Jenny Ch. 02

Jenny isn't supposed to ad lib. The damsels in distress in my fantasies are always innocent. I'm not the kind of person who would quixotically give his life to save a woman who's guilty, no matter how much I like fucking her. So I guess her character is going to have to die this time.

I say nothing as I escort my charge on her last walk.

"I wish I had let you cum. That wasn't very nice of me."

I stop.

"Goddamn it! Quit pretending. I know this was all about getting me to make some kind of scene in the death chamber to put a stop to things!"

Her jaw is limp as she looks at me with astonishment.

"I'm no fucking criminal. I don't kill people every day!" she shouts incredulously

"Arthur was better off dead. He was really torn up that his kids wouldn't talk to him anymore after they found out about us. He couldn't face life without me or them. He cried after every time we made love. I couldn't stand it any more. And rather than his greedy kids getting the half a million dollars when he died, I thought I should be able to pay off my student loans and then live a little nicely.

'I do love you. If you get me out of this we can still have a life together."

"What the fuck do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! Break the lever that drops the cyanide pellets. Tell them that some gauge is reading wrong and that the gas will leak out of the chamber. Take me out of this place through a secret passage. Convince everyone I'm innocent so none of them will be able to kill me. Just stop this from happening!"

"There are guards on the other side of both of those doors. There are no secret passages. And they tested the gas chamber yesterday. They killed a rabbit in it. And all inmates say they're innocent. We guards are used to hearing it. There's no way out for you."

She casts down her eyes.

"So I guess I really should have let you cum. But I love you. I wish things had turned out differently. And you'll find another girl someday."

She turns and looks at me, hoping that her story had been believed.

Our faces move toward one another. I've fallen for her again. We share a final kiss that lasts longer than it should. Tears are streaming down our faces when our lips break apart. I then take her arm and nudge her forward. The sound of her chains rattling echoes through the corridor as she resumes her last walk.

We reach the heavy metal door. I grab the handle and open it, the dank corridor illuminated by light streaming in from the death chamber.

As the door opens, my victim's eyes widen as she regards the dull green octagonal chamber of death in which she will soon sit. The door to the gas chamber is wide open, revealing the single seat in which she will be strapped while she dies.

From the left side of the chamber extends a lever bent upward at a right angle, its end covered by vinyl. It is the lever I will pull to drop a cheesecloth bagful of ersatz cyanide pellets into a basin of ersatz acid, from which ersatz hydrogen cyanide will bubble, causing the occupant's ersatz agony and death.

Flanking the gas chamber stand two women, one black and one white, dressed in guards' uniforms as am I, seeming like angels guarding the gates to the netherworld, their stern expressions informing that no resistance will be tolerated as they prepare to cast into Hell the reprobate whose violation of the Law offends their Boss.

To the right of the gas chamber is a lectern at which an older gentlemen dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie stands. He plays the warden, who will give me the command to drop the ersatz cyanide pellets. The severe expression on his visage conveys the opprobrium of the state at the heinous crime for which the woman standing next to me is about to die. Behind him is a telephone mounted on the wall, its white plastic a symbol of hope.

Undergraduate university students obtaining their education on my tab bear solemn expressions as they sit in the witness area, their cell phones heaped together in a box at the entrance to the death chamber lest a text or a call distract them from the task of witnessing the ersatz death of one of their fellow citizens. The non-disclosure forms they've all signed lie in a neat stack next to their cell phones, providing injunctive relief against anyone who is tempted to let the media inform the other 99% of America what a naughty billionaire does in his spare time.

Our cinematographer, a fat man with with four days of stubble on his chin and hair in a ponytail, is pointing a video camera at the two stars of the scene, waiting for the condemned woman to walk her last twenty feet. The murderess gulps and then proceeds on her own volition straight to the gas chamber, her expression impassive, as I struggle to keep pace.

The white guard takes her arm to steady her as she steps over the metal lip to enter the chamber. Both of the guards follow her inside. The black woman prods her to turn around so that her back is facing the seat. I then step inside and unshackle the condemned woman's wrists and ankles.

Jenny's limbs free, she dutifully sits down in the chair. I grab her left wrist while the black guard seizes the other. We anchor them onto the arms of the chair as the condemned woman sits motionless, staring blankly ahead. She winces as the black guard pulls the wrist strap tight and buckles it, her character perhaps relishing the opportunity to teach the ultimate lesson to a reprobate who is for a change not a member of her race. I apply the strap on my side more gently and pat the condemned woman on the hand, which she acknowledges with the hint of a smile. I then thread the free end of the chest strap through the buckle, pull the straps tight beneath her breasts, and secure her torso to the back of the chair. The white guard then secures her upper arms to the back of the chair while I apply straps to her ankles, securing both to a bar between the chair legs.

I paste three electrical leads to Jenny's chest and attach the wires to a device that in real life would send signals to a heart monitor and allow the exact moment of the occupant of the gas chamber's cardiac arrest to be recorded.

I then step in front of the victim to inspect my work. I am rock hard and my heart is pounding as I gaze at the beautiful condemned woman, helplessly waiting to be surrounded by a cloud of hydrogen cyanide, hoping for a miracle to avoid breathing in the deadly gas that is about to fill the chamberd so she can enjoy our love.

She tests her bonds and frowns upon finding them secure. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and she thanks me with a wan smile.

I follow the other two guards out of the gas chamber. The hinges screech as I close the metal door. I take hold of the metal wheel the metal wheel in the center of the door, which looks innocently like the steering wheel of a car. It graciously turns silently as I hermetically seal the victim inside. On each of the other seven sides of the lethal chamber is a large window through which the witnesses and prison staff will view the condemned woman's death agony.

I take my position at the lever that will drop the pellets. Jenny is staring straight ahead at the door. Through the glass on the other side of the chamber I see the witnesses whispering to each other. Upon regarding the scowl on the warden's face each witness in turn resumes their solemn demeanor.

The woman strapped to the chair looks up at the single light directly above her illuminating the inside of her death chamber. The videographer comes over next to me and points the camera lens at the victim. She takes a few rapid breaths and shoots a quick glance at me and then turns her head and studies the witnesses.

The warden nods and I open the valve to let the ersatz acid flow into the basin beneath the chair in which the ersatz cyanide pellets will dissolve. Startled by the noise of liquid flowing, Jenny casts her gaze downward and then looks at me, bites her lower lip, and pleads with her eyes for me to stop the process.

The telephone rings.

The warden picks up the microphone. The eyes of everyone in the death chamber are upon him as he picks up the microphone and announces to the condemned woman who can hear him through a speaker inside the lethal chamber, "You've been granted a stay while the justices vote on whether to hear your appeal.

Jenny sighs with relief and relaxes.

"May I escort the prisoner back to her cell?" I ask.

"No. They will take a vote and notify us shortly whether to proceed," the warden replies.

The second hand circles the clock once and then twice and finally a third time as everyone waits for the telephone to ring again. Jenny squirms in her seat. Her heart rate surges on the monitor.

The warden picks up the telephone before the first ring is over.

He mutters a few unintelligible words to the caller and turns around to hang up the receiver. Returning to the lectern, he studies the prisoner's death warrant as if to make sure it hasn't expired or that the wrong prisoner is about to be executed. He takes a sip of water from a glass at the top of the lectern, casually turns a page, and then takes his pen from his shirt pocket and writes something, perhaps signing his name.

Finally, he looks at the woman in the gas chamber and picks up the microphone. Jenny gazes into his eyes for a hint of her fate as everyone present listens to him clear his throat.

"Ms. Friedman, I'm sorry. The judges have voted not to hear your case. Do you have any last words?".

Jenny's back stiffens and her eyes dart about until they find the intercom above the door.

"I'm innocent! I didn't kill Arthur! Please don't do this to me!" she falsely cries out to the box above the door to the chamber as if within it is some entity that could save her life.

Tears stream down her face as she strains against her bonds.

"The execution shall proceed!" he then informs the room.

Jenny looks at me. Terror is in her eyes. I shrug my shoulders. The lever that I will pull to drop the cyanide pellets is visible to her through the window and onto it she fixes her gaze. I place my right hand on the black vinyl covering the top of the lever and watch the condemned woman violently shake her head no. The camera lens is a foot away zooming back and forth from my hand to the woman sitting helplessly in the gas chamber.

I hear the warden clear his throat again, registering his impatience. My gaze and the camera lens shift to him. I see him nodding his head yes, meaning it's time.

I look at Jenny inside the chamber. She is still shaking her head no, struggling to free her limbs, pleading with me not to drop the pellets that will kill her. But someone else will do it if I don't. There'd be no point in her sitting inside there waiting any longer than she has to.

The eyes of everyone in the death chamber are now on me. The creaking sound of metal against metal reverberates from the walls as I pull the lever back. I feel strangely disconnected-like it's not me dropping the pellets that will kill the person inside, but some entity controlling my arm.

Now knowing her doom is imminent, like a rodent placed in a bell jar in an experiment to prove the need for living things to have oxygen, Jenny faces forward and begins to hyperventilate, filling her lungs with sweet air for perhaps the last time. I take at least five seconds to pull the lever all the way.

By the time I let go bubbles have already formed in the basin beneath Jenny. Startled by the sound of bubbles bursting, she looks down to her side and sees a tendril of gas sneaking out from under her chair. She turns her face away and I then see her chest slowly expand as she sucks in a deep breath. She glances at me and finding no help, her eyes dart to the warden and the witnesses and the telephone, hoping to be spared the cruel punishment that awaits her.

Wispy white tendrils arise from around the chair. Jenny's countenance becomes animated with horror as she holds her breath while the gas envelop her. She makes another futile effort to free herself from the straps and then turns her head away from a wisp of gas that has drifted to her face.

She throws her head back and takes in a shallow breath to obtain a few seconds more of life, hoping to not yet fill her lungs with the ersatz hydrogen cyanide befouling the air around her. She looks at me, her lips sealed, and then casts her gaze upon the door, pleading for me to let her out before it's too late. I shake my head no and watch her again thrash about, as if after escaping her bonds she will find someway way to exit the hermetically sealed chamber.

I watch her chest expand involuntarily a few times as she hungers for oxygen but she refuses to part her lips to draw in a breath. She writhes in the chair, this time more forcefully. My underdrawers become wetter as I watch her biceps and triceps contract and her toes flex as she desperately tries to break free of her restraints.

She takes one more look at me. Seeing that I will be of no help, she turns her head to face the door. I watch her mouth open and her chest expand as she draws the lethal gas into her lungs.

Her chest heaves violently as she coughs, expelling a cloud of gas from her lungs, but then her instinct to breath forces her to reflexly draw in another breath from the cloud of gas in which she is now immersed. Just as foretold by her other jailers, she coughs and then wretches, but nothing comes out of her stomach. Suppressing the urge to cough, she turns to me, her head trembling, pleading for help. I shake my head no and turn away.

The cameraman scans the death chamber, zooming in on the faces of the other players. The witnesses, eyes transfixed at the sight of the woman in the chamber, aghast that she is still struggling to stay alive, display pity on their faces, the memory of her having taken someone's life no longer in the forefront of their minds. The black guard who helped strap Jenny in the chair regards her with schadenfreude and a tear trickles down the cheek of her white counterpart. The warden, impassive, looks away from the chamber to the clock, perhaps wondering how long he will be forced to witness the agony of the chamber's victim.

I turn back and cast my eyes on the woman in the chair, realizing that justice is being done, and deciding that I myself am a fool for having succumbed to her entreaties. Every breath she draws in is followed by a coughing spasm, and on her face is the panicked expression of someone hungering for air as they drown. Her eyes flit wildly about, desperately searching for a rescuer, drawing sympathy from the witnesses who nevertheless make no moves to lodge a protest against the suffering of a fellow human.

Aware that the woman in the chamber is just a murderous psychopath who used me and would make me suffer the same fate as that of the man for whose murder she is being executed, I experience no guilt as the site of her agony makes more secretions emerge from the meatus of my cock. I see the black guard, her eyes also affixed on the victim's struggles, nod with approval.

Replacing the prisoner's desperate hope is fear, the emotion written on the faces of even the most hardened psychopaths as they forfeit their lives for their misdeeds. And, as she tries to wriggle her right hand out of the leather strap securing her wrist to the armrest and her pelvis thrusts back and forth, grinding her pudenda against the seat of the chair in a futile attempt to gain leverage to break the straps securing her ankles, I imagine her frustration at not being able to get her finger between her legs and bring herself to one final climax to the image of her lover.

I glance at the cardiac monitor and see that my victim's heart is racing and going in and out of chaotic rhythms as it dies from lack of oxygen. I look back to Jenny and she is looking at me, disappointment showing through the grimace of unrelenting pain displayed on her face. She then slowly turns her face forward.

Her movements slow and her eyes glass over. Her face relaxes and her mouth falls open. The cough reflex gone, her chest smoothly rises and falls, her brain stem having now taken over, futilely commanding her to shallowly inhale and exhale the noxious fumes.

Finally her chest stops moving and her head falls backwards. I expect to hear the alarm of the monitor emit the high pitched tone indicating cardiac arrest, but instead she draws in one more breath and slowly turns her head toward me. My eyes meet her dead stare through which she gives me a glare of reproach. I do not look away until her head lifelessly falls to her chest. On the monitor each heartbeat follows the next by a longer interval until there is a flatline across the screen. I bow my head and, remembering the love I felt for her, fight back tears as the alarm screeches, indicating that my task has ended.

Upon hearing the high pitched whine through the speaker in the gas chamber indicating her character's demise, Jenny lifts her head and looks at me, concern registered on her face as she chews on her lower lip, surveying my expression for the critique of her acting that I will display.

I smile and her eyes follow mine downward. She strains to see over the bottom of the window where my crotch is hidden from her sight, and a smile lights up her face when her eyes look upon the big wet spot stretched over the bulge in my pants. I give her a thumbs up.

I leave my station to unseal the gas chamber. Our make up artist emerges from the background and hands me a bouquet of roses to reward my wife for her stellar performance. I turn the wheel in the middle of the door to open the chamber, concentrating on the task at hand to make my hard on go away. A cloud of carbon dioxide puffs out when the hermetic seal breaks and, as the door opens, Jenny's countenance emerges, an impatient look on her face.

She breaks into a smile upon seeing the bouquet of roses. Anxious to be united with my lover, I stumble over the metal lip on the threshold of the gas chamber, flailing away at the cloud of ersatz cyanide that has just killed my imaginary victim.

Securing my balance upon reaching my lover, I lean over the chair. With the cameraman at our side, the lens pointing at the smiling faces of the leading actor and actress, I see the red light go on as our lips lock and I exchange a passionate kiss with my still helplessly restrained wife.

I unfasten the straps from her wrists and she takes the flowers from my hand, then stretches to thank me with a kiss on the cheek. Her mouth forms into an oval as she regards the bulge in my pants with mock astonishment.

My wife, still restrained in the chair, furrows her forehead and glares at me sharply, not yet angry, but telling me it's time for her to have a rest. With a mock frown, I unfasten the wrist, arm, and chest straps. Her fingers run through my hair as I undo her ankle straps. I take one more look at her sitting inside the gas chamber and then extend my hand to help her to her feet.

I shake hands with the crew and hand them white envelopes bearing their names as they file out of the ersatz death chamber. Jenny kisses each one on the cheek before they are allowed to take her leave. The cinematographer is a professional of some note, and I spend a few minutes assuring him I will continue sending checks to the African children whose lives it has become his passion to save.

Shortly thereafter my ersatz prison is empty except for me and my wife, who is nowhere to be found.

I open the heavy metal door to the cell block from which the spirited character my wife played took her last walk and stealthfully move down the corridor to the open cell door at the end of the corridor, hoping to surprise the occupant. Arriving there, I find Jenny brushing her hair. She has not heard me and I drink in the site of her primping herself, just for me.