The Magic Fart

Chapter 1—E Mission

Prior was bored. It had been a year since his great adventure on Mt. Icecream, where he had challenged the five deadly branches of the Cherry Tree, won the remarkable Spire, and finally recovered his small natural penis. He would hardly care to do that again, but had to admit that ordinary existence was downright dull in comparison.

Well, there was nothing wrong with dullness that couldn’t be cured by a good outrageous fuck. He would have to go out to the slots, though he really craved something a bit more romantic. But he had no girlfriend, and high quality call girls were beyond his means. So he girded his loin for something considerably less enticing.

His doorbell rang. He sighted through the peephole and saw a comely but moderately severe young woman holding a rich bouquet. What was this? He hadn’t ordered any flowers. It must be a mistake. He opened the door. “I think you have the wrong—”

“Prior Gross?” the woman inquired crisply.

“Yes, but—”

“From a secret admirer,” she said, putting the bouquet into his hand.

The blooms had a strong aroma that threatened to intoxicate his outlook. He saw no identifying card. “What admirer?”

She wedged by him and stood inside the room, closing the door behind her. “Me.” This was highly flattering, but surely still a mistake.

“Do I know you?”

“Just call me Suzie.”

“Look, Suzie, I’m just an ordinary guy with no money to spare, so if you figure to charge me some outrageous fee for a spot dalliance, forget it.”

She gazed at him, her eyes turning round. Then they brimmed. “Oh!” she sobbed. “You think I’m one of those types.” She hid her face in her hands. She looked younger than he had taken her for, and far less composed.

Prior felt like a well-worn heel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course you’re not.”

She continued to sniffle into her handkerchief, which seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “I just wanted to please you with my, my flowers, because you’re such a nice man, and you hate me.”

“I don’t!” he said, putting his arm around her heaving shoulders. “I don’t know what got into me. How can I make it up to you?”

“I just want you to like me,” she said tearfully. “You’re so wonderful.”

What could he do? “Of course I like you,” he said gallantly. “I just think you’ve got the wrong, um, address.”

“But aren’t you the great man who conquered the Cherry Tree and won the Spire?”

Had she been reading his private thoughts? “Well, yes. But aside from that, I’m nobody.”

“You’re still my hero!” She looked up at him, her eyes seeming larger and brighter. “I just know you’re the one.” There was still something missing here.

“The one for what?”

“The one to take my innocent maidenhood and make me a real woman. I so much want it to be you. Promise me you’ll be gentle.” This put a different complexion on it.

“You came here for your first sexual experience?”

“I just know it will be better with you than with anyone else. Because you know it all, and I know nothing. Please say you’ll do it.” Yet this was remarkably sudden. What was the catch?

“I’m not sure this is smart.” Her eyes filled again.

“You think I’m repulsive!”

“No, you’re not!” Indeed, her figure under her dress was robust, with her breasts swelling eagerly.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Gross! Tell me what to do.”

“You really want this? Sex with me?”

“With all my heart!” Indeed, her pulse was showing in her neck, making her breasts quiver under the tight nightie.

“In that case, all right,” he said with enthusiasm. “First, take off your clothes and lie on the bed.”

Her remaining clothing vanished as she appeared on the bed, one bare leg lifted. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” he agreed, scrambling out of his own clothing. He got on the bed beside her. “Now first I’ll kiss you.”

“Like this?” she asked, suddenly up against him full length, her lips pressing against his.

“Close enough,” he agreed. “Next, I’ll stroke your breasts.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, catching his hand and guiding it to her warm full bosom.

“Right. Finally, I’ll—”

“Put on a condom.”

He paused. “What?”

“A condom. Don’t you know why?”

He hardly paused for reflection. He did know why, and it wasn’t for any reason anyone else would understand. “Um, yes.”

He began to get off the bed, when a condom appeared in his hand. Oh, of course. He put it to his stiff penis, and it spread itself over it to the base. He got above her. “Now spread your legs.” She spread them, lifted them, and wrapped them around his hips.

“Like this?”

“It will do.” He angled his sheathed member, guiding it down into her open vulva. She lifted her bottom to meet him, and in a moment he was deep inside her and pumping furiously. The condom masked the sensation somewhat, so he had to work harder to get there.

“Don’t forget the rest,” she said, reaching up to catch his head and bring it down to her face. She tongued him in time with his thrusts, and her vagina squeezed his member rhythmically.

He came with rare power, wondering whether it was possible to blow out a condom by the force of ejaculation. That was probably just a male conceit, but it was the way it felt.

“Oh!” she gasped, milking him with her cleft. “Great! You really showed me how.”

He hadn’t shown her anything, but it had nevertheless been great, as she said. He collapsed on her resilient breasts, letting her strip the rest of his semen from his system. “Yeah.”

“When did you catch on?”

He played the game a moment more. “Catch on to what, Suzie?”

She laughed. “You know I’m demonic, and not capable of caring much about any mortal. But I think I care for you, Prior. You treat me like a real person, and you play the game. But I know I made some mistakes. What was the first?”

“Your clothing. First you were in a female suit, then a dress, then a nightie, then nothing. Without having to do any of it by hand.” He withdrew from her and lay on his back.

“I got carried away by the role,” she agreed. “Was that all?”

“Apart from the fact that no woman or girl is that hot for me, you were too proficient. You would have been better with a hymen and some awkwardness.”

She sighed. “My nature defeats me. But I’ll keep working on it. I was afraid it was the condom.”

“No, sensible girls do prefer it, so they won’t get pregnant or catch a disease. They don’t realize that my smegma cures all venereal diseases, even AIDS. Of course when you conjured it right into my hand and it put itself on me, that would have been a giveaway.”

“I just couldn’t wait any longer. I had to have your delicious little peg in me. I’d rather have skipped the condom, but then I’d have had to change to incubus form and find a woman to screw.”

“I understand,” he agreed, removing the condom. “This enables you to remain female longer. Do you want this?”

“Of course I want it!” She took it from his hand. “Just not in me, yet. I’ll save it for another load. Tonight I mean to get more from you.”

“Welcome to stay the night.”

“I’ll try. But I’ll probably get too eager, and take a load direct, and then I’ll have to go.”

“It’s your nature,” he agreed tolerantly. The succubus had first approached him one day on the beach, seduced him, and discovered that his smegma had anti-venereal disease powers. She had introduced him to Tantamount Emdee, a lovely female doctor who had seduced him, drugged him, and stolen his penis for research. That had been the real start of his adventure: to get his natural penis back. Since then she had dropped by occasionally, to pick up a load, as she called it, and sometimes to talk. So they had become friends in a fashion, or at least lovers of convenience. It wasn’t as if he had any better use for his semen, and she could be a most evocative sexual partner when she tried.

She put her hand on his penis, giving it an exploratory squeeze. “By the way, I have a message for you.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“And miss a fine fuck? What do you take me for?” And of course the fuck was everything, for a succubus.

“What message?”

“It’s about your ideal woman.”

He laughed. “I thought you were my ideal woman.”

She rolled into him and kissed him. “You’re sweet. I don’t get much of that. No, this is the one you are destined to love, marry, and raise a dull family with.”

“I’d love that. But I don’t even have a girlfriend. Girls just laugh at my little member.”

“3.97 inches erect,” she agreed. “But you can put on any size you want.”

“But they’re all artificial. I prefer to stick with my original.”

She gave it a tweak, and it started to come to life. “Can’t blame you. It’s a little darling. And that smegma is something else.”

“So how can my ideal woman have a message for me, considering I don’t have any woman?”

“Oh, the message isn’t from her. It’s about her.” She kneaded his penis. “But first let’s see some more action here.”

His curiosity had been aroused more than his member. “First tell me about this woman.”

“No, first give me a load.”

“I’m spent, remember? Tell me.”

“Maybe some variety,” she said. She turned her back to him. “Put it in my ass.”

“You’re a demon. You don’t necessarily have a rectum.”

“I’ll make one for the occasion.” She nudged her plush buttocks against him. “Come on; it’s tight and hot. Shove it in there.”

Prior was tempted. He had never had that kind of sex with a woman who desired it, and wondered what it was like. Of course Suzie wasn’t exactly a woman, but she could certainly pass for one. Still, he didn’t want to be distracted from her tantalizing message. “Compromise,” he suggested. “I’ll put it in while you tell me.”

“Done.” She wiggled her bottom encouragingly. She was right: variety was stimulating. His member had stiffened again. He took it in his hand and guided it to her nether crack, finding the pucker there. He pushed, making a dent. And paused.

The succubus got the hint. “She was abducted and shanghaied to Fartingale.”

He poked the head of his penis in a fraction. “Farthingale?”

“Well, they do wear them there, but that’s not it. It’s fart-in-gale.”

He laughed, and that made his member pound farther into her tight aperture. “That’s a place? What do they do there, fart?”

“Yes. And she’s a woman of fine sensitivities, so you’d better go rescue her before she expires of embarrassment. As a matter of fact, there’s a time limit; you have to do it within one week, or lose her.”

Jokes could be dangerous when they turned literal. “So where is this smelly place?”

She pushed her rear at him, taking him all the way into her as her nether cheeks flattened against his groin. Her rectum felt pretty much like her vagina, which it probably was; she had merely tightened it up and faked it. It hardly mattered at this point; she had hold of him and wouldn’t let go until she had his ejaculation. That, again, was her nature.

But he held back, knowing that the moment she got the ejaculate she would depart, converting to incubus so as to seduce some hapless maiden. That, too, was her nature. He needed to get the information first.

“So how can I find this land, and find her? I don’t even know her name.” Because the idea had really taken hold of him. To rescue his ideal woman! She would surely be most grateful. Her channel massaged his member, evoking its urgency.

“The Eeg-trail leads to it. She’s called the Prize Maiden in the Tower. Something like that. She’ll be easy to find.”

The Eeg-trail. He had taken that to get to Mt. Icecream. “You sure? I never found a place like that.”

“It leads where’re you’re going, if the statues help. That’s all I know.” Now her bowel writhed peristaltically, forcing his orgasm.

He gave up his resistance and went to it with a will, withdrawing and thrusting, jetting his essence into her chamber. The feeling was intense despite coming so soon after his first effort.

“Ooo, that’s good,” she said. He knew she could literally taste the ejaculate. “Now get going on your mission, lover.”

“My e-mission,” he agreed, satisfied. He knew nothing about the woman, but was halfway smitten already.

Chapter 2—Fartingale

She found herself sitting on a floor, naked, holding her son protectively. Where was she? What had happened? The last she remembered, a strange man had knocked at her door while she was nursing her baby. Impatient to get rid of him, she had opened the door and told him: “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”

“I have come to take you away from all this,” he said. He was short, fat, homely, half bald, and oddly garbed in pleated pantaloons.

“Well, you can just take yourself away. I’m not interested.” She started to close the door.

The man turned around as if to depart. Then he bent forward, presenting his posterior to her. She realized with disgust that the pleats in his pants were actually strips of nothing; his pale bulging buttocks could be seen between them. There was a swishing sound, and the pleats fluttered.

Her mouth fell open in astonishment. The jerk was breaking wind at her!

Then a hideous odor assaulted her like a noxious cloud. She took a breath to protest, inadvertently inhaling the gas.

Now, suddenly, she was here. She had been gassed into unconsciousness by a rude crepitation and abducted. Now she was—where?

She looked around. She was in a chamber with curving reflective sides, so that she saw distortions of her body in floor, walls, and ceiling. This was like a glass lined cave, certainly an oddity. Why would anyone want to put her in a place like this?

She pondered why. She had been abducted. The man hadn’t asked her identity; he had simply come to her door and gassed her. It was possible that this was a random act; some terrorist organization needed a hostage and took the first that offered. Perhaps the first shapely woman that offered, at any rate; there was no guessing how many doors the man had knocked on before reaching hers. Was her identity known? It could have been garnered from her address or her papers, but for now she would assume that it wasn’t. Therefore she would do her best to remain anonymous, not even thinking of her identity, so that no ransom message could be sent to her family. It was a thin chance, but possible. So perhaps if she seemed to be of no value to her captor, he would in due course let her go. Meanwhile he had dumped her here in this unusual cave, out of sight.

She would be better off if she could escape before he returned. Of course she would be an obvious target naked; she had to find clothing. It was surely too much to hope that any had been left here, but at least she could look.

She got up, carrying her baby Chance, so named because she had conceived him by no planning on her part. He remained asleep, perhaps affected by the same gas that had knocked her out, but was breathing normally. That was just as well, as she didn’t want to alarm him. He was only three months old; the alarming aspects of life were best postponed until he was better able to handle them.

Now she got a better look at her reflection, and paused with surprise. It looked as if she were wearing a hood over her head, that completely covered it. Of course that wasn’t the case. She touched her face with her hand; there was no barrier there. Yet in the reflection her hand disappeared into a dark globe. Somehow there was the appearance of a comprehensive hood, as if her head were in a bag that concealed her face and hair, without any substance actually being there. How could this be accounted for?

Then she realized that the hood that veiled her face was illusion, and therefore probably magic. She had had little direct contact with magic, but had no doubt of its power. She had been magically hooded, to conceal her identity. That added a dimension to her predicament.

The chamber narrowed into a closure somewhat like a sphincter. In fact this seemed a lot like a huge bowel or intestine, and that could be its exit: the anus. Uncomfortable image. She turned away from it and explored the other direction. The cave twisted around and back on itself, narrowing and expanding, forming another chamber. Here was a rack on which hung clothing: a blouse, and a centuries out of date skirt, extended into a bell shape by a framework of hoops. And a pair of glassy slippers below.

She was supposed to wear this weird outfit? It seemed she had no choice, though whoever had set it out must have been a man, because the underwear had been forgotten. She really could have used it, because her pregnancy and nursing had made her a full-breasted woman, and the spreading skirt provided no protection from below.

She laid Chance carefully down, and donned the clothing, which fit well enough. The slippers were comfortable, but the skirt was like wearing a barrel: she couldn’t sit or lie down in it, or even get too close to a wall. Both blouse and skirt were made of the same glassy material as the slippers, flexible, comfortable, but translucent. She would hardly care to appear in public in such an outfit. Which was perhaps the point; she would be a marked woman the moment she departed this intestinal residence. She was stuck with it, for now.

There was a smaller outfit that fit Chance: a shirt, diapers, and pullover pants, also glassy. So the clothing had not been selected randomly; it was definitely for them. She wasn’t reassured; this suggested that her abduction wasn’t random; it had been planned.

She moved on, and found a bathroom area with a sink, shower, and toilet, all translucent. And beyond that was a kitchenette, with food on a counter. The food was a package of sausage that looked unpleasantly like dog turds, but she was hungry, so she heated some on the stove and ate it. The taste was better than the appearance; it seemed filling. It wasn’t actually sausage; more like a bean concoction.

In more ways than taste. Soon after eating, she felt her gut blowing up with gas. She hurried to the toilet to let it out—and the toilet turned out to be so constructed as to amplify the embarrassing sound. She was alone, except for the baby, but she found herself blushing.

Chance woke, and she nursed him. Before long he was gassy too; she was passing it along in her breast milk. What ill fortune, to be allergic to the local food.

In due course she came to the last chamber of her convoluted prison: a family room. It contained a translucent stuffed chair before a television set. She pondered briefly, then removed the unwieldy skirt and sat bare-bottomed in the chair. It was a relief.

The set came on, showing a printed screen. WELCOME TO FARTINGALE.

“Farthingale!” she exclaimed, recognizing the name of the ancient hoop skirt.

An announcer came on, wearing a costume similar to the one her abductor had worn. “That’s Fartingale without the letter H,” he said, as if answering her. “Fart-in-gale, the land of fabulous farts.”

She sat frozen, hardly believing what she was hearing. A land where they gloried in flatulence? This seemed impossible.

“This is an introduction to our windy culture,” the announcer continued. “Intended for tourists and other visitors. We certainly hope you will enjoy your stay here.”

“I am definitely not enjoying my confinement here,” she said severely. But of course the video didn’t care.

“Some folk from other regions regard us as primitive,” the announcer said. “But we prefer to think of ourselves as basic and friendly. Some call us poverty stricken, but we merely prefer not to waste resources on nonessential things. Consider, for example the matter of sanitary facilities. Why waste time and money building a toilet into every house, when it is so much easier to make one superior public privy for all to use?”

“A public privy!” she exclaimed.

“Consider the advantages,” the announcer blithely continued. “The central privy becomes the public gathering place, where news is disseminated, acquaintances are renewed, and wares are traded. What could be more convenient and compatible? Everybody has to shit, so it is guaranteed that every person will make an appearance in due course.”

“Sh—” she started, but was unable to say the coarse word. “Defecation.” This had to be a joke—a dirty joke.

The announcer gave way to a village scene. The houses looked like huge piles of animal manure, and perhaps that was what they were made of. She knew that in third world countries they often used dried ox manure for many things. People thronged the central street, the men in shirts and pantaloons, the women in blouses and farthingales. When two people met, they paused for brief dialog, but individual words could not be heard in the general hubbub.

“Here is a typical polite encounter,” the announcer said. The scene zoomed in on a man and woman meeting on the street.

The man bent slightly and his pleats whiffled. “May the farts be with you, sirree.”

The woman bobbed, and her hoop skirt amplified her own gastric effort. “And with you, sirrah.”

“I like your smell. Let’s fuck.”

“You’re pretty strong-winded yourself. Perhaps tomorrow.” The man nodded and moved on, as did the woman.

“His invitation,” the announcer explained, “is rhetorical; he doesn’t really want to fuck every woman he meets on the street. But he compliments her by suggesting that she is attractive enough to make him desire her. She in turn is not interested in fucking every man she encounters, so she demurs by suggesting a later tryst. Both understand that it is unlikely to take place.”

Despite her abhorrence, she was intrigued. As it happened, she knew something about sexual intercourse. “Suppose the man really does want to have nuptial relations with the woman?”

She had thought the video was one-way, but to her surprise it responded. “Then the man makes a counter-offer, suggesting immediacy. ‘Let’s fuck now, lovely sirree.’ If she is genuinely interested, they go into the public privy together and do it.” The picture showed the couple entering a genuine old fashioned privy structure, blowing out a couple of loud farts, and going at it. “If not, she demurs again: ‘Some other time, sirrah.’ He can not press the matter further without social awkwardness, so must bid her good farting and depart.”

“You answered my question!” she said, her amazement for the moment overriding her disgust at this dirty culture.

“Well, I’m magic, of course,” the announcer’s voice replied.

She realized that it was the video set talking, not a human person just off-camera. The man she had seen before had been just a model to show the outfit. “Now we come to the matter of food, as our couple eats out on a date. Most of it is ordinary, but some like it exotic.” The picture showed the man and woman sitting down to a meal of sausage. Except that closer inspection revealed that the sausages looked like nothing so much as human refuse. The rolls resembled blobs of horse manure, and there was a pitcher of what she hoped was lemonade, but looked like urine.

“That food,” she said.

“Ah, you noticed! Yes, this delicacy is crafted to resemble assorted turds in appearance and taste. It is of course wholesome and nutritious, but can hardly be distinguished from—”

“Next topic,” she said tightly.

“The food is gathered by specially trained workers.” The picture showed an old man with a shovel scooping up poop in an alley frequented by dogs. He delivered it to the cook, who fried it in a pan with seasoning. It looked exactly like small sausage, similar to what she had recently eaten.

She got up to turn off the set.

“My little joke,” the announcer said. “That isn’t really the source.”

“Then quit with the food,” she said grimly.

“After their delicious repast, they go on a sleigh ride.” The picture showed them on an open sleigh hauled by a single naked woman. There was no snow, but somehow the runners slid along the ground without apparent friction. More magic, of course. The woman had heavy breasts and stout thighs and seemed competent to haul it along. She wore a headband with the word PROSTITUTE. “The runners are lubricated by a film of soap,” the announcer explained helpfully.

“Oh, this really slays me,” the woman on the sleigh exclaimed. “What a great ride!”

The man burst into song. “Oh what fun it is to ride on a one whore soap an’ slay!”

That did it. She got up and marched on the TV.

“There is more you need to know,” the announcer said quickly. “I will continue my orientation presentation.”

But she had had more than enough for the present. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said, and turned the set off. She had learned that her abduction was probably not coincidental. She was here for a reason, and she wasn’t eager to learn that reason yet. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t like it. So if she could get away with delaying the presentation until she had a better strategy for escape, she would do it. Meanwhile her baby needed nursing.

Chapter 3—Spire

Prior woke with his decision made: he would go to rescue his ideal woman, whoever she might be—The Maiden in the Tower. The succubus might not really care for him as a person, but she had no reason to deceive him in something like this. He would be satisfied with even a less than ideal woman, provided she was shapely and obliging.

But first he would fetch the Spire, the cosmic dildo or phallic horn of plenty. Because it had enormous power and information, and armed with it he should be able to handle just about anything. He knew better than to go into a land accessed by the eeg-trail without solid protection. There was no telling what magical hazards there would be along the way.

He drove to a section of town he hadn’t visited in a year, and to the house of the lady penis doctor named Tantamount Emdee. He parked several blocks away, as he wanted to remain anonymous, and walked to the house. That was because he suspected he would not be welcome at that address.

It wasn’t there. Instead there was a huge dirty-white mound of gunk. Oh, yes—he had set the Spire on his formula of smegma and left it to jet fullblast. Tantamount had stolen his penis to study his anti-VD smegma; he had repaid her by giving her more of it than she could use. He was the only one who could turn it off. Evidently it had overflowed and buried her house in the intervening year. Served her right. But by this time her joy with all that research material might have become something akin to annoyance at its unremitting volume.

There was a steam shovel there, scooping out great chunks of solidified smegma and dumping it onto a truck. The mound had a gap in one side where the shovel had excavated, but the house still didn’t show. It was hard to keep up with the output of the Spire. Even if they got it all trucked away, how would they salvage the house? It would stink forever of spoiling smegma. His revenge had been more than adequate.

But now he needed to take back the Spire. That would cut off the flow and allow them to clear the property, in time. A year seemed sufficient to have made his point. If he ever encountered Tantamount again, she would surely be careful not to cross him anew.

He approached the truck driver, who was lounging in his cab, paging through a girlie magazine. “What’s up?”

The man glanced down at him. “You don’t know? You must be new to these parts.”

“I am,” Prior agreed. No sense in trying to explain his real connection; he might get arrested for creating a public nuisance. “This looks like an ambergris mine.”

“Richer than that. This stuff’s a universal cure for venereal disease. The doctor leased the rights to a drug company and moved out six months ago. The royalties must’ve made her rich by now.”

So Tantamount had gone commercial. Naturally she had appreciated the value of such a supply of such a substance. She must have retired and moved to a big-city penthouse. So his revenge had not been complete; instead of destroying her, he had made her wealthy. Well, that was the way it went.

But under that mound was the Spire. He had to get in there and fetch it. How was he to do that? The pile seemed pretty solid.

Still, there had been caves in Mount Icecream, and there could be caves here too. He walked around the mound, examining its surface. Sure enough, he found cracks in the hardening stuff. The constant addition of new smegma would be pushing up in the center, squeezing out to the sides, like lava in a volcano, forcing the outer layers to fracture and separate. He should be able to wedge inside, though he would get thoroughly grimed. Well, so be it.

He found a large vent and squeezed into it. The smell was not pretty, but he would wash when he was done. The crack twisted, narrowed, then widened as it came up against a wall of the house. The house had burst asunder, the walls shoved outward by the pressure of the burgeoning stuff within, and was now a wreck. But he was able to traverse the cavelike gaps and make his way to its one-time laboratory area where the Spire was mounted.

Except that the smegma had hardened into a vault covering the area, with only the continuing surge of new smegma at its apex. How was he to get past this? It seemed as hard as granite.

Then he saw a keyhole in the side. Unfortunately he didn’t have a suitable key.

Or did he? After a moment he realized that the region resembled a human vulva, with the hole where the vagina would be. That suggested a key of a special nature.

He checked his collection, and brought out a penis of the right configuration. He screwed it onto his socket. Then he imagined Tantamount with her skirt off and her bare legs spread. That brought his member stiffly erect.

He guided it into the crevice. It fit comfortably, but nothing happened. Oh. He thrust, withdrew, and thrust again, until he managed to produce a jet of semen. That softened the hole, and it melted. It continued to dissolve as he cleaned off his spent member and put it away.

Soon there was a door-sized opening in the vault. He climbed through. As he did, the vault collapsed; it had been defeated, so had no further reason to exist.

There it was: a device shaped like a foot-long horn, upright, with white fluid jetting from its tip. The force of the jet was sufficient to send it up several feet, where it caught on what remained of the upper story. There was just room to wriggle up to where he could put a hand on the shaft. Prior did so. His fingers circled it. “Spire, desist.” he said. Nothing changed. The off-white jet continued with unabated force. He tried to pull it off its mounting. It wouldn’t budge. This was an unexpected problem. The Spire had obeyed him after he defeated the demons of the Cherry Tree and took it. Why wasn’t it doing so now? Did it not recognize him? “Spire, I am Prior Gross. Desist the jet and come with me.” There was no effect. He realized that he was not communicating in the manner it understood. The Spire spoke only in gouts that entered the body of the one it addressed. He would have to do what he hated, and get a mouthful of smegma.

He nerved himself, then shoved his hand over the apex, blunting the power of the jet, put his mouth over it, and removed his hand.

The gout rammed into his mouth and down his throat, inflating him, it seemed, all the way to his anus. Yet it was a delightful infusion, for the Spire was the essence of potency.

I AM THE SPIRE, CREATED BY EGG, THE ELDEST GOD OF THE GALAXY.

Precisely. I am Prior Gross, who captured you at Mount Icecream a year ago.

Another inspiring gout distended him. I REMEMBER.

Prior removed his mouth from the tip, and it did not resume jetting. He cleared his throat with some effort, swallowing some smegma and spitting out the rest.

“I need your service again.” Then he put his tongue back on the tip.

This time the gout was smaller, a mere token. The Spire was evidently interested.

YOU MUST EARN IT.

“But I conquered you. You belong to me now.”

CORRECTION, MORTAL MAN. I AM THE TOOL OF EGG. YOU MERELY OBTAINED MY SERVICE FOR A SET PERIOD, NOW EXPIRED.

So it was like that. He would have to deal with the Spire on its own terms.

“How can I obtain your service for the next month?”

For that should suffice, whatever the outcome of his quest.

I CRAVE A BIT OF MORTAL EXPERIENCE.

“But you generated all the mortals of the galaxy, or at least their ancestors.”

AND ALL THE MATTER TOO. BUT THAT WAS SOME TIME AGO.

“About twelve billion years,” Prior agreed. “I can see how it might have gotten dull in the interim.”

MORTALS HAVE FLEETING EXISTENCES, BUT THEY COPULATE FREQUENTLY. I WANT SOME OF THAT. I LACK A MORTAL BODY. LEND ME YOURS.

It occurred to Prior that they could establish some overlapping interest.

“You mean I should screw you onto my socket and have at some women.”

COPULATE WITH SOME FEMALES, AMONG OTHERS.

Uh-oh. “Only females,” Prior said. “I won’t fuck males.”

AGREED. I WILL ASSIST YOU AS REQUIRED FOR THE DURATION OF OUR ASSOCIATION. YOU WILL INSERT ME INTO ANY AVAILABLE FEMALES.

Prior caught another problem. “But you are endlessly potent. You’ll want to spend the whole time, day and night, fucking women, and I won’t be able to get on with my quest. There has to be some limit.”

HALF TIME.

“So I must chase women during virtually all my waking hours? That won’t work either. How about one hour a day?”

AGREED.

That surprised him. “What’s the catch?”

ONE HOUR CUMULATIVE. IT CAN BE SPREAD OUT ACROSS THE DAY, A FEW MINUTES AT A TIME, FOR DIFFERENT FEMALES.

That did make a difference, but seemed fair. “However, women don’t come to me a dime a dozen. In fact the only good fuck I’ve had in the past month was with a succubus. I won’t be able to provide you with any except whores.”

PROSTITUTES WILL DO, BUT ARE NOT SUFFICIENT IN THEMSELVES. MERELY TOUCH ME TO THE LIVING SURFACE OF A FEMALE AND I WILL RENDER HER CONDUCIVE.

“I suppose I could hold you in my hand for that.”

NO. KEEP ME SCREWED ON FOR ACTION. I WANT TO EMBRACE THEM IN MORTAL FASHION AND FEEL THE LIVING FEELINGS.

“But that would make it too obvious. I’d get arrested for indecent exposure.”

I WILL PROVIDE THE ILLUSION OF COVERAGE. TOUCH FLESH AND PROCEED.

Prior remained dubious. “Well, I can try. But don’t blame me if it doesn’t work. Women can be very touchy—no pun—about public contacts. They don’t like getting groped.”

THEY WILL LIKE THIS, the Spire gouted confidently. DEAL?

“Deal,” Prior agreed, because he did need the Spire. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

PUT ME ON.

Prior opened his trousers and unscrewed his keyhole penis. This was the legacy of his association with Tantamount; her sister Oubliette had fitted him with the socket and set him up with the alternative equipment. He shook it out and put it in his member pocket. He had a number of artificial penises to go with his natural one, of different sizes and types, all of them with nerves so that they provided full sensation. He would hardly need them, now that he had the potent tool of the Eldest God of the Galaxy.

Then he lifted the Spire, which now came loose readily, and brought it to his crotch. It had a screw-on base that matched his socket, by no coincidence, because he had carried it that way before. He screwed it on. It projected rigidly a foot in front of him. “You need to shrink.”

DONE.

This time the gout nudged into Prior’s urethra just enough to convey its message. The long horn diminished and became flexible so that it would fit inside the trousers. He would use it for normal urination, but when the time for fornication came, it would provide its own potency. His flesh had grown around the socket, so that when a penis was attached, the connection was not apparent; any member he wore seemed to be his own. Not that he got a chance to show any of them off to women often, other than the succubus.

Now he had to make his way out of the pile, which was already settling down somewhat with the cessation of the Spire’s output. As he crawled, the Spire made a small gout of query.

WHAT IS THIS QUEST FOR WHICH YOU NEED MY ASSISTANCE?

“My ideal woman has been abducted to Fartingale. I need to rescue her. Do you know anything about that land?”

EVERYTHING. FARTS ARE THEIR UNIT OF CURRENCY. YOU WILL NEED TO PUT ME IN YOUR RECTUM ON OCCASION SO I CAN GENERATE WIND WITHOUT AROUSING SUSPICION.

“Up my ass!” Prior said, not pleased. But if this was the way of Fartingale, he was stuck for it. “They fart a lot there?”

YES. STATUS IS JUDGED BY PROFICIENCY. YOU WERE WISE TO ENLIST MY AID. I WILL MAKE YOU THE BLOWHARD CHAMPION.

“I just want to rescue my woman.”

THAT, TOO, the Spire agreed, emitting a small sample fart that startled Prior. But of course the Spire could emit anything, literally, in any quantity. THIS WILL BE A NICE CHALLENGE EVEN FOR MY POWERS, CONSIDERING THE NEED FOR SUBTLETY.

Oh, great! Subtle farting. By the time Prior wedged his way out of the mound, he had a much better idea of the challenge ahead.

Chapter 4—Prize

Next morning she showered, donned the only outfit available, nursed Chance, and considered breakfast. There was oatmeal, milk, eggs, juice, and fruit in the refrigerator. No dog-poop sausage or cowflop pie. Relieved, she ate well. The magic hood remained around her head, completely obscuring her features and hair. There was an additional oddity: when she wore it loose, as it was now, her hair was well beyond waist length. Yet none of it showed. She had rinsed it in the shower, and dried it with a towel; there was no doubt of its continued existence. And it was there, brushing past her bottom. But it was invisible. Many women could be identified largely by their tresses, and so could she; her captor had made sure this was ineffective.

Then the gas attack came. She rushed to the toilet to let it out, and again the sound was magnified unconscionably. She had no further doubt: the food was spiked to generate wind in the bowel. This was the land of Fartingale, where nether emissions were proudly advertised. She hated that, but seemed to have no choice: she had to eat. So she concentrated on releasing the air silently. The trick was to let it emerge without pressure, gently pulling on a buttock if necessary. Unfortunately the widely flaring skirt made it difficult for her to touch her posterior, so that some sounds squeaked out.

Chance, in contrast, was soon firing away with gusto. He seemed to think that a fart was an act of creation. Maybe she could drown him out with the TV. She turned it on. Words appeared on the screen: NAME. What was this? It hadn’t done this yesterday. Was her captor trying to trick her into identifying herself? Why conceal her face and hair, making her anonymous, then try to make her spoil it? It was almost as if her captor was teasing her. Well, she would use a nom de plume to foil whatever ploy he had in mind. If he wanted her identity, he would have to get it without her help.

What would do? She considered her situation and it came to her. “Veil,” she said.

“Thank you,” the announcer’s voice came, startling her again. “Now it is time for you to know your place in this scheme.”

“You actually admit it’s a scheme!” she exclaimed. “Indeed, I would like to know the reason for this atrocity.”

“We are a culture that loves contests,” the announcer continued imperturbably. “Anything will do, but those involving natural functions are particularly diverting. Folk don’t merely relieve themselves, they make a game of it. For example, pissing contests.”

She should have known this would quickly get ugly. “Thank you, I’m not interested.”

He ignored her. A picture came on the screen, showing two men standing before a slightly slanted, marked alley. “On your mark,” one said. “Get set. PISS!” And both aimed their penises, whose tips barely protruded from their pleated pantaloons, down the alley and let fly with strong streams of urine. The man on the left’s effort arced a good five feet before splashing on the pavement. The man of the right nevertheless had a stronger urge; his urine struck several inches beyond. “Damn, you win again,” the first man said. “Lunch is on me.”

“You just need to tighten your bladder,” the other said as they completed their voidings, pulled in their members and walked away. Veil had watched the disgusting exhibition despite her best intention.

“Men will be little boys,” she said.

“And women,” the announcer said. “Often they can arrange for male sponsors. Here is a more advanced contest.”

“I’m not interested.” But she was; there was a subterranean fascination in this gaucherie. Two pretty women walked to an elevated pedestal, lifted their skirts high, sat on the pedestal, leaned back, spread their legs, opened their clefts, and let fly with twin streams of urine. Everything was visible from clitoris to anus. This time the one on the left jetted farther. There was applause, and now the scene widened to show a ring of men watching.

The women finished their voidings, wiped themselves off, and stood, letting their farthingales drop back into place. “I choose—you,” the winner said, pointing to the handsomest of the men. “And you go with him.” She pointed to the ugliest man. The other woman grimaced.

“I don’t understand,” Veil said. “The contest was for dominance,” the announcer explained. “The women are rivals, so they settled it the conventional way, with a contest. The winner gets to have sex with the man they both desired. The loser is stuck with the one neither desires. All the men are amenable, of course; they are stimulated by the sight of women urinating.”

Veil knew a good deal more about sex than she cared to advertise in this situation, and agreed: the sight of women’s bare spread thighs excited men, and female urination could be a phenomenal male turn-on. Such contests were thus designed to ensure that the spectators would be eager for sex.

The victorious woman took her man’s arm and guided him into the public privy. “I expect the best fucking of my life,” she told him as they disappeared.

“Come on honey,” the ugly man said, approaching the losing woman. She sighed and got back on the pedestal, her skirt lifted. It was high enough so that his standing crotch was the same height as her seated one. He pulled his hard penis through the slit in his pantaloons and wedged it into her open vagina. He shoved, and it penetrated visibly. In a moment he was at full depth and pumping vigorously. The woman made no pretense of enjoying it; she leaned back, bracing herself with her hands behind her. The man climaxed, breathing hard, almost knocking her back with the power of his thrusts. Soon he was spent, and pulled out, his member disappearing in his pantaloons. The spectators applauded again, clearly appreciative of his performance. Then the man walked away, and the crowd dispersed.

“I don’t—” Veil began.

“The loser might renege,” the announcer explained. “So she has to perform in public. That’s part of her penalty for losing. She doesn’t have to pretend to like it; in fact she is expected to show resignation or aversion. Men like seeing that too, and it makes the stakes sufficient to guarantee that each contestant puts forth her best effort.”

“It’s legalized rape,” Veil snapped.

“Precisely. Were you in such a contest, you would surely do your best to win.”

“I would never indulge in such an atrocious exhibition!”

“Assuming you had a choice.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“In a moment. There is more to clarify about the contests.”

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“You will nevertheless hear it.”

“And if I simply turn you off?”

“You won’t do that.” Veil reached forward and turned the switch. Nothing happened; it had been overridden. So it was like that. “And if I go into another room and cover my ears?”

“Allow me to pose an academic question. How much do you value your son?”

So Chance was hostage for her cooperation. They could readily gas her again and take him. Her freedom was sharply limited. “Clarify the contests,” she agreed grimly.

Another picture appeared. This time a man and a woman were bending down to touch the pavement with their hands, their posteriors exposed. “We have seen pissing contests,” the announcer said, reverting to lecture mode. “This is a shitting contest. The winner will get to dictate the type of sex they have this night. He wants friendly; she wants bondage.”

“Defecation? This should surely turn both of them off.”

“Not in Fartingale. Natural functions are a pleasant part of life. Fecal contests can be for volume, type, distance, or art. This one is for distance.”

She refrained from inquiring about fecal art, certain she would not like

the answer. “Distance! The material will simply drop to the ground.”

“Not necessarily. Observe.”

The scene approached, until there was a close view of both puckered anuses. “Ready, set, fire!” Two small globular turds shot out of the rectums. His struck the ground just over a yard distant, hers just under. The man had won.

Veil closed her open mouth. “Gas propelled,” she said, catching on.

“Farts are legitimate propellant,” the announcer agreed. “It requires internal skill to hold gas pressure behind a turd.”

Obviously so. “At least it doesn’t leave much of a mess,” she said distastefully.

“There are mess contests too. Also shape contests.”

“Shape?” Her question was out before she managed to stifle it. A new picture appeared. A man bared his bottom, bent over, and strained. His anus eased open and a greenish brown turd emerged. This was no flying ball; it turned out to be a long one, tapering as it came, until it fell to the ground. It wriggled away, snakelike.

“Animated turds,” the announcer explained. “Most are snakelike, but some are like other animals, including small men. Girls really scream when a turd doll chases after them demanding a kiss.”

Veil sighed. There was evidently no end to this disgusting nonsense. “What else are you determined to show me?”

“The third type of contest is the most popular: farting. It has the greatest number of divisions and classes. Champion farters are held in the highest popular esteem. Amplitude is measured on the Rectum Scale.”

Like a gaseous earthquake. Another dirty pun. Veil sighed. “And you are going to see that I observe every type in action?”

“There is no need; you understand the principle.”

She was surprised. “Now you will tell me what my place in this revolting scheme is?”

“In due course. First you need to become better acquainted with our culture.”

“I am more than sufficiently acquainted with it already.”

“You may think you are, but this could be like the woman who thought she was ready to have intercourse with a demon.”

This intrigued her, irritatingly. “Oh?”

A picture of a slender young woman appeared on the screen. “Come to me, my demon lover,” she breathed, removing her farthingale. The demon appeared. He was big and muscular, but had a rather small penis.

“At your service, mortal piece,” he said.

The woman lay on a bed that appeared and spread her slender legs, revealing her tight genital region. “Put it in there, lover.”

“Do you think it will fit?” The demon’s member was growing.

She laughed. “Of course it will fit! Get on with it.”

The demon obliged. But by now his phallus was huge, about eight inches long and broad in proportion. He put it to her slit, adjusted its orientation, and shoved, but the aperture was not large enough. “It’s too big.”

The girl had not looked at the implement since lying down, and evidently didn’t realize how the situation had changed. “Nonsense. Just hammer it in harder.”

The demon gave a powerful thrust, and the member forged in all the way, disappearing inside her. “There!”

And the thin woman split into two halves. There was one leg, hip, and breast to the left, and a similar set to the right, united only at her head. She had been cleaved apart by the wedge of his entry. She looked surprised.

Veil knew it was fake, because there was no blood and the cleavage was too clean. “Very funny,” she said. “And do you have any jokes on men?”

Immediately a new picture came on. This was of a young man coming to a complex of clinics. “Time to get my teeth cleaned,” he said. “I think this is the right address.”

He entered the office. The woman at the desk looked up. “Yes?”

“I’m here for hygiene.”

“You’re in luck; we have an opening now.” She showed him into the chamber and he sat in the reclining chair. “She’ll be right with you, sirrah.”

In a moment the sweet-faced hygienist arrived. She set out her instruments, making small talk. Then folded padded arm and leg clamps on the man’s limbs and touched a button. The chair turned over so that he was suspended inverted. She opened a hatch that was now over his posterior. She pulled down his pants, baring his bottom.

“Hey!” he exclaimed.

“Have no concern sirrah,” she said, taking a small brush to his puckered anus. “I am fully qualified for anal hygiene.”

“But I came for oral hygiene!”

“Oh? That’s the next office.” She took a metal pick to his pucker, cleaning out a turd fragment. “You really should brush after every evacuation, so there’s no chance for infection.” She shot a jet of water into the hole, then took it back up with a suction hose. “You really need a cleaning, sirrah. Fortunately we have a special on enemas this week.”

“But I don’t want—”

She poked a larger nozzle in. There was the gurgle of soapy water. “You’ll feel like a new man, once all that nasty old refuse is cleaned out.”

“But—”

“Of course we’ll clean your butt,” she agreed, taking a shoeshine brush to it. In moments his buttocks shined.

“Enough,” Veil said. “I believe I am ready to hear about my own situation here.”

The picture faded. “You are in a contest. You are the Prize Maiden of the Week.”

“Apart from the evident fact that I’m hardly a maiden, because I’m nursing my baby, what is this contest? I absolutely refuse to urinate or defecate before gawking men.”

“Assuming you have a choice.” It sounded worse the second time.

“What contest?”

“Each week a comely anonymous maiden is confined to the glass tower, the prize for the victorious contestant. She will be his or her sex slave for the following year.”

“His or her?”

“We are an equal opportunity society. If a woman wants a woman, she is welcome to compete.”

“And if the maiden declines to indulge in this—this sex slavery?”

“Few do. Most regard it as an honor. A significant portion of our roster is filled by local volunteers. If one gets pregnant, she has a claim of marriage on the man.”

“And those few who don’t consider it an honor?”

“They learn pretense, unless the man prefers unwillingness.”

Legalized rape, again. They could drug her, or simply threaten her baby. She would cooperate, or else. “And you say I am this week’s prize maiden?” She hoped she had somehow misheard.

“Correct. You are on display, and the first contestant has been selected.”

“Already!”

“It started yesterday. Do you wish to see the man?”

“No!” But she knew it didn’t matter. The mystery was clarifying. Each week they went out somewhere and persuaded or abducted a comely woman, and she was the current one. It seemed odd that they would take one with a baby, as most men preferred, as it had been put, maidens. Maybe it represented variety. Probably some were giggly teens, while others were mature women such as herself. She was 33, but had kept herself in shape with diet and exercise. Perhaps that had been her undoing. “There will be seven final contestants?”

“In a manner. Each will be a day’s winner. You will choose one of them. That is why you might prefer to watch them contest; it may offer clues to their nature.”

“I must choose one, to became a sex slave for,” she said. “I am not allowed to turn them all down?”

“You are allowed, but then you go instead to the ogre.” A picture appeared of a huge hairy apelike creature rattling his cage and fondling his enormous genital member. “You will be put into his cage. If you survive the year, you will be released.”

She would choose one of the contestants. “Suppose I choose one, then discover I can’t endure it?”

“You will be assigned to the runner up, and your year will begin again. If you have a problem with him, you will start a year with the third. If you should happen to run through them all, you will finish with the ogre.”

It would be best to choose well the first time. They had their system pretty well worked out; maidens were not expected to balk. “You said I am on display?”

“In this manner.” A new picture appeared. This one was of a standing woman, naked, her flesh translucent. As the camera approached, it became apparent that this was a glassy statue, with the innards visible. There were bones in the limbs and organs in the torso. And in the center, in the looping intestinal tract, was a suite of rooms. And a woman with a baby. Herself.

Appalled, she watched herself of the prior day, nursing her baby, dressing in transparent clothing, exploring the chambers, eating, hurrying to the transparent toilet. She saw her own bottom from below, and heard her amplified breaking of wind. She had no secrets from the public, other than her face. She was the prize maiden, on display for every man who might be interested, and evidently some were. Nobody cared about her background; she was comely and available, perforce. She would be completely amenable to whatever sexual inclinations the man of her choice had. She would also openly piss and shit and fart at his command, for this was the land of open natural functions. For a full year. Or else. If this wasn’t hell, it was a reasonable facsimile.

Chapter 5—Now

Prior walked away from Mount Smegma, wanting a shower. It might be his own formula, but it stank. He’d have to launder his clothes, and maybe his car too. There was a woman standing at a bus stop.

HER the Spire gouted.

“But she’s forty if she’s a day,” Prior protested. “And getting stout. You can do better.” The truth was he wanted to clean up before getting into any complications.

SHE’S CLOSE.

“No, she’ll have to wait. My stench would drive her away.”

NOW. And the Spire gouted something into him that robbed him of his volition. He had to do it, on his own or as a zombie.

“Okay,” he muttered, and his volition returned. “But she’s going to flee, I tell you.” He strode toward the woman. She winded him and turned to stare disapprovingly. He nerved himself and spoke. “I—” he said, fighting his inclination to flee himself. “I want to— to have sex with you.”

“Never, you stench that walks like an ape. Stay away from me.”

“She doesn’t want to—” Prior murmured.

NOW. The Spire was expanding to its full length, projecting from his clothing. Prior stepped toward her.

The woman, alarmed, stepped back. “I’ll call the police!” He reached for her. She turned and ran, but was hobbled by her high heels. He lunged and caught her from behind.

“Unhand me, you filthy pervert!” she cried. Prior hauled up her skirt and jammed the erect Spire against her thigh. She froze for an instant, then melted.

“Quickly, please.” She hoisted her skirt up the rest of the way and labored to get her panties down. He was still behind her. It didn’t matter. The Spire quested across her thigh, up into her stout posterior, and found her crevice. It nudged to her suddenly eager vagina. She leaned forward and shoved back as it did so, facilitating the connection. In a moment it was buried half its length, which was all any normal woman could accommodate. But she was still pushing, trying womanfully to take it all in. The Spire had a marvelously conducive facility.

Prior had full sensation. The woman’s bottom was solid, but the anatomy was all there, and he felt the vagina closing around the Spire as if it were his own flesh. He also felt the Spire changing shape, shortening and thickening, so as to be able to fit all of itself into the woman. She was a bit loose, but the added thickness made her become tight. The tip nudged her cervix, massaging it; sensation was so specific that it was like a map of the interior.

“More! More!” she gasped, still shoving back as ably as she could man age in this standing position. Then she spied a telephone pole, grabbed on to it, and used it as a brace. “More!”

Prior was now into it himself, experientially speaking, and did his best to oblige. He reached around her, caught the pole, and hauled his crotch hard into her. Now, suitably anchored, the Spire did its business. It sent Prior a gutwrenching orgasm and gouted so forcefully that the woman was lifted partway into the air. But she jammed against the pole and brought herself down to take it all in again. Only to be met by another gout, that not only lifted her, but squeezed seminal fluid out around the tight connection.

“Ooo!” she groaned, going into her own orgasm. Her vagina clenched spasmodically, squeezing out more fluid. But as it relaxed, the third gout come, distending it yet again.

This was too much. She rose right off the Spire and came down on her feet, the pale jelly pouring out. She had been heaved clear of the member. She scrambled to get back on it, her crotch dripping. There was a honk. The bus was coming! “Oh, dear!” the woman said. They hastily covered up. The Spire disappeared into Prior’s pants, and the woman jerked up her panties and jerked down her skirt. Gunk was still drooling from her, pooling in the panties, but she didn’t seem to notice. By the time the bus stopped, she was looking prim.

“We must meet again, soon,” she whispered to Prior as she stepped into the bus. Then, to the front passengers who were staring, not quite sure of what they had seen: “I had a fainting spell. The kind gentleman managed to catch me and hold me upright. I’m all right now.” She paid the toll and took a seat. Prior almost thought he heard a squish as she did so; the Spire had really filled her up.

SHE WON’T TELL, the Spire gouted. SHE LIKED IT TOO WELL. I MADE SURE OF THAT.

It had nevertheless been a close call, Prior thought as the bus pulled away. The Spire could have gotten him into real trouble. Prior turned to go to his car, but the Spire made him pause.

WHAT IS THAT? Apparently it could see through his eyes.

He looked. “It’s a hospital. For sick or injured people. Nothing of interest there.”

WE’LL SEE. Oh, no! The Spire wanted to explore.

“I really don’t recommend it.”

NOW.

So Prior walked toward the hospital. A businesslike nurse pushing a gurney intercepted him at the side entrance. “You can’t come in here. Go to the front.”

Prior stepped close to her. “It’s my hand,” he said. “Feel.” He caught her hand and drew it down to his crotch.

“What are you trying to do?” she demanded outraged. Then her hand touched the Spire. “Come on in,” she said, drawing him in through the door. The cosmic dildo really did have the magic touch.

“I was just going to look around,” Prior said.

“Lie down on this,” she said, pushing him onto the gurney. “They’ll think you’re a patient.”

“But I’m not—”

She got him flat on his back, then climbed onto him, hitching up her uniform skirt. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Just do it. Fast.”

“But—”

She stifled him with a fierce kiss, meanwhile squirming around to get her crotch against his. The Spire sprang up, a prehensile instrument, sliding between her legs and into her rear. It wedged past her underwear and into her cleft. “That’s it,” she said. “Put it right in deep. What a divine implement!”

The Spire obliged. It tunneled into her hole, and she held her place, making sure it had good lodging. The Spire had just spouted in another woman, but it was inexhaustible; it could do this, literally, indefinitely. And Prior had all its feeling. This vagina was tighter than the other, and firm throughout. This time the Spire had the wit to be smaller, so that it required no reshaping to bury itself to the hilt.

“Now! Now!” the nurse exclaimed, wriggling urgently, her effort to oblige the potent horn causing the gurney to start rolling down the hall.

Prior responded with a heave. He couldn’t help it; the Spire was working him up to another orgasm.

“Yes! Yes!” the nurse said as the Spire commenced pumping. She contracted her bottom around it, getting all the feel of it she possibly could.

The Spire gouted. Prior felt the bolus pass through the penile length and pressure into the chamber like thick goo from a grease gun.

“What’s going on?” a male voice demanded.

“Emergency mouth to mouth resuscitation,” the nurse gasped, and pressed her mouth back on Prior’s mouth.

“Uh, okay,” the orderly said as the gurney rolled on past him. Fortunately the nurse’s skirt was down behind, concealing the real action.

Meanwhile the Spire continued gouting, sending pulse after pulse into the hole. Prior felt each one as if it were his own, and perhaps he was contributing a driblet of semen, because he was certainly in the throes of an extended climax.

“Oh, I’m filled, I’m filled!” the nurse gasped in ecstasy. “What an eruption!” She was hardly exaggerating; the Spire must have shoved a pint of viscous elixir into her. It was squeezing out and soaking his crotch. He knew what she was feeling, because it had a warm rapture throughout, making his skin tingle with delight. The effect would be magnified inside her distended vagina.

The gurney came up against a swinging door and barged through.

“Oh, God, we drifted into the morgue!” the nurse whispered. “Play dead!”

“Hey!” a man protested, appearing form a recess. “What are you doing?”

“Just delivering a fresh cadaver, doctor,” the nurse said. She scrambled off Prior, drawing the front of her skirt down. “All yours.”

“It stinks,” the doctor said. “What did it die of, suffocation in Limburger cheese?”

The nurse forced a laugh. “Something like that.” She shoved the gurney into a curtained alcove and drew the curtain across, hiding Prior for the nonce. “Do you have a moment? Let’s take a break.”

“From that stench? You got it.” Doctor and nurse departed; Prior heard the door swing closed behind them. Women, he realized, were naturals at covering up.

He got hastily off the gurney, ready to make his escape in the time and privacy the nurse had made for him. Of course she was covering her own ass, so to speak; she wanted him to get out so she wouldn’t have to explain anything. He was glad to oblige.

He didn’t want to follow the route they had taken, lest he encounter them again, so he went the other way, though a door into another chamber. This one was cold, with several curtained niches. In each niche was a corpse. He didn’t want to stay here long!

He was about to open the next door, but heard footsteps beyond it. He dodged back into the nearest niche and jerked the curtain across. He would hide, and resume his escape when the other person passed on by.

But the other did not go on. He—the tread sounded male—paused out side the closed niche. “What’s up, doctor?” he inquired. Yes, the voice was male. The closed curtain must signal that someone was there. “Just inspecting a new cadaver, doctor,” Prior replied.

“Good idea.” The doctor went to the next niche. “Might as well get a notion what we’re in for, next dissection class. This one looks good; how about yours?”

Prior looked at the corpse. It was a naked young woman lying supine in death, rather pretty, like a princess in a century-long trance. “Good enough,” Prior said.

NOW.

Prior froze for an instant. The Spire wanted to have sex with the cadaver?

“No!” he protested.

“What’s that?” the doctor inquired.

“Uh, nothing really,” Prior said. “It’s just that this is a young woman. It seems a shame to cut her up.”

“I know what you mean. But all the cadavers are here for the demonstration lab. If we don’t carve them, someone else will.”

NOW, the Spire repeated, and sent back a small dose that forced Prior to climb onto the woman. He tried to fight it, but could not; the Spire had control. Prior set himself full length over the corpse and the Spire angled down, seeking her genital region.

“You okay there?” the doctor inquired. “Need any help?”

“No, not at all,” Prior said quickly as his willful penis lodged in the cold cleft and heated it. “Just—just a moment of nausea. It will pass.”

“Occupational hazard,” the doctor agreed. The tip of the member found the frozen aperture and squirted out a jet of hot fluid, thawing it. Then it wedged into the crevice, melting its way inside. Prior realized that the Spire was going to complete the act regardless of the complications this could make for its human host. He had to cover whatever sounds there might be, and keep the doctor distracted until it was done and he could escape.

So he talked. His mind scrambled madly for something to say that might divert a doctor. He remembered a joke. With luck the doctor wouldn’t have heard it before.

“Reminds me of a story,” he said.

“I don’t know whether it’s true. The Dean of Doctors called in a handsome young doctor who was new to the hospital.

‘Smith,’ he said, ‘I have a special mission for you, if you are amenable.’

‘Of course, sir,” Dr. Smith agreed, because he was as eager as the next for a promotion.”

“Aren’t we all,” the adjacent doctor agreed.

The Spire was a good inch into the frigid woman, and such was its power of persuasion that she seemed to be thawing throughout. Prior could almost swear he felt a faint pulsing in her tight channel. But he had to focus on his story, because it would be utter disaster to be discovered doing what he was doing. He hoped the phallic horn finished before the story did.

“‘As you know, we have a strict health policy here,’ the Dean said.

‘Every member of our staff must pass an annual physical. But some are resistive. It is notorious that doctors often take worse care of themselves than they do of their patients. I don’t want disharmony, so rather than force the issue, I am resorting to a slight subterfuge. Do you know Dr. Jones?’

‘The luscious lady internist?’ Smith asked. ‘I mean, the comely young doctor? We have a nodding acquaintance.’

‘I am concerned that she has not performed her breast self examination regularly,’ the Dean said.

‘It is a matter I hesitate to broach to her directly, lest she assume I have some illicit motive.’

‘Understandable,’ Smith said, glad to agree.”

“You wouldn’t be referring to Miss Johnson, the sexy plastic surgeon, by any chance?” the doctor asked.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Prior said piously.

“‘I want you to ask Miss Jones out,’ the Dean said.

‘Funds will be made available for a really nice dinner date. Dine her, wine her, and cap the evening with an intimate liaison. In the course of that, give her breasts a thorough checking for untoward lumps or any other indication of incipient cancer. With luck, she will never catch on to your underlying motive.’

‘She’ll think it’s my way of lovemaking!’ Smith said, understanding. ‘What a novel idea! Of course I’ll do it, for the good of the hospital.’

‘Very good,’ the Dean agreed. ‘Report to me the morning after. I shall be most pleased if you accomplish this chore circumspectly.’

‘I will do my best, in every respect,’ Smith agreed, visions or rapid promotion alternating with visions of the lovely Miss Jones in bed.”

“I wonder if that would work with Miss Johnson?” the doctor mused. “As far as I know, no staffer has bedded her yet. It seems a real waste.”

Now the Spire had forged all the way into the frigid channel, and was buried to the hilt. It began working up for the first gout. Prior had to admit that the shapely cadaver seemed receptive. Her breasts were quivering. That was probably just the effect of the throbbing in her vagina, radiating out through her stiff torso, but he wondered. The Spire had phenomenal magical abilities.

But he had to keep talking.

“A few days passed. Then Dr. Smith reported to the dean’s office. ‘You will be happy to know that there is absolutely no evidence of breast cancer in Doctor Jones,’ he reported.

‘I am gratified to hear that,’ the Dean said. ‘You have done excellent work, Smith, and I will remember.’

‘You’re welcome,” Smith said. ‘In fact it was a pleasure.’ He paused. ‘But I must say, she has a weird way of making love. It was fun, but a surprise.’

‘We must learn to put up with oddities in the performance of our necessary duties,’ the Dean said.”

“If I got in bed with Miss Johnson, I wouldn’t care how weird she wanted it,” the doctor said. The Spire gouted. The liquid pressured into the aperture, giving Prior another phenomenal orgasm. Even the corpse seemed to appreciate it, closing tightly around the erupting member, enhancing the pleasure.

“Pleased, Smith departed. Shortly thereafter, the Dean had another visitor. ‘Why hello, Dr. Jones,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

‘You will be happy to know that I have completed your assignment,’ the shapely lady doctor said. ‘There is no evidence of testicular or prostate cancer in Dr. Smith.’”

The adjacent doctor’s laugh coincided with the Spire’s final gout into the corpse.

“Turnabout!” the doctor said. “I’ll have to tell that one to Dr. Johnson. Maybe it’ll make the luscious creature amenable.” He hurried away.

That gave Prior the chance to withdraw from the corpse’s heated cleft and get off her. She seemed to have a frozen smile on her face that he didn’t think had been there before. Now he could finally make his escape. Then he paused, observing the pool of viscous substance oozing from her genital aperture. “They’ll see that! It’ll incriminate me. I’ve got to clean it up.”

NO NEED, the spire gouted reassuringly. I FILLED HER WITH EMBALMING FLUID.

Prior had to laugh, somewhat shamefacedly. He found a sponge, mopped up what he could, tossed the sponge into a waste basket, and pulled open the curtain. He went out the door, and was soon out of the backside of the hospital.

And there was a uniformed meter maid ticketing his car for illicit parking. She wore full length trousers; no way to touch her thigh with the Spire.

TOUCH A DAB TO HER EAR the Spire gouted.

Prior reached down to catch the dab of goo at the end of the member, holding it on two fingers. “Don’t give me a ticket!” he called as he approached.

“Tough beans, mister,” the maid said. “It’s done.” Prior extended his hand toward her head. She tried to pull away, uncertain of his intent, but he scored on her ear. The goo smeared into the auditory hole.

The change was instant. “Music to my ear,” she said in wonder. “Come on, mister let’s have it.” She put her hands to her belt, dropped her pants and panties, and bent across the hood of the car with her bared bottom toward him, the labia parting to provide clear access. “Now.”

That was the Spire talking. Prior put the tip to her open crevice, stroked it delicately along the channel, then paused.

“About that ticket,” he said. She pulled it from her pocket and tore it in half.

“What ticket?” That would do. The Spire found the place and slid in halfway, pulsing like a motor on idle. “And no report on this incident.”

“No report!” she said eagerly. “Give it to me!” He rammed the member home. It was gouting even as he pumped, driving thick substance into her. “Aaah!” she said, transported. “What a magic rod!”

She was literally correct, though she didn’t know it. Prior let her have it until the stuff was squeezing out as fast as it was gouting in, drooling down to soak her pants. Then he pulled out. The last gout spattered across her anus and slid down along her crack like corn syrup between steaming pancakes.

“There too!” she cried desperately. “Put it in, put it in!” She put her two hands back and pulled her buttocks apart, making her sphincter fully accessible.

Oh? Very well. He set the tip at the wet pucker and pressed it in just far enough to make the connection. Another gout pumped through the tight closure, shooting its ejaculate inside. Prior almost thought he heard a splat as it struck the farther wall of her chamber. The shaft followed it in, lubricated by its own production, until it was fully embedded, still jetting gout after gout. He held it there, waiting for her to cry enough, but she didn’t; she would take all he cared to give. The rectum was far more capacious than the vagina, extending on back into the colon, and the stuff was infusing her lower intestinal tract. He was satisfied, because each gout was another surge of his own extended orgasm; the Spire was delivering the sheer joy of sex to both of them. Never before had he had a climax as long as this.

“Oooh!” she sighed as the deific spigot filled her up. Her anus clenched convulsively with her own continuing orgasm, swallowing the input, and her plump buttocks flexed as if she were running up an endless flight of steps. All of it helped his effort; this was a living, tensing ass. It was a pleasure to stretch it, quite apart from the long climax.

Finally it would take no more; driblets were squeezing out around the shaft. “Pucker it,” Prior said. “I’m pulling out.”

She did so, closing as the Spire slid slowly clear of the hole, and only a little was lost. “Thank you!” she gasped, and straightened up. Her belly was distended as though she were pregnant, from the sheer mass of protoplasm she had taken in, but she was smiling. “I’ll never let this go!”

Prior suspected she would have to, eventually; her body could absorb only so much, perhaps digesting it, and the rest would come out in a series of exotic defecations. But she had certainly had her joy of the occasion; it was a fancy price for the destruction of one measly parking ticket.

She pulled up her pants, not even noticing their sopping condition. “What’s your address? I want to spend the night with you.”

“Sorry,” Prior said. “I have to get home and clean up.” He got into his car and drove off, leaving her standing there trying to get her belt to fit around her bulging midriff. He was curious. “Will all that stuff make her sick?”

NO, the Spire gouted. IT WILL LEAVE HER IN ECSTASY AS LONG AS IT LASTS, AND EVERY DEFECATION WILL THRILL HER ANEW.

Prior was satisfied with that. He didn’t wish the woman any ill. Let her have all the orgasmic shitting she wanted. But it was time to put his foot down, as it were. “You’ve had your fun with four women and gouted a lot of gout. Tomorrow we go to Fartingale.”

AGREED. WE’LL FORNICATE THERE TOO.

Prior was sure they would.

Chapter 6—Plea

Veil struggled with herself. Now she knew she was on display all the time, day and night, her every action open to public view, even her natural functions. It was horrible, but she was stuck with it. She was the Maiden in the Tower, the prize for one of the men who won the privilege of taking her in sexual slavery for a year. What was she to do?

First she would stop putting on a show for the monsters. She had to eat, so as to be healthy enough to nurse Chance; she was not going to let him suffer. That meant she would continue to expel clouds of intestinal gas. But she could do that silently, and when she had something of greater substance to do on the toilet, she could make it quick and without any flourish. The rest of the time she would simply sit still.

Except that she had to exercise to keep her body fit. She had put on flesh during her pregnancy, and was carefully working it off. She had been blessed with a natural hourglass figure, and intended to keep it that way, even if it did make her more of a sexual object. She couldn’t stand to become pudgy or even fat, whatever the cost. Like cleanliness, health was essential.

So she did her calisthenic routine, stretching and flexing. If this made her more appealing to sundry voyeurs, so be it; it was a necessary sacrifice. Because it was warm, and the clumsy clothing got in her way, she did it in the nude. That meant that the peeping Toms, Dicks, and Harrys would get some pretty special sneak peeks as she lifted her legs or bent over. Surely they already knew the nature of female anatomy. But this was the extent of the illicit treat she would provide them. With luck they would soon be bored by the repetitious nature of the routine.

Then she covered herself and sat with Chance in the easy chair. She turned on the TV. The announcer had been relegated to a separate channel; now she could watch what she wanted. So instead of a titillating Nude on Toilet, they would see a dull Woman Watching TV. It served them right. But if she had been inclined to any smugness about her policy, it was soon vanquished. All of the channels featured programs she hardly cared to watch. One was herself, watching herself watching herself, her full breasts heaving gently beneath the black blob that masked her head. Another was news about the rivalry of men interested in the Maiden in the Tower. Another was pornography, with men endlessly plumbing women, women endlessly eager for the plumbing; the main variety was in the hairdos of the women and the positions of the sex. Another was children’s stories, but not of the kind she cared to expose Chance to; they were filthy if not downright obscene.

Yet those were her choices. She turned it off. But then Chance starting fussing; the pictures, of whatever nature, were a distraction for him. So she turned it on to the children’s channel, with bad grace. Her captors had her pretty well boxed in, leaving her choices between bad and worse. With luck, Chance would soon fall asleep, and she could ignore the screen.

“This is the story of the Littlest Turd,” a dulcet female voice said. “He was unhappy, because every time the toilet flushed, the big turds jammed in and crowded him out. They made it to the Great Sewer in the Sea, where the stench was truly wonderful. He couldn’t get flushed, and was left alone in the bowl. He hoped that maybe one of the people beyond the bowl would want to play with him, but they never touched him. It was awful, and he was very unhappy. He just cried all day.”

The picture closed in on the toilet, magnifying the Littlest Turd until it almost filled the screen. There was a crude face at one end, with sad eyes crying urine-yellow tears. There was no explanation of how a turd floating in water could show tears; presumably children didn’t care about such details.

Chance was watching with interest. She doubted he understood much, but evidently he identified with another baby, even one like this.

“How he wished he could be a Big Turd,” the gentle voice continued. “He had a cousin who was so big he had had to be removed from the man’s gut by a Caesarian section operation. It weighed twelve kilograms. That was surely the King of Turds! But the Littlest Turd was hardly more than a marble. He had emerged from the anus almost as an afterthought, unnoticed.”

The turd floated in the water, looking miserable. “Then he realized that he would get nowhere, depending on others to treat him fairly,” the voice continued. “He would never get flushed as long as he was the smallest piece of shit. So he resolved to do something about it. He realized that what he needed was more size, so that he could shove aside other turds and be first in line for the flushing. The only place he could grow was inside the colon of a living person. That was where the formative nourishment was. In there he could add layer on layer, steadily adding mass. He didn’t have to make it to super-turd status, just to enough mass to be no longer the smallest. So he resolved to do something about it. He would go find a suitable colon to occupy.”

The Littlest Turd smiled. He sprouted small arms and legs and swam to the edge of the water. He scrambled out, struggling to cling to the slippery side. Despite herself, Veil found herself rooting for the game little fellow to make it. Finally he did, and got on the rim of the toilet below the seat. He was so small he didn’t need to climb over the seat; he simply rolled under it. He dropped to the bathroom floor, bounced, and extended his little legs again.

“The littlest Turd was on his way,” the voice said. “Now all he needs is a nice warm colon to get into. Who is there out there who will help the brave little fellow?” There was a pause. Then the punch line: “How about you?”

Fortunately Chance had finally nodded off. Still, Veil had to admit that aside from the nature of its protagonist, the story showed the values of decision and action. It was, in its fashion, wholesome.

But it got her thinking. She was like the Littlest Turd, in that she was stuck in a virtual toilet bowl, unable to escape her fate. The Turd had grown legs; she would have to take a more figurative approach.

She changed to the announcer’s channel. “I want your advice,” she said. “How can I improve my situation?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied immediately, the picture showing a painted smiley face. It was clear now that there was a live person on the other end of this dialog, however much canned material there might have been before. “It’s no good doing nothing; that attracts the interest of relatively few, the lowbrows who know they can’t compete with better men. You need to catch the attention of superior men who are more likely to have good situations and pleasant dispositions. You could enjoy your year with one of those.”

“My year of sex slavery.”

“Of course. But a superior man is more likely to be gentle, and to consider your feelings. He would treat you more like a lady than a prostitute.”

That did seem to be a recommendation. Of course what she really wanted was to escape this awfulness and return home, but she knew it would be unwise to say that openly. A sensitive man might be willing to allow her to go home, and possibly even to facilitate her return. She could certainly try her feminine wiles on him. These would exclude tempting him with sex, since he would have that already, and it would be essential that she never balk in that respect. But she was an attractive woman, and he might come to desire her favor as well as her body. It would help if she could show her face to him, instead of this dark blob of anonymity.

“The hood,” she said. “When does it come off?”

“Normally, when you commit to a man, and he speaks your name. Then you cease to be the mysterious Maiden in the Tower, making way for next week’s offering. He will know your full appearance. It is a gamble for him, of course, as you might be ugly in the face. There are no guarantees about the Maiden; men must judge her by her body and her actions and speech.”

“I am fair of feature.”

“So you say. So they all say. Some men prefer to leave the hood on, so they can fantasize that the Maiden is actually a lost love. Your face will not be your fortune while you remain in the Tower.”

“So what will be my fortune?”

“Do you have any talents?”

She had her professional talent, but she was not about to speak of that, lest it give away her true identity. “I am reasonably smart.”

“That won’t do. Can you piss, shit, or fart with authority—at least a 6.0 on the Rectum Scale?”

“Definitely not,” she said, wincing inwardly.

“You can’t juggle, or sew champion quilts, or cook gourmet?”

“None of the above.”

He sighed. “Then smart has to be it, though that’s a liability with some men. You must make a statement that will appeal to smart men.”

“But I’m confined to this bowel tower.”

“That is not a smart observation. You know that your every action and word is publicized. Your body may be confined, but not your words.”

Veil was mortified. He was right. She had been stupid. She hated that.

“I’ll ponder a statement,” she agreed.

“Do not take undue time. This is the third day of seven; two men have qualified, and the third is in process.”

Ouch! The sooner she acted, the better chance she would have of getting more than one good man in the lineup. But as yet she had no idea of a suitable statement. Maybe it would help to see what was already in the queue. “Please show me the first man.”

“Do you wish to interview him, or see him contesting?”

“I can interview them?” she asked surprised.

“Yes, of course. You can talk with them, question them, or have sex with them, whatever you choose, gathering information for an informed choice.”

This seemed almost too fair. Then she caught on to the catch. “And everyone else will be watching and listening.”

“Certainly. This is great entertainment for the masses. They will be judging you, and it could affect potential contestants, especially if you turn out to be sexually apt.”

Veil knew she could be as apt as any woman, but that was not the way she wanted to choose. “Show the contest.”

“A word of advice. You have been uncommonly silent of rectum. You will have to fart socially with any contestants you meet, or interviews will be pointless.”

Veil realized that this was good advice. “Thank you. I will do my best to reform.” She nerved herself and squeezed out an audible break of wind.

“Very good.” The picture shifted to the base of the huge female statue. A sultry nude woman stood there. In a moment a halfway handsome naked young man approached. “Several have tried before, this day, and been rejected,” the announcer’s voice said. “This is the one destined to succeed.”

“Actually he looks all right,” Veil said. “But it’s his mind and personality I’m more interested in.”

“For that you will need the interview. The challenge is purely physical.”

The man farted and put his arms around the woman, embracing her. She yielded to this, but did not smile. He whispered in her ear, but got no reaction. He stroked her body, cupping her full breasts in his hands. “You are the loveliest creature I have seen today,” he said.

Now she smiled and emitted a small fart. “Thank you.”

He let out a louder fart. “Your charms overcome me. I must caress you.”

The woman merely stood in his embrace, neither speaking nor moving.

He kissed her, and she held for the kiss, but did not do more.

“Something’s odd here,” Veil said. “She doesn’t seem to be participating.”

“She’s a demon,” the announcer said. “She is programmed to respond in a set way, and not to volunteer anything. He must make her climax within a set time, or lose.”

Now it made sense. “Why did he whisper in her ear?”

“He was trying to make her laugh. That’s a significant point; women like men who make them laugh. But his joke was old, so she didn’t respond.”

This contest was getting more interesting. The man laid the demoness on the bed behind her, lifted her legs, and did oral stimulation on her cleft. Veil noticed that her cleft was without pubic hair, clean in the manner of a child; that must be a signal of her demon nature, as she was clearly sexually mature. He licked her channel and tongued her clitoris. She reacted with a gentle sigh of pleasure. He was good at it; he had the right touch.

Then he licked her breasts and kissed her nipples. She reacted farther, visibly softening. He kissed her again, this time tonguing her. She sighed more firmly. Finally he got on her, inserted his hard penis, and drove it home. He thrust repeatedly, taking time to come. She writhed in ecstasy, and finally climaxed. Only then did he go into his own orgasm.

“If he had climaxed before her, he would have lost,” Veil said.

“True; that’s the trap. The point is to give her pleasure, rather than himself. He started slow, but improved, and brought her to a fair culmination. It can be done, played correctly. It is surprising how many men lack the skill or patience to make a woman react.”

“Suppose he had failed?”

“Here is the case of the man before him, with this demon.”

The scene showed another moderately handsome man approach. He worked her up much as the other had, and penetrated her in good order, but when she started reacting it triggered his orgasm and he climaxed too soon.

At that point the demon’s fair mien changed. She blew out a fart of conquest, caught his arms as talons sprouted, and wrapped her legs around him, locking him against her. She kissed him, and fangs appeared, latching on to his lips as she sucked his breath. Her breasts not only flattened against him, they spread out to adhere to his skin, abrading it as if feeding. But the main action was at his crotch. A close up showed her vulva lapping at his member like a hungry mouth, the labia actually smacking together where they didn’t surround it. Then they closed firmly and sucked. The rest of his softening shaft disappeared into the hole, only to be pushed out again, then slurped back in. She was forcing thrusts, artificially engorging the member by means of the suction.

The man groaned as his second climax was drawn from him. But the demon didn’t stop. She sucked his air until he was almost unconscious, then bit him again, injecting a sedative so that he was unable to move. Then she detached, rolling him off her; raw red welts showed on his chest where the carnivorous breasts had fed. Her vagina spat out his doubly spent penis, which flopped limply. She turned him over, lifted him to hands and knees, pushed down his head, and parted his legs so that he formed a crude tripod. Then she slid her tongue into his elevated anus. It was a long tongue, and it extended farther, snaking sinuously in. The scene closed on the region, showing his hanging scrotum and penis as her tongue still coursed into his colon.

The penis quivered. Veil knew what was happening; that prehensile tongue was massaging the man’s prostate gland, squeezing it, forcing it to eject more fluid, and this was stirring the penis. It thickened in a weak erection, and finally jerked, dribbling out the product of another orgasm. The fluid was pale red.

The demoness reeled her tongue back into her mouth and pushed the man over. He fell, his face frozen in a rictus of agonized bliss. He was done for. It would take him weeks to recover potency, and longer to get over the memory of the experience.

“Why do they risk that fate?” Veil asked.

“For the prospect of winning a shapely maiden for a year of sexual bliss.”

“Don’t they know they lack the erotic skill to make the grade?”

“Every man thinks he’s a champion lover.”

“Every man is in denial!” She glanced at the scene, which had gone neutral. “So the ones that get past the demoness make it for the day. Are further applicants cut off?”

“No, if there is more than one in a day, they must face off against each other in a farting contest.”

“I believe I’ll pass over that exhibition. I will consider what I have to say.”

She considered, and concluded that an appeal to the copulating, farting men who wanted her body would be less useful than a test of their mentality. She knew an intellectual puzzle that stumped most people who hadn’t encountered it before. The first part was easy, the second hard. Only a smarter or better informed man would realize what she had in mind.

She stood and faced the mirror-wall, knowing it was transparent from outside. She doffed her clothing and did a few jumping jacks, knowing that they made her flesh bounce enticingly, especially her breasts. That should attract the attention of any men in range, and of course it was being recorded so they could watch it again.

“I am Veil, the Maiden in the Tower,” she said. “I will choose the man who correctly answers two riddles. The first riddle is this: Where in the world can a person walk south a mile, east a mile, north a mile, and be back where he started? The second riddle I will ask of those who answer the first, not announcing it in advance.” Then she did a few more exercises, including leg lifts and bicycling on her back that proffered a good view of her genital region. She had the sexual equipment; she was making sure they knew it. Men were such fools about bodies.

“That should do it,” the announcer agreed. “Top it off with a good fart.”

Oh, of course. She had been automatically stifling her gas; now she blew it out as loudly as she could. It seemed that hearing a woman fart was similar to seeing her urinate, in this feculent culture.