You can’t move back, move away, as I block you, nor can you break forward, my arms like prison bars down your front. “No, don’t, please, it wil... be too cold” you plead. I ignore you and push the cubes inside your knickers. Rivers of ice water flood down, meeting the sticky flood of your come. Still I won’t touch you where you need me too. It is too much. You rip your wrists from the flimsy restraints. Still blindfold you twist round, pulling me in front of you, yanking my trunks down to my. ‘Crying into your champagne? How’s that for a first world problem?’ I should write that down. It would make a great gag for The Wilson Show, Tonight! I couldn’t blame her. Hell, why not? Michael Wilson’s star was on the rise. He was gorgeous in that slick, dipped in plastic, Hollywood kind of way. He was funny, too. At least when he was reading the lines people like me wrote for him. We owed everything we had to his show. It was where we met. Where we fell in love. Hell, it was where I. More

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