This Is How It Happened 1

Silke listened.

He started from the beginning. He spoke as if he were going over a list.

He had arrived. Outside. In front of the venue. Already dressed in costume—top hat, cape, mask. The plan in his head was still simple: find her, say the line—the one they both knew—and then he’d really let loose today.

Silke groaned at his words. Her hand was already between her legs, two fingers flat against her wet pussy, not even really inside. Just pressure. Just so the tension from the stage wouldn’t fade while he was talking.

He continued:

Instead, Jonas was standing on the corner, grinning at him as if the encounter were a coincidence.

Max didn’t tell Silke that they knew each other. Instead, he’d commented on the costume. “Funny. You’re wearing the costume, too. I didn’t even see you in the group.”

Max heard himself say, “Uh. Group?” Dumber than he meant to be.

Jonas said: “There are ten magicians just like us—now eleven. We want to take a group photo with Silke on stage. To go with her favorite song: ‘Bad Touch.’ She’d even added the costume to my shopping cart. I found it when I was looking for my own costume. Silke was a sweetheart—apparently she’d added the costume to my shopping cart so we could wear matching outfits. I don’t know what she’ll be wearing. Probably a magician’s assistant outfit to go with it.”

Author's notes: Women can also be the main character, like a magician, and not just the assistant. Women can be anything. Sometimes they can even be just the trick—or, in this case, the rabbit. Girl power!

He hardly cared. Instead of asking Silke—"Surprise," she’d said—he took a screenshot and sent it to the guys’ group chat. Jonas wrote: "I’ll wear that." The idea wasn’t his, but came from a friend. "Totally cool—let’s do a flash mob where everyone wears the same thing, and take a photo on stage at the end." The guys placed the order themselves. The same mask. Ten capes, ten top hats, Silke, and a picture to last a lifetime.

The problem: Jonas was the only one who hadn’t been able to find Silke all evening. The others were already at the venue. Max told Jonas to add him to the group chat, and he’d message him once he found her. Jonas did just that. Screen bright. Names. Avatars. Magician, magician, magician. Max didn’t scroll. He stared at the number and could already picture the wrong costumes in his head.

They gave up looking for Silke and wanted to go to the party. The line was gone. The door was closed. Security had shut it. It was too crowded. Jonas argued that his girlfriend was still inside. Max said nothing. The door stayed closed. Tough luck. Fire safety.

Here, in the basement, under the light bulb, Max’s voice cracked for the first time.

“That’s when I panicked for the first time. At least nine people at the party had the same costume, the same cape, the same mask. And why? Because you didn’t delete the costume from the shopping cart, Jonas—that idiot gave it away.

But okay. I calmed down. We did build in a safety measure, right? You wouldn’t do anything unless someone said the right phrase, right?” he asked.

Silke took a deep breath. A drop fell. Max looked down and away, as if the wetness between her legs were making him angrier than the chaos upstairs. He answered his own question: “Just fifteen minutes later, I had the answer. Jonas was on his way. I don’t think he wanted to go to the party. He just wanted to find the naked one. You! I was still standing outside, phone in hand, when the first message came in.” He showed her the phone.

"I had to read it twice. The first time, I only understood the words. The second time, I realized the plan had already gone up in smoke before I even got involved. I imagined what that guy on the dance floor had done to her. My dick got hard. You on the dance floor, the dress with the slits, your pussy with no fabric, your tits with no fabric, someone else in the same cape, and the password you gave away in a single sentence. The other guy had just nodded. Just that."

Jealousy didn’t come cleanly. It came with stiffness. With anger. With the panic he’d just talked himself out of.

Silke didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The story was a hand on her. Every hint of jealousy in his voice was a thrust. Every burst of anger, another finger. Her clitoris was swollen, too sensitive, almost painful, and yet that was exactly what she wanted: to hear him talk while she pleasured herself. The thought that he was stiffly recounting that strange dance, that his cock was hard under the cape while he accused her of no longer being just his—that pushed her to the edge.

Her legs went weak.

She had to brace herself against a crate with her free hand. The mask was askew. The mouth beneath it was open. Saliva on the elastic. Her pussy glistened in the light of the bulb, her lips dark, parted, her fingers sliding in and out, wet all the way to the root. It was indecent to let his accusation make her come. That was exactly why it worked.