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A cheating wife gets hers.

And as I said, mind-to-mind rapport can be almost instantaneous, and faster than it takes to tell, she was treating me like an old friend. And just to seal the deal, I put the feeling of holding a plate of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies in her head. That image is a great natural tranquilizer.

"Well why don't you sit down?" she asked, and gestured to a well-worn and comfy-looking sofa in her thoughts. "I'm sorry about the mess," she said. "I've been under the weather."

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry about that. But doing better now, aren't you?"

She nodded happily and flopped down on the sofa, the plate of cookies on her bare knees.

We were in a space in her mind, a living room with a decidedly ancient look, Victorian or '40's or so. It was crowded with furniture and boxes and clothes, and I realized it was Devorah's idea of how she lived now, a pastiche of girl-on-her-own movies and TV romances. Most people's minds are similar.

I sat down and declined a cookie. Now this was tricky. I was quite frankly going to seduce Devorah and have what we call an "exchange" with her, which is what we empaths call a combination of mental and physical sex far more intimate and personal than a normal human can even imagine. But an exchange is much more easily done from a small distance away, to reduce the possibility of fusion as I've explained.

There's also the whole issue of emotional geometry and erotic dimensionality, because you can't just mount a lover like a bobsled and ride her around the curves. If you want the full erotic experience, you have to come at each other from the right angles and elevation so as to stir up the desire and fantasies, and feel that sexual tension and the atmosphere, absorb the full amorous potential of your lover. Never make the mistake of thinking it's the act that contains the eroticism. It's the prologue, the journey up to it, passing through mysterious seas of dark desire. There are billows of stars here, and fields of flowers, all sorts of moaning and gnashing of teeth and wild unimaginable imagery relating to the infinite facets of eroticism and desire.

And it pains me to say that most empaths aren't concerned with this journey or these fine points as I myself am, but I was fully conscious that, despite the amity and agreeableness between Devorah and me, I was still in the position of being a burglar caught going through her private thoughts and secrets. It was hardly a good place from which to begin a seduction. I was going to have to do some deft emotional footwork.

Devorah looked at me and actually beamed. "I just don't believe this!" she said. "But you know, I think I've known about you people for a long time, haven't I? You're an empath, right?"

Not a shocking statement, some sensitive people suspect our existence.

"Yes I am," I confessed. "And a very chagrinned one at the moment, that I let myself be detected and am now seated next to you on this sofa."

"And you feed on my emotions?"

I sighed. Once again I would have to explain.

"Well, 'feed' is such an ugly word, so predatory. And it's not quite true. I exist on human food very well, and even make a passable chicken paprikash. But that's all it is: existing. To live, to really feel life, I need the spice of human emotion, served strong and sipped in very small portions, barely noticeable. So maybe we could say I don't really 'feed' on emotions but rather 'live upon' them?

"And not just any emotions," I went on. "Or at least not the ones people assume. Hate, rage, jealousy, sorrow- Some empaths will gobble that stuff up, and I'll eat it if there's nothing else around and I'm too lazy to go out. But my real joy are the more noble feelings--wonder, awe, love, gratitude, beauty... These have a particular clarity and depth of flavor like nothing you can imagine, unsullied by the negative emotions. "

"Then I'm afraid you're going to be very disappointed in me, Mr.

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