They could see it's outlines. It was clearly a door. There was clearly a part of it in the place you'd expect a handle to be that was clearly supposed to be, that was, a handle – but it was also a big old... tit.

Sticking out it. Sticking out it even more than all the other tits. It was a door of pokey out sticky tits. Mainly basically pretty nice ones – tits that was – if a bit blanched, or cold perhaps or something like that. The little sticking out parts like the bumpy writing blind people read circled the areolae – these things were blanched, and parched and rigid.

Tits.

It didn't look like the tits had been hurt, it wasn't that they had bruises, they were just, in the other sense; livid. Like someone had come along and slapped these tits, many of which, just in terms of the appearance of tits, were pleasant to look at – tits – out of context. But out of context was impossible. A series of tits. Maybe ninety tits to cover an entire door. The door was two-dimensional and square, a quadrangle at the end of the hall – at least it would have been two-dimensional but for the tits sticking out of it. A particularly large and pendulous breast, not perhaps as pretty as many of the other livid tits that against their will had been slapped and grafted to a door – which was a disgusting thing to have happened to any pair of tits or even singular, that was, tit – but this was apparently culturally a part of... what was this world.

The large pendulous one was the handle, of the door, but this treatment was not good especially for the pretty ones he couldn't help feeling, even if that was a thought born of perhaps a not terribly kind instinct or worldview – but no, it was a natural response to beauty. Beauty. – Beauty is something else. And this was as always beauty parodied and ruined. As always, he thought, because he understood them. Demons. And him, in fact, it, in fact, who dreamed him – whoever he/it – was, still a demon. Fuck that guy – whoever that/it was.

They kept on down the hall, toward a door: all tits.

“What do you think?”

“Beyond it being a door...?”

“Beyond it being a door, yeah.”

“I don't think it's a very nice thing, for anyone.”

“Me neither, but...” He probably shouldn't just start feeling the tits. This was a dream[?] though – and he'd, no doubt, done things similar in dreams – but something about the way in which the Golden Bow regarded him made him think that – it would not be a move that would be appreciated by anyone if he just started feeling tits.

Which was kind of a shame and unfair but. Then again. He wasn't particularly pressed to start just feeling the tits, for whom, obviously, he felt – there just, being, you know, part of a door, or door, or the display of a door – he obviously felt bad. This was not something he condoned. Still. More on principle than anything else. He wasn't pushed compulsively to start rubbing on and squeezing tits, he really wasn't, it was just kind of on principle, he felt, both of them standing before a door of tits, that it would – kind of be a waste of a door of tits if he didn't.

Same time he had a strange sensation of a lack of compulsion. Almost like a very important part of his personality had been removed because – and he noticed the thing on his throat pulsing. And he asked it why, or more accurately – the other organ. And his instinct was confirmed on this one too. In some sense, and for some reason – this thing on his throat governed his mad probably/likely self-destructive compulsions, and for some reason, here, even if on principle more than anything he'd love to just start grabbing tits – it's not as if a girl was attached who might not like it, not that that was – not liking it was one thing, but if you'd paid for a service... anyway he felt... this way, even pensively, concerning the matter.

It was clearly in there. In that bollock on his throat. Something in not wanting, not needing, here, anyway here – that revealed something of what it was and why – how? It functioned.

“I'm not just going to start grabbing tits willy-nilly. – I could. But I ain't going to because.” He stopped. “I don't need to, Golden Boy – I just don't need to.” He stopped. He motioned at all of the beautiful tits. Unattached to women, obviously, real – not that that made it better or anything obviously; it didn't; it actually really didn't – and – they were – just on a door.

– The only thing really that was here were these tits. He gestured, quite dramatically, at all of the tits. “It's really not fair... I mean.”

“You can fiddle that one.” The Golden Bow indicated the large old pendulous breast that was clearly the handle, just from where it was positioned – it was the thing that opened the thing that was in this instance a door.

“Don't do this on purpose.”

“That one opens the door.”

“I can see that that one opens the door.”

“We – I'd venture – need to open the door.”

“– We're going inside the door.”

“That's what I'm saying and that's the one that opens the door.” His face was blank, but the Dream Slave could tell, just tell – he was doing this on purpose.

“You know that you are deliberately, malice aforethought, making it socially acceptable only for me to feel the big floppy old tit. Hanging off the door. That one.” He pointed at it.

“Look, it opens the door, if you like – I, can do it.”

“And you're young – led to believe – full of pish and vinegar products.”

“– I know.”

“Not that I know but when I – was – full of pish and vinegar products – not that I'm not – I totally would have... hurt myself, let's say, against this thing, doing, I don't know, weird practices that aren't normal or looked upon as a welcome contribution to, any, society. – I'd have been doing a series of weird practices against this, this one,” he pointed at a beautiful perky little tit right beside him, and a larger more voluptuous but equally forthright tit next it. “I'd have been milking these fucking juicy bangers – I'd have been... I'd have been doing a series of weird practices that do not contribute to the general well-being of a functional society especially in terms of reproduction and transmitting values. – You understand.”

“I very much do. If you, like, I can open the door.” He could see that he was pretending that he didn't find this funny. – His misery.

“Just let me rub on this one?” It was the perky one by the big beautiful one he'd indicated earlier. It was very pale and lovely. It looked soft.

“I haven't said anything. If you want. I can go away. Come back later on. Twenty minutes?”

“That's unkind.”

“I'm trying to help you.”

“This is on principle – I don't feel any specific compulsive or biological need for this.”

“That's fine then.”

“Twenty minutes?” said the Dream Slave.

“– I'm here to help.”

He frowned, “This is actually unconscionable. You could not be more perfectly aware of. The thing that you are doing. I think you should open the door.”

“– That's fine too. I shall open the door.” he motioned his hand and then. Stopped. “Are you sure now? You want I should open the door?”

“I can open the door.”

“It's that one.” He pointed at the pendulous door handle one that the Hero/Slave really didn't want to touch. Not that he really didn't want to, it was – there was northing wrong with it per se –

“Molest that one.”

His hand froze, “You had to use that word didn't you.”

The youth had a look on his face, a smiling look, a smiling insincere – “Trying to help and understand.”

“There's a comment. Behind this. You. – I haven't done anything here. Or wrong. I want to be kind to this,” he indicated the pendulous door handle – “there's nothing offensive about this breast at all. It's very heavy. Looking. – It's a compliment. A heavy one there for us all to look at and enjoy. Not that I even am. But I could enjoy that one.” It was really flopped over – seemed thinned out in the middle kind of. Its material wasn't consistent in terms of the whole length; seemed, in fact, that a lot of it was bag with only some parts – empty – occupied, by, material, that type material that there was in, some others especially, breasts. Tissue. Breasts tissue.

“Molest that one while you're opening the door. It's the door handle.”

– Smugly, he'd got him this time, “You don't molest a door handle, you turn a door handle, or simply open a door.”

“Open the door then, if it's that, otherwise...”

“You're trying to use language against me in a very specific... fashion.”

“Very straightforward, this is – this door, here, is having a rather profound effect on you I can see.”

Really starting to lose his cool, finally – a very reasonable person who very rarely did, and only when sorely pressed by exterior circumstances and events, as in this case, by this situation, especially, and even the person he was addressing – which he should understand and stop being the way he is, “It's a fucking door of tits! And I'm not supposed to...? And anyway – it's not, this thing,” he single finger-flicked his throat-testicle once more –. Again! Why, again? Instantly, regretted – he winced and sighed and winced again, “It's just a throat-testicle this thing but I'm figuring out that it drives me mad with a will toward completely insatiable inevitably zero-fulfilment desires. No final nothing fulfilment, replacing thing for anything, this thing, unless – unless some reason it directs it – desire – at these no-fulfilment inevitable desire things that give no. That is. Fulfilment to these desires it does this – it makes me insane with these self-destructive compulsive... compulsions, if I've explained it or even understood it, this bag under my head that I... it does that –”

Seeking to clarify his position, The Golden Bow, “You're really behaving as if you think I'm judging you; I'm actually not – I'd just like to proceed, in this corridor, which is what we do, as you know, as you know even better than I, in these demonic worlds reduced-reality-realities, hatched out of the weird needs and geometries of demons; the modes by which they see the world, you know, in these fake geometries, infinities, and shapes. You comprehend. You know better than I. – It's walking down a bunch of mystery filled – probably fake mystery filled, would have to be given the unavoidable themes of this place – but you know that – ignorance for mystery – I'd say the exchange is – so I'd quite like to just open the door and keep proceeding along these halls until... whatever it is we unlock; and whatever that reveals about the nature of reality, ourselves, your self/myself – reality – and any of the rest of this, that is – if there is a difference which we can both separately and individually compulsively ruminate upon forever which as you know, again, better than I, is – another of the demonic hallmarks of this place – the constant ruminations on repetitions.” He stopped. He paused. He stopped and paused and then recommenced. “So if we could just – rub your arse on a pair of beautiful young tits if you like, that's for you, I really don't – care, fulfil the impossible to fulfil compulsions of your throat bollock if you want, seriously, I don't – it's not that I care. Masturbate as well. Just leave me out of it. Any form of masturbation. Especially mutual. Let's maintain decorum. And if you don't think... and let me emphasise: masturbation decorum. Rather important. You said societally. So societally. Let's not whack off together.”

This fucking guy – nice guy, but he just did not get it, “I don't want – to, you're not hearing it – I really don't want to do that because for whatever reason this gland here that I have here, it's not making me.” Some sentences he was shouting, there were also gesticulations, in forms expressed by persons that nobody appreciated, but this was a matter of some importance; certain liberties had to be observed. “– You haven't taken the care to fully understand my thesis, because it – this –,” he indicated his neck-goolie, “has what it needs, and – what I want to know is why is that?” See. Important narratively. He thought. It wasn't just about standing in a corridor whacking it. He stopped. He paused. He waved his hands around, and then spoke some more and – fast – “I really do want to feel a bunch of young tits I do,” he could deign to admit as a personal favour to this guy, “but – I'm trying to say to you, and have you understand, more specifically, that I do not have to do that. I don't have to. I really don't have to – because this thing here –” he just pointed this time and didn't flick it, “It's decided I don't have to be made crazy. It's decided that; I don't know, and this is sick. That this,” he indicated and indeed he meant this place they were, “is enough.”