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It doesn’t really matter. The woman has obviously just been fucked and is positioned to be penetrated again, though this time by eyes and minds and imaginations. The prepared Email list contains nine entries, anonymous code names or numbers he has made contact with at various sites on the Internet. His hand moves over the keyboard. For a moment he hesitates before clicking SEND. He has not done this before. Are there unforeseen, unforeseeable consequences? As his finger descends, he tries to imagine flesh turned into 0’s and 1’s being transmitted and almost simultaneously reassembled at nine other computers to be viewed, savored, fantasized, masturbated over. Though probably not immediately. And where and by whom? His gut tightens. His cock is hard. Staring at the screen he is about to unzip his pants and masturbate when the telephone rings. He lets the answering machine record the too familiar voice of his wife’s personal assistant. ‘This is Christopher, Mr. Plath. Mrs. Plath. “Now I REALLY dislike him,” She said. “Me, too. He seems to get off on other people’s humiliation. I’m sorry, but that’s not fun; it’s abuse.” “And I’m REALLY glad you didn’t inherit any genes from him.” “Me too,” was his reply. They sat there, for a moment, and Alice opened the notebook again. “Shall I read on?” she asked. “May as well. As they say in England, ‘in for a penny; in for a pound’.” “all right. Here goes nothing.” And she began reading again. “After the tea had brewed, I put together a tray with four cups and saucers, cream, sugar, and spoons; and went back downstairs. Approaching the doorway, I could hear Sarah moaning again, and I saw Adoule was clenching and unclenching his buttocks. Ellen was watching them, fascinated, as they fucked. None of them noticed my presence, and I quietly set the tray down, being careful not to rattle the cups. I could tell they were both very close to their peak, and I silently picked up the leather paddle. Ellen saw me then. Her.
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