have a break from the intricate attention their hands and mouths have been giving to my body. I’m floating in both body and mind.
Pat feels my forehead. ‘Lexi, you’re burning up. Are you feeling alright?’
‘Yeah, great, I think, although it does feel quite hot and stuffy in here.’
‘Not surprising.’ They laugh.
‘Let me get the thermometer,’ offers Jeremy.
‘Not necessary, J,’ I say, laughing with them. Patrick’s fingers continue to caress my hair and it feels serene. I take a deep breath and let myself float off into a cloudy haze. I am brought back to stark reality as Jeremy throws my legs over his shoulders, spreads my butt cheeks and inserts the thermometer up my arse, presumably lubricated as it has no problem sliding in. I attempt to hoist myself upwards only to be kept calmly in place on Patrick’s lap as he pins my shoulders toward the bed.
‘Jeremy!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking your temperature, AB. We wouldn’t want to let anything serious happen to you when we can take necessary precautions. We’re both nearly doctors, you know.’
‘I’m absolutely fine. Get that fucking thing out of my arse.’
‘Just hold still another minute or so. It wouldn’t be good to have mercury leak into your sweet spot now, would it?’
His words, believable or not, ensure I don’t move a muscle until he removes the invading object.
‘Oh yes, esteemed colleague, you are correct. Thirty-eight point five. Well diagnosed. Lucky I have just the remedy.’
‘I do not have a temperature, Jeremy, you idiot.’ I recommence my squirming.
‘Please calm the patient, Doctor McCluskey.’
Patrick swiftly clamps my mouth shut with his thick fingers. Jeremy shifts my arms above my shoulders, which Patrick obligingly pins to the bed with his solid football legs. I groan without much success of creating any real noise.
What now? I think. They must be exhausted. I am.
Apparently not.
Jeremy reveals an ice bucket overflowing with ice cubes that he sits up on the bed. He then ever so slowly works the ice over the skin on the inside of my arms, round and round my underarm, across my chest and then repeats the sequence on the other side. My body begins to react to the sensation of the freezing ice sliding and dripping over my overheated body. As he reaches my breast, he circles and circles, needing new ice cubes as they disintegrate into droplets over my burning skin. At the same time as Jeremy is tantalising my nipples, Patrick has ice rolling languidly over my lips, teasing ice into my mouth and playing with my tongue. My arms are numbing under the weight of his legs, becoming useless weapons of protest. I am thirsty for the ice in my mouth so I let him torment me until he relinquishes each cube down my throat. So focused am I on this that I barely notice Jeremy finishing with my nipples and continuing his mission further south, leaving a small bundle of ice jiggling around my belly button. Patrick doesn’t allow my nipples to feel neglected for a moment and continues where Jeremy left off. I am literally drowning in sensory stimulation. Jeremy begins thoroughly and completely icing my vulva, sending shivers all over my body, until he eventually slides a cube skilfully into my vagina. My back arches instantaneously at the sensation.
‘Please …’ I say breathlessly, to someone, anyone.
Jeremy slides another ice cube deeply into me. The sensation of the frozen cube being pushed into a tunnel so hot sends my body throbbing internally as it tries to reject the frozen, harsh invader biting into my over-sensitised flesh. Before it has the chance, he gently coerces another ice cube along the same path, his eyes completely absorbed with the impact his actions are having on my body.
Just as I can’t take any more of the fire and ice competing within my body, Jeremy squeezes my legs together tightly, bound either side by his and devours my mouth in his. As Patrick holds my head in his lap, I can feel his throbbing erection next to my skull. He repositions himself to once again ice my surprisingly sensitive underarms before slipping my arms out from underneath him and pinning each arm to my side, thereby trapping the ice in position. Jeremy had ensured my mouth and southern tunnel were inundated with ice as his body restricts and limits my movements. I feel like an inside-out igloo. The sensation of so much body heat on the outside and being trapped frozen from within is like nothing I have ever experienced. My entire being ripples with the sensation of freezing and burning simultaneously, ripples with uncontrollable tremors as the heat from my body aggressively devours the ice in my oral and vaginal cavities. The frozen intruders compete with the natural habitat they are invading as my brain becomes numb with the sensory overload my body is experiencing.
I can’t scream. I don’t scream.
The boys don’t release me until I achieve meltdown.
When I do, Jeremy lowers himself to dramatically exhume the diluted juices he has created, wholly and completely. Although consumed with frost, I am wet with lust and desire and erupt volcanically.
‘See, Alex, I have told you many times only good things come from a sincere vodka cheers. Quite an experience, wouldn’t you agree?’
I am too fervently spent to comment.
The strange thing is, I never did find out whether they had planned it that way, or the whole experience just happened during the flow of the evening …
I attempt to dislodge the salacious memory from my mind and focus on exactly what Jeremy is doing.
‘That looks very technical. What on earth are you preparing over there?’
‘Not as technical as it looks, but we may as well make it worthwhile. It’s not like we’re together very often, after all. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve opted for the Hemingway version given it is Friday afternoon. It is a little more involved than the French version and the Bohemian version is sure to set off the fire alarms.’
His explanation doesn’t help my confusion.
He ceremoniously scoops up two frosted glasses of opalescent milk and hands one to me.
I lift the glass to my nose to sniff the contents as I raise my eyebrows in suspicion. It smells heavily sweet with an anise or liquorice undertone.
‘It is the drink of Vincent van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway.’ If this is meant to enlighten me, it fails. Before I have a chance to question him further, he makes a toast. ‘To you, Alexandra, to exploring and discovering the enlightened version of yourself. And of course, to the blossoming of your roses,’ he adds with a mischievous and knowing wink.
I may be wearing the most beautiful dress I have ever worn, feeling more glamorous than I have ever felt, but all of a sudden, we are back at uni, about to embark on some playful, boundary-breaking adventure together — again. I am as excited and apprehensive as a small child going to their first theme park and I allow myself to
