Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

and I read this, and I come, instantly, immediately. Silently.

      And he’s in Montréal, so of course, he is already awake, moving, online. And he writes back:

       10 days. Nine, really.

       Love the thought of you on a hair trigger.

      —I’m still worried the reality will fall short of the build-up.

       Reality has many things in its favour. Such as the feeling of you wrapped around my cock.

      —Your tongue on my skin.

       Enjoy your heightened state, my lover. And get on that photo. My inbox was empty this morning. Disappointed; verging on angry.

      —Demanding.

       You have no idea how demanding.

      I slam the laptop lid down as Alex comes down the stairs. ‘Up early again? Is this one of the signs of the apocalypse?’ he jokes as he kisses me. Running joke in our household – me, the most un-morning of un-morning people. Alex, often up at 6 a.m. on weekends. Freak.

      ‘Possibly,’ I say. ‘Or peri-menopause. Am I old enough for peri-menopause?’

      ‘Jesus, I hope not,’ Alex says, shocked. ‘Working?’

      ‘Facebooking,’ I say. ‘I probably drank all the coffee already. You’ll have to make another pot.’

      Alex sighs dramatically. I hear the whirr of the coffee grinder.

      My fingers tickle the top of the laptop. I make myself think about Nicola’s rat-fuck bastard of a husband, whose two or three graduate degrees from MIT did not teach him to not sex-text with his intern on the un-password-protected family-plan phone. In the bathroom. At the dinner table. Apparently, in church. (‘You guys go to church?’ I remember asking Nicola in shock when I heard that story. ‘Aren’t you atheists?’ ‘Taoists,’ she corrects me. ‘But the grandparents…’ Her voice trails off. Grandparents. No need to say more. The things we do for grandparents.)

      Alex tramps up past me, upstairs. I hear the shower. I open the laptop.

       I’m hoping you disappeared to play with the camera. I am checking my email obsessively. Verging on compulsively. Where is my photo?

      —The photo is not going to happen. Disobedient.

       Insubordinate. Lucky for you, I feel understanding.

      —More to look forward to.

       Agreed. Mostly I just like picturing you being subversive.

      —You are incorrigible. Corrupting.

       And I believe you love it.

      —Do you?

      —So presumptive.

       Wholeheartedly.

       Deductive.

       Fuck. Already want to cum. Jeans still done up. Hands only typing. Amazing.

      —How was your sweat session? Focused on the task at hand?

       I was. The task being to look good for you. You are inspiring. I imagined there was an email waiting for me back in my locker. I even imagined the subject line: come fuck me. I think that inspired 20 per cent heavier weights, minimum.

      —I have a picture of you lying down on a bench. And I come in.

       Yes.

       Continue while I type with my left hand…

      —Are you sure you want to do this again?

       Very.

      —And straddle you. You’re still holding the weight. But your attention is, um, divided. I say, ‘Fuck foreplay.’

       I want to show you how hard you just made me.

      —I just slide off your pants and slip you right in. You drop the bar – it just makes it into the safeties.

       Shove my cock.

      —I lean forward, feel that angle?

       Mmm, yes, so deep. Your clit grinding into me now.

      —My hands are on your hips and I hold you down as I lift up. You want to thrust, but I keep on pushing you down.

       Hungry bitch. I love it.

       (Give me a safe email address. I need to show you.)

      —(Fuck. numberslie, at the usual domain)

      —I move up and down your shaft. I hold myself up with my hands…

      —And crush down on you

       Check your email.

      —Looking. Oh, god. Fuck.

      —Jeezus. Flood of memory…

       Glad you approve.

      —you’re lovely

       Appreciative. Inspired.

      —Ashamed, excited, overwrought, distracted…I might need to slide off you and lick you a while…But first…

       First?

      —First…

      —I bring my legs up onto the bench – they’re resting on your hips – the weight of me presses you into the bench, the pressure of your hip bones bruises me. I change angles a little, feel that? But this is about me, not you. My hands on your shoulders. My pussy slapping down on you.

       Use my cock.

      —You’re at my disposal.

      —I arch.

       Milk your pleasure from me.

      —No, I will milk you later

      —Now I just need…

      —…a little more friction

      —…a little more pressure…

      —…and here I cum.

      — (why is it so much dirtier as cum instead of come? what a difference a vowel makes)

      —…and oh, you’re about to as well, so I slide off even as I writhe…

       Cum on my cock.

      —and I touch my lips to your head

      —My tongue finds the hole

      —Droplets

      —I lick

      —I caress you with one hand and myself with the other

       Your skills impress. Just the sight of your hands working both of us is enough to make my balls tighten, my cock swells even harder…

       You can taste the salty precum.

      —I lap it up

       Such a submissive sentence.

      —Your effect on me: you turn me from mistress to slave with one taste. I forget that I meant to ride you and pleasure myself selfishly. I worship at your cock.

       I want to hear you say you’re my fuckslave.

      —I can’t. My mouth is full of your cock.

       The words muffled by my cock. Say it.

      —I’m your fuckslave, I whisper, as I take more and more of you down my throat.

       Yesss