The ice cube flits against her fidgety breasts, electrifying points of contact, inching towards her pubis, encircling it like an inward-moving spiral,...while she lies there, absorbing these sensations with pleasurable impatience. As the ice cube begins its final descent – can I confess this? – I feel less like a giver of pleasure than a torturer, a man extracting confessions of pleasure to gain a vital piece of information. But even torturers can be artists; their brushstrokes are careful and. He lived about two hours away from me, so I agreed to meet him in his city as long as he got me a hotel room. We agreed on Friday night at eight. He would email directions to the hotel.The next night, I had a message from him with directions to the hotel. He would meet me in the hotel bar.All day at work Friday, I was thinking about what Harold might do to me. I hoped he was real. I'd seen a picture of him on the adult site, and he looked really old, but people lie.I had already packed a small. More

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