Eroma

by Piers Anthony

  “This may not be the case,” Pedro said. “In prior games, each round has been sharply different, both in setting and in manner of interaction. But it is true that Fotina and I like each other, personally.” Since there was evidently no secret there anyway.

  “And that the game proprietors are promoting our romance,” Fotina said.

  “Promoting it?” Norris asked. “Why?”

  “It seems that the wider audience gets bored with straight adventure and sex,” she said. “However, romance is always novel. Thus, they encourage it, at least as a side show.”

  “Several players spoke to me of Fotina’s feelings about me,” Pedro said. “But I am wary.”

  “Wary?” Fotina asked sharply.

  “I wouldn’t want to bore anyone with my conjectures.”

  “We are not bored,” Norris said, and Salina nodded. “If the game is to be rigged—”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” Fotina said quickly. “It’s that they get a bigger audience if there’s a good romance. It seems they can see every detail of it.” She colored again, slightly.

  “Then what is your conjecture?” Norris asked Pedro.

  “I understand that in the bad old days when racism was rampant, attempts were made to allow folk of the black persuasion to mingle with those of the white persuasion, there could be subtle but ugly devices.”

  “What devices?” Salina asked. She was a black Nubian, while Norris was a white Nordic.

  “If two black boys were given jobs at an otherwise white factory,” Pedro continued, “they could not legally be fired unless they gave cause, which they were careful not to do. So, the white establishment found other ways to encourage them to leave. They would give each a sharp knife, privately, and advise him that the other was only pretending to be friendly, but in fact intended to stab him in the back, literally. So it was best that he be prepared, or even take preemptive action.”

  “That’s mischief,” Norris said. “It could lead readily to a deadly fight.”

  “Exactly,” Pedro agreed. “One boy might be dead or seriously injured, and the other culpable. Both would soon be gone, and the whites theoretically had no responsibility.”

  “Ugly,” Norris agreed. “How does that relate to you and Fotina? They are not encouraging you to distrust each other. Rather the opposite.”

  “It may nevertheless be a similar conspiracy,” Pedro said. “They told me she loved me. They surely told her something similar about me. Now they are putting us together. Are they trying to facilitate our progress in the game, or impede it?”

  “How could such a relationship impede it?” Salina asked.

  “If we became sensitized to the fact of the other players, who might try to eliminate us so that we could not collaborate to eliminate them,” Pedro said. “Or to the larger outside audience. We, in the game, have sex with many other players, but if we should become possessive of each other, that would interfere. Jealously is a prime human motivator.”

  Norris nodded. “That is possible. Assuming you both know this, and play your best regardless, what then?”

  “We might not want an audience of millions overhearing our every word of love, inspecting our every kiss, watching the very penetration of penis into vagina. It’s all right when having sex with relative strangers, knowing it’s an aspect of the game, but difficult to accept when interacting with one you love.”

  “Especially when they have given each of us a knife, as it were, by telling us of the other’s supposed interest,” Fotina said, “and put us together.”

  “I see,” Norris agreed. “You might prefer to drop out entirely, to preserve your newly-desired privacy.”

  “Yes,” Fotina agreed.

  Pedro looked around again. Beyond the tables was open floor. “Do you dance?” he asked Fotina.

  “I do,” she said, surprised.

  He stood. “May I have the pleasure?”

  “Why, yes,” she agreed, slightly flustered.

  Norris spoke to Salina. “You?”

  “Of course.”

  They walked as two couples to the dance floor. As they arrived, music struck up, a pleasant waltz.

  Pedro took Fotina in his arms. She was lovely and light, a pleasure to hold. But it was more than that. His feeling for her was stronger than he would have preferred it to be. They were, after all, competitors, and ultimately only one of them could win, assuming they got to the last round. They had no business liking each other too well.

  They danced, and the other couples danced too. Soon more couples formed and joined them. Pedro’s attention remained on Fotina. He knew that in this scene she was merely a fetching avatar rather than a real person, yet his feeling for her was burgeoning.

  “This provides us a bit of pseudo privacy,” he said, forcing himself to focus on business. “They are watching everything, but I prefer the illusion of an individual dialogue, however unrealistic.”

  “Why?” Fotina asked. “Why do we need privacy, real or imagined?”

  “I believe it is as we conjectured. They are setting us up for something. Perhaps heartbreak; that surely scores with an audience too. If this is the case, before it happens, I want you to know that I am indeed strongly attracted to you. Their promotion of you merely facilitated an interest that was already well advanced. You are a pretty, nervy, smart, accommodating girl, and I feel comfortable with you. Of course, if in real life you are a four hundred pound bald woman—”

  “I look very much like my avatar,” she said quickly. “I wanted to be myself, as much as possible. Does it matter?”

  “I wish I could say it doesn’t. But it does. I am orienting on the physical person I see here, and a serious change in that would make for a certain amount of emotional chaos. It is part of being male; we do tend to orient on physical appearance.”

  She smiled. “Then be reassured on that score. You?”

  “I am a complete nonentity, a file clerk, not at all the handsome muscular figure of my avatar, but neither am I ugly. I would be lost in a crowd, not standing out in any particular manner.”

  “I spoke truly when I said I loved you more than a little,” she said. “It’s not a matter of your appearance, though I confess that I, too, would be set back by a four hundred pound wrestler with rings in his nose. You helped me so much at the beginning! I know I’m a foolish girl.”

  “I fear I am becoming similarly foolish. I helped you out of simple decency, because you asked me. But something about you appeals to me, beyond your mental assets. When we had sex, it wasn’t the same as later with the other women. Even though it’s all in avatar form, you turn me on. I am trying to fight it, but I am losing.”

  “I am sorry to complicate your game strategy, yet I confess I am happy you feel that way. I will help you in whatever way I can, because I want to please you.”

  Her innocent candor touched him again. “Then I make you this personal oath: never knowingly to do you harm or cause you emotional distress, in or out of the game. Because, though I am older than you, you are the kind of girl I would like to date in real life. To see where it might lead.”

  “I echo your oath,” she said. “After the game is done, let’s date.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

  “Of course.” He bent his face down, and she lifted hers, and they kissed.

  He had thought there would be moderate impact. He had misjudged the case. Suddenly she was overwhelmingly important to him. He had never been in real love before.

  There was a smattering of applause. Others had been watching. Both of them blushed again, then continued their dance. They were emotionally ready for whatever the game threw at them.

  Meanwhile, the dancing was wonderful. Fotina was a man’s dream, a lovely and attentive young woman, synchronizing her movements perfectly with his. More than that, he knew her for a very smart, adaptable person: one with a mind. That counted for a lot.

  The music stopped. “Dinner is served,” a uni
formed majordomo announced.

  They returned to their table, as did the others. A waiter appeared and passed out fancy menus.

  Pedro looked at his, half expecting it to list horrible things, like live slugs or raw octopus tentacles. But it was a beverage list, with a number of wines, beers, soft drinks, and milk. An ordinary beginning for a banquet.

  “A mug of beer,” Norris said.

  “White wine,” Salina said.

  “Milk,” Pedro said, still cautious.

  “Lemonade,” Fotina said, evidently similarly cautious. What kind of drinks would be served to players who did not need to eat or drink?

  A waitress came bearing an empty mug. A waiter approached and stood before her. She held the mug down near his crotch. He opened his fly and brought out his penis. He urinated into the mug. The piss streamed out voluminously, soon filling the mug.

  The four of them at the table stared without moving or commenting. What could they say? Pedro was surprised that the waiter was even able to urinate; evidently, in this round, the avatars were anatomically and functionally correct.

  The waitress took the mug and set it down before Norris. It was full and frothy. “Your beer, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Norris said, keeping a straight face. He did not touch it. Theoretically this was politeness, waiting until the others were duly served.

  “I gather we are able to eat and drink in this setting,” Pedro said. “Though the food can hardly be real.”

  “It is as real as your avatars,” the waiter replied. “You are expected to partake.”

  “Or else?” Salina asked.

  “Those who do not will forfeit their places in the game.”

  Just so. This was to be a challenge of gustatory fortitude. Such things had occurred in prior games: the eating of live eels, of raw sheep’s guts, and so on.

  The waiter brought a wine glass to Salina. But instead of opening a sealed bottle, he beckoned to the waitress. She hoisted her skirt to reveal a bottom without underwear. She spread her legs wide. The waiter put the glass down close to her crotch. She let go with a stream of urine. It swirled around in the glass, filling it. Pedro saw that similar offerings were made at the other tables. They were all being treated to this astonishing show.

  The waiter set the glass before Salina. This was her white wine. It still looked a lot like urine.

  The waiter brought a milk glass to Pedro’s place. The waitress removed her shirt, baring her full breasts. The waiter held the glass before her bosom. She took her hands and squeezed around a nipple. A stream of white milk squirted out, catching the glass. She continued until the glass was half full, then shifted to the other breast, and milked it similarly until the glass was full.

  The waiter set the glass before Pedro. The fluid looked exactly like milk.

  Finally, the waitress brought a tall lemonade glass to Fotina’s place. The waiter brought out his penis again and urinated. The waitress set it before Fotina.

  Now the waiter and waitress stood back and waited.

  “I think we are expected to sample the drinks before we get to the next course,” Norris said.

  “Or else,” Salina repeated.

  “Together?” Pedro suggested.

  The four of them lifted their glasses and brought them to their faces. They knew that they could not get away with balking.

  Pedro sipped his milk. It was cold, and tasted exactly like milk. The temperature revealed that it had not just come from living breasts.

  Fotina sipped her drink. “Cold lemonade,” she said, relieved.

  Norris tried his. “Excellent cold beer.”

  Salina sipped. “Perfect white wine.”

  “They are messing with our minds,” Pedro said. “The drinks are genuine, at least to the extent feasible, in such a setting. Only the mode of presentation differs.”

  “We can handle it,” Fotina said.

  They sipped their assorted drinks, reassured. Secretly, Pedro suspected that worse was coming. This was only the introduction, to establish the type of challenge, and incidentally give the TV audience a show. Men pissing into glasses? Children would love that!

  He looked around. Two of the other tables had a person missing. It seemed two people had balked and were gone.

  The waitress cleared away the empty glasses. Pedro looked at his menu. It showed aperitifs and salads.

  “Lettuce, tomato, carrot, onion salad,” he said. “And rolls.”

  “The same,” Fotina said.

  “Ditto,” Norris agreed, and Salina nodded. There was a certain support in unity.

  “Make it one big salad for the four of us, with the rolls on the side,” Pedro suggested. “Less trouble that way.” Also, maybe less anatomical exposure and natural functions.

  First the waiter dropped his trousers and bent over. The waitress held a plate close behind him. He heaved, and his rectum extruded a brown mass. It turned out to be a roll. He heaved again, defecating another. When there were four rolls, the waitress put the plate on the table.

  Now the waitress bared her breasts again. She squeezed out a thick yellowish substance, catching it in a small glass bowl. This turned out to be yellow butter.

  The four patrons gravely took a roll each, spread butter, and chewed on them. They were warm and tasty. However, another person disappeared at one of the other tables.

  The waiter brought two large salad bowls. The waitress put her head over one, poked a finger down her throat, and vomited a copious greenish jellylike liquid. When she had enough, she reached into the mass and drew out—a lettuce leaf. It seemed to have formed from the puke. She washed it off with a damp sponge and set it in the other bowl. Soon she had several leaves, enough to form the base of the salad.

  The waiter stood by the lettuce, hawked, sneezed, then put one finger to his nose. He blew, and a string of mucous emerged to land on the lettuce. He blocked the spent nostril and blew again, and more mucous streamed out. It was a jelly base for the rest of the salad.

  “Snot sauce,” Salina said, grimacing.

  “Only the best,” Fotina agreed, looking faintly ill.

  The waitress bared her bottom and extruded a red globe from her anus. It was a whole tomato. She squeezed out another. The waiter took them and used a sharp kitchen knife to slice them into sections, which he added to the lettuce.

  Then the waiter bared his bottom and extruded a yellow mass: a whole carrot, followed by another. These were sliced into the developing salad.

  Next, the waitress stood and looked sad. Tears welled from her eyes. Then she bent and puked out a whitish ball. It was an onion. The waiter sliced it into the salad also.

  Finally the waiter bared his penis again, and the waitress bared her bottom. He approached her from behind as she bent over and slid his member into her vagina. He stroked several times, then withdrew and oriented on the salad. Several spurts flew out and splattered on the salad. The salad dressing, courtesy coitus interruptus.

  It turned out to be excellent salad. More vacancies appeared at the other tables.

  “What’s next?” Norris asked morosely.

  Fotina looked at the menu, which now displayed offerings for the next course. “More aperitifs: beef stew and raisin pudding seem to be the least unappetizing.”

  “This makes me nervous,” Salina said.

  “The longer we hold out, the better off we are,” Fotina said. “We’re the only remaining table with all four players.”

  “That semen salad dressing was a close call for me,” Norris said. “I know this is all merely a show, but it is getting to me.”

  “It’s like the old time real-life competitions,” Pedro said. “At some point they would have the players eating repulsive things. I’m sure that live roaches and caterpillars can have good food value, but I would have difficulty eating them.”

  “But you can eat vomited lettuce and shit-out tomatoes?” Norris asked. “I think I would prefer the caterpillars.”

  “We have to order,
” Fotina said.

  They did. The waiter obligingly defecated the lumpy brown stew, which looked exactly like diarrhea, bubbling with embedded gas. “So nice to have the farts mixed in to the liquid shit,” Norris remarked.

  The waitress vomited the raisin pudding into small individual bowls. “And the raisins well soaked,” Salina added.

  Norris lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. That was as far as he could go. “I can’t eat this shit,” he muttered.

  Salina tried with the pudding. She managed to open her mouth, but stalled there. “Ditto this vomit.”

  Pedro nerved himself and put a spoonful of stew in his mouth. It tasted exactly like stew, but he feared he detected a whiff of poop about it. Too bad. He chewed and swallowed.

  Fotina tried the pudding. She got it in her mouth, looked as if she wanted to vomit it back out, but then managed to swallow.

  Then Pedro tried the pudding, and Fotina the stew. Both succeeded. They were eating the offerings.

  Norris and Salina disappeared.

  Startled, Pedro looked around, but the two were not in sight. They had simply faded out.

  “We eliminated them,” Fotina said sadly. “When we ate what they could not.”

  “It’s a competition,” Pedro said. “I wasn’t trying to wipe them out.”

  “Me neither.”

  They continued eating, glancing every so often at the other tables. One had two remaining players, while the other two tables had three. Six players had been eliminated. “One of each gender to go,” Pedro murmured.

  “Before we are safe,” Fotina agreed.

  They finished the course. As did the players at the other tables. It was time for the next.

  The menu shifted again. The main entries showed. Roast piglet. Roast turkey. Roast lamb. Roast beef.

  “We had beef stew,” Pedro said. “I prefer variety, even in this.”

  “The turkey, then,” Fotina suggested.

  They ordered the turkey. The other tables finished and made their orders.

  Then something odd happened. Instead of bringing the roasts, the waiters and waitresses looked at each other, all around the room, a similar act for them all. Was this important?