The Magic Fart

by Piers Anthony

  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 OB

  TAINED 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 ances

  tors.” 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 FRE

  QUENTLY. 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 expo

  sure.” I WILL PROVIDE THE ILLUSION OF COVERAGE. TOUCH FLESH AND PRO

  CEED. 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 l
oves 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 stand ing 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 com

  pleted 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 pub lic 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 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