Loneliness. Sadness… My solitary body drifting through long, cold, torturous nights, without company. All I can do is hope that you, my dear diary, won't end up torn to pieces as punishment for my sins, or destroyed by my own hands if I ever come to regret writing in you. I will pour my thoughts into you with the hope that, in the future, my other self will read them, study my actions, recover my memories as if they were her own, and in some way, satisfy whatever curiosity she might have.
The pen and this blank book will be my only confidants, though I don't know if I'll be able to write regularly, or with the same consistency, eloquence, or dedication.
To begin, it's best to recap the beginning of my life in this place. Later on, perhaps I'll include comments, questions, or even conclusions that arise as I reassess this situation with a calmer mind.
When I woke up for the first time—if that can even be called a birth—a crushing anguish filled the emptiness in my chest, a feeling so heavy it nearly drowned me. I was lying on a small bed, alone between four walls, two nightstands, and several doors. Panic surged within me and, still vulnerable, I bolted through one of the doors into the hall. My bare skin touched the cold air that ruled the darkness, for the lights were off.
I fell to my knees. Tears streamed down my face. It wasn't a rebirth; it was a deep lament, as if I were mourning something I'd lost… even though I didn't know what it was.
When my eyes dried, the first memory that surfaced was my name and its meaning:
Silvia: of the forest (or queen of nature), derived from "selva," in turn from "sinister forest."
Dina: judged.
I exist solely to be the maid, the one in charge of tending to the mansion lost in the forest plains, in the hell known as Heavens. Knowing I'm different from my previous version—and perhaps even from you—I insisted on calling myself Silvia Dina, "The Second."
The next thing to occupy my mind were the Maid Rules, etched into my memory as if they were part of me:
When dealing with tenants, always knock before entering any room in the house. When summoned, you must curtsy with elegance and grace, without fail. These rules are not mere instructions; they are my way of existing. When pointing to a direction, object, or anything else, always use an open hand, never a single finger. During service, your arms and hands must remain at your sides or slightly in front, never behind your back. Never correct the tenants. Only suggest with expressions like: "As you know…," always taking care not to lie or withhold the truth for personal gain. You are not allowed to respond with monosyllables like "Yes" or "No." When handing something over, do so from the person's right side. Discretion and silence. Even if you know many secrets, you must not speak or comment unless given permission. Impeccable posture and gestures. In service, you must move with elegance, softness, and harmony, regardless of the task. Autonomy and efficiency. Your duty is to provide solutions. You must be capable of solving any problem and finding alternatives to satisfy the tenants' requests exactly. Do not allow rude behavior or disrespect from tenants. If it occurs, you must politely let the individual know their conduct is unjustifiable toward you. Relationships with those who sleep in the residence are strictly forbidden.
After reviewing even the simplest and most insignificant details over and over, I came to a disturbing conclusion: it was that last rule that caused me to lose the memories of my first life.
The form, the moment, the manner… I still cannot recall them at all.
…
Once my thoughts began to settle, I started noticing small details that had previously gone unnoticed.
The house was simple: a single modest room with a bed and a few scattered items. An entryway, a small kitchen, and a bathroom.
It took me time to accept that the clothes in the wardrobe were mine… and even more to find a key hidden among them. A key that, to this day, I don't know what door it opens.
It hangs from my neck like a constant mystery.
When I stepped outside the house, I found myself surrounded by a sea of green. At first, the landscape fascinated me so much that I spent hours just watching, listening, absorbing every detail of this small world that, somehow, belonged to me.
But when I reached the edge of the forest, a deep fear stopped me. The shadows between the trees whispered warnings, and my desire to explore vanished. I wasn't ready to face whatever might be beyond.
I bathed in the lake. I rolled in the grass. There were animals. But I soon understood that I was alone. Alone like the landscape. Alone like the wind brushing the leaves with no reply.
In this place, no one existed to speak to me, to look at me, to answer me.
That made me the only one capable of appreciating its beauty… and also the only one condemned to bear its solitude.
As time passed, and I saw the same things over and over, I began to understand the meaning of a word that came to mind: boredom.
I had a key in my hand and I was inside a house where all the doors were open. If the answers were in there, I would've found them already. But no. My purpose had to lie outside.
Under a stone? Up in a tree? I didn't know. But I had to find out.
And yet, there was an obstacle: facing the unknown.
To leave. Open the door. Cross the threshold. I didn't want to. I clung to excuses, searching for any reason to keep exploring inside the house.
I also clung to the key, as if it were my only connection to something beyond myself. Sometimes I wondered: what door would it open? Would it help me discover who I really am?
But at other times, it felt like just a burden. A useless weight hanging from my neck. A constant reminder of a mystery I might never solve.
My first trip outside was different. I felt something beyond fear.
I don't know what it was… maybe the wind, or simply the fact that I couldn't keep waiting.
The exhaustion of waiting for something, for someone, was stronger than the desire to stay safe.
I couldn't keep waiting. I couldn't.
And so, I threw myself into the world.
I felt like I had spent my whole life hiding, afraid… But that day, something inside me changed.
Discontent had grown so much that I no longer wanted to be a passive spectator of my own existence.
That's when I discovered something else about this place: it's like an island, and the black forest trees surrounding the house are its sea. Only one path connects this house to the rest of the world.
And the mountains… the mountains rise like a distant castle.
Yes. If I'd had the chance, I would've built this house up there, at the peak, from where I could see everything.
Though I don't know the purpose of each structure I see, I tend to think that someone else designed and placed them there with intentions I still don't understand.
But if I could change something, I would paint the mountain green and the forest blue. That way, the landscape would be more pleasing to the eye. As it is now, the colors feel forcibly imposed, clashing, as if they don't truly belong to this place.
Even so, the world that unfolded before my eyes showed me something. I don't know what.
But I felt it.
And somehow, it made me feel ready to face whatever comes.
I was no longer just Silvia. I was no longer just Dina.
I was both.
And, by exploring the unknown, I intend to find my path—even if it takes me a lifetime.
I almost forgot: in the kitchen, inside a box, there has always been an almost infinite supply of food.
I discovered it when I tried to feed the creatures around me, even though I didn't feel the need to eat myself.
One day I asked myself:
"What is hunger?"
And I had the answer in my own hands.
Every night, as the sun went down, the feeling in my stomach and the noises it made reminded me I was going hungry. I didn't know it at first. I didn't understand what it was.
Until I discovered I could also eat the contents of the climate-controlled box.
I did.
Once a day.
And for the first time, I understood what it meant to be empty.
The night remains a mystery. No matter where I sleep: when I wake up, I always do so in my room, on the bed that's supposed to be mine.
As I write this, I'm more aware that I've been at the edge of death many times. Though… can I really die?
I don't know if accidents, illnesses, or wounds affect me the same way they do the animals—those silent companions who don't always survive the night.
With time, I grew used to staying in the house. I almost never went out again.
Not even to climb the mountains.
Not to bathe in the lagoon.
Not to venture into the forest.
Nothing called to me out there. Nothing awaited me beyond these walls.
After all, every time I close my eyes, I wake up in the bed, staring at the same ceiling as always.
Ah, right. While cleaning, I discovered something: I finally found the place the key hanging from my neck belonged to.
It was the key to the exit door.
It had always been right in front of me. Always.
I didn't know whether to feel bad for not noticing it before… or to be glad I had found something new to entertain myself with.
After turning the bolt, the exit door became an entrance.
Behind it, hundreds of thousands of books awaited me. For some reason—perhaps because I retain certain essential memories—I know how to read. But I don't write very well. It's the lack of practice, the clumsiness of my hands. So I apologize. If one day you, my future self, read this and find it hard to decipher what I've written… I'm sorry.
Back to what matters: I thought I'd never be able to read all the books I had access to, not even if I devoted my entire life to it. But I was wrong. Of course, I abandoned many books halfway because they didn't seem interesting. But others… others contained stories of a different world. From what I understood, in those worlds, there were people. Committed, strong, and kind heroes who fought against evil. And since I soon realized I wasn't a man, I tried to be a princess, just to see if someone could become my hero.
That's when the questions began to surface. Questions that wouldn't leave me. How long can people live alone? How long do people live? "Over time, people grow old and die. Natural law of life." I read that phrase in many books, written in different ways, but always with the same message. So… was I doomed to die alone?
After all, for as long as I can remember, I've lived alone. I wake up each morning, walk, laugh, cry, eat, bathe… I do everything I once did. But I do it alone. My actions, my thoughts, my sense of living… everything may be fine. But at the same time, maybe it's not. I have no way to know. There's no one here to correct me.
I could wait for the family I'm supposed to serve, but in the meantime, I had nothing to do and no one to wait for. Besides, there were the rules. I had to behave. Not intervene. Not speak unless spoken to. But… I had so many questions. A faraway place where heroes were welcomed. A destiny I longed to reach. And yet, I couldn't ask. It was a nightmare.
Forgive me if, when you read this, you find traces of my tears on the pages… I decided the books were corrupting me. That it would be good to step outside for a while. Maybe something had changed out there. Maybe the world would offer me something different. But no. Once again, this place remained the same.
One day, a name came to my mind, as if I had always known how to call it. I crossed the entire place on foot in less than half a day. From the mountain peak to the edge of the black forest. And then, back to the house. Without seeing anything new.
Everything this place offered me could be seen while sitting from the house: the green grass, the plains, small woods, the lake, the mountains, the animals, and the black forest. There was light. There was a sky. But I never saw clouds, nor a horizon, like the ones described in the books.
Maybe this place isn't so perfect.
One night, I decided to stay awake. For a very, very long time. And then, I saw a different world of eventualities. I believe they're called seasons.
Drought — the grass stopped being green.
Rain — I thought the lake would reach the house's entrance.
Winter — everything was covered in white.
Summer — the ground seemed to burst into flames, and black burning clouds rose into the sky.
Maybe because I hadn't slept, I became captivated by the fire. And I must confess that I got too close. So close that I ended up wrapped in the flames of an explosion. The last thing I remember was seeing my clothes catch fire and feeling a piercing sensation in my eyes, my throat, my skin.
The next time I opened my eyes… I was in my bed. Staring at the ceiling. I wondered if it had all been a dream. But my missing clothes confirmed otherwise. It's pointless to deny it: every time my clothes get dirty, they vanish from my body and a new pair appears in the wardrobe.
I suppose I'm immortal. As many books describe those who cannot die.
I returned to the library. I began to understand one thing after another. And then I found a book that, perhaps, could solve my problem of being alone. Though it was a boring text, full of descriptions of combat and martial arts, it spoke of something that intrigued me: aura control.
It would allow me to create copies of myself.
Consumed by this new task—after days and nights without rest—I finally managed to create an exact replica of myself. So precise that, for a moment, I thought I was looking into a mirror. But I didn't stop there. I spent even more time, without pause or relief, trying to create something else. Something my heart longed for.
Only when my trembling hands channeled all my power into something more than a mere shadow did I begin to understand the cost of my obsession. The process was devouring me, but I couldn't stop. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that perfect image. An exact reflection of myself.
Finally, when the copy took form in front of me, a deep vertigo settled in my chest. There it was. Standing. So real it seemed to look back at me from a mirror. But it wasn't just her appearance that I wanted. I approached slowly, my fingers brushing against her cold skin, searching for any sign of life, of will.
"Do something…" I whispered.
Nothing.
There was no spark.
No rebellion.
Only an empty replica.
A body without a soul.
And the frustration inside me grew like a storm. How close was I to controlling life? What was I missing? Maybe it wasn't power I needed, but something deeper… something darker. Something I didn't yet fully understand, but that pushed me beyond my own limits.
The books spoke of people gazing into reflections. But this was different. I didn't just see her. I could touch her. I could feel that she was there, right in front of me. A perfect replica—though unsettling. One I could observe from certain angles. Move. Touch.
So much so that I can say this: it was the first time I truly understood, in detail, my own body. That I noticed that, between my legs, there was another pair of lips, smaller, hidden from plain sight. It was surprising. If I saw myself as another person, then… I wasn't alone. I was with myself.
Over time, I dedicated myself to giving my clones more personality. I assigned them different behaviors; I even dressed them in armor, like characters straight out of the books I had read. I cut their hair. I gave them missions. Heroes destined to rescue me.
But no matter how much I made them act, everything felt hollow. Their kisses and rescues were just imitations of a reality that didn't exist. For days and nights, I recreated scenarios...
Stacking books, I built worlds I wished I could escape into. Comedies. Celebrations. Gatherings. Friendships. All just to feel a little less alone.
It wasn't long before the library was full of copies I had created. And yet… none truly satisfied me. Despite all my efforts, something was missing. They weren't entirely human. Or were they? They moved. They spoke. But they lacked the spark of life I so desperately longed to see. They were only shadows of what I desired.
I knew it the day none of them moved anymore. Because there was no script that would let them live on their own.
My clones could look and behave like heroes, princes, and kings. But only because I told them to. Not because they wanted to be. Everything was under my control. And that reality… weighed heavily on me.
Instead of feeling powerful, I felt like a lonely goddess. Deprived of the one thing that makes life interesting: the unexpected.
At first, I wasn't aware of it. My copies didn't move. Didn't think. They simply… existed. I waited, with a mix of desperation and hope, for one of them to react. To move on her own. To touch me. To show compassion.
But nothing happened. They all remained inert, incapable of giving me what I longed for. In the end, I had no choice but to close my eyes and wake up. Once again. In my bed. Alone. Trapped under the same silent roof as always.
Despite my frustration, I found myself returning to the library again and again. Recreating new scenarios. As if I were desperately searching for something different.
Though it's embarrassing to admit, a strange idea began to take root in my mind: I wanted to get married. Not to someone real. But to one of my creations. As if that could give me the kind of love and connection I so deeply craved.
In the books—aside from heroic feats and epic battles—there were also love stories. Tales that described in detail the ceremony of marriage between two people who loved each other. And, for a moment, I wanted to be part of one of those stories. I wanted to know if loving myself and vowing myself in marriage would feel the same as finding self-love.
After all, marriage was described as a pivotal event in a person's life.
I dressed all my copies in elegant suits and crafted an altar by stacking books. That very night, I got married. There were no castles or princess gowns. I was still wearing my maid uniform. With a trembling voice, I played all the parts.
"We are gathered here today…"
Then I asked myself:
"Do you take yourself, in sickness and in health?"
My answer was simple:
"I do."
As one of my copies slipped a paper ring onto my finger.
It was all an empty theater. But in that moment, I tried to believe in it. I let myself be kissed by my copy with a gallant appearance and confident eyes.
But I felt nothing. No taste. No cold. No warmth. Still, I smiled. With a triumphant gesture, I tossed the bouquet made of paper flowers. The guests applauded and stomped in rhythm to the music. After all, it was a celebration. And I had to dance.
I had prepared everything so the dance would last forever. I didn't want to sleep again. Because I knew that upon waking, everything would disappear. But even in the middle of that fantasy, I was the only one smiling. My copies, perfect in appearance, felt nothing. Loneliness seeped into every step of the dance. No matter how hard I tried to fill the void, I was still the only one with a true longing in her heart.
My feet were tired. My mind… perhaps it had stopped thinking clearly within the eternal dance. Among trampled books and papers, among claps and stomps, I felt something. Dark. Sinister. I still haven't found the right words to describe the emotion that overtook me at that moment. I didn't know how to deal with what I felt. Among copies of myself, I was alone and angry. The clones I had created seemed to be enjoying themselves with each other. But not with me.
The next thing my eyes saw was fire. I set fire to the books in the library because I wanted to see the world burn. I burned the ceiling, the floor, the cabinets—with everyone inside. If there truly existed a copy of me that was different, that could think for herself, then she would have to run for her life. Or… become the hero of my story and save me from loneliness. It didn't happen.
In the eternal dance, I died unable to breathe. And I woke up staring at the same ceiling as always. Everything had gone back to normal. But I… I woke up different. I woke up… insane. With one fixed idea in my mind: to create a copy of myself with a will of her own. Maybe it's possible… if I make her suffer enough.
How cruel one can become when curiosity and purpose take over, isn't it?
The clone experiments aren't as frequent as they used to be. I must admit, the forest has become a major point of interest for me. So have the meadows and the mountains. I explore them regularly.
My fingers traced the familiar lines of my skin, each touch sending waves of release through me. As if I were opening a door I hadn't realized was closed. The outside world vanished in those moments. And the loneliness that once suffocated me… faded.
My fingers followed the familiar path of my skin, and each stroke anchored me momentarily in the present. But then, a sharp noise broke the silence. The window was opening. A long, rusted creak.
I sat up, heart pounding in my chest. One of my copies had pushed the frame open and now stared out at the dark forest beyond.
"What are you doing?" I asked, with more harshness than I intended.
The copy didn't respond. It just stood there, motionless, with a strange stillness in its posture. Something outside, in the way the trees swayed under the wind, made me uneasy. My breathing turned shallow, broken.
I smiled.
Tomorrow would be the same. I would wake up craving this secret escape. Counting the hours. Until I could lose myself again in that feeling.
Just as I was closing my eyes to surrender to the moment... a knock echoed at the door.
My breath caught. I hadn't summoned any of the copies. And no one else should be there.
Slowly, I sat up, my fingers brushing the edge of the bed for support. The knock came again. Louder this time. More insistent. My heart raced as I moved toward the door, my mind flooded with possibilities. None of them good.
Every time it's time to leave the house, to wander through the complicity of the unknown, to satisfy my urges, I feel so happy. As if I'm about to be reborn.
How is it that in none of the books I've read there's anything like this about the body…? My body.
But that doesn't matter now. What matters is telling you about that moment. How the revelation came.
That day was just like any other. A fresh breeze carried the scent of the meadows, the lake, the mountains, and the forest. The wind, drying the sweat from my forehead, stripped me, for an instant, of my loneliness. Just like the whisper of the leaves in the trees.
Bored of being at home, hoping to find something, I went out for a long walk until I reached the forest. I had something different in mind. Something related to training in the combat arts. In mastering and understanding my body. My inner self. My emotions.
I had always been so focused on the world around me... that I overlooked something fundamental.
If pain provokes rage... the opposite awakens curiosity.
And... pleasure.
Breathing deeply. Feeling the grass beneath my feet. Bathing and simply... doing nothing. Not worrying about trivial things.
My clothes lay at the edge of the lake. And when I came out, the fantasies began to take shape in my mind. I wasn't alone. Someone was with me.
In that moment, I asked one of my copies to dry and dress me. My skin is delicate, and before the wind could dry me, the water needed to be wiped from my body—something my copy did with her hands.
With my eyes closed, I could feel foreign fingers sliding over my skin.
Slowly and gently, some areas responded more intensely, while others barely did.
Intentionally, I paused during the moments that felt the best, until I ended up lying on the ground, facing the warm light of the sky, completely exposed.
The fingers of my copy's left hand traced my body: the soft curves and the firmer parts alike.
The rough touch didn't feel particularly better or worse in most places, but the tips of her fingers and her nails managed to tickle behind my ears, on my neck, my back, over my breasts, and between my legs.
For the first time in a long while, with my body's sensitivity at its peak, I felt like I was doing something I wasn't supposed to.
With a knot in my throat and my breath out of control, I began to roll over the grass, trying to recreate over and over the caresses my copy was giving me.
There came a moment when I focused all my attention on what I was feeling through my breasts. For some reason, they're so large... The tickle of the soft green leaves, the feeling of the earth, and everything that brushed against me felt different, new. So much so that, with a smile on my lips, I asked myself: "What's the point of keeping them covered?"
To protect them from feeling?
With my breasts hanging over the grass, I was on all fours, and my copy continued her task. I must confess that I spread my legs slightly to make room for her hand, hoping she would tickle me between the soft lips with the tips of her fingers.
There I was.
Imagining that, if another person existed, they would be there with me, touching my body and making me feel good.
For some reason, that idea thrilled me.
It was a fantasy that fit perfectly with the moment, with what I was feeling. And if two pairs of hands felt this good, what about three or four?
Definitely, if more is better, at that moment I would have let everyone touch me.
Having my breasts held by one person while another caressed me between the legs felt good—very good.
As if my mind were getting lost in pleasures of imagination and desire. But the best part was when I felt my insides being invaded by foreign fingers.
I didn't know I had, like the mouth, two other holes that could be explored, and that it could feel even better—more intense—through them. It was as if, not being able to taste flavors, I could savor pleasure through them... though it was a sensation that forced me to stop.
Pain. And, with it, blood.
From that moment, I started to get scared. I didn't know what to do.
Of course, the next day my body would return to normal, but... did pleasure have limits?
Why had I bled?
What had broken inside me?
With several unanswered questions, I summoned one of my copies in the same position I had been in.
There's no better way to confirm something than by experiencing it.
When I looked between my copy's legs under the light, I noticed a small membrane of flesh covering the entrance. Naturally, when I inserted several fingers, it was that membrane that gave way and bled.
Then, with some effort, I managed to insert my hand into both holes as well.
One was harder than the other, and although it seemed very painful, the copy didn't complain—because she wasn't made to complain.
Still, I suppose what lies ahead for me is a carefree and joyful life, focused on exploring what my body, my exposed skin, can feel... and not my insides.
I can leave the dirty and painful work to the "extensions of myself."
Or so I thought.
The next day, after having drawn the lines I shouldn't cross, I came to the conclusion that being a maid couldn't be that bad.
In fact, it was quite a tempting job.
To fulfill my task of sweeping, I had at my disposal a broomstick with a shape that was somewhat—well, very—suggestive, to be honest.
The wood was long, but rounded at the tip.
If my nails were capable of damaging the sensitive flesh in that area, I just needed to be careful with sharp surfaces when touching myself. Besides, the wood had no dangerous edges.
Sure, it wouldn't all go in, but... what about just the tip... or as far as it could reach?
With thoughts like that in mind, my eyes were wide open and a fantasy wouldn't leave my head.
Of course, that same morning my body returned to its natural state, which forced me to open the entrance with my fingers and wait for it to heal.
No matter how much I restrained myself, there came a moment when desperation began to take over me.
I hope you can understand it.
Technically, it would be my first time alone, and I still didn't know if it would feel good.
I could have settled for living off the simple skin-to-skin contact that my copies could give me, saving myself the pain… but, no matter how much I thought about it, curiosity was stronger.
And then, I couldn't wait any longer.
There, in the house, dressed, I lifted my dress until I held it with my teeth, placed the broom at an angle against the wall and, in one go, leaning over… I backed up onto it.
I must admit that the first five seconds were painful, but then I came to the conclusion that, if a man existed, he must have something like that somewhere.
After so much time reading in the Library of Knowledge, it's unthinkable that I had to learn things like this from my own conclusions. For some reason, that place seems limited in its capacity to house explicitly sexual content.
If the purpose of such a site is to provide factual, safe, and respectful information, perhaps that implies avoiding the preservation of obscene or pornographic material. Like this book. My diary.
Even so, reflecting on everything a little, and feeling how my skin was opening from the inside, I couldn't ignore how good different things felt.
The adrenaline of a secret I could never tell.
The danger that excited me.
The smell of blood.
The pleasure of my flesh.
Things that should have stopped me—in an unusual situation for anyone, an event that perhaps would never cross a servant's mind—didn't. On the contrary, I brought one hand below my waist to start rubbing my clitoris and, with the other, I dedicated myself to pinching my nipples, while the wood continued to push against my insides.
I don't know if it was because of the moment or how it felt, but I couldn't help but moan.
The shame was intense, but so was the arousal; so much so, that I felt my heart pounding inside my cunt.
Standing, bent over against the wood, a good while had already passed, and I felt how the desire in my flesh began to fade, even though the stick reached areas that my fingers, or those of my copies, never reached.
Biting my lips, I lowered my hand to check how wet I was. Although it could be blood, my thoughts wandered between what I felt and what I didn't, right at that instant when the rough texture of something dry could cause a dangerous friction against my sensitive skin.
With my eyes closed, I could perceive the warm and soft friction of the wood inside me. But, if I wanted to keep feeling it, I understood that it wasn't all about pushing to get it in; I could also move my hips forwards and backwards.
Although it was well supported against the wall, and at that point it slid so well that I didn't need to hold it with my hands, I knew the stick wouldn't move on its own. The new experience intensified the sensation I was looking for.
I couldn't help but notice how my breasts also jumped to the rhythm of my hips, producing a clapping sound that became uncomfortable to hear. I was forced to hold them.
With my hands busy, my clitoris didn't feel completely satisfied.
The friction caused by my fingers on my clitoris, combined with the depth of the stick, was perfect. So, creating a copy to hold my breasts for me, I was able to free my hands and achieve my first orgasm: a sensation I had never experienced and that, had I not dared, would have remained completely ignored.
It was so explosive that, if I hadn't hugged my copy, I would have fallen to the floor, burying the wooden rod even further into me and perhaps causing myself harm. My legs lost strength, a dense tiredness invaded my chest, but my mind became clearer than ever. Achieving such profound peace and spiritual clarity, without needing to meditate, was something no book could explain.
Although the place where I lived was full of secrets still to be deciphered, the greatest mysteries were found in my body.
I could feel it.
Helped by my copy, I lay down on the bed. With my servant's clothes still on and the stick still between my legs, I needed to let my thoughts flow aimlessly.
I couldn't get the sensation that continued to consume my body out of my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered the movement of my hips, the pleasure I felt, my moans.
As I replayed what happened, I felt my breathing quicken again. My nipples were still hard, the stick was still inside, and beside me, a copy ready to obey any order.
Recovered from my first orgasm, my hands—almost of their own accord—began to wander over my body. They brushed against my breasts, I gently pinched my nipples again. Doing so sent small electric shocks directly to my legs.
My large breasts were somewhat annoying in that position, as they pressed against my neck. With an idea in mind, I brought my nipples to my mouth: I bit one, then the other, but I wanted to bite both at the same time so I could use my hands freely. I couldn't. Their size prevented it.
Giving up on them, I decided to create another copy and give her that task. Calmer now, breathing normally, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel. As I touched my clitoris once more, the sensation washed over me that my body had been specifically built for this. While my fingers traced gentle circles on my clitoris, I felt a certain laziness at the thought of having to keep moving my hips.
Looking towards the copy that was still standing, with my thoughts uncontrolled, I found the perfect answer to my laziness.
Why didn't I do it before?
With an order from me, she positioned herself in front of the bed and, with her hands, grasped the broomstick. All I had to do was stay there, standing, watching me—me, her creator—with my legs open, begging for pleasure.
And so, the sensation of delight and enjoyment slowly grew again, like a leaf on the verge of detaching from a tree. With my legs open, I felt my body tense and relax at the same time. My fingers moved with more force, tracing faster and firmer circles; the rod accelerated its thrusts, exploring wider movements that made the bed vibrate beneath me.
The serious face of my copy in no way contrasted with the expressions on my face or my frantic moans. The moment reached such a temperature that I became completely incapable of holding back.
At first, I thought my first orgasm had been a product of luck and a series of coincidences. I thought perhaps I was condemned to experience it only once. But no: with the rhythm, the position, and the surrender, I managed to reach the climax for a second time. In intensity, it was as powerful as the first.
It was a relief to be lying down when my body shuddered so much that, for an instant, I almost forgot where I was.
My copy, for its part, stopped the rod's thrusts. It remained still as it watched me writhe; its objective had been fulfilled. And now, without having to worry about maintaining balance, I could feel the heat from within me radiating towards the wood, while my internal muscles contracted around it, as if they wanted to retain that sensation forever.
My back arched over the mattress; the pleasure was so intense that for a few seconds I couldn't breathe. When I regained consciousness and control of my body, a simple snap of my fingers was enough to make my copy understand that I didn't want the moment to end.
Understanding my intentions, the wood resumed its back-and-forth motion, thus prolonging the orgasmic sensation that was invading me. The release was so intense that I was forced to dig my nails into the flesh of the copy that was holding my breasts, until I finally collapsed onto the bed, gasping, being penetrated.
At that instant, under the protection of my own knowledge, I confirmed something important: I could reach orgasm several times without stopping. The real mystery now was finding new ways to intensify the pleasure... without guilt, without fear.
Already on my tenth orgasm, I decided to go further. I ordered my copies to slowly undress. Naked in front of me, I contemplated their breasts, their erect nipples, their bellies, their thighs.
I caressed them, observing how my hands explored every inch of skin identical to my own. My fingers descended to the sex of each one, separating their vaginal lips. Upon confirming how wet they were, I couldn't help but think that perhaps they could develop their own will... at least if sex was involved.
Fascinated by the discovery, I inserted two fingers inside each of them equally, and began to move them forcefully and rapidly, while massaging their clitorises with my thumb in circular motions.
At that moment, my breathing became erratic. I wanted to hear their moans, for their voices to fill the room. I imagined they could no longer contain themselves, that their serious faces were distorted with pleasure, while they remained in front of me, looking at me with those eyes full of life. I imagined their hands taking the initiative, their tongues exploring every corner of my body, their fingers entering me forcefully. Just that thought was enough to bring me to the brink.
I was betrayed by those desires, because, with the rod still inside me, I began to move my hips, feeling how another orgasm was forming from the deepest part of my being.
Giving my best with both hands, I couldn't help but close my eyes, open my mouth until I drooled, and when what I expected finally arrived, the sensation that hit me was devastating.
I felt, with overwhelming clarity, how the internal muscles of my two copies violently contracted around my fingers, and a torrent of warm moisture erupted from inside them, just as it did from me.
I didn't hear them scream, but I did, without holding back. My body convulsed and I fell onto the bed, exhausted but completely satisfied. The smile on my face said it all.
Inside, I knew it: I had discovered something that could change my boring life forever. After all, copies—without autonomy or will—shouldn't be capable of experiencing an orgasm.