It was at this point the Dream Slave noted two bars on the ceiling, only a subconscious design feature. He realised now, however, they had a function.

The mad undulations of the Science Priests, and the creaking of arse brackets, and masturbators, in that great wave of full insertions – along weird momentarily two-dimensional angles, and those not, of the weird ritual in the ceiling – they/these only increased in frenzy and permanent arse damage.

Throbbing. Throwing. Charging. Wanking. Metal cocks ripping arseholes already fallen out from too much internal fucking. On and on the mad frenzy went; louder and louder the semi-verbal screams and whinnies of the sexually insane Science Priests – all of it vile, continuous, but communicative – this was – something in the way in which the bizarre skittering echoes in the halls revealed patterns he couldn't decipher beyond that they were that, and revealed – whatever it was that was communicated between them. For something was being communicated between them, and in fact it nearly fully had.

To the point that –

Fluids exchanged in one file all the way from the end of the circle to the beginning and then regurgitated – via cocks – through; he could see liquids through tubes – he could see bile out cocks, he could see the whole mad echoing cacophony of their culture reach a climax that was explicitly a climax. Involving liquids, involving gallons and gallons and gallons of liquids.

A wall panel opened. And all the liquids that had been injected into the arse of the final Science Priest were –

On his knees before him – a double faced freak in the flashes from its hood – each flash another still in horror –

– showed –

Presented its gob for the sacrament.

Bile; blood, semen, organs, cock-parts, gallons of liquefied organ and brain melt – insane quantities of shit, and ejaculate and semen and blood and all the liquids the prostates and cunts of forty/fifty whatever Science Priests; all the liquids they could produce in one unholy ritualistic orgy.

All this was in turn ejaculated into the arse of the final sick fuck. One of them.

All the fluids intermingled and bred; melded and dissolved forming the same yellowy-red semen-ejaculate out the hard organ cock of the sick fuck standing proud before the place into which it/it/it had to ejaculate.

The final thing ejaculated this total combined fluidic catastrophe into the youngest Science Priest on his/its knees before this. He/it/the fucker – came so hard the masturbator and cock included – attached surgically and grafted together – flew off its still living corpse and thud-smacked the wee cunt, spitting brown vestigial teeth and blood, from its face. Hard concussed at least, if the Designated Swallower's biology even allowed that, all while – it maintained its position on its knees before the Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer –

The Final Cummer of all –

They chanted it, if he could trust himself to interpret the grunts, whinnies, and suppressed roars enough into language –

Language that said –

The Final Cummer –

He was the Final Cummer of all they'd made; even –

This was their spirit.

The clumpy and ceaseless liquid, the viscous fluid in one hose, one inseparable mixed semen-bile-liquefied-organ-matter-flood, poured hard out the abdomen of the now cockless-wonder into –

The Final Cummer grabbed the face of the knock-kneed fuck on his knees and ejaculated the hard fluid straight into his/its main face hole, pulling fully back the lid revealing –

– lips! –

The Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him strangled a scream –

The Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him strangled a scream – even he – in the full horror of that face revealed, in the full horror of the wilfully worked at sexual ugliness that was revealed to be inside that hood – combined with this act – everything worse combined with this act – he couldn't/he couldn't/he couldn't – the same time look away from what was forced into him – technically there was no way to – it was a vision – a live vision of what was happening just beyond the wall.

He could do nothing but watch unavoidably in horror as all that ceaseless semen slid down the throat of the knock-kneed cunt wanker on the floor, caked now, out his body, but internally – internally in fact now until – as well – The Designated Swallower – his belly engorged, and engorging, became increasingly distended and swollen. Having, and continuing to, swallow/it swallowed it.

The double-faced young swallower fought hard against the Final Cummer that in his frenzy was ramming his new cunt – he'd ejaculated off his cock and attached masturbator – into the face of the young swallower and – rubbing this new cunt all up its face, enjoying the dirty new arrangement of its new body, it kept cumming all the muck and suck and semen and the rest of it; the total produce of an entire artificiality stimulated orgy of the highest intellectual tiers of the Science Priest race – all of it, all of it, all of it –

It continued in a flood that wouldn't end.

The swallower started lapping under the Final Cummer's arse with its many tongues, in an attempt, the Dream Slave couldn't help but feel, in what was another feat of insane Science Priest pleasure, to bring to a conclusion the sordid rite.

The same time the Designated Swallower – his/its official religious title, as intuited out the chanting – the internal beneath everything transmissions – the sub-vocal, sub-language, sub-literal chantings – continued to swallow the artificial hormone stimulated semen ocean of the most deranged sack of specimens ever to be birthed in the weird human factories of Theust.

Rubbing its new clitty cunt all up the face of the poor fuck on its knees tonguing its under-arse – now this is insane, the Dream Slave thought, the whole thing is insane; he did not condone any of it was the point – really this made him seem normal – its prolapsed anus slapping the other in the face: the swallower was clearly dying;

Clearly choking on the ceaseless gallons that poured in one hose into his/its primary face hole; engorging his stomach, swelling its belly out so that noticeably it burst through the traditional robes of the Science Priests cast. All of this was merely communication; merely communion, merely also a managerial decision arrived at via the strictly delineated requirements of a religious rite.

Slapping his thighs, desperate for him to stop, his tongues lapping, both their tongues; one under the other's arse, the swallower swallowed the never-ending semen content of a full orgy of genetic freaks. The Final Cummer – drunk out his face on weird sex – lapped the air insanely with his/its many-tongues: the air and the parts of his face that offered sexual stimulation.

Ramming his/its cunt all up the face of the Designated Swallower, the thing wouldn't cease, even as the Designated Swallower could do nothing but swallow; even as he sought to prise his/its face off the cunt of the other in a futile gesture that was apparently impossible. He could not separate his/its face from the Final Cummer's cunt that continued to ejaculate the holy load in him.

The weakest had been chosen to endure this ritual against the – cockless wonder – Final Cummer: the strongest. Gallons. Gallons. New units of measurement required to quantify the – gallons – amount of jism forced down the – only another sexual organ – throat of the poor fuck on his/its knees swallowing.

Its veined belly was dangerously ready to burst, this was visible to all, bursting through its robes. All visible too, unfortunately, to the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him – he could never. He had seen this. He was now the person who had seen this.

Slapping the Cummer's thighs to stop. Swallowing gallons. Belly to burst. Suddenly at that point. The total load had been swallowed and the top fiend pulled his/its cunt off the face of the weaker; unattached itself, and sat, vacant, perhaps for the first second in his/its life fully sexually satisfied.

The exposed, terribly evil and ugly disgraced coupon of the fuck caked in spunk on his/its knees mirrored the same spent vacancy. Like its face, that should never be seen, its belly was also exposed: veined and rumbling bizarrely and visibly. He fought to keep down all the content that he had swallowed, a feat that could in no sense be permanent.

Directly beneath this, the whole time, the Parody of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss, had been hanging from the ceiling bars required for this.

The Designated Swallower scooted its prolapsed anus, sitting on it, directly over/above the face now of the Parody of the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him Boss because – they were in the ceiling – because –

This was only the process. Now it was for the resolution arrived at by the process. It was a process – there were rules; these were the norms that must be followed in order to reach the decision at the end of the process. Which they had, by means of the process described in the vision of – live and happening – the Hero for Killing the Demon who Dreamed Him. This process completed, and described, its conclusion could be communicated to the recipient of these... resolutions.

And this was how that happened: