You can’t just wait patiently—not with that cryptic invitation hanging in the air. “I’ll use you in the show tonight.” The words echo in your mind, sending a mix of excitement and curiosity buzzing through your veins. Dereck’s office is right upstairs, and he’s busy prepping… whatever this private rehearsal is. If there’s any chance to glimpse his secrets beforehand—to understand what makes his magic feel so impossibly real—this is it.
Heart pounding, you glance around the empty backstage area. The theater lights are dimmed, casting long shadows over the props and curtains. Your heels click softly on the wooden floor as you move toward the stairs, trying to keep quiet. The leotard clings to your sweat-dampened skin from the earlier performance, the high-cut fabric riding up even higher between your thick thighs and plump ass cheeks with every careful step. You reach back instinctively, tugging at it, but it snaps right back, wedging deeper, exposing more of your curvaceous lower curves. Your large F-cup breasts bounce slightly with the motion, straining against the low-cut neckline, nipples perking up from the cool air and the thrill of sneaking.
You ascend the stairs slowly, one hand on the railing, your blonde curly hair swaying against your bare shoulders. The office door at the top is ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out. You press yourself against the wall, listening. Inside, you hear rustling—papers shuffling, a drawer closing. Dereck’s low hum of some old jazz tune. He’s definitely in there.
You lean closer, peeking through the crack in the door. From this angle, you see part of his desk: scattered notes, a few prop wands, and that ancient-looking leather-bound book you’ve noticed him with before—the one from his Vegas interviews on TV, where he’d casually flip through it during talks about “inspiration from the classics.” Your breath catches. If there’s real magic, it has to be tied to something like that.
But before you can get a better look, footsteps approach the door. You pull back just in time as Dereck swings it open, stepping out onto the landing. He’s changed into a casual black button-up, sleeves rolled up, looking even more effortlessly handsome in the softer light. His green eyes lock onto yours immediately—you’re caught mid-sneak, frozen on the stairs.
“Emily,” he says, a amused smirk tugging at his lips. No anger, just that knowing charm. “Eager, huh? I like that.”
Your cheeks flush hot, breasts heaving with a quick breath that makes the leotard dip even lower. “I… I was just coming up to see if you needed help prepping,” you stammer, trying to play it cool, shifting your weight so your hourglass figure is on full display—hips cocked, thick thighs pressing together.
He chuckles, deep and warm, stepping closer until he’s right above you on the landing, his 5’11” frame making you feel small and curvy in comparison. His gaze drifts down again, lingering on the way the fabric hugs your plump ass and massive breasts. “Actually, perfect timing. I’m starving after that show, and I figure you are too since you’re staying late. I’m going to pick up some Chinese food—my treat. Kung pao chicken, lo mein, the works. It’ll take about an hour with traffic this time of night.”
An hour? Alone in the shop—with access to his office? Your mind races, ambition overriding any guilt. This is your chance.
“Sounds amazing,” you say, smiling up at him, letting your voice go a little breathy. “I’ll… hold down the fort.”
“Good girl,” he replies, the words sending a shiver straight between your legs. He brushes past you down the stairs, his arm grazing your side—close enough that you feel the heat from his body. At the bottom, he grabs his keys from the counter, turns off the main lights (leaving just the emergency glows), and heads to the front door. “Lock up behind me if you want. Be back soon. Don’t touch anything too dangerous.”
The bell jingles as he exits, and you hear the click of the lock from outside. He’s gone.
Adrenaline surges. You wait a full minute, listening to the silence, then dash to the front—your heels echoing now that you’re not sneaking, plump ass jiggling with each hurried step, leotard riding up shamelessly. You peer through the glass: Dereck’s car pulls away into the New York night traffic. Coast clear.
Without hesitation, you bolt back up the stairs, blonde curls bouncing wildly, breasts nearly spilling out from the vigorous movement. The office door is still ajar— he left it open. You slip inside, closing it softly behind you.
The space is larger than you remembered, almost like a private studio apartment above the shop. Warm ambient lighting from sconces illuminates rich wooden paneling, a plush leather sofa facing a large flat-screen TV on one wall (probably for reviewing performance footage), a mini-fridge and coffee station in the corner, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with tomes on magic history, occult lore, psychology of illusion, and more. His desk dominates the center: a sleek modern setup with a high-end computer (screen locked, of course), scattered prop sketches, and that leather-bound book sitting prominently atop a stack.
You’ve been in here plenty of times—with Dereck present, of course. Quick meetings about schedules, feedback on shows, or him showing you a new trick. He’d always been professional, but with that underlying flirtation—eyes lingering on your curves in the leotard, compliments that felt a touch too personal. Now, alone, it feels intimate. Forbidden. His scent lingers—cologne mixed with the faint leather from the furniture.
Your pulse thumps in your ears as you start exploring. First, the desk drawers: most locked, but one yields pens, notepads, and billing receipts—nothing magical. The computer? You jiggle the mouse—password protected, a screensaver of old Vegas marquees swirling. No luck there.
You move to the bookshelves, running your manicured fingers along the spines. Hundreds of volumes: Houdini’s escapes, Robert-Houdin classics, modern close-up magic, even some esoteric titles like “The Grimoire of True Illusion” or “Arcane Misdirection.” Your thick thighs brush together as you reach high, stretching on tiptoes—leotard pulling taut over your ass, exposing the full plump cheeks as it rides up completely. You tug it down absently, heat building between your legs from the vulnerability, the risk.
Then you spot it—tucked on a middle shelf, slightly worn from handling: the book from his TV appearances. Dark red leather, gold embossing faded, title in ornate script: Codex of Veiled Realms. You remember it clearly—interviewers asking about his “secret weapon,” and Dereck laughing it off as “just an old inspiration.”
Jackpot.
You pull it down carefully, the weight surprising—heavy, like it holds real secrets. Dust motes dance in the light as you carry it to the sofa, sinking into the soft leather. Your body settles, legs crossing, the leotard wedging deep again, fabric stretching over your F-cup breasts as you lean forward.
Flipping through: pages of handwritten notes in Dereck’s elegant script margin the printed text—diagrams of stages, symbol annotations, references to “energy flows” and “perceptual shifts.” Not standard magic theory. This is… different.
You turn to a section marked with a ribbon bookmark: “Illusions Spells – Advanced Manifestations.”
Your breath quickens. Spells? Actual spells? Illustrations show glowing hands, vanishing figures, size distortions—wait, size? One sketch depicts a woman shrinking amid swirling energy, her clothes pooling around her tiny form.
Excitement and skepticism war inside you. It’s probably elaborate role-playing notes for his acts… but after that levitation tonight, you’re not sure.
One entry catches your eye: a simple incantation titled “Veil of Diminution – Trial of Perspective.”
The text reads: “To alter the veil between scales, speak thus: ‘Minuo corpus, magnus mundus, revela veritatem in parvo.’ This invocation shrinks the caster’s form temporarily, granting insight into hidden truths through vulnerability. Duration varies by will; reversal by intent or counter-phrase.”
Latin? Or something like it. It sounds theatrical… but thrilling. The thought of actually shrinking—like those rumors, like what you suspect is his real edge—sends a forbidden rush through you. Your nipples harden against the leotard, a warmth spreading low in your belly.
No one’s here. Dereck’s gone for an hour. What’s the harm in trying? Just reading it aloud—for fun. To see if anything happens.
You glance around the empty office, blonde curls falling over one shoulder as you lean over the book. Voice barely above a whisper at first, then clearer, you read the words aloud:
“Minuo corpus, magnus mundus, revela veritatem in parvo.”
The air shifts. A faint tingle dances across your skin…
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