I was instantly embarrassed, that was not the way I was raised by my parents. I really should stop judging people like that, I thought! I passed both men and felt the eyes of the other person on me. I couldn’t stop myself glancing to my side, and saw his face. I gasped for breath! Caught by his piercing eyes, icing my blood and stopping my lungs from functioning as they should, I tried to put one foot in front of the other. Oh fuck, I knew those eyes? How I knew them? My blood started rushing back trough my body, my heart racing, my mind in chaos. Those dark brown eyes, almost black in the night? I mean, I didn’t know the man, I had certainly never seen him before, but those eyes? Those piercing, knowing eyes? I would recognize eyes like that anywhere. He was a dancer, a player, he knew the game, and he knew the game was on? Gone was the resolve to go home quickly and get dry. I continued to take a few slow hesitant steps, my feet not functioning properly anymore and then stopped. Cynthia giggles, bracing for the next icy touch; for 20 whole seconds I sit beside her, watching her tense expectation. Next, her elbow; the ice cube skates up and down her arm, leaving a cold trail of tears. "Eyes closed," I whisper, lifting the ice cube to the other side of her body, catching the drips with my hand to disguise my next move. 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 controlled; their motions enhance the helpless yearnings of the human figure in all its beauty. The key to the ice cube was movement – staying too long in a.
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