“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.