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The deeper we go, the darker it gets, fitting for the season, isn't it. And yes, the final part will be on All Hallows itself. Warning for the tags, there is implied/attempted snuff in this episode. It does not take, but it is implied.\n\nThanks again to the wonderful commissioner, Vanrixie, do look up their content on [url=https://www.furaffinity.net/user/vanrixie]FA[/url] and [url=https://inkbunny.net/Vanrixie]IB[/url].", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Part five of the destruction of Julia Salith, who has passed well beyond the point of personhood. The deeper we go, the darker it gets, fitting for the season, isn't it. And yes, the final part will be on All Hallows itself. Warning for the tags, there is implied/attempted snuff in this episode. It does not take, but it is implied.

Thanks again to the wonderful commissioner, Vanrixie, do look up their content on FA and IB.", "writing": "\"Amazing what you find in the gutter, isn't it, Doctor Maze?\"\n\nThe two lab-coated figures watched from behind the two-way mirror, as their research material of the last year swung in its chains. The subject hung suspended by four stumps, a lump of flesh still recognisably woman-shaped, each limb cropped down to just shy of a hand's length from the first joint, capped with rounded plates that linked to the harness of metal that allowed it to be moved freely, but with no chance of escape.\n\nA web of pipes and cables sprouted from the floor. Electrodes to monitor bodily functions, feed tube running all the way down its gullet, a rat’s nest of collection lines connecting to its breasts, flare, rectum, and face. The only orifice not blocked with piping was the vaginal opening, which was left clear by necessity, with a series of gutters and trays beneath for the constant drip and splash of escaping fluids.\n\n\"Amazing,\" the sarcastic drawl of the ferret answered, finger reaching for a button on the console between them \"yet useless without replicable results. Stud Thirty-four-D, enter the chamber, and proceed with insemination.\"\n\nThe reinforced door buzzed open to admit a herculean slab of meat, in the shape of a man. The bulky bulldog had been selected from a cadre of the best mercenaries the enigmatic “[i]Company[/i]” could get their hands on. He knew not to question orders, just to do the job before him, and it helped that he enjoyed the work.\n\n\"We're making strides. Now she can host multiple litters consecutively, we can increase the rate of testing,\" Doctor Maze's research partner, a raven with glittering feathers, tried to placate her grim-faced colleague as they watched the \"[i]Stud[/i]\" wrap a chain about his fist, and drag the muted mare back towards himself. \n\nThe man's penis had been augmented for this task. It would have killed an ordinary woman, punched clean through the diaphragm to tangle in the lungs, but not with the subject, whose womb was currently twice the size of the remainder of their body, gestating nine litters from nine different participants. The denuded remnant’s cerulean gash parted around the red prick without resistance, despite tests showing the vaginal muscles had a grip strength comparable to a crocodile's jaw. But for an eager cock, it parted like curtains for the knotted monster. Blood vessels thick as pencils, the enhanced phallus had a visible pulse, but the target gave nothing but a groan of escaping air, as he went from tip, to testicle deep, in a single, shuddering impact.\n\nAn audible smack followed, a clap of balls to balls, as the momentum sent the bulldog’s leathery sack smashing into the test material’s. Like a Newton’s cradle, that sent the pendulous bollocks flying forward, to crush the fat and flaccid tube of the subject’s own cock against the unmoveable object of their inflated midriff in a fresh gout of fluids.\n\n\"It,\" Maze corrected, her eyes watching the dials as the rate of collection skyrocketed, the subject always became more productive during copulation. \"It's an it now, Doctor Lock, not a she.\"\n\nLock twirled a finger dismissively, her eyes not leaving the hedonistic breeding taking place in front of them, admiring the way their subject's colossal belly had its own centre of gravity, swaying a full second after the main body did. Their specimen gave every sign of enjoyment, bristling and wriggling with pleasure, despite all tests showing complete brain death.\n\n\"She, It, whatever we want to call the thing, we don't need perfect replicability. If we can produce just one candidate with her regenerative faculties, we'll be making history.\" The raven insisted, trying to not think about, or be jealous of, the look of joy on that blue face.\n\nBack inside the chamber, the asinine cursing and denigrations the male layered on his captive partner were all recorded for later review. The grunting slaps, the splatters of fluids, the wordless animal noises of the subject, the doctors had watched them all back a thousand times. Medical setting aside, it was a distinctively primitive image, the savage with their prey. The powerful, and the weak. Even the most advanced of minds were not immune to the rawness of the scene, the way the stud's thighs bunched visibly with steroid-infused muscle, the way the material's fleshy rump absorbed the brutal claps like an airbag. The swinging thing gurgled, arching its spine in an autonomic response, as if it wanted to beg for more rough handling from the rippling red meat that was currently rearranging its ovaries.\n\n\"We don't even know why the repeated amputations and hemispherotomies increased fecundity. Self-insemination, electro-stimulation, ovum transplants, the subject continues to deny all scientific attempts to quantify its properties.\" Doctor Maze’s eyes refused to leave the instruments, a heated blush growing in her cheeks, her breath getting tighter. But she couldn't indulge, not when the stakes were so high, instead her tone dropped an octave, \"The Company is not pleased. We need returns before the next review, otherwise...\"\n\nA wing tip came about her muzzle, a single digit pressed to the mustelid’s lips.\n\n\"Well...\" the corvid hunted for a positive, recognising the start of one of her partner's darker moods. Two iridescent hands settled on narrow shoulders, massaging away the tension. \"If nothing else, we could always pitch a new line of dairy products? Or niche fetish pornography? Someone has to enjoy... That!\"\n\nSounds of meat tenderising echoed, both women watching while Thirty-four-D's tempo built, the inevitable finish approaching as the mercenary promised another bastard to the bouncing vessel. As they stared, Doctor Maze's lab coat unbuttoned, a feathered hand slipping in to rub and cup a perky breast, reminding the smaller woman to exhale and return to the world of the living.\n\n\"Very funny, Lock,\" Doctor Maze leant back into the warm bosom of her friend, \"but if the subject does not produce results soon, you'll be the one that has to euthanise them.\"\n\nA scream of \"Take it bitch!\" filled the chamber, the subject swinging like a wrecking ball, back into the monstrous knot of the snarling dog, its distended belly perceptively swelling with each squeeze of the male's testes. Collection dials spun as output levels spiked, mechanical tubes struggling to handle the rapid increase in pressure as liquids surged. Monitors reported sharp increases in hormone production, pulse, heart-rate, but not neurological activity, as the former mare's body ovulated on command, ensuring litter ten would take root in the next hour.\n\nThe raven sighed, pecking the back of her friend's neck, feathers dancing over a flat, furry abdomen, pondering some private experimentation they could conduct later. \"If we even can...\"\n\n***\n\nRain pours over the dump site, the square mile expanse of refuse in which everything could be found, but nothing ever would. An unmarked truck disgorges a hundred bags of detritus, all identical, all untraceable. The smell of them is what draws the animals, the ferals competing for the contents, sniffing out a free meal. But one bag stands apart from the rest.\n\nAs the hungry hordes rip into the black plastic, they stay well clear of one, sensing something. Glossy wet, contents formless; it pulses, it crunches, it curls upon itself like a dying star. Heat radiates from it, melting holes to free an amber light, a cloud of steam, a noxious mix of chemicals meant to end the thing inside. They failed, and soon after, moaning and twitching, the bag releases an all-together different scent. The animals are lured in, they're hungry, but not for food.\n\nA stray Dobermann is the bravest, or the stupidest of the lot. Fangs tearing the last shreds of plastic apart, finding the occupant is just as ravenous, just as needy. Freed, a noise from the dreams and nightmares of desperate men rings out, and the thing, the beast, pounces.\n\n\"Brrreeeeed~,\" its long snout issues, foam flecking from its mouth, jade eyes glowing with an infernal fire, a mist boiling off its fresh grown fleece of blue. The hapless dog has one chance to yelp, before the creature from the bag has it on its back. The animal’s legs kick the air, its tail tries to tuck, but it's too late, the monster has already swallowed the defenceless dog’s shaft into depths that churn, that compress, that contort, that have a hundred lifetime's worth of experience in wringing pleasure from the virile. \"Mmmoooooooore~,\" the beast sings, its hips hammering down on the whimpering canine, its teats doubling before the eyes and beading with milk, its whole form fattening, growing, changing. The thing was a horse once, an anthro-mare, now it is fertility, now it is fecundity, it is bounty, and it is desperacy. For it was empty.\n\nYelping, knotted penis incapable of satisfying the beast alone, the dog gives what it can, a rush of watery white that tries to fill the void of the thing's womb, spreading the barest sparks within the hungering dark that was meant to be a forge for life. She takes that offering, and bathes her victim in a tide of her own, a waterfall of virility that promises motherhood to any that dare take it into themselves.\n\nOne dog is not enough, next is a cat, then a rat, then the birds she snatches from their perch. Not till she'd coated every span of the altar of her body with the sacrament of semen did her voraciousness give way to docility.\n\nNow reformed, the azure mare relaxes with a belly brimming with the promise of birth, her body glistening in the half-light. She'd need a nest, a mare's nest to birth her brood, and receive her congregation, that was all that drove her, to take, and make life.\n\nShe dug herself a temple in the trash, a den in which to dwell and devote herself to her singular need. The scent of her, the distilled promise of fulfilment, ensured she would have a devoted flock before long. They didn't need to speak, or love, or care, they just needed to help her fulfil her one purpose.\n\n\"Brrreeeeeed~.\"", "writing_bbcode_parsed": ""Amazing what you find in the gutter, isn't it, Doctor Maze?"

The two lab-coated figures watched from behind the two-way mirror, as their research material of the last year swung in its chains. The subject hung suspended by four stumps, a lump of flesh still recognisably woman-shaped, each limb cropped down to just shy of a hand's length from the first joint, capped with rounded plates that linked to the harness of metal that allowed it to be moved freely, but with no chance of escape.

A web of pipes and cables sprouted from the floor. Electrodes to monitor bodily functions, feed tube running all the way down its gullet, a rat’s nest of collection lines connecting to its breasts, flare, rectum, and face. The only orifice not blocked with piping was the vaginal opening, which was left clear by necessity, with a series of gutters and trays beneath for the constant drip and splash of escaping fluids.

"Amazing," the sarcastic drawl of the ferret answered, finger reaching for a button on the console between them "yet useless without replicable results. Stud Thirty-four-D, enter the chamber, and proceed with insemination."

The reinforced door buzzed open to admit a herculean slab of meat, in the shape of a man. The bulky bulldog had been selected from a cadre of the best mercenaries the enigmatic “Company” could get their hands on. He knew not to question orders, just to do the job before him, and it helped that he enjoyed the work.

"We're making strides. Now she can host multiple litters consecutively, we can increase the rate of testing," Doctor Maze's research partner, a raven with glittering feathers, tried to placate her grim-faced colleague as they watched the "Stud" wrap a chain about his fist, and drag the muted mare back towards himself.

The man's penis had been augmented for this task. It would have killed an ordinary woman, punched clean through the diaphragm to tangle in the lungs, but not with the subject, whose womb was currently twice the size of the remainder of their body, gestating nine litters from nine different participants. The denuded remnant’s cerulean gash parted around the red prick without resistance, despite tests showing the vaginal muscles had a grip strength comparable to a crocodile's jaw. But for an eager cock, it parted like curtains for the knotted monster. Blood vessels thick as pencils, the enhanced phallus had a visible pulse, but the target gave nothing but a groan of escaping air, as he went from tip, to testicle deep, in a single, shuddering impact.

An audible smack followed, a clap of balls to balls, as the momentum sent the bulldog’s leathery sack smashing into the test material’s. Like a Newton’s cradle, that sent the pendulous bollocks flying forward, to crush the fat and flaccid tube of the subject’s own cock against the unmoveable object of their inflated midriff in a fresh gout of fluids.

"It," Maze corrected, her eyes watching the dials as the rate of collection skyrocketed, the subject always became more productive during copulation. "It's an it now, Doctor Lock, not a she."

Lock twirled a finger dismissively, her eyes not leaving the hedonistic breeding taking place in front of them, admiring the way their subject's colossal belly had its own centre of gravity, swaying a full second after the main body did. Their specimen gave every sign of enjoyment, bristling and wriggling with pleasure, despite all tests showing complete brain death.

"She, It, whatever we want to call the thing, we don't need perfect replicability. If we can produce just one candidate with her regenerative faculties, we'll be making history." The raven insisted, trying to not think about, or be jealous of, the look of joy on that blue face.

Back inside the chamber, the asinine cursing and denigrations the male layered on his captive partner were all recorded for later review. The grunting slaps, the splatters of fluids, the wordless animal noises of the subject, the doctors had watched them all back a thousand times. Medical setting aside, it was a distinctively primitive image, the savage with their prey. The powerful, and the weak. Even the most advanced of minds were not immune to the rawness of the scene, the way the stud's thighs bunched visibly with steroid-infused muscle, the way the material's fleshy rump absorbed the brutal claps like an airbag. The swinging thing gurgled, arching its spine in an autonomic response, as if it wanted to beg for more rough handling from the rippling red meat that was currently rearranging its ovaries.

"We don't even know why the repeated amputations and hemispherotomies increased fecundity. Self-insemination, electro-stimulation, ovum transplants, the subject continues to deny all scientific attempts to quantify its properties." Doctor Maze’s eyes refused to leave the instruments, a heated blush growing in her cheeks, her breath getting tighter. But she couldn't indulge, not when the stakes were so high, instead her tone dropped an octave, "The Company is not pleased. We need returns before the next review, otherwise..."

A wing tip came about her muzzle, a single digit pressed to the mustelid’s lips.

"Well..." the corvid hunted for a positive, recognising the start of one of her partner's darker moods. Two iridescent hands settled on narrow shoulders, massaging away the tension. "If nothing else, we could always pitch a new line of dairy products? Or niche fetish pornography? Someone has to enjoy... That!"

Sounds of meat tenderising echoed, both women watching while Thirty-four-D's tempo built, the inevitable finish approaching as the mercenary promised another bastard to the bouncing vessel. As they stared, Doctor Maze's lab coat unbuttoned, a feathered hand slipping in to rub and cup a perky breast, reminding the smaller woman to exhale and return to the world of the living.

"Very funny, Lock," Doctor Maze leant back into the warm bosom of her friend, "but if the subject does not produce results soon, you'll be the one that has to euthanise them."

A scream of "Take it bitch!" filled the chamber, the subject swinging like a wrecking ball, back into the monstrous knot of the snarling dog, its distended belly perceptively swelling with each squeeze of the male's testes. Collection dials spun as output levels spiked, mechanical tubes struggling to handle the rapid increase in pressure as liquids surged. Monitors reported sharp increases in hormone production, pulse, heart-rate, but not neurological activity, as the former mare's body ovulated on command, ensuring litter ten would take root in the next hour.

The raven sighed, pecking the back of her friend's neck, feathers dancing over a flat, furry abdomen, pondering some private experimentation they could conduct later. "If we even can..."

***

Rain pours over the dump site, the square mile expanse of refuse in which everything could be found, but nothing ever would. An unmarked truck disgorges a hundred bags of detritus, all identical, all untraceable. The smell of them is what draws the animals, the ferals competing for the contents, sniffing out a free meal. But one bag stands apart from the rest.

As the hungry hordes rip into the black plastic, they stay well clear of one, sensing something. Glossy wet, contents formless; it pulses, it crunches, it curls upon itself like a dying star. Heat radiates from it, melting holes to free an amber light, a cloud of steam, a noxious mix of chemicals meant to end the thing inside. They failed, and soon after, moaning and twitching, the bag releases an all-together different scent. The animals are lured in, they're hungry, but not for food.

A stray Dobermann is the bravest, or the stupidest of the lot. Fangs tearing the last shreds of plastic apart, finding the occupant is just as ravenous, just as needy. Freed, a noise from the dreams and nightmares of desperate men rings out, and the thing, the beast, pounces.

"Brrreeeeed~," its long snout issues, foam flecking from its mouth, jade eyes glowing with an infernal fire, a mist boiling off its fresh grown fleece of blue. The hapless dog has one chance to yelp, before the creature from the bag has it on its back. The animal’s legs kick the air, its tail tries to tuck, but it's too late, the monster has already swallowed the defenceless dog’s shaft into depths that churn, that compress, that contort, that have a hundred lifetime's worth of experience in wringing pleasure from the virile. "Mmmoooooooore~," the beast sings, its hips hammering down on the whimpering canine, its teats doubling before the eyes and beading with milk, its whole form fattening, growing, changing. The thing was a horse once, an anthro-mare, now it is fertility, now it is fecundity, it is bounty, and it is desperacy. For it was empty.

Yelping, knotted penis incapable of satisfying the beast alone, the dog gives what it can, a rush of watery white that tries to fill the void of the thing's womb, spreading the barest sparks within the hungering dark that was meant to be a forge for life. She takes that offering, and bathes her victim in a tide of her own, a waterfall of virility that promises motherhood to any that dare take it into themselves.

One dog is not enough, next is a cat, then a rat, then the birds she snatches from their perch. Not till she'd coated every span of the altar of her body with the sacrament of semen did her voraciousness give way to docility.

Now reformed, the azure mare relaxes with a belly brimming with the promise of birth, her body glistening in the half-light. She'd need a nest, a mare's nest to birth her brood, and receive her congregation, that was all that drove her, to take, and make life.

She dug herself a temple in the trash, a den in which to dwell and devote herself to her singular need. The scent of her, the distilled promise of fulfilment, ensured she would have a devoted flock before long. They didn't need to speak, or love, or care, they just needed to help her fulfil her one purpose.

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