"The Rising Of The Skirts."

“Here. Read this.”

“The Rising Of The Skirts,” says Meg, taking the hefty fantasy doorstopper from you. There’s an image on the front cover of a gowned sorceress standing before two warriors in chainmail, in the middle of a forest, holding down her skirts as a mysterious wind tries to lift them up from below. “Book One of the best-selling Witch’s Wheel series of epic fantasy novels. When the Dark Lord Pervulon and his army of witches lay siege to the Dignified Kingdoms, it’s up to three brave girl adventurers… why are you showing this to me, Sitri?”

“Have you read it before?”

“No.”

“I just grabbed it from the airport bookstore. You’ll like it.”

“I still don’t see why we had to fly all the way to London,” says Meg. You and her are sitting in business class, surrounded by suit-clad corporate executives and other well-paid presentable professionals. Some are working on their laptops, some reading, some watching movies. Around two-thirds of them are women. “Couldn’t you have just teleported them there?”

“I thought it would give you some time to catch up on your reading.”

“Fine, fine. The witch’s winds blew through Maiden’s Forest. They stirred the grass, rustled the leaves on the trees, raised ripples on the surface of the calm waters. Rabbits huddled in their holes, sensing evil on the air. But the witch’s winds blew on past the rabbits. They were searching for bigger prey…”

“Sitri,” she said, about twenty minutes later. “This is horny!”

“Is it?” You’re watching The Eight Year Itch, a modern remake of the 1955 classic in which every famous actress you can think of comes together to celebrate Hollywood history through the magic of uninterrupted five-minute upskirt scenes. It was that or Bruce Almightier, where Jim Carrey gets his God powers back and uses them to do what any ordinary man would actually do with omnipotence in real life.

“I’m halfway through the first chapter. So far the evil winds have ambushed the good sorceress Myrmidia, blown off all her clothes and chased her from the forest into the quiet farming town of Startingfield. Three ordinary farm girls, one with a curious sword-shaped birthmark, have come to her rescue. But they don’t know goblins are about to attack!”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It sounds horny. Come on, why does she have to be naked for this?”

“It sounds to me like the kind of thing an evil wind would do. Maybe the author just has a fine eye for realistic detail. How do you know it’s horny all the way through?”

Meg opens the book up to a random page. “Jugwene squealed as the orclock’s firm hand came down again and again on her trembling bare backside, making her wish once more that she’d never heard of such a thing as an adventure,” she says. “Okay, let’s try another one. Failanne shrugged off her gown and stood exposed before the tittering court, cheeks burning crimson, knowing she had **** but to subject herself to the Ceremony of Truth.”

“Well?”

“The author is just blatantly putting his fetish into it! How is this allowed? Doesn’t anyone notice?”

“Maybe you have to have the same fetish to pick up on it.”

“What, for spanked naked women? It’s not exactly obscure. Who is this… A. J. Muchstuff, anyway?”

“Nobody knows. It’s an assumed name.”

“Why are you smiling at me like that, Sitri? You’ve got some kind of trick up your sleeve, I can tell.”

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. Just read your book.”

“Come on. This flight is like, seven hours long. You have to entertain me.”

“Okay,” you say, snapping your fingers. Instantly, every single woman on the plane except for Meg is stripped stark naked. Much squealing ensues. The startled stewardesses try to grab spare blankets, only to discover that the plastic packages which hold them can no longer be broken. Looks like they’ll all be trapped nude for the entire flight!

“Thank you, Sitri. That’ll do nicely.”

“You’re welcome, Meg. Though the in-flight movies also look pretty good.”