The Shees of the Ectoplasgasm
CHAPTER 1: THE GREAT DIVIDE
It is a time of yearning. The great Cordyceps Galaxy continues their age old war. For eons, the Pluribos and the Cantos have fought, divided over Eros. Once united as a single race, now grotesquely mutated in two, the shed of their blood and shards of their bones grows heavy with magnitude, amassing into the prophesied Death Toroid. Building gravity now, it threatens to swallow all creation whole like a back-alley Dirkon strumpet.
The Pluribos: stoic, rigid, ignorant to their kinks.
They take respite from shame in blissful frigidity and sterile narcissism. Copulation is strictly performed for procreation and self-discipline. Stratospheric banks store the male seeds in towering, unadorned libraries. Each vault breaths in accordance with the male's ebbing social profile, undulating in worm-like tubes of muscular membranes. The seed banks hum with the din of each male's holographic news feed. Talking heads, ascetic discourse, deliberation. Those with the highest status ratings are prioritized for insemination. As the ratings increase, the tubes hanging down from the the male's seed vault grow longer, like a neuron forming in brain. Renunciation wins all the ratings. Distractions do not serve procreation.
Females are selected based on their Holva training skills. Holvas, the Pluribos' beloved companions, are behaviorally akin to the Pluribos' offspring, but more loyal and more eager to please. Pluribos females must demonstrate their abilities to train a Holva to sit, stay, come, fetch a flying Bajinion, and deliver the Bajinion prey at the foot of the female trainer. Holva breeding shows are the Pluribos' most erotic exposés.
Females debut superior showmanship and Holva breeding prowess, whilst males opportunely socialize and nonchalantly broadcast their ever increasing social ratings on digital lapel holograms. The judges, stern Pluribos elders, select a single winner to produce upwards of two hundred offspring. After selection, the winning female trainer climbs into her Holva's massive neck pouch and prepares for impregnation. She cocoons herself, a sensuous endeavor, and feeds off the Holva's essence through her pineal proboscis. The Holva's ivory skin pustules swell and dry as the female absorbs its body into her own.
Meanwhile, the male with the highest rated profile is summoned to construct a glassine protection chamber around the hosting Holva and the single winning female. His digital profile reaches such high scores that his label ignites into a blue flame which burns off the outer layer of his chocolate skin, leaving a new layer of flesh to fluoresce and secrete his quick-dry sebum, substrate for the breeding chamber. This is the only time the Pluribos may witness nudity, aside from their own. Onlookers enter a deep meditation or else they're compelled to flog themselves, oppressing their burning desire for their ultimate male. He is exposed, writhing face-down on the top wall of his structure, secreting his giant beehive, spiraling around the decaying Holva and its hosted female.
Over the course of weeks, the Holva's life is sacrificed to the female's body, it's essence absorbed into her swelling vestigial wombs. Its life-force prepares her extended bellies to receive the male's seed. As the male finally ascends to the top of his beehive chamber, he dips his head through the roof-top and consumes what's left of the Holva's body, a single howling pinhead. His energy restored, he caps off the roof with a chimney. His final secretion constructs a transport tube, marrying his protection chamber to the his seed vault through the ebbing white muscles worm thats grown ever-so-long through his social aplomb. The entire province gathers around his shield to sound their gestation song. The sound geometry, their perfect pitch, aligns the offspring to their dogmas. It is a blistering flesh-flob, shimmering tektite and chartreuse in the vestigial wombs.
The Pluribos song continues throughout the entire gestation time, until the great day of birth. On this day, the Pluribos sound a shrill cry to shatter the chamber and free the young. But their cries have grown weak. Only a minor sliver cuts through the chamber sleeve and with each generation, only a few young escape. The race is dying out.
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