Every download will be a taking, a claiming, a declaration of ownership. Every discovered picture is ripe with anticipation of the ritual to come. "You will be mine" she whispers to the pinup shots of her favorite actors, to the graphic nudes of the French rugby players with their intense stares and their hard cocks and their chiseled smooth muscular chests.

Ritually she removes her clothes, dons the transparent white robe she wears for downloading and climbs into bed, pulling the computer on to her near-naked thighs, sighing in contentment as she clicks "save image as" on the first picture she has found. He is hers now, hers to do with as she will, as is the second, and the third and the fourth.

Her left hand gently teases her nipples through the flimsy material of the robe as her right hand controls the touch pad in the center of the keyboard, point, click, and flick, point, click, and flick.

Her new men captured, she goes to the folder where they are stored, looking separately at each picture in the newly updated collection, first in alphabetical order and then by modified date, savoring each one, talking to them lovingly in excited whispers no real human will ever hear, telling them what she will do to them and more importantly what they will do to her.

But it is almost time for the children to arrive home from school and eventually for her husband to arrive home from work, so she carefully shuts down the computer, places it on her bedside table and for just five minutes by the bedside clock allows her aching clit the pleasure of her fingers,

She does not come. Orgasm will come later, in the dark of night, after she has dressed, assumed the mask of sanity, cooked dinner, helped the children with their homework, changed into her plain sleepwear, watched television with her husband and feigned sleep beside him. Somewhere between 3 and 4 am as he lies snoring beside her, she will turn to face him, her hand between her legs, her mind darting back to the men in her computer, remembering what she has promised she will do to them, what they have promised they will do to her, her hand rubbing furiously in small tight circles, the waves of pleasure magnifying her madness as she watches her husband sleep, as she compares him to the men in her computer and finds him woefully lacking, as she comes, mouth open, eyes glazed, barely remembering to stifle her screams of pleasure.