Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms

by Jason Wuchenich

  “Here’s your new collecting bag, let me just rinse it out first and massage the hole properly so we can fit it snugly over your little gut bud,” Geraldine said.

  “Thank you, dear. I’m preparing a tasty breakfast of radish, carrots and eggs. It should be ready in just a minute.” Mildred cracked six eggs in a bowl and mixed them up into a frothy yellow consistency. She cut the radishes and carrots into thin slices and also added them to the cold egg broth. She handed a bowl of this soup to Geraldine. Suddenly, as she was pouring her own bowl, she heard the music again:

  Grabeth ye thine magic wand

  and tred the lands of frost beyond

  The Filldon Marsh and Skatcher’s Pond

  Oh, grabeth ye thine wand

  “There, Geraldine, the music! It plays again!” Mildred’s eyes opened wide as she spastically scanned the room – resembling a chicken searching for a hidden worm. “Tell me you heard it this time,” she pleaded as she scratched a tickle in her back.

  “Nope. Sorry, mother, I heard nothing.” Geraldine raised a golden eyebrow and smirked.

  “Oh, you must think I’m loony. But I heard music, I tell you! Beautiful, soothing music. It sings of quests through cold lands and of wands!”

  “Mother, we really must get your crapper’s mitt installed. I think you’re body is on the verge of collapse. Dangerous toxins must be affecting your brain.” Geraldine gently shook out the water of the colonthimum petal and affixed it to her mother’s blossoming side bung – just in time, too. An olive-colored foulness slowly started to shoestring inside the bag. “Now come, lie back down in your hay. Let me get your soup.” Geraldine escorted her confused and shaken mother to her bedchamber. With all the hustle and clamor of the morning, they found the pig’s bladder lying limp and deflated.

  “Oh dear, Geraldine. My poor, poor pig’s bladder. I think it has ceased to be. Do give it a proper burial, will you child?”

  “Of course, mother. I’ll do it right before I go into town for more food and summon a physician that can diagnose your cockamamie minstrel claims. Now do get some rest.” Geraldine slid the tattered doorway tarp over, blocking the entrance into her mother’s room and retired to her own to masturbate one final time to the thought of her somnambular intruder. It didn’t take long for the orgasm to encroach as the wooden stew spoon she spat upon spastically glazed across her engorged clitoris.

  Oh, Lemmy, she thought, if only you were truly here.

  * * * * *

  For the next two weeks Lemmy abstained from raiding Mildred’s colostomy bags, having no desire to fart and make his physical presence known. All he wanted was to make passionate love to Geraldine; to swoon her subconscious. Each night, he took her to different places in her head, different dream realms. The second night he took her to a distant beach with sand grains so small, it felt like they were rolling around on powder. The substance clung to their entwined bodies which were dampened with oceanic mist. Black waves caressed the soft shores in palpatory undulations. The moon was close enough to poke and sent its hypnotic aura down in an unexplainable green light. The third night they just talked, lying naked under a centuries-old willow tree. The drooping branches and leafs, tickled and stroked their bodies in the warm daylight breeze. No bugs were flying about to pester them and it was as if nature left them in complete peace. The fourth night, Lemmy and Geraldine fucked long and hard in a plush bedroom that looked like it belonged to someone of royal stature. Ornate tapestries gilded the stone castle walls. Animal skin rugs slithered along the floor, oblivious to the two lovers. The orgasmic experience of this night was overwhelming for both – Lemmy covering her in thick, white ropes of semen, which she eagerly massaged into her soft, pale stomach and breasts.

  And on it went, with similar encounters for the next ten days. Each morning she discovered that her hymen was still intact, lying exhausted in bed although she’d slept straight through the night. Even in her dreams, her vagina was immense, but her lover’s penis could engorge itself as thick and large as a young manatee, filling her completely. She marvelled at her dream lover’s skill, his tenderness, his beauty and his intellect. She wished more than anything that her dreams were a reality and each night, she was anxious to see her dream lover once again, yet terrified if he decided to not show up. Geraldine was absolutely enthralled with Lemmy. There was no doubt in her mind that she was madly in love with this apparition.

  Her days were spent doing her chores: gathering eggs from the chickens, weaving crinoline, walking the twelve miles into town and buying, trading and selling goods, killing and gutting wild pigs to add to her mother’s bladder collection, and always thinking of him.

  The physician, calling himself Doctor Nestor on this particular day (the odd doctor always introduced himself with a different name), was sent out to see Mildred three separate times over the two week span, and found nothing overtly wrong with her aside from a slight case of constipation. She had a few too many hairy moles, but they posed no concern; just unsightly characteristics. He did mention her flappy labia, but remembering the enormity of Geraldine’s vulva, he passed it off as something genetic.

  On the fourteenth day, Geraldine was exceedingly exhilarated. She whistled about; a particularly joyous tune; a tune that would later be most certainly ripped off by Jimi Hendrix in his ‘original’ 1967 song, Foxy Lady.

  “My, Geraldine you’ve been in such high spirits lately. Have you found yourself a resident kobold to fix your shoes?” Once Mildred completed the sentence, not thinking about what she said when she said it, she demanded that Geraldine hike up her blossom covered gown to expose the source of said emotional elation. “Up with your skirt, miss, I want to see it!” she sounded very serious.

  “Why do you want me to lift my skirt and what is it, exactly, you want to see?” she queried, slightly embarrassed.

  “Don’t you play the fool with me, Geraldine. YOU know what I want to see. You’ve been in far to good of a mood of late, and I want to make sure that my daughter is…you know…still,” she paused, as would any mother before completing the sentence, “still…in tact.”

  “MOTH-ER! Of course I’m still in tact!” She stood up from the kitchen and hiked up her gown. “There, feast your eyes you pervert of a mother, wanting so desperately to gaze upon your very own daughter’s naughty bits.” Her protruding vulva bore itself, resembling the bill of a large duck. She grabbed the end of the bill, sparking a grin and a shudder as she grabbed her clitoris, and gently lifted it upwards, exposing her perfectly abnormal and ‘in tact’ hymen - decorative veins and all. A few droplets of naturally lubricating fluids dribbled to the floor in glistening strands. “There, are you happy now? Are you pleased with your virgin daughter?”

  Mildred uttered a quick, “Yes, yes I am.” The hands that rested on her labia-waist during the inquisition were now folded tightly underneath her sagging breasts.

  “Now, if we can resume civility, have there been any more burglaries of the you-know-what that you haven’t told me about?”

  “No, not a one although…”

  With bold heart go, with sword in hand

  travel eastward through frosty land

  prepare thine self to be outmanned

  Oh, go with sword in hand

  “…see! Did you hear that? They’re playing louder now. You surely must have heard it!”

  “Mother, you are indeed right. I did hear something. It sounded like the faintest of minstrel bands. You’re not insane after all! Oh, how wonderful!”

  “Of course I’m not insane. I told you so! And believe you me, its not quiet to my ears, it’s bloomin’ loud. You can be quite sure of that.”

  “But where is it coming from?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you the same question now, would I?”

  “It was faint, but I heard it for certain. It almost sounded like it was coming from you!”

  “How remarkably strange. I suppose that would make more sense as to why it seems louder than a rau
schpfeife played by a hill giant to my ears.”

  “Why mother, you just gave me an idea!”

  “Oh, no you don’t! We don’t need the likes of any hill giants in these parts!”

  “No, no, nothing to do with giants in any form. I’m going to go back into town and trade blowjobs for a trumpet flare. We can place the small end in your stoma and then it might just amplify your inner music! It would be like having our very own personal band of merry minstrels!”

  “Sometimes I wonder where you got those brains of yours, Geraldine. They’re certainly not from me and I’d be hornswoggled if they were from your bog-dwelling father.”

  “Well I better be off if I’m to be home by nightfall. Wish me luck, mother.”

  “Good luck giving blowjobs, my genius daughter.”

  * * * * *

  Over the past two weeks, without another visit to old Mildred’s colostomy bag, Lemmy freely searched the forests, plucking animal scat for his meals. He had no desire to gut, let alone see anybody else but Geraldine. So, he ate the freshly expelled feces of boar, bears and deer - the warmer and steamier the better. He preferred the poops that could be mashed between the roof of his mouth and his tongue, not particularly caring for the dried logs that required a bit of chewing.

  His flavor table was parched and crusty, as no fresh viscosity had lain on its surface in some time. He farted in privacy and practiced facial expressions in front of his mirror, flexing specific muscle groups to maximize his delectability. He practiced what he called his ‘glamor gaze’ the most, it was this expression that could make any virgin swoon and fall madly in love, but he had never used it in the physical world, until now.

  Lemmy anxiously gnawed on a Valerian root, looking to find some form of emotional sedation. Tonight was the night. He was going to materialize for Geraldine, but he had to fart in her presence to do so. She would hear it, and then she would smell it. Then, as it had happened throughout the centuries, he would be rejected again. It’s just the way things were, he feared. His existence had been a solitary one, and he had grown accustomed to it. Dreams were one thing, but actually obtaining a soul, one to keep forever and ever, that was unfamiliar ground. Lemmy knew he would love Geraldine, she was perfect for him, and as long as the crone survived, he would have a never-ending source of sustenance. He never had a mother, as Incubi were timeless beings, and he figured a mother would be a welcome addition into his life as well.

  Perchance, the way to Geraldine’s heart, is through her mother’s. I must gain her approval – but how?

  He wracked his brain, thinking how to accomplish such a task. An overwhelming urge to fart swept through him, but he figured he should hold all his gas in, until tonight. He clenched hard and sucked it back up, feeling the meandering gas bubble within.

  Then the thought hit him: Bacchus be praised! I knowest how!

  * * * * *

  Geraldine passed many peasants on her way back into town, although her and her mother were essentially peasants as well, they were slightly more respected. Mildred was known throughout the land as the only woman to have killed a wild boar with her bare hands. As the story goes, one winter night, shortly after Geraldine was born, her father had a peculiar episode of somnambulism. Mildred woke up to hear baby Geraldine wailing and found her haystack bed devoid of her husband. Finding the cottage door ajar and snow billowing forth inside, she wrapped herself snugly in her labia. Mildred lit a candle and followed the tracks through the snow, quite obviously made by her husband. She followed the tracks long enough for the candle to burn down to where it had to struggle to stay lit. Before it went out, she reached a bog, and the footsteps led straight into the murky water. A sudden wind picked up, extinguishing the candle altogether, abandoning Mildred in a foul darkness. The trees that loomed high above her, blocked out most of the stars and only small glimmers of moonlight could be seen reflected off the stagnant bog water. She could feel the snowflakes land and melt in her hair, and she became paranoid of having her naked body infested by nasty, blood draining bog mosquitoes.

  A churning ripple developed in the water and an eerie, blue glow emanated from the depths.

  “I demand the blood of a newborn human for such a trespass!” boomed a foreign voice from an unidentifiable location.

  Mildred draped her face in labia, like a terrified child under a blanket. A stifled snort, followed by uncontrollable laughter ensued as the ghostly apparition of her husband, Lothar, took form above the water.

  “Lothar! What in blazes are you doing? You’re drunk aren’t you?! Do you know what time it is?”

  “Oh, juss havin’ a laugh, Mildred! Noffin’ to get all worked up about,” said an obviously intoxicated Lothar.

  “Mercy me, if I knew you were an alcoholic water djinn, I would have thought twice about marrying you… let alone allowing you to fuck me! Now we have a child…”

  Mildred was interrupted by a series of hiccups. Lothar’s torso wavered, and the blue smoke that made up his lower portions quivered with each subsequent belly jiggle. “Oh, it’s useless talking with the likes of you. Consider us divorced you trickster. I hope you drown.”

  She turned her back on the bog and her husband and began the long walk back to her infant daughter. Now unguided by any form of light, except for the sporadic help of the moon, she tried as best as she could to find the tracks previously created. As she neared her home she heard a rustling in the bracken. Still quite irked about her ex-husband’s deception, she barked out another scolding insult. “Listen here you aquatic asshole, I told you to bugger…” Before Mildred could finish the proper slag, a wild boar rampaged out of the thickets behind her. One of its tusks managed to find its way up Mildred’s bare asshole and tore out a rather lengthy section of her colon. Falling forward, entangled in her flappy pussy lips, she quickly turned on her back to confront the beast that was now on top of her, trying to mount her. She could see the glistening foam dripping from the boar’s mouth and knew that it was rabid. The drool glopped on her face, obscuring what little vision she had and ran into her screaming mouth. She instinctively reached for the boar’s eyes to gouge them out but found the length of entrails that remained stuck on its tusk like a condom. She yanked it off and swung it around the neck of the boar and choked the beast with all her might. The frenzied squealing became stifled, turning into pathetic beastly wheezes. She rolled on top of the creature and applied even more pressure, tightening her colon around the boar’s trachea, stretching it to the point of tearing. The intestine eventually snapped like a wretched rubber band, splattering defecate and bloody mucous about the ground beside her. If it were daylight, the contrast of brown and red against the winter snow would have been strikingly Jackson Pollock-esque. With the last bit of energy, she managed to dig into the creature’s eyes with her fingers until she felt them poke through the spongy texture of brain. The boar was dead, Lothar never returned, and she had had a colostomy bag ever since.

  * * * * *

  Geraldine reached the town of Howath by midday. She stopped in the local tavern for a few pints of ale to loosen her moral fortitude in order to raise the necessary funds for the construction of a custom-built colostomy horn. The tavern was relatively empty with nothing but a pair of patrons passed out on their table. The barkeep knew Geraldine well. “Good day, m’lady are we wanting the usual?”

  “Indeed I do, Ernest. Would you mind if I paid you with a quick wank? I have much to do today,” she vaguely admitted, wanting to keep her true task secretive. Admitting her mother was producing melodious tunes would be far fetched for many to believe.

  “But of course, Miss Geraldine. I have plenty of local brew on hand and I don’t seem to be busy at the moment. Do you mind if we go ‘round back?”

  “That’s exactly what I had in mind, my good Ernest.”

  Ernest set down his towel and mug, wiping the dishwater from his hands onto a beer-stained apron. He led Geraldine out through the back door, one they had walked through together before, and l
eaned up against the Tudor wall outside. He moved his apron aside and unzipped his trousers as Geraldine collected a bounty of saliva in her mouth and spat in her hand. Geraldine worked quickly and feverishly with her eyes closed, thinking of Lemmy. Lemmy’s penis was far superior so she imagined his face and his whispering voice groaning in ecstasy. She felt the impending spasms and smiled to herself, still lost in Lemmy-land. Orgasmic contractions soon pulsed in her hand and she wiped the semen on Ernest’s apron while his eyes were clenched shut in post-ejaculatory bliss.

  “That was a fine wank, m’lady. Shall I pour your ale now?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Back in the tavern, Geraldine quickly pounded three pints and said her goodbyes, wishing Ernest a good day. Out on the street, Geraldine made no surreptitious attempts at disclosing her aims. She unfolded a parchment that bore the words Blowjobs For Sixpence written in dried and cracked mud. She was by no means a regular at this endeavor, but nonetheless, no stranger. She got quite a few clients during a mere three hour period and managed to not only make enough money for the colostomy trumpet, but to have some left over for rainy days.

  With a stomach full of ale and semen, she made her way towards the edge of town to the blacksmith. Geraldine had no desire to fellate him for his services because, quite bluntly, he was a travesty of a man. A huge dangling belly covered any semblance of a penis he would have. He was also covered in hair, sprouting plumbs of it above his collared shirt. There was no discernment of where his beard ended and his chest hair began. The thought of him relieving himself of any sexual tension disgusted her, so she preferred going to him with actual money. She approached the mammoth man with apprehension, as he was clearly busy and in no mood to lollygag.