending my climax until I nearly lose consciousness.
The man turns a dial on the shaker, increasing the speed until the world beyond the jug is a smear of colors. And then I feel it—the moment my body begins to liquefy. My vision blurs and then becomes more like a sensation than a sense. I can still see, hear, and feel my body as it breaks down and becomes a fleshly slurry along with my partner. Our bits and bobs mingle until thoroughly combined in one uniform fluid. My consciousness merges with hers, our individuality lost as we become one in a haze of euphoria.
The man waits another thirty seconds to ensure proper mixing, switches off the paint shaker, and waits for it to stop. Then he unfastens the jug and holds it aloft, twirling it around his index finger as we slosh and splash inside. A female assistant in a black dress emerges from off-stage carrying a silver briefcase. The man exchanges the jug for the briefcase and opens it.
He pulls out a one-quart mason jar and fifty feet of half-inch clear plastic tubing. He unscrews our cap and pushes the end of the tubing through our liquid bodies to the bottom of the jug before handing it to his assistant. Then, mason jar in hand, he walks to the far right corner of the stage, unfurling the tubing behind him. He sets down the jar, puts his lips to the end of the tubing, and sucks as hard as he can.
We don’t move much at first, though we can feel the shift in pressure. As the pull intensifies, though, we begin to be drawn into the tubing, slowly at first and then more rapidly. Soon, we’re slithering across the stage, our bodies extending through the length of the tubing. He pulls his lips away and holds the end over the open top of the mason jar. We begin to gush from the tubing as the last remnants of our combined self are still being pulled from the jug fifty feet away. Soon, we’re entirely inside the jar.
The man drops the end of the tubing, produces a lid from his jacket pocket, and screws it tightly onto the quart jar. He then holds it aloft triumphantly as the audience rises to their feet for a rousing ovation. Meanwhile, his assistant rolls the paint shaker offstage and returns, wheeling another silk-draped cart. She and the man meet at center stage, where he pulls the silk with another flourish. Jaws drop when the onlookers see what lay beneath the silk: an empty red canister and an air compressor.
He carefully pours us into the canister, at which point my “vision” fails me as we’re plunged into darkness. He screws something onto the top, and pressure and heat build after a brief lull. It feels pleasant initially but then pushes with increasing strength against our liquefied bodies. Finally, as the pressure reaches 185 PSI, the man switches off the compressor, and I feel him lift the canister off the cart.
This is it: the grand finale. I mentally brace myself for what is about to happen.
Suddenly, with a loud whoosh, we’re airborne! We spray from the nozzle in a dense molecular haze, arcing high above the audience. At that moment, I feel it happening: the steady loss of cohesion in our mingled molecules as we begin to dissipate. I can still sense every part of our bodies despite being in an atomized form. A pins and needles feeling intensifies as tiny bits of us evaporate, winking out of existence forever. Our shared consciousness somehow remains intact, at least for now, as we luxuriate in the indescribably blissful sensation of our own vaporization.
Forever fading from reality is even more exquisitely stimulating than I imagined when we were approached yesterday about performing in the ultimate disappearing act. Talk about an easy decision! Permanently erased from the universe? Yes, please! Despite our inexperience, I must say we performed flawlessly. And now we’re receiving our well-earned reward.
As our molecules continue to dematerialize into nothingness, our mingled minds are masterfully unmade. Together with my co-star, we vanish in ecstasy under the heat of the stage lights in the ultimate symphony of orgasmic oblivion.
The stunned onlookers lose their minds, leaping from their seats, screaming and yelling in admiration for the most incomprehensible spectacle they have ever seen. The man and his assistant take a bow, grinning from ear to ear.
They shake hands with the VIPs and listen to their breathless retellings of what they’ve just witnessed. The man and his assistant smile and nod, basking in the attention. Soon, even the VIPs depart, and only two gorgeous women remain. Glancing nervously at each other, they muster the courage to tell the man what they now desperately desire.
They want to be next.
Copyright 2024 Olivia Zoe Quinn
Photo free for use under the Pixabay content license.
Story notes
This alternate ending was inspired by a comment on “Slick Symphony 2” from a reader who wanted the two women to be sprayed out into nothingness. I love disintegration stories, so I eventually circled back and wrote this vanishing version of the grand finale.
Article Tags: Compression · Disintegration · Fantasy · Female · Nudity · Volunteer
