You are Emily Harper, 26 years old, and every inch of you radiates the kind of confident, jaw-dropping beauty that turns heads wherever you go. Standing at 5’5”, your body is a masterpiece sculpted from hours in the gym—toned yet irresistibly curvaceous, with an hourglass figure that could stop traffic. Your large F-cup breasts strain proudly against any top you wear, full and perky, drawing eyes like magnets. Your waist cinches in dramatically before flaring out into thick, athletic thighs that flex with power and a large, plump ass that sways hypnotically with every step. Your blonde curly hair cascades in wild, golden waves down your back, framing a face with bright blue eyes, full lips, and a mischievous smile that hints at the ambition burning inside you.
You’ve always dreamed of making it big in magic. Not the cheesy birthday-party tricks, but real stardom—sold-out arenas, Vegas headlines, the kind of fame that comes with illusions so flawless they feel supernatural. That’s why, six months ago, you jumped at the chance to work at Enigma’s Emporium, a high-end magic shop tucked into a bustling corner of downtown New York. The owner is Dereck Voss—29, devastatingly handsome, with sharp features, tousled dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a lean, athletic 5’11” build that still carries the charisma of his Vegas days. He was huge back then: headlining shows with disappearances and levitations that critics called “impossible.” Then, at the peak of his career, he retired young, moved east, and opened this shop. Small intimate shows in the back theater, custom props, and a staff of stunning assistants who double as performers.
The other girls are gorgeous too—curvy like you, all in their mid-20s. There’s Vanessa with her sleek black hair, Sophia with rich brown waves, and Riley with fiery red locks. You four are the face of the shop, demonstrating tricks for customers, performing in the weekend shows, and keeping the place running. But the uniform… God, the uniform. Dereck designed it himself: a sleek, low-cut black leotard that hugs every curve like a second skin. The plunging neckline dips dangerously between your massive breasts, barely containing them, while the high-cut legs ride up relentlessly into your plump ass cheeks, turning every movement into a teasing display. Paired with sheer black stockings, heels, and a short cape for shows, it makes you feel powerful… and exposed. You catch customers staring all the time, and if you’re honest, you love the attention. It fuels your drive.
Today is a typical Friday. You arrive at the shop around noon, the bell jingling as you push through the glass door. The air smells of polished wood, incense, and that faint metallic tang from the props. Shelves line the walls with decks of cards, linking rings, vanishing boxes, and more exotic items locked in glass cases. The back leads to a small theater stage for private shows.
“Morning, Em!” Vanessa calls from behind the counter, her black hair tied in a ponytail, her own leotard doing little to hide her assets as she bends to stock shelves. Sophia waves from where she’s practicing a silk scarf routine, her brown hair bouncing, and Riley smirks from the register, red curls framing her face as she adjusts her top—those uniforms really don’t leave much to the imagination.
You smile back, striding to the employee room to change. Slipping into your leotard always feels like a ritual. You peel off your street clothes, standing in front of the mirror in just your thong. Your body looks incredible—breasts heaving with each breath, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric once you pull the leotard on. It snaps tight over your hips, the material wedging deep between your thick thighs and riding up into your ass, exposing the lower curves of your cheeks. You tug at it futilely; it always creeps back. A quick touch-up of makeup, let your blonde curls loose, and you’re ready.
As you step out, Dereck emerges from his office upstairs. He’s in his usual fitted black shirt and pants, sleeves rolled up to show toned forearms. His eyes flick over you—lingering just a second too long on your cleavage, the way the leotard clings to your hourglass shape—before meeting yours with that trademark charming smile.
“Emily, perfect timing. We’ve got a big private show tonight—a corporate group. I want you leading the assistant team. Your energy on stage is killer.”
His voice is smooth, deep, sending a little shiver down your spine. You’ve had a crush on him since day one, but it’s more than that. You’ve watched him closely these months. The way he handles props—things vanish or transform in ways that don’t match any gimmick you’ve studied. Levitations that feel too real. And rumors from his Vegas days: whispers of “real magic.” You want it. Need it. To make it big, you have to go beyond tricks. Dereck knows something real—you’re sure of it.
The day passes in a blur of customers. You demonstrate a card trick, bending over the counter in your leotard, feeling eyes on your ass as it peeks out. Vanessa helps with a rope escape demo, her body brushing yours teasingly. Sophia and Riley handle sales, their curves on full display. Dereck floats around, charming everyone, but you catch him watching you more than once.
By evening, the shop closes to the public. The corporate group arrives—suits, cocktails, ready for the show. You four girls line up backstage, capes on, leotards gleaming under the lights. Dereck takes the stage first, his presence commanding. He does classics: cards, coins, then builds to bigger illusions. You assist—handing props, letting him “saw” you in half (the box hiding your curves as you contort), emerging to applause.
But the finale… that’s when you see it again. Dereck announces a “special levitation.” He has Riley lie on a table, waves his hands—no visible wires, no hoops. She floats up, spinning slowly, her red hair dangling, leotard stretched tight over her body. The audience gasps. You know every levitation method out there—this isn’t one. It’s real. Subtle, but real.
After the show, applause thunders. The group leaves buzzing. You girls clean up backstage, stacking props and wiping down the stage. Your heart is still racing from the performance—and from that impossible levitation. Vanessa, Sophia, and Riley chatter about heading out for drinks, their leotards still hugging their bodies as they gather their things.
You linger near the wings, adjusting your cape unnecessarily, your blonde curls slightly tousled from the stage lights. Dereck steps offstage last, loosening his collar, that handsome smile still in place as he nods approvals to the team.
“Great work tonight, everyone,” he says, voice carrying that effortless authority. “You all killed it.”
The other girls thank him and start filing out, laughing and planning their night. You stay back, pretending to organize a stack of silks on a prop table. Your leotard rides up again as you bend slightly, the fabric pulling tight across your plump ass and thick thighs. You feel his gaze on you before you even turn around.
“Emily,” Dereck says, approaching with that easy stride. He’s close now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woody and masculine. Up close at 5’11”, he towers just enough over your 5’5” frame to make you feel petite despite your curves. “You were standout tonight. The way you move on stage… it’s captivating.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks—and lower. You smile up at him, letting your large F-cup breasts rise with a deep breath, the low-cut leotard framing them perfectly. “Thanks, Dereck. I love performing for you—for the crowd, I mean.” You bite your lip lightly, playing it coy. “Your illusions are incredible, though. That levitation with Riley… I’ve never seen anything smoother. I’d love to learn more of your techniques someday. You know, the advanced stuff.”
You keep it light, admiring, not pushing too hard. No direct accusations of “real magic”—just a hint of your hunger to grow, to get closer to his secrets. Your blue eyes meet his green ones, holding the gaze a beat longer than professional.
He studies you for a moment, that knowing smile deepening, like he can read every ambitious thought behind your flirtatious tone. His eyes trace your figure again—the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips where the leotard clings—and then back to your face.
“You’re ambitious, Emily. I like that.” He pauses, voice dropping lower. “And talented. Very talented.”
Your pulse quickens. Is he going to offer something? Training? More?
Then he straightens, glancing toward the now-empty theater. “Tell you what—stick around after the others leave. I’ve got a late-night rehearsal planned for a new illusion. Private. I think you’ll be perfect for it. I’ll use you in the show tonight.”
The way he says “use you” sends a thrill through you—possessive, promising. A private show? Just the two of you? Your mind races with possibilities: learning his methods up close, maybe glimpsing whatever makes his magic feel so… unnatural.
Before you can respond with more than a nod and a soft “I’d love that,” he turns, heading toward the stairs to his upstairs office. “Give me twenty minutes to prep. Lock up the front when the girls go.”
He disappears up the steps, leaving you alone backstage. Your body tingles with anticipation, the leotard feeling even tighter against your skin. The shop is quiet now, just the hum of the lights and your own quick breaths. What kind of “new illusion” requires a private late-night rehearsal? And why just you?
The other girls call goodbyes from the front as they leave, oblivious. You lock the door behind them, heart pounding.
Now it’s just you… and whatever Dereck has planned.
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