Being a magician's girlfriend has its ups and downs, but generally there are more ups than downs and some strange and exciting magical adventures. To be clear, Martin does not perform magic shows, except for friends and family, but he is enthusiastic, skilled and very able at improvising with what is to hand or planning devious pranks.

This particular evening we were going to the pub for a few drinks and a game of snooker that one of his mates had challenged him to; the winner got to say what magic Martin would be doing. Before we left he brought me a dress he wanted me to wear. This turned out to be little more than a corset with a mid-thigh-length skirt attached at the bottom and a halter that did double duty as support and cover for my breasts as the corset part did not cover them. He volunteered to help me dress, which was really necessary as the lacing at the corset's back was out of my reach.

At the pub, after the first round of drinks, the game of snooker began. I stood around chatting with the other girlfriends, while Martin engineered a closely fought win for himself.

“So, what magic are you going to present?” asked the challenger, Pete.

“Nothing much,” he started modestly. “I thought I would show that swallowing a snooker ball was possible. And because I knew you'd be sceptical if I brought a snooker ball with me, we'll be using the balls we've just been playing with, but I brought a cloth to clean them with, because I don't want the chalk dust on them and they have been handled by God-knows-who.” He pulled a cloth from his rear trouser pocket and handed it to Pete, telling him that he would be in charge of ball cleaning and making sure that Martin did not switch balls. “Ok, do I have a volunteer, to try swallowing a snooker ball?”

Everyone in the circle took a step backwards or made a gesture that made it clear that they were not volunteering.

“Sorry, Love, but nobody seems to think that I can get them to swallow a ball. I guess they believe that once you put a snooker ball in your mouth, you can't get it out without breaking you teeth or your jaw. That is, of course, why I want you to swallow it.”

One of the braver girlfriends asked, “But won't that cause it block the breathing or the intestines, or it'll stay in the stomach until it dissolves?” Her voice trailed off as if she was feeling a little queasy at the thought.

“It turns out from my research that that is not how swallowed snooker balls work.” Martin picked up a red ball and handed to Pete to clean. “Tess, please come over here so that I can demonstrate.”

As I got there Pete handed back the ball that he had rubbed with the cloth. “Open your mouth as wide as it will go and I'll pop this in.”

“Are you sure this is safe?” I asked. I always asked that. It was my way of asking if I needed to do anything special to help things along or be prepared for strange sensations or discomfort.

“Of course it's safe. I wouldn't ask you to try this if I thought for a moment that I would need to take you to hospital and explain it to a doctor. And I'm sure the stretching of your jaw will not be much more than you are used to.” He gave a significant glance down his body, which gave rise some giggling.

“Ok, so how do you want me? Sitting, standing or lying down?”

“We'll start with you standing where you are. Depending on how it goes, I may need you to sit or lie down later. Ok?”

Instead of saying anything I opened my mouth as wide as I could. Martin lifted the ball between forefinger and thumb of one hand and presented the ball to my mouth, then he raised his other hand and rested the forefinger and middle finger of that hand on my nose and used his thumb to press the ball between my lips and teeth until it was in.

“How's that so far?” He asked, obviously knowing I could not speak with a snooker ball in my mouth.

I tried to say, “I can't speak because my mouth is full, but it tastes of strawberries,” but all that came out was an incoherent mumble. Martin seemed to understand and relayed this to the group, who seemed sceptical that it was what I had said. I nodded to try and tell everyone that the translation was accurate.

“Now, Tess, try to swallow it!”

“I can't, my tongue keeps trying to push it back out.” This was again repeated to our audience.

“Maybe I can use something to push it down.”

I tried to look panicked, when he picked up another red ball and handed it to Pete to clean. He soon had it presented to my full mouth with the finger and thumb of one hand and pressed against the ball in my mouth with the thumb of the other. In defiance of normal physiology this second ball entered my mouth and forced the first one to block my throat so that I could not breath; for a moment I choked, then Martin patted me on the back, I swallowed and the blockage disappeared.

“I swallowed the first one, but my mouth is still full,” I mumbled.

What followed was the rest of the red balls, each used to push the previous one down my throat, aided by a pat on the back.

“My jaw is beginning to ache,” I complained, as the fourteenth red ball went down leaving the fifteenth jammed behind my teeth.

“I'm running out of balls to push the previous one down with,” he replied being both halves of the conversation. He handed the yellow ball to Pete. It was soon in my mouth.

“Banana?” I queried.

This did not stop him from following it with the brown (chocolate), green (lime), blue (raspberry), pink (tasted like a rose smells) and black (blackcurrant). He topped this off by shoving the black ball down my throat with the white ball, which tasted of nothing.

Martin mimed looking around for another ball to push the cue ball down my throat. “Oh dear, I seem to have run out of balls,” he commented then his eye fell on the cue he had been using to play the game. He asked me to take my shoes off and lie on the table with my head over the edge. I knew he had a plan, so I cooperated; after all how else was I going to get out the complete set of snooker balls that I could feel weighing down my insides.

With some help I was lying down on the snooker table with my head over the edge. The onlookers were arranged to be viewing from the side. Martin grabbed the snooker cue and addressed the white ball in my mouth.

In a smooth movement he struck the cue ball which I felt disappear down my throat without the need to swallow this time. I was shocked when the cue did not stop when it hit the ball, but continued to follow the ball down my throat. Fortunately the cue was slimmer than the balls, so I could breath around it and, I'm guessing, Martin's magic suppressed my gag reflex, because he stopped with the cue halfway into my mouth, to allow Pete to check that I was really lying there with half a cue stick sticking out of my mouth. After the inspection, instead of pulling it back out, Martin continued to push it in until my mouth closed over the end.

With some help from Pete I was stood up again, feeling inflexible. I complained of feeling stiff and uncomfortable inside.

He asked, “What have you eaten recently?”

“A snooker cue, and 22 snooker balls; that's 15 reds, a yellow, a white, a green, a brown, a blue, a pink and a black.”

“Ah! I see your problem. You haven't been eating enough greens.”

The entire group groaned and I realised the entire set-up was in service of this joke. I gave him a playful shove.

“That's a terrible joke, but more importantly how are you going to get the balls out of my insides, because I'm sure that the pub will want their balls and cue back; then again having been through me, maybe they won't.”

“Well, I have some pills to help you get those balls out.” From his pocket he produced a strip of small round labels; 15 were red and the rest of the balls were each represented by a sticker of the correct colour. “But they aren't quite ready,” said as he held the strip of backing away from me, as I made a lunge to grab them; this was easy from him as he did not have any foreign objects inside him.

He produced another strip of stickers, also round, but these were transparent and had the numbers 1 to 22 printed on them. “Ok, Pete, you get to put one of the numbers on each of the stickers; any order you like, but get someone to note down which number went on which sticker, it may become important later. While you're doing that I'll go to the bar and get myself a pint and a glass of wine for Tess, for being so patience and beautiful.” I almost blushed.

When Martin returned, Pete had stuck the numbers to the coloured stickers and his girlfriend, Jenny, had noted which number went on which sticker. He had Pete roll up the strip of stickers and hand them to me so that I could swallow them, 'now that they were ready'.

I did the dutiful assistant thing and swallowed the roll of numbered stickers; it was easier than swallowing the snooker balls.

“Ok, Pete, do you remember which sticker you put the number one on?”

After a quick check of Jenny's notes to see that he had remembered correctly, Pete said, “The one went on the blue.”

“Tess, you are feeling a lot better, and nearly ready to lose the balls one by one. You just need to squeeze down lightly and they will come out. But don't squeeze too hard, we don't want them coming out all at once.”

He positioned me with my legs slightly spread and put his hand between my knees before telling me to squeeze. I squeeze my abdominal muscles against the lump that seemed to weigh down my innards. I soon felt something inside me move; I felt it in my vagina and when I pushed it briefly stimulated me like some sex toy, then it dropped out and fell into Martin's waiting hand.

Martin handed the blue ball to Pete to give a wipe with the cloth and start a line of balls on the table. Martin told me to squeeze out the next ball, each time he had his hand ready to catch it. Each ball he handed to Pete and the row of balls grew. I was getting more stimulated as each ball passed through, I was worried that I might have an orgasm before the final ball was out of me.

With all the balls out, Jenny was asked to check that each ball had come out in the correct order, then Martin bowed and tried to get me to bow too, but I could not because I still had the cue stick inside me.

“Sorry, nearly forgot that.” He pushed two fingers and thumb into the cleavage the dress displayed and pulled forth the tip of the cue.

I did not have the best view, but I noticed that the end that now stuck upward by a few inches from my cleavage was that end that had gone into me first in a downward direction. “It looks like the cue stick has turned round inside me; shouldn't that be impossible?”

“Of course it is, but that's why we call it magic. And everyone else will notice that the corseting of your dress is tight enough that the cue can't be concealed beside your wonderful curves.” He took hold of the tip of the cue, pulled it from my cleavage and handed it to Pete. He turned to me and said, “Let's go home and do something more exciting, because I don't suppose anything more exciting is going to happen here.”