Chapter 3—Spire

Prior woke with his decision made: he would go to rescue his ideal woman, whoever she might be—The Maiden in the Tower. The succubus might not really care for him as a person, but she had no reason to deceive him in something like this. He would be satisfied with even a less than ideal woman, provided she was shapely and obliging.

But first he would fetch the Spire, the cosmic dildo or phallic horn of plenty. Because it had enormous power and information, and armed with it he should be able to handle just about anything. He knew better than to go into a land accessed by the eeg-trail without solid protection. There was no telling what magical hazards there would be along the way.

He drove to a section of town he hadn’t visited in a year, and to the house of the lady penis doctor named Tantamount Emdee. He parked several blocks away, as he wanted to remain anonymous, and walked to the house. That was because he suspected he would not be welcome at that address.

It wasn’t there. Instead there was a huge dirty-white mound of gunk. Oh, yes—he had set the Spire on his formula of smegma and left it to jet fullblast. Tantamount had stolen his penis to study his anti-VD smegma; he had repaid her by giving her more of it than she could use. He was the only one who could turn it off. Evidently it had overflowed and buried her house in the intervening year. Served her right. But by this time her joy with all that research material might have become something akin to annoyance at its unremitting volume.

There was a steam shovel there, scooping out great chunks of solidified smegma and dumping it onto a truck. The mound had a gap in one side where the shovel had excavated, but the house still didn’t show. It was hard to keep up with the output of the Spire. Even if they got it all trucked away, how would they salvage the house? It would stink forever of spoiling smegma. His revenge had been more than adequate.

But now he needed to take back the Spire. That would cut off the flow and allow them to clear the property, in time. A year seemed sufficient to have made his point. If he ever encountered Tantamount again, she would surely be careful not to cross him anew.

He approached the truck driver, who was lounging in his cab, paging through a girlie magazine. “What’s up?”

The man glanced down at him. “You don’t know? You must be new to these parts.”

“I am,” Prior agreed. No sense in trying to explain his real connection; he might get arrested for creating a public nuisance. “This looks like an ambergris mine.”

“Richer than that. This stuff’s a universal cure for venereal disease. The doctor leased the rights to a drug company and moved out six months ago. The royalties must’ve made her rich by now.”

So Tantamount had gone commercial. Naturally she had appreciated the value of such a supply of such a substance. She must have retired and moved to a big-city penthouse. So his revenge had not been complete; instead of destroying her, he had made her wealthy. Well, that was the way it went.

But under that mound was the Spire. He had to get in there and fetch it. How was he to do that? The pile seemed pretty solid.

Still, there had been caves in Mount Icecream, and there could be caves here too. He walked around the mound, examining its surface. Sure enough, he found cracks in the hardening stuff. The constant addition of new smegma would be pushing up in the center, squeezing out to the sides, like lava in a volcano, forcing the outer layers to fracture and separate. He should be able to wedge inside, though he would get thoroughly grimed. Well, so be it.

He found a large vent and squeezed into it. The smell was not pretty, but he would wash when he was done. The crack twisted, narrowed, then widened as it came up against a wall of the house. The house had burst asunder, the walls shoved outward by the pressure of the burgeoning stuff within, and was now a wreck. But he was able to traverse the cavelike gaps and make his way to its one-time laboratory area where the Spire was mounted.

Except that the smegma had hardened into a vault covering the area, with only the continuing surge of new smegma at its apex. How was he to get past this? It seemed as hard as granite.

Then he saw a keyhole in the side. Unfortunately he didn’t have a suit able key.

Or did he? After a moment he realized that the region resembled a hu man vulva, with the hole where the vagina would be. That suggested a key of a special nature.

He checked his collection, and brought out a penis of the right configu ration. He screwed it onto his socket. Then he imagined Tantamount with her skirt off and her bare legs spread. That brought his member stiffly erect.

He guided it into the crevice. It fit comfortably, but nothing happened. Oh. He thrust, withdrew, and thrust again, until he managed to produce a jet of semen. That softened the hole, and it melted. It continued to dissolve as he cleaned off his spent member and put it away.

Soon there was a door-sized opening in the vault. He climbed through. As he did, the vault collapsed; it had been defeated, so had no further reason to exist.

There it was: a device shaped like a foot-long horn, upright, with white fluid jetting from its tip. The force of the jet was sufficient to send it up several feet, where it caught on what remained of the upper story. There was just room to wriggle up to where he could put a hand on the shaft. Prior did so. His fingers circled it. “Spire, desist.” he said. Nothing changed. The off-white jet continued with unabated force. He tried to pull it off its mounting. It wouldn’t budge. This was an unexpected problem. The Spire had obeyed him after he defeated the demons of the Cherry Tree and took it. Why wasn’t it doing so now? Did it not recognize him? “Spire, I am Prior Gross. Desist the jet and come with me.” There was no effect. He realized that he was not communicating in the manner it understood. The Spire spoke only in gouts that entered the body of the one it addressed. He would have to do what he hated, and get a mouthful of smegma.

He nerved himself, then shoved his hand over the apex, blunting the power of the jet, put his mouth over it, and removed his hand.

The gout rammed into his mouth and down his throat, inflating him, it seemed, all the way to his anus. Yet it was a delightful infusion, for the Spire
was the essence of potency. I AM THE SPIRE, CREATED BY EGG, THE ELDEST GOD OF THE GALAXY. Precisely. I am Prior Gross, who captured you at Mount Icecream a year ago. Another inspiring gout distended him. I REMEMBER. Prior removed his mouth from the tip, and it did not resume jetting. He cleared his throat with some effort, swallowing some smegma and spitting out the rest. “I need your service again.” Then he put his tongue back on the tip.

This time the gout was smaller, a mere token. The Spire was evidently
interested. YOU MUST EARN IT. “But I conquered you. You belong to me now.” CORRECTION, MORTAL MAN. I AM THE TOOL OF EGG. YOU MERELY OB

TAINED MY SERVICE FOR A SET PERIOD, NOW EXPIRED. So it was like that. He would have to deal with the Spire on its own terms. “How can I obtain your service for the next month?” For that should suffice, whatever the outcome of his quest. I CRAVE A BIT OF MORTAL EXPERIENCE.

“But you generated all the mortals of the galaxy, or at least their ances

tors.” AND ALL THE MATTER TOO. BUT THAT WAS SOME TIME AGO. “About twelve billion years,” Prior agreed. “I can see how it might have

gotten dull in the interim.” MORTALS HAVE FLEETING EXISTENCES, BUT THEY COPULATE FRE

QUENTLY. I WANT SOME OF THAT. I LACK A MORTAL BODY. LEND ME YOURS. It occurred to Prior that they could establish some overlapping interest.

“You mean I should screw you onto my socket and have at some women.” COPULATE WITH SOME FEMALES, AMONG OTHERS. Uh-oh. “Only females,” Prior said. “I won’t fuck males.” AGREED. I WILL ASSIST YOU AS REQUIRED FOR THE DURATION OF OUR

ASSOCIATION. YOU WILL INSERT ME INTO ANY AVAILABLE FEMALES. Prior caught another problem. “But you are endlessly potent. You’ll want to spend the whole time, day and night, fucking women, and I won’t be able to get on with my quest. There has to be some limit.” HALF TIME. “So I must chase women during virtually all my waking hours? That

won’t work either. How about one hour a day?” AGREED. That surprised him. “What’s the catch?” ONE HOUR CUMULATIVE. IT CAN BE SPREAD OUT ACROSS THE DAY, A

FEW MINUTES AT A TIME, FOR DIFFERENT FEMALES. That did make a difference, but seemed fair. “However, women don’t come to me a dime a dozen. In fact the only good fuck I’ve had in the past month was with a succubus. I won’t be able to provide you with any except whores.”

PROSTITUTES WILL DO, BUT ARE NOT SUFFICIENT IN THEMSELVES. MERELY TOUCH ME TO THE LIVING SURFACE OF A FEMALE AND I WILL RENDER HER CONDUCIVE. “I suppose I could hold you in my hand for that.” NO. KEEP ME SCREWED ON FOR ACTION. I WANT TO EMBRACE THEM IN

MORTAL FASHION AND FEEL THE LIVING FEELINGS. “But that would make it too obvious. I’d get arrested for indecent expo

sure.” I WILL PROVIDE THE ILLUSION OF COVERAGE. TOUCH FLESH AND PRO

CEED. Prior remained dubious. “Well, I can try. But don’t blame me if it doesn’t work. Women can be very touchy—no pun—about public contacts. They don’t like getting groped.”
THEY WILL LIKE THIS, the Spire gouted confidently. DEAL? “Deal,” Prior agreed, because he did need the Spire. He hoped he wouldn’t

regret it. PUT ME ON. Prior opened his trousers and unscrewed his keyhole penis. This was the legacy of his association with Tantamount; her sister Oubliette had fitted him with the socket and set him up with the alternative equipment. He shook it out and put it in his member pocket. He had a number of artificial penises to go with his natural one, of different sizes and types, all of them with nerves so that they provided full sensation. He would hardly need them, now that he had the potent tool of the Eldest God of the Galaxy.

Then he lifted the Spire, which now came loose readily, and brought it to his crotch. It had a screw-on base that matched his socket, by no coincidence, because he had carried it that way before. He screwed it on. It projected rigidly a foot in front of him. “You need to shrink.”

DONE. This time the gout nudged into Prior’s urethra just enough to convey its message. The long horn diminished and became flexible so that it would fit inside the trousers. He would use it for normal urination, but when the time for fornication came, it would provide its own potency. His flesh had grown around the socket, so that when a penis was attached, the connection was not apparent; any member he wore seemed to be his own. Not that he got a chance to show any of them off to women often, other than the succubus.

Now he had to make his way out of the pile, which was already settling down somewhat with the cessation of the Spire’s output. As he crawled, the
Spire made a small gout of query. WHAT IS THIS QUEST FOR WHICH YOU NEED

MY ASSISTANCE?

“My ideal woman has been abducted to Fartingale. I need to rescue her. Do you know anything about that land?”

EVERYTHING. FARTS ARE THEIR UNIT OF CURRENCY. YOU WILL NEED TO PUT ME IN YOUR RECTUM ON OCCASION SO I CAN GENERATE WIND WITHOUT AROUSING SUSPICION.

“Up my ass!” Prior said, not pleased. But if this was the way of Fartingale, he was stuck for it. “They fart a lot there?”

YES. STATUS IS JUDGED BY PROFICIENCY. YOU WERE WISE TO ENLIST MY AID. I WILL MAKE YOU THE BLOWHARD CHAMPION. “I just want to rescue my woman.”
THAT, TOO, the Spire agreed, emitting a small sample fart that startled Prior. But of course the Spire could emit anything, literally, in any quantity. THIS WILL BE A NICE CHALLENGE EVEN FOR MY POWERS, CONSIDERING THE NEED FOR SUBTLETY.

Oh, great! Subtle farting. By the time Prior wedged his way out of the mound, he had a much better idea of the challenge ahead.