The Magician's Apprentice (Patreon exclusive!)

By popular demand, I decided to write a sequel to, "The Magician", which can be read here. 

...

The first rule of magic, above all else, is that it’s not founded on any kind of supernatural energy. There’s no magic well that grants you spells, no untapped source in nature.

Magic is made through the exchange of power.

…

I stared out at the audience, at war with myself.

My fundamental reality had just been shattered, along with every scrap of my dignity. I’d been confident in my ability to parse illusions and fiction from facts and truth, but that confidence had landed me on a stage in front of all my friends, pantsed and cuffed to the floor, a sludgy, stained diaper sagging tremendously between my thighs.

This had been the price of my heckling: I’d been brought up on stage and shown in no uncertain terms that magic was real. To the audience, it might look like I was in on an illusion, but I’d felt the spells working as my underwear had been replaced with a diaper, and as a deluge of water had been teleported inside my bowels, forcing me to humiliate myself in front of everyone.

I couldn’t decide which would be better for my dignity–if everyone thought I was just an audience plant, someone who’d chosen to come up on stage and bottom out a diaper for their amusement, or if I’d been put under a genuine spell.

I also couldn’t decide if it would be better to flee, to run straight home and hide my face from the public in an attempt to bury the shame…

Or if I should stay and let this Magician torment me in exchange for knowledge.

Taking a deep breath–(mistake, agh, I stink)–I nodded ever so slightly. “Please. I have to know.”

Flashing a devilish showman’s grin, the Magician spun back to the audience. “Everyone give it up for my lovely assistant!”

The audience burst into applause, clapping hands and jeering hoots of condescension all blending onto a chorus.

…

There’s a reason we do our best work on a stage: Suspended disbelief is a potent source of power exchange. When our kind steps into the spotlight, when a thousand souls agree to give you their belief, you can work miracles.

Why do you think we keep things behind curtains? Why do we give a plausible explanation to all our tricks? Because if everyone knew what you now know, they wouldn’t have to believe anymore. Once you introduce certainty, there’s no more room for faith.

…

I wasn’t sure what to do–if I should just wait for instructions, or if I should participate more. I was still cuffed to the stage, still unable to really go anywhere.

“Hah hah,” I said, rolling my eyes, trying to stay ‘in character’. I’d been the cynic all along, if I broke now and started acting like this wasn’t just a stage trick, people might think I was enjoying this. “Very funny–that was a good trick. Do you have the keys to these cuffs?”

“Check your pocket,” the Magician replied, stepping a little closer to me.

I frowned, bending down to reach my jeans, still bunched around my ankles from where they’d fallen. Fishing through my pockets, I found a key–I wasn’t surprised, I’d seen more stunning things, but I still held it up. “How–”

Click!

A flash of light cast a stark shadow around me, and I glanced over my shoulder–the Magician had produced a polaroid camera from somewhere and snapped a selfie, him and the audience framed around my sagging, smelly butt.

And, in that moment, everyone’s eyes–including mine–were drawn away from the cuffs, up to the bright camera flash. It wasn’t until a second later that I realized the cuffs had moved–instead of my ankles being bound to the floor, now my wrists were stuck.

“Hey–” I blurted. “What the fuck?”

…

But beyond that trust, you need to tell a story. It’s a sorry Magician who goes up on stage and performs a dozen sleight of hand tricks with no context–and that Magician will soon find they’ve got no power to do anything else.

Give them something to believe in, you’ll have the power to reshape the world to your whims.

But, then again…trust from an audience isn’t the only source of power exchange. Are your restraints too tight?

…

“Oh, we’ve got a potty mouth,” the Magician declared, to the raucous laughter of the audience.

It wasn’t enough that I was trapped in an incredibly compromising situation–he had to mock me for it too.

“Alright, alright,” the Magician continued, flapping the polaroid in his hand to help it resolve. “Don’t worry, folks, I have something for this. As long as my assistant doesn’t go anywhere–except in his diaper, of course–I can get his foul language under control.”

Well, I was already down here. Might as well play it up a bit. “Fuck off, let me out of this!” I snapped.

More laughter as the Magician walked over to his table, producing props from–of course–his upside-down top hat.

I swallowed when I saw the first prop he produced–an enormous plug, made of stainless steel, as wide around as a soda can and long enough to make me shudder. However, as he produced it, the Magician just turned it over, looked at it, and set it aside.

“Not this,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. I sighed in relief as he took a white handkerchief–no, a white washcloth–from the hat, tossing it to the side as well–it fell over the plug, covering the steel toy completely. Finally, he produced his real prize–a bar of pearly white soap.

“What–” I stammered. “What’s that for?”

“I think you all know the best way to deal with a potty mouth, right?” the Magician asked the tittering audience. “Nothing a little soapy lather can’t fix!”

Reaching for the washcloth, the Magician lifted it from off the plug and–

I gasped, eyes going huge as I felt what had to be a couple pounds of cold, solid steel suddenly appear inside me, a heavy weight sitting in my bottom, penetrating deep enough that I had to fight not to moan–I couldn’t stop the slight squeak that escaped my mouth, though.

I lost my balance, falling forward, so that my face was on the floor and my knees struggled to keep my butt in the air–I wouldn’t lay down, at least. I’d keep that dignity for myself.

The Magician, for his part, did a comical double-take, looking to where the plug had been. “Now hold on a moment–where did that go?”

Laughter–a chorus of laughter. I just prayed to any gods that might be listening that the audience would think I was only acting.

…

Power can be given, power can be taken. Sorcerers of old could take power from unwilling sacrifices–we don’t do that any more. It’s against our code. However, with the right person under our control, we can take the power we need.

It’s the heckler’s trap–if you break our spell, if you undermine the audience’s trust, we need another source of power. I couldn’t take from the crowd, so I took from you instead.

This is different. I’m not subverting your power in any sort of secret way here–you’re giving it to me, willingly. You can ask to be freed at any point, but you won’t, and that’s a sort of power that’s stronger than any others.

I don’t have to make you gasp to take that power from you, of course–but it’s certainly more fun this way.

…

My knees were shaking, and my full bottom and loaded diaper were forcing my self awareness into a low, weak place–I couldn’t conceive of the audience as a collection of people anymore, only as a measuring tool. The louder they laughed, the deeper my shame, all but laying on the ground for their viewing pleasure.

It wasn’t much, but it was what I had.

The Magician began rubbing the bar of soap into the cloth, then, and I nearly gagged. Lavender and lye seemed to appear on my tongue, and before I could say another word, frothy lather bubbles began pouring out of my mouth.

I’d only ever heard of soap punishment in movies–and I’d certainly never tasted soap on purpose. I’d understood correctly that the taste was awful, but I hadn’t expected the other feelings it brought out in me–helplessness and desperation. I could do nothing to purge the soapy bubbles from my mouth; the more I spat the more they frothed, and my exaggerated discomfort only brought out more laughter.

My friends knew I wasn’t this good of an actor, right? Or would they assume I’d been holding out on them?

Either way, I had to survive the punishment if I wanted to learn the secrets of magic, so I shut my eyes, let my mouth water, and continued to spit.

…

Do you trust that I’m not going to use this power to hurt you? That I’ll never take it beyond discomfort and plausibly deniable humiliation?

Do you know that for certain?

Do you enjoy being denied like this, placing the agency of your satisfaction into my hands?

Your trust, your submission to me–that’s power.

…

Panting for breath, I let the last few bubbles dribble from my drooly mouth. I realized, now, the purpose of the cuffs–it wasn’t to make me stick my saggy, smelly diaper in the air, but to make sure my face was front and center so everyone could watch the show.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?” the Magician asked. “No more potty mouth from you, just potty pants?”

I nodded.

“Do you need a moment to breathe?”

I nodded again.

To my surprise, the Magician showed me a bit of mercy then–taking the cup from before, the one he’d used as part of an illusion while filling me up with an enema, he filled it up with genuine water. Walking it to me, he set the glass in front of my face, close enough that I could pick it up even with my hands cuffed.

“Drink that, and get your head together,” he said, quietly. Then, pitching his voice to the audience, he continued, “Now, for this next trick–I need a volunteer!”

Unsurprisingly, this got crickets, given what’d happened to me. He had to press, clarifying his intention.

“Don’t worry–you won’t have to come anywhere near my smelly assistant, and so long as you’ve been a good audience member, you’ve got nothing to fear from my illusions.”

That got someone, and I let my focus drift while he moved onto another trick.

This feelings he’d brought up in me were indescribable. Not the revelation about magic. That had shaken my worldview to the core.

The subsequent humiliation, though, that’d done more. His control, his theater, the performance and the embarrassment, it’d thrown my emotions into turmoil. I knew I should have been hating the yucky diaper I’d been trapped in, the laughter of my friends, the restraints, the degradation, but I couldn’t.

For all the physical unpleasantness, for all my fears about the humiliation, the Magician’s display of me made me crave more.

I wanted to know magic, I wanted the Magician to explain it all to me, but this was more than a simple desire to know magic.

Maybe it was the plug inside me, pressing against my prostate, but I doubted that was it–I’d had these feelings before he’d filled up my bottom.

The magician finished up his trick–something about making his polaroid selfie appear in the volunteer’s wallet. I only absently noticed the volunteer was one of my friends, and that my friend was allowed to keep the photograph which clearly showed off my ruined diaper.

I wanted the Magician’s attention, not anyone else’s, and I got it.

He smiled at me, bowing slightly. “All ready to go?”

I nodded.

“Then, if you’ve learned your lesson,” the showman declared. “I think we can put a fresh diaper on you–what do you say? Would you like that?”

I didn’t bother thinking about the logistics of having my diaper changed on stage–for all the feelings it brought out in me, I wanted to be out of the mucky mess currently contained in my diaper.

“Can you let me up?” I asked, glancing at him from my prostrate position.

“You know,” the Magician pointed out, “You’ve had the key for those cuffs this whole time.”

I blinked, and the crowd burst into giggles–some of them had noticed, and been waiting for the penny to drop. Others realized at the same time I did. Sheepishly, I looked at the key in my hand, the one I’d fished from my pocket, and uncuffed my wrists.

As I stood, the Magician was wheeling out a rolling table from backstage–a changing table, but one with rods all around it and a large, obvious curtain that could be pulled to conceal whoever was inside. (Did he have that this whole time?) I wondered. (Or did he somehow make it just for me?)

Either way, my part in this was obvious. I walked over, staring at the table.

“You want a fresh diaper, right?” the Magician asked.

I nodded.

“Then get on up!”

What else could I do? At this point, I didn’t imagine things could get any worse. Climbing onto the table, I lay back–my diaper, stained a deep watery brown, was pointed right at the audience.

I didn’t understand the trick–if he just pulled the curtain, everyone would assume I changed myself. It wasn’t until he began pulling rope from his sleeve that I got it, and at that point I swallowed with apprehension.

There was the trick: I wasn’t going to be free to change myself. Or, for that matter, to move.

…

Keep begging. Maybe I’ll say yes, eventually. But remember, this is power I won’t be giving back, not for a long time–you’ll have to earn it. Magic isn’t free, and my trust doesn’t come as cheap as yours.

If you want to cum, if you want to learn, you know the price. Submit to me completely, and I’ll take your control away. All the power you have to give will be mine.

“P-please!”

…

Rope tied snugly around my wrists, my ankles, even over my chest. The Magician made a show of it, giving the audience his best patter as he bound my body securely. Legs hoisted in the air, I was giving everyone a better view of my diaper than ever, and it was plain to see that–so long as the Magician hadn’t pulled any tricks–my limbs were bound tight.

“Now, I think you all know how this works,” the Magician announced. “A Magician lowers a curtain, waves his wand, and something changes. Right?”

Nods, and giggles from those who got it.

“And I’m sure you’ve all gathered–this isn’t just some heckler, it’s my assistant. And while he’s been a very good canvas for showing off what I can do, he’s hardly dressed the part. Most magicians have a bunny on stage, not some guy with a T-shirt and a bad attitude.” Glancing back my way, he smirked, “Well, perhaps he’s a bit of a rope bunny, but that’s not the same–what say we fix that?”

“Wait…” I started. “What are you–”

The Magician threw the curtain around me in one fluid motion, and I watched a silhouette flick his wand through the air. “Presto, change-o!”

The fresh diaper came first–but to my dismay, the old, mucky one didn’t go away. Instead, a second diaper, twice as thick as the last one, simply wrapped around my mushy bottom, sealing me between additional padding–I didn’t know how long one diaper was expected to last, but from all the poof between my thighs, it seemed like he expected me to start leaking like a fire hydrant.

But in the grand scheme of things, that seemed barely to matter.

My shirt vanished. In its place, a black onesie appeared, so snug and tight that it did nothing for modesty–the fabric stretched over my diaper didn’t cover up the squelching padding in the slightest. Instead, it just pulled my mess tighter against my skin, making me whimper as it wiggled my plug, and accentuated the puffy bulge of the outer layer.

Around my neck, a big white bow poofed into place, its corners tickling my chin, and I felt the floppy ears before I noticed the headband they were attached to. I felt something appear just below the small of my back, and knew what it was in an instant, though I couldn’t see–my outfit wouldn’t be complete without a puffy cotton ball tail.

My transformation was complete–the diapered bunny assistant, the Magician’s little helper, the object of the audience’s ridicule.

The curtain dropped, and I sat up, blinking. The audience laughed, and when I lifted my butt and turned to get a look at the tail, the laughter hit a fever pitch.

“You promised a fresh diaper,” I whispered, so only the Magician could hear.

“And you got one,” the Magician smirked, “Right atop your old one. You still want to know how I’m doing this, right?”

Loudly, he addressed the audience. “That’s my show, folks–don’t forget to tip your servers, and give my assistant a big round of applause–I told him he could be my number two, and he really took it to heart!”

…

Breathe. That’s good. You made the right choice.

You can get your potty training back when I’m done training you. If you’re a fast study, that might only be a couple years–though by then, you might find you like it when I have you trapped in your diapers.

Welcome to the world of magic, little one.