The Magic Fart (5 page)

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 in

ternal skill to hold gas pressure behind a turd.” Obviously so. “At least it doesn’t leave much of a mess,” she said dis

tastefully. “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 great est 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, re

vealing 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 evi dently 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. Fortu

nately 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 situa

tion 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 ap peared 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, dress ing 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.