Every Magician Needs An Assistant

This is a story for Halloween and an entry for the 2018 competition. Feel free to comment and vote. There are dark themes, although there are no ghosts, ghouls or Winged Horsemen of the Apocalypse here. It is a disturbing account of human behaviour under pressure - how does a person react under stress?

Would you pick a fight or take flight? Without time to prepare or reflect, your reaction may be unpredictable and different to that expected by another. If someone makes a pass at your partner do you lash out -- punch someone on the nose? Or do you reason that if your partner accepts those advances you'd rather not stay in that relationship and this may be an ideal opportunity to say goodbye to a bad lot.

Decisions, decisions.

But that's with plenty of time to think - and possibly hindsight. In the pressure of an unexpected event who knows what might happen? In this case, perhaps doing nothing would have been the better option.

* * *

A group of drunks had been heckling the performance and now one of their number had started to film the magician with his phone. Betrayed by the glare of his screen, this was against the strict rules of the venue and had been explained to all the audience. It was now the time for retribution. The magician took his pointer; it was in the form of a white hand on a stick that shone brightly in the spotlight. The bony index finger pointed at the man filming - full of bravado and alcohol.

An usherette wearing a top hat and a smart dark jacket approached the young man and challenged him to go up onto the stage. He stood but she was taller; her long bare muscular legs on top of her high stiletto heels meant that he had to look up to her. He could not resist glancing down at her strong thighs that disappeared under the jacket without a visible skirt.

As he leered, she glowered through severe spectacles. He soon buckled under the attention and she led him away from his table as his accomplices fell quiet. She did not carry a torch in the gloom, nevertheless his path was illuminated by a pool of light on the floor.

The usherette climbed the steps onto the stage. As she did so she leaned over slightly and her jacket rose to reveal her bare ass. Now the source of the pool of light was revealed; a beam shone down from a butt-plug.

She introduced the man to the magician. Costumed as an evil clown with whitened face and menacing expression, he had an unpleasant, mirthless snigger for a laugh.

Another assistant wheeled a large cabinet onto the stage and revolved it theatrically to show that it was free-standing. The lid was opened, indicating to the man that he should enter.

The man was unnerved and complied. Once securely inside, as requested he placed his hand through a hole in the side of the box then the clown removed another small section of board so that he could view his hand outside. However the audience could see (but he could not) that he was not actually looking at his own hand but a fake version alongside.

The clown/magician stroked the fake hand and the real one, simultaneously. As the volunteer saw the movement and felt the sensation, the thought that it might not be his hand did not even occur to him.

Then the clown produced a large spider and told the man how venomous it was. It was placed onto the fake hand and it scuttled around. As it did so the assistant tickled his hand with a feather, then she pinched the skin whilst the clown announced loudly that he had been bitten and poison was spreading in his veins. Panicking, he cursed and struggled against the apparatus that confined him.

The clown drew a sword. With a dramatic movement he slashed the weapon downwards, cutting away the fake hand. Simultaneously the assistant slapped the man's wrist. The man yelled in fright and was released from the box. As he jumped free, there were calls for a medic. The desperate man was handed the fake hand and directed back towards his table.

The man ran blindly while the audience roared with laughter. When he reached his friends he slowed to look at his arm and realised that he was uninjured.

Confused, he examined the item that he was carrying. It was a thick painted bundle of tape that took him the rest of the evening to unravel thereby revealing his phone once more.

* * *

"What do you think? Does my bum look big in this?"

My wife stood before me, wearing a new outfit. It was terrible.

She has an awful habit of buying stuff that really doesn't suit her and I can't do the normal husband bit of saying crap like "It's perfect" when it's plainly not. I just can't. She always claimed that I have some version of autism, perhaps it's true.

I sat silently for a couple of seconds, trying to come up with words that were reasonably polite. My wife is quite short - long legged but with a tiny body. When she was a teenager she wanted to be a professional dancer but ended up too heavy-breasted for ballet and too short for a musical chorus line. In the end she had drifted into shop work and waitressing - always regretting the loss of her dreams of being a star. However she loved being the centre of attention, always being the first and liveliest on a dance floor.

Today she was wearing a 'baby-doll' style dress with a wide belt that defied reality to make her look fat and dumpy. Worse, the belt had a huge bow dangling at the back that made her look like an eight year old at a birthday party. It had a black skirt section with a cream top; a dress of two halves - both nasty.

"Um, it cuts you in half a bit. I'm not keen on the belt. And I can't see your ass anyway, so it doesn't look big or small."

"The lady in the shop said that it looked great on me."

I love that line. What are shop assistants paid for? To sell any damn thing no matter what, I suppose. But it's not like selling cars; no-one ever asked a car salesman what they looked like in a used Ford. 'Oh no sir, that sporty model is for someone with more fake tan. I'd suggest this truck, it would much better suit a gentleman with a well-developed belly such as yourself. Yes, that's perfect. The colour sets off your eyes.'

"You know 'baby-dolls' don't suit you. Why don't you wear something slinky and fitted?"

"You always want me to wear plain, boring things. I'm fed up with them. And I've got nothing else to wear, so I'll have to wear this."

The number of times I've heard that one, you wouldn't believe. Two double wardrobes bulged full of her dresses - some of which actually looked good on her and several more were unworn with the price tags still attached. Plus boxes of accessories and other stuff.

I'm not too chauvinistic but I'd rather my colleagues admired my wife. Let them have a twinge of jealousy as they stand next to their frumpy wives with plastered-on cosmetics and sour perfumes that would kill wasps at five paces. Kirsten could look really cute if she put her mind to it.

We were on our way to a works function; an evening with motivational speeches to improve performance combined with the annual awards ceremony. You know the sort of thing; 'Ra, Ra, Ra, you will work harder -- and for Rupert my son, here is a prize for being so fantastic', a load of complete bollocks that I'd normally avoid like the plague except that I'd been forewarned that I might get something myself.

I knew that I was up for suggesting a change in operating practices that had saved the company a fortune; more in fact than my annual salary. That meant in effect that I'd worked for free for the last year. If I didn't turn up I wouldn't get it and then the way that the company was set up meant I might be vulnerable at the next staff review. I certainly wouldn't be getting any bonus from the proceeds of the savings either way.

Luckily we've been through this pantomime of getting dressed to go out many times and Kirsten no longer gets too offended. She trusts my judgement nowadays on what looks good on her -- if her outfit looks shit she'll believe me when I tell her. Or when I tell her that she's gorgeous, she knows that I'm being truthful and she's hot.

So I had my best suit on, complete with tie and shiny shoes already making me feel hot and bothered. Waistcoat buttoned, jacket unbuttoned. Whatever the weather. Women get away with wearing as little or as much as they like -- and they complain about equality.

I led her back upstairs and unfastened the child's party dress, letting it fall to the floor. She stood wearing a white bra, high heels, hold-up stockings and black thong panties. Her bum is really small and neat; I don't know where she would get the idea that it looks big in anything.

I searched through the wardrobe that contained the more glamorous dresses and found a calf-length evening gown in deep purple. "Put this on, it's great."

"I've worn that before."

"Not to a work's party. No-one will recognise it." I removed the hanger and tossed the gown across the room to her.

Obediently she caught the dress and stepped into it. It was close-fitting around her hips, sleek and classy and added several inches to her height. It fitted at the throat with a choker but was backless to show the length of her spine. It fastened with a concealed zip down the side, but her white bra was clearly visible at the back.

"You won't be able to wear that, you'll need a backless one."

Kirsten's breasts are her best feature; she's able and usually willing to go braless. They are large but can still stand up for themselves with perky nipples and don't need support. But that evening under the cream top of the baby-doll, she had been wearing a lacy and underwired bra to make sure that she was modestly covered and suitably demure for a work's function.

"I haven't got one - the one I had, the underwire broke and came out."

"In that case you'll have to go without." I unfastened and slid it out from under the dress. I moved my hands into the opening and around her waist and slowly moved them up to cup her breasts, feeling her nipples stiffen.

"I thought we were in a rush, we haven't time for playing silly buggers." Reluctantly I released her and fastened the dress properly. The material was thin and clung to her butt; it was fantastic especially with her nipples still stiff and poking through. "I'm sure that we've enough time for something though."

She reached down into my pants and took me in her hand. Her lovely skilled hand; it was warm and tender and it took just a second to defeat my willpower. Smiling with her victory she knelt and completed the act.

After a short while she stood smiling, licking a stray drop of fluid from her lips "Well kind sir, it's always a pleasure to be of assistance."

* * *

We had a table in the shadows near the back of the hall. There was a buffet meal, accompanied by a guest speaker. He was a retired sports legend but obviously he had been selected to represent his country based on his prowess on the field rather than his ability to talk. His jokes were lame, but we all laughed dutifully and applauded in the appropriate points.

The evening was starting to drag already but managed to go further downhill when the director's speech started. It was as bad as could be expected, self-important and sprinkled with pompous buzz-words. He kept on 'thinking outside the box.' I wished he would think inside a box, preferably a coffin.

By the time the presentations finally began the sound of bored private conversations was defeating the public address system. Mr. Jones, the Managing Director stood accompanied by his wife; he was known by all the staff as 'Jonesey'. He was short and stout and wearing a dress suit as if he were a doorman, she tall and regal in a floor-length gown and a string of pearls. She expected a kiss on the cheek in return for a shake of her husband's hand whilst a photographer captured hands posed as if mid-shake.

Eventually it was my turn. Close up, the bosses' wife was drenched in some perfume that reminded me of insecticide. I stifled a sneeze and quickly withdrew.

After the awards, the last entertainment of the evening was revealed; a magician. I groaned. The free bar was now open and silly tricks were a distraction from serious drinking. When I was a kid I used to be interested in magic; I had a set and annoyed all my relatives during Christmas parties by repeatedly asking them to choose a card -- any card. With a few more years behind me I now found magicians as irritating as anyone else.

There were only two reasons to be at this function; to have my award to brandish at my supervisor the next time he called me a waste of space - and the free bar. These were now both fulfilled.

The man walked around the tables performing card tricks (pick a card, any card), then as a music track started he introduced his female assistant 'Brandy'. Do these people have to name themselves after strippers? She appeared wearing a short sexy gold lame dress and stiletto heels, but then the magician waved his wand and the dress was transformed with a flash and cloud of smoke into a miniscule string bikini of the same material.

This was met with instant approval from the audience who whistled and cheered, much bolstered by the consumption of the company alcohol.

The assistant was slim and lithe but with an impressive pair of breasts. Now my wife has a fine pair of lungs but these were truly massive. The magician produced a pigeon from her cleavage, then another. Finally to prove that she was not concealing anything, the wand was waved again. With another flash of fire and smoke the gold bikini top vanished, leaving the girl topless.

She scuttled around the room pretending to be embarrassed with her arms across her bare breasts but soon, encouraged by the crowd, Brandy lowered her arms to reveal glimpses of pink nipples. Where her clothing had gone remained a mystery but now the magician's assistant had everyone's attention, even the dedicated drinkers at the bar.

I glanced across to the top table. The boss was engrossed in the performance but his lady wife was thin-lipped and holding her handbag up as if to shield her own chest.

Brandy moved slowly and seductively, shimmying around the room, just wearing her gold panties and heels. A taper was lit and as the lights dimmed she started an exotic fire-eating act, making a flame dance across her shoulders, flat stomach and finally her breasts. As the lights dimmed she rubbed a liquid onto her nipples and bending over backwards, the magician lit them like candles.

I noticed the Director's wife dragging her open-mouthed husband to the exit. His head was twisted around with his eyes firmly on the dancer even as the door closed behind them both.

As the applause died, the magician called for an assistant from the audience. Kirsten of course was never shy of publicity and jumped up waving her arms, so he came to our table and pulled her to the front of the room.

I could imagine Kirsten glowing inside as the spotlight brought her to everyone's attention.

Kirsten was introduced to a large box on castor wheels that Brandy pushed to the centre of the room. The lid and a side wall were open to show that it was empty and Kirsten was helped inside.

The box was elaborately chained shut Brandy pushed it around the room for the guests to inspect. There was another flash and when the cloud of smoke cleared, Brandy herself had disappeared into thin air.

The magician swiftly unlocked the chains. The lid opened and Kirsten climbed back out of the box, looking baffled. She was wearing the gold lame dress with a plunging cleavage that Brandy had been wearing earlier.

To huge applause she returned to our table and sat down. She didn't seem to realise that she had on the gold dress until she glanced down. The dress was too loose and the front was gaping wide open.

Then after a few more laps of the box around the floor and another pyrotechnic, Brandy suddenly appeared in a cloud of smoke standing alongside the box, wearing a purple gown which I recognised as Kirsten's. There was a disappointed round of applause despite the fact that her boobs were squashed and bulged over the top of the dress.

Then Brandy walked over and in the spotlight, took Kirsten's hand for her to stand. As she moved, one of Kirsten's breasts fell free and was exposed to the crowd. There was a sudden hush as everyone stared at the pink nipple, enticingly erect. After a stunned pause there was a ribald cheer from the drinkers at the bar.

Kirsten didn't react, but without pausing Brandy reached across and tugged the material back across to hide the escaped boob. She led Kirsten across the room to the ladies' bathroom and after a minute they emerged having swapped their dresses back again.

Kirsten sat, now clothed in her purple gown again. She had a huge grin on her face and her nipples were poking through the material with excitement.

"Well, was I any good? My God, do you think anyone noticed when I fell out of the dress?"

No dear, I'm sure that no-one noticed at all...

* * *

The next day I sat nursing a slight hangover. Well, there had been a free bar after all. "Okay, so how did it work?"

Kirsten was bursting to tell me of her moment of glory. "The magician whispered to me to change into the dress inside the box, then to knock on the side when I was ready. I had to keep to the front to leave room for Brandy and the dress was tucked up inside. The box was a bit bigger than it looked, there was plenty of room. Well, it was a bit cramped with us both in there, but that was only for a second.

"Anyway as soon as I knocked the firecracker went off and Brandy came bursting straight through the side of the box. It wasn't solid at all, the chains weren't doing anything. It was all hinged on springs. She grabbed my dress and then the lid opened and I had to get out.

"I didn't even realise the dress was actually hers until I sat down, I was wondering what the fuss was about. Then we went to the bathroom and swapped over. She's like a contortionist, how she got that side zip fastened so quickly without help, sitting in the box I don't know. I still can't work out though, how did her dress get into the cabinet?"

"I don't suppose it did. It's possible they had a couple of identical dresses."

"It looked the same one to me."

Ya think?

* * *

Kirsten suddenly took an increased interest in show business, her old love. She looked at adverts on web sites and trade magazines, most of which I previously didn't even know existed. She watched and re-watched internet clips of illusionists and conjurors.

She also joined a gym and became obsessive with weight and fitness. She learned the principles of all the classic illusions; after all the assistant is often the actual magician. As a member of the audience you are never sure just who is causing a distraction and who is actually doing the trick.

I saw the benefits quite soon; she lost a few pounds and her waist was trim with a taut belly. Her thighs were lean like a teenager's and her arms were showing signs of biceps.

One day she announced that she had a job. She was going to try out to be a magician's assistant herself. After that she became secretive and disappeared for days on end.

Eventually she told me that she was on her way to her first proper gig; the problem was that it was in a resort in Greece. She had her trade registrations, air tickets and most important of all, a magician to be an assistant too. Armed with all this she went off to become rich and famous.

A week later she called me. Her magician, who went by the name 'Magical Marvin' had a regular tour of the town, which catered mostly for Brits on economy budgets. She was jumping in and out of cabinets, being sawn in half and having knives thrown at her twice nightly. They were working fourteen shows a week and making money -- so I decided to take a week off work and join her.