M. Colette - Tell Me

—I have a client on Google chat right now

I like the thought of you being innocent and professional on one side lusting on the other

More corruption of you.

—by you

And me alone.

Confess your actions last night.

—I rehearsed what it would be like.

—Walking into the lobby

—Barely able to stand on my fuck-me heels

—Standing in the entry, looking for you

—Play by play

—Oh, lover, 7 days

I would let you stand there a good while. To enjoy the sight of you prepared for me. Let others enjoy it too.

—As soon as I walk in, they’re all looking at me. They know what I’m there for. I exude it.

Your long legs on show, cock-sucking lipstick and fuck-me heels leave no doubt.

—Are you requesting cock-sucking lipstick?

Demanding.

—demanding, of course

Lots of eye makeup. All the better when it runs, teary eyed.

Purposeful. Professional.

Ready to use.

—Tell me that all day, no matter what you do, part of your mind will be tormented by pictures of me.

No small part.

Pictures of you, at my feet. In debasement.

—Jesus, Matt.

I’m putting you to work as we speak. My hands on my cock, my mind turning them into your mouth, your pussy.

—There will be nothing left of you in 7 days.

Soon I’ll abstain. Right now my morning cock needs seeing to.

And that’s your fucking job. Do it.

With one hand you’re stroking me, innocently typing with the other.

—yes

—writing to a client

—very professional, formal

—he doesn’t know I’m naked, at your knees

Occasionally you lean over to spit on my cock to keep it slick. Professionally. Almost disdainfully.

—I’m distracted, multitasking you know

My multitasking slave

It’s easier to type when I bend you over the desk to fuck you. Now you can use both hands. Get more work done.

—efficient

—you got impatient

—Wait, I really need to go through this with my client…

Fucking hot

I tell you to read aloud what you’re typing

So I can hear your voice quaver

interspersed with grunts and moans

—I read to the rhythm of your cock’s movement

I tell you to type ‘I am matts fuckslave’ just to see it on screen.

The words hang there. Tantalising.

—We both stare.

—I start to delete.

—(I just really typed and deleted that in my Google chat. Fuck. What’s wrong with me? Flirting with danger.)

How did that feel?

—I almost came.

Do it again. All caps.

And cum.

—wait…

—typing

—…

—cumming…

Good

—now you

Mmmmmmm

Done

—I cum on command for you

As do I apparently

—There is power in submission…

Shot up to my neck

—I get up on my tippy-toes, lick it off

You are thorough. Diligent.

Dedicated.

—(how can I come this much in 24-48 hours and still be unsated?)

(Lucky me. Hopefully this mystery will never be solved.)

—We should go do stuff. Get dressed. Work.

—It’s like the languor of leaving a well-used bed…

Languor.

Your mind turns me on so.

—the idea of your tongue on my nipples makes my toes curl

And yes. Work. Clothes. Reality. Nipple.

—7 days.

Seven. But you’re mine. Already.

—utterly

Always.

In all ways.

Have a good day.

—It has a lot to live up to.

I have every faith. xx

—xo

I breathe. Shower. Dress. Race down the stairs after Alex, his phone in my hands, catch him at the door, ‘You left this in the bathroom again, love!’ Marshal kids out of bed. Breakfast. Clothes. School run for all four today, because it’s a preschool morning for the squirt. Everyday, ordinary things. Real life. At which I’m looking through a distorted lens, a curtain. Seven days. Seven days.

The phone buzzes and I swear my clit screams. My mouth parched. I stare, unseeing. Then crash, so disappointed. Nicola. Texting. Me? I raise my eyebrows, surprised, because Nicola does not really like me, never has. We’re ‘friends of friends’, frequently in the same physical space together, but hardly soulmates. Her text says it all: ‘Jane? Are you there? No one else is around. I. Am. Going. Mad. Need to talk to someone!’

My disappointment, my wetness anger me. And so I dial her number as an act of atonement.

And she spews. So much unhappiness and so much anger there. And it’s just; I cannot deny her this anger, her right to be angry. The rat-fuck bastard is acting like, well, a rat-fuck bastard. Refusing to take the co-parenting-after-separation seminar. Refusing to negotiate an interim financial agreement. Refusing, I realise suddenly, to accept that he is in the middle of a divorce.

‘He still hopes this is a separation,’ I say, but Nicola doesn’t hear me, she finishes the sentence differently:

‘…not to take the responsibility for anything!’ she cries. And she shouts and screams, and then, abruptly, switches gears and starts talking about the skank. Because none of this would have happened if it weren’t for her. If she hadn’t approached him, if she hadn’t chased him. If she had acted the way a woman should – if she had respected Nicola , another woman, a wife , the rights of a wife…

I hold the phone away from my ear, but I still hear. And every few seconds make a sympathetic noise. A perverse part of me imagines she is Joy. A masochistic, martyred facet of my psyche casts her as Alex, saying all of this in his head – because he is a man, and he is Alex, and he would never bare his soul like this, no more would I. In both scenarios, the calumnies are cast at me, not at Matt. Of course, at me. Just as Nicola, angry, angry though she is at the cheating rat-fuck bastard, is angrier still at the intern-skank, and sees her as the catalyst. He was weak and unable to say no, she was the instigator, the catalyst. If she hadn’t seduced, invited, aggressed…

Jezebel.

How very Christian of Nicola, I think, and then, I think this: flip it. So. For me – am I weak and unable to say no? If Matt hadn’t come – if he hadn’t seduced, invited, aggressed…would I have sought him out? Or another?

It is a very, very interesting question. So interesting, I hold the phone away from my ear and sit on the floor to ponder the answer.

What is happening here? Is it me? Him? Us?

I wanted you then. I wanted you always. I want you always. But I always want you…tied to someone else.

—Ah.

I believe this is what you want as well. It used to be. Is it still?

I rejected Matt, consciously, effectively, once. But fully. With Cassandra in my belly. My commitment and love for Alex and the family we were starting were the most important, the only things in my universe. And what followed? Ten years. Almost eleven. Five pregnancies. One near-death experience, four babies. Swollen belly, milk gushing from breasts. Extreme joy. Exhaustion. Love. Motherhood. Monogamy. Monogamy without much struggle, without much reflection, because there wasn’t much room for anything else. And yes, happiness, fulfilment. Other lovers, other desires? I barely had time and desire for Alex. It was all…babies. Toddlers. Obligations. Never enough sleep.