The Magic Tric That Went Wrong

The following story features damsel-in-distress bondage, humiliation, and sexist points of view. Reader discretion is advised.

Emma was on top of the world. She had been working hard for 10 years, but her career was finally in the place she had always dreamed of. She was on TV.

It had been a miserable slog to get there. Back in her late teens she had started out as assistant to a mid-tier illusionist - and, frankly, loathsome sexist - who went by the name of Ronald The Unguessable; he would have ended up working cruise ships if Emma hadn't walked into his life. With no idea how lucky he'd got, he hired her quite openly for her looks, but she had more talent at the age of 18 than he knew what to do with. She transformed his career.

The turning point was a routine they devised called The Damsel In Distress. It involved several complex escape scenarios, and culminated in a reveal that was as titillating as it was technically impressive: having been 'tricked' into climbing fully clothed inside a magical cabinet, Emma was revealed mere moments later, tightly gagged, comprehensively bound and very nearly naked. It was an enormous hit and took them to Vegas.

Ronald, unsurprisingly, gave Emma no credit for her work on The Damsel. In fact, she had designed the technical aspects single-handed; Ronald's contribution was the name and the presentation, neither of which were to Emma's taste. Ronald insisted on playing her distress for laughs and sexual kicks rather than astonishment - it was out of the question, he insisted, for Emma to escape the final predicament, since the narrative was that she was a rival illusionist who had been outmatched, defeated and humiliated by Ronald's sorceries. The whole routine, she felt, was about putting women in their place.

Unsurprisingly Emma grew tired of this treatment after a few months and decided to move on. Back in those days, mind you, she had none of the confidence that developed later: she might very well have stuck around if Ronald had only softened a little. Promised just a smidgen of credit for her work, eased back on the pervier aspects of the routine, or even unbent sufficiently to tell her that she was an asset to the show. But he was convinced, somehow, that he really had done the important work on The Damsel, and told her to go to hell.

Ronald The Unguessable wasn't heard of much any more. The Damsel In Distress remained popular for a while with a pretty new damsel, although Emma could tell from the tapes that it wasn't being performed with the same polish. But he couldn't come up with anything new that matched its quality. The Vegas run ended and Ronald went back to small-town shows.

Emma, however, went from strength to strength. She was snapped up by a female magician named Zelda, who knew that Ronald had none of the abilities required to come up with The Damsel and suspected the truth. Zelda quickly came to rely on Emma's gifts and decided to give her second, and before long equal, billing; it was Zelda, too, who suggested the name Enchantress. Zelda and the Enchantress were a huge success, and when her partner retired Emma took the show solo.

Now, at long last, the Enchantress had been offered a regular slot on national TV, beginning with a pilot to test the waters... just a formality, of course. It was her dream come true, the reward for all the long nights, the unsavoury comments, the roaming hands, the demeaning costumes. That was all behind her now. She was a feminist icon: she had made the cover of Vogue, and been interviewed by a fangirlish Oprah. It was said that her success had encouraged thousands of girls to seek a career in magic. The days of creepy old men running magic were over, and it was all down to her.

Tonight was the pilot, broadcast live to the nation for technical reasons Emma didn't quite understand, and it had gone as smoothly as she could have possibly hoped. The studio audience, at least three-quarters of them young women, had been in raptures since the show opened with her signature illusion, a modern and uncompromising piece called The Reimagined Woman. She didn't actually have magical powers, but she felt she could already read the next day's reviews. The arrival of a superstar. The dawning of a new age. The epitaph of Vegas magic.

With only one illusion remaining, and laughing to herself with pleasure at the thought that she had done everything needed to secure a long and profitable career in television, Emma - Enchantress - strolled back in front of the cameras one last time.

"It is almost time for the Enchantress to leave the mortal lands and return to the ethereal realm," she said, in a ringing, arrogant tone that came naturally. "A realm where women sit in their rightful place at the head of society, where sexism is treated as a footnote in history, and where a powerful female sorceress is an object of worship, not lust."

The house lights had come up for this section, and Emma noticed that the male audience members were looking rather aggrieved. She had been laying on the feminism a little thick tonight, she supposed. And perhaps they had been hoping for just a little sex appeal. Driven by an instinct to play down her looks, Emma had selected a voluminous robe for the performance: it was practical, but utterly sexless. Her faultless figure was disguised, her sumptuous arse and perfect tits hidden. She was more than a pretty face, so what need did she have to draw attention to her natural charms?

"Before she departs, the Enchantress wishes to dazzle you one last time."

The audience were tense. They knew the rhythm of Emma's routines. The first and the last illusions: they were the showstoppers. Whatever was coming now, it was worth seeing.

"The Enchantress will demonstrate her superiority with an escape. And for this she requires a volunteer. A male volunteer, if one is willing to test his mettle."

An escape! Emma was reputed to be the greatest escape artist of her generation, but didn't usually deign to perform such tricks. There was a suspicion that she now considered bondage to be objectifying and anti-feminist: that she disliked being presented even for a moment - before escaping with ease - as a bound and helpless damsel, the state in which she had spent much of her early career. Whatever her qualms, she had put them aside for tonight's finale.

"Will a man attempt to bind the Enchantress?" she asked the audience. "Does a man here think he has the slightest hope of rendering her helpless? She will allow you-" Emma gestured at the studio clock "-a full ten minutes to secure her body in any way you think fitting. Our table is stacked with strong cord, handcuffs, chains, padlocks, straps and other restraints. Do your worst. Once bound, the Enchantress will be covered with a silk sheet and placed on the table in the centre of the stage, and at the end of a further ten minutes she will spring up, entirely free, as proof of the innate superiority of women!"

There was a pause as Emma looked around the studio audience. Had she overdone it? The male audience members had looked pissed off beforehand. What would they make of this? If none of them agreed to volunteer, this part of the show would fall flat.

The spotlight roamed around, pausing on likely candidates. A spotty teenager - he went bright red and shook his head. A gym bro with swollen biceps - not interested. A family man sat next to his partner, an ageing playboy with a facelift, an accountant type in an expensive suit and bad haircut - none were willing to volunteer. Emma started to worry.

"What about this gentlemen?" she said, pointing to an older chap sitting uncomfortably next to a large party of teenage girls. He wouldn't present a great deal of jeopardy, but Emma thought it would be nice for him to get a bit of attention, and she needed someone. He started to decline, but she spoke over him. "A big round of applause for-" he mumbled "-for Mr Smithers!"

Mr Smithers walked slowly to the stage. It seemed to take an age, and Emma fretted about viewers switching channel.

"The Enchantress has decided to add a further incentive for this evening's closing illusion," she said. "She is so confident in her ability to escape any restraint devised by a man that she hereby pledges, before witnesses, that if Mr Smithers succeeds in binding her beyond escape in ten minutes, she willingly gives herself up to be his property."

Improvised lines, hardly her best material, and anyone could see that the old fella hadn't a hope in hell. But as silly and melodramatic as the idea seemed, it added a bit of spice. And what clearer message could she send out to her legions of female fans? Men will try to tie you down, they will try to own you, but you can escape. You are not a slave to be bound, an object to be owned.

Mr Smithers had reached the stage, and was looking with mild, professorial interest at the table of restraints. They had cleared out most of the neighbourhood's hardware stores and sex shops. It was far more than would be needed, but made for an arresting image.

He selected a long strip of cloth, and approached a live mic.

"I believe we will begin, if I may, with a nice tight gag."

Beginning with a gag? How odd. And what did he mean

nice

? But the man seemed to know what he wanted to do. He gestured, and Emma obediently turned around. She allowed the old gent to thread the cloth - which she noticed he had swiftly knotted - between her teeth, and tie it tightly at the nape of her neck. Very tightly, in fact. Goodness me, she thought, that

hurt

.

The man went back to the microphone - how odd that he knew which one to use, Emma thought - and said: "When binding a female magician, always gag them first. It puts them in their place, and you don't have to listen to any of their chatter. We all get enough of that at home!"

Now just a minute! - Emma lifted her own mic and started to object. But nothing came out. Nothing more than an incomprehensible mmmphing mumble, anyway, accompanied by a small amount of drool. The audience and Mr Smithers both laughed, and Emma felt a mild sting of humiliation. This was an effective gag, she had to admit. The thick knot in the centre filled her mouth and prevented any sound escaping.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I couldn't quite catch that," said Smithers, seemingly in his element at the microphone. "Now, what next? Of course: to render your female magician instantly and irretrievably helpless, you simply bind her wrists tightly together behind her back. She will then be both silent and physically helpless, which is her natural state.

"But binding her hands behind her back," the man added, apparently warming to his subject, "has a greater significance than merely preventing escape and providing a basis for further restraint. It induces a wondrous and gratifying sense of vulnerability, because it puts our magician's greatest assets on display, and stops her defending them. It reminds her that she is not an independent woman. She is an object for our pleasure."

What was going on? And who was this man? He was right, too, in his assessment that an effective gag had the power to put Emma in her place; with no ability to respond to his bizarrely sexist patter, or indeed to comment in any way whatsoever other than "mmmph!", she was no longer a magician being prepared for an escape. She was a glamorous but mute assistant being bound for the audience's pleasure. She was a - Emma shivered at the thought, and then was shocked to find that she was a tiny bit turned on by it - a pretty damsel in distress.

Smithers had returned from the table with a simple length of cord, and was patiently waiting for her cooperation. Something was wrong, she felt sure, and now was the time to resist. Right now, she was merely cleave-gagged. She could take out the cloth, call off the routine for whatever technical reason she chose to invent, and walk away from what would still be a very serviceable pilot. That was the right thing to do.

But how would that look? What TV network would option a magician who bailed on a live performance, and who chickened out of an escape at the first sign of a competent rigger? And what would her young female fans think, to see her run from a man's challenge? For that matter, wasn't she curious to find out what was happening? And wasn't she intrigued by the idea of being helpless - really truly helpless, with no possibility of escape - for the first time since she had become a magician?

Mr Smithers looked at her curiously, seemingly aware of Emma's internal struggle, and repeated the instruction she had missed while thinking. "Would you please cross your wrists behind your back, my dear, and stand up nice and straight?"

Again the moment of confusion - why did it matter whether she stood up straight or slouched? - helped to ease Emma into compliance. "Of course, sir," she tried to say, but it came out as "Mmmph cmph smph." More laughter, slightly crueller this time, she thought, and to hide her humiliation she turned her back obediently (what a twinge she got from thinking about that word - she was being

obedient

, she was meekly doing exactly what a man told her to do) and crossed her wrists. She was standing up straight, she realised: ramrod-straight, like a soldier on parade. She knew her tits, pert at the best of times, were thrust out like headlights, but at least her loose clothes meant no one could see. Her nipples were standing to attention too, for that matter.

Mr Smithers grasped Emma's wrists, and she realised with a sinking sense of dread that he was far stronger, and surely far younger, than he appeared. But now was too late to point this out, because without the slightest delay he wrenched her wrists upwards so they were crossed at the top of her back, rather than behind her arse, wrapped the cord around them five times, cinched the cord a further three times and then secured the whole thing with a triple knot of eye-popping tightness.

"Easy, really," he said, having again found a microphone willing to broadcast his thoughts. (Someone in the production team would answer for this, Emma thought grimly.) "Never mind the ten minutes I was offered: five seconds for a gag, ten seconds to bind the wrists, and our pretty little damsel is quite helpless. You will note that I have used the reverse-prayer configuration, which is far harder to escape and places greater strain on the torso: fortunately our damsel is very flexible, although also rather dim."

There was open laughter at this line, which infuriated Emma. Tightly gagged, she was unable to respond and could only suffer the mockery in humiliated silence. Helpless, she wanted to cry out, have you any idea how often I've had my hands bound? I'll be out of this in seconds. Even if it does appear to be, er, unusually tight.

But Mr Smithers was moving on.

"Miss Enchantress offered to be placed on a table, presumably lying down. What a lazy little thing she is!" A sprinkling of laughter. Emma knew that an audience that has laughed once - and they had loved the embarrassing gag talk - will laugh at almost anything. "I will instead bind our pretty sorceress standing up, for two reasons. One: you should always try to catch your victim off guard. If she expects to be bound on her back, bind her on her feet. And two: it is a pose that is deliciously objectifying, which is pleasant for those of us watching her struggle and will also add to her sense of humiliation. It is my suspicion that Emma is a less effective escape artist if you make her feel like a helpless, beautiful and airheaded damsel in distress."

Emma was shocked. A few people knew her real name, of course, but it was supposed to be a secret. Did Mr Smithers know her? She also felt distinctly uncomfortable about this talk of watching her struggle.

"We will shortly bind our damsel's long and shapely legs, a job I am looking forward to very much. But we must first complete our work on her equally shapely torso - not that you can tell quite how shapely it is right now, which is something we may need to attend to later. A few loops of cord should prove amply sufficient."

"A few" was an understatement. Painfully tight loops of cord soon encircled her chest, throat and waist, each neatly connected to the other bindings with cinches and knots at key unreachable points. Jesus, Emma thought, this guy really knows what he's doing. A crotch rope split her in two while Smithers misdirected the audience's attention with a joke about Emma's ugly clothes; the back of it was hitched to the loop about her throat and the gag in her mouth and drawn slowly tighter until her head was pulled right back.

"Arrogant wench, isn't she?" said Smithers, amiably. "Got her nose in the air as usual."

Yet more laughter. He has humiliated me, Emma thought. He has defeated me. I am helpless. And then desperately tried to banish the thought and remember that she was the finest escape artist, male or female, in North America. Everything is fine! I'll get out of this in a trice!

Mr Smithers was unhurriedly binding Emma's legs now, working his way up from the ground. Ankles, below the knees, above the knees, thighs; yanked tight, impossibly tight at each turn and securely knotted. Emma was fighting a sense of panic now, a sense of total powerlessness. She knew he was engineering this - by taking so long to bind her, by humiliating her with jokes at her expense that the gag prevented any response to, and by constantly telling the audience precisely how helpless she was. They no longer believed she had a chance, she knew. Even her most loyal fans, the young girls who believed everything she said about the superiority of women. Some of them looked thoroughly downcast to see their hero so debased.

"That will do, I think," said Mr Smithers with a smile of such assured confidence that Emma wanted to scream. Not that she could have screamed if she wanted to, of course. "Emma is completely and utterly helpless and has absolutely no chance of escape, but we will play her little game anyway. We will put her in the sacred place like a beautiful helpless virgin sacrificed to an angry god." He grabbed her, his hands conveniently finding pleasant resting places in contact with Emma's arse (left hand) and right breast (right hand). She protested against this liberty at the top of her voice... with the result that she made another humiliating mewing sound, drooled on her chest, and blushed deeply as the audience roared with laughter. Laughing along with them, Smithers hefted her on one shoulder like a ladder or a not especially valuable statue, and plonked her down beneath the blazing spotlight.

"A final assessment!" he announced, walking around the trembling, ramrod-straight prisoner. "And shall we dispense once and for all with the pitiful name 'Enchantress'? This young lady's name is Emma, and while she is indeed enchanting from a strictly physical point of view, she has no abilities in the magical arts.

"Emma's wrists are bound tightly (and painfully high up) behind her back, which in itself would be enough to render our pretty damsel quite helpless. Observe the strain in her shoulders, the stress in her neck, and how pleasingly and obediently she is thrusting out her assets - her only assets, I would venture to suggest, given that she is, I think we can all agree, a very bad magician - for our delectation. Thank you, Emma my dear, for your total obedience and mystifying dimness.

"But where was I? Emma's throat, chest, stomach and waist are securely bound with a harness of drum-tight cords, none of which she has the least chance of reaching, let alone loosening. I have also added a private rope slightly lower down that I shall gloss over for the sake of decency, this being a family show, but will say only that I do not doubt that it will give Emma as much pleasure as it gives me, and that it made a most convenient hitching point for the ropes forcing her head high in the air. I do insist on my prisoners maintaining good posture at all times. Keep it up!" And he gave Emma a smack on the arse. The audience laughed heartily; she grunted in pain and tried very hard not to cry.