Lena had always been wired differently. From the moment she discovered the rush of her own touch as a teenager, sex had become her obsession. It wasn't just a want; it was a need that clawed at her insides, demanding release multiple times a day. At 28, she lived alone in a cozy two-bedroom house on the outskirts of the city, her days filled with freelance graphic design work that she squeezed in between sessions of frantic self-pleasure. Her bedroom drawer overflowed with toys—vibrators of every size, dildos that stretched her limits, plugs that teased her ass—but nothing beat the real thing. Still, when the real thing wasn't available, her fingers and those toys kept the fire burning.