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Iron Bitch has done a fair amount of biking, almost always with friends. She gets a good bike in the late 1980s, when they are finally starting to make them small enough for her. Still a touch big but a damn sight better than the 26 inch frame that her parents bought her back in her teens.

Today she is out alone, hot summer roads of northern Virginia, on her road bike. The route is mostly pretty free of cars except one section. One road is busy and has no shoulder at all. Iron Bitch is being careful.

BAM! She is hit from behind on her butt! She nearly crashes as she realizes that it was not a car hitting the bike, but a hand slapping her butt. They are laughing and roaring off. Iron Bitch wrests control of the bike, barely, and her vision goes entirely red with rage as the car roars off trailing laughter. Iron Bitch stops by the side of the road, shaking and wanting to kill. She didn't get the license plate. She didn't get the make of the car. She is furious with herself, with them, with the world. She fantasizes about sugar in their gas tank and then moves on to slow torture and dismemberment. She finishes the bike ride, ready to kill the next offender.

By that evening, she has her plan. She bathes and dresses carefully, in a thong and black lace catsuit, knowing their tawdry spirits cannot resist this. She places the five black candles and carefully draws the circle. She takes the wax and models three little wax men, sized for the pink Barbie convertible. She molds an exaggerated wax penis on each. She plays with her knives with the figures for a while and crashes the convertible. Poor figures, they fall out. She scoops them up in the toy ambulance. She lays each figure on a small white sheet. She picks each up carefully and holds it, penis side down, over the candle until the penis melts and fizzes in the flame. She applies a band-aid to each. "Have a nice day." she says, and puts out the candles.

She has a delicious dinner, after changing into soft velvet clothes. The catsuit is a bit itchy.

Iron Bitch looks in her scrying bowl of blood later on, after recuperating from the energy expended. She laughs in delight. She had not anticipated that the three young bucks would never in the future speak to each other of the problem. Their willies no longer work but they still boast to each other of their sexual conquests. Each creeps off alone to a doctor, a series of doctors. The doctors scratch their heads. Normal testosterone levels, normal thyroid, endocrine system. The willies are poked and prodded. Vacuum pumps have no effect nor direct injections and even the surgical implants unfortunately are rejected. In all three. How unusual. They all try illegal steroids and their poor testicles shrink up like little marbles. They are a bit too distracted to slap a woman bicycler on the butt. There is a rash of the problem because Iron Bitch expanded the spell to cover any male who has acted on a similar impulse over time. The more they do it the bigger the spell gets. Poor wilted willies.

Iron Bitch goes to bed, happy again.

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