“I don’t believe it,” the man said. “I’ll fuck you any time I want.” He unlimbered his large member in leisurely fashion.
“One minute,” she said, her eye still on the watch. “Maybe you’d better postpone it, because I can’t be responsible for what happens at zero time.”
“Forget it,” he said, pushing his penis slowly into her as she bent over to accommodate him. Their positions were carefully structured to provide the audience a clear view of the genital contact. Prior realized that the jokes were merely the pretext for the sexual display. It was working; he was turned on.
“Thirty seconds. And don’t pump, because any little vibration could set it off prematurely.”
“You can’t scare me,” he said, and made a huge forceful thrust. There was a bright flash, a crack of noise, and a thick cloud of smoke. By the time it dissipated all that remained on the stage was a head-high pile of fecal matter.
More applause. That had been a fine act. They must have used the smoke to clamber through a trap door, and shoved out the pile. It had also been one fine fuck while it lasted.
Prior and Smellie moved on. There was a seduction contest, where the men stood on one side of a glass wall, their limp penises poking through suitably placed holes. Each woman did a strip-tease dance. The winner would be the one who managed to make a penis spurt without touching it. The audience was mostly women; it occurred to Prior that they might be studying technique.
Several women were able to make the members stiffen admirably, but none jetted. Finally a truly sexy creature came on the scene and performed a dance of such passion that Prior himself was stimulated painfully. “Um,” he murmured.
“Got it,” Smellie said. She hoisted up her farthingale, stepped into him, turned, and got his stiff member into her cleft just in time for it to spurt. Then she pulled herself off, dropped her skirt, and stood as if nothing had happened. No one had noticed; they were watching the dancer, who finally did make a penis spurt without touching. She had won.
Now the women of the audience forged in, advancing on the remaining stiff penises. Each of them turned and backed onto one, efficiently absorbing its triggered jet.
“It’s a tradition,” Smellie explained. “The spectators get to tap the leftovers.”
Next was the stench trench, where the most feculent guts let fly. The aroma was truly awful, but there were those who were breathing it in like misty elixir.
“Stink addicts,” Smellie murmured. “Last one left standing wins.”
They moved on to the main event: the champion fart-off. This was the one Prior meant to enter. “Now you know, joy farting won’t do it here,” Smellie warned him. “These aren’t feel farts, they’re cloud farts, so they can be seen and judged. There will be some pretty tough contenders.”
“I can handle it,” he said confidently. “I have more than one kind of magic fart.”
“You’re really a wonder. May I—” He embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. She looked about ready to swoon with delight. In this culture, a fast fuck in public was nothing, but she felt obliged to ask permission for a kiss?
Two fat men got up on the stage. They turned together, bent over to present their plump rears to the audience, and blew out a fanfare of several tuba-like notes. This was the signal for the start of the event. People gathered around to watch.
An announcer appeared. “As you know, this event attracts competition from fart and wide. I’m sure most of you are familiar with the rules, but just in case any aren’t, here’s a reprise: Each farter will fart alone, into the central cavity, where his fart must form a visible cloud. Our panel of judges will measure this cloud for duration, determining when it has faded too far to qualify. The longest duration will win—”
He paused for effect. “A day’s ride on the Fart Blimp tomorrow!”
There was applause as he waved toward the anchored brown blimp floating at the village’s edge. That of course was the prize Prior needed to win.
“Now the call for contestants. Please step up to the stage and give me your names so I can announce them.”
“Wish me luck,” Prior murmured as he started forward.
“Oh, I do, Micro, I do,” Smellie said, and seemed to mean it.
He liked that. Three men and a woman were lining up as Prior came to join them. They all had huge bellies for the generation of champion farts. They glanced at Prior briefly and dismissively; his gut simply wasn’t big enough to host a serious contender.
“Our first contestant,” the announcer said, “is the WindBreaker, from the windswept plains to the north. He holds three awards for fartsmanship. Here is his opening effort.”
The first man faced away from the arena, so that Prior got a good look at his ugly face. He bent grandly over, and emitted a long slow peal of a fart that pulled itself together into a globular brown cloud about a foot in diameter. It roiled and turned as if some demon were inside trying to get out. It floated slowly upward, fissioning off curls of smoke, gradually shrinking. Finally it imploded, leaving only a fading wisp of vapor.
“Time!” a judge exclaimed.
“Seventy three seconds.”
There was applause. It had been a good effort.
“Now we have the ButtGuster from the gassy fumaroles to the south,” the announcer said. “He has competed in more cloud fartings than any other man, including last year’s Super Bowel, and is just hitting his second wind.”
The second man approached the arena and turned about. His face looked like a fart that hadn’t yet finished coming out. He bent over, concentrated, and blasted out a huge yellow cloud with tan specks. It sailed upward, expanding, until finally it thinned to the point it lost cohesion and got torn apart by the breeze.
“Time! Eighty one seconds.”
There was louder applause. This was indeed a excellent emission. The big-name farters were coming through with a fine show.
“And our entry of the fragrant gender is Whoopee, runner-up in our contest last month,” the announcer said. “We have real hope that she’ll be our first local female champion.”
The woman approached the arena, lifted off her farthingale, and stood with a broad bare bottom. She pirouetted, squatted, and let fly a modest pink cloud that rotated like a football. It hovered, valiantly retaining its shape, until it flattened, buckled, and gave up the ghost.
“Time. Eighty two seconds.”
There was considerable applause. Whoopee’s effort had taken the lead, however narrowly.
“Now Blowtorch, a convert from the firefart division. Last month’s time was sixty nine seconds, enough to place. He says he’s improved his wind since then.”
The fourth competitor stepped up, almost as ugly as the other men. His gut could be heard rumbling from a fair distance. He pushed out a swisher of a reddish cloud that did indeed vaguely resemble the flame of a blowtorch. It coruscated into the air, shimmering with power. But it burned out too swiftly, and was only seventy seconds, not in the running this time.
“And finally we have a new face, as it were,” the announcer said. “Micro, for his first competitive effort.”
The audience was silent. The people were waiting to see this thin-bellied amateur make a fool of himself. Prior hoped they were in for a remarkable disappointment. It was up to the Spire.
He approached the arena, turned, and bent over, orienting the Spire.