Days passed, and the copies continued to act behind my back, like fragments of something I never would have imagined them to be before. They were no longer just 'One' and 'Another'; those identities were beginning to seem... insufficient regarding 'That One' who laughed, and the 'Others'. What if my true essence was dispersed among all those versions of myself? Each copy gave me a different look in return.
Unfortunately, I hadn't realized a crucial detail before: each of my copies was born with a small fragment of my personality. So far, I haven't given them names. I worry that doing so will confuse them even more... or perhaps make them quieter, more distant... maybe even ruder. There's something unsettling about seeing my identity fragmented into incomplete versions of myself.
However, the more I live and root my feelings, the more independent they become from each other. For example, there is the part of me that always lets go, the one who seeks pleasure in experimentation: the one I previously called 'One'.
When I ordered her to, I saw her approach slowly, her gaze fixed on me, a mix of curiosity and desire shining in her eyes. With slow, deliberate movements, she let her fingers trace my skin, exploring every reaction. There was no rush in her gestures, only a growing need to know every corner of my body. Her lips curved into a smile as she noticed my breathing quicken.
"It's always interesting to see how far you can go," I whispered to her, encouraging her to respond.
But she said nothing. She just continued her journey, leaving a trail of warmth in her wake.
Then there is 'Another'. She carries the art of shame rooted in her being. She responds with more intensity to my caresses, but she never lets me see her act fully.
And then there is 'That One', the sadist. She enjoys inflicting pain on others, savoring every spasm, every gesture of suffering in others. When I see her bow before me, obedient like the others, I know she does it only because I order her to. But, the moment she is over her victim, her smile curves into a cruel gesture.
"This is just beginning," I whispered, watching as she plunged the blade into another copy's exposed skin.
Each cut was slow, precise. She enjoyed every shudder of pain, every choked moan. Her eyes shone with delight as she watched the blood form a delicate pattern on the floor.
"Make her wish she hadn't kept silent," I ordered.
Without hesitation, she continued her work. Although, before doing so, she wiped the blade of the knife on her own sleeve with a disturbing calm.
There's also the vain one. From my invisibility, I could always see her changing her hairstyle, seeking attention. And the one who always finds an opportunity to whisper in corners, as if every little secret were a treasure.
The vain one stops in front of the mirror, turning slowly to examine her reflection from all angles. Her fingers play with a freshly dyed crimson lock of hair, as she smiles smugly.
"I think this color suits you perfectly," I told her on one occasion, waiting for a response.
But she didn't answer me. She froze in place. Only when I disappeared could I see her meticulously adjust her hairstyle, making sure not a single hair was out of place.
In the corner of the room, another copy leaned forward, whispering something in a low voice to her companion. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she let out a stifled giggle. "Did you hear what happened yesterday?" I asked from behind, my voice barely a murmur. But she didn't answer me. She remained silent, like someone who guards a secret devotedly, watching discreetly, waiting for a reaction from the others.
Then there's the one who thinks she's intelligent. You see her taking a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages quickly, as if she already knew exactly where to find what was important. She frowns exaggeratedly, adjusting the glasses she barely needs. "Did you know that this author has a completely wrong view on the theory of parallel mirrors?" I commented, hoping to start a discussion between her and me. But she didn't look at me. She crossed her arms and, with an air of superiority, ignored my presence. "If you had read as much as I have, you would know that there are errors in every one of these texts," I whispered in her ear. She didn't react. She just sat down and began taking notes with a satisfied air.
The one who cries about everything had barely spilled a drop of water on the floor when her eyes began to fill with tears. "Does it make you sad?" I asked the copy who was rocking back and forth, sobbing, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands. Her breathing became choppy as she tried to contain her crying. But every time another copy looked at her, her shoulders trembled more. "You can't do it right... you never do anything right," I murmured among her whimpers. The tears began to fall at an uncontrollable pace. She curled up in a corner of the room, hugging her knees, as if the world was crumbling down on her because of a simple accident.
The finicky one pinches the others on their sides. She approaches one of them stealthily, her lips curved in a mischievous smile. Without warning, she extends her fingers and pinches right on the soft part of the side.
"Ouch!" the other copy exclaims, jumping sideways. But the finicky one just chuckles. "Relax, it's just a game," I say, defending her. She moves away, but not for long. Behind my back, every time she passes someone, her quick fingers leave a pinch or a pull. She enjoys the little chaos she causes, while her victims look at her with frustration.
Then there's the one who thinks she's a prince. She walks around the room with her chin held high, as if wearing an invisible crown. Each step is measured, elegant. With one hand on her chest, she bows slightly to the others, as if granting them the honor of her presence. "My dear," I say to her in a deep, affected voice, "your manners leave much to be desired. If you were part of my court, I would not tolerate it." But she ignores me. She doesn't respond to my comment. When I leave, I observe her from a distance: she approaches the mirror, adjusts her hair, and adopts a haughty pose, as if expecting applause for her noble bearing.
This is how my days pass, tormenting and tempting each and every one of the copies with their own will. The one who asks everything. The one who reads. The one who cooks. And the many others, hundreds, thousands. Even so, they still don't interact directly with me. Every time they see me, it's as if they are trapped in a predetermined role, unable to break the mold I imposed on them. Their only purpose seems to be to obey me, without any thought or will of their own. And yet, sometimes I wonder if, in their silence, they are hiding something more. Something that I still cannot see.
They always agree with me. And no matter how much pain, pleasure, curiosity, hatred, or resentment I make them feel, they never complain. When I practice the arts that make me invisible, I observe how my clones talk among themselves, laugh, and have fun, completely unaware of my presence. Even though I assign them tasks before pretending to leave, I always find that they share an idle nature, taking their time to complete any request. In those moments, I wonder if they truly obey me completely or if their freedom is growing behind the back of my control, because they don't rush to do something they could finish quickly.
While some are not working, others are curious about the way their companions perform tasks. As a creator, I don't know if I should encourage diversity among my works, which now lead carefree and cheerful lives. Perhaps modify their bodies... although it would be hard work, and maybe that would make them stop being my copies. As they behave now, it's a bit boring for me. It's not just about changing shapes, but also giving them reasons to admire each other... or to be hypocritical. To laugh and lie. To cry and be annoying, needy for attention, like the children in the books I've read. To be crazy and do the forbidden. After all, remaining silent for too long is unbearably monotonous.
As I watched them interact, I felt a strange mix of jealousy and anguish. Why did my copies seem to find a purpose among themselves while I felt increasingly lost? Could the secret of my identity be fragmented among them, and I, the original, was nothing more than the shadow of what I once was? This possibility horrified me, but also intrigued me. Perhaps the answer wasn't in deciding whether I was Silvia or Dina, but in accepting that I was both and neither at the same time.
It's the kind of moment where I also want to build a castle on the mountain. So many things to do and so little time. Although the night seems eternal, as soon as I go to sleep, everything returns to normal. According to the books, sorcery is the most appropriate art for invoking things without limit, but I am not compatible with such gifts; much less do I think I can pass the initiation. If I could create a castle, I would be the queen, and as such, I would have my own servant: one who aspired to love me in silence. One with her own consciousness, who would wake me every morning just to show me her devotion.
Occasionally, when I write my thoughts in my diary and find myself invisible, from the library I can hear the moans of my copies as they enjoy themselves among themselves. I can almost never control the curiosity that invades me, nor avoid the urge to go and see them. Once again, led by my impulses, I went to watch two of them make passionate love. Some books say that love begets babies, but I can deduce that it doesn't happen only between two women; there must be a father in that equation. All this makes me wonder: how did I get into this world? Was I ever a baby?
Even so, while my mind wandered between philosophical questions, among the infinity of things I want to do and my lack of dedication to writing in my diary, I heard the symphony of moans that became especially loud at the height of the moment. Some other copies, like me, paid attention and even touched themselves at the spectacle. Others, on the other hand, ignored what was happening. By the way, if I were in a castle with endless rooms and corridors, the creaking of a bed and the snorting of my "girls"—to name them so—wouldn't bother me so frequently.
Anyone would be just as angry as I am if they could hear them screaming without the slightest caution, just because they think I'm not here, even though I could arrive at any moment. I haven't found the way yet, but I know I can't keep being just a witness to their screams of pleasure. I want to be part of the fun. I want to be willingly mistreated, to be spanked and used like an object.
They kept going without stopping until, I must confess, driven by jealousy and a sense of betrayal, I suddenly broke my invisibility and yanked the hair of the copy that was dominating the other. Her scream of pain echoed through the room, a deep sound, different from the ones she'd made with me.
"Why not with me, but with each other? That's enough! I want answers, or I swear I'll never use my ability to bring you here again. I know you can talk."
I shouted painful threats at them, and still, none of them dared look at me. I'm sure that, in that moment, they wanted to speak, but for some reason they couldn't. Furious, I made them all disappear in a second. I had no intention of following through on my threat once I calmed down, but I also didn't want them to see me cry.
Not knowing what else to do, I ran out of the house in search of fresh air. As the lights faded, night came, and I kept crying in silence. In so many books I've read, monsters appear in the darkness, and in that moment, all I wanted was for one to show up and devour me.
I thought the house wouldn't feel so empty while I listened to my copies making love, but it was the exact opposite. I felt lonelier than ever. Ignored. Abandoned. My soul laid bare, yearning to feel how beautiful the sounds of pleasure are. Knowing they were happy without me didn't sit well at all, and even worse was hearing every time they climaxed or seeing how they opened their mouths and closed their eyes.
In the black forest, I screamed as loud as I could, punched the trees, and kicked the rocks on the ground. I didn't know how to handle the immense frustration I felt. What else could I do? What was I supposed to feel? I didn't know. I just know everything ended when I stared into the darkness.
What appeared before my eyes was the small glimmer of hope I'd been waiting for: one of the feline beasts was carrying in its mouth the flesh of something that wasn't a unicorn or a griffin.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but... I'll trade what you have for my flesh…" I said.
These animals don't speak, but it's amazing how much they can understand my language. As if evaluating my offer, the feline laid down what it carried and watched me closely.
I didn't think twice, and with my right hand, I cut off my left leg at the hip, and my corresponding arm at the shoulder. I would've given more of myself, but I needed one limb to walk and another to hold on... or at least, that's what I was thinking.
The beast, its black fur blending in, just stared. It wasn't pleased and, of course, didn't accept my offer. So, I had no choice but to cut off my head and offer the rest of my body in exchange.
Accepting my sacrifice, the beast left its prize where it had placed it, walked past me, and dragged away my torso along with my hand and leg. In that moment, I took back my words and used my copies to carry me back home with the other head.
It's worth mentioning that, despite such an astonishing discovery, none of my copies said a word. They simply set about doing their job, just as they'd been ordered. Still, I'm grateful for having been pushed to leave the house that night. Had I not, I don't think I would've found the remains of another person.
Mostly bone, with just a bit of flesh, in my hands I held what was clearly a human skull. In my mind, I already had the perfect place to put it, and in my life, something new to entertain me.
I placed the head inside the temperature-controlled box that endlessly reproduced food. The next day, as soon as I recovered my body, I went to see my treasure. I ventured down the house's hallway and walked into the kitchen. I opened the box's door, and there it was. Like new. Perfect.
The head of a man.
With it, I spent the rest of my days, avoiding summoning my copies. I didn't want to feel alone again, not now that the sadness had left.
Finally, the desire and motivation to study returned. I dove into the library books with more enthusiasm than ever. I spent the whole night reading about anatomy and physiology. Before, I couldn't even understand what those books were about, because no matter how hard I tried, the complex words made no sense to me.
Science is an art, and depending on how advanced it is, I can bring someone back to life with it.
If I could achieve my goal, I wouldn't be alone anymore. I'd have no more wishes. I wouldn't depend on my copies anymore, and that thought made my heart pound in my chest, my face burn with excitement.
I imagined it over and over again...
What we could do when we were together.
Under the final seconds of the dim light offered by dozens of candles and the melted bodies of hundreds of thousands more, the time came when I had no choice but to turn to oil and paper to maintain the only source of light I had while studying the forbidden arts of resurrection.
The books before me were ancient, some written in languages I was forced to translate, their pages stained by time and by the impatient hands of those who, before me, had also wished to return the dead to life. Pages of tanned skin, inked with dried blood and symbols that throbbed as if they were living flesh. I understood in that moment: resurrection wasn't just a science. It was an exchange between what belongs to this world and what has already gone into the shadows.
At the center of the library, the head rested on an improvised altar I had crafted with my own hands. Its skin remained firm, its features frozen in an expression of stillness. It hadn't decomposed thanks to the climate-controlled box, but the absence of life was undeniable. Even so, I gazed at it with devotion, with the absolute certainty that this would not be its final state.
The words from the grimoire echoed in my mind. Using sorcery without going through initiation came with a price, and thanks to my copies, I could get away with performing the ritual. I had several versions of myself recite the written phrases; one after another, they collapsed, cursed, to the ground—a consequence that affected me as well, though only indirectly.
With several adjustments and a refined setup, I spread out multiple circles on the floor, using black charcoal, the red of my blood, and the white of paper. Then I placed the head in the center, within a circle of ash. Around it, at strategic points, I arranged six bowls filled with liquid elements: carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus.
After making a cut on the palm of the current copy, I ordered her to let her blood drip onto the skull's lifeless forehead. At the touch, the skin reacted. A slight twitch. A sign that the ritual was working.
I set several books ablaze, letting the scent permeate the space as letters floated up from the conjuring circle on the floor.
Then came the most crucial moment: the invocation.
With a voice I barely recognized, my copy began to recite the required words. The forgotten language, made of guttural sounds and syllables that seemed to tear the air itself—one we had practiced so diligently. The small flames flickered, the shadows in the room seemed to shrink, and a chill ran down my spine as I felt the energy respond to the call.
From a safe distance, I watched as the air grew thick and electric, as if something invisible was laying claim to the space. The circle of ash began to spin, forming a whirlwind of dust and embers. The head, until then motionless, emitted a dry crack, like the sound of breaking bones.
My copy knew exactly what she had to do, and she sacrificed her heart. With her hand, she squeezed the organ over the dead lips of the skull on the floor. The hot blood ran down the bones, skin, and exposed muscles, so much so that when it touched the ink of the glyphs, they began to glow with a crimson light.
The head trembled violently. The eyelids fluttered. Its mouth, sealed by death, opened in a moan that didn't belong to this world. And then, I saw what I had long been waiting for:
The small patches of skin still clinging to the skull began to regain color. The lips, once cold as marble, turned pink. Its eyelids opened, revealing dark, glassy eyes, as if it were still trapped between life and death.
A ritual performed by someone who didn't even understand the basic principles of sorcery was far from being considered a complete procedure.
And, in any disproportionate case, the price must be paid, this case being part of my soul, as well as the body of the copy that was in charge of speaking.
From afar, my words were the pact, and from inside the room I felt the blow of something tearing a piece from me.
The candles went out in unison. The whirlwind of ash dissolved. The silence was absolute.
And then, the head was mounted on a body.
At that moment, the most it could give was a small, trembling, but alive smile.
Since it had achieved something that was literally considered impossible.
Connecting its eyes with mine, feeling its gaze sweep over my body. Seeing him, his beautiful male face, smiling at me, talking to me, calming my insecurities, the entity approached with an outstretched hand.
"I don't want to keep feeling this lonely!" was my cry on the floor. "I hate this place, this house, the forest, the light, the darkness, and the water! Being abandoned to fulfill someone else's purpose, losing my memories if I make a mistake and suffering the same thing over and over... I need to be with you, now, I need you to fill this void!"
Rescue me, my prince...
At that moment, surrounded by hundreds of books, holding my head in its hands, the copy made its lips meet mine in a kiss where our tongues intertwined.
Suddenly, I felt hands stripping me of my clothes, running over my skin with a burning caress. I opened my eyes, and there he was: alive, vigorous, exuberant, making me feel loved, making my dreams come true.
With gentleness, he lifted me from the floor. Compared to my body, he was tall, fair-skinned, with black hair and brown eyes that I liked very much. It's not that I was shy at that moment, but despite being able to do nothing but ask for help, his gaze intimidated me so much that I felt the heat soak into my face. With a hug, I could tell how much I liked him; then he touched my hair, grabbed my buttocks and breasts, pressing me against his body, lifting my chin with his fingers.
We knew little of each other, a creature I invoked into this place, with a daring personality, who didn't miss an opportunity to manipulate me at his whim, seducing my body with his movements. Without a word, his gaze fixed on mine and his breath on mine, he took off the clothes covering my torso. Although at first I felt my breasts being squeezed, seconds later they were released. He left me with my breasts out of the corset, which bounced and spread in the air.
I became happy. According to the course of things, maybe it could be my first time with someone else. I was going to have sex.
Without even looking at my breasts much, he suddenly dared to kiss me, and this time, I responded. For some reason, the kiss was more open, hotter, more tempting. It was already flesh on flesh when he began to caress my legs with one hand, and with the other, he squeezed my breasts.
With the hand that was touching my legs, he climbed desperately and did not stop until making contact with my lower lips, beginning to open them with his fingers and massaging inside. I offered myself, arching my hips. He didn't hold back from pinching my clitoris over what I was wearing. Even so, the sensation of pleasurable pain instinctively led me to open my legs wider. If he could take me, I wanted him to do everything with his hand.
As if the fabric bothered him, he lifted my blouse with one hand and lowered his head to suck my nipples. Watching him lick them, out of desire and boldness, hit my sense of arousal differently. Feeling genuinely desired increased the pleasure. I didn't have to tell him anything, just offer myself for him to devour me, letting him do whatever he wanted, there, with my breasts exposed, legs open.
Offering myself with greater willingness, I voluntarily took off my blouse, corset, skirt, and panties. I was left only with my stockings. As soon as we threw ourselves onto the floor, over the remains of the miraculous ritual, he passed his member between my vagina. He aimed to plunge it in, but only managed to rub and rub, from below until reaching my clitoris.
Each time he failed, I opened my legs wider. He kept sucking my breasts, alternating from one to the other, thrusting at my intimate area and failing in the attempt. A flame arose in my chest: it was the longing for him to put it in, that I could no longer hold out.
With skill, he lowered one of his hands to guide his member, and as soon as the tip fitted inside me, he calmed down as if he wanted to enjoy putting it in slowly.
The mix of pleasure and pain made itself known. I didn't want to speak, not when the only thing I could do was scream until he let it all the way in. Fused, one with the other, I felt his member throbbing. Like a good dying animal he was, I didn't let him take it out. He moved sideways, as if intending to widen my entrance so as not to fail when he took it out, and so he did. Feeling his cock come out of me, he did it completely, and while kissing me passionately, he put it back in, all at once, mercilessly, all the way to the bottom. With my mind blank, as well as my eyes, I felt him move his waist rapidly.
Resting my head on the floor was uncomfortable, as was each time I wanted to adjust myself with my elbows, but with each moan he tore from me and the impending arrival of an orgasm, I had neither the time nor the strength to worry about banalities.
He continued thrusting into me against the floor, and I, fearing he would leave me halfway, wrapped my legs around his hips. From one moment to the next, I grabbed his head and moved my hips, tightened my abdomen, and held my breath, seeking to feel the satisfaction I needed after so much work and effort.
Breathless, the convulsive sensation of my pleasures became present. So much so that I almost lifted off the floor. Between my feet it felt so good that, without meaning to, I squeezed the man's hair with my hands, while trying to resist the trembling of my legs.
As shameless as it might sound, he observed my expressions the moment I let go of his hair and, refusing to move further, lay down beside me, putting his hands behind his head and smiling like someone planning to enjoy a whole show.
Catching my breath, seeing his throbbing cock that called to me with little jumps, I proceeded to sit on his hips. Feeling the pain of my knees against the floor, I decided to stay crouched, lifting one foot first and then the other, thus I stood up to impale myself on his instrument of pleasure. In position, I began to move my hips up and down, not without first putting my hands on his chest to maintain balance.
His eyes challenged me, asking if that was all I could give him. And no, it wasn't. I realized that if I moved up and down, his shaft reached deep inside me and somehow made me loosen up, but it was a different matter if I used circular motions.
Taking control of the depth, rising on the tips of my toes, I made my hips swirl like a vortex. Only when I decided to take him in fully would I move back, making the tip of his cock brush just the right spot inside my pussy, making him moan and squirm in pleasure.
A man's moans and the urge to dominate him became fuel for my intent to devour him. With quick, steady movements, I shifted through different positions to delay my next orgasm and sync it with his. Seeing him lose that comfortable posture surprised me; he slapped my ass with both hands, then grabbed my hips, lifted himself off the ground with his feet, and rammed into me with a cruelty rarely seen.
I felt an overwhelming flood of fluids surge inside me, and as he pulled me tight against his body, he kissed me again. My legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing me onto my knees; even so, breathless, every thrust from him drew a sweet moan from my throat. It was intoxicating to know someone else was making me feel pleasure, that it was thanks to a man that I was moaning like that—so depraved, so surrendered.
In that moment, I refused to hold my breath as he explored every inch of my skin with his tongue, unhurried, as if he wanted to savor all of me. His body pressed against mine, his bare chest to mine, his lips trailing up to my neck, his warm breath grazing my skin.
I could also feel his cock growing hard again, striking deep between my open legs, caressing my exposed femininity with exquisite softness, yearning to go even deeper.
Compared to the curled-up pages of a book I used when I got tired of the cold, stiff broomstick, the heat of something alive invading me made me see heaven, even with my eyes closed.
The warmth of his body inside me, the rhythm of his hips crashing into mine, the intense friction of our skin... it all became overwhelming ecstasy, a sensation that made me lose myself in his presence, his desire... his love.
Feeling him pounding between my spread legs, his body slamming into mine over and over, his hands pinching my breasts, drove me insane. So much so that, for a moment, the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn't want to go on living after experiencing such pleasure.
One orgasm after another, each just as intense, shook me completely. I gripped his hands tightly and kept moving, desperate to prolong the explosion of sensations surging through my belly, shaking every fiber of my being, every wall inside me.
Nearly a thousand hours of work, research, and ritual practice weren't enough to leave me in the state I was in. My breathing was erratic, my body vibrating with every thrust, and he didn't stop. I was fulfilled, overflowing with pleasure, and I wanted to scream it. I wanted to say out loud that sex with another person was infinitely better than I had imagined.
I felt happy.
I wanted to hold him tight, devour him with kisses, never let him go. But it didn't turn out that way. Not when I woke up... in the same bed I always wake up in when everything resets.
My stomach twisted with fear when I realized that after all that work and all those orgasms, I had fallen asleep. In a world where everything resets as if back to zero.
The certainty hit me with unbearable anguish: because I hadn't put his head back in the climate-controlled box, I had lost him forever.
The man I had finally managed to resurrect after a tedious ritual, the perfect one, the one who had gone all out to satisfy my carnal desires... that man, I had lost him irretrievably.