The Magic Fart

by Piers Anthony

  She tackled them in turn. The first was a rather brutish looking man with a huge gut capable of generating formidable gas, as she had seen in the playback video. She did not ask his name; she thought of him as Gut. He was admitted to the residential intestine with the understanding that the interview was under the control of the Maiden, and any untoward move could disqualify him.

  “May the farts be with you,” he said jovially, letting a moderately loud one out.

  “And with you,” she agreed politely. She doubted she would ever be entirely easy with this social convention, but it was necessary to honor the local forms. She forced herself, and managed to emit a ladylike break of wind.

  “You’re a great looking dame,” he remarked. “Good boobs, good buns, great ass.” “Thank you.” He was truly meaning to compliment her. “I’ll fart with you anytime.” It was time to get to business. “As you know,” she said delicately, “I am the anonymous Maiden in the Tower. I must choose one of seven to be my sex master for the coming year. I wish to know more about you, to determine whether we might be compatible.”

  “Compatible, shmatible,” he said derisively, blowing out another solid fart. “I got a cock, you got a cunt, we both got assholes. What’s to compat? My pecker’ll fit, even if your pussy is small; I just have to jam it in hard enough.”

  This did not seem promising. But she was determined to conceal her private reactions. “True, and I’m sure the fit will be adequate to satisfy you. But there are other things in a relationship than sex and intestinal gas.” His jaw dropped. “There are?” “I believe so. What do you propose to do after you have satisfied your

  lust on my limp body?” “What’ll I do? What kind of fucking question is that? I’ll sleep, of

  course, then fuck you again.” “Would you wish me to reciprocate?” “Huh?” “To have enjoyment of the act too.” He was baffled. “Why would I want that?” “It is thought that a man’s pleasure is greater if the woman shares it.” He pondered. “Yeah, maybe worth trying, once, just for the feel. You could sit on my cock and jack yourself off, and your clenching would make me come. Might be fun.” “It might indeed,” she agreed, and terminated the interview. The second man was halfway handsome and certainly manly. He understood the meaning of the word ‘compatibility’ but felt there would be no problem. “I don’t need or want your interest,” he said. “Merely your acquiescence. You obviously have the body. I would have no trouble getting off with you. But mainly it’s your prospective appeal to other men that I want. I could make some handsome money farming you out, especially considering your notoriety as a Tower Maiden.” She was appalled. “You wish to prostitute me?” “Yes. I figure you could take on maybe a dozen men in a day, each of them paying well. Of course you would have to satisfy them, or I would revoke the deal.” “But what of the risk of venereal disease?” “What of it? If you got it, I would not let you tell the clients, though I would have to stop patronizing you myself. It’s a calculated risk; chances are I would have had enough of you by then anyway.” He farted indifferently.

  Somehow she was not any more eager to go with this man than the first. “Thank you for clarifying that. May the farce be with you.” She couldn’t bring herself to say it properly. Fortunately she got away with it; he heard what he expected to hear. Perhaps her accompanying flatulence masked the word.

  The third candidate was the woman Normal. “No, actually I’m not lesbian,” she said, after they had exchanged greeting farts. “I have an apt husband.” Veil was surprised, but not yet relieved. “Then why do you want a sex

  slave?” “It’s like this: he’s manly and gentle, the perfect lover, and he takes good care of me. But just straight sex doesn’t turn me on. He likes a turned-on woman, so I’m not very good for him. But he has excellent qualities, and I want to keep him. When I caught him seducing one of the maids I had a revelation.” “That he was unfaithful,” Veil agreed. “That, too. But it didn’t really bother me, because I knew I wasn’t giving him what he needed. That servant girl was only sixteen, and not really well endowed, and frankly rather homely of feature, but she put a lot of enthusiasm into it. It was obvious that she really liked sex. She just couldn’t get enough of his penis. In fact he just lay there, and she played with it, sucked it, and finally impaled her hole on it just before he spurted. She wrapped her legs around him and kept kissing him, even after he had spent. And do you know what?” “It must have given you some excellent ideas for your own performance.” “Yes, but not in the way you might think. I was horribly turned on, watching it. So much so that I sent the maid to her room and addressed him myself. He was amazed, and it took about fifteen minutes to work him up, because he had expended his semen. But I was so avid that he recovered, and then we had a great mutual climax. The time it took was just enough for me to achieve my own orgasm, and he loved having it with me.”

  Veil nodded. “Normally it’s the man who gets turned on by watching his wife have sex with another man, but it can work either way. That seems to have solved your problem.”

  “Yes and no,” Normal said candidly. “I had to fire the maid, because I can’t have my husband sexing around promiscuously; he might decide to leave me for a more turned-on woman. Yet I also need him to do it in my presence with another woman, for the stimulation it provides me, and for the time it enables me to have him. He is unable to do it in a minute when he has just spent, enabling me to address him in leisurely manner. So I need a woman with no ambitions of that nature, who is aesthetic, and under my control. Thus my interest in you.”

  Now this was an interesting prospect. “Would you wish me to have sex with any other man?”

  “Heavens no! You must be only for my husband, and only when I am present. You would be required to rebuff him if he wished to have sex any other time. The rest of the time you could do whatever you wished, being fully cared for, provided you kept yourself clean, comely, and mannered. No servant duties. For the year. Thereafter if I wished to maintain the arrangement, I would have to pay you a standard mistress wage.” This seemed to be a prospect. But Veil was not keen on playing such a

  role if she could avoid it. “Thank you,” she said, concluding the interview. The fourth candidate was a man of about her own age, muscular, healthy, and well spoken. “Compatibility hardly matters,” he said after their social farts cleared. “I will provide you with your own suite and servants. Your baby will be well attended. I do not wish to socialize with you. I need you only for sex.” “With you alone?” she inquired cautiously. He considered. “Well, I suppose if you wished to have a boyfriend on

  the side, that would be satisfactory, provided he did not intrude on my time.” “I mean, you would not expect me to prostitute myself to make money

  for you.” “Horrors, no! I have no need of money. I am wealthy. I merely will

  need you to be sexually available to me at all times, day and night.” “This is my understanding of sex slavery.” “Perhaps. Here is the constraint: I am highly sexed. I have worn out two wives, because they could not keep up. I dislike using prostitutes; they can be uncouth or unclean. I need a constant woman.” “Just how often were you thinking of?” “Normally, four times a day and once at night. It is difficult for me to go more than six hours without sex, and shorter periods are preferable. Thus it would be morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and midnight. Sometimes more often, as anything can set me off. My second wife departed after I required sex of her three times within a ten minute span while we were watching an erotic play. That’s why you would need to be steadily on hand. There may be only a minute’s notice; you must be ready at all times.”

  “But when not with you, I could do what I want, provided I remain close enough to join you immediately?”

  “Correct. If you wish entertainment, I can’t allow you to depart the house unless it is in my company—and there will no foolishness about refusing sex in a coach or a concert booth or even standing in an open field if that is where the call comes. The entertainment w
ill be brought to you, and perhaps I will share it with you if it interests me. You will not be denied anything. Neither will you be bound; if you have genuine need to travel, such as to attend an ill relative, you will merely so acquaint me, and I will accompany you there. I mean you no discomfort. I merely must know that your sexual favor is never denied me.”

  Veil happened to know something about sexual precocity. There were indeed highly sexed men, but normally their urges abated somewhat when reliably and competently accommodated. Frequent repetitions occurred when the sexual episodes were less than satisfactory. She could make them satisfactory. This might be as good a way to spend the year as any. She saw that the man’s pantaloons were bulging; the mere discussion of sex had stimulated him, as was the case with many men. That gave her a notion.

  “I am minded to give you a try,” she said. “Without as yet making any commitment, as three candidates remain to be selected. Do you wish sex at this moment?” “I do.” As if there could be any other response. “Then join me now on the bed.” She had learned from the announcer that this too was permitted; it was considered an optional part of the interviewing process. She stepped out of her farthingale, baring her nether region, blew out accumulated gas, and lay supine on the bed.

  He joined her immediately, his penis springing erect from his panta loons. She was relieved to see that it was an ordinary member, not oversized or misshapen. He got down on her and guided it to her vulva, then plunged it into her vagina. She felt his emission on the first thrust.

  Then he withdrew and stood again, putting his spent member away. “Much appreciation,” he said.

  It had been so fast she had hardly gotten her bearings. It had been like a hypodermic injection, in, discharge, and out. She quickly mopped herself and donned the skirt again, returning to perch on the farthingale stool. “This is your normal mode?” “Yes. I do not waste time.” “Let me know when your desire rises again.” “Thank you. I will. It is kind of you to accommodate me.” He issued a

  gratified fart. She wanted to discover whether he slowed, after relieving himself, and whether he truly recovered swiftly. She needed to know whether his four or five times a day would ease off to once or twice, once the edge was off. She questioned him on details of his household.

  Then, barely five minutes along, he expressed his renewed interest. “By all means,” she agreed, removing the skirt again. This time she did not take the couch, but stood waiting for him, to see how he would handle it. He had after all mentioned doing it standing in a field.

  He didn’t hesitate. He bent his knees, produced his erect penis, and wedged it up into her moist cleft. He penetrated her with a single trust, jetting as he did. And withdrew immediately.

  She mopped herself again; there had indeed been an emission. This time she left her skirt off, and sat on the couch, crossing her bare legs. He looked. “If you would be so kind—” That was only about one minute. Was he bluffing? “By all means.” She

  stood. He was into her again, and jetting, and withdrawing. Intrigued, she continued to question him, while quietly assuming provocative poses. They were effective. They had sex three more times in fifteen minutes. The last one was slower: it required two thrusts, and the emission was only a token. But it had definitely occurred.

  “I must say, you are very understanding,” he said. “You are a most attractive and accommodating woman. I would like very much to have you with me for the year.”

  “How did you make it past the demoness? I watched the video, and you did not seem to spurt prematurely then.”

  “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