Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

hands in my hair, gripping, pulling

      —it hurts

      — (I look at your picture again)

       Take it deep.

       Forcing you down.

       Thrust out your tongue.

       I pull you up for air.

      —I’m gasping breathless smeared

       Slap your lips with my cock. They swell.

       Then it’s right back to work.

       Get on your hands and knees. On the bench.

       Mouth at the perfect height.

      —I crawl up…

       Keep your hands where they are. I want to use your mouth like a pussy. My cock is crammed into your throat.

      —I gag.

       I reach over you and slap your ass, just to feel you moan against my shaft. Take it. SLAP.

      —(moan)

       Do you want this?

      —So much.

       Good.

       Tell me you’re my fuckslave again. I like to see you type it.

      —I whisper, I’m your fuckslave, my head bent down.

      —Fuck.

      —I can’t believe you can still…again…do this to me.

      —No one else does.

      —A part of me hates it.

      —I. Hate. It.

       That’s so fucking hot.

       Angry hate fucking.

      —It’s barely consensual what you do to me.

      —But so wet…

       So hard.

       Knowing how forced you are.

      —Take me.

      —Push me onto the floor.

       No. I will use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your pussy.

      —oh dear fucking god I am so wet

       Rub your clit. I want to feel it in your throat when you cum

      —My hands on my pussy, thumbs on clit, fingers stretching me, probing, rubbing

      —so weak

       I enjoy seeing you debase yourself for me.

       My cock twitching.

      —for you

       For me. All for me.

      —for you

      —selfish bastard

       Cum for me.

      —Palm of hand on my clit, pressing

       Your selfish master.

      —I arch up on the floor as I cum

      —Your cock slides deeper into my throat

      —I couldn’t spit out your cum if I wanted to

      —It sloshes into me

       Drink it.

       All of it.

      —I have no choice all inside me

      —a little dribble at the corner of my mouth

       You please me so.

       Lick it off. No spilling.

      Alex walks into the room, and I raise my glazed eyes from the screen to look at him, but my fingers remain on the keyboard:

      —Lick (not alone)

      —tongue in corner of mouth

       I should release you then

      —yes

      —then come fuck me

       You please me.

      —9 days xx

       9 xo

      Alex kisses my forehead on his way out the door, and it burns. I have one of those odd moments of gratitude for my faithlessness – my lack of faith in the Christian God or any other nasty vengeful cosmic being – because if I believed, I too would burn. The act of physical transgression totally unnecessary; all the sin sufficient in this act, this thought crime, cyberfuck, mindfuck.

      What the fuck is wrong with me?

      The kids’ school has one of its random days off today, so I drive over to meet Marie and her brood right after breakfast. We meet in the Confederation Park parking lot, and, between us, unload six kids and ten sleds out of our minivans. ‘Why do we have more sleds than kids?’ Cassandra asks. ‘Because we’re really clever moms,’ I tell her. ‘At some point, everyone will want to be on the saucers. And then someone will throw a hissy fit because what he really wants is the steering sleigh. Plus, Marie and I need something under our tooshies.’

      ‘Can I just sit and hang out with you when I get bored?’ Cassandra asks.

      ‘Of course,’ I say. But the snow is alluring, and in minutes she’s running up the hill at full speed along with the boys and Annie.

      Marie hands me a mug of hot chocolate.

      ‘You rock,’ I say.

      ‘You look like shit,’ she says. ‘How do I look?’

      I look at her. Much as usual. But she clearly wants a different type of answer.

      ‘Ambiguous,’ I say. It’s a good word. So many potential interpretations. And it pleases Marie.

      ‘That pretty much nails it,’ she says. And I know she wants to talk about the lunch, and probably resents me a little for not bringing it up yesterday.

      ‘So?’ I say. She shrugs eloquently.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘We ate lunch. We held hands. We necked, like high-school kids, in the parkade. And then I came back.’

      I wait.

      ‘I sent him a text after, thanks for a great time,’ she says. ‘And he hasn’t written me back.’ She bites her lips. ‘I think it’s over.’

      I wait.

      ‘Because if he had had a great time, he’d text me back, right? With plans to do it again? He was clearly disappointed in the whole experience.’

      Oh, my Marie.

      ‘Should I text him to find out if he received my text?’ she asks, and I see her reaching for the phone.

      ‘Jesus-fucking-Christ, Marie, what are you, twelve?’ I snap. And she takes half a step back and stares at me, because I don’t snap. Out of character. ‘It’s what, half a day. Don’t fucking chase. Enjoy…enjoy the memory.’

      ‘But I’m just not sure I’m really enjoying the memory,’ she says wistfully. ‘It was, you know, OK. But a little awkward. And the chemistry in person…it wasn’t…it wasn’t quite the same as in the texts. And I think maybe he felt that too…’

      I don’t understand women.

      ‘But if you felt that, then why are you