Long ago and far away, there lived a beautiful young woman named Chunderella. She had long, black hair worn in a thick braid down the middle of her back, jade green eyes and smooth, golden skin. She had full lips, which she licked often with a deft, red tongue; a slender waist; and what a later era would crudely call "bodacious ta-tas." She was, in a word, ripe. She was also a virgin and was beginning to fear she always would be, for Chunderella had one attribute that diminished the charms of all the others in the world's eyes: a hair-trigger gag reflex. Faced with any product of the latter stages of digestion, no matter how subtle or minute, Chunderella immediately voided the contents of her stomach in a most spectacular manner. If she smelled or heard a delicate fart, she began projectile vomiting. In the presence of an actual grogan, other than her own, of course, the projectile vomiting would be followed by unproductive retching, loud and convulsive, for a full half-hour. Now remember, dear reader, that indoor plumbing is a relatively recent innovation and that the streets of earlier eras doubled as open sewers. Poor Chunderella could not venture outside her front door without being seized with paroxysms of vomiting, and so she remained within, slightly queasy and unfulfilled.

Chunderella had, of course, an ugly stepmother and two ugly stepsisters, who exploited her weakness. From dawn until midnight, they forced Chunderella to perform a daunting array of tasks, from the traditional cooking and cleaning to the more intimate services each required to remain marginally desirable to the opposite sex, for, despite their utter lack of physical charm, the women of Chunderella's household were inordinately lascivious. Sampsonetta, the elder sister, had to be waxed daily, as 85 percent of her body was covered with coarse, alarmingly fast-growing hair. Leprosina, in the early stages of Hansen's Disease, had to be peeled and buffed with a pumice stone. But Chunderella's stepmother required more extensive repair: the old woman's uterus, having collapsed, often protruded from her vagina and had to be re-inserted several times per day, the slack, dry vagina then packed with fresh liver in case erotic opportunity knocked. Chunderella hated these tasks, naturally. But, whenever she balked, one or the other loathsome step-relative would head for a special cabinet that held canned beans 'n franks, Ex-lax, and prune juice, and just the hint of forthcoming flatulence was usually sufficient to send Chunderella back to her odious chores.

The king and queen of the land had a handsome young son, who also seemed destined to remain a virgin, to the dismay of his parents and the great detriment of the realm. He was, you see, an only child; should he fail to produce an heir, the throne would eventually pass to a branch of the family eager to mandate capital punishment for sodomy, which would vastly diminish the quality of life in the kingdom. The royal couple had tried everything in their power to interest their son in marriage and procreation. A succession of beautiful women had arrived at the palace, breasts spilling from velvet bodices and vaginal secretions artfully dabbed at pulse points. The prince had merely yawned. Next, they tried a couple of handsome young men with twin sisters, the latter to manage a pregnancy, should their son take a shine to a brother. No response. What the royal couple couldn't know was that the prince was a hard-core emetophilic, a lover of what is quaintly termed a "Roman shower." As a baby, the prince had enjoyed the tender ministrations of a nurse much given to playing with his tiny choadlet but seemingly unable to keep her gorge from rising as she changed his grogan-smeared diapers. The nurse's weakness was to forever yoke regurgitation and arousal in the young man's mind--and, with the Roman Empire fallen and the rise of modern bulimia still a millennium in the future, to leave him little prospect of sexual satisfaction.

After years of gentle nudging, the king and queen finally issued an ultimatum.

"We love you, son," said the king firmly, "but we love our kingdom, too. You're going to have to choose a bride from among the ladies and gentleman-twins of the realm." The prince was panic-stricken.

"Darling," said the queen, "We've decided to throw a huge party, a ball, as it were." She and the king snickered, then composed themselves. "We'll invite all the ladies and gentleman-twins in the land, and you may choose whomever you like to be your bride." An idea began coalescing in the prince's mind.

"Okay," he said brightly. "May I dismiss my manservant and prepare myself for the ball?"

"Anything, dear boy," said his parents in unison.

PART 2

As the hour of the Ball approached, preparations in Chunderella's house grew frenzied. Sampsonetta was waxed, Leprosina peeled and pumiced, Stepmother reinserted and packed with calves' heart, in honor of the occasion. Chunderella pulled the corsets of the three women tight, powdered their bulbous noses, plucked stray hairs from their chins, and waved morosely from the window as they drew away in their carriage. More than anything, she wanted to attend the prince's ball, but, without a lovely gown or a mode of transportation that would preserve her from fecal fumes, she had no hope of being admitted by the palace guards. And even if, by some miracle, she were presentable enough to gain entrance, it would be only a matter of time before a guest in her vicinity farted and she began spewing chunks all over herself. Slumping to the floor, she began weeping softly.

"My dear girl, what's all the blubbering about?" cried a voice behind her. She turned to find a striking creature gazing down at her, a man more than six feet tall dressed in a miniskirt, a sequined halter over immense falsies, and a profusion of gauzy silk scarves.

"Wh-who are you," she asked, at once frightened and fascinated. Her eyes took in the exotic figure, pausing for a long while at the bulge in the front of the man's skirt.

"Well, I'd love to tell you that I'm Aladdin's lamp," sighed the man, "and that rubbing my spout will make a genie appear, but the truth is that I'm your fairy godfather and I'm here to make it possible for you to attend that damn ball." With another sigh, the man waved one of his scarves in a desultory fashion, transforming Chunderella's rags into a dazzling white gown. She gasped as she admired its cunning workmanship and elegant lines.

"Now for some basic grooming," said her supernatural benefactor, cocking his head to the side and squinting. He waved the scarf again, and Chunderella felt her long braid unravel, sending loose curls tumbling over her shoulders. At the same time, she felt a sharp, pinching sensation above her eyes.

"Those brows, darling, are positively *Neanderthal*. Pluck, pluck, pluck!" Chunderella gasped as she felt the same sensation under her arms, along her calves, and between her legs.

"Ouch!" cried Chunderella, grabbing her crotch.

"My favorite part of the job," snickered the fairy godfather. Chunderella was still sniffling and rubbing her newly-trimmed snatch as he walked her toward the door.

"Outside is the traditional coach," he said in a bored voice. "You know the drill. It'll turn back into a pumpkin at midnight."

"But...what about my...you know?"

"Your cookies will remain untossed until midnight also. But, if I were you, dear, I'd be home and poised over a chamber pot when the clock strikes twelve, because every fart you've smelled all night will at that moment register on your gorge, which will rise as never before." With those words, he disappeared, and Chunderella dashed exuberantly outside, for the first time in years.

Meanwhile, back at the palace, the prince was getting ready for the ball.

"There's only one way to find the right bride," he muttered under his breath, "Only one way." He walked over to the basin of warm water left for his pre-party ablutions. Carefully, he lifted the basin and set it on the floor. He stood astride the basin, then slowly lowered himself so that he was squatting over it. Effort contorted his face.

"Damn," he swore softly, "Should have had more fruit for lunch." He remained squatting for a long time, until, finally, a long, columnar grogan emerged and dropped with a splash. The Prince stood and replaced the basin on his dressing-table. Stripping off his clothes, he plunged his hands into the water, breaking up and dispersing the grogan until it blended into his wash-water. Then he sponged the solution all over his body and into his hair, taking special pains to work it into the soft skin of his neck and shoulders, where the delicate noses of his dance partners would rest. He waltzed vigorously around the room, to allow the solution to dry, the movements of his naked body growing ever more frenzied, as he imagined a beautiful--and recently banqueted--girl inhaling the heady aroma and rewarding him with the pungent eruption he so craved.

PART 3

The ball proved to be the most lavish party ever thrown in the kingdom. Torches blazed, marble fountains flowed with sparking wines, liveried servants staggered under trays heaped with delicacies. Couples whirled across the dance floor then slipped out across the moonlit lawn into the nearby forest, where their cries of joy mingled with the sounds of the night birds and the soft rustling of the leaves. Chunderella had never known such a glorious evening, and she danced as though possessed by the music. But no entreaty could coax her to the wood; a succession of handsome men and beautiful women, inflamed by her loveliness, met only a smiling refusal when they urged her out into the moonlight. For Chunderella was in love--in love with the handsome prince who gamely waltzed with first one and then another of his father's young subjects, and who, she was sure beyond all reason, would love her in return, as long as she was in and out of his arms by midnight.

Meanwhile, in the Ladies' Closet, perched bare-assed atop a row of holes emptying into an aqueduct that led to the palace dungeon, were Chunderella's step-sisters and several of their more comely friends. A chorus of urine streams sounded merrily in the high-ceilinged room, as the women silently pondered the problems that had brought them to confer together.

"Well, I, for one, have rarely encountered anything more disgusting," said a tiny blonde whose ermine-trimmed bodice barely contained breasts reminiscent of firm apricots. "I mean the man smelled like he'd been sleeping in a pig sty."

"Worse," said a willowy brunette in tight burgundy velvet, shaking her head. "Like he was wearing a dirty diaper. On his head!" Laughter filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls.

"Who knew the prince was so gross?"

"Who knew? I always thought he was cute."

"Listen, chumps," said Sampsonetta, "Hasn't it occurred to you that the stench is a deliberate ploy? For some reason, the prince doesn't *want* to get married, so he's trying to force us all to reject him. Well, it won't work." Just then, the door flew open and a buxom redhead in a green silk gown staggered in, breathing hard.

"Well, Allison, did you survive your dance?" teased Leprosina, relinquishing her spot on the communal toilet.

"Barely," said the redhead. Her breathing now more regular, she began to ease a large, white chunk from each nostril. "Thank Glub for your mother's ingenuity! Where'd she ever get the idea that we pack our nostrils with wax, anyway? I mean, that was simply inspired!"

"Oh, Mom's a clever one," said Sampsonetta.

"We still have one problem," said the blonde, adjusting her ermine bodice to a more revealing angle, "Nipples out or in, do you think?"

"Out, definitely out," said Leprosina.

"Can we please stay on topic?" said Allison, peevishly. "I do think he likes me best, so far, and I *do* so want to be princess."

"He hasn't danced with *me* yet," said Sampsonetta. "And, face it, girlfriend, I am *hot* tonight.

"Better make it fast," muttered Allison, "Your stubble is growing in." Sampsonetta reached out to strangle the other woman, but Leprosina stayed her hand.

"Shut up, you two," said the brunette. "One of us will be princess, and the rest will be ladies-in-waiting. "Frankly, after tonight, I'm not sure that I *want* to be the one to share the crown prince's bed. I'm perfectly content to be a runner-up in this particular contest."

"But one of us has to be chosen. Which means we have to do something about Chunderella," said Leprosina.

"What's the deal with her, anyway?" asked Allison, "Why isn't she horking her head off, as usual? Why is she even out of the house?"

"Oh you missed this, Allison, while you were dancing with the prince. Tell her, Sampsonetta." Sampsonetta recounted the story of the fairy godfather's visit, which she and Leprosina had forced out of their stepsister, after her unexpected arrival at the ball, by threatening to burn her hair off with one of the festive torches.

"We agree that the bitch is more beautiful than all of us put together," said the blonde, "Although, frankly, I think my breasts are quite competitive, particularly when there's a slight chill in the air or when I'm aroused--"

"Which I'm sure you *weren't* during your dance with the prince," said Leprosina. "Stay on topic, Marion. The topic is not your breasts, improbably enough. There will be ample time for breast admiration after we've secured our places in the royal household."

"Oh, it's really not that complicated," spat Marion, peeved. "All we have to do is make sure that Chunderella is in the Prince's arms at midnight. One whiff of him and she'll hork herself inside-out. Then he'll choose one of us."

"We need to formulate a plan," said Sampsonetta, and the women murmured purposefully together, as the aqueduct carried their waste to the thirsty prisoners in the dungeon far below.

PART 4

Below, in the ballroom, the prince was growing increasingly frustrated. He had danced with dozens of ladies and a few gentlemen, none of whom seemed to notice his aroma at all. At first he found their impervious bewildering, but lately he had noticed that all of his partners spoke as though they had terrible head colds.

"Thank you for the dance," he said, relinquishing the hand of a slender waif with luminous grey eyes.

"By pleasure, your bajesty," said the waif. The prince wandered over to a champagne fountain and absently scooped himself a goblet of the bright wine, which he drank slowly, his thoughts on the failure of his scheme and the king and queen's ultimatum. "Tomorrow at noon I must name my bride," he mumbled to himself. "That little blonde, Barion I think her name was, wasn't too bad. Nice breasts." He continued to drink, unaware of the line of ladies descending into the ballroom and creeping toward the great hourglass that rested in a niche at the back of the hall.

A few moments later, in a brief respite between dances, Chunderella glanced at the hourglass.

"Not yet eleven," she murmured. "Still, I'd better make my move, so that I can be home well before midnight." She pinched a little color into her cheeks and a little tumescence into her nipples, smoothed the front of her white gown, and walked gracefully toward the prince, confident in her loveliness. When she reached him, still standing abstracted by the champagne fountain, she dropped into a low curtsey.

"Your majesty," she began. He looked at her a moment, then blinked.

"You don't have a cold," he said.

"No, your majesty," she replied, puzzled, "I am quite healthy." He held out a silk-gloved hand.

"Will you dance?" Chunderella took the proffered hand and walked regally toward the center of the ballroom with the prince. All eyes turned toward the beautiful pair, and Chunderella found herself, for the first time in her life, perfectly happy. The dance was a minuet, the prince light on his feet. They promenaded together as though mirror images of one another, heads high, only their palms touching. Occasionally, a fecal odor wafted in Chunderella's direction, but she blithely ignored it, knowing herself impervious for nearly another hour. For his part, the prince was fascinated but perplexed. There was something so *right* about this woman... and yet, she showed no sign of the nausea he craved. The dance over, they lingered together, talking animatedly, until the orchestra struck up a waltz. The prince drew Chunderella into his arms.

She gasped, as the odor of shit enveloped her. Panicked, she looked at the hour-glass and saw that the time was just 11:00. But she was more nauseous than she had ever been before, and her stomach was beginning to contract rhythmically. She swallowed rapidly as the hot, sour acid rose at the back of her throat. The prince regarded Chunderella's watering eyes and newly-pale lips with joyful anticipation, his choad springing upright in one swift motion. He tightened his embrace and was rewarded with the sensation of hot, copious saliva soaking the front of his tunic. Chunderella moaned with pain, the prince with pleasure. She tried to pull away, so she could run through the French doors and out onto the lawn, but the prince held her close against his body, feeling with his own belly the sharp contractions of hers. His choad throbbed below, ready to produce a little chunder of its own. Suddenly, with a sound like the tearing of a great canvas sail, Chunderella spewed forth more than a gallon of watery vomit, half-digested delicacies surfing a champagne tsunami to the floor. The other dancers stopped and gaped at the lovely woman, whom the kind prince continued to hold tenderly in his arms as she drenched the two of them with wave after wave of chunder. Finally, she tore herself from the prince's embrace, running swiftly through the palace gates, her white gown wet, discolored, and adorned with bits of regurgitated food. As she ran, she lost a vomit-spattered slipper, but Chunderella maintained her pace until she was out of sight.

"Wait," cried the prince, in anguish, "Wait!" Sampsonetta, Leprosina, Allison, and Marion, who had been laughing merrily over by the hour-glass, exchanged puzzled looks.

"Wait!" sobbed the prince, "I love you. But I don't even know your name."

"And you never will," vowed Marion, "Will, he, ladies?" They all shook their heads grimly as they watched the prince walk out of the room, his clothes soaking wet, so wet that no-one noticed the moisture seeping through his codpiece from the other side.

PART 5

Chunderella awoke the next morning with semi-digested remnants all over her lovely face and caked in her luxuriant hair. Sitting before the tiny mirror in her cold garret room, she peeled the dried vomit from her cheeks and combed it out of her tresses, before creeping silently down the stairs to steal a pail of wash-water from the cistern. Her stomach roiled with remembered nausea and with remembered shame. For one shining instant she had been the happiest woman in the kingdom; now, she was the most wretched, as, over and over, she relived the moment when she covered the prince with steaming vomit.

"I just don't understand," she murmured, in anguish. "Midnight was an hour away--"

"Chun-der-el-la," sang Sampsonetta from her boudoir above, putting an end to the thought, "I'm ready for breakfast now. And you might as well bring the wax."

"And the pumice stone," sang Leprosina.

"And the liver," sang Chunderella's evil stepmother.

At the palace, the prince woke as he had slept: clutching the vomit-spattered shoe. As consciousness returned, one hand drew the shoe toward his nose while the other found his engorged choad and began stroking, lightly at first and then more assertively. He, too, replayed the events of the previous night, recalling his ecstasy as the divine woman cast forth wave after pungent wave.

"She was a veritable Vesuvius," he murmured in remembered awe, as the rhythm of his stroking accelerated and the warm shimmer of orgasmic inevitability spread to his balls.

"Ahem," said his manservant, standing in the doorway. The prince groaned in frustration. "The king, your father, and the queen, your mother, desire your presence in the council room."

"Tell the king, my father, and the queen, my mother, that I'll be there in a minute."

"I may not, sir. I've been instructed to see that you, ahem, bathe."

The prince found his parents finishing their breakfast of pheasant and strawberries.

"Ah, there you are, dear," said his mother. She tapped the court taster, sitting beside her at the table, on the shoulder. "Go sniff him." The taster put his nose to the prince's neck, then nodded toward the queen. "Now you may kiss me, dear."

"Son," said the king, "that was a mischievous little prank you pulled last night. Fortunately, only one poor girl fell for it. The rest, I've been informed, had the good sense to stop their noses with wax. "Yes, we wondered where all of the candles were disappearing to," said the queen. Usually the guests pocket the *silver* when we give a ball."

"Well, I saved you some money, then, didn't I?" snarled the prince.

"Apologize to your mother for that rude remark," ordered the king. "And, while you're at it, apologize to the cleaning wenches, who were scraping chunder off the floors and walls until dawn."

"Sorry, Mum," muttered the prince. "Sorry, wenches. Say, did you happen to save--"

"Darling, it's time," said the queen, "Time to choose your bride." She smiled brightly at her son. "Who will it be? The Lady Marion, unless I miss my guess."

"Lovely breasts on that one," said the king, wincing as his wife kicked him beneath the table. The prince drew a deep breath.

"I want the one who horked on me," he said quietly.

"What?" said the queen, "You want the chunderer?" She shook her head disgustedly, "Isn't it just like a man to want the *stupidest* woman in the entire kingdom, the only one who didn't have the sense to stop her nose with wax!" She kicked her husband again.

"What was that for?"

"Being a man."

"She was lovely, my son," said the king, rubbing his shin, "but we don't seem to know who she is. I inquired, after she ran away last night, so that we might offer to pay her dry-cleaning bill."

"She left this behind," said the prince, beckoning his manservant, who approached, holding Chunderella's vomit-spattered shoe at arm's length. "I know I've read somewhere of a successful trace using footwear."

"All right, we'll try it," said the king, "But only for a day. If she's not found by nightfall, you'll wed the Lady Marion."

Marion was at that moment laughing with her friends, who had gathered in Sampsonetta and Leprosina's parlor.

"Did you see her trying to hold it back?" chortled Allison. "At one point, she had her whole *fist* in her mouth."

"I'm just glad we weren't seen tinkering with the hour-glass," said Sampsonetta.

"Well," said Marion smugly, "We had the ultimate diversion, didn't we, when I let the top of my dress slip down. I mean, who could possibly look at anything other than--"

"Your breasts!" bellowed the others, in unison.

"Well, it worked," pouted Marion. Outside the parlor door, Chunderella stood motionless, a tray of watercress sandwiches in her hand. As she listened, her eyes hardened and her breathing came faster.

"Bitches," she whispered passionately. "I solemnly vow that someday, somehow, I'll have my revenge."

CONCLUSION

By noon that day, everyone in the realm knew that the king's ministers were searching for the mysterious woman who had regurgitated so spectacularly at the ball. Everyone knew that the woman had left behind a delicate slipper spattered with vomit and that the ministers sought the owner of a gown with matching stains - a white gown, some said, though others insisted that the gown was ivory, taupe, or pale yellow.

Throughout the kingdom, would-be princesses were bent over their lightest-colored frocks with their fingers down their throats.

"Come on, you can do better than that," said Chunderella's stepmother to Sampsonetta and Leprosina, as the two sisters dribbled desultory puddles of bile on white gowns, hastily purchased for the occasion. "Retch! Retch, girls, as though your lives depended upon it!"

Only Chunderella was unaware of the ministers' search--was, in fact, up in her garret furiously scrubbing the stains out of her lovely dress.

Meanwhile, the king's ministers were retching regularly, as household after household proudly displayed at least one pungently soiled garment to be matched against Chunderella's shoe. The ministers inspected stains of all sizes, colors, textures, and spatter-patterns, some obvious counterfeits, still wet to the touch and reeking of newly-churned stomach acids, and some requiring closer analysis. As the sun sank into the western sky, they began to despair of finding a genuine match.

"I can't take much more," said the chief minister. "I was up all night with gas, and now this. It's enough to make me nostalgic for the Crusades."

Finally, the tired, queasy ministers reached Chunderella's household, the last on their itinerary. Before they could knock, the door swung open.

"Come in, come in," sang Chunderella's stepmother. "One of my daughters is surely the lady you seek--why, both have had delicate stomachs from the cradle! If regurgitation were an Olympic sport, my girls would be gold medalists!" The ministers stood uneasily in the parlor, having heard similar testimonials all day. "Sampsonetta, Leprosina, bring in the gowns you wore to the ball last night."

Her daughters dutifully entered bearing their soiled frocks, which they laid before the ministers, who produced the slipper for comparison.

"No match," said the chief minister, "Your daughters' vomit is too chunky."

"I've *told* you girls a thousand times to chew before swallowing," whispered Chunderella's stepmother, furiously.

"This is the last house," said the deputy minister. "Is there no other lady in residence?" Just then Chunderella entered with her newly-washed gown, which she had hoped to hang before the parlor fireplace to dry. "You, miss. Did you attend the prince's ball last night?" Chunderella hung her head and nodded slowly. "And is this the gown you wore?" Chunderella nodded again, a tear slipping down her cheek. "May we see it, please?" Sampsonetta, Leprosina, and their mother watched with wide, terrified eyes as Chunderella handed her gown to the deputy minister. As he slowly unrolled the damp, clean dress, all four women smiled with relief.

"That's it, then," said the chief minister, handing the gown back to Chunderella and turning to go. For an instant, his face contorted with pain."

"Are you all right?" asked the deputy minister, whispering to the ladies, "He hasn't been feeling well."

"Fine," said the chief minister, "A momentary cramp. Let's go inform the king that our search has been a failure. The prince will marry the Lady Marion, and that will be that." Sampsonetta and Leprosina clapped their hands with joy, while Chunderella wept openly to hear her prince promised to another woman. Suddenly, the air was rent with noise and stench, as the chief minister unleashed long-withheld flatulence.

"Excuse--" he began, halting in mid-apology to stare in amazement at Chunderella, whose mouth streamed with vomit as her eyes streamed with tears. Chunder fell on her newly-washed gown, though sorrow made her insensible of the fact.

"Get her out of here," growled Sampsonetta to her mother.

"Wait," said the deputy minister. "Let me see that dress again." Carefully he lay the now-sopping garment on the floor and placed the shoe beside it."

"I believe we have a match," said the chief minister, the deputy minister nodding in agreement."

Gentle reader, you can surmise the rest of the story. The ministers brought Chunderella back to the palace, horking all the way. Overjoyed to have found his beloved, the prince agreed to furnish her a private suite far from the palace sewers, as long as she promised to be "his little Vesuvius" in the bedroom once in a while. They were wed with great ceremony in a well-ventilated hall, the bride resplendent in ivory brocade and matching ivory nose clip. Nine months later, Chunderella delivered a plump male heir, handing him straight to a wet nurse before he could soil his first diaper. Everyone in the kingdom was happy and prosperous--except, perhaps, Chunderella's ladies-in-waiting: Sampsonetta, Leprosina, Allison, and Marion. For, taking a page from their book, Chunderella had ordered their assholes stopped with wax, lest the slightest fecal aroma upset her delicate stomach. Once a week their stoppers were removed to allow grogan emission, but the rest of the time they served their mistress in stiff-legged agony. Even Marion's breasts began to droop with the strain.

(lsking@wolfenet.com)