by Kezzy Sparks
“Two balls, that’s easy,” exclaims the client.
“Yeah, you got it!”
“Great, Mage, great. I can't wait to see.”
The Mage chortles. “Your Casey won't be banging anyone soon. I swear he’s no longer Mr. McLong, but now Mr. McUsedToBeLong.”
“Mr. McUsedToBeLongButHeckNoMore.” The client snickers. “For life, that's how I want it.”
“For life, that’s how you get it.”
“Excellent,” says E. “but Mage, aren’t you just pulling my leg? Do you have those things for real? Can you text me a quick photo?”
The Mage usually doesn’t take kindly to her abilities being questioned by anyone, particularly novices. “E, don’t disappoint me like that. How can you start to doubt me?”
“I’m so sorry, Mage, I swear I’ll make up for it.” The Client is now breathing fast with fear. “But can I ask a question? What's the total charge?”
The Mage scratches her head. The final process of neutering Casey exposed her to some painful, burning energy, but she is not going to overprice. She likes her work and sees no need to do that.
“Not an arm and a leg, baby,” she says. “Couple grand, like I said before.”
“Good,” says the client. “So, who shall get to keep them?”
The Mage knows what is meant. She thinks about it. There is no rule in the magic books to say who should keep the pilfered parts. She might hand them over, but would that be to her interests? Uh, maybe not. Hell, Jove, what if she could actually start a small, side business with that harvest? Dick and Balls For Rent. DB4R! That should be fun. She could work some magic to force Casey’s things to attach to any man who wanted it. Certain under endowed guys out there might do with the awesome dick of Casey’s.
Or she could lease the combo set for next to nothing to some men in her coven, as a way of winning their loyalty. A day or so at a time. Wouldn't that be winsome? Currently she is feared, but fear alone is not the same thing as respect. Damn, she also craves to be worshipped.
“I don't think you have the capacity to handle such things,” The Mage answers.
“Not that I’m rebelling, but I was just thinking,” says the client. “Please, won’t you change your mind?”
Dick and balls for hire. That would be a world first, and she would be at the center of it. She shuts her phone down.
***
A few minutes later, she showers and then clambers downstairs for her brunch. Milyn is not permitted to see her eat and so has retreated to another room, like The Mage orders.
In two chafing dishes with compartments are some sausages, a generous serving of scrambled eggs, plus beans, and bacon. The Mage fills a plate, and then sits at the table. She pours herself a large mug of black tea but doesn't sweeten it.
She looks around. Regal as this manor is, she doesn't own it. She leases it from a secretive Buffalo businessman who doesn’t like his affairs shared with strangers. The couches, though, are hers, and so is this dining table and chairs, including almost all of the furnishings upstairs.
As far as owning real estate goes, The Mage herself controls several homes or condos in and around town, but she doesn’t like to live in any of them. She prefers to rent and, characteristic of her hungry wandering nature, won’t stay in one place for longer than two years.
After her, it’s time to feed the family. She has children, believe it or not, but ones with fur rather than human skin. She keeps them hidden away from visitors in the prayer room upstairs. Milyn, too, is not supposed to know, though she sometimes claims to hear sounds when she is cleaning up there.
The Mage scoops all the remaining food into two bowls. She will take it all up. Trudging on the stairs with the bowls makes her feel so maternal. The only problem is that opening the door while both her hands hold delicate stuff is always a challenge, but The Mage manages, as usual. Nothing dropped.
“Tyrese and Wheeler, Mom is here.”
“Meow, meow.”
Tyrese is brown, with dark-gray stripes. Wheeler is totally black.
Each is to get a bowl.
The two familiars don't poo or pee like regular cats. They are semi spiritual. Some would say devilish, but no one sensible ever describes their family in such disparaging terms.
The Mage belongs to a coven that calls themselves the Scarlets. It’s a loose cult of dark witches, warlocks, voodoo worshippers, and other black magic practitioners. Loose is used here only because the cult has no dictated mission—any member acts to accomplish his or her own ends so long as this doesn’t cause clashes among the group. Of course there is a hierarchy and feeding chain, and the seniors distinguish themselves by performing astounding acts. Uniformity in behavior is not strictly enforced, although there is a disciplinary code that binds the group together. There are holy days and other observances to be adhered to, too.
The cult’s undisputed leader is Kramer, a wizened, old warlock now pushing seventy. You could say Kramer is part human, part spirit, because the man is so possessed he speaks in tongues mostly. The Mage is somewhere close to the top.
The Scarlet Coven is dispersed throughout the North-eastern United States, but the Buffalo chapter is one of the strongest. And most feared.
Kramer’s abode is in Salem, Massachusetts, but The Mage is top dog here in Buffalo, her authority remaining pretty unchallenged.
Five
On Elmwood Avenue, in an area of Buffalo known as Bryant, is a series of low-rise apartment buildings. The apartments are collectively called Willow Grove, and Client E rents a studio in one of them.
It’s a place she has called home for upwards of four years, but she could have said goodbye to it a while ago had that single steadfast boyfriend, who in all respects passed as suitable marriage material, not decided to dump her at the last minute. Now he is marrying someone else. And she can’t find anyone else suitable to settle down with.
The client has just executed her revenge, however. Casey and Megan can go fuck themselves. What she now wants is to bring home the goods The Mage has lifted!
Regarding what the witch said, E considers the point. Their agreement had not been for The Mage to surrender the dick and balls, but just to rob them off of Casey. Oh Jove, how crazy the client hadn’t seen the potential to possess them? She ought to have phrased things differently and included a surrender clause. Now it will be harder to take Casey’s set, but she can try.
She picks the phone up again. “Mage, I’m bringing you your money. Are you home?”
A breath whistles in from the other side. “I’m supposed to be resting for the whole day, but I will make an exception for you.”
“Good,” says the client.
She will certainly fight to persuade the witch, and she is going there right away. Full of purpose, she rushes to the shower. After it, she must dress appropriately, and that’s for two reasons. First, she is going to see an important coven senior and ought to present herself well. Second, she is set to glimpse something of Casey’s, something she liked and still likes, and she must look her best for that.
Her breasts feel hot for Casey’s touch as she tucks them into their size D cups. She was a stripper before, and her bust was a big draw, especially every moment on the stage when she unclasped and threw away her bra.
Done with all, she grabs her keys and drives out of Willow Grove, a place where life has been a torment for the last year and a half, but now she can at least say she has acquitted herself. Something now exists that she can point to as a culmination of her anger with those who wronged her.
The day outside looks a whole lot newer. Her ride, an old but faithful Kia Sorrento, slides onto the neat pavement of Elmwood Ave. When Casey dumped her, she traded away her Ford Focus as a symbol of protest against all American men. If Ford was a symbol of the country's masculinity and virility, then she was taking a break. She was that hurt. A switch to a foreign model might soothe her temper.
That action sure yielded relief, but only for a short while—clearl
y like the intent of her contract with The Mage would suggest.
The Sorrento has warmed up in the May sun, and even though it’s seventy today, she doesn’t touch the heat buttons. The nearest branch of Bank of America is up the road. She gets there and parks.
Into the bank, she walks like a princess, regally stepping on the cushy mats and polished ceramic tiles. The only anticlimax is there is a line, and she must wait behind two guys and one old woman. The guys wear suits and black bowties; the old woman a very long dress and a thin jersey. The short delay won’t bother the client much—she is the only one in here getting cash to pay a witch for a job well done.
And who knows, she might become a top mage herself one day, and the roles could reverse, she becoming the one to get paid.
The teller is a young male who speaks with an accent. Pompously, he asks her for identification. People like him annoy her. He also seems like the type that sleeps with women only to dump them later. And if he is, he should be punished. Maybe right now she should let him know how another guy has been wiped clean downstairs.
The world has changed, Mr. Banker, just wait…
“Give me six grand,” the client says. “In hundreds.” All that, even though The Mage said she only wants a couple. She still intends to take the goods, and a few extra greenbacks could persuade the great witch to change her mind.
“Put it into an envelope,” she orders.
Six neat wads are slotted in. Who, really, wouldn’t be happy with three or four extra grand on top? The client would then have Casey McLong to herself. Just like it should have been in the beginning. And for all time.
***
She stuffs the envelope into her handbag and hops to her car. Buffalo’s FM102.5 is playing some soft tunes as she clicks the engine back to life. She knows the current track: “I’ve Got You Right Where I Want” by a certain PMZee.
“Asshole, gotcha.”
Humming, she swings out of the lot and into the street. She cracks her windows a bit, just to catch some air.
She recalls her days with Casey. Everything had gone along well until this Megan slut turned up. The client could swear she had been born to be with him. They understood each other and clicked. She loved him. She liked his dick, and never got tired of licking his balls, his ass even. Then all of a sudden Casey turned into this gigantic son of a bitch the moment his eyes landed on the fucking slut.
Dick, I got you right where I want.
The draft ruffles her hair, sweeping it to the back of her head. The afternoon smells of traveled pavement, diesel exhaust, and stolen balls. Best Street leads her into Walden Avenue, and then she cruises along it until she sees Dick Road. If turning left, that used to be her way to go and see Casey back in the day. She doesn’t need him now; he is fixed.
She turns right, the name Dick assuming a new satirical note.
Mystical as she is, The Mage lives in Alden, a small town not so far away from here. Indeed, the witch has the strangest of habits and lives by herself always. Currently she rents a deluxe semi split on Savage Rd.
The smaller country like roads, welcome the client. At her destination, she goes straight into the driveway, because it’s empty. For some unusual magical reason, the wicked witch doesn’t own or operate motor vehicles, and so nothing blocks her pavement.
Client E takes in a breath as she beholds the magnificent manor, which has a wide porch and a dark gray shingled roof. Inside it is an awesome human with almost the powers of a god.
Briefly, the reality of the whole thing strikes her. She has never seen the disembodied genitals of a living person, and today would be the first. Are they beautiful or unsightly to behold? Do they drip blood where they were cleaved?
Really, it might be outlandish, but now she wonders why she never had those fears before. Didn’t she drive to the bank and then all the way here without expecting to see any horrors? Has she been overcome by terror just because she is so close?
Her intuition, though, is that the goods are in a perfect state—because magic works wonders and heals wounds fast. She will indeed take those things home; she has brought the needed bribe money.
The Mage’s porch is guarded by two jack-o-lanterns painted a menacing black, though unlit. A fear of magic grips the client as she enters—you can’t ever be sure of what might jump at you when you wade into a great witch’s abode.
Cautious and listening, she walks past the kitchen and dining room, to get to the living area where The Mage sits on a couch. The great one is dressed in pajamas. The client’s eyes dart to a black canvas bag that sits on a cushion close to The Mage. Is that where everything is contained..?
“Mage, you are a star. Just how the hell did you manage it?” she says after greeting the victorious witch.
“Haven’t you known me for more than a year, E?” The Mage calls her E because she was called Eazie E at the dance club, and she just carried that initial over to the coven.
“Yes, I have, but what you did is exceptional.”
“It’s what I always do. How do you think I’ve become so well known?”
“Truly awesome. Now can I see?”
The Mage fetches from her witching bag a longish red metal case that in a wicked fashion is appropriately sized to contain those things of Casey’s... “Whole set is in this catcher.” The Mage quirks a smug lip.
Enrapt, the client glares at the loaded receptacle that The Mage curiously calls a catcher. Judging by the witch’s casual references, it satisfies her that everything inside is fine. She won’t even need to open the catcher; she will just take it home like it is.
Ambition flooding her, she fishes for the envelope. “Mage, I’m still willing to negotiate.”
“Hey, why are you so intent?” The Mage smiles. “Just curious.”
It’s hard to spell it out, but the client says, “I fear you might give the goods back. That fucker needs to be punished forever.”
“My dear, don’t worry. The dick ’n’ balls are in good hands. They will never be given back.”
“I have included a couple extra grand.” Client E hopes that’s the clincher. “Here it is, take it.” She thrusts the envelope at The Mage.
“No, you don’t have to.” The dark witch extracts only three. “I only take what’s contracted.”
This isn’t going right. The client frowns. “Maybe we could change the clause.”
“Which one?”
“Of safekeeping,” she mutters. “I’m willing to take custody.”
This witch is proving hard to convince her that the appendages in question belong with the client. Surely in all agreements of this type, isn’t it normal for an agent to return everything to the principal in exchange for the fee?
Finally the client decides to just say it. “I am the principal. And I used you as an agent.”
“Yes, but also no,” retorts The Mage. “I’m the one who’s going to keep them.” A look of stern resolve takes over the witch’s face as she tucks the money into a wallet.
“Fine enough,” says Client E. “You keep them, but now give me a glimpse.”
The Mage’s lips instantly soften into a tiny smile. “Do you think I’d lie to you?” She opens the catcher.
Of course, there is her ex's long wiener and balls just as she has always known them. The whole set is alive and intact. There are no unsightly cuts, no rips, no wounds, no bleeding. Gosh, only minutes ago, why had she worried?
The Mage is truly a great witch, but hell no, the client is not going to allow her to keep what she doesn’t own. I’ll be taking you home soon, guys. I swear. She blows a secret kiss. You belong with me.
With that, she stands to go.
***
After the client is gone, The Mage snoozes on the couch for a while then wakes up to go back upstairs. She picks up the witching bag with the red catcher inside it. The tug of the bag’s straps reminds her of the wounds on her shoulder.
When a guardian angel's arrow strikes a target, it doesn’t cause physical ble
eding but leaves behind exposed burning flesh. It does that by inserting a very powerful poison that eats body cells. The one that hit her last night didn’t go too deep, but there is a sore redness and some swelling. The Mage is strong, because even that little could have disabled a weakling.
E has paid her for the pains, but that may not be enough to compensate her for everything. It’s fine, though; The Mage will find a way to soothe herself.
She clambers up the staircase, one hand holding the banister. Her big bedroom faces the east, while the spare one faces west. The prayer room, which her maid, Mylin, is strictly forbidden to enter, is to the north. In the backyard are several trees, but there is one very tall broadleaf. That one is honored because it hosts the third one of her familiars, a horned demon named Ratan.
She lays the bag on a nightstand and then sits on the bed.
“I am not giving away this,” she whispers to herself, remembering what the client was badgering her for. “I can’t entertain her. I have my own business to run.”
DB4R is what she will now devote herself to. Dick ’n’ Balls for Rent! The idea may have started off as a fun thing but she now sees actual potential to go big as time went on.
“I’ll be the real deal.” She smiles to herself as she imagines a line of needy men waiting to be boosted, and paying quite a fortune for whatever the agreed lease period was. It should be fun, and in fact, why not start testing the idea right away.
The number one thing to check on, of course, would be none other than erectile ability. What good would Casey’s penis be if it can’t go erect? It shouldn’t remain flaccid or shrivel up.
Excited, she grabs the bag and fishes out the catcher. She opens it and picks up the steal.
“Oh Jove, what a big one here.”
For its part, the dick instantaneously goes hard and heavy in her hands. She can hardly restrain it. It throbs as it fills with magical blood, and the swollen veins push at her fingers. What a weapon to wield. Customers are going to love this.
