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. Prior smiled. “As I said, magic.” “Well, you’ll certainly do. I haven’t smelled a joy fart in years. In fact we don’t see a lot of magic here in the hindland.” She bustled about, rousting up a meal for them. “You just sit down and keep that hot air coming while I set up.”

He sat the indicated chair, and the Spire continued a moderate emission. Smellie hummed a tune as she worked. It was halfway familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “What is that melody?”

“My theme song.” She sang the words of the refrain: “And ’twas from Aunt Dinah’s farting party I was seeing Smellie home.” Now he placed it. The variant he knew referred to a quilting party and Nellie.

They had a meal of beans and cabbage juice. It was what she had. His gut roiled up, but of course all the food in this land did that. Just so long as he could pass his natural gas without blowing the Spire out. It seemed okay; the Spire continued a low volume emission of joy farts, and that kept Smellie smiling. Her life remained bleak, but she was on a sustained high.

They talked, and he learned that the village had a monthly fair for enter tainment, contests, and business. It was designed to attract tourists, so that the village could profit. “I’m just passing through. I need to find the Maiden in the Tower.” “Oh, for that you need to go to the Maid-in-Tower Village. They have a

new Maiden every week.” “Every week? What happens to her?” “Each day there’s competition, with one candidate qualifying. On the

seventh day she must choose which one will be her master for a year.” “Her master?” “She’s his sex slave. They generally have good-looking anonymous Maid

ens who have been abducted for the purpose.” “Abducted!” he exclaimed as if surprised. “You mean this is involun

tary?” “Of course. That makes them more appealing. But it’s a recognized de

vice; they have no choice but to carry through.” “I should think there would be outrage by their families and friends.” “Sure. That’s why they aren’t taken from the local village unless they

volunteer, as some do. They are fetched in from far away.” Prior saw how it could have happened to someone from his realm, if that was the case. Was she really his ideal woman, or was that just propaganda spread about to many men to garner more interest? He would simply have to rescue her and hope for the best. “Where is the Tower Village?” “That’s three days trek from here, unless you have a fast steed or magic.” Three days! That gave him barely enough time, as he had only a week to rescue the Maiden. “I don’t have a steed or that kind of magic. Is there any shortcut?” “Sure. Win a ride on the Fart Blimp. It can take you there in one day.” THIS IS FEASIBLE, the Spire gouted. “Thanks, I’ll do that.” When they had eaten, they repaired to the public privy, entering it together and taking adjacent holes. Smellie let out quite a load, by the sound of it, clearing her body for the night. Prior eased his gas and turds out around the Spire, discovering that there was no difficulty; the magic implement knew how to stay in place.

People glanced at them, paying no special attention. Crapping together in the public privy was a signal that they were a couple, at least for the night. FOLK WHO SHIT TOGETHER, FIT TOGETHER, the Spire opined, evidently quoting a local maxim.

Prior glanced at the statue of the nude. “She’s beautiful. Was she mod eled from a real person?”

“Yes, of course. Every year we have a contest for comely young women posing bare on the toilet, and the loveliest wins the title of Mistress of the Village and the statue is sculpted to conform to her image. It’s a great honor, and more.” “More? In what sense is she mistress?” “Every sense. She becomes the leading citizen, making key decisions for the village, with a stipend so that she does not have to work at any other trade. She also has her choice of men, single or married, a different one each night if she wishes, for that year’s fucking. The men are normally glad to do it; it’s not considered a breach of their marital state, but a civic duty, and their wives are honored. She also entertains traveling men who pass this way; it brings a number who might otherwise select a different route, and the village gets their business. When her year as Mistress expires, she may choose any one of the men she has fucked to marry. Oh, I would have loved to be the Mistress, as any girl would, but of course that was a laughable dream.” Prior avoided the need to agree. “I’m a traveler. She didn’t choose me.” “She’s ill and wants to retire. Soon there’ll be another contest to select

her replacement.” “Ill?” Smellie smiled. “Euphemism for knocked up. It happens. She can’t marry

her lover until she steps down.” “Now I understand. Don’t girls have ways to avoid pregnancy?” “There are spells. But sometimes they forget.” They settled together on her bed. He saw that it was bumpy, with a ragged blanket. It was what she had. She did not complain, but it was clear she had reason to prostitute herself to traveling men; she needed to survive.

“How would you like me?” she asked, with a petite fart of invitation. “I can do it any way you want.”

“Actually, all I need is food and board, and you have provided that. You don’t have to have sex with me.” “Oh no! You’re gay!” “No, just trying to be reasonable. All I paid for was food and bed—and

I fear you have little in either respect.” “Oh, please, don’t leave now! I know it’s not great, but it’s all I have. I can

make it up by giving you great sex, so you’ll have no complaint.” She thought he was seeking a pretext to go elsewhere. Rather than argue,

he clasped her. She met him eagerly, and they proceeded to the best natural sex he’d had in some time, because he wasn’t using the Spire for it. Nothing fancy, just a simple stroking of her nice breasts, kissing her face, easing his member into her receptive cleft, thrusting, and ejaculating. All perfectly ordinary, but nice.

Then he realized that she had not joined him in the climax. He had come to depend on the Spire to thrill the women it touched, but he wasn’t using that now. “I’m sorry; I was forgetting your share. That was selfish of me.”

“Oh, I should have faked it,” she said, chagrined. “It was so nice having unkinky sex for once, I forgot.” “You’re not frustrated?” She laughed. “I never come. It would distract me from properly catering to the needs of my guests. If you want to do it again, I’ll make sure to give a better performance.” “No need. You were good as you were.” “It’s nice of you to say that. You’re a nice man.” As he sank into sleep, against her obliging body, he addressed the Spire:

She’s a good person, doing what she has to. I want to help her. YOU ARE BECOMING SOFT HEADED. SHE’S A WHORE. Maybe so. But also a decent human being. What can I do for her? ENTER SOME CONTESTS TOMORROW AT THE FAIR. WIN HER SOME

STAPLES. I will. Then, satisfied, he slept. In the morning he saw that his clothing was undisturbed; she had not sought to steal anything. She served him gruel: all she had. “I have paid you with joy farts,” he said carefully. “Now I am minded to hire you to show me around the fair tomorrow. I will pay you in goods you need, that I can win in contests.” She looked at him. “Why?” “I appreciate being treated decently. You didn’t try to rob me or cheat me, and you gave me more than I paid for. I will stay another night with you, and try to leave you satisfied that I was here.” She shrugged. “All right.” He knew she was trying to figure the catch. The fair was impressive. There were impromptu singing groups doing feeling renditions of “Fart of my Fart” and “Beer Farts and Gutsy People.” There were acappella farting groups. There were sexy bare-bottomed dances. “Everything’s here,” Smellie said. “Depending on your taste.” “Blankets.” She guided him to a stall where many excellent blankets were available.

“What blanket would you take for yourself, price no object?” he asked. She laughed, think it a joke. “That one.” Prior addressed the proprietor. “May the farts be with you,” he said, emitting a small fart. The Spire had prepared him for this. “I wish to purchase that blanket. I offer a jug of Joy Fart.” “You have magic?” the man asked, squinting. “He sure does,” Smellie said. “I boarded him last night, and he kept me

happy the whole time.” “Give me a sniff.” “One sniff,” Prior agreed, turning around and bending over. The man

put his nose down near his pantaloons. The Spire emitted a tiny fart. “That’s Joy!” the man agreed immediately. “But that’s my best blanket.

Three jugs.” “Two,” Prior said, knowing that bargaining was expected. “Two. But they have to sniff good.” Prior put his anus to a two-spouted jug. His fart went into one spout, forcing air out the other. When the Joy started coming through, the man clapped caps on both spouts. “How much time do you need to recharge?” “I’ve got a good load of gas. I can do it now.” He filled the second jug. The man gave him the blanket. Prior gave it to Smellie. “Take it home,

then return to me here. We have more shopping to do.” Amazed, she accepted, hurrying home with the blanket. “You got it for her?” the man asked, surprised. “She’s a good woman.” “Sure, but her face is plain.” “So is mine.” Soon Smellie returned. “Now food,” Prior said. “But you’ve already paid me far more than I deserve.” “I’m paying you for your guidance. It’s a day’s work.” Still dubious, she took him to a stall where there were many kinds of beans. Prior bought several packages with more joy farts, and helped her carry them home. “I don’t get it,” she said. He told her as much more of the truth as he thought was wise. “I’m here on a personal mission. I have special magic for this occasion. Once it’s done, I won’t have it any more. So I might as well use it to help a nice woman. It’s free, for me.” “You can get a slew of beautiful women, for what you’re giving me.” “Can I trust any of them without watching them?” She was silent a moment. “No. But how did you know you could trust

me?” “It’s a magic sense I have. You proved out, and I appreciate it.” She shook her head. “I’ve never been rewarded for being trustworthy

before.” “And maybe never again. But this time you are.” She considered. “May I kiss you?” “We kissed often enough last night.” “I mean in public, so others see.” Ah. “Sure.” She did so, and there was a stir. Others had been paying more attention

than he had realized. Probably news of his magic farts had gotten around. “But you know I’m moving on to rescue the Maiden in the Tower,” he

reminded her. “I’m not staying here.” “Yes, of course. Who would want to stay with me?” “I didn’t mean it like that.” “I know. But it’s true. I’m strictly a waystation woman. That’s why I

appreciate being treated like a person. It doesn’t happen often.” “You’re a nice person. You could make some man a good wife.” “So can any number of women with prettier faces.” Can we help her? he asked the Spire. YOU’RE AN IDIOT. Answer the damn question. YES. I COULD GENERATE A MAGIC FART THAT WOULD MELT HER FACE AND SET GUIDELINES FOR A BETTER ONE. SHE’D HAVE TO PROTECT IT FOR SEVERAL DAYS, BUT THEREAFTER SHE’D BE BEAUTIFUL. Prior nodded. He’d make the offer when it seemed appropriate. “Now let’s tour the fair,” he said. She hesitated. “Everything’s centered around the privy. You can find

whatever you want without my help.” “I thought I was buying your service as a tour guide. Are you reneging?” “No! It’s just that—well, I’m a—you know. Everyone knows it. To have me with you, treating me like a date, that could fart off your reputation in a hurry. You’ve been so good to me, I don’t want to do you ill in return.”

She was definitely not cut out to be a mean whore. “What do I care? Tomorrow I’ll be gone.” “You should care.” But she dropped the subject. They toured the fair. They stopped to eat fartburgers, drink fartfrappes, and nibble on pot cheese. All these generated generous quantities of gas, which they blew out with abandon. Prior saw a poster saying THE FAMILY THAT FARTS TOGETHER, STARTS TOGETHER. They were honoring its windy spirit.

There were shows galore. One was a little play featuring a man with a tremendous penis. “I’ll marry any woman who can handle this,” he proclaimed. One woman tried, bending over so he could penetrate her from behind, but barely half the member got into her before it balked. Another tried, and a bit more than half got in.

The third woman was more confident. “Sit down and lean back,” she said. He did so, and she stood over him, then lowered herself onto his member so that her own weight bore her down. Inch by inch she took it in, until at the end she reached down, grabbed his thighs, and hauled herself onto the last two inches. “There!” she said victoriously.

“No fair,” someone called. “She’s using leverage. Make her let go.” Re luctantly the woman did—and she flew up off the phallic pole, propelled by the recoil.

“That’s all right,” the man said. “It was the force of my ejaculation that did it, she’s such a good fuck.”

There was applause for the act. Obviously no ejaculation could have thrown her whole body up like that; she had jumped. But it was a nice punchline.

“Actually I once had a harder fuck,” the woman said, going into the next stage of the act. “My boyfriend didn’t have the biggest cock, but he was really enthusiastic. He fucked me so hard that when he was done, he had to pull out his cock, both balls, and half of his asshole.”

Laughter. Two more people came on stage. “You never fucked me that hard,” the new woman to her man.

“Well, I would have, but my farts would have blown you up like a bal loon.” More laughter, as they had topped the prior joke by suggesting that not only could the man have thrust so hard as to get his entire rectum into her, he would then have farted and inflated her. Realistic anatomy be damned.

“Then there’s the time I had constipation,” the woman on stage contin ued. “For two months I couldn’t pass anything, not even a fart. So finally the doctor gave me a pill. Not just any pill; it was the hydrogen bomb of laxatives, with a count down of exactly twenty four hours.” She looked at her watch. “Come to think of it, that was yesterday. You’d better fuck me within the next two minutes and get out of here, because you don’t want to be at ground zero when it detonates.”

“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 float ing 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. Do your stuff.

The Spire issued a rushing jet of black gas. It formed into a spherical mass that sparkled like a dark star. It floated in place, neither shrinking nor expanding. A murmur spread through the audience as it hung on past a minute. This was no amateur effort! Slowly, reluctantly, it thinned, until at last it sank to the ground and dissipated into a trace of goo. “Time,” the judge said. “Ninety seconds.” “The winner,” the announcer said, amazed. “Micro.” Prior relaxed in relief. The Spire had come through. I COULD HAVE MADE IT TWO MINUTES, BUT DIDN’T WANT TO BE OBVIOUS.

A NEW RECORD WOULD HAVE BEEN SUSPICIOUS. Thank you, Prior thought as he walked away from the arena. People were closing in on him, eager to learn more of him, now that he had made his sudden fame as a worthy farter. The other contestants looked on, scowling. They didn’t like being bested by a rank amateur. Smellie hugged him and kissed him impulsively. “You were great!” “Just get me out of here. I don’t want to answer questions.” She took possessive charge. “Micro is tired from his great performance. He needs to rest now. I’m sure you understand.” She took Prior’s hand and hauled him away.

When they were safely in her house she kissed him again. “Oh, Micro, that was absolutely wonderful! You showed them all.” “You helped,” he said. “I was glad to. Oh, this village has never seen a fart like that! Hardly anyone can do a black one, and they mostly poop out in a few seconds. What a spectacle!”

She served him a nice meal made from her new supplies. The time seemed right to broach his special idea. “Smellie, if you had a pretty face, you could land a good man, right?” “Oh sure. Men care about faces almost as much about bottoms, once

their edge is off. But what’s the use debating that? I’m a realist.” “I may have a way to give you that face. But it would not be an easy

process.” “What are you talking about?” “As I said before, I have a magic fart. It can be turned to several different things. I could make a fart that would melt your face and allow it to heal in a prettier image. But you would need to keep it swathed for several days, and there might be pain. Thereafter your face would be as nice as your nature.” She sat down, awed. “You can really do this?” “I believe so. But it could be risky. Magic can be dangerous in the hands

of amateurs, and I’m an amateur.” “Let me think about it.” As they settled down to sleep, after making their evening excursion to the public privy, she hesitated, then spoke. “You’ve been so good to me, I really shouldn’t ask anything more.” “Ask.” “Last night we clasped, and you were concerned because I didn’t climax

with you. Tonight I can put on a show that—” “No. I don’t want fakery.” “That’s what I thought you’d say. So my idea is, maybe I should try it for real, this one time. Let you simulate—as if we’re—that much would be an act, of course but—” “In love?” She blushed. “In pretense. So I can fool myself into letting it happen.

Forgetting myself. I know it’s a lot to ask.” “I’ve never had a woman to love me. That’s why I’m going after the Maiden in the Tower. She’s supposed to be my ideal woman, and my hope is that she’ll truly come to feel it. It’s the biggest thing I’ve missed in my life.”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t even think of interfering with that. Tomorrow you’ll go to her, and I hope you succeed. But tonight, in pretense—” She broke off. “Maybe it’s a stupid idea.”

“I like it. We can say the words and do the acts, knowing it’s only for tonight. Completing our association.” “Oh, thank you,” she breathed. When night came, they joined each other in the bed, in darkness. “I—I

don’t know what to say,” Prior said, feeling awkward. “I’ve never—” “Just hold me, beloved.” Relieved that she knew how to proceed, he put his arms around her. She was all warm woman. He kissed her, and she was all melting love. It was so nice that he just kept holding and kissing her for a while, then stroked her hair. “You’re beautiful.” “I have dreamed of this moment.” She was better at this than he was, but he was learning. “I never had the

wit to dream of love, just sex.” “And I want it with you, dear.” It was stupid, but that word “dear” sent a wash of pleasure through him. “Oh, this is great!” He hardly cared whether they had sex; it was just so nice loving her. “Darling,” he added belatedly.

She kissed him more ardently. She caught one of his hands and brought it to her breast. He had stroked breasts before, but this time it had more meaning. He put his face down and kissed it. She shifted just enough to slide the nipple to his mouth, and he kissed that too, feeling it swell. She held his head to her bosom, breathing harder, and each breath pressed it firmer and softer against his face.

“I’m getting warm,” she murmured. “But not there yet. Can you enter me without ejaculating right away?”

As it happened, he had jetted that afternoon, and his response was a bit slower than usual. He got in position and entered her carefully, and it was all right. He did not thrust, but just held position, kissing her mouth again. “Oh, my love, my love,” she said. “I love you so much.” “I love you,” he echoed, feeling it. Her vagina softened around him, and tightened. He repeated the words, and got a similar response. She was sexually turned on by words of love. Soon she came to the climax, and clasped him tightly, kissing him constantly, while her vagina convulsed.

It was too much. He had to thrust, and thrust again, his orgasm over whelming. She clung to him, meeting him with her closure, taking all that he had to give. He felt himself spurting, felt her accepting it, in a phenomenal mutual climax.

Yet it was not the end. He kept kissing her. “I love you, I love you!” His penis was diminishing, but not his passion. He couldn’t let go of the feeling. “Yes, yes,” she breathed, meeting him kiss for kiss. But finally they relaxed. “Yes, that’s what I never had,” he said. “I neither.” Then, after a pause: “In the morning, before you go—I’ll

take that fart.” They relaxed into sleep, embraced. It was wonderful.