Sexting your way through the holidays: one of the less filthy sex scenes from Tell Me #christmasread #hotexcerpt #tellme #nsfw #filthyfridayfeature

HOLIDAY Filthy Friday Feature aka Jane has Christmas issues and solves them with orgasms episode 2019-4! Or, this time, five or six years ago or whenever it was that I was writing Tell Me, the first Friday of December fell on December 6th, and my heroine Jane was in the third day of her 30-day descent into the mindfuck of her life…

TELL ME
BY M. JANE COLETTE

HIM: “It’s The Story of O meets Jane Austen for the sexting and blogging generation.”

ME: “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

HIM: “It is. Completely. Although you should have warned me what it was about. Flying coach with an erection is so declassé.”

ME: “I did tell you. I said it was one-third erotica, one-third chick lit, one-third existential angst.”

HIM: “Well. I didn’t expect it to have quite this much of an impact. It’s impressive. Tight. It flows. So very easy to read, and keep reading. The sex reads true. Don’t call it chick lit. It’s something different, new.”

Ready? You’re joining the story on Day 3.

Friday, December 7

Four days ago, I was sane.

Today I am mad. This is how my day starts. Wanton as soon as I am awake, wanting, aching. No longer pretending. I turn on my laptop and email and Facebook only for one thing. Work? What work? Calgary is asleep, but Montréal is stirring. And, oh, my lover. Yes. There he is. And here we go. The countdown. And fuck. A client pings me on Google chat at the same time. Lovely.

7

—7

Instantly hard

—Fire in my belly

get my email?

—checking

—fuck

This was me. This morning, thinking of you.

—oh yes

— . . .

—I am distracted

—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.

***

In brief: Jane’s a wife, mother, daughter, friend. A couple years shy of 40 but not stressing about it… yet. Mostly content. Mildly bored. Suddenly, a text from an old lover pulls her into an online sexual vortex. As she “mindfucks” her lover and attempts to figure out how this aspect of herself fits into the obligations of marriage and motherhood, other relationships around her strain, fracture, collapse. Her best friend is recklessly pursuing a series of cyber-affairs, while another friend’s attempt at an open marriage leads to an ugly divorce. Her next-door neighbour is planning a wedding with her forever on-again/off-again lover—but will it really happen? Her parents, on the eve of their forty-third wedding anniversary, announce they’re getting a divorce, while her father-in-law’s third marriage ends. Meanwhile her lawyer-husband is exchanging a lot of texts with an adoring young associate. Does Jane care? Or is she too engulfed in her own sanity-straining mindfuck to really notice?

It’s uber-sexy. Well-written. Highly consumable. The erotica is undiluted and un-euphemistic; the characters are engaging; and the life plot lines as real as if they were happening to you, your neighbours, your colleagues.

So.

Tell me.

Do you want to read the book?

AVAILABLE ALL THE USUAL PLACES
+you can search for buy links at mjanecolette.com/books

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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes 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, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.

One comment

  1. You don’t write my style of books but I do love your writing. You’re great. Hope you are having a great day

    Stay Inspired. http://jpantalleresco.wordpress.com ________________________________

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