“Another very successful show,” Rachael declared happily, settling down in her comfy armchair and propping her feet up on a mahogany cube on the floor. “One of the better audiences I’ve had. Wouldn’t you agree, love?”

A voice responded, low and grumbling, but the words were muffled and completely indistinct. Rachael gave an insincere frown. “Oh, sorry, darling, I didn’t quite catch that. Hold on one second...”

Swivelling in her seat, she picked up another box from a stack of them to the left of her chair, setting it down in her lap. As she opened the door on the front, she continued, “Now, what was it you were trying to s- oops!” She giggled at the sight that greeted her - a smooth stomach, decorated with tattoos in varying shades of blue and green, the most clear of which was an opalescent butterfly just below the pierced navel. The top and bottom of the belly passed through wide gaps in the ceiling and floor - but the exterior of the box had no exit holes, just dark, smooth, varnished wood.

“Wrong box!” Rachael tittered, lying it down on the chair’s wide armrest. “Where did I put your head, dear?”

The indignant, incoherent voice growled out again.

Rachael tapped her lip in mock confusion, still performing even without any spectators. “Say again?”

“Down... here!!”

“Ohhh, of course.”

Swinging her feet off the box on the floor, she shuffled forwards, reached down and grabbed it, rotating it in her hands as she did so, ignoring a stifled squeal from inside. Placing this box on her thighs, she slid it open. An upside-down face stared out at her with plaintive eyes, which only got wider when she saw that the magician had dispensed with the suit she’d worn on stage and was now nude. The girl in the box attempted to conceal her flustered amusement, scrunching her lips into a defiant pout, although she couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth twitching a little.

“There’s my lovely assistant!” Rachael cried, clapping her hands together in apparent delight.

“Please turn me the right way up, Mistress,” the girl implored her. “This feels so wrong.”

“Aww, but I think you look cute like this,” the stage magician sniggered. “And aren’t you having fun, seeing the world from a different perspective...?”

“D’you have any idea how fucking weird it is for my head to be upside down while the rest of me’s the right way up? It’s giving me some kind of existential... vertigo. I feel, ugh, genuinely pretty queasy.” She took a deep breath to try to suppress her nausea.

“OK, OK,” Rachael laughed as she relented and turned the box the right way up. “Wouldn’t want you to have an accident. That better?”

The face inside sighed with relief. “Yes, thank you, Miss.”

The magician grinned, one palm planted on top of the box, and gestured to her naked form with the other hand. “Enjoying the view, huh? See anything you like?”

Refusing to give her the satisfaction of an honest answer, her assistant flicked her gaze away from Rachael’s crotch and stared fixedly at her belly button instead, not allowing her eyes to wander back down to her dick, or indeed up to her bountiful breasts. “Nope,” she smirked. “Nothing.”

“Really? Nothing here appeals to you?” Rachael undulated her torso, making her tits bounce, and twitched her cock enticingly. When the girl stubbornly refused to react, she tutted overdramatically. “My God, you are such a brat. And you wonder why I left you like this!”

“Yeah, how long are you gonna leave me like this?”

“’Til I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson, sweet,” her magical Mistress replied with a malicious grin. “Brats belong in boxes ’til they learn to behave, that’s what I say. Hey, I like that, actually. Maybe I should get you to write lines later, too, just to be sure the lesson really sinks in.”

The girl sighed long-sufferingly. “If I have the choice, Miss, you know I’d pick boxes over lines. But still, can you please put me back together soon? Apart from anything else, I’ve got an itch that’s driving me nuts...”

“Oh? Whereabouts?”

“End of my nose.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Reaching into the box, Rachael scratched her sharp fingernail over the tip of her submissive’s nose. “Better?”

“Yess, Mistress,” the girl groaned gratefully.

The magician started to tickle her nose instead. “How about now?”

“Agh - no! Stoppit,” she spluttered, screwing up her face in a futile bid to protect herself. Rachael continued to tickle and tease, flicked the girl’s golden nose ring up and down, and wrapped her hand around her face and sank her fingers into her cheeks, squishing her mouth out of shape. Her grunts and complaints were ignored, apart from a sadistic grin that spread across the magician’s face.

Finally seeming to tire of tormenting the trapped girl, Rachael unceremoniously lifted the box from her thighs and shoved it onto the cushion next to her, nestling it into the gap between her body and the armrest, with the disembodied head within facing forwards. She propped her elbow on top, using the wooden cube itself as an armrest.

Inside, the assistant rolled her eyes, half-exasperated, half-thrilled. In her current mood she’d never admit it, but she loved when Miss Rachael messed with her like this. That was most of the reason she’d accepted her offer to become her permanent assistant in the first place. They formed an instant connection during that first erotic magic show she’d gone to see - she impulsively put her hand up when Rachael asked for volunteers from the audience, surprising even herself, and was even more astonished when the stage magician selected her (among a handful of others). She and her beguiling, sexy tricks dazzled the volunteer, whose own wide-eyed wonder and eager compliance won over the witch, to the point where she asked her out for a drink after the show.

Their dynamic evolved in the many months since, and now she was Rachael’s willing servant/stage assistant/practice dummy/sex toy, being subjected to all manner of hot, humiliating predicaments both on and off stage. She wouldn’t have it any other way - but there were days when she wanted to make life a little more difficult for her dominant, if only to see exactly what kind of wrath she would incur.

So far that evening, the punishments had been plentiful. In the last of a series of increasingly elaborate card tricks, Rachael wrote her assistant’s name on the Queen of Diamonds, which ended up bursting into flames as the dramatic climax of the act. While the audience applauded, the scantily-clad servant suddenly realised she didn’t know her name any more. It wasn’t the first time her Mistress had stolen memories from her mind - in fact, she did it habitually, so the girl’s surprise at her stage sorcery would be genuine. She had no idea how she did it - whether it was the power of suggestion paired with the collective belief of the audience, or some form of hypnosis, or if Rachael really was magical. But no matter how hard the assistant thought, she honestly couldn’t recall her name. It had popped out of her head completely. Even now, at least an hour later, she had no idea what it was.

Next, promising a vanishing act, Rachael threw a soft, silky curtain over the assistant and counted to five. When the covering was removed, the girl hadn’t disappeared, but her clothes had, aside from her lacey purple panties. Gasping with shock, she covered her breasts and spun round to better conceal them, only succeeding in showing off her toned thighs and ripe butt cheeks to the whistling, whooping crowd. Letting her squirm on stage for a minute or two, with nowhere to hide from the onlookers’ many eyes, Rachael finally took pity and offered to let her hide in a large mahogany person-shaped box which was wheeled out by a couple of the theatre’s backstage crew.

It was only once she slotted herself inside the strange crate that the nude, nameless girl noticed she couldn’t really move any more, with each body part secured in a separate section - especially when Rachael closed the individual lids on each compartment, and then slotted thick wooden boards between each boundary with a clunk. The assistant watched helplessly as her magical Mistress lifted each separated box away from the rest, setting them down on the edge of the stage and reopening the lids so the audience could see the body part within. At last only her head remained, which Rachael picked up and carried around under her arm, laughing and joking as the girl gawped at her own scattered anatomy.

It was beyond bizarre. Her body still felt essentially normal - albeit immobilised, irresistibly held in place within all the boxes - but the evidence of her own eyes told her that she was no longer intact. She still felt connected to every part, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, even though they were on opposite sides of the stage. Miss Rachael must have true magical powers, there was no doubt in her mind at this point - and she was sure the spectators were sure of it too. Their uproarious applause was a pretty clear indicator.

She expected to be reassembled at the end of the show, but the curtain fell with Rachael still brandishing her detached head, and she then had the stage hands carry the various boxes to her room backstage, where she settled down in her comfy chair to recuperate from the show, as was her nightly ritual. The minutes ticked by, and still the assistant saw no end to her peculiar plight.

“Can I at least have my name back, Mistress?” she asked hesitantly. “I’m not a huge fan of just being ‘assistant’.”

“Sorry, love, it’s ash in a trashcan somewhere,” Rachael sniggered. “I’ll give it back to you later, maybe. In the meantime, if you really want something to call yourself, I could come up with a placeholder name for you.” Picking up the box on the armrest, she stared inside at the girl’s stomach, admiring her tattoos. “How about ‘Butterfly’? Yes, I like that, that’ll do for now...” She reached out to trace a fingertip over a shimmering wing.

“Don’t,” the girl blurted before she could stop herself, and bit her lip nervously, well aware that saying the word ‘don’t’ to Miss Rachael was like holding up a red rag to a bull. There was a long pause, weighty with consequence, as she practically felt her dominant loom over her bare belly, brandishing fingers like weapons. “Nooo,” she pleaded, “no no no please don’t, no no no no no no! No no no no no, no, no! Oh my God, no, stop, fuck!”

Similar protests and obscenities followed, as the magician’s agile digits skittered over her stomach and her sides, manically, mercilessly tickling every inch of exposed flesh. She spluttered and squealed, but couldn’t squirm very much, her torso held rigidly within its wooden prison. “I can’t get away,” she sobbed, gasping for breath, defenceless against the dextrous assault.

For her part, Rachael was enjoying the cackles from below her right arm very much. Glancing to her left as she kept up her onslaught, she saw her submissive’s hands and feet protruding through holes in the sides of mahogany cubes containing the limbs to which they were each attached, in amongst the pile of boxed-up body parts. Her hands were compulsively closing into fists and opening again, her soles scrunching up, her fingers and toes wriggling and writhing. Aside from the feeble twitching of her belly beneath Rachael’s fingertips, that was the extent of the physical reaction the anonymous volunteer could make in her confined state.

Eventually Rachael ceased fire, setting the belly box aside once more. Her submissive inhaled and exhaled heavily, trying to compose herself. “Well, I enjoyed that,” Rachael teased, “and it certainly sounds like you did, too.”

Fuming, the girl who guessed she would henceforth be known as ‘Butterfly’ refused to respond, in case her voice gave away how much the tickle torture had turned her on. Her Mistress was already eagerly fetching more cuboid containers from the nearby stack, giggling gleefully as she arranged box after box around her on her seat. The assistant recognised this mood all too well - Rachael had passed beyond teasing, and was now at the mercy of her own insatiable lust, desperate to play with all her dismantled sub’s different parts.

She got lucky with the first box she opened, holding it so Butterfly could see the contents clearly from her low vantage point. She swallowed nervously at the sight of the panties more or less covering her crotch. It might’ve been her imagination given the material’s dark shade of purple, but she thought she could see the dampness that she could definitely feel.

“Now, I was thinking about giving you a treat for being such a useful practice dummy these past few months,” the witch remarked, “but you have been pretty... insolent this evening. A little ungrateful for all the lovely sexy things I’ve done to you.” Rachael rapped her knuckles on the roof of the box containing Butterfly’s head, who winced at the loud clunk echoing around her ears. “So I’m going to give you two choices. Number one: you keep being a stubborn little brat, and I jerk off onto your thigh, so you don’t get my cock or any of my delicious cum anywhere you want it. And then I use bits of you as footrests for the rest of the evening, and I stick you in that closet at bedtime and leave you in pieces overnight.”

Butterfly blushed furiously, parts of her hating the idea of being treated so callously, other parts just about to cum at the mere thought of it.

“Or, option two.”

Rachael reached into the crotch box, her fingers waggling in her trademark ‘spellcasting’ gesture before vanishing from view. The trapped girl couldn’t see exactly what she did next, but moments later, she no longer felt the silky sensation of her panties embracing her nether regions, and saw them dangling from Rachael’s hand, fully intact. She had no more idea how the magician had managed it than she knew how she’d made the rest of her clothes vanish during the stage show, merely by veiling her in a velvety curtain for a few seconds.

“You apologise profusely for being so disrespectful, and then, if I feel you’ve shown sincere regret, I stuff these in your mouth and give you that treat I talked about.” She lifted the container towards her face, and Butterfly felt hot breath on her pussy, leaving her with little doubt what the treat might be. “And after that, I’ll put you back together, and you can have some free time. I might even give you your real name back.”

The helpless assistant trembled with arousal and indecision, licking her lips at the sight of her wet underwear hanging in her sightline, anticipating the taste of her own juices, her cunt throbbing and slickening more and more from proximity to her Mistress’ magical mouth.

The correct choice should be obvious. Yet, Butterfly couldn’t get the image of being discarded so dismissively, used for Miss Rachael’s convenience and then tucked out of the way for the rest of the night, out of her disembodied head. She found she couldn’t decide whether to beg for forgiveness or brat some more - whether to plead for mercy in the hope of a hot reward, or embrace a crueller, somehow equally erotic fate.

Freedom or frustration? Indulgence or imprisonment? Degradation or delight? Pleasure or punishment?

Trick, or treat?

“Your choice, my little brat-in-a-box. What’s it going to be?”