Aiming Blind

A ‘real magic’ story featuring QuinnTheAssistant, written for Quinn’s summer blindfold challenge.

I’ve also created an illustration of the scenario in this story, Aiming Blind (Picture), seen from Quinn’s point of view.

Content warning: this story is based on the fantasy that stage magicians with real powers are - without most of the audience realising - actually sawing, impaling, transforming or vanishing their assistants and volunteers for real, but with the aid of magic that prevents the subject suffering any lasting harm and which transforms their experience into one they can even enjoy. And of course they’re all restored at the end (eventually, anyway!). This one is sexually explicit and has a good dollop of strong language. Enjoy!



“Quinn?”

Finella’s steely rebuke draws me back to the here and now. Normally so professional, I realise I’d spaced out staring at the arrow stuck in the board I’m strapped to, only a hand’s breadth to the left of my waist. The shaft is still vibrating from the force of impact, proving – if any proof is needed – that the bow in the hands of the redhead facing me is far from being a toy. If it had hit me, the razor-edged arrowhead would have sliced through me like a knife through butter. I shudder at the thought, then look up at the woman who shot it at me. Sarah, her name is.

Sarah is the volunteer Finella chose from amoung the onlookers less than five minutes ago. She’s dressed in a sexy Robin Hood outfit of Lincoln green miniskirt and bikini top, medieval-style leather boots, and a green hat with a feather jauntily sticking out. All the partygoers are in fancy dress, but hers is one of the best.


She’s fumbling her way through fitting the next arrow to the string of her bow. That’s not because she doesn’t know her way round a bow, though. Sarah actually is an archer. Ranked second in the country, apparently. Finella determined that during the initial banter, and even had the woman shoot an arrow into a target the size of a penny to prove it. So her clumsiness isn’t due to inexperience with a bow.

No, it’s because she’s blindfolded.

I wait for her to raise the bow and draw back the string, which she does in a single, fluid movement. Her right hand fits snugly against her jaw, holding the string hard against her chin and the tip of her nose, while her other arm is extended straight. Her stance is upright, her shoulders back to take the effort of holding what is a quite substantial bow at full draw. This posture also has the effect of making her chest jut out, something the male members of the audience seem to be appreciating.

I realise I’m getting distracted again. I fix my eyes on the tip of the arrow and try to work out what to tell Sarah.

The target strapped over my tummy is the largest, but it’s only worth 20 points. Already the eight arrows Sarah started with are down to six. As well as the one that’s stuck in the board behind me, there’s the one Finella has just removed from Sarah’s quiver as a penalty for missing me completely. Six arrows. And Sarah needs to score 200 points or I’ll be thrown into the giant acid bath that’s bubbling away in the corner.

The target over my pussy is worth 100 points, but it is tiny. As Finella told everyone, any arrow that penetrates the parts of my body behind a bullseye will cause me intense pleasure, but conversely any that hit bare, uncovered flesh
will cause me intense pain. Should I direct Sarah to aim down and she misses... well, I don’t particularly want to experience an arrowhead shattering my hip.

So I choose the target over my left breast. It’s bigger than the one over my crotch, but still worth 50 points.

I focus on the arrow tip. It seems to be pointing directly at my neck. As Sarah can’t see, it’s my job to do the aiming for her.

“Down ten inches,” I say.

The gleaming steel point dips. So far, so good.

“Left, four inches. No, I mean right!” Damn, I’d almost forgotten to reverse left and right. I curse silently as my little backpedal makes Sarah’s arm shake. I shouldn’t have corrected myself. After all, what difference would it make if the arrow hit my other breast? But I can’t start the aiming process over again. That’s one of the rules.

I look at the blindfolded face scarecely six yards from mine. I grit my teeth. “Loose!”

Sarah’s fingers open. The bow string thrums through the air – her bow is far too well tuned to twang. The arrow leaps towards me, a silver flicker flexing round the bow like a salmon leaping upstream. Almost before I register seeing it, I feel the the agony of it slicing into the side of my breast.

The arrow bludgeons its way between my ribs, through my lung, and out my back into the wood behind me, where it is halted with a resounding crack.

Oh fuck, it hurts! It hurts so much I’m almost passing out.

I grit my teeth. Sarah’s last moment adjustment – caused by my confusion over left and right – has made her miss the bullseye. The audience react with a cry of dismay, and Sarah’s face twists into a grimace of annoyance. Tears of pain well in my eyes. I blink. She’s annoyed at having missed a target? I’m the one who has real reason to be upset. I’m the one with an arrow stuck in the side of my boob!

“Five arrows left and still no points,” Finella announces, rather unnessarily I think. “Better luck with the next one.”

I do some quick calculations. Five arrows, and I need 200 points. That means average of 40 points per arrow. Quite attainble, if I can get Sarah to hit the mark each time.

“Another chest shot, please,” I tell the blindfolded woman facing me. She nods and fits another arrow to the string. This time her movements are crisp and precise, her mouth set in a determined line.

With calls of “Left a bit,” and “Up another inch,” I guide her aim. This time I think very carefully before each new instruction. I don’t want to throw her off again. When I’m as sure of her aim as I can be, I lift my gaze to the cloth over her eyes. It’s tight enough that I can see the shape of her eye sockets. The bulge of each eyeball, even.

I take a breath.

“Loose!”

This arrow flies true. I know it even before I hear the crack of the arrow driving through the target, before I feel the pleasure blossom through my chest.

Lights dance in front of my eyes. The mixed applause and gasps sound like they are coming from underwater. Even the punch of the arrowhead driving between my ribs comes as lover’s caress, albeit a very rough lover.

But then I always have liked it rough.

“Fifty points!” Finella calls out. Sarah’s expression of intense concentration breaks into a broad grin.

“My other breast this time,” I say, once I’ve regained control over my speech.

Once again I lead Sarah through the process of aiming. But this time, just as Sarah looses the arrow Finella sneezes, loudly, right behind her. The bow wobbles, just a fraction, and the arrow slams into my shoulder.

A spike of agony lances through me. I can’t help but cry out.

Finella grins. That sneeze was deliberate, damn her! But now is not the time to call her out on it. I try to focus, despite the pain washing through me. Three arrows left, and 150 points required. I don’t have to direct her towards the tiny target over my groin yet. Three more chest shots, with no misses, would be enough to save me from the agony of dissolving alive in acid.

The sixth arrow slams into my breast right alongside the fourth, sending waves of pleasure through me and temporarily making me forget the pain of the two misses.

“Good shot,” I tell Sarah, after a few careful breaths. “Same again, please.” My reasoning is that even though that target is getting a little crowded, Sarah has got into the swing of hitting it. With an archer’s focus on consistent, repeatable movements, she should be able to hit it two more times.

Indeed she hardly needs any guidance at all to line up this time round. I take a second to glare at Finella, willing her to understand that I won’t stand for her interference a second time.

I needn’t have worried. Finella makes not the slightest sound as Sarah releases her second-from-last arrow.

Again, her aim is true. But a fraction of a second before it hits the target, the arrow clips one of the previous ones, and that is enough to send it careening off to hit my ribs dead centre, right between the targets over my breasts but hitting  neither. And outside of the bullseye the magic does nothing to spare me the pain as a steel tip with 40 pounds of force behind it drives through my breastbone and into my lungs.

Fuck!

Whether it’s the gasp of horror from the audience that alerts Sarah, I’m not sure. Or maybe she actually heard the click of arrow hitting arrow. Either way, she looks crestfallen.

I need to buck her up. There’s still one arrow left, and a bullseye on the target between my thighs will scrape us a win.

“Make this last one count,” I say, between gasps of pain. “I know you can do it.”

For a final time she knocks an arrow onto the string. For a final time I watch the fluid grace as she simultaneously lifts and draws the bow. As soon as the gleaming arrowhead is pointing dead centre on my torso I slowly guide her to lower her aim. It’s tricky, for both of us. Being a magician’s assistant, and having to fit into all manner of cramped and awkward apparatus, I am more aware than the average woman of the size and shape of my body. But despite that I’d still be hard pushed to tell you the exact distance, to the nearest quarter inch, between the base of my breastbone and my pussy. So I have to guess a bit. And Sarah, blindfolded as she is, has to convert that 11-inch drop over six yards into the much smaller distance she needs to lower the arrowtip to get the equivalent downwards slant.

Or she could just rely on instinct.

I decide I really don’t want to know which. I just have to trust her.

I take a breath. “Loose!”

This final arrow flies perfectly. From the way it rips through me right between my labia I know it must have hit the target dead centre.

A fraction of a second later I’m being torn apart by wave upon wave of pleasure. One hundred points’ worth of pleasure. A bloody good orgasm’s worth of pleaure. And a thank-fuck-I’m-saved-from-the-acid-bath’s worth of pleasure.

I sag against the now thoroughly perforated board. My world goes black, and the sound of the audience’s applause fades to a whisper.




THE END