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 was 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 consider 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?”