The man died for hours. He died a little every hour of his life, but the final hours were obvious. He gurgled as he gasped for air. We heard his moans...for help, although we had closed the glass door to shield us from them. Not due to pure immorality, but because we couldn’t do anything. It is terrible to hear a man gasp for air. To hear him drown when he is not submerged. We watched the monitor as his heart deteriorated under the stress, we wagered money on his remaining time, we talked about. Maybe if there had been a true genuine interest, it would have all stopped sooner. It could have removed the catalyst of degradation. Then Becky might have found herself rejected and pushed out the front door as quickly as she agreed to participate. Now it was too late. Becky’s internal walls flexed. The orgasm hit hard and sucked joy and energy away. It didn’t bring the expected wonderful relief. This orgasm somehow seemed dark and demonic. It still forced a violent shiver and a loud series. More

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