Jenny

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.

I remove the mask from Jenny's face. Appropriately horror stricken, she glances at the faces of the witnesses, begging with her eyes for someone to do something to stop this miscarriage of justice that has led to enormous pain.

It must have been hard for the theatre majors in the witness box not to giggle over the silliness that was going on in front of them, but the scholarships I provide to participants in my little vignettes give a strong inducement not to spoil my fun.

The warden places the receiver back onto the cradle. He regards the prisoner solemnly. Tears stream down her face.

"The governor said to wait five minutes while he talks to the attorney general." the warden informs me.

"What should we do with her?" I inquire.

"Just leave her there," the warden commands.

An element of my fantasy is for the process to be drawn out. With every moment of suffering, the victim gains a little hope, but also more dread over what is still to come.

My recorded image checks the condemned woman's scalp and calf electrodes. She regards me quizzically.

The condemned woman and her executioner have fallen in love. The fantasy me knows she is innocent and has a plan to save her. Her only hope is to survive misapplication of the current and hope the horrible spectacle of her suffering will lead to a reprieve.

"Please, please, make this stop!" she whispers as I check the integrity of the circuit.

"Ma'am, no one wants to see you suffer," her executioner assures her.

"It hurt so much! Don't make me go through it again! Just tell them the chair is broken. Maybe they'll change the punishment to lethal injection. That would be better. I can live with that, believe it or not. Please, don't turn on the juice again!"

"I don't have any choice. I have to do what the warden says."

I rest my hand on her knee. She can hardly move. Straps are wrapped tightly around her ankle and thigh. Her face relaxes. I can tell my touch feels good.

"I can make you really happy if you get me out of this thing," she bargains.

"There's no way. I'm sorry."

She frowns as I step away from the electric chair.

The real life Jenny is working on my dick. Her palm is rubbing it through my Jockey shorts and I am in ecstasy.

The camera zooms in on the condemned woman's face and her eyes flit around the room, looking for potential allies. The camera then scans the witnesses, sitting impassively in folding metal chairs.

Her gaze lands on the clock. Nearly five minutes have passed. She makes a futile effort to free herself from the chair. I drool, watching her torso writhe and her arms and legs strain against the straps.

The phone rings.

"Yes sir!" the warden blurts out and stands at attention.

He walks over to me.

"The governor says to give it one more try," he mutters.

I walk back to the electric chair. Terror is in the victim's eyes. I hold up the mask.

"No! No! I can't!" Jenny shouts.

I place the mask over her face and buckle the straps behind her head. She sobs loudly as I walk back to the control booth.

"I'm innocent! Do you hear me? I didn't do it! It was God's will that I didn't die!"

A loud sob abruptly ends as her body seizes up from the ersatz current. For a full two minutes she sits motionless with her back arched, her extremities tensed up against the straps. Remembering that this is just a performance, I think how it must be killing her not to take a breath.

She relaxes and begins sobbing again. I wink at the warden, informing him out of the camera's eye that the performance is over.

"Take her back to the cell!" he commands me.

I stride over to the condemned woman and remove her mask. On her visage is a broad smile and tears of joy are streaming down her face, spoiling her eye makeup. We share a kiss and at that point the clip is supposed to end, but the camera keeps rolling and on the screen we see the warden placing a dozen red roses in Jenny's lap.

"You were awesome," the real me says to the real Jenny, the face of the recorded version of her on the computer screen, still in the electric chair, leather straps around her forehead and under her chin, a metal electrode still attached to the crown of her skull, her face lit up incongruously by a smile.

"I had fun. I hammed it up. I felt like I was in my senior play again when I was Elphaba in 'Wicked'."

I take another sip of Cabernet and offer the glass to Jenny. She takes two gulps and then rests her head on my right thigh.

"Hard day?" I inquire.

"I had to rush through the office patients this afternoon in order to make my doctor's appointment. I hate to cut off women when they have questions, particularly when it's their first pregnancy."

"You don't have to work, you know."

"It would be a shame to let all that training from medical school and my residency go to waste. I had no reason to think I'd be living like this at such young an age."

She has not missed a stroke on my cock during her soliloquies.

"If you'd rather go back to the way things were, I can sell all of our stocks and bonds and then burn the cash like the guy from 'Into the Wild."

"That would be quite a fire!" she laughed.

I was a computer science teacher at a junior college making about forty grand a year, no benefits, when a friend of a student came to me two years ago and asked for help setting up the software for a new social networking site. I laughed to myself when he told me that I was his partner and promised that we would split everything, fifty-fifty.

He kept his word. One year ago I became a billionaire after the initial public offering.

I had expected that my then fiancee, Jenny, would be the breadwinner during our marriage and fretted how long she would tire of working long hours and move up to a better provider, leaving me out in the cold.

Things have changed.

I am a minor celebrity. We live on the West Coast. Her college roommate who went to film school invited us to a party in Hollywood.

An actress to whose image I had jerked off in high school propositioned me. I turned her down. Jenny's friend saw what happened and told my wife. Jenny wonders how I kept myself from committing adultery and has speculated half seriously that I should see a shrink.

But my wife is blind to what a nerd I am. Since kindergarten, I have been told that I lack social skills. If I see a shrink, I am afraid of being diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome.

The actress would have soon figured me out. I do not take rejection well.

People with Asperger's Syndrome need love and sex. I am therefore quite pleased that Jenny allows herself to be my plaything.

I like being touched and touching other people. So maybe I'm normal. But probably just barely.

It's fun having money to burn. But riches can't replace the love of a child.

I frown when Jenny stands up, but am heartened when she turns around, giving me a view of the naked cheeks of her derriere, as she fiddles with the laptop on the desk.

I see iTunes pop up on the computer screen. She scrolls down my list of songs until one of my favorites, 'Autumn Leaves', begins to play.

She pirouettes and faces me. The naughty smile is plastered on her face. A smile appears on my face as she begins swaying to the music.

Her hands caress her sides and she begins playing with the waistband of her g-string. Her crimson lips engulf her right index finger as she undulates her pelvis, each thrust coming closer and closer to my face.

I am ready to go to work on her with my tongue, but have to be satisfied with the glimpses of her pussy with which she tantalizes me as the flimsy piece of cloth covering her pudenda shifts back and forth. She pirouettes and rotates her hips and I am treated to the site of her pelvis descending to my crotch.

At first she only grazes my pants, but even that slight touch stirs up a wave of excitement in my rigid member. I am mesmerized. She holds me in her power. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep her going.

My cock slips into the groove between her labia. She thrusts her hips, lightly stroking my cock, making sure I don't cum in my pants, for she needs to be impregnated by my seed.

Her thrust quicken. I moan with pleasure. Her hand moves to the mouse. The arrow on the computer screen floats over to the icon titled 'Jenny Electric Chair'. I hear a click, an hourglass appears, and seconds later a window opens up. I see the image of Jenny clad in a black bikini standing behind a set of vertical black iron bars, looking worried. I hear another click and her image begins to pace within her jail cell.

"I'll bet you that actress chick wouldn't have done this scene for you," Jenny informs me.

My wife worries that the fortune with which I have been blessed will cause her to be supplanted.

"Jenny, I love you. We're soul mates. You have nothing to fear."

"I feel like I can never be a bitch. I can never get pissed off at you or I might get thrown away."

"Jenny, before I met you there was no one. I feared that I couldn't even get laid in a morgue! I know nothing about music and art, stuff that cultured people are supposed to embrace, much less popular culture. My fear is that you'll wake up one morning and realize what a dork you're married to and then tell me you've had it with me."

She gets off my lap and kneels before me. Her hands grasp the waistband of my Jockey shorts and my cock pops out when she yanks them down. Her gaze meets mine and I watch her tongue glide over her lips.

"What more can you ever want? Watching me get fried in the electric chair while I suck your cock!"

On the computer screen I see the image of Jenny with her wrists cuffed behind her back as she walks down a corridor to her doom. My gaze shifts to the real woman and I watch her mouth open as she leans forward. My cock is then enveloped by my fellatrix's lips. Her tongue alights upon the frenulum as her lips slide down the shaft.

I moan with pleasure as her crimson lips move up and down on my cock, bringing me just to the brink and then back from orgasm. I dare not spill my seed in her mouth, lest the spermatozoan that will contribute half of my daughter's or son's DNA wind up in Jenny's stomach.

She expels me from her mouth. A naughty grin is plastered across her face. Jenny is enjoying my torment. I want to explode in her mouth so badly, yet I want even more to drive her to ecstasy by penetrating her wet pussy over and over with my rigid cock.

I look at my cock. Streaks of her crimson lipstick now decorate the shaft. She licks her lips. My member gets even harder as I imagine her soft lips sliding down over the shaft.

My gaze shifts to the computer screen. Jenny the actress looks dazed as, with the help of a buxom coed clad in a tight white blouse and navy blue miniskirt, I apply straps to her torso, thighs, wrists, and ankles to hold the prisoner in the chair as the lethal current surges through her body.

A pair of hands alights on my cheeks and the real Jenny guides my lips to hers. I detect the taste of my semen on her tongue as we kiss. I become even more aroused, knowing that I am with the only woman in the world who would suck my dick, and that she is as beautiful as I am nerdy.

Luckily, the swivel chair at my workstation does not have arms.

When our lips part, Jenny ascends from the floor and straddles my legs, facing me.

"We're going to make a baby," she announces confidently.

As my cock grinds against her pudenda, our lips meet again. Our tongues dance as she thrusts rhythmically on my cock, now sandwiched between her labia.

With her right hand, she rips the flimsy thong away, exposing her wet pussy. She tears her mouth from mine and with her eyes closed she extends her neck, inviting me to cover her with kisses.

Her body stiffens. The clip of Jenny's mock electrocution finishes. Little gasps punctuate the silence that has come over the site or our impromptu tryst.