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 confession... 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 single place would numb instead of excite; I had to keep it moving, making. I was making moaningsounds as my feet and legs flailed uselessly in the air. Linda ruthlesslytugged the laces even tighter."It feels like I'm being cut in half," I managed to whisper as the edgesof the figure training corset met in back. My boobs were being forced outat the top, while my buttocks seem to become larger at the same time. Myabdominal internal organs were being pushed up into my solar plexus and Iwas experiencing difficulty breathing. "Please," I whispered, "I can'tbreathe."Linda. More

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