Then the gas attack came. She rushed to the toilet to let it out, and again the sound was magnified unconscionably. She had no further doubt: the food was spiked to generate wind in the bowel. This was the land of Fartingale, where nether emissions were proudly advertised. She hated that, but seemed to have no choice: she had to eat. So she concentrated on releasing the air silently. The trick was to let it emerge without pressure, gently pulling on a buttock if necessary. Unfortunately the widely flaring skirt made it difficult for her to touch her posterior, so that some sounds squeaked out.
Chance, in contrast, was soon firing away with gusto. He seemed to think that a fart was an act of creation. Maybe she could drown him out with the TV. She turned it on. Words appeared on the screen: NAME. What was this? It hadn’t done this yesterday. Was her captor trying to trick her into identifying herself? Why conceal her face and hair, making her anonymous, then try to make her spoil it? It was almost as if her captor was teasing her. Well, she would use a nom de plume to foil whatever ploy he had in mind. If he wanted her identity, he would have to get it without her help.
What would do? She considered her situation and it came to her. “Veil,” she said.
“Thank you,” the announcer’s voice came, startling her again. “Now it is time for you to know your place in this scheme.”
“You actually admit it’s a scheme!” she exclaimed. “Indeed, I would like to know the reason for this atrocity.”
“We are a culture that loves contests,” the announcer continued imperturbably. “Anything will do, but those involving natural functions are particularly diverting. Folk don’t merely relieve themselves, they make a game of it. For example, pissing contests.”
She should have known this would quickly get ugly. “Thank you, I’m not interested.”
He ignored her. A picture came on the screen, showing two men standing before a slightly slanted, marked alley. “On your mark,” one said. “Get set. PISS!” And both aimed their penises, whose tips barely protruded from their pleated pantaloons, down the alley and let fly with strong streams of urine. The man on the left’s effort arced a good five feet before splashing on the pavement. The man of the right nevertheless had a stronger urge; his urine struck several inches beyond. “Damn, you win again,” the first man said. “Lunch is on me.”
“You just need to tighten your bladder,” the other said as they completed their voidings, pulled in their members and walked away. Veil had watched the disgusting exhibition despite her best intention.
“Men will be little boys,” she said.
“And women,” the announcer said. “Often they can arrange for male sponsors. Here is a more advanced contest.”
“I’m not interested.” But she was; there was a subterranean fascination in this gaucherie. Two pretty women walked to an elevated pedestal, lifted their skirts high, sat on the pedestal, leaned back, spread their legs, opened their clefts, and let fly with twin streams of urine. Everything was visible from clitoris to anus. This time the one on the left jetted farther. There was applause, and now the scene widened to show a ring of men watching.
The women finished their voidings, wiped themselves off, and stood, letting their farthingales drop back into place. “I choose—you,” the winner said, pointing to the handsomest of the men. “And you go with him.” She pointed to the ugliest man. The other woman grimaced.
“I don’t understand,” Veil said. “The contest was for dominance,” the announcer explained. “The women are rivals, so they settled it the conventional way, with a contest. The winner gets to have sex with the man they both desired. The loser is stuck with the one neither desires. All the men are amenable, of course; they are stimulated by the sight of women urinating.”
Veil knew a good deal more about sex than she cared to advertise in this situation, and agreed: the sight of women’s bare spread thighs excited men, and female urination could be a phenomenal male turn-on. Such contests were thus designed to ensure that the spectators would be eager for sex.
The victorious woman took her man’s arm and guided him into the public privy. “I expect the best fucking of my life,” she told him as they disappeared.
“Come on honey,” the ugly man said, approaching the losing woman. She sighed and got back on the pedestal, her skirt lifted. It was high enough so that his standing crotch was the same height as her seated one. He pulled his hard penis through the slit in his pantaloons and wedged it into her open vagina. He shoved, and it penetrated visibly. In a moment he was at full depth and pumping vigorously. The woman made no pretense of enjoying it; she leaned back, bracing herself with her hands behind her. The man climaxed, breathing hard, almost knocking her back with the power of his thrusts. Soon he was spent, and pulled out, his member disappearing in his pantaloons. The spectators applauded again, clearly appreciative of his performance. Then the man walked away, and the crowd dispersed.
“I don’t—” Veil began.
“The loser might renege,” the announcer explained. “So she has to perform in public. That’s part of her penalty for losing. She doesn’t have to pretend to like it; in fact she is expected to show resignation or aversion. Men like seeing that too, and it makes the stakes sufficient to guarantee that each contestant puts forth her best effort.”
“It’s legalized rape,” Veil snapped.
“Precisely. Were you in such a contest, you would surely do your best to win.”
“I would never indulge in such an atrocious exhibition!”
“Assuming you had a choice.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“In a moment. There is more to clarify about the contests.”
“I don’t care to hear it.”
“You will nevertheless hear it.”
“And if I simply turn you off?”
“You won’t do that.” Veil reached forward and turned the switch. Nothing happened; it had been overridden. So it was like that. “And if I go into another room and cover my ears?”
“Allow me to pose an academic question. How much do you value your son?”
So Chance was hostage for her cooperation. They could readily gas her again and take him. Her freedom was sharply limited. “Clarify the contests,” she agreed grimly.
Another picture appeared. This time a man and a woman were bending down to touch the pavement with their hands, their posteriors exposed. “We have seen pissing contests,” the announcer said, reverting to lecture mode. “This is a shitting contest. The winner will get to dictate the type of sex they have this night. He wants friendly; she wants bondage.”
“Defecation? This should surely turn both of them off.”
“Not in Fartingale. Natural functions are a pleasant part of life. Fecal contests can be for volume, type, distance, or art. This one is for distance.”
She refrained from inquiring about fecal art, certain she would not like
the answer. “Distance! The material will simply drop to the ground.”
“Not necessarily. Observe.”
The scene approached, until there was a close view of both puckered anuses. “Ready, set, fire!” Two small globular turds shot out of the rectums. His struck the ground just over a yard distant, hers just under. The man had won.