I watch Jenny arch her back as the current surges through her body and freeze the action to take a still shot. The screen splits. On the left side, my hand slowly turns the dial to shut off the juice flowing through the condemned woman, being executed in the electric chair despite her professed innocence of the crime for which she was convicted. As her body is released from the current, on the right side of the screen appears the image of Jenny hyperventilating.
"No, no!" I hear her cries emanate from beneath the black mask hiding her visage, the witnesses spared from seeing the horrible contortions of a human face during electrocution.
Before she can protest more, I watch my hand turn the dial. My gaze shifts to the right side of the screen and I watch her body stiffen again. The camera zooms in on her right hand and I see her crimson lacquered nails dig into the armrest of the electric chair as she strains against the leather strap restraining her arm.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Jenny is standing behind me holding a glass of Cabernet as she watches herself get fried in the ersatz execution scene in which she was the star. Ensconced in the space that has become my office, I hadn't realized she was home.
She is clad in white thong panties and is naked above the waist except for the Cartier Panthere pendant that is dangling from a black cord around her neck. A smudge of her red lipstick stains the rim of her wine goblet. Her lashes are laden with mascara. Dark blue eyeliner topped by lighter blue eye shadow adorn her lids.
I see that she is wearing foundation. I don't know why she bothers, because her skin is flawless. A little blush enlivens her cheeks. My wife knows that I like to see her glammed up before we fuck.
Jenny's body relaxes on the screen, the fake current now off. A man in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck approaches the electric chair, its helpless victim motionless.
He places his stethoscope on her chest and quickly takes it away when the victim moans.
"Finish me off or take me out of this thing! Don't make me suffer more!"
"Clear!" the recorded version of me shouts.
The ersatz doctor steps away. Jenny strains against her restraints. No one is coming to her aid.
"No! No!" the recorded version of my wife shouts.
Her body stiffens. Her performance as a damsel-in-distress, an innocent young woman condemned to be fried in a faulty electric chair, is, to use a cliche, awesome. My cock was hard when I saw her performance live and I'm no less hard as I watch the clip for perhaps the tenth time in the past half hour.
Plastered on the real life Jenny's face is an embarrassed smile. A person's trust goes only so far when a digital image can be sent anywhere to anyone in an instant. She must be wondering what her mommy or daddy will think if they ever get to see what I just watched. But I have no intention of sharing the visual record of the elaborate scene we have constructed with the rest of humanity.
Her chestnut hair rests loosely on her shoulders. Bangs hang over her forehead. She offers me a sip of wine, and I partake of the Cabernet.
"Awesome!" I exclaim, and then offer the goblet back to her.
"From our trip to Bordeaux," she replies before taking another sip of wine.
I normally have better things to do than watch clips of my wife acting out my fantasies. But she took unexpectedly long at the doctor's office and I got bored.
"What did he say?" I inquire.
"To keep trying. There's nothing wrong."
We have been married for six months and fucking up a storm. Both in our early thirties, we are eager to start a family before the biologic time clock runs out.
"I should get a sperm count."
"Don't bother. It's not going to change anything we do."
Jenny takes hold of the back of the swivel chair in which I am seated and rolls it backwards. She places her wine goblet on the desk next to the computer keyboard and kneels between my legs. I do not prevent her from unfastening the button atop my pants and pulling down the zipper. Her lips curl up into a naughty smile when she sees my underpants are laden with precum.
She turns her gaze to the monitor. I have paused the clip, and she looks at an image of herself strapped into a chair clad only in a black bra and g-string. Her back is arched and she is straining against the straps, her body contorted by the ersatz current.
I, a rich young techie with a masters degree and doctorate, feel a little silly having enticed a young female obstetrician to act out before a camera one of the fantasies to which I had jerked off since the onset of puberty.
"You like what you see?" she asks.
I nod my head yes.
"So what's next for Jenny the actress, the gas chamber?" she inquires.
"I don't know. I should delete this," I reply meekly.
"Don't you dare!"
"Why not?"
"If you dump me for some girl with bigger boobs or a nicer butt, I want to be able to show anyone in the world what a sex fiend you are!"
"Your ass and boobs are fine," I assure her.
I press 'PLAY' and we finish watching the agony of a young woman being executed for a crime she didn't commit.
The current goes off.
"No more! No more!" the condemned woman shouts. The dialogue is unoriginal but there is real pain in Jenny's voice.
The recorded me emerges from the booth housing the fake switches and gauges. The woman in the chair hyperventilates and sobs.
"Call the governor. Something's wrong with the chair. There's no use continuing," I say to a gray haired man clad in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie.
The prison warden picks up the receiver of the direct line to the governor. He reports, "The chair didn't work," and I hear him mutter a series of uh-huhs to the imaginary person on the other end of the line.
