The Fertility Rituals: The Cult of Flesh The ceremonies unfold in dim, incense-choked chambers where the air hums with pheromones and hypnotic chants. Boys as young as twelve, selected for their isolation and malleability, are bathed in oils laced with psychotropic agents that amplify tactile sensation. They are ushered into the embrace of women whose bodies—voluptuous, sumo-sized, their flesh spilling in warm, jiggling waves—are idealized as paragons of “holy abundance.” The women, trained in a disturbing pantomime of maternal eroticism, stroke the boys’ trembling bodies with practiced hands, whispering promises of eternal care: *“You’ll never be alone again… Feel how safe you are here… This is what love tastes like.”* The drugs ignite a synthetic rapture. Every brush of the women’s pillowy thighs, every suffocating press of their breasts against the boys’ faces, every deliberate grind of hips is amplified into a sensory overdose. The boys’ pupils dilate; their breath quickens. They weep uncontrollably, not from pain but from a dopamine delirium that convinces them they’ve found paradise. “More,” they beg, clawing at the women’s flesh, desperate to drown in the heat and softness. The rituals climax with the boys being penetrated, their bodies arching in a state of chemically-induced ecstasy, their cries of *“I love you, I love you”* broadcast as proof of the regime’s “benevolence.” Afterward, the boys are housed in “nurseries,” their minds addled by daily doses of aphrodisiac-laced tonics. They spend hours nuzzling into the women’s bellies and breasts, suckling like infants, their every touch choreographed to deepen dependency. The women, meanwhile, are rotated systematically—each boy assigned a harem of “wives” to ensure his fixation never wanes. The regime documents it all: the boys’ essays praising their “goddesses,” their trembling vows to father countless children, their refusal to eat unless fed by their “brides.” Resistance is unthinkable. Why escape heaven?