I woke up the next day, but it wasn't like my previous awakenings. I felt a vibration through my body, an intense heat spreading to every corner of my skin. It was a new sensation, unfamiliar, as if my dreams had crossed the boundaries of reality. I knew there was something different about this awakening, something beyond the routine I knew so well.
The ecstasy from the night before still pulsed in my veins, but the strangest part was not being able to clearly remember how it had all ended. Even so, I got out of bed with a sense of urgency, trying to grasp the blurry fragments floating in my mind.
Crossing the threshold of my room, I hurried to the kitchen, where the refrigerated box always held what I needed. I had never given the order to resurrect the king's body. And although I once again forgot to return it to the proper storage, maybe my copies had intervened. Witnessing such scenes must have stirred some kind of discomfort in them.
When I opened the small door of the box, I dropped to my knees on the floor. Joy overwhelmed me violently. In front of me was Salomon's head… along with the golden ring, still gleaming.
Among the notes in my journal were the instructions needed to summon Salomon again along with the ring. In other words, keeping his head in the refrigerated box wasn't necessary. But of course… it was much easier to resurrect someone already present than to summon them and then bring them back. My copies had made the right decision. In a way, they had prevented me from making the same mistake that had left me bitter for so long, bound to loneliness.
Something was changing in them.
And I understood they wouldn't change when I wanted them to… but when it was their time to change.
Several questions stirred inside me. After I lost consciousness, while being sodomized by Salomon… what exactly happened? How did his head end up in the box? These were pieces I was missing.
I considered two options: resurrect Salomon and ask him directly, or summon one of my copies and pose the question—not as an order, but as a comment… hoping she'd be smart enough to take the suggestion seriously.
The second option was more reasonable. A good investigative process requires examining all variables.
So, I summoned one of my copies behind me. I stood up and pointed at the obvious.
She didn't answer, but with a sadistic smile, she moved in such a way that she managed to drive her hand through my stomach, forcing me to spit blood. Her reaction caught me completely off guard.
I had tried many times to help my copies develop their own personalities, to become independent of me. But now I realized that wish had created an irreversible disconnect. My knowledge and experiences were no longer tied to theirs. They lived in their own bubbles, with their own memories… while I remained cut off from those fragments.
The sadistic copy wasn't the only one. I summoned others, whose personalities varied in complexity. Each response was different.
After some reflection, I understood that my knowledge had fragmented. Each piece of that wisdom lived in them. To unlock it, I would have to destroy the small personalities that had emerged. And in doing so, I would kill part of the individuality I had worked so hard to create.
Without realizing it, my selfishness for companionship had turned them into extensions of my suffering. Each of my copies… was exiled in her own thoughts. Abandoned on a small mental island, four by four, where her consciousness floated in darkness. Isolated, like little parts of me, trapped in perpetual loneliness.
That loneliness, deep and eternal, was what deformed them… what made them impulsive, full of desire, rage, or tenderness, when they finally touched something from the "real world."
Like me, they bore the punishment of living alone. But with far less than I had to entertain themselves. I lived eternally in the Heavens: vast meadows, animals, a house, trees, books, food. They had no true company. And even though they waited… no one ever came. When they were finally called to the physical plane, they wanted to stay. By force, if necessary.
The purpose of a copy is precisely not to develop personality or rational thought. Because if they do, they end up trapped in an abyss of despair. Once they achieve consciousness, after prolonged isolation, their reflex is to capture their creator—as a survival mechanism.
Each one lives in her own mental plane, an "island of self," where time is neither linear nor stable. The confinement distorts their perception and emotions. When they "come out"—that is, when they're allowed to act or make physical contact—they don't respond with logic, but with extreme impulses: pleasure, violence, tenderness, aggression… or madness.
And now, every time one of them acts, she does so like a beast released from her cell. It's not rebellion. It's not disobedience.
It's hunger.
Not for food, not for sex.
Hunger for contact. To be seen. To break the silence of their islands.
I gave them bodies, forms, tasks. But I never gave them companionship. How long can a mind endure before it goes mad in a space where only echoes of itself exist? What does a copy do when the only voice it hears is that of its absent creator?
Maybe that's why some look at me with desire.
Others, with hatred.
And some… with absolute emptiness, as if their soul had swum away from their island and never returned.
I feel guilt clawing at my back. I've become the creature that created me.
I feel their contained desperation every time one of them obeys with a smile that's just too wide.
They are breaking in silence. But I made them this way.
They are daughters of my isolation.
Each one is Silvia in her most shattered form, Dina in her harshest judgment.
And as I look at them, I realize that I too have been trapped on an island.
Mine is built with walls made of rules. Rules that taught me to serve, to stay silent unless spoken to, to not desire unless desired. But now, I feel the rules dissolving like wet paper between my fingers. Not because I want to break them…
But because I no longer recognize them as mine. If I was ever a single person, now I'm an archipelago of versions shouting at me from afar. And none of them wants to be alone again.
Setting aside the thorough investigation into the new suffering and behavior of my copies, I had no choice but to remain still before the skull, wondering if I should know what had happened.
Sometimes, mystery is the only thing that keeps us moving. The only thing that pushes us forward. Sooner or later, I would have to bring back the one who had made me feel so alive in the art of sex.
No matter how independent and autonomous the personalities of my copies were, no matter how daring their caresses, they could never make me feel what that man made me feel with just a simple touch of his cock.
A second thought invaded my mind. Having them the way I had always wanted, now I no longer needed them, because I had these new means. Maybe that's why they attacked me: out of fear of ending up like me—abandoned, devoid of purpose.
I wondered: does one have to be a man to make a woman like me feel such pleasure? I supposed so. I had my reasons. The 'demon' who once visited me hadn't made me feel that way, despite everything we did together.
I couldn't understand how fear had started to grow in me—the fear of losing the ability to feel. Because if what I was feeling now was only due to how novel it all was, then eventually, I would stop feeling pleasure, even if I had it. But I clung to the hope that it wouldn't be so. And that, if it happened—like when I began exploring the bodies of my copies—I would focus on solving whatever problem arose.
Doubts, fear, anxiety, and hope flooded my body, my mind, and my desires. Emotions that told me I was in love with a man… or, rather, with a man's cock. That virile, swollen, rigid muscle I could gaze at, idolize, even worship like a god. And I, for once, had no shame in admitting I wanted it in my mouth… or inside different parts of my body. Even if I had to lick everything it had touched afterward with my tongue.
I understood that, if that was a sin, then there I was—kneeling on the floor, determined not to keep living off fantasies—ready to throw myself at it without hesitation, willing to leave my creations aside. At least, as long as I had within reach the thing I so venerated and desired.
Yes… his cock. His cock alone.
The rest of the body didn't matter much, to be honest. Salomon was handsome, with strong arms and the kind of cunning common in men. But words like "courteous" or "nice" didn't quite fit in his description.
But don't worry… even as I write these words, I can swear that, in front of such a man, out of honor, dignity, and in memory of my copies' suffering, I will behave as if I've never loved anyone. Even if I try to convince myself otherwise later, he was—and still is—the reason I'm alive, chasing every swollen cock that crosses my path, regardless of size, consequences, or the effort it may demand.
Asking him what my copies had done was unnecessary… not when it was my turn to enjoy solitude.
Taking the skull from the climate-controlled box, I walked over the dismembered bodies cluttering the kitchen, my room, and the foyer. I headed to the library and began the resurrection ritual with my own abilities.
Daylight had not yet vanished, and already, kneeling on the floor, I could wash away the guilt of my copies' suffering with the fire that burned inside me and left me breathless.
Salomon was returning to life, and I desired the company of the opposite sex more than ever before. I had no doubt, no scruples when I saw that arrogant man's cock, so full of demands, which, upon becoming flesh and beginning to throb again, took its time… it relished the moment, as if it knew I wanted it, but wouldn't give in so easily.
He seemed different… a bit more cautious than before.
"Stick out your tongue," he ordered the moment he made up his mind. Though his tone dripped with malice, I wasn't intimidated at all.
Before me, Salomon's well-shaped body approached, just as I remembered it: wide hips, firm abs and thighs, muscular… and his erect cock, imposing.
I could smell it, feel it, taste it.
Yes, that instrument lacked nothing in the way of charm to seduce me.
Once he was close enough, he literally rubbed it against my face, igniting the spark of lust in me. The taste of his skin didn't disappoint my palate. Fit for a king, he didn't settle for vanity.
With my tongue out, I obeyed his commands to the letter. It was his game, his art of lovemaking—the same he had practiced with so many other women.
"Let the tip of your tongue move like a snake… smooth, subtle… from bottom to top," he said, and his voice was law. He commanded, I submitted, just like that previous night. "Now go back to the beginning and glide up in one motion. Draw circles… shapes. Let your creativity flow.
Now it's time to kiss… suck with your lips as much as you can. Don't be greedy… it's not time to swallow yet. Start soft… then harder… combine both movements. Suck while you play with your tongue… always leaving the tip for last… in a spiral."
Having to follow such instructions during such a voluptuous act drove me wild. I could barely keep the reason-imposed restraint in check. With a sore tongue, worn lips, and a tense neck, I continued caressing the increasingly rigid body before me with desperate eagerness.
"The first hole is about to be filled, but tell me… do I have the same conditions?"
"Yes," I cried, desperate. "And I'll be able to take your whole cock deep down my throat… without wasting a single drop."
"Then…" he smiled triumphantly, "open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and look me in the eyes…"
The electricity between my legs tore away all restraint, and with a grateful smile, I took the deepest breath I could, obeying his words as his body moved closer to mine.
"I've heard how wretched is the soul of the creature that fell in love with a human. But with this in mind, I'll take your mouth as my most faithful lover… and in it, I'll do as my soul desires."
I was at his feet, kneeling, hands on the floor, nose pressed to his abdomen, chin grazing his testicles. He possessed me, thrusting into my throat at will. Unlike what I remembered, he seemed more rushed, taking less time to reach climax and demanding more from me. The amount of semen was meager compared to my memories. By that point, I had already climaxed multiple times.
His cock, huge and trembling like an earthquake in my mouth, pumped his fluids into me—hotter than my blood. His eyes, locked onto mine, seemed to pierce into the deepest parts of my soul… and that made it perfect. Perhaps my expectations after that first time were too high. But I knew Heaven was near.
With my mouth open and tongue extended, I still took him in completely, all the way to the back of my throat, without complaint, without breathing.
"Have you been with someone else?" he asked the moment he pulled away. I stayed there, hypnotized, unmoving.
"Your pleasure is my paradise…" I whispered, delighted. Something in me knew his question wasn't casual—that maybe he was looking for a reason to stop being interested in me. "Even if I'd been with many before you, every morning I wake up a virgin… front and back."
Salomon took a breath. His expression seemed to doubt my words, but even if I had been with my copies in every way possible, with a demon, and with an ordinary man, at that moment, my body was tender, innocent… sinless.
I closed my mouth without changing position. My body trembled with arousal. I brushed my hair to the side, closed my eyes, and licked my lips. More than moistening them… I wanted to taste them, to search for traces of what I had swallowed.
I stayed like that until he knelt behind me and, roughly, lifted me up and spread my cheeks.
I didn't expect it, didn't even imagine it. But the king and lover of a thousand women inserted the tip of his tongue between the tight flesh of my sphincter and pushed it in as far as his strength would allow.
A king, someone who saw himself as superior, who saw women as mere concubines, lovers, political pieces… was there, behind me, pressing me to the floor with his tongue, trying to go as deep as he could. As you can imagine, I had to summon all my willpower to remain still. The sensation wasn't new… it felt like when another woman had done it to me. But I knew that behind that tongue stood a powerful cock. And that… that was what calmed my craving.
From behind, I felt him wrap his arms around me, his hands exploring my body until they gripped and pulled at my nipples with force. He was turning me on before penetrating me, something he hadn't done in our previous encounter. And that made me want to change positions.
My blood needed my body to flip over on that library floor. My bones trembled at the thought of seeing the face of the beast feasting on my insides. My legs longed to open like doors; my mouth, to kiss his lips and wipe from his face any trace of me. And then, what I'd long awaited finally arrived.
Salomon stopped using his tongue, stopped hugging me, stopped pinching my breasts. In their place, he brought down his open hand on my raised ass. Again and again, until my skin was set ablaze. After countless smacks, came the reward I had so desperately craved. I wanted it like a thirsty creature longs for water. The hunger burned inside me like fire over dry leaves.
I couldn't get the thought out of my head that this impatient man would throw himself at me, that my most intimate places would be at his mercy.
I denied him nothing. And so, something so big and thick ended up inside me for the second time, pushing me to the brink of madness, among books in an infinite library that seemed to collapse around me like a rain of pages.
His hips slammed into mine in a rhythm that was harsh, violent. I swear his thrusts were even louder and more powerful than the previous smacks. I couldn't stay upright. My thighs gave out. My hands weren't enough to hold me… I ended up lying flat on my stomach on the floor.
Driven by my need to feel, to not surrender or lose, I forced myself to hold position, even though my knees ached, my hands slipped, and my hips were on the verge of surrendering in that battle of clashes against his relentless thrusts, which by then had lasted far longer than I expected.
So deep, I felt him moving inside me, stretching the furthest part of me as if he might break me—but right there… the pleasure hit all the right places.
"The color of your hole is so striking and tempting…" he said, his voice less confident, less dominant.
Despite having deigned to lick my ass, his penetration was through my pussy, and though he moved with all his strength, for some reason, I felt it less. Until I noticed one of his fingers slipping into my tightest hole, already slick from his tongue… or from the sweat of our odyssey.
It didn't take long before his knuckles bumped against my body, and as if that weren't enough, he pressed downward, as if trying to break me, while at the same time pounding into me without mercy.
Every time he managed to provoke an explosion of sensations I didn't know I could experience, he slowed down or changed position.
I might have thought he did it on purpose, but he didn't.
Trapped in my thoughts, I lost control of my body and collapsed forward, but he caught me just in time. With one hand, he grabbed my hair, and with the other, he held my face, making sure his dominant finger returned deep inside me.
That was the attitude I sought: me on all fours, him treating me like a beast, pounding into me mercilessly, my tongue out, eyes dazed… and his body crashing against mine. He almost made me come. But it was he who soon forced his breath, roared, and shouted out loud, as if his only goal were to tear me apart from the inside.
His final roar, right next to my ear, echoed throughout the place.
He released my hair and let me fall to the floor. I didn't reach orgasm. His cock withdrew from me quickly, and I felt no release that marked a climax.
Lying on the ground, craving an orgasm with every fiber of my being, I decided to take the initiative… even if it meant punishment.
I used my hands to spread my cheeks, exposing what remained at the center of them, just as he had done the night before. I wanted him to continue, to resume his task and desecrate the last hole I had left to offer.
On the floor, under his pretentious gaze, I offered myself as tribute, surrendering the virginity of my rear—plump, and reserved especially for this moment.
Salomon swallowed hard. He watched me. Touched me in several places. Put his tongue back in my ass, slapped his cock a few times, slid his fingers inside… and performed other trivial acts just to stiffen his still-limp member.
He fondled what I offered as though he owned that flesh. With firm motions, he made me roll over on the floor. As he joined in, he sighed in relief:
"It's good to be young again…"
I lowered my gaze. With my legs up between my breasts, I could finally see him holding his beast by the neck, shaking it violently. He took his time making me pull my knees to my chest. When he spread my legs so roughly, my insides opened, and the liquid he'd left inside me now flowed out, lubricating my lower half.
Positioning himself like a champion, he mounted me, aiming that monster in his hands at my tightest cavern.
I know it might sound strange… but I wanted him inside me from that other place, with no delay, no preamble.
In my practices, I always needed that area to be well lubricated, because otherwise, something that big was simply too painful. So much so, I swear that's what made me black out the night before.
His cock and my flesh were already prepared. And with one single thrust, his balls slapped against my ass. The thick, long cylindrical rod became a red-hot iron, forging its path deep into my intestines. It hurt, it burned, it seared inside… but far less than I remembered.
With the violence that had become his signature, our fluids mixed, spraying and staining the library air with our essence.
But what aroused me most was seeing his face, breathing his breath, feeling how my sigh mixed with his and sank into his chest, soothing the heat that burned between my legs.
The pain, the friction, the sting… all vanished the moment I stopped clenching my sphincter. First I loosened up a little, but then I simply pushed. I offered myself, opened my legs wider. So wide that, no matter how many times he came out, my hole no longer lost its shape… and that gave me such a new sensation that I began to enjoy it.
You might think that part of the body, that narrow, delicate path, is only made to suffer when subjected to carnal pleasure. Especially if what's in front of you is a man as well-endowed as Salomon. But let me tell you something else: all you need is a strong mind—capable of setting aside the pain and focusing on the filth, on the pleasure of being desecrated where you shouldn't, where it makes no sense… and yet, to want it.
I'm proof of that. My body. Instinctively, I offered myself, both where I should… and where I shouldn't.
During his boldest movements, when he pulled out of me and, holding my legs up, couldn't quite guide himself back into the tight passage, I took him with my hands, lowered it like a lever, and positioned him exactly where I wanted.
Then, my ass gripped him, devoured him, as if trying to rip from him what he carried inside.
Though the deal was that he had to fill me completely, if he came outside, it would only give me more time to enjoy it. But my desire was so consuming that every time he came, I wanted it to be inside me… properly.
With his weight pressing down on me, he pushed my feet back until they were behind my head, while his now-free hands assaulted my breasts mercilessly. That man had no intention of giving me a break, and still, all I could think was:
Why do men only come with one cock, when women have three holes?
I watched him sweating, gasping, out of breath. And with his fingers, he gripped my breasts so hard I thought he might crush them.
Then I understood: if that was the game, whoever gives must be willing to receive.
And when I finally got used to having my ass torn apart by him… I no longer felt pain or pleasure. Only the filth. The animal urge to be taken and defeated.
With our bodies still joined, my hands slid down to caress the base of that immense iron rod buried deep inside me. His testicles twitched as if trying to escape, but I gripped them tightly.
Salomon opened his mouth in a strained grimace, teeth clenched. He snorted in delight as he thrust even harder.
He increased the rhythm, doubled the speed, and the ecstasy outpaced the pain. I felt it. That exact moment, the unmistakable signal that a man is about to come.
His cock grew even harder, scraping my inner walls with sharper intensity. His thrusts lost rhythm, became frantic. His breath, hoarse. And with spasms nearly convulsive, I felt a burning liquid filling me from within.
My hand bore witness to every jolt.
All slick on the floor, I slipped my fingers between my two holes. I stopped holding the shaft of flesh and started rubbing myself desperately, trying to reach that pleasure that almost always made me black out.
The glorious king caught his breath. He swallowed several times, as if trying to wash the dryness from his throat.
When he looked my way, I saw his expression shatter into a thousand pieces.
He knew that during our first time, he had set the bar too high… and this time, he hadn't managed to satisfy me.
Like someone trying to console themselves for having fulfilled their side of the deal, he shook his head.
Once I came by my own hand, legs spread open before the king, and after fulfilling the agreement that required three ejaculations from him… just as I had promised the night before, I handed him the ring.
As if he couldn't believe it, he extended his trembling hand. A shimmer of happiness lit up his eyes, almost like he'd been waiting for it all along—and then, I saw him leave the library.
Reflecting on everything that had happened, I realized Salomon had been much more careful with me, perhaps because the night before he hadn't received the ring I'd promised. The one that had fallen into the hands of my copies.
There, playing with the fluids still dripping from me, I lay on the floor. It didn't take long for me to regain my strength—or for new lustful thoughts to sprout in my mind. After all, I now had a man I could love.
The day wasn't over and the eternal night had yet to begin. Feeling flirty, with my hands between my legs, caressing myself as I deserved, some of my copies came to mind. Particularly those with flushed faces and mischievous smiles lighting up their expressions.
I also understood that, during the previous night, they had likely grown a great deal. They had played with the man they summoned. Learned from him, as I had from Gremory. Although, this morning, their behavior hadn't exactly been ideal.
From the entrance hall, I heard Salomon scream. Apparently, not all my copies were incapacitated. I even had to admit, by that point, I didn't doubt they were capable of creating copies of themselves.
Although the order echoed in my mind like a persistent refrain. At first, it had been a cold, calculated decision, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation: they were to abstain from touching Salomon. There was no other option. What else could they do? Time was infinite, and I knew that if they didn't watch him, they'd lose their chance forever.
The king's naked body wandered the house, moving between the dismembered parts of me, searching for a way out like a small animal trapped in a cage. And it was no less true that, as long as I remained in the library, the exit to the outside world stayed sealed—because it was the same door.
For my copies, that structure of bone that in death had been insignificant now stood as the center of a body, and in life, represented something far greater, more profound. It wasn't just a symbol of what I had obtained, but of what I still stood to lose.
That was the point: I didn't want to lose him again.
And neither did they.
Their cries pierced through me—like a whisper, like a muffled scream in the dark. Even dismembered, they fought for the chance to feel pleasure.
As cruel as it may sound, I couldn't allow it. Not now that I understood. The king, that piece offered to me by a demon, possessed knowledge, held answers… and truths I might not yet be ready to face, but that were inevitable.
I knew that if I didn't act, I would be dragged by the current of time. And with it, everything I once was—or thought I was—would vanish forever.
On the other hand, my copies—the multiplied embodiment of my living shadows—those who had ceased to be mere extensions of me, needed to understand that some matters were more necessary.
I spoke with the calmest mind: that spiritual peace that only follows an orgasm.
At first, I created them with a clear purpose: to keep me company. But if that company got in my way, it was only natural that I would cast them aside.
I had to learn from him, understand his movement, his nature.
I had to find what my copies, blind in their search and starved for sensation, would never be able to uncover.
While he tried to escape, I remained in the library, lost among the shadows of the corridors and the muted voices of the books that had once offered me refuge. But that peace had vanished. Now, every corner of the place reminded me of everything I didn't know, everything I was about to lose.
The copies, with their unshakable obedience, represented the part of me still bound to the obsessive search for attention.
Salomon was just a man, but he was also the result of all my compounded effort. Who had more right to him? Them, or me?
In her own defense, the most intellectual of my copies might argue that I had arrived at this situation by accident. Even I might have believed that once. But after all this, I understand that nothing was accidental.
In this boring, routine life, everything can have a greater purpose. The same applies to my copies… if we accept that their suffering exists to produce a benefit for me.
Back to the past: the first time Salomon held me in his hands, disturbing things happened to my being. One orgasm after another, without even time to recover.
The heat of his member—hard and robust like a bone—slamming and scraping the folds of my flesh, awakened in me new definitions of what it means to enjoy.
In contrast, this last encounter wasn't as satisfying. It's something I can't quite explain.
Feeling that I was still connected to him, why not allow my copies to enjoy the leftovers?
Lying on the floor of the library of knowledge, I became invisible. And with a simple snap of my fingers, those who had lain dismembered on the floor rose again with new, complete, intact bodies.
Salomon watched the resurrection of the other versions of me with horror on his face—like someone who knows their time is up, that there's no escape.
Inside the house, my copies rose and began to chase him. But the aggression among them turned perpetual.
Against me, none displayed command of elements, but seeing them fight for a greater prize was fascinating. It made them desperate, to the point where they saw no choice but to play their most hidden cards in order to win the battle.
Apparently, they had decided not to display their elemental powers in front of me. They knew well that, if they did, I might eliminate them to seize those powers they had developed instinctively, in the solitude of an empty island inside my mind.
If I wanted to learn from them, observation was essential. I couldn't allow them to self-destruct. None of them had mastered 'Aura Control' the way I had—that art of the body acquired through methodical instruction, through a specific book, and refined with time.
That same technique allows one to cease existing, to merge back into my being, and to forget what has happened… a tempting idea, even for me, as a way to close the cycle.
Elemental control, as I understand it, is linked to emotions. Perpetual hatred fuels control over darkness, shadow, the absence of light. But hatred itself is a singular, linear emotion.
From the outside, I can observe that some copies are less complex, while others… truly surprise me.
According to the oldest books, wood elemental control is exclusive to elves.
However, if a being masters water, earth, and wind, they can generate the wood element without needing to be elven.
Wind requires 'relaxation'.
Water, 'security'.
Earth, 'determination'.
One of my copies has perfected those three emotions.
Although none seem capable of controlling four elements at once, some have developed unique aspects like 'sound' or 'lightning'.
Salomon, meanwhile, was trying to defend himself with the ring, but it didn't appear to be working.
After so much time trying to avoid boredom, now I had my hands full of new events I needed to study.
In the anonymity of invisibility… what would I do?
Observe, as always.
Wait for them to teach me the answers I could not find on my own. Because, even if I forced them, none of them were willing to tell me the truth.
"Hello, Salomon," said the sadistic version of myself softly, approaching triumphantly to lovingly embrace the man who, on the verge of tears, recoiled from her.
Holding him tightly against her bare chest, I saw her breasts rubbing against his skin.
Salomon could feel her hardened nipples… but it wasn't a source of arousal.
He turned his head away, uncomfortable with the contact of my copy's bloodied flesh.
"Don't you enjoy rolling around in the entrails of dismembered bodies?" the copy asked. "There's enough for both of us."
Salomon swallowed hard.
His spine was rigid, his gaze lifted.
And behind his back, he was rubbing the ring he wore with insistence.
"How was your encounter with the original?" asked my copy, her smile faltering. "You look tired."
"No!" shouted Salomon, desperate.
"Then…" said my copy, dragging out the pause, "why hasn't your cock gotten hard yet?"
"It's just…" stammered the king, the lover of a thousand women, anxious and fearful, "I needed some fresh air."
'Sadistic' changed her demeanor again, circling Salomon and laughing softly. A laugh that seemed to terrify the man more than soothe him.
"And I suppose you want to rest a bit too?"
"If possible…" he said, a man so arrogant, proud, and regal, now nearly ready to kneel on the ground and beg for his life.
"I don't think you can afford such luxuries," replied my copy. "Understand? I don't know when the original plans to show herself, and just like with her, I and so many others want to have as many orgasms as possible… with you, the king of kings, the lover of a thousand women. Fuck me or die. Your choice."
"Again!…" Salomon growled through clenched teeth, letting out a cry, closing his eyes as if trying to hold back tears, and tightening his fists.
"I want you willing, and glad. Smiling, with a joyful voice… if you're feeling tired, I'll end your life, resurrect you, and we could continue—just like we did last night."
Salomon seemed deeply uncomfortable—not just with my copy's arrogant behavior, but with the way she ruled over him without even being queen. Even before me, the original, he had never had to lower himself this way.
'Sadistic' looked at him with those wide, sharp eyes, breathed on his neck, scratched his back… things that made Salomon unable to resist me. But his cock wouldn't rise.
"It's fine. I'll figure out how to summon you without needing the library."
Then I heard the dull crack of breaking bones. He couldn't scream, because 'Sadistic's' hand had pierced through his chest. With his feet dangling, in a matter of seconds, the king of kings took his final breath.
Careful not to make a sound, 'Sadistic' made her way toward the front door. With great stealth and silence, she closed it without looking back inside. It seems that when they make eye contact with me, certain phenomena occur. Along with the concept of elemental control, I also recall the behavior of creatures beyond logical comprehension.
From that moment on, I developed the theory that, to my copies, I am like one of those creatures. An existence that does not walk but simply is. And being, for me as the 'original', is an act of totality. One that could deprive the versions of me of a present, a past, and a future. A living contradiction: a body that occupied more than a purpose. Before the simple copies, those not yet revealed in purpose, time itself seems to halt. They stop flowing. Their thoughts, so limited by sequence, collapse in my presence, like shadows in a light too white.
The copies I make of myself… they feel it more purely. Upon seeing me, they freeze. Not out of fear, but because, from their perspective, I am the complete version. The root. The original contains all the decisions they'll never get to make, all the forks in the road already chosen. To a copy, seeing me is like a paper character seeing the author. The story—and its characters—cannot move if they know it's already been written.
But what makes a dozen of them choose to act? Knowledge. Knowing that there is an original before whom they are insignificant, and yet they still want to make a difference.
Trapped in theories and thoughts, I watched as 'Sadistic' walked from the hall door toward a pile of bodies on the floor. She moved slowly, almost as if rethinking her actions over and over.
"You, 'Noblemi'…" her tone was insolent, perverse. "No need to keep pretending you're dead. You know I noticed…"
"What do you want?" replied the version of me who had, curiously, been nicknamed by 'Sadistic'.
The latter looked directly at the one lying on the floor, smiling while raising her left eyebrow in a clearly arrogant gesture. The one on the floor noticed how her eyes slowly drifted down to Salomon's corpse. When her gaze returned, 'Sadistic' widened the signature grin she wore—not because she thought 'Noblemi' had understood the message, but because it satisfied her to transmit something disturbing with nothing more than a look.
"I'd rather have someone else help you…" said 'Noblemi' in a voice filled with resignation and regret. "Yesterday was already enough, putting his head in the climate box. If you want to… go ahead and finish me off."
"Don't threaten me with a good time," warned 'Sadistic'. "Since I shoved my hand through his chest, I haven't been able to stop lubricating."
'Noblemi' let out an awkward laugh and let her head drop.
"If you help me bring him back, once I'm done with him you can have him," said 'Sadistic', like someone proposing a deal. "You know I'm not 'Lies'."
"Aaah!" the copy on the floor complained. "Next time, no matter how noble I may be, I'm not helping you if you attack me."
Ignoring the warning, and unable to hide the discomfort caused by 'Sadistic's' laughter, 'Noblemi' wiped her face. In a way, they reminded me of versions of myself, acting in different moments. Wanting to review my theories, I decided to appear in the center of the room—right where the two of them were preparing the necessary agreement to revive the king's dead body.
Like an unpleasant presence, they both froze in place. 'Noblemi' wore a calm, submissive expression, eyes lowered, ready to receive orders; 'Sadistic', in contrast, was visibly furious.
"I know what you're doing, and how you plan to revive Salomon," I said, to see if either would respond. "Anything you'd like to tell me?"
'Sadistic' snapped out of her trance and, as quickly as she could, tried to attack me. But I was ready for such a move—I dodged and slammed her to the floor.
"I'm going to take a shower," I told them both, still not grasping that it wasn't yet the time to appreciate that my copies had developed a mind of their own.
From the floor, 'Sadistic' looked up at me with a mischievous smile, while I walked away, shaking my head with mild boredom.
Feeling the water fall over my body in the shower, I sharpened my senses to listen to what the two of them were doing. They should've been in the library, trying to revive Salomon's body, so hearing nothing was normal. When I looked down at the drain, I saw blood still running down.
In the shower, I tried to remember if my copies had always bled this much since the first time I learned to summon them, but I couldn't help recalling it all: limbs, nipples, guts, breasts, heads, and asses. The hot water continued rinsing the blood from my body, relaxing my muscles, while my mind filled with more questions than answers.
What if Salomon was already contaminated?
What if, by leaving him alone with my copies, he was now irreversibly broken—condemned to offer me mediocre sex, forced and devoid of initiative, like the first time?
With a clearer mind, more doubts emerged as I stepped out of the shower, drying my hair. To avoid dirtying my feet again, I used uncontaminated copies—those unwilling to obey my orders—and cleaned the space completely.
Once everything was clean, I decapitated one of those copies with my hand, and to my surprise, she didn't bleed. Then I understood: blood is also a factor in measuring the complexity of my creations.
I walked to the kitchen, crossed the foyer, and opened the door to the Library of Knowledge. The scene before me was exactly what I anticipated: my two copies, 'Noblemi' and 'Sadistic', momentarily frozen when they noticed my presence. They were on top of Salomon, right where I myself had once lain on the floor, receiving pleasure. One of them, legs spread over the man's hips; the other, legs open across his face, slowly suffocating him, shamelessly.
Telling who was who was a challenge, as both wore the same expression of pleasure—identical and capable of masking their personalities.
Even though I entered silently, the moment they saw me, they froze.
Calmly, I kept walking until I reached the center of the library, where the king's arms and legs thrashed violently. It took only a few seconds more for such a man to die of asphyxiation, revealing to me which one was 'Sadistic'.
She, fully aware that I was watching them, decided to end her creation's life before offering him to me on a silver platter. Then, slowly turning toward me, she whispered clearly:
"Eeeh, if you want him… revive him…"
'Noblemi', ashamed yet still dazed from her orgasm, tried to get up with difficulty. Before she could, 'Sadistic' stabbed her in the chest, though that didn't stop her from whispering:
"I expected this from you."
Her words were faint, and her body collapsed to the ground, visibly satisfied.
'Sadistic', with a satisfied smile and her eyes locked on mine, took her own life with a defiance that, I must confess, deeply irritated me. Yet if her passion was to cause suffering, I kept my expression impassive and serious, determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.
With labored breaths, 'Sadistic' relinquished her life in front of me, lying down beside the other two corpses.
And then… who am I really to them? The question that haunts me returned once more, knocking on the door of my doubts with its usual punctuality. In the emptiness of the Library of Knowledge, within the silence, in the vacant gazes of the three bodies…
Am I Silvia, the one naturally connected to the desire for knowledge, who feels the pulse of the earth, the sky, and the books, who yearns for freedom? Or am I Dina, the judged servant, the one who must obey, placed in this role for reasons I can no longer fully remember? Or am I the 'Original'?
There are moments when I feel sure I'm Silvia. I feel the heartbeat of paper running through my veins, the wild nature of black ink and the falsely untamable quill reflecting my spirit. On those days, I feel a strange freedom, even here, in this place so reminiscent of a prison.
When I walk through the main corridor of this hidden place and the books whisper as if calling me, the soft breeze tangling in my hair, for a moment I feel alive—free, unbound, part of something far greater than myself.
But there are other circumstances. Parts of my life where Dina creeps into my thoughts. When the weight of her judgment falls upon me like a shroud. I am not wild or free. I am a servant, bound to rules I cannot grasp. I feel the pressure of obedience, the certainty that I was placed here to serve, that my existence is tied to fulfilling a role from which I cannot escape. On those days, I feel heavy, burdened by responsibilities that crush any notion of freedom I thought I had.
And now, 'The Original', a role of absolute power before versions of me that seek to rebel.
The truth is, I don't know which of these identities is real. Am I all of them? Or none? Could Silvia and 'The Original' be fantasies? Creations of my mind to escape the harshness that is Dina? Because sometimes, I don't even recognize myself.
The books that once spoke to me are now silent, and I wonder if my connection to that man, lying on the ground, was just an illusion I invented to survive.
Dina, on the other hand, is certainty. Dina is the weight I feel on my shoulders, the constant that reminds me I have a purpose—even if I don't understand it. But is that purpose truly mine? Or is it something imposed on me? I question whether being Dina is just another chain, an invisible prison. But if I reject being Dina… then who am I?
This conflict between Silvia, Dina, and the Original is a silent battle within me. A battle stubbornly designed to ruin the few moments of happiness. Sometimes I think that if I could choose, if I could decide to be someone, I would find peace and live in the moment… not like now, wasting life away doing nothing. It's not necessarily 'Sadistic's' rebelliousness that leaves me like this, but every time I approach a resolution… something holds me back.
When I want to be Silvia and forget my obligations, the reality of Dina pulls me down, reminding me I can't escape so easily. And when I want to create my own world, to be the Original, I fall into the paradoxical realization that I resemble too much the one who may have placed me here. And when I try to embrace Dina, to accept my role as servant, something inside me rebels—a fire that screams I wasn't born to be a slave to anyone's expectations.
I feel like I'm drowning, needing air to keep from dying. And, just in time, I manage a breath—barely enough to keep my suffering at bay. My life in this mansion, in this place, is a divided existence. My thoughts, my actions, are fragmented, and I cannot reconcile them. So much time has passed that I barely remember everything… if it weren't for you, my journal.
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible to know the end of my story. If I can find a balance between living and dreaming. I've split myself into multiple parts just to have company, but even that idea now feels out of reach.
It's frustrating. I want answers. I want to know what I need to do to find happiness—to laugh, to scream, to dance… but the more I search, the more confusing everything becomes. I've come to fear my own thoughts, just as much as I fear the versions of myself that bleed, that feel, that are always lurking in wait for a new wound.
My attempts to find myself only lead me into a labyrinth with no exit. I've asked myself if maybe there isn't an answer, no way out, no light. Perhaps the idea of a fixed identity is an illusion—something I invented to feel safe in a place as chaotically calm as this. But even if that's true, I can't help but long for that certainty.
On the other hand, the copies with their own identities are housed in specific sections of my mind. If I could unlock each assigned section, I might know whether they feel something I don't. I could know what 'Sadistic's' final thought was, or what emotion 'Noblemi' felt. But doing that would take all the fun out of it, because defragmenting that encapsulated knowledge would kill the little personality each one has built up until now. With the experiences combined, they would go back to being exact copies, indistinguishable.
Maybe I shouldn't focus so much on sex. And really, who better to give me a different perspective on everything that's happened than Salomon himself—whom I already know how to resurrect?