The Witch Hunts Had a Whole Chapter About Your Balls
THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL | by Stacy | protecturnuts.com/models
18+ only. Satire and adult entertainment. Everything here is fantasy between consenting adults.
There’s going to be one at the party. Black dress cut short, bare legs, heels she’s clearly comfortable walking in. The hat tilted like she didn’t try.
You’ll clock her from across the room. The line of her back when she reaches for a drink. The way the dress moves when she turns to laugh at something. You’ll tell yourself you’re being subtle about it.
Then she looks up.
Dark eyes, steady, already amused, and she holds it about two seconds longer than she needs to. Long enough for you to understand three things at once. That she caught you. That she doesn’t mind. And that she’s deciding something.
You’ll think she picked a cute costume.
She picked the one woman in European history that men were frightened enough of to write a legal manual about. And that manual has an entire chapter about your balls.
The book
In 1486 a Dominican inquisitor named Heinrich Kramer published the Malleus Maleficarum. The Hammer of Witches. It became the handbook, carried into real courtrooms across Europe and treated as authority for about a century and a half.
Six generations of men agreeing, in writing, on what a woman could do to them.
The chapter
Part Two, Chapter Seven. The actual title is “How, as it were, they Deprive Man of his Virile Member.”
Not a footnote. Its own numbered chapter in a legal manual.
And the book describes women keeping collections of them. In nests. In boxes. Plural. The fear was never that she’d take yours. It was that she already had a drawer full and yours was going in it.
Now put the book down for a second and look around the room you’re in.
England kept a word for it. A Russian court used it.
It wasn’t just Kramer, and it wasn’t just one book.
When Englishmen started compiling Russian dictionaries, they included a word for this. Kilá. Mark Ridley defined it as “a swelling of the coddes by witchcraft.” Richard James, writing around 1618, put it down as “the disease of the stones bewicht into an exceedinge swellinge bignesse.”
Think about what that means. Someone sat with a blank page, worked out which Russian words an Englishman genuinely needed to know, and made room for balls swollen by a spell.
Then in 1647 a Russian court convicted two people of inflicting kilá on a man, along with nevstanikha, which is the old word for not being able to get it up.
So that’s the record. A legal manual, two dictionaries, and a conviction. Across different countries, in different languages, by men who had never met.
All of them worried about the same two things, hanging in the same place, on every man they knew.
How many of them are near you right now
Count the women who were within arm’s reach of you today.
The one who handed you your coffee. The one at the desk across from yours who leaned over to look at your screen. The woman on the stairs in your building who turned sideways to let you past, close enough that you both held your breath for a second.
Any one of them could have ended your manhood.
Not with a plan. Not with a reason. One knee, four inches of travel, and the version of you that walked into that building doesn’t walk back out.
That’s not a threat and it’s not a fantasy. That’s just the arrangement you’ve been living under since you were old enough to notice.
The part Kramer got right without meaning to
His text hedges. It says the member isn’t really torn away. It’s a glamour, an illusion, something that fools the eye until a man is certain it’s gone.
Which is the truest thing in the whole book.
She doesn’t have to touch you to take it. She has to be standing close, in the right mood, and your body stops reporting to you. You’ve felt it. Some woman you had no business being nervous around walked past and something below your belt quietly stood down and asked you to handle it.
Kramer blamed demons because the alternative was admitting the truth. The truth is that there is no lock on it. There never was.
She wouldn’t even have to mean it
Here’s what I want you to sit with.
Every woman who has ever been angry at you could have done it. Your ex, the night she found out. The one who threw your stuff in the hallway. The one who went very quiet instead of yelling, which was worse.
Every woman who has ever been playful with you could have done it. The one who used to grab at you as a joke. The one who always stood a little too close in the kitchen. The friend’s wife who makes the same comment every year and watches your face while she says it.
Every woman who was simply in the wrong place. The one who stepped back fast on a crowded train. The one in the gym who swung a leg over a bench without looking.
None of them planned anything. They didn’t have to. The weak point goes with you everywhere, it never closes, and there is no version of your day where it isn’t available to whoever happens to be standing there.
Your girlfriend knows exactly where they are
This is the one that gets men.
She’s touched them. She knows the weight of them, she knows how they move, she knows which one hangs lower. She has held the most fragile thing you own in her hand and felt how little it would take.
And at some point, probably more than once, she has thought about it.
Not seriously. Not meanly. Just the way your mind wanders when you’re holding something delicate over a hard floor. A quick little picture of what would happen, gone before she finishes the thought.
She has never told you. She never will. And every time she’s reached for you since, she’s known something about your body that you have been carefully not thinking about.
There is no chapter about me
Go looking for the matching section. A manual warning women that a man could take an organ from them in a hallway. A whole legal category for the thing a woman loses when a stranger’s knee comes up.
It doesn’t exist. It can’t. There’s nothing to take.
Nothing of mine hangs outside. Nothing of mine can be crushed against my own bones. I have never once in my life calculated who was standing too close to me and what height their knee was at.
You do that automatically. You’ve done it so long you stopped noticing you were doing it.
Five hundred years of men writing law about their own anatomy being impossible to defend, and not one line going the other way. That’s not an oversight. That’s the score.
She’s at the party tonight
The short black dress. The hat she put on without trying. Holding her drink, holding your eye, completely relaxed.
You’ll think she’s dressed as something old and harmless.
She’s dressed as the thing men wrote a book about because they couldn’t sleep. And the only difference between her and the women in that book is that she doesn’t need a spell, a nest, or a broom.
She just needs you to stand where you’re standing.
Which you’re going to do, all night, hoping she comes over.
Send her this page
If she’s already going as a witch this year, she has no idea what she picked. Tell her.
Send her this. Let her read the chapter title herself. Let her get all the way down to the nests and the boxes, and the part where a court in 1647 took it seriously enough to convict somebody.
Then watch her face.
She’s going to look up from her phone and look at you. Not at your eyes. And both of you are going to know exactly why you sent it.
If she hasn’t picked a costume yet, suggest it. Tell her you read something. Tell her it’s real history, which it is. Tell her men were frightened enough of this that they wrote it into law and kept it there for a century and a half.
She’ll put the hat on. She’ll turn in front of the mirror. And somewhere between the mirror and the front door she’ll work out what the costume is actually about, and she will not be able to unknow it.
You’ll have handed her that yourself. On purpose. And she’ll know you did.
That’s the trick, by the way. You can’t turn a woman into a witch. You can only tell her she already was one, and then stand there, in reach, while she decides what she wants to do about it.
Happy Halloween.
Meet a few of them this Halloween. Patricia, Michelle, and Emily don’t need a spell, a nest, or a broom. They’ve never once been sorry, and they’re very good at this.
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Satirical entertainment for adults. Everything here presumes enthusiastic, ongoing consent between adults. Testicular injury is a medical emergency — sudden severe pain, significant swelling, nausea, or a testicle sitting oddly requires urgent care the same day.
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