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It was early in the morning and I was lying on my side of the bed, looking at your beautiful body strewn so gracefully across my bed. Your longer-than-usual hair was loosely arranged around your face in a sort of halo. I love having you in my bed; there you are my heart's desire and my most cherished posession. I considered waking you up, to see your eyes gazing at me fondly, of making you either talk to me or make love to me. But the clock next to the bed reads 5:30 AM and I thought you were exhausted from the day before and last night. So I contented myself with just lying close to you, gently stroking your hair, admiring the great body that lay between my sheets, and thinking of all the ways I could torment you later.

My stomach wasn't pleased with this situation though, it kept growling at me. So as quietly as possible with the tiny bells around my ankles and throat, I slid slowly out of bed and tip-toed to the door, walking to the kitchen for some juice or fruit. But a thought, a very diabolical one, seized me as I was putting ice cubes in my orange juice: ice on sleep-warmed, bare flesh. It can make for some very interesting fun, I mused. Completely oblivious to the growls of my stomach, I quickly filled the glass to the rim with ice cubes and chips, grabbed a mug out of the cabinet and ran the water as hot as possible before filling it. I quickly slipped off my black silk sleep tunic and quietly headed back into the bedroom, a cold glass and warm mug in my hands.

...

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