The Magic Fart

by Piers Anthony

  “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 visi tor. ‘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 park ing. 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 w
as 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 con

  sider 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 rejec
ted,” 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 participat

  ing.” “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.