The Incompetent Witch and the Very Big O

by DC Thome

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Robyn Peterman. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Magic and Mayhem remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Robyn Peterman, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Chapter 1

  The Lord High Inquisitor Procurator glared at me from the bench. “The Celestial Court of Witches and Magical Beings of the Southern Branch of the Eastern District of North Deau de Cheneaux, West Virginia, is now in session. Thou, Prudenzia, Healer of Deau de Cheneaux, are charged with”—he unrolled a parchment and cleared his throat—“conjuring magic most heinous and foul to bring forth unto our peaceful environs carnage and misery. How plead you?”

  Scanning the semicircle of shriveled, hooded jackasses—thirteen warlocks with a combined physical age of seven thousand, two hundred years and the total brainpower of one eight-year-old mortal—made my guts churn. Yet I kept my composure. That always pisses them off. “Sir Lord High Inquisitor Procurator Max Douchecanoe”—saying the name of the town that way also pisses them off—“I humbly request that you specify the charge.”

  He kneaded his hands and harrumphed. “Thou knowest mine title, and that mine name is Maxwell—as well as the full nature of the charges which hath been levied against—”

  “Why do you keep talking that way…‘doth this’ and ‘thou that’?”

  His eyes darted along the semicircle. “Seems appropriate for the occasion. More formal.”

  “You sound like a bad movie,” I said. “Use regular twenty-first-century English.”

  You may be wondering why I came off as such an abusive bitch. In this case, it’s because I was being abusive—and bitchy. As a witch, I was more powerful than any of the Inquisiwankers. Even though they’d taken steps to diminish my abilities for the trial, I could still deliver a painful jolt to their dumb asses, or any other part of their anatomy I chose. Not really dangerous. But really, really uncomfortable.

  “Very well,” the Grand Douchebag said. He peered over his glasses at the indictment. “According to the complaint, on twenty-first June—”

  “Not lawyer English. English English.”

  The Procurator—an amusing title to the sixth-grader in me, because I found it hard to believe any respectable female, and very few unrespectable ones, would willingly procreate with this guy—pounded his silver gavel. “There will be no further interruptions from the accused! Um…please.” He turned again to the parchment and mumbled, “…conjuring most da da da and heinous uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, and…our peaceful…carnage and mmm, mmm—ah!—‘through the wanton indulgence of your own sinful pleasures in the act of—’”

  There was a collective gasp. Not from the gallery of shapeshifters behind me, but from the Inquisidimshits. Some whisked off their hoods to reveal looks of sheer terror, while others buried their faces in the hoary fabric or covered their ears with gnarled hands. One even covered his eyes, which made no sense since I was talking and not writing.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “You’re all grown warlocks. How can you be so afraid of saying that a witch had an orgasm?”

  Another round of hysterics ensued, this time bolstered by hysterical laughter from my supporters in the gallery. They could laugh because they had witnessed many of the events that led up to this farce of jurisprudence—which I suspected had not even been approved by Baba Yaga, the Pat-Benatar-shoulder-padded queen of witches. I was innocent, and the shifters knew it. What’s more, the shifters knew that while these Inquisitors could be real dicks, they could also be real pussies when it came to anything regarding female experience. It’s a wonder that witches have survived as a species for all these millennia, though I’m pretty sure that if my celestial sisters and I had to, we’d find a way to propagate without the help of our weak male counterparts.

  But that wouldn’t be as much fun.

  Witches, you see, don’t need props to do what we do. Magic from the universe flows through us, and our power of creation intensifies it. Some of us use wands, but unlike the males, none of us absolutely needs to. Though, believe me, some of the guys have truly magical wands. Used in the right way, if you know what I mean.

  Maxwell, the Lord High Inquisitor Procurator, banged his silver hammer again. “Remember where you are, witch! You will use circumspect language in my court!”

  Oh, my Goddess, the sixth-grader in me wanted to riff on the word “circumspect.” But I didn’t. I wanted to get on with the proceedings. “Lord Douchebuggy,” I said, “may I ask how I am to plead my case if I can’t use a simple, common word like ‘orgasm’?”

  Again with the shrieks and howls. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of my shifter friends laugh so hard he fell to the floor and morphed from human to porcupine and back.

  Inquisifop No. 3, who was seated on my left, held up his hand: “May I suggest that the witness substitute less offensive terminology for the word.”

  I sashayed to the bench, making sure he got a good view of the boobilage that was trying hard to escape my black leather, kinda S&M-y cutout halter, super short denim cutoffs and torn fishnets, “You mean, like, ‘climax’?”

  No. 3 gulped and pulled his hood over his eyes, triggering snickers and gasps from the gallery.

  “Or ‘come’?”

  Gulps and guffaws.

  I swirled around to address my fans. “‘The Big O’? ‘Ring my bell’? ‘Jet my juice’?”

  Cacophony.

  Maxwell pounded the gavel. “Silence!” He waited like a grouchy middle-school teacher on the second day of her period for everyone to shut the fuck up, then said, “I decree that, for the purposes of this trial, O-word—by which I mean the actual word that O-word stands for, and not the euphemism ‘O-word,’ is acceptably clinical. Although, it would be acceptable—and perhaps even preferable—if the witness were to avoid provoking the Inquisition by using the term ‘O-word,’ by which I mean the term that stands for the word that the term ‘O-word’ stands for. Or something like that.”

  I crossed my arms. “Way to be decisive.”

  Again with the gavel. “You may provide your account of the story, witch. But you will not use sarcasm. Plus, I’m warning you: If you…” He stopped. “Did you say, ‘Jet my juice’?”

  “I did.”

  “That seems like more of a male…never mind.” He sat taller and straightened his hood. “Tread carefully! If I think you’re trying to annoy the court, I’ll nail you.”

  “And by ‘nail,’ you mean…”

  “Enough! No double entendre intended. Double entendres are not allowed in court.”

  “Very well, your honor,” I said. “I need to strip—”

  WHAM! “What did I just say?”

  “Relax,” I said. “My notes.” I held up two long, thin strips of paper. The Lord Dookienator glared. I cleared my throat.

  ***

  It was a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe not stormy. A little windy, for sure. And dark. Definitely dark. But also a full moon, so maybe not so dark. It was night—of that I am absolutely certain. I had gone to the Cozy Coven bar to celebrate Litha, the Summer Solstice, with my boyfriend, Spurlock, and I probably had one or two too many. Or three. It wasn’t my fault. The weather was hot and humid, and the place served an excellent hoppy craft brew called Witch’s Tit. They kept it really cold, and I kind of lost count.

  Anyway, right after midnight, Spur—he liked being called that because Spurl
ock the Warlock sounded stupid—whispered into my ear that he and I and his friend Hunter should go up Sabbat Hill for a little two-on-one action. Hunter’s a good-looking guy—tall, muscular, with catlike Caribbean blue eyes and pale longish hair outlining his face that gives him a smoldering serious-in-the-sack hot summer night vibe. But beneath all that, he has a playful mind and a sensibility that sometimes borders on naïve.

  Spur’s no gargoyle, either. He’s also tall, but slimmer than Hunter, wears his medium-brown hair short, and has dark, mysterious eyes that ultimately hide no deep surprises.

  I don’t know why I always hook up with tall guys. I stand all of five feet—if I straighten my back—but what I lack in height I more than make up in curves. My Italian ancestors bequeathed to me an eye-catching rack, an appealing apple bottom, smooth olive skin and Sophia Loren eyes.

  And, apparently, a huge appetite for amoré.

  With all those hops and carbs pulsing through my brain—and my tingly parts—all I could think was how lucky I must be to have a boyfriend who would suggest a threesome with another guy! I’d always thought that would be fun, but really, how does a girl bring it up in the course of normal dinnertime conversation?

  “Hey, Spur?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whataya say we invite your hot friend Hunter over so I can suck his coppacola while you’re slamming the salami into my calzone?”

  But now it didn’t matter. The topic had been brought up, all right. And, oh my Goddess, we were heading up to the district’s strongest center of power on one of the most enchanted evenings of the year to do unspeakable things under the full moon.

  ***

  Said moon was rising as we breached the top of the hill. The wind blew my hair into a dark, red-streaked comet’s tail as I caught my breath. We were all pretty hot and bothered, and even as I exhaled, the clothes started coming off.

  Spur held me to him and kissed me hard on the mouth. Our tongues danced as Hunter sidled up behind me and rubbed my ribs before feeling me up through my see-through silk bra. That was hot enough, but when Hunter pressed himself into my back and kissed my neck, I thought I would burst into flames. It was either his kiss or the fact that I could feel both men’s burgeoning manicotti through their cargo shorts.

  OMG—this is really happening!

  The dream got even more real when Hunter unclasped the bra and turned me around. Instead of thrusting his tongue down my throat the way Spur always does, though, he teased me by licking my teeth and the inside of my lips. Slowly. Very slowly, as he worked the bra straps down my arms and let the stiff breeze blow it away. He cupped my breasts and pushed gently upwards. Thoroughly enjoying his touch, I put my hands over his and pressed hard.

  Meanwhile, Spur dropped to his knees and pulled down the pleated miniskirt I had worn with the intention of driving him mad with lust. He bit the fleshy part of my ass before pulling down my Victoria’s Secret Lace Cheeky Panties and tracing an arch with his tongue from the top of one leg to the small of my back and then down the other side. He was a total ass-man, which worked out well, since ass is kind of my specialty.

  Hunter took a step back and, keeping his eyes fixed on mine, unbuttoned his shirt and let the wind blow it back to reveal his athletic chest. I ran my fingers through the small patch of dark fur that graced the space between his rock-hard pectorals. He unzipped his shorts and let them drop to the grass, then pulled down his all-business tighty-whiteys to unleash a fun-looking biggie-pinkie that was as hard as his pecs.

  Hunter pressed himself to me; I gloried in the touch of his chest to mine. More or less, because at six-two, he was more than a foot taller than me. I threw my head back, and as he nibbled my throat, I took delight in the extreme contrast between his skin tone and mine.

  Spur gave me a preview of what was to come by repeatedly sliding his giant through my valley of jolly. I was already wet enough for him to go all-in, but the height difference made that difficult if I had both feet on the ground. We’d done it standing up, but face-to-face so he could grab me by the bottom to hoist me into position. At any rate, I appreciated his patience.

  After several delirious eons of sliding and nibbling, Spur guided me to a spot in the tall, windswept grass. He motioned for me to sit, but I went to my knees instead. “I need up-close-and-personal time with my new friend.” I gave Spur my Sophia-Loreniest look. “And time to renew my acquaintance with an old one.”

  The two warlocks ran their fingers through my hair as I sampled one cannelloni, then the other. Spur tasted familiarly salty. Hunter was salty, too, but with pleasantly sweet undertones.

  Variety is the nice of life.

  Finally, Spur eased me onto my back. I’d done it outside before, but never quite like this. This is a special night. Spur and Hunter knelt on either side of me. Feeling a mouth engulfing one nipple and a hand parting my legs—and not caring which man was doing what—I arched my hips and let my head tip back. I remember seeing a whole galaxy of stars gleaming through the summer haze. It felt like electricity was shooting through me, and I never wanted it to end.

  And then, a flash of pink and blue.

  Pinwheels! Sparklers! Birthday candles! Spinning, popping, crackling! All around and all at once!

  And then, I woke up in my bed, still naked, with Spur snoring by my side.

  I was interrupted by a cough. “Miss La Strega?”

  “Lord Douchedeloo?”

  “Are you absolutely certain that all of this information is relevant?”

  Looking from side to side, I noticed that the rest of the Inquisidorks were engaged in various psychotic behaviors: Nail-biting. Hair-pulling. Eyeball-gouging. One had passed out backward in his chair. Another had inverted himself, with his head out of view and bony legs sticking up. One had conjured a noose and tossed it over a light fixture in the ceiling.

  My eyes lost their almond shape, transforming into angry slits. “You and I both know very well that all of this information is absolutely relevant. Every single bit.”

  The Lord Douchenduffer swallowed hard. “Yes, that is true.” He clanged the gavel, which got the attention of all the Inquisijerks except for the guy waving his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “brace yourselves. This promises to be a long, unpleasant endeavor. Be strong.” Turning to me, he sighed and said, “You may continue.”

  “Great,” I said. “But, before I do, I want to address an important issue.”

  “A point of law, Miss La Strega?”

  “No. A point of how I’m pretty sure you and the homeboys up there are convinced I’m a world-class slut.”

  “No one said anything about ‘world class.’

  “I like men, Lord Douchemonkey. And I like orgasms. And I especially like them together.”

  Wailing and gnashing of teeth.

  I waved my arm across the arc of decrepitude. “Anyone who doesn’t like it can go fuck himself. Literally. ’Cause I ain’t doing it, which, I’ll argue, indicates that I have at least some standards.

  “Now, where was I?”

  Chapter 2

  The morning after the Thrill on the Hill, my head predictably ached and my stomach felt queasy. Far less predictably—in fact, downright unexpectedly—my memories of the threesome added up to zero. What the fuck? My bladder pressed upward, possibly affecting my brain. Maybe it was four beers too many. Mumbling and counting on my fingers, I concluded I’d had only two beers over my limit, but there had also been a shot of something stronger in the mix. Still, I’d drunk-fucked before without ever losing track of the fuck part. What the fuck, indeed. Something was amiss.

  I sloshed into the bathroom and drained the four thousand, nine hundred and thirty-two ounces of Witch’s Tit that had accumulated in my bladder. Which did nothing for my head. I wished I were a halfway decent healer so I could make the hangover go away. But since I’m not, any effort could just as easily give me two heads, each with its own splitting headache—and there was no way I wanted that.

  Back in the bedroom,
Spur was awake and playing with his phone. “Mm-mmm…you sure look good in the morning.”

  He was lying—unlike my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. “Don’t even think of taking my picture, or I’ll zap that thing into a million sharp pieces and cram it up your ass.”

  “So cheerful, too.” He grabbed me and yanked me into the bed. “How about giving up a little of whatever it was that possessed you last night?”

  “You tell me what it was, and I’ll be happy to share.”

  He laughed, but when he saw my face, he realized I wasn’t kidding. “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember up to a point—when you laid me back on the grass.” I raised my hand and pointed at his midsection. “You didn’t slip me a dose of that Belizean-spider-monkey-balls-and-damiana-aphrodisiaca-extract shit again, did you?”

  He covered his rapidly withering morning wood with both hands and sat up. Still, I could see the lightning bolt-shaped scar I’d lasered into his hip the time he roofied me.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said. “I’m horny, but I’m not crazy!”

  “Because I made it abundantly clear that I’d try just about anything—as long as I was conscious.”

  He pulled a pillow over his crotch, as if that would prevent me from blasting his doodalamenti to oblivion. “You seemed conscious last night, Pru. Honestly. And it was pretty obvious you were enjoying yourself, what with all the panting and screaming and shivering—and the fingernails.” He twisted to show me how I’d etched his skin in what I presume was a fury of carnal insanity.

  “Oops.”

  He crawled on top of me, which felt kind of good. His gaius maximus had recovered and was advancing toward my giardino roma—normally a good thing, but I wasn’t in the mood. “So,” I said, “did you guys take turns, or what?”

  He kissed my neck. “Or what.”

  I pushed him away. “Let me make this perfectly clear: I wasn’t there when everything went down. I’m gonna need details.”