The Magician stood in front of his makeshift table, three silver cups on its surface. And he held up a red bead, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. Then he slipped it under the cup on the right.
“Keep track of the bead, he told the crowd of gray men doling out their francs.
The Magician moved the three cups, switching their positions again and again but slowly enough that I knew — that everyone knew — the bead was under the cup that was now in the middle. He touched that cup, bringing it to the exact center of the table.
“Is the bead under here? he asked rhetorically. “Or is it under this one or this? he continued, touching the other cups.
The first to play was a man with a thick mustache and he, of course, picked up the middle cup.
“A winner, the Magician declared, giving him his winnings, but after that the players were not so lucky. Yes, after that, the Magician always won and so at the end of every round he raised his shirttails (un-tucked) and stuffed the pockets of his jeans with dirty bills. And in this way I caught a glimpse of his belt — green-tinted snake skin that matched both his cowboy boots and his eyes. Gorgeous eyes.
Yes, the Magician was handsome, or perhaps beautiful would be the better word. But there was something strange and ambiguous about his looks. He had broad shoulders, a sprinkle of stubble, full sensual lips and breasts like rose buds under his shirt. And I didn’t doubt that he knew real magic. After all, when the police officer came around the corner, he made his table, his cups and his customers disappear without a trace.
Now we were alone; even the click of cop boots was receding. The Magician leaned against the brick wall behind him and looked me up and down. I came closer.
“Are you a man or a woman? I demanded. But he shrugged.
“I’m beyond all that. Are you playing or what?
˜That last trick was shoddy. Don’t you have anything else up your sleeve?
“Oh, I know lots of tricks, the Magician smiled, confident and sly. “Follow me.
We walked one block over broken glass on a cracked sidewalk and went into a hotel where one had a choice of how to pay: by the night or by the hour. Then, in the room, the Magician shed his clothes — shed them like a snake sheds his skin, like he never again intended to cover himself. And, though I was fully dressed, he just stood there in all his unusual splendor: his skinny colt-like legs, his slender throat, his cock rising out of his slit.
“You’re a hermaphrodite, I breathed, feeling my own slit cream.
“Intersexual, he corrected. “But are you gonna suck my magic wand or what?
I knelt in front of him and put the whole of his rod in my mouth. Yes, he was small like a boy so it was easy to have my lips wrapped around his tiny balls and circled around the root of him while at the same time his piss hole tickled at my throat. And I sucked him savagely — like I was going to bite his prick off and consume it — but I also sucked with
“You have the most beautiful cock, I murmured, my mouth full. “You have the most lovely cunt.
The Magician’s cunt hole was shallow and tight\’half-formed by usual standards yet perfect in its way. I jammed my baby finger in and felt his slick pussy walls clamp down on my knuckle. He was getting close now. I could feel it in the way he thrust his hips up into my face, how he was shoving his tiny cock as far down my throat as he could. I shook with anticipation, I wanted so badly to see him come. Yes, see.
I spit him out and gripped his little rod between the pads of my thumb and two fingers.
“Come for me,” I urged, yanking on him. One stroke, two, three. And then come he did. His jizm flew from him like a dove and fell to the ground like rain.
Yes, he came torrents.
Most people, in moments like this, flush or pant like a dog but the Magician just smiled. A pearly spurt had landed on my cheek and he seemed to like me dripping with him, being a dirty girl for him. With his hand, he wiped my face and then slowly, as if he were thinking of something else, he rubbed his hands together until the jizm sank into his skin. And when he finally opened his hands, I saw that cradled in his palm he now had a knife.
The Magician winked.
Perhaps, mesmerized, I was following his silent orders. Or perhaps, after I saw that glint of metal, I laid myself on the bed because that’s what my cunt wanted more than anything else. But I do know I felt dazed — like I was in a thick enchanted stupor, like I was deliciously helpless as the Magician loped off every button of my blouse and sliced through the crotch of my loose pants.
Yes, he even cut open my panties.
There were mirrors on the ceiling and in their reflection it seemed my pussy grinned, then grinned wider as the Magician stroked its lips — his fingers cool and slender. I tipped my cunt up to invite him deeper and he obliged, sinking his hand into my hole, though so slowly and in such a way that I just wanted more. With his other hand, the Magician rolled my clit like he had earlier rolled the red bead and my clit turned red like that, hard as glass like that.
I bucked my hips, and came so close to coming, but the Magician reigned me in by pausing, by ignoring the strangled gasp that came from somewhere deeper than my throat. Yes, he paused and he pulled a coin out of my pussy — a coin warm and covered with my juice as if it had always been buried in me. Like this wasn’t a trick. Then he dipped back in and pulled out another.
“Clean it with your tongue, he demanded. And I did. Until it gleamed.