You finish screwing the last of the deep-anchor bolts into your bedroom ceiling. You lie face-up on your California king mattress and gaze upon your work. You stare back at yourself from the newly-installed ceiling mirror. Well done.
Over the next few weeks you have various emotionless trysts with anonymous women, enjoying the fruits of your labor as you watch your reflection thrusting repetitively into their mirror images. Before long, though, the novelty fades and you are left with a feeling of overwhelming emptiness coupled with a sense of unfulfilled potential.
You meditate on the problem and it doesn’t take you long to find the solution. You run from your back-yard rock garden to your truck, a look of child-like glee covering your face.
Hours later, you return from your trip to the hardware store and begin installing mirrors on every empty flat surface in your bedroom. If you can cut glass to fit it and drive a screw into, it gets covered in mirror.
That night, you pick up a beautiful young woman from a bar and she agrees to come home with you. Things lead where they often do in these situations and the two of you end up sharing adult hugs in your bed.
The experience is everything you hoped for. You witness a sexual tesseract of you and her, countless images of your coupling stretching to infinity and back. The experience becomes transcendent and the images in the mirrors are no longer copying you, they are revealing to you all possible dimensions of this sexual encounter, every image representing a different choice you could have made in the boudoir. Infinite positions, variations, clothing on and off, toys, partners single and multiple.
You can see everything. You can fuck everything.
The other-worldly experiences rises to a crescendo as you climax. You fall into a deep sleep.
The young lady, utterly disappointed by the thirty seconds of sex she just shared with you, steals all the cash out of your wallet and leaves silently in the night.