The show begins

The crimson curtains rippled once — then parted like silk — and Elanor emerged, a vision so commanding it sucked the breath from the room. She’s dressed in a black corset with gold detailing, dramatic thigh-high boots, and a magician’s coat with long tails that sweep behind her. A wand tucked at her hip. A riding crop in her other hand. Her dark hair is sleek, pinned with jeweled clips, her eyes smoky and sharp.

You swallowed thickly. This was no card-flipping street hustler. Eleanor radiated power, the kind you felt under your skin. You could already see — tonight, there would be no mercy.

Elanor’s gaze swept the room, slow and deliberate, drinking in the assembled women like a queen surveying her loyal court. Then her gaze settled on you. Sharp. Knowing. Amused. She tapped the riding crop twice against her thigh — a sound sharp enough to make you flinch — and smiled as if she already knew how this night would end.

The audience cheers — not like a polite theatre crowd, but like fans watching their favorite domme step onto a stage.

And there — standing just a step behind her — was Talia.

Your mouth went dry.

Talia spotted you immediately. Her eyes softened — just a little — and she offered you the smallest wink. A secret between friends. Or maybe between something more. It hit you like a blow to the chest, the sudden reminder that under the leather and velvet was still your Talia… and that somehow made this feel even more dangerous.

She wasn’t just radiant; she was devastating. The black velvet clung to her body like a second skin, the plunging neckline teasing just enough, the slit along her thigh inviting thoughts you shouldn't have in public. She didn't look like your teasing, flirty friend anymore. She looked like temptation weaponized.

Elanor waits for silence.

Then, slowly, she raises the crop to her lips and taps it against her bottom lip as she speaks — low, sensual, and authoritative.

“Tonight,” Elanor purred, letting the word drip from her lips, “we celebrate a most adorable kind of ignorance.”

Cue giggles and gasps from the crowd.

She paces slowly across the stage, her boots clicking dramatically.

“We’re here to test a theory. Not a trick. Not an illusion. A belief. A belief that some men carry — that they are immune to mystery. Immune to magic. Immune… to wonder.”

“Our guest tonight is one such man. A charming skeptic. Confident. Handsome. Smug.”

Pause. She smiles, slow and wicked.

“But don’t worry — he’s not a stranger.” She turns toward the audience. “He’s a friend of my lovely assistant, Talia.”

The spotlight widens. Talia steps out, dressed to match Elanor — like an alluring shadow cast from the same source. The crowd cheers louder.

Talia waves, then leans into Elanor’s shoulder and whispers something.

Elanor tilted her head, listening with exaggerated patience. When Talia finished, Elanor gave her a pat on the head — affectionate but possessive — and Talia actually stuck her tongue out at her before hiding a grin behind her hand. The audience cooed and chuckled. It was an absurd, terrifying reminder that you were the one standing alone against two women who were absolutely in on the joke.

“Apparently,” Elanor says, “he once told her that magic is just sexy women distracting men with their cleavage while slipping cards up their sleeves.”

A loud laugh from the crowd. All eyes turn to you.

“And now,” Elanor continues, “he has graciously volunteered to experience something different.”

She gestures toward you, seated in the front row, still masked.

“Come now, skeptic. Stand up. Let them see you.”

The crowd — entirely women — whooped and clapped. A ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd. Chairs creaked as women leaned forward, drinks forgotten. You could practically feel the temperature in the room rise a degree, like a hundred ovens preheating at once. You made your way to the stage, as the rowdy crowd cheered.

"Now, now," Elanor teased, glancing your way. "Be kind, ladies. He doesn't yet realize what he signed up for."

Talia glided to your side, taking your hand in hers — her touch gentle, almost reverent. As Talia led you to center stage, her hand squeezed yours — gently, reassuringly. Her fingers were warm, grounding. Her voice, however, held a note of mischief that sent fresh shivers down your spine. She leaned in, whispering, "Relax... Enjoy yourself. You might learn to believe by the end of tonight." Her voice was low, sweet, dangerous.

You cleared your throat and tried not to shift under the weight of a few hundred eyes.