Washing My Troubles

 

“You're a fan of stage magic, right, Ayla?” I asked as I led my roommate into the dark storage shed behind my uncle's house.

“Yeah, but what's this all about?”

Even framed in the glow of my flashlight, Ayla was a knockout. I rarely stood a chance at getting the interest of the alpha in any group of guys when she was around. It wasn't intentional or mean or selfish on her part. She was just that fucking gorgeous. Long red curls and 32 D breasts, legs with the perfect shape that melted into wide hips and a narrow waist. She was like a cartoon of a femme fatale brought to life. Few women could compete with her.

“My uncle was a magician. When he went into the senior home, my cousin and his wife packed away all his stage stuff down here. So I asked them for the key since I had a friend who would love to come over and see it all. Maybe even goof around and try to figure some of it out.”

“Oh my god, Emily, that's awesome!” She threw her arms around in and gripped me in a huge hug. “You're the best.”

“I try.”

I flipped on the light switch and we turned off our flashlights. Ayla's eyes lit up like miniature suns as she saw the collection of cabinets and tricks. She wandered around the basement, opening the “saw a woman in half” box, then checked each section of the “zig-zag girl” cabinet. I let her explore for another thirty minutes then called her over to a box covered by a sheet that was “hidden” under the stairs.

“Remember this one?” I asked as I jerked tugged away the sheet and revealed an old fashioned wringer.

“That one was my favorite,” she said, closing a trunk filled with hats and costumes and then coming my way.

She ran her hands across the top, then traced the line where the two rollers touched. She grabbed the handle and gave it a twist.

“I used to love to watch the the assistant step in and the get rolled out flat like a poster. I mean, I knew it was fake, but it was so exciting, just the thought of it. Did I ever tell you I was a magician's assistant in a high school talent show, but my neighbor couldn't afford a wringer so I never got to do my favorite trick.”

I opened the top and reached my hand to take hers. “Would you like to do your favorite trick

now?”

“Oh my god, Emily, do you know how it's done?”

I nodded and smiled. “My uncle showed me a few years ago. He thought about going back on the stage but it had become all glitzy and Las Vegas-y so he decided against it. But we did have a lot of fun together with him teaching me many of his tricks.”

Ayla took off her shoes and then grabbed my hand.

“In that case, hell yes. This is going to be awesome.”

She took my hand and I helped her step up into the wringer.

“What do I do?” she asked.

I motioned toward the rollers. “Just put your toes in there.” “What that pull them through the wringer?”

“It's all part of the trick. You just lean back and watch what happens. Okay?”

I cranked the handle three times rapidly and two flat feet and calves emerged from between the

rollers.

“It tickles,” she said. “Where is it pulling the poster from? Is there one already rolled up inside the box?”

“Something like that,” I said, continuing to crank the handle as I spoke.

Soon the flattened woman's legs were hanging out all the way up to her thighs. Another crank and the beginning of her hips poked through. One more, and her waist was starting to show.

“That really tickles. Is the bottom of the box dropping so that I slip down to stay hidden?” “Not really.:

“Then what? I can't figure it out.”

“Give it another minute and keep trying. You'll figure it out.”

Four more cranks. Ayla's chest now hung out of the mouth of the rollers, far flatter than the usual 32D she was. Her flat arms draped toward the floor beside them.

“Figured it out yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. But there's a lot more room in this side that I would have expected.” I laughed. “Not quite. Keep trying.”

Two more cranks, and the top of her shoulders were flat and hanging loose with everything else below her neck. I flipped the spaghetti straps of her dress and the heavy cotton slid down her flattened body and into the floor. I shook her hips and watched her pink panties flutter down her flat legs and slip off to join the dress on the floor.

“Ooh, what was that?” she asked.

“Take a guess.”

“Was that me?”

“Yep.” I unclasped her bra and peeled it away from her poster-like form. “Figured it out yet?” “Well, it doesn't make sense, but it does feel like I'm really flat. How does it to that?”

I cranked the handle four more turns and the top of her head slipped out from between the rollers and fell into the floor on top of her clothes.

“Because it's real magic!” I yelled. “How awesome is that?” She didn't answer.

I picked her up and held her so she dangled a few inches off the floor. Naked and flat, like a dirty poster of herself. I turned her around to see her from behind. Still had all her curves and her ass and hips looked as as natural as they would normally, only the lack of a third dimension make her look like a photo of herself. In all other ways, she was exactly the same.

“Anyway, it's cool, right? You really are a poster of yourself right now. Or like a bed sheet or towel. Take your pick. And the best part is you don't have to worry about anything. The magic will protect you no matter what happens. That's why you weren't in pain when you went through the rollers.”

I snapped her like a towel.

“Oh, I forgot to mention. You can't talk like this, not until I run you back through the wringer to restore you.”

I gently folded her onto her legs and then made an accordion fold until only her face was looking up at me without moving. She looked like paper but felt like a warm sheet.

“Now that you're flat, let's get down to business.” I sat down beside her. “I know you've been sleeping with Craig behind my back.” I didn't bother looking. She couldn't have reacted if she wanted to. “And now I've got you at my mercy. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and well, you and I are going to put that to the test.”

I stood up then walked over to pick her clothes up out of the floor. I opened the costume trunk and shoved them inside, then closed and latched it. Then I put the sheet back over the wringer.

“Best to leave things like we found them. We won't be needing this wringer for a while anyway, Ayla. Nope. I've got a lot of anger to get out of my system, and it'll be a lot more fun with you like this.”

I picked her up and shoved her into my oversized purse.

# # #

I worked at the one of the oldest dry cleaners downtown. As the manager, I did well for myself and made a good paycheck. My staff was fantastic, and I trusted them implicitly. I also knew that on Sunday nights after seven, I'd have about twelve uninterrupted hours with the machines to teach Ayla a lesson in not being a bitch who slept with other girl's boyfriends.

I pulled her flimsy flat body out of my bag then set my purse on my desk. I carried her through the facility, draped over my arm, showing off each step of the process she'd tour personally, up close and personal, shortly. 

"This is where you'll be chemically cleaned," I said, holding her face up against the tumbler. "Most people think dry cleaning is all done with steam or something, but it's actually pretty wet in spite of its name. We just don't use water. We use a chemical solvent. In our case, it's call perc. Well, it's actually got a much longer, more complicated name, but most everyone just calls it perc."

I opened the tumbler and pushed her inside just enough so she could see the workings. 

"So you'll soak in here and then agitate, and you'll lose all your dirt and stains."

I removed her from the tub and shut it.

"Next we have the sorting and inspection. That's where I need to check you for any remaining stains that I might need to treat by hand and, if you had then, missing buttons and such. I don't know," I said with a laugh. "It might actually be interesting to sew some buttons on you just for fun."

I took her to the next station. 

"This is where you'll get steamed and pressed. You'll be the kind of crisp and clean and sharply lined that a home steam iron could never achieve."

I dumped her onto the lower plate and let her feel the fear as I lowered the top plate to the point it almost touched her. It hissed a loud whisp of steam at her. In spite of the fear I knew she was feeling, her expression didn't change from the one frozen in place by the magical wringer. 

"But don't you worry, little Ayla. You'll feel the heat but it won't burn you or harm you in any way thanks to the way the magic protects you."

I raised the top plate and picked her up again, then fluffed her out and draped her over my arm again. This time I carried her to the final station. A row of hooks attached to a motorized rack stood waiting. It moved when I pressed the button to shift it forward. 

"After all that, my dear, you'll be hung on this rack on a hanger, well, clipped to one anyway since you don't have a neck. Hmm... or I could drape you over a pants hanger instead. That would work. Anyway, then you'll be bagged in one of our bags with the store logo, and then you'll wait to be picked up. Of course, your tag will indicate that you belong to me, so you don't have to worry about being taken by anyone else."

I took her back to the front desk. 

"But rather than leaving you on the rack so you might get discovered, not that anyone would know what the hell you actually are." I laughed. "Hell, they'd probably just think you were some kind of kinky towel or sex toy I was having cleaned. Regardless, to avoid any confusion or embarassment -- Mine, not yours; I mean who cares about yours, right? -- I just keep you hanging in my closet in the office out of sight."

 Dropping her on the counter, I turned on the computer so I could tag her into the system. 

"I know. Lucky you. Right?"

As she waited in a pile of warm, flat whore, I her her information into the database.

Customer Name: Emily Andrews

Contact Number: (I put the store's phone number.)

Contact Address: (I put the store's address.)

Special Instructions: Pay attention to the spots on the crotch of the pants area. 

Please hang in my office when done. 

Call Tag Number: #16A03212022-SDP

The 16 indicated Ayla was the 16th item turned in to be cleaned today. Sundays were always slow. The A indicated she was to be cleaned on a general cycle, no special treatments. The remaining numbers identified the date she was entered into the system. And finally, SDP indicated a same-day pickup.

"There," I said. "All done." I turned to her and grinned. "Ready for your punishment, you little slut?"

I could only imagine what she was going through. I knew from firsthand experience through the wringer when I had trained with my uncle that she could still feel everything, and this adventure would be more intense than anything she had ever experienced, a journey of chemical treatments, tingles, getting soaked, heated steam, and lots and lots of getting handled. I was almost jealous. 

Almost. 

"But first, I have to be sure to follow the instructions provided by the customer. It seems you have a nasty stain on the crotch."

I carried her to a plastic work table near the washer and laid her down then stretched her out so I had easy access to her pubic hair. 

"Ah. That must be the nasty spot they were talking about. I can't imagine anything dirtier than that." 

I laughed. 

"But don't you worry. I've got just the thing."

As I spoke, I sprayed her pussy and pubes with a highly concentrated chemical spot remover. When she was totally soaked with the toxic spot treater, I put on a pair of rubber gloves and began to rub her vigorously with a cleaning cloth. I scrubbed her for at least ten minutes, knowing full well what the attention to her cunt would do to her and enjoying every sadistic moment of it. I recoated the dirty spot twice more and renewed my scrubbing until the chemicals had actually removed every trace of her flattened pubic curls. She was a smooth as a newborn. 

"There we go. All clean," I said. 

As usual, she didn't respond at all. How ungrateful after the precious attention I had just given her. 

Then I returned her to the washer, opened it, and tossed her casually inside. When I turned it on, it began to fill with perc, at least the small amount needed for a tiny load such as her. When it was full, the machine lurched to life, swishing her back and forth. 

I watched, even rolling out my office chair to have a comfortable seat for the show. I pulled out my phone and decided to record it to video, a little something to save for her to see should she ever even remotely think about seeing Craig again. 

When the cycle ended, I opened the door, took Ayla out and held up against my face. I took a deep whiff of her. She smelled strongly of chemicals, but incredibly clean. 

"Most places would be satisfied, but we have higher standards," I said, and I tossed her back inside. "So in you go, sweetie."

I didn't bother recording her this time. Instead I left her alone and rolled my chair to the office and took a break while checking email and taking care of a few invoices. When I finally heard the washer turn off in the main room, I went out to get her. 

Again I opened the door and retreived her from inside. I didn't bother sniffing her that time. There was only so much of the chemical odor my sinuses could endure. 

I took her mostly dry form to sorting table and lay her out long and flat. Her legs hung off one end at the knees and her head hung off the other end. I smoothed her form and found her skin cool to the touch, no longer warm. Where I touched her, I noticed chill bumps pop up. 

I laughed. 

I couldn't resist stroking her all over just to watch the gooseflesh rise. 

I paid special attention to her bare crotch. 

"Let's just see if we got this dirty spot good and clean," I said. The I stroked her flattened labia and even the barely noticeable slit between them. "Looks good to me."

I pulled her down so that her head was on the table. 

I couldn't resist giving her a fresh little kiss on her immobile, compressed lips. 

"Looks good here too."

Then I shifted her the other way and let her boobs and head dangle so that her legs and feet were fully on the table. I nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Let's flip you over and check the other side." 

I lifted her from the table and flapped her like a towel to straighten her again, then lay her on the table face down and smoothed her out flat again. I started on her head this time, letting the legs flop off the edge. I had forgotten about the tattoo on her shoulder. It was the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. 

"Awww..." I said, feining disgust. "Looks like another bad spot."

Then I disappeared for a moment before returning with concentrated spot cleaner. I sprayed the tattoo thick with it, and then began in earnest to scrub even harder than I had her pubic hair and pussy. Most of the ink rubbed out in the first few minutes, but in the end I had to retreat the spot six times, with ten minutes waits between them. Ultimately though, her shoulder was free of any such blemishes. 

"Okay," I said finally. "Now you're ready for the steam press."

I carried her in a wad over to the press and since she didn't open like a typical shirt, dress, or pair of trousers, I just lay her on the bottom plate as she was. Only her top half fit, and I pulled down the press and held it in place for a few seconds as it hissed and complained and steam shunted out of the sides. When I lifted it, Ayla texture on her top half was different, smoother, than her bottom half. 

I sprayed her with a natural starching agent and lowered the press again. 

When I lifted it that time, I moved her so that her bottom half was on the lower plate. More starch. More steam. And again. 

Then I turned her onto her face and tummy. I folded her arms behind her in a way that they never couldn't have bent in her three-dimensional form. I steamed them with a heavier dose of starch. Then I steamed them thrice more, each time added starch. When I was done, her arms stayed in place even when I lifted her from the plate. 

I turned her back onto her back and then folded her in half long ways before starching her and pressing her again. When I lifted the plate, she seemed to have only one leg, no arms, and half a head, her face trapped inside the fold. 

"Beautiful," I said. 

I lifted her and studied her new shape. Then I smiled with a wicked idea I couldn't resist putting into action.

"You know what?" I asked. "I don't think I'll bother hanging you up after all. I think you'll look so much more wonderful folded up so that you could fit inside a drawer. Don't you think?"

She wasn't rigid, but the starch had kept her firm enough to hold her shape, and when I laid her on the lower plate, she was easy to fold in half at her waist. More starch. More steam. More pressing. Lifting the top plate. Even more starch, steam, and pressing. Then still more. 

Once her folding line was nice and crisp. I folder her again, this time at the place where her knees and the middle of her back met after the folded position. I starched and press her three more times. Then I flipped her over on the other side and did it twice more. 

After that, I folded up her feet so that she was roughly a rectangle the size of a typical college textbook. I pressed her hard and long that time. I wanted her as flat as possible.

It was entirely likely that she couldn't neither hear nor see me at all now, not with her ears and eyes trapped inside three layers of folder Ayla. 

I starched her heavily this next time and I held the press for almost thirty seconds again. I'd never do that with fragile clothing, but I knew the magic would protect her, and god damn it, she was going to go as flat as I could make her. 

I actually considered taking her back to the wringer and running her through it again to compress the folded "sheet" into an even flatter bundle of punished slut. 

I did one last starch and steam press, and then finally lifted her new crisply angled form off the bottom plate. 

"Remarkable," I said. "Amazing." I didn't even care honestly if she could hear me or not. She was so precious, so small, so easy to do almost anthing with now. 

I could put her in a file folder and just hide her in my accounts drawer in the office. I could stuff her in a plastic bag and shove her in the pile of stuff on junk shelf in my closet. Or perhaps I could take her home and put her on my lingerie drawer under some panties and bras. Maybe even shove her between my mattress and box springs where no one would ever think to look for her. 

So many options. 

But for now, I took her to a table and left her there for a few moments while I went to grab an open shrinkwrap bag. Then I gently moved her inside it, folded it closed and then used a bit of steam to seal and shrink the bag so that it fit her perfectly like a second skin. 

Then I lifted her by the edge. I wanted to call them the top edges, but honestly the way she was folded I couldn't tell top from bottom. I placed both her and a clipped hanger on the table and used to the clips to hold her in place. Finally, I gave her the ID sticker with her number, and fastened it to the front of her bag. Then I covered her and the hanger in a plastic bag and fastened the duplicate of the sticker on it as well. 

The sticker even had a barcode to scan so whomever worked the morning shift would know what to do with it. 

When I was ready, I hung the poor, flattened, folded, washed, steamed, pressed, and packaged slut on the motorized rack and left her there while I went home to sleep. 

# # #

When I arrived in the afternoon the next day, I was thrilled to find Ayla's freshly cleaned little package hanging from a hook on my office wall. Rather than dealing with her immediately, I left her hanging there for the next week, content to watch her and imagine the fear and dismay she must be feeling. 

The bitch. 

The slut.

She deserved every torturous moment of torment. 

I particularly enjoyed when Craig came to the office to see me, knowing the girl he had cheated on me with was hanging just a few feet away. It got me so hot that I almost forgave him.

After a week of ignoring her, I finally figured out what to do with her next. I stopped by the post office on the way to work and got a mailing envelope. Once I was in the office and took Ayla from the wall and took her out of the plastic drape covering, but left her in the shrinkwrap. I carefully slid her into the envelope and taped it closed. I weighed it and then went only to print out the postage for book rate, which would take her at least two weeks to reach my place in the mountains. Even then, I wasn't going to be their until middle of the next month, so she'd most likely sit on the front porch in the mail sleeve for another week after she actually arrived. 

I couldn't resist asking Craig to drop her off at the post office for me. I imagined him waiting in line to send Ayla all the way to my cabin in Tennessee. He, of course, said that was not a problem, and then kissed me. Then I gave his flat little slut to him and watched them leave, neither knowing what was next in store for Ayla's adventure and my revenge on her. 

After he texted me that the package had been sent, I immediately broke up with him via text and blocked his number. Then I took a few days off and drove down the coast to the beach so he couldn't find me at home or at work. 

I guess he got the message because when I returned four days later, he wasn't trying to come by the house or the office. 

I checked on Ayla's shipping number every day. The first time I checked she hadn't even been processed yet. The next, she was in the system, but still in town in the sorting center. When I checked three days later, she was in a different warehouse with other out of state packages. It was only about a week later that we was even on a truck making her way out of the state. 

Yeah, book rate had definitely been the way to go to punish her. 

I wondered what she was feeling. I wondered if she was scared I might never set her free. I wondered if she was cold in her package. Or hot. Or even sweating inside her heat-sealed shrinkwrap. I figured she must be losing her fucking mind, with no change in touch, taste, sound, sight, or smell. She was completely cute off from the world around her in her bag and envelope. 

Surely that was as terrifying as being flat. Surely that was taking a toll on her will and sanity and patience and sense of time. 

When I checked her shipping number on April 5th, I saw that she was scheduled to arrive at the cabin the following day. I smiled. That was eleven days before me. I hoped she enjoyed her time in the mail sleeve hanging by the front door. 

I could barely focus on my work. And when it was finally time for my trip, I raced along three states of highways to find her waiting for me as I suspected, along with a few letters from the company that handled the cabin cleaning, one bill from a roofing company that had replaced the metal roof, and a few bits of junk mail. I couldn't resist leaving her outside in the sleeve another night while I slept off the journey. 

# # #

The next morning I brought her inside, and after I had breakfast and a shower and got ready, I opened the envelope and pulled her out onto the kitchen table. 

I quickly tore open the shrinkwrap and tossed it in the trash. 

I left her folded and stiff on the table. 

Then I intentionally poured my mug of coffee all over her. 

I opened her one fold. She was one eighth of a human form, all legs and feet. 

Next I smeared the leftover bacon grease on her. 

One more fold. One quarter. I flipped her over to reveal her chest and shoulders and head folded in half over her legs. 

This time it was the butter and jelly from the toast. I smeared it all over her side. 

I unfolded her once more. Now she was one-half of a silhouette, coated in grime and grease and scalding liquid. 

I dropped her onto the floor and walked over her, taking special care to clean the first off the bottom of my sneakers on her as if she were a welcome mat. 

Finally I opened her up to reveal her full, womanly shape. She was fully able to see and hear again, though still not react or speak or move in any way. 

This time I squatted on the floor beside her and I used her to wipe all the dust and dirt from the cabin floor. It had been a week since the cleaning company had been by, so thanks to the mountain air the wooden floors were a mess. 

I used her as a nasty cleaning rag for nearly an hour, taking care of the entire kitchen and laundry room floors on my hands and knees. Then I went outside and used her as a cloth to wipe the dirt and dust and leaves from my front porch. 

Once I was satisfied, I took her inside, lifted her so she could see me face to face. She was absolutely filthy, and the bacon grease had done just what I had hope and worked like glue to hold most of the dirt and dust to her. 

"You're absolutely disgusting, you dirty slut," I said. "I go through all the trouble to rescue you from the postal service, and you repay me by getting filthy."

I smiled, loving that she couldn't respond, her only reactions those inside her terrified fucking mind. 

"Well, I guess as much as I wanted to keep you, there's really only one thing to be done." 

I took her inside to the kitchen. I stepped on the pedal at the bottom of the trash can and the lid popped up with a snap. 

"If you're going to be so trashy, then you might as well be trash," I said. "So welcome to your new home, Ayla, along with all the other gross, filthy shit."

I dropped her inside the bin, but her legs caught on the edge. 

"Oh, no, you slut. All the way in."

I lifted her feet and tipped then over into the garbage bag with the rest of her. 

"There you go. That's a good little slut."

Then I lifted my foot and the lid fell shut with a slight thwack. 

Throughout the day I dumped the rest of the trash on top of her. I even emptied what little garbage was in the bathroom onto her. Still, that left her bin only a third full, so I let her sleep it off in the trash and continued the following day. That made it about half full, so I kept going. On the third day I opened the lid after my lunch garbage and couldn't see her because she was so fully covered by the rest of the rubbish. 

"I'm torn," I said. "Should I go ahead and take you out to the big bin? Or should I just leave you in here for the cleaning team to get later. I don't know whether you'd prefer to be inside or out. I could also just take you and the other bags directly to the landfill too. That's actually on my way back out to the highway."

Then I closed the lid again and left her to ponder her fate along with all the nasty shit she was trapped beneath. 

Right before bed, I returned to the kitchen and pulled the bag from the can. I glanced in and said, "I guess I should be more responsible, and I really don't want the place to stink." Then I tied off the bag and carried it to the door. I dropped it in the floor and then filled the bin with another liner. 

I returned to Ayla's bag, opened the door and then took her outside and dropped her inside the rolling can. 

Then I went upstairs and fingered myself to sleep, enjoying all the torture she must be feeling. I imagined her spending the rest of her days in a landfill, never degrading as everything around her did, slowly losing her fucking mind as her existence was little more than being a living personality beneath an evergrowing pile of garbage. 

I slept as soundly as I ever had. 

In the morning, I returned to the bin and took out her back. I untied it and dug inside until I had her by her foot. I dragged her out, and dropped her on the ground beside me and then tied the bag and placed it in the bin again. 

"God, you're nasty, Ayla," I said. "Totally disgusting." I grinned. "Not just that. You're also physically very dirty too." I laughed.

I dragged her behind me back inside. 

"Well, let's go." 

I left her in the floor while I ran a sink full of plain water. Then I picked her up and put her in and wadded her into a ball of soggy, filthy, flat flesh. I rubbed her and wrung her like I might a cleaning rag I was trying to wash. Then I emptied the sink of the dirty water and did it all over again. It took four sinks to get her clean enough for me to even think about putting her in the washing machine. 

But eventually she had enough of the gunk and food grime off her that it was safe to take her to the washer, and that's what I did. I didn't dare wash her with anything else though, so I dropped her in all by herself, set the cycle for small load, then chose hot-hot for the temperature, and finally I poured in a full load's worth of powder for good measure. 

I washed her twice before taking her from the basin. Even then I didn't say a word to her, only dropped her flimsy form into a plastic laundry basket and carried her outside. I added her to the clothesline that was already full of my towels and sheets, three shirts, two pair of panties, a pair of shorts, and one pair of jeans, all wafting in the heavy outside breeze. 

I clipped her by her feet to the line and her head and arms wagged and blew in the air as the wind took her this way and that. 

I laughed and went back inside. 

She and the rest of the laundry remained on the line in the sun and wind all day drying. Before dinner I went out and took down all the items, getting her in the order she appeared on the line, and after folding her into fourths, she was eventually hidden somewhere in the middle of the stack of laundry in the basket that I took inside and placed on the couch. 

I watched TV and sorted the folded pieces. The jeans, panties, shirts, and shorts went in a pile to return to my suitcase for the trip home. The sheets went into a pile for the top of the bedroom closet. And the towels and bath clothes went into a pile for the linen closet in the lavatory. 

That left only Ayla. 

"What to do with you, Ayla?" I asked, finally speaking to her after many hours of silence. "Would you prefer your new home to be the bedroom closet or the bathroom closet? Huh? Which would you prefer? I guess it ultimately doesn't matter. I only get up here every few months anyway, so regardless, you'll get plenty of time to yourself surrounded by other soft things."

I wished I could read her mind. Oh, how I wished I could. 

"Or would you prefer to come home with me in my suitcase? That would be fine too. I have plenty of closet space at home for you, after all, and lots of soft things there too for you to cuddle up with and rest for a long, long time."

I dragged out the words 'long, long time.'

"I am leaving for home tomorrow morning, and I need to decide."

I lifted her from the couch and added her to the top of the stack of clothing bound for the suitcase. "How's that? That make you happy, slut?"

I laughed. 

"Now don't think this means you're getting back to normal anytime soon. This just means I want to keep a closer eye on you."

I carried the pile to the bedroom and started to pack the items away. I put Ayla on the bottom then covered her with the jeans and shorts. Then two of the shirts.  I put the othe shirt beside her and then covered that with the panties. I also folded up two dresses from the closet and put those across the top of both piles, and I left just enough room for my make-up and bathroom stuff and closed the lid, leaving poor Ayla in the dark again. 

# # #

I unpacked immediately when I got home. 

Only, little Ayla didn't get much relief from her plight. Instead of even unfolding her, I simply stashed her away in my lingerie drawer where she'd have plenty of soft, sexy things to rest against. I kept her there for a full week before I spoke to her, even though I had to open the drawer each morning to get a pair of panties. 

When I finally did speak, it was just to tell her she'd been missing for a full six weeks, and had been reported as a missing person. I was, of course, doing everything I could to help the police find her, since we were such good friends. It had only taken so long to report her because she didn't have any living family and she kept mostly to herself except for stealing other girls' boyfriends. And none of those men wanted to admit they had cheated, so of course they didn't report anything. Even at her job, she had a record of missing work, so the first week was filled with assumptions of her being on some drunken binge or impromptu trip with some skanky dude. It was almost two weeks, when she had already on her way to the cabin before anyone actually started to get even a little concerned about her. 

I told her all that and then shut her up in the drawer again. 

I had to admit that I wasn't really sure what to do with her anymore. I needed to, as the saying went, shit or get off the pot. At this point I was committed. Either keep her for the long-term, get rid of her permanently (at least as permanently as the magic would allow), or take the risk of changing her back and trust that she had learned her lesson and would move the fuck along with her life. 

I couldn't just store her in my lingerie drawer forever. 

I could do what I had threatened at the cabin and trash her into a landfill. 

I could lock her in a safety deposit box only to be discovered as a weird piece of art upon my death. 

I could do so many things. 

But did I really want to say goodbye for good?

Or did I want the punishment to continue where I could enjoy it?

I wasn't sure I liked what the answer revealed about me. 

Then I got a really, really -- really! -- wicked idea. 

That night I bought six feet of tan cloth. Using Ayla's silhouette as a pattern I cut out a shape that matched her own. Then I took them both to my sewing machine and sewed the new tan pattern onto Ayla's back, making a sort of pillow case out of her. I stitched the entire perimeter of her body, first turning her inside out so that I could reverse it and keep the stitches hidden when I was done. 

Once that was done, I used shears to cut a twelve-inch slit the middle of the back panel. I sewed a zipper into that slit and when I was done, I had a fillable pattern that looked generic at the back and just like Ayla in the front. 

Leaving her on the floor in my closet, I went to the local craft store and bought lots and lots of fluffy stuffing for children's pillow toys. 

Then I went back home to finish my project. 

I shoved wad after wad of the stuffing inside my Ayla pillow until she was so full that she puffed out like a fat version of the woman she had once been. Then and only then did I zip her closed in the back. I stood her up in the corner of my room. She had the same blank expresssion she had when she rolled out of the magic wringer. No one could ever suspect she had ever been a real woman. 

I squeezed her all over. 

"You look super precious," I said, studying my work. "I should mass produce you for horny incels all over the world."

She said nothing. 

I glanced from side to side and decided I wanted to try something. 

"Hmmm..." I said as I approached my new body pillow.

I rubbed my palms against the fluffy, flat girl's breasts. She said nothing. I expected nothing, but I knew she was feeling every touch. I wondered if after all the time alone she was appreciative of my attention. 

I let one hand drop between her padded legs. There I found the barely there line that revealed she was a very anatomically designed pillow to play with. I slipped one finger inside the tiny space of girl available thanks to the flattening. There was barely any room to even access Ayla's smushed little clitty. But the surface of it was there, and I was sure it was responding to my tenderness as I stroked it. 

I rubbed another finger along the curve of her flat lips. After a little work I was finally able to open it ever so lightly, and I felt the tip of her immobile tongue. 

Oh fuck yes. I had a new toy to play with. Now I knew just what to do with the slut. 

I dug through my draw and found a pair of tight cotton shorts I hadn't worn in years. I stuffed Ayla into them. Then I put a short-sleeved white dress shirt on her and tied it off above her navel instead of actually fastening the buttons. Next came a pair of black thigh-high fishnets from an old Halloween costume. 

Perfect. 

My slutty stuffed doll was complete. 

I made my bed, then lay her on top of it. 

Of course I settled in beside her and rested my head on her chest. Before I knew it, I was out cold and probably snoring.

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