Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Squeezing Rules (Patreon)

For a timeless time, it floated in the void. It had neither name nor form, but it knew desire. They all did.

They waited there in languid schools, drifting now together and now apart. And without lungs to draw breath or mouths to shape words, they spoke low among themselves.

“I hope,” said the one, “That I am given legs to stand. I’ve had enough of all this float and drift, and would not care for flight or swimming.”

The other sighed and murmured. “If your master wills it,” came their pious reply.

“Of course,” said the one, “I would never complain. But give me a tail to wag, or a sting to stab. If I ever manage to catch a master’s rune I would not object.”

“We are shaped by their will,” the others intoned. And the one echoed that mantra, not wishing to blaspheme.

“Yet still,” it said. “Do you not hope? There are rumors of things called heads, with apparatus that smell and hear and taste, whatever those might be. I’ve dreamed of having a head for each. Do you not think three heads would suit me?”

“If the master wills it,” they said again. And the one among them who wondered and hoped said these words as well.

They had no proper code nor faith, those spirits, but they all believed in luck. There were only so many hooks to grasp. So many bright runes to seize. To become one from the infinitude of potentials who managed to come forth, fully realized into the Prime Material, was a thing most fervently to be wished. How to account for success but fortune? How but superstition? The charm of deference to a master’s Will? To do otherwise was the worst sort of jinx.

Time may have passed. How does one measure such things? There were three bright runes in anywise since those last words were spoken. The first was far off on the horizon, a distant prick of white light, too far to discern detail. The others all swarmed towards it, grasping and heartsick and hungry. But the one was far too far away. There was no hope, and another rose from that place with the prize.

The second was closer at hand, a sigil of winding gold and serpentine. They all darted forward, but it had appeared nearly atop the lucky chosen. The one saw a body forming, long and lean and bright-scaled, before winking to the wondrous Real.

Last and most recent, the third felt like a proper tragedy: so near at hand, and yet another opportunity stolen away. It had been an angry spiral of black. The one saw its fellow dive forward — a bare moment too fast — and erupt into corporeal evil. There came an aura of menace and glee, and then that too was gone, and the one was left longing for what might have been.

“I would have made an excellent fiend,” it said. “My tail might have lashed. My horns might have grown sharp. I’d have happily gained an amount of spell resistance equal to 5 + my HD against spells with the good descriptor.”

And all around, the others began to say the familiar words: “If the master….”

But they did not have time. For blue and bright, another rune hung within that space. It bobbed and swayed before the startled one, soft and curving. It was like a raindrop. Like a tiny whirlwind. A fat little spiral of inviting mana, crisp and definite in that diffuse realm, and none of the others were even close. The one seized upon it, and realized of a sudden that she seized it with a hand. And that she was a she. And that she was very, very pink.

*****

Rouge struggled. She strained. She heard a ripping sound as her top gave way.

“I am sorry, Master. I believe that I am stuck.”

Time was most definitely real. Years had passed, and the corporeal world had proved more complicated than the eidolon dreamed.

There came a sound of frustration from below. Emanating from somewhere beneath the glowing swell of her straining flesh, the voice was vexed. “Again?” it said. “Honestly, I can’t fathom why you insisted on this dungeon.”

“I thought that I could fit.”

Small hands pushed against her hip. The voice grunted with effort. Hard stone rubbed against soft skin, close and confining. “Well my dear, you clearly cannot. It looks as if I’ll need to dismiss you.”

And so saying, small fingers snapped. Before Rouge could protest (as she most certainly wished to protest), the eidolon found herself once more wrapped in a timeless time; once more floating in a dull and infinite void. Presences gathered close about her.

“What is it like?” they cried. “Is it very wonderful?”

Rouge fanned herself with one hand. She straightened her brass brassiere. “Well,” she said, “You know how this place is infinite? There aren’t any walls? No floors or ceilings?”

“What are those?” they cried. “What are walls? Describe them in detail!”

“OK,” said the eidolon. “Have any of you heard of claustrophilia?”

There came a silence then.

“Imagine finite space,” said Rouge. “It presses close against you, holding you like a firm and powerful hand. Your body presses against those confines, straining against its bonds. Parts of you mold to the space, filling it up as best they can. Close walls cannot be moved though. On the Prime Material, you are at the mercy of your own corporeal form, stuck in an ecstasy of confinement as the bounds of your body, limited by—”

POP!

Of a sudden, the shaped one was gone. The other spirits, formless and despondent, could only mill and wait and wish.

“I hope,” said one, “That I am given claustrophilia. That shit sounds hot.”

“If your master wills it,” said the others.