Chapter 89
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 89
Chapter Title: Sermon from Within the Partition ♥ (Gyu Wol-ryeong - Wall Hole Sex, Hypnotic Sermon)
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Life at the Camellia Cult had already stretched into its fourth day.
In the meantime, from morning till evening, I underwent training from the vice bishops on sexual servicing or cultivating the proper "sacrificial mindset." At night, I was ordered to serve at their worship services and gatherings.
Apart from those duties, I was confined to my private cell, but even so, with this much time on my hands, I'd managed to piece together a fair grasp of the situation.
For instance, the six vice bishops—their names and faces. Their personalities, too.
And the nature of this building I was in, or the fact that not every nightly gathering was the same flavor.
Some nights were nothing but wild, raucous club-like parties where everyone cut loose.
Others saw the faithful dressed extra prim in their robes, gathering demurely in rooms tricked out like lounges.
Yesterday had been some kind of special event—more people crammed into one spot than the past two days combined, the noise even rowdier.
And every time, I got summoned to serve at all of them.
According to Yeom Vice Bishop, that was rare even for sacrificial offerings.
No matter the offering, you couldn't afford to break it before presenting it as tribute.
Hence the need for proper rest intervals—but since I was tough enough not to need any, they called me in daily.
And the one who'd proposed it? That baseball-capped jerk, Gui Vice Bishop.
He'd rubbed me the wrong way from the start, and the more I thought about him, the worse it got.
"......."
No... truth be told, I couldn't dismiss him as just a smug asshole anymore.
'No, no. Steel your mind, stay resolute... They're Yoma... Lose that killing intent and rage as an exorcist, and...'
At any rate, I'd gotten a better read on things.
The vice bishops' personalities, their dynamics, all sorts of details.
Memorizing every little scrap wasn't just habit—it was because my will to escape was still burning.
Obviously. Give up? Not a chance.
Sure, my anger and bloodlust were fading into the background, but my exorcist's sense of duty? That fire hadn't dimmed a bit.
Mustering the drive to hurt them and fight back was getting harder, but slipping out of this mess without laying a finger on anyone? That still came easy.
Of course, if they caught wind of these thoughts, I'd be in real trouble.
They'd seal every escape route airtight or twist my will until I swore eternal obedience.
'Keep it hidden... Hold onto that faint thread of hope...'
Don't quit, and the chance will come.
This wasn't just about me.
To save everyone else they'd snatched, I had to make it happen.
Today's final assignment was with Woo Vice Bishop.
Second time crossing paths with her—and for Gyu Wol-ryeong, someone best avoided if possible.
Just as Gui Vice Bishop had warned, Woo was a hardcore sadist.
Whips were child's play; she broke out electric prods, wooden ponies, itch powders laced with paralytic sap—the works.
All without breaking skin, mixing physical torment with mental games.
Using "Grace" to force visions of her deepest fears, or sweet dreamscapes she'd then smash apart herself. Or winding the body to breaking point, probing every limit.
Lucky breaks: same gender meant less outright sex, so less drain on her spiritual power compared to the others.
Woo wasn't thrilled about it.
The system seemed built around claiming spiritual power via forced submission.
Sexual extraction was smooth sailing, but her torture route? Half the yield.
Once she clocked that, today's second round got brutal.
Wol-ryeong felt the extra fatigue, but it was just tougher—nothing more.
Body still marked from Woo's arsenal, she got dragged straight into tonight's service.
Normal offerings got half-days off after Woo's sessions, but this reckless scheduling? Only possible 'cause it was Wol-ryeong.
Chijik—chiik—
The usual nightclub setup for gatherings.
Several partitions stood in the space like curtained booths, and Wol-ryeong got shoved into one.
Upper body sealed inside.
Lower half—butt and legs—jutting out the other side.
Hands locked through slots in the wall, no way to wriggle free solo.
Mumble mumble mumble...
"Loving the faithful is only natural. You must love them. You must serve. I devote my body, mind, spirit, and soul as a flesh toilet sow-pig meat slave—"
The partition's interior was a sealed box.
Near-airtight save for breather holes, and right before Wol-ryeong's eyes sat the signature "Grace" gem, bathing her prison in soft purple glow.
Earphones from an MP3 player were jammed in her ears, too.
The file? Yeom Vice Bishop's custom recording: pure Camellia Cult doctrine.
Distilled essence for offerings only, looping endlessly into her skull.
And Wol-ryeong parroted it aloud.
Soaked in "Grace" light, repetition locked her in hypnosis.
Forced cult mindset imprinting, just like that.
Yeom was dead certain this—already one round down, more to come periodically—would mold Wol-ryeong into prime tribute material.
Whatever Yeom hoped, the session was cruising along fine.
Meantime, guests trickled into tonight's bash.
"Ten heads tonight? Light crowd."
"This batch's offerings are 4 and 8. Wonder which hole's the long-haired big-tits sow."
Believers clocked cloth-draped booths on entry.
Fabric glowed faint, hinting at butt silhouettes within.
Numbers marked each, total blind picks—no peeking who.
'Cept this batch's specials got tags, easy spot.
They drew lots like always, picked faves, filed in.
Offerings drew triple the lines of regulars.
"Ho ho ho. Killer bean-paste jar."
Someone slipped into booth 4—Wol-ryeong's.
Lifted the drape: ass thrust out like it grew from the wall.
Panties on—but first come, first choice to yank 'em.
He slithered them down quick, pocketed his prize trophy.
"Marks still fresh. Whip scars? Woo Vice Bishop's work. Must be a fave."
His hands roamed the red-streaked cheeks, savoring the give.
Light grazes alone had it twitching oversensitive, pussy slicking up pronto—insertion-ready.
Slow savoring tempted, but time caps killed that vibe.
Quick fondle, tongue on slit, then his rigid cock plunged in.
Zubyuruk...! Balls-deep in one slick thrust.
Pussy gripped like heaven from stroke one.
No brag needed—top-shelf prime meat. Worthy tribute pick, conviction hit instant.
"Nngook♡♡♡"
Inside the booth.
Wol-ryeong's droning echo of Yeom's script cut short.
Sudden punch of rigid meat spearing her guts from outside the box.
Not just deep invasion—it stirred lazy, savoring every inner fold.
"Grace" cranked her sensitivity sky-high; earphone drone shattered, focus gone.
Prior command held firm, though—eyes glued to the light.
She endured the cock's belly-stuffing bliss, latched back onto Yeom's voice.
Sweet moans threatened to dissolve her into dumb sow habit, but Wol-ryeong fought it, parroting Yeom's gospel on.
The more she did, the wilder the cock churned inside. Slaps rained on her hypersensitive ass.
Ignoring outer chaos for doctrine? Almost monk-like devotion.
Gulp gulp gulp...
Long feast on her pussy later, the cock unloaded deep—no holding back.
Unknown stranger's seed flooding her core; Wol-ryeong bit back cries, sank into ecstasy.
Yeom's sermon looped on in her ears.
Soon, cock withdrew, final butt-slap echoing as he bailed.
Next guy in line wasted no time, slamming into the fresh-used slit.
Wol-ryeong's trial stretched on.
Dozens still queued—she'd weather dozens more like it...