The Magic Fart (13 page)

“That’s the key: she
is
a demoness. Not a real woman. Such an emulation does not turn me on, whatever her appearance. No more than a statue or a man turns me on. I was able to get an erection by laboring diligently to pretend she was real, but I could not climax. The rest was merely a matter of going through the motions. The point, after all, is that
she
climax, not the man.”

That was a subtlety she hadn’t properly picked up on before. “Do you ever actually make love?” she asked. “By that I mean, taking time for a single incident of sexual expression, not with a demoness, but with a real woman. Kissing, stroking, embracing.”

“No. That is impossible for me. I climax too soon. If I do not get inside the woman, I spend into the air, which is frustrating and embarrassing.”

She could appreciate that. It meant that sex with this man was indeed only that, and only for him; the woman got nothing from it because it was too fast for her to respond. Did she want that for a year, even if everything else was nice? Only, she concluded, if she had no better alternative.

“I think I know enough,” she said. “Let’s do it once more, so that you can make it home without frustration, and end this interview.” “Gladly. He jammed into her, jetted, and departed. There would be three more candidates. She hoped at least one was better, but knew there was no guarantee.

Chapter 11—Fartingale

Prior reached the village of Nude-on-Toilet shortly before dusk. This featured a statue vaguely similar to that of The Stinker, but smaller, with a nude young woman sitting on a toilet. She was pretty, with well formed breasts, a small waist, and very nice slightly-spread thighs. From the toilet bowl came a melody fashioned from delicate farts of different pitches. There was an odor of sweet violets.

The statue was at the community center, which of course surrounded the public privy. Folk were gathering for the evening socializing. The men wore colorful pantaloons, the women farthingales. Many of the latter were bare breasted.

THAT MEANS THEY’RE AVAILABLE FOR CASH OR BARTER,
the Spire gouted
quietly in his bowel.
YOU WANT TO FART FOR FOOD AND FLAT, NOT FUCKS.

“Ah, right,” Prior agreed, half reluctantly. Some of the revealed upper sections were fetching, and the nether sections too, when the women happened to pass between him and a light so that the bell-shaped skirts became translucent, verging on transparent.

A lovely woman approached him, her full breasts playing peek-a-boo behind her veil of hair. She issued an inviting fart.
NO GOOD,
the Spire gouted.
SHE’LL ROLL YOU.

Prior turned away, letting out the Spire’s negative fart, and the woman retreated.

A second beauty oriented on him, wafting a fart that smelled of roses. Her breasts were painted silver with bright red nipples.
NO GOOD.

Prior wasn’t sure how the Spire knew, but had to trust its judgment. He faced away, blowing aversion.
I CAN SMELL THEM,
the Spire explained.
I ANALYZE THEIR FARTS AND ASCERTAIN THEIR PERSONALITIES.
There was more to farting than Prior had realized. A third one came, hesitantly.
HER.
Prior did not turn away. “May the farts be with you, stranger,” she said politely, letting out a small

ladylike fart. “And with you,” he replied, doing the same in a more masculine tone. He

found this social custom quaint. “You look in need,” she remarked. Her breasts were full and bouncy, making up for an ordinary face and hair that was less than lustrous, though it did reach to her bottom. “You must be here for the fair tomorrow. I am Smellie.”

There was a fair? He wasn’t here for entertainment. He needed to locate the maiden in the Tower as soon as possible. “I’m Micro.” That was the name he had decided to use here, as part of his anonymity. It referred to his small natural penis, though he wasn’t wearing it now. “I just need food and lodging for the night.” She considered. “I have food and a bed. You have gold?” “No,” he replied, embarrassed. “Then what do you have to offer, Micro?”
A MAGIC FART.
“A magic fart,” Prior echoed, not certain what it meant. “Magic in what manner?” “It will put you into delight for the night,” he said, prompted by the

Spire. “I’ll risk it. But if it doesn’t, you’ll have to scrub the floor.” He followed her to her house, which was nearby. Inside, she shut the

door and faced him. “Demonstrate.” The Spire let out a squeaker. It spread into the air of the room, with a

faint musty odor. This wasn’t promising. But the woman smiled. “A joy fart! You’ve got a joy fart!”
YOU ARE IMMUNE TO ITS EFFECT,
the Spire explained.
PARTLY BECAUSE OF YOUR SMEGMA (WHICH YOUR REMAINING GENITAL FLESH STILL PRODUCES DESPITE THE FACT YOU ARE NOT NOW WEARING YOUR NATURAL PENIS), MOSTLY BECAUSE I AM IMMUNE TO MY OWN EMISSIONS, LEST THERE BE PARADOX, AND THAT CARRIES ACROSS TO YOU. PRETEND YOU’RE FEELING GOOD.
Prior smiled. “As I said, magic.” “Well, you’ll certainly do. I haven’t smelled a joy fart in years. In fact we don’t see a lot of magic here in the hindland.” She bustled about, rousting up a meal for them. “You just sit down and keep that hot air coming while I set up.”

He sat the indicated chair, and the Spire continued a moderate emission. Smellie hummed a tune as she worked. It was halfway familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “What is that melody?”

“My theme song.” She sang the words of the refrain: “And ’twas from Aunt Dinah’s farting party I was seeing Smellie home.” Now he placed it. The variant he knew referred to a quilting party and Nellie.

They had a meal of beans and cabbage juice. It was what she had. His gut roiled up, but of course all the food in this land did that. Just so long as he could pass his natural gas without blowing the Spire out. It seemed okay; the Spire continued a low volume emission of joy farts, and that kept Smellie smiling. Her life remained bleak, but she was on a sustained high.

They talked, and he learned that the village had a monthly fair for enter tainment, contests, and business. It was designed to attract tourists, so that the village could profit. “I’m just passing through. I need to find the Maiden in the Tower.” “Oh, for that you need to go to the Maid-in-Tower Village. They have a

new Maiden every week.” “Every week? What happens to her?” “Each day there’s competition, with one candidate qualifying. On the

seventh day she must choose which one will be her master for a year.” “Her master?” “She’s his sex slave. They generally have good-looking anonymous Maid

ens who have been abducted for the purpose.” “Abducted!” he exclaimed as if surprised. “You mean this is involun

tary?” “Of course. That makes them more appealing. But it’s a recognized de

vice; they have no choice but to carry through.” “I should think there would be outrage by their families and friends.” “Sure. That’s why they aren’t taken from the local village unless they

volunteer, as some do. They are fetched in from far away.” Prior saw how it could have happened to someone from his realm, if that was the case. Was she really his ideal woman, or was that just propaganda spread about to many men to garner more interest? He would simply have to rescue her and hope for the best. “Where is the Tower Village?” “That’s three days trek from here, unless you have a fast steed or magic.” Three days! That gave him barely enough time, as he had only a week to rescue the Maiden. “I don’t have a steed or that kind of magic. Is there any shortcut?” “Sure. Win a ride on the Fart Blimp. It can take you there in one day.”
THIS IS FEASIBLE,
the Spire gouted. “Thanks, I’ll do that.” When they had eaten, they repaired to the public privy, entering it together and taking adjacent holes. Smellie let out quite a load, by the sound of it, clearing her body for the night. Prior eased his gas and turds out around the Spire, discovering that there was no difficulty; the magic implement knew how to stay in place.

People glanced at them, paying no special attention. Crapping together in the public privy was a signal that they were a couple, at least for the night.
FOLK WHO SHIT TOGETHER, FIT TOGETHER,
the Spire opined, evidently quoting a local maxim.

Prior glanced at the statue of the nude. “She’s beautiful. Was she mod eled from a real person?”

“Yes, of course. Every year we have a contest for comely young women posing bare on the toilet, and the loveliest wins the title of Mistress of the Village and the statue is sculpted to conform to her image. It’s a great honor, and more.” “More? In what sense is she mistress?” “Every sense. She becomes the leading citizen, making key decisions for the village, with a stipend so that she does not have to work at any other trade. She also has her choice of men, single or married, a different one each night if she wishes, for that year’s fucking. The men are normally glad to do it; it’s not considered a breach of their marital state, but a civic duty, and their wives are honored. She also entertains traveling men who pass this way; it brings a number who might otherwise select a different route, and the village gets their business. When her year as Mistress expires, she may choose any one of the men she has fucked to marry. Oh, I would have loved to be the Mistress, as any girl would, but of course that was a laughable dream.” Prior avoided the need to agree. “I’m a traveler. She didn’t choose me.” “She’s ill and wants to retire. Soon there’ll be another contest to select

her replacement.” “Ill?” Smellie smiled. “Euphemism for knocked up. It happens. She can’t marry

her lover until she steps down.” “Now I understand. Don’t girls have ways to avoid pregnancy?” “There are spells. But sometimes they forget.” They settled together on her bed. He saw that it was bumpy, with a ragged blanket. It was what she had. She did not complain, but it was clear she had reason to prostitute herself to traveling men; she needed to survive.

“How would you like me?” she asked, with a petite fart of invitation. “I can do it any way you want.”

“Actually, all I need is food and board, and you have provided that. You don’t have to have sex with me.” “Oh no! You’re gay!” “No, just trying to be reasonable. All I paid for was food and bed—and

I fear you have little in either respect.” “Oh, please, don’t leave now! I know it’s not great, but it’s all I have. I can

make it up by giving you great sex, so you’ll have no complaint.” She thought he was seeking a pretext to go elsewhere. Rather than argue,

he clasped her. She met him eagerly, and they proceeded to the best natural sex he’d had in some time, because he wasn’t using the Spire for it. Nothing fancy, just a simple stroking of her nice breasts, kissing her face, easing his member into her receptive cleft, thrusting, and ejaculating. All perfectly ordinary, but nice.

Then he realized that she had not joined him in the climax. He had come to depend on the Spire to thrill the women it touched, but he wasn’t using that now. “I’m sorry; I was forgetting your share. That was selfish of me.”

“Oh, I should have faked it,” she said, chagrined. “It was so nice having unkinky sex for once, I forgot.” “You’re not frustrated?” She laughed. “I never come. It would distract me from properly catering to the needs of my guests. If you want to do it again, I’ll make sure to give a better performance.” “No need. You were good as you were.” “It’s nice of you to say that. You’re a nice man.” As he sank into sleep, against her obliging body, he addressed the Spire:

She’s a good person, doing what she has to. I want to help her.
YOU ARE BECOMING SOFT HEADED. SHE’S A WHORE.
Maybe so. But also a decent human being. What can I do for her?
ENTER SOME CONTESTS TOMORROW AT THE FAIR. WIN HER SOME

STAPLES.
I will
. Then, satisfied, he slept. In the morning he saw that his clothing was undisturbed; she had not sought to steal anything. She served him gruel: all she had. “I have paid you with joy farts,” he said carefully. “Now I am minded to hire you to show me around the fair tomorrow. I will pay you in goods you need, that I can win in contests.” She looked at him. “Why?” “I appreciate being treated decently. You didn’t try to rob me or cheat me, and you gave me more than I paid for. I will stay another night with you, and try to leave you satisfied that I was here.” She shrugged. “All right.” He knew she was trying to figure the catch. The fair was impressive. There were impromptu singing groups doing feeling renditions of “Fart of my Fart” and “Beer Farts and Gutsy People.” There were acappella farting groups. There were sexy bare-bottomed dances. “Everything’s here,” Smellie said. “Depending on your taste.” “Blankets.” She guided him to a stall where many excellent blankets were available.

“What blanket would you take for yourself, price no object?” he asked. She laughed, think it a joke. “That one.” Prior addressed the proprietor. “May the farts be with you,” he said, emitting a small fart. The Spire had prepared him for this. “I wish to purchase that blanket. I offer a jug of Joy Fart.” “You have magic?” the man asked, squinting. “He sure does,” Smellie said. “I boarded him last night, and he kept me