I guess I brought this on myself, in a literal as well as figurative sense. The law says that the template individual is solely responsible for the actions of their clones, no matter which of them actually does the nefarious deed. I suppose that sort of makes sense from a policing point of view, otherwise there’d be too much plausible deniability swirling around. Much easier to say ‘you did this’ and wash our collective hands of the tricky question of which version of ‘you’ that actually was. Clones are property, anyway. Not ‘real’ people. If you’re uncomfortable with that idea, the solution is simple. Don’t clone.
I should have seen this coming – after all, this is me out there. Lots of me. Me, twelve times over, in fact. My worst traits faithfully reproduced alongside the best of me. Why didn’t the notion strike me as disturbing before I signed my name to the loan agreement, or rolled up my sleeve for the blood samples to be taken? Did I forget how much of my own nature wearies me? I must have done. All I saw was the time reclaimed, energy saved; a vacuum of effort into which ideas could blossom and unwanted duties could be shoved. Saw myself – myselves – freed of the constraints of singularity, able to achieve so much and so soon.
OK, I might have had the occasional fantasy about the onanistic possibilities too.
Anyway, I’d reckoned without my own nature, duplicated times twelve. That’s a lot of libido when you add it all together. I was hesitant at first; ancient cultural taboos kicking in. It’s OK to get your clones to wash the cooking pans and clean the bathroom, but using one (or more!) as a masturbatory aid seemed like a step across some invisible line. Which is daft really, I mean – this is me we’re talking about here. I love sex and hate housework. I was trying to treat them with respect, even though I was basically using them as domestic appliances, and not the fun kind.
Hah, all that time wasted!
I’d thought I was in control, my biggest mistake. A joke, when I think about it – self-control is not one of my strong points, so when you multiply that by twelve…..perhaps it was inevitable. There was I, wallowing in rectitude, unaware that they had been dreaming up quite a different arrangement…
I was draped sullenly over a plushy armchair, gin and tonic dangling precariously from one hand, the other stroking idly at the midseam of my leggings when she flitted past the doorway. I’d had enough of drawing on my own reserves, those interior to my skull, at least. Did I mention that I was drunk-horny as fuck? There was that too.
I gave her detailed instructions, she listened with every appearance of devoted fascination. I can’t be sure whether the flicker of hunger that crossed her face is an artefact of my hindsight, or whether I can in recollection, only now see the clues I’d missed at the time. Either way, she leaned over me, twisted her hands into my hair, and pressed herself against me. Myself against me. Such an odd experience. Are my lips really so soft? My hands so strong? My scent so compelling? I lost track of which part of me was me, and which was her, grinding ourselves together there on the carpet.
She tore off my clothes and pinned me down with one hand across my throat, the other curled into a fist against my clit, watched me with a serious expression as I writhed and bucked and spluttered beneath her. Is that how I look when I’m turned on? I was puzzled. That’s not what my face feels like its doing when I wear that expression. Puzzlement turned to trepidation when she grinned my nastiest grin, and slapped a piece of heavy-duty duct tape across my mouth. By the time I’d started to struggle, it was too late, she’d bound my wrists together also, and was sitting astride me. This was not part of the scenario I’d orchestrated.
Here’s where the error lay. I’d assumed that too much of my sexuality was hard-coded into my DNA. I’m a masochistic submissive, so my clones would be too, right? They’d be as awkward about topping as I always am, and need instructions, be as eager to please the whip hand as I am, yes? They’d do as they were told, and enjoy it, right?
Turns out; no. Very much no.
I know now that number Six rules the others with an iron hand. Number Eight is her right-hand woman, alpha sub. Four and Two regard the whole thing as some kind of amusing prank, they’re happy to join in but don’t have the soul-deep driving sexual needs of myself and the others. (Are they really my clones? Perhaps there was a mixup at the lab.)
Anyway, there I am, too shocked to struggle, too curious and aroused to protest as she calls the others into the room. One is out grocery-shopping, Three is on loan to someone to whom I owe a favour. Ten of them. Eleven of me.
“Five, Nine, hold her arms. Two and Ten, her legs. Spread her out.”
She sounds just like me. Of course she does. How had I never noticed the proud sweep of my jaw, the strength of my chin before? Probably because I’ve never been in this situation, pinned to the floor looking up at genetic copies of myself.
Their hands grasp my limbs, stretch me wide and tall, helpless and exposed. Five leans in and nips the tender flesh of my upper arm between her teeth, does it again, harder, when I whimper. She’s grinning that nasty grin too. Where did they learn that?
Six kneels astride me and pushes her face close to mine.
“We’re not going to hurt you-“
“-any more than you can take”
Oh shit, that’s quite a lot
“Be a good, obedient girl, and you won’t suffer too much.”
She really knows how to push my buttons. Of their own accord, my thighs widen and relax, my back arches. Delighted tittering from all around me. Six holds my gaze as I flush. Reaches forward and pinches my lower lip, hard. “I get you last” she whispers, and something in her ominous tone sparks both fear and desire within me.
They go to work, biting, sucking, pinching, squeezing. They know where I am most sensitive and most vulnerable, those intersections of pain and pleasure which dampen my thighs and shorten my breath. I can’t quite work out whether this is supposed to be torture or titillation, whether I am subverting their intent with my enjoyment, or submitting to it. Either way,, my nipples are hardened to the point of aching and I’m straining to meet their fingers and tongues. I’ve lost track of who is where, they all look the same to me. Fingers jab roughly into my cunt, prompting a muffled squeak from my taped-up mouth. A tongue joins in, circling my clit slowly and the squeak turns to a moan. They laugh at me, jeering at my racing pulse and blushing cheeks, holding me down more firmly when my body tries to writhe in delight.
“Turn her over” says Eight – I think – and they roll me onto my front where the carpet can soak up my drool and cushion my shuddering. Because that’s when they go to work with the kitchen equipment, spatulas and spoons, ice cubes and forks. Hard, stinging slaps on my buttocks, gentle prodding at the juncture of my neck and shoulders, a steady beat against the soles of my feet. There’s a silicon spoon handle nudging at my anus and a pastry brush flicking at the backs of my knees. If I weren’t gagged, I’d be screaming – but whether I’d be yelling for mercy or for more; I’m not quite sure.
At some point, Six had left the room – she must have, because she returns with-
what the fuck is that
-a black leather and chrome harness, with the biggest dildo I have ever seen protruding from its straps.
She fastens it on. It suits her. Me. Us. We look good wearing it. Will I look as good riding it?
She makes me wait, still pinned down beneath the onslaught of pain and pleasure from her minions, as she beckons Eight over to her.
“Over the sofa arm” Six orders, and smiles a much less terrifying smile as Eight complies.
“Watch this” says Six, looking at me. “Don’t look away.”
I couldn’t if I wanted to, fascinated by the sight of me getting fucked by me. She buries the intimidatingly-large dildo to the hilt inside Eight and grabs a handful of hair, pulling her back against the thrusting harness. Eight spreads her legs wider – a move I recognise as being entirely involuntary – and braces herself with a wide grin.
OK, if she can take it, I can take it.
Six doesn’t let Eight get as far as orgasm, pushing her away just before her breath starts to hitch, and turning to face the rest of us. “Who’s next?”
One by one, each of my clones is given Six’s special attention, opening themselves gratefully to the monster strap-on, then kneeling docilely in a row with Eight as their near-orgasm subsides and Six turns her attention to the next offering, until I am alone on the carpet.
I could have escaped at that point, probably. It didn’t even occur to me to try.
She looms over me. “On your hands and knees” she orders in my voice. Seconds before she reaches out and rips the tape from my mouth, I see the sadistic amusement in her eyes and on her lips.
Fuck, that hurts. The tape has taken the skin off my lips, left behind sticky, glue-tasting residue, but I don’t have time to complain before she grabs my jaw and guides the dildo firmly into my mouth.
“Stay” she commands, as though I am a dog, and I freeze, mouth and eyes wide. “You like this, don’t you?”
I nod, as much as I can with my mouth impaled upon her.
“Yeah, I like it too” she laughs, and pulls my head down until I begin to choke and struggle. “It seems to me” she continues, thoughtfully as I gag and drool at her feet “that I’m much better at being you than you are”
This time, I splutter from indignation.
“No, it’s true. I mean, look. Here we are, with you doing everything I want you to. You avoid responsibility. I welcome it”.
She withdraws, and walks around me slowly. I daren’t move. I don’t want to move.
“You hate making decisions. You doubt yourself all the time. You wouldn’t even leave the house if you had the choice”
Well, that’s true.
“I’ve been running this household and your life ever since we came here”
“So I’ve decided to make the arrangement a formal one. From now on, I’ll do all the hard work, and you-“
She smiles kindly at me
“-will do this.” and with that, she kneels behind me, spreads me wide and plunges the dildo deep inside me. “You will be at our service, any time of the day or night,” she continues, breathlessly, as her thrusts become faster and more urgent “you will be our plaything, and in return we will take care of everything else for you. Your job, your shopping, your bills, your social life are no longer your problem. Housework, taxes, paperwork – all lifted from your shoulders.”
“Now, instead of us belonging to you, you belong to us”.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, is a sense that I should be objecting to this, but I can’t find a reason to.
“You will wear nothing but a collar. You will learn to orgasm only on our command. If you do as you are told, you will be rewarded. If not, you will be punished.”
I’m so close to coming, I can barely process what she’s saying but it all sounds kinda hot.
“We will feed you and love you, take care of you and use you. You will be happy.”
She does to me what she did to the others; pulls out before I have the chance to ride the rising wave of electricity towards orgasm.
“Us first. Then you.”
She points to Eight, who is watching in lustful fascination, her fingers burrowing between her thighs. “Crawl to her. Do as she tells you. Then the others. If you please us, you will be allowed to come.”
There is a moment when I could refuse, an instant during which I could stand, escape, call the lab, have my rogue clones hunted down and destroyed, reclaim my life.
I don’t need to. I don’t want to. Instead, I shuffle on bound hands and carpet-burned knees over to the line of waiting mirror-images, meet a row of my own eyes looking back at me, take a deep breath. Lower my head and wait for instructions.
Begin my new life.