Teaser (Totally NSFW)—Tumble: “You won’t be on your feet for long.”

mjc-legs & heels 1-9466

From Day 1—Maybe
Monday, December 3

LAST WEEK: In Cyber-adulteress: “I don’t want you to judge me,” you got to know Marie and a taste of where she is going… now, back to the fire starting in Jane’s life. Definitely NSFW.

I spend a joyous but exhausting day with the kids. I don’t text. I don’t think about Matt. Really. I think about work—the bizarre financial case study I promised to review for a client for tomorrow morning, which clearly I’m not doing as I sled with the kids. Oh, fuck. What time will Alex be home? As Marie comes back—hair and make-up intact and overall mood light and neither angst-ridden nor post-coitally joyous, making me infer she only lunched and transgressed not much (we can’t talk with the kids around)—he texts to say he won’t be back until 8, maybe later—”fucking clients,” he writes, the excuse for everything, always—and that won’t get him home in time to do bedtime… and, since I’ve been up since 5 a.m., I’ll be useless post-bedtime.

Marie’s kids and mine are starting to fight, tired of each other, so despite her half-hearted offer, I decline to send my brood home with her. Maybe I can sell them to my mom in the evening so I can work? I only need an hour, maybe two…

And that is why, a few hours later, I’m sitting in my parents kitchen eating liver and onions (ugh, how can they not know I hate liver and onions after all these years?), listening to four children vie for their grandparents attention… while the grandparents fight.

I have an odd sense of dissonance: I’m there but not there, and I hear my parents in freaky stereo. “They would have been better,” my mother says of the mashed potatoes, “but your father insisted on using the new potato masher.” “Insisted?” my father asks. Voice low. But tired, tense. “I took what was in the drawer. I didn’t realize we had a right potato masher and a wrong potato masher.” Stupid, stupid exchange. And not the first one I’ve heard like this—they are like this all the time now. Sometimes it’s funny. Often it’s sad. And always, after we leave, Alex and I promise ourselves that if we ever get like this, I’ll shoot him and then turn the gun on myself.

“Put the pie in the oven to warm it up, Jerry,” my mother says. Commands. “Gran bought you guys pie!” she squeals at the kids, and they squeal back. “Where’s the pie?” my father asks. “Where it always is!” my mother screams and rolls her eyes. No, really. She screams. I stare at her in shock. Appalled. My father doesn’t even blink an eye. “Which is?” he says with an excessive show of patience. My stomach turns and I suddenly very badly need to leave the room.

“I’m going to go work,” I say. “I don’t want any pie anyway. Be good for Gran and Gramps,” I tell the progeny, handing out kisses. I look at Gran and Gramps. “Be good in front of the kids,” I say. It could be taken as a joke. Or a warning. But it’s taken as neither; it’s not heard. The pie’s coming.

I exit stage right, camp out in one of the spare bedrooms, pull out the laptop.

Start typing. I turn on Facebook as I work. Cause that’s how the professionals do it, right? Having your Twitter feed and Facebook and LinkedIn on in the background increases your work efficiency. Well-proven fact. Not.

Confession: I use social media almost exclusively as a procrastination tool.

Still.

I have no ulterior motive.

I am not hoping to see a message from Matt.

No, really. And so I am not the least bit disappointed that there isn’t one.

I work. God, who crunched these numbers? Either an idiot or a liar. I identify all the red flags. I get into it. There is a sick kind of satisfaction to it; bringing order to chaos. I work. I am… tranquil.

Ping.

 

// Answer the question.

—Working.

Waiting. I want you to dress for the occasion. The occasion being our reunion, after what, 10 years? //

 

Almost 11. But who’s counting. And how many years since we met? I think… 20. Oh my fucking god, 20. When did that happen? The first time we met, I was… I think I was 18. Jesus fucking Christ. Grunge ruled. I wore distinctly unsexy jean overalls. I type.

 

// —Overalls have a certain nostalgic value.

Oh, yes. Nostalgic.

And harder.

—Demure.

Sceptical.

Get nostalgic with me, lover. I remember the lingerie store change room in Bankers Hall.

—Do you?

And you reading me erotica over the phone when I was up North. With John’s permission.

Two memories from hundreds.

—I remember stairwells. Too many stairwells.

—The recording booth at the studio.

—The roof of your apartment building…

The dark room.

Halloween party. The lawn. Do you remember?

—Oh yes. That might be my favourite…

Scandalized populace.

—We had no shame.

What’s your adjective right now?

—Disturbed.

Guess mine.

—You’ve been using one consistently.

The correct answer is lustful. Also acceptable: dirty (the good kind). //

 

I pause. Shudder. I feel… yes, I feel. And I type:

 

// —Lusciously pleased.

—god i miss you

—I really didn’t think I did.

And I you. Tell me what you want. Be blunt.

—your tongue in my ear, on my neck

—other places

Curse these tight jeans.

I miss your mind. And your mouth.

And the serious tone of voice you take when you talk dirty.

—oh god

—terrified

Eager.

Demanding.

—Are you.

Dominant.

—Oh really?

Determined.

—On top.

Challenged.

—tumbling

Pleased.

Hungrier and harder than ever.

—ecstatic

Sublimely motivated.

Aggressive.

—sublime

—lovely word

—luscious

—languorous

Throbbing

Pounding.

God. I want to fuck your mind.

Savage your vocabulary.

—Savage?

—I would prefer to be ravaged.

Or ruled? With a firm hand.

—Oh god.

Tell me you’re going to make yourself cum. Tonight.

—I think I just did.

With a full report upon completion.

—Well that you might need to wait for.

No time like the present.

—making you wait and anticipate has always been my MO

Making you submit has always been mine. (Or attempt therein)

—almost disarmed

pleased

—// almost //

Determined. Now what are you going to wear for me?

—I do have these fuck-me heels that will be perfect.

—So long as I don’t have to walk anywhere in them.

Describe.

—just wait

—some things just have to be seen

Put them on.

—they’re hard to type in

—That’s how hot they are

Intrigued.

You won’t be on your feet for long.

—Nice. We’ll be arrested for indecent exposure.

Hopeful.

Fuck-me heels. Good start.

This has been… electrifying. Illuminating. Awoken thoughts I’m glad to be reminded of. I think I’m going to go… take care of myself right now.

—Enjoy.

Still at the office.

—very professional

—close the door first

Tell me where do you want this cum?

—running down to my belly button

Where do I aim?

—at black lace of the bra I’ll be wearing with the fuck me shoes.

—go. See you in 12 days.

I count the hours.

xx

—oo //

 

I finish the analysis in a stupor. And before hitting send, take it to my dad. Ask him to read it to make sure there are no odd adjectives or metaphors in the copy.

He doesn’t ask why. Points to “orgasmic,” “sublime” and a completely extraneous “pounding.” I delete them. Send the file to the client. Take the kids home, put them to bed.

When Alex finally gets home, close to midnight, I’m still awake and give him the most adventurous night in bed he’s had in months. Possibly years.

“Jesus,” he says when it’s over. “What happened to you?”

“Hormones,” I say. “I think… yes, hormones.”

And we sleep.

 NEXT WEEK: Let’s stay dirty. A very short flashback: Tell me your most vivid memory of my cock.

Experience all of Day 1: Maybe

  1. Maybe: “I’m just going to enjoy knowing he’s in my pocket.”
  2. Danger: “I’m looking for the elevated heart rate emoticon.”
  3. (N-entirely-SFW) Words are dangerous: From hopeful to hard in three adjectives
  4. Cyber-adulteress: “I don’t want you to judge me.”
  5. (NSFW) Tumble: “You won’t be on your feet for long.”

TOMORROW: Confession 7…

****

So.

Tell me.

Do you want to read the book?

“God, yes! Where, how?”

“Soon, soon! Coming from Mischief, the erotica imprint of Harper Collins UK, in March 2015. In the meantime, sign up to follow this blog? Teasers (taste Tell Me) coming every Tuesday. And… a deeper taste, here.”

About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance Tell Me (Harper Collins, 2015), the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) Consequences (of defensive adultery) (coming May 2 2017), and the rom-com (she's versatile) Cherry Pie Cure (releasing June 15, 2017), as well as the non-fiction collection of essays Rough Draft Confessions: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway (GENRES were made to be BROKEN, 2017). Closet poet. Currently torturing novels four, five, and six simultaneously. Which is not a good idea.

5 comments

  1. Pingback: Teaser (Totally NSFW)—Tell me your most vivid memory of your cock | m jane colette

  2. Pingback: Teaser: Her favourite bits | m jane colette

  3. Pingback: “Tell me. What does Matt look like? I need to know.” | m jane colette

  4. Pingback: Mildly NSFW Teaser: “She wants to hear you’re my whore…” | m jane colette

  5. Pingback: I don’t like to tease. Really. #Teaser #TellMe #EroticaRedefined | m jane colette

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