Mark the Nudie Magician In the Vanishing Clothing Trick

 I just have one simple story today this relatively short about a magician who makes women's clothing disappearing to embarrass them finds that he gets a new assistant who might be able to beat him at his own game, so it's an embarrassed nude female story that becomes something of a CFNM story that I hope you will enjoy.

Mark the Nudie Magician In the Vanishing Clothing Trick
"I need a volunteer—someone *stunning,* preferably," Mark called out, smoothing his lapels with practiced ease. The spotlight caught the glint in his eye, the kind that suggested he already knew exactly how this would play out. A murmur ran through the crowd, half-amused, half-wary. Hands shot up anyway—mostly women, some grinning, some already rolling their eyes.
    He picked the one in the front row—tall, dark-haired, wearing a dress that looked expensive and complicated. "Perfect," he said, offering his hand. She hesitated, but the crowd whooped, so she took it. Up on stage, under the hot lights, she folded her arms. "If this ends with me in a box sawed in half, I’m suing."
    Mark’s grin widened. "No boxes today." He flicked his wrist, producing a silk scarf out of nowhere—red, like a warning. "Just a little *vanishing act.*" The scarf fluttered between his fingers, then draped over her shoulders. He counted down—three, two—and snapped his fingers.
    The scarf dropped. So did the dress.
    The audience gasped, then erupted—some in laughter, some in outrage. The woman shrieked, grabbing at the air where fabric should’ve been. Mark was already bowing, like this was the grand finale and not just another Tuesday.
    Backstage, his assistant, a wiry guy named Eddie, rubbed his temples. "They’re gonna ban us from another city," he muttered. Mark just shrugged, pocketing the tiny remote from his sleeve. "Nah. They’ll blame it on magic. They always do."
    The woman—now wrapped only in the echoes of her own indignation—stormed offstage, clutching the silk scarf to her chest like a war banner. Mark watched her go with the same lazy amusement he reserved for pigeons fighting over breadcrumbs. The audience was still buzzing, half of them craning their necks for one last glimpse, the other half already scrolling through their phones to post about the spectacle. He could practically hear the click-clack of keyboards: *Magician humiliates woman in front of 200 people—more at 11.*
    Eddie shoved a fresh martini into Mark’s hand backstage, the glass sweating almost as much as he was. "That’s the third lawsuit this month," Eddie hissed. "You know how much it costs to bribe a fire marshal to look the other way?" Mark took a sip, letting the gin burn his throat before answering. "Cheaper than therapy," he said, flicking the remote between his fingers like a coin. "Besides, they *know* what they’re signing up for." And they did—mostly. The online forums were full of warnings: *Don’t volunteer for The Mark Show unless you wanna leave in pasties.* But there was always someone who thought they’d be the exception, the one to outsmart him.
    Tonight’s exception was leaning against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed under a silk robe that cost more than Mark’s entire wardrobe. "So," she drawled, "you’re the guy who makes women disappear—literally." He recognized her immediately: Veronica Vale, the socialite who’d been kicked out of six countries for "artistic misunderstandings." Her smirk was a dare. Mark raised his glass. "And you’re the woman who *wants* to disappear. Temporarily."
    Eddie groaned, already reaching for the aspirin.
    Downstairs, the club owner was waving a checkbook like a white flag. "Just promise me," he begged, "next time, leave *something* to the imagination." Mark pocketed the check without looking. "Where’s the fun in that?"
    Mark swirled the martini in his glass, ice clinking like loose change in a gambler’s pocket. His gaze slid over Veronica, lingering just long enough to make her arch an eyebrow. "You know," he said, voice low, "I wouldn’t mind seeing *you* stripped naked on stage. Bet the crowd would eat it up."
    Veronica didn’t blush—blushing was for amateurs. Instead, she peeled the silk robe off one shoulder, slow as a striptease, and let it pool at her feet. "I’d rather be the one pulling the strings," she said. "Your assistant. Your *beautiful* assistant." She stepped closer, close enough for Mark to catch the scent of her perfume—something expensive and vaguely illegal. "But I’m not stepping on that stage with you until I know how your little tricks work."
    Mark laughed, tossing the remote from one hand to the other. "Sweetheart, you’ll *never* figure out the secret." He flicked his wrist, and the remote vanished. Veronica’s eyes darted to his sleeve, but he’d already tucked it somewhere else—under his tongue, maybe, or between the folds of his cufflinks.
    She leaned in, close enough that her breath warmed his ear. "Let’s make a bet," she murmured. "If I can figure out how your stripping scarves work by the end of the week, you teach me everything. If I can’t..." She pulled back, lips curling. "I’ll let you vanish whatever you want off me on stage."
    Mark’s grin sharpened. "Deal." He reached for her hand, but she snatched it back.
    "Ah-ah," she said, wagging a finger. "No sleight of hand. We shake like normal people."
    They did. Eddie, watching from the doorway, groaned like a man sentenced to life in prison.
    Downstairs, the club was emptying, the last stragglers lingering near the bar like ghosts reluctant to cross over. Veronica snatched Mark’s martini and took a sip, grimacing at the bite of gin. "So," she said, "where do we start?"
    Mark plucked the glass from her fingers and drained it. "With the basics." He snapped his fingers—a spark, a flash, and suddenly Veronica’s diamond bracelet was in his palm. She gaped at her bare wrist, then at him. "Cheap trick," she muttered, but her eyes were bright with hunger.
    Eddie slumped against the wall. "God help us all."
    Mark spent the next five nights teaching Veronica the "basics"—palming coins, forcing cards, the old "watch the other hand" routine—all while she blinked up at him with wide, faux-naïve eyes. "But how does the scarf *disappear*?" she'd ask, nibbling her lower lip in a way that made Eddie roll his eyes so hard Mark worried they'd stick. Mark would smirk, flick his wrist, and produce the scarf from behind her ear, enjoying the way her breath hitched just a fraction too late to be genuine. What he didn't notice was the way her gaze tracked the shift of his shoulders when he palmed the remote, or how she'd "accidentally" brush against his sleeve cuff, testing for hidden compartments.
    By Thursday, Veronica was still "struggling" with a simple card trick, fumbling the deck until cards fluttered to the floor like confetti. Mark crouched to help her gather them, chuckling as she cursed under her breath—but when he straightened, he missed the way her fingertips lingered near his inner jacket pocket, gauging its weight. That night, Eddie caught her sketching what looked like schematics in the margins of a cocktail napkin. "Just doodling," she said sweetly, crumpling it into her martini glass. Eddie didn't mention the way the ink bled into the gin, revealing the faint outline of a remote control.
    Friday's lesson ended with Veronica throwing her hands up in defeat. "Fine," she sighed, flopping onto the dressing room couch. "You win. I'll be your gloriously naked assistant tomorrow." Mark grinned, loosening his tie as he leaned over her. "Knew you'd come around." What he didn't see was the way her toes curled against the upholstery, her heel nudging something metallic under the couch—his spare remote, smuggled out of his coat when he'd "tripped" earlier.
    Saturday night, the theater was packed, air thick with the buzz of smartphones poised to record. Mark strode onstage to raucous applause, Veronica trailing behind in a gown that shimmered like liquid mercury. "Tonight," he announced, "a *true* vanishing act!" He produced the scarlet scarf with a flourish, draping it over Veronica's shoulders as the audience whooped. Three, two—he snapped his fingers.
    The scarf dropped. So did his pants.
    For one dizzying second, Mark thought the remote had misfired—until he saw Veronica's smirk, the way her fingers twitched near the hem of his shirt. The crowd erupted as his boxers (printed with tiny rabbits and top hats) hit the stage floor. Veronica snatched the scarf midair, twirling it like a matador's cape as Mark scrambled for cover—but his clothes were gone. Vanished. *Her* trick. 
    The whistles from the audience were deafening, especially the chorus of female voices chanting *"Payback!"* Veronica curtsied, then did a little shimmy that made Mark's remaining dignity shrivel. "Turns out," she purred into the mic, "the real magic was *me* all along." Backstage, Eddie was already on the phone with their lawyer, but even he couldn't hide his grin. 
    Mark, crouched behind a suddenly very flimsy prop table, made a mental note: never trust a woman who fumbles a card trick but winks at fire marshals.

This one was a really brief and simple one, I had been another naked story involving a magician that was much longer and more detailed, but I thought that this one was just nice and simple and to the point where you have this magician who likes to use his ability to make things disappear to make women's clothing disappear embarrassing large numbers of women, but then he ultimately ends up getting his comeuppance when he meets a woman who plays dumb but secretly understands how he did his trick and turns his trick around on him to make him naked and embarrassed. Again sometimes really simple and to the point once worked pretty well without having to be drawn out very long and I think that this one works effectively for what it was.