Gifted
By Wadman
Chapter 1 — Introduction
My great uncle had always been peculiar. And now, somehow, three years after his death, he’d sent me a letter. How could a man dead over three years send me a letter postmarked two days ago? Most single, thirty five year old men named Randall Wilson (that’s me!) didn’t receive recent mail from dead relatives.
And peculiar how the letter triggered memories of my uncle’s funeral. Oh, he was there in the coffin, all right. There would be no disappearing act this time—not for Great Uncle Waldo, or Waldo the Wondrous as he was known on stage. Yes, I mean that Waldo, the one with the amazing magic show on the Vegas Strip (though he seemed to give that area the name for a different reason, and not one involving steaks, either).
It turned out that a heart attack had felled him, and no wand or disappearing box or top hat or crystal topped cane could save him. He died in a Vegas penthouse room with a showgirl on top of him, and a smile on his face. Said smile was still there when the funeral happened, I kid you not! When I entered the funeral home and first saw it (the smile, that is), I thought it looked loopy, like a five-year-old’s. Later in the day, I looked again, and thought that it had acquired a little bit of a leer to it, like “Do you know what I was doing when the big one hit?” Finally, as the funeral wrapped up, it seemed to become knowing and conspiring, like “There’s a secret!”
Oh, that last part was probably because he had previously told me some things that were, well, interesting about his brother (my grandfather), and dished even more dirt about the rest of the family. That happened two years before he died, when he’d sent me tickets to his show, and invited me to dinner afterwards, plus put up for a room for me for the night. So I went. I watched the show (He really was good!) and went backstage afterwards to see him. He was walking out of a room with his assistant (at that time, a buxom redheaded beauty named Emma, about forty-five years younger than he was), and he greeted me warmly. We left his dressing room and walked to his car, picking up a showgirl along the way somehow. She was also a real head turner, a stacked blonde with an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of, and the four of us went out to a midnight dinner. We ate and made small talk, then Waldo got a serious look on his face and produced a black stick from his cuff somehow. He waved it idly as we talked, and the tip seemed to glow. The two girls looked at it and suddenly began to hold a conversation with each other as if Waldo and I weren’t there. It seemed odd at the time, but I sort of dismissed it.
Especially since he then told me about the family. It turned out old Waldo had a pretty low opinion of everyone in the family except me. Me, he liked—I’d put myself through school on an Air Force scholarship, then gone on to be an aircraft maintenance officer. I’d served my four years, plus a couple more, and then I got out and went to work for a commercial carrier (doing the same job, only for commercial planes) at the LAX hub. I’d never mooched for bucks, or complained that Waldo’s profession brought discredit to our family, or stonewalled him at family reunions. Hell, he was the most interesting guy at the reunions, so I’d listen to his stories while everyone else stared daggers at him. We all sat there for about three hours—Waldo telling me about family members, and me either chuckling at funny behavior, or being shocked by bad behavior.
But back to the letter. I opened it with a letter opener I had brought back from a trip to Japan. (I always said “Hii-yah!” when I used it.) The envelope contained a page of paper, and something stiffer, like a playing card. I put the card on the table, and read the paper.
Dear Randall. If you are reading this, I am dead. Boo!
(God, even dead, the guy was interesting! I read on.)
Whatever the circumstances of my death, let me assure you that my life has been complete, so just in case you felt bad for me, knock it off. You’d better sit down, though. Something interesting is going to happen, and you don’t want to break a leg or something.
(That was odd. When I read that “break a leg or something” part, something seemed to trigger a memory of some sort, but I couldn’t place it. But I did sit down.)
In a moment, I’m going to ask you to look at the card. But first, I want you to know that I think that you are the only family member that I can trust to do the right thing with the items you are about to get. As I told you before, the rest are mooches, tight-asses, elitists, or some equally disparaging title. You’re about to receive the four greatest gifts I can give you-objects that really are magical. There’s no instruction manual for them, so all I can tell you is that you should start out with actions you saw me take with them, and then work your way on to more actions and “tricks”. You’re smarter than I ever was, so you should have these thingies dancing in no time.
(What the hell was he talking about? Had he gone nuts briefly when he wrote this letter?)
And no, I’m not nuts. Drop this letter when you finish reading it, because the letter will flash into nothing at that point. Then, pick up the card. Once you have the card, flip it over and say the first thing that you can think of, and watch your front closet, just to the right of your door there!—Uncle Waldo
I dropped the letter, which went up like a piece of flash paper, and picked up the card. Then, I held my breath and flipped the card over. I had no idea what to expect, but the side of the card I was now looking at seemed to flash, and I dropped it like a hot potato. Suddenly, and without warning, I involuntarily said, “Break a leg.”
My closet door suddenly flew open to reveal a black door inside the closet. That was odd, because there had been no inner door to my closet before! The card slowly turned to ash on the table where I had dropped it when it flashed, and I made sure it wasn’t burning the table. Then, I stood and walked to the closet, looking at the black door. It had an ornate pattern on it, just like... Just like Waldo’s magic act box did. In fact, it was the whole box! How in the world did it get in my closet? It hadn’t been there earlier in the day when I got my jacket. Could someone have snuck in and hidden it? But who, and why? It really didn’t make sense.
Waldo’s box had folded up as a part of his act. I wondered if somehow it had been hidden, long ago, folded up in the closet with a timer to drop it... No, that didn’t make sense either—there wasn’t enough room to hide it. As I thought about it, I opened the closet door a little more and slid the box out, then opened its door. I noticed that several items were at the bottom of the box—Waldo’s black wand (the one he had used at the dinner), his top hat, and the crystal-topped cane—all of them used as part of his act.
I thought, “Just what the hell is going on here?” After surveying the box and the items in it, I reached down and picked up the items in the bottom of the box, one by one. The wand seemed to tingle in my hand when I picked it up, and the cane’s crystal top seemed to glow slightly. But the top hat was the biggest surprise. When I picked it up, I got the definite impression that something, or someone was in it! I sat everything down on the table, then grasped the hat again, while it still sat on the table. There was a definite sense of some... one in the hat. A person was in the hat! As I focused on the sense, an image appeared in my mind. Slowly, the image became a woman, then it became a red-haired woman, and then it became Waldo’s assistant, Emma.
On an impulse, I reached into the hat, but couldn’t seem to grasp anything. Hmm.
I thought about the image of Emma, and reached in again. Suddenly, I seemed to have a hold of the back of her neck, so I pulled gently. Suddenly, she just appeared, sitting on the table next to the hat, my hand still grasping the back of her neck. I about crapped myself, right there and then. She hadn’t seemed to pop out of the hat, but just appeared “in my hand” as I retracted it from the hat.
She seemed to be asleep. She was wearing a light blue stretch suit, sort of like a body stocking, only more opaque.
I debated for a second, then said, “Uh, Emma?”
Emma seemed to shake for a second (which jiggled her tits and hair wonderfully) and she opened her eyes. She looked around, then fastened on me and said, “Are you Randall Wilson?”
I paused for a second and then said, “Yes.”
“The you are my master.” She hopped off the table and knelt before me, all of which, let me tell you, was in no way vaguely arousing—I was suddenly and unhesitatingly erect.
Chapter 2 — How do I work this?
“Let me get this straight,” I finally stammered out. “You’re my slave?”
“Yes, Master,” she said without looking up.
I reached out to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “Please stand up.”
She did so, and I looked her over. “Were you Waldo’s slave also?”
She nodded, “Yes, Master.”
I remembered now that Emma had not come to Waldo’s funeral. “Have you been in the hat somehow for three years?”
She looked down at the floor. “I suppose so, Master. I am not familiar with how the hat works, except that time doesn’t pass for me when I am in it. Waldo stores me there when we are not performing or otherwise engaged.”
No time like the present for bad news. “Emma, Waldo is dead.”
She smiled sadly at me. “Yes, Master. I know. He told me that if you ever pulled me out, that I should obey you as I had obeyed him, because he would be dead.”
I looked at the couch and said, “Would you like to sit?”
Her sad smile changed to a happy one, “Master, I would like to do whatever you want me to do.”
“Then have a seat on the couch.” I walked to the couch and she followed me and sat down.
I looked at her a moment and said, “Do you want to be a slave?”
She looked flatly at me. “Master, my wants are not important.”
“Hmm, then I want you to be free. There, you’re free.”
She smiled at me. “Thank you, Master. Now what do you want me to do?”
“No,” I said. “You’re free—you can do whatever you want.”
She slid towards me on the couch. “Yes, Master. I’m free. What shall I do now?”
She slid towards me again.
After about half an hour of testing, I determined that no matter what I told her, she was somehow enslaved to me. I ended up asking her to fix dinner while I looked at the rest of the items. A half hour later, she brought out hamburgers and potato chips, with glasses of milk. We ate, and I asked Emma about how she ended up enslaved to Waldo, but she seemed to remember little about her life before becoming Waldo’s slave. I had never noticed that she was somehow enslaved to Waldo, but maybe...
I said, “Did Waldo tell you to act normally when you were in public?”
She looked at me for a moment, her expression unreadable (or maybe she was just expressionless?), and said, “Yes, Master. But I was still to follow his instructions.”
I nodded, and said, “That makes sense, based on the last time I saw you. Remember when Waldo and you and the showgirl and I went out for a late dinner?”
She nodded. “Yes. I thought you were cute then.” A small smile formed on her face.
After we had eaten, we sat on the couch and talked a little more. I had picked up the black wand and waved it around. How had Waldo put people to sleep with it? I thought for a moment, and suddenly the scene formed in my mind—what I had seen him do in the show I attended. “Mind if I try something?” I asked Emma, and she shrugged and gave me that same little smile.
I followed the scene’s guidance—I held the wand horizontally in front of Emma’s eyes and said, “Sleep,” while moving the wand directly downward, mimicking the closing motion of eyelids.
Emma’s eyes closed with the motion of the wand. She sat very still, remaining upright, but was otherwise asleep.
Now, was she asleep because the wand worked or was she asleep because as my slave she had obeyed my command? I tried to wake her by gently shaking her, but she didn’t respond to that. That datapoint seemed to imply that it was due to the wand, not my control over her. After a few moments of watching her sleep, I held the wand before her, reversing the wand motion and said, “Awaken.”
Her eyes slowly opened. “Master? Did you put me to sleep with the wand?”
I looked at it for a moment, then up at her. “Yes, I did.”
“That’s wonderful, Master! You are on your way to becoming as great magician! You deserve a reward!” She laid her hand on my leg, then started rubbing it up and down. “Anything you would like me to do for you, Master?” Her hand motion was starting to bring her hand nearer and nearer to my crotch.
Smoothly, I replied, “Uhhh...”
Interlude One
In a hotel room across town, a bearded, heavyset man of medium height sat at a table, flanked by two other standing men—hired muscle by their look. On the other side of the table was a woman. She was tall and thin, but well endowed and beautiful, with long chestnut hair and brown eyes. She sat at the table with an outward calm, but fear lurked behind her eyes—it was obvious if you knew what to look for.
Beard spoke. “Miss Markham. You asked to see me. You were in the audience at my last show, yes?”
The woman adjusted in her seat. “Yes, I was. Why?”
The bearded man pulled one hand above the tabletop. From it dangled a large gold pocketwatch. “Oh, I just wanted to comment on how lovely you were tonight in the audience.” The watch started to swing back and forth, slowly at first, but with building speed. As the speed increased, the watch began to glow.
The woman began to stand up. “I’d like to leave now,” she said distractedly.
One of the thugs moved to stop her, but the bearded man waved him back and said, “Sit down, Miss Markham.”
He continued to swing the watch, and the woman watched it for a moment and then said, “Sit...” and sat down.
The watch continued to swing, and now the woman focused completely on it. Slowly, her head sank forward and her eyes closed.
“Miss Markham, who are you, really?” the bearded man asked.
The woman slowly responded, head down, “I’m a reporter for the Times. I was sent here to investigate your show.”
The bearded man stopped the watch and gathered it in his beefy hand, then stood and walked around to the woman’s side of the table. He grasped the woman’s chin and lifted it. “Open your eyes, Miss Markham.”
The woman opened her eyes, but was still acting tired. “Yes?”
The bearded man released the watch to let it fall before the woman’s face. This time he started to spin it, and again it started to glow. He held her chin with his other hand to make her look at the spinning watch. “Now, Miss Markham, listen to me.”
“Listen...” she said, staring at the watch.
The bearded man continued, “You will obey me in every way.”
“Obey...”
The watch kept spinning and glowing. “You are my slave.”
“Slave...”
The bearded man looked at the two thugs. “That will be all, boys.”
The men nodded and left the room.
The bearded man continued the woman’s instructions. As he did, he began to remove his clothing, and to carress the woman’s body.
A phone rang softly in another room, and the bearded man could hear one of the thugs answering it. “Dixon? Yeah, the boss is here, but he’s busy. What ya’ want? What? Okay, I’ll tell him. You located a relative of that Waldo fellow, and want further instructions. Right. Yes. Bye.”
The bearded man smiled. A relative of Waldo’s? Interesting. He turned back to the entranced female. “Stand up and remove your clothes, Miss Markham,” he told the woman, and she complied, though her actions were slow, and measured, only acting when the bearded man commanded her.