Tell Me

‘I’d just feel better if you and Alex didn’t have this fairy-tale marriage,’ Marie says. There she goes again. ‘The prince and the princess. And I know JP’s more than ten years older than Alex. But Alex still looks so good, and young, and in shape – and the two of you together. You’re so…perfect.’

I love her and I do not want her to feel judged.

I could tell her.

‘I don’t want you to judge me,’ Marie says. ‘And I know you never say anything. But how can you not judge me when you’re so fucking happily married and faithful and…’

I could do this. I could. I could open the Facebook app on my phone, and go into messages. Hand the phone to Marie.

She would read. She would say, ‘Oh, my God,’ and I would I hear a thunk – me, falling off the pedestal.

‘Never think I’m judging you,’ I would say as she read.

‘Who is this?’ she would ask.

And this is where it ends. Where I know I won’t tell. I can’t tell. Because…because I don’t. Mine. Only mine to know and bear and carry.

So. I don’t show, I don’t share. Instead:

‘I never judge you,’ I say. ‘He won’t think you’re a skank. OK, well, he might. But he wants you to be a skank. Right? That’s what this whole thing is about.’

It’s almost the right thing to say. Marie smiles.

‘’K,’ she says. ‘’K. It will be OK. I’ll be fine. I look good, right?’ I nod. ‘See you in three or so hours.’

‘Be safe.’ I send her on her way. To her lunch. Or a parking-lot fuck.

I hope she’s packed a condom.

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 makeup 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 realise 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 eleven. But who’s counting? And how many years since we met? I think…twenty. Oh, my fucking God, twenty. When did that happen? The first time we met, I was…I think I was eighteen. 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 changing 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…

Scandalised 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 come. 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.

Day 2 Did she just?

Tuesday, December 4

Alex brings me coffee up to bed before he leaves for the firm. I stumble out of bed and into the shower. The brood’s already up, the boys fighting over who gets to play Minecraft first, the girls curled up on the couch with books, one reading, the other carefully, seriously imitating her sister. I look at them intensely. Feel my love for them reverberate in waves, through me, throughout the room.

No one wants to do much of anything in the short hour or two of the morning before I have to bundle the kids into the car to drop them off at school. They just chill. I consider it an ultimate test of character not to check Facebook.

It causes me physical pain.

I drop the elder three at school and Annie at my mom’s for the morning, and then head off to the gym. If I was a woman nearing 40 somewhere sexy like New York City, say, I’d probably have a therapist. But I’m a skiing Calgarian so I have a personal trainer. Also a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. And a massage therapist. Winter sports kill the spine…and our tendency to drive SUVs and mega-trucks any distances over 0.6 kilometres when we’re not on the hills means we need fucking treadmills to get exercise.

There really is no hope for humanity, I think as I careen down one overpass, then another. It’s my usual think as I drive to the gym. That if I just went for a (free) bike ride, (free) run or did some real physical work – chopped wood, I don’t know, laid some bricks or something – I’d achieve the same result in a less self-centred, narcissistic environment.

I keep on getting distracted from my self-inflicted lecture by imagining Matt’s tongue between my thighs.

Fuck. Focus.

I park. Wave to Jesse as I run to the changing room. Jesse. My trainer. The very very very junior fourth partner, as he puts it, in a very clean, very bright, very Zen gym, filled with inspirational quotes and a dizzying array of equipment. The gym runs classes, sells memberships and all that other stuff, but its real draw is the personal training services – or just going to the gym to ogle the trainers. The personal trainers, male and female, look like Greek – in one case, Nubian – gods.

Mine is, not to put too much of a point on it, the prettiest. He was a gift from Alex for my birthday a couple of years ago.

‘So I saw Nicola yesterday,’ he says as he loads up weights for me. I stare at him blankly. What the fuck is he talking about. Nicola? Nicola! Who is Nicola?

Not important. What’s important is how you will look in those fuck-me heels when we meet.

—Go away. Not in my head. Not now.

I know Nicola. Jesse knows Nicola. I introduced Nicola to Jesse, actually. Before the gong-show of a divorce, when her own struggle with careening towards 40 resulted in a fitness-must-lose-weight-and-look-hotter craze. I don’t judge: I don’t come to Jesse because it’s fun or because I enjoy exercise. I too have no desire to be a fat, frumpy middle-aged woman who wears yoga pants because they’re more forgiving than jeans. Regardless. Jesus, what is happening in my head? Narcissistic bitch, snap out of it. He’s talking about Nicola. I need to listen. ‘She told me about, you know, her situation. She said you knew,’ Jesse says. He blushes slightly.

I nod. I’m fond of Jesse. He’s beautiful and has a nice voice, and is ridiculously young. Chronologically, he’s 26, and half the time – when he’s doing his job and telling me what to do – he’s older than his birth age, confident, in control, in charge. And the other half – when he moves on to any other ground – he’s so very, very young. And awkward. And so unaware of life.

Sometimes, I think he might be gay – the question’s never been asked and answered, because, when I’m with him, he makes me lift heavy shit and I scream and grunt and pant and so there is not much room for conversation. I infer his potential homosexuality purely from the fact that although he is built like an Adonis and eminently fuckable – when Alex introduced me to him, I cooed that other men buy their wives flowers and chocolate and my beloved got me a ripped boy toy – he comes across as very, very…safe. He gropes and prods and readjusts me – and his dozens-upon-dozens of other female clients – fairly thoroughly. It never feels inappropriate, or edgy. I sweat with him two or three times a week, and I’ve committed no thought crime with him, no matter how ardent my mood is otherwise. He’s that safe. So safe, I’ve pondered setting him up with my neighbour’s seventeen-year-old daughter…except for that he-might-be-gay thing. We’ve all got to go through our gay lovers – I’ve had two – but it really sucks if the gay boy’s your first one. A little disheartening.

‘I’m just so shocked,’ Jesse says. I nod and grunt. Lift up. Hold. Drop down. ‘Have you met her husband?’

‘Y…e…s,’ I exhale. ‘Total dork. Even before he became a cheating rat-fuck bastard.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to be so…’ Jesse pauses.

‘Offensive?’ I offer as I gasp.

‘Blunt,’ Jesse says. ‘But yes. Not exactly a Don Juan. I wouldn’t have thought…have you seen the pictures of the girlfriend?’

‘The naked pictures?’ I get out between lifts. ‘No. I managed to avoid that. I guess you didn’t.’

‘Nicola showed me,’ Jesse says.

‘Skanky?’ I ask. Jesse is shocked. His Puritanism and youth come out at the most unexpected times. He’s shocked – that I said skank. He’s shocked that Nicola and her dorky husband are divorcing because of his torrid affair with a skanky but sufficiently attractive, to Nicola’s ex at least (‘If you like that type’ – that’s Nicola’s voice providing commentary in the background), intern. He’s shocked the dorky husband was fucking the attractive skank. He might be shocked people in their 30s and 40s, and those really old 50-year-olds sweating on the ellipticals over there, have sex. Dirty thoughts.

I’m not quite 40 yet. But it’s less than two years away. And Matt…is Matt 40 now? He’s got to be. Maybe even 41.

‘Hey, Jesse,’ I ask. ‘How old do you think I am?’

He pauses. Yes, it’s a test. I asked him how old he was a few months ago. I thought 28 – he was 26. My two-year misjudgement didn’t matter. But he really can’t win with me, I realise. If he says 40, I’ll throw the barbell at him. If he says 36, who gives a crap? What’s two years less? I catch the thought and stare it in the face. It’s never ever bothered me that I’m now 38. Four kids. Soft, loose breasts, stretched skin on the belly. That’s all part of me, of what I am. Am I anxious about my age? Am I having a mid-life crisis? A stupid fucking mid-life crisis that’s making me easy fodder for a manipulative fuck like Matt who clearly is having a mid-life crisis of his own, much like Nicola’s husband was having when he started fucking the skank? Except, instead of looking for something new, he comes looking for me, because he knows…

Fuck.

Selfish, evil bastard.

I am so not going to see him on December 14.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ he says. And I think, clever boy, that’s the right answer. But he plods on. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I know your oldest girl is ten. So…you must be…you must be thirty-something, like at least thirty-two? Maybe even thirty-four?’

I stop listening. I don’t really hear. I’m away again. Teeth marks on my neck. My thighs. Oh, fuck. Where was I? What were we talking about?

‘But she seems to be coping OK.’ Jesse returns to Nicola. ‘I mean, she’s angry and all that. But I think she’ll be OK.’

She’d probably be a hell of a lot better if you sort of accidentally-on-purpose patted her ass after her workout session, I think. Don’t say out loud. Slap myself mentally. Feel Matt’s breath on the back of my neck…

‘She’s tough,’ I say. ‘And really…well. The only really shocking thing here is that he left her. Well, OK, not exactly left her. What he wanted to do was to fuck the skank and to stay married. And she didn’t. So she’s the one who asked for a divorce. But what I mean is – we all kind of expected her to lose her patience with him somewhere along the line without the illicit sex, you know? Cause he was – you know, a dork.’

Jesse gives me an odd look. My Puritan boy. He does not like it when I swear. I hope he chalks it up to my indignation on my friend’s behalf.

‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘exercise helps.’

Oh, Jesse. So cute. So sweet. So dumb.

I like it better when he doesn’t talk.

I stay silent for the remainder of the session, and try hard not to think about Matt’s cock.

Fail.

My mom seems frazzled when I come to pick up Annie, so I don’t stay. Pack up Annie. We run errands – bank, big grocery shop – then pick up her siblings at school. ‘Gran was weird,’ Annie says at one point. ‘Sad.’ ‘Really?’ I murmur, indifferent. My mother’s always a bit weird. Groceries, kids in car…but I’m reluctant to go home. Restless. I take the kids to the Glenbow Museum’s Discovery Room instead. Middle of the week, so it’s quiet, empty. The two volunteers fight with each other for the privilege of assisting Annie with her craft.

So of course I sit on the couch. And pull out the phone.

Evil bastard.

Why am I doing this?

Because…ah. Yes. There is a message.

Enjoy your evening?

Well. This I can answer.

—So much. My husband thanks you.

Delighted.

I have a perhaps undeserved feeling of accomplishment and pride.

(Inspiring you and lucky Alex.)

—That’s you. Spreading sweetness and light wherever you go.

The Johnny Appleseed of Eros.

I can stop now. I should stop now. What the fuck am I doing? This:

—My mind was busy with you last night. And this morning en route to my personal trainer.

I am a fucking idiot who should know better.

I love to be kept busy. Tell me your thoughts. Paint me a picture.

—Electrifying.

—I was rehearsing our meeting.

I am charged.

—You’ve got a lot to live up to.

as do you

but I’m confident you will work hard to please me.

I’m seducing you subliminally (lick) is it working?

—not so very subliminally

Tell me what you want most.

—you

I like that answer.

—i’m wondering if your lips feel the way i remember them

I want you in all your darkest ways.

The things you would only ever tell me about.

I want you to scare me.

—how?

I’d like you to try.

—overwhelmed

—shivering

—11 days?

yes

demand something. scare me. right now.

—take off your tie, wrap it around my hands

—restrain me

that’s a promise

I will put you to work

—I see us at a table, someplace dark…and eyes on us, and someone wondering, ‘Did I just see that? Did they just…no…did they?’

‘I think she just stroked his cock through his jeans.’

—‘Where are his hands?’

‘I’m sure she just pulled her skirt up and her shirt down…’

—‘Was that her nipple between his fingers?’

‘I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties.’

scandalous

I have to run to a client meeting now.

I request a picture of you in your fuck-me shoes.

—I think I just came without touching myself.

—Remember that during the boring parts of the meeting.

—xo

That is so unbelievably sexy

get on that photo

demanding, i know

11 days xx

‘Mom?’ I turn my head. ‘Look what I made!’

I am a really good mom.

Except I’m not sure really good moms exchange ‘Was that her nipple between his fingers?’ and ‘I’m pretty positive she just handed him her panties’ texts with their ex-lovers while their kids do crafts. In a fucking museum.

Well, Marie probably does.

And she’s a good mom.

Ex-lover. Returning lover. Oh, fucking hell. The point here is…what is the point? The point is this: am I genuinely planning to fuck Matt when he comes to town?

I drive like a maniac across the downtown, and it’s a minor miracle we get home without an accident.

‘Ja-ane!’

My neighbour Lacey is pulling into her driveway as I’m stepping out of the car. ‘Ja-ane! You have to see this! You won’t believe what I’ve just been dooo-ing!’

Lacey is…Lacey is perfection.

I think she’s 52 or 53, and I only think this because I’ve been to her fiftieth birthday party a couple of years ago. You would never say of Lacey, ‘Oh, my God, I hope I look like that when I’m fifty.’ You would say, ‘Fuck, I wish I was that when I was twenty.’ And then you’d try to get her into bed.

I’m not overselling. Carved out of ebony, voluptuous, curvy, perfect in every way – the centre of any room into which she saunters. (She doesn’t walk; she saunters.) She makes me want to climb into her lap and nibble on her ears.

And she makes me smile, always, when I see her. Not even Marie does that.

Lacey’s been my neighbour almost all of my mother-life. She has spent much of this time searching for a soulmate – and almost all of it fucking Clint.

Clint’s car pulls up behind Lacey’s. She waves at him as she runs over to me.

‘You will never believe what Clint and I have been doing!’ she whispers. She leans in closer to me, her lips almost touching my ear. (Does she do this on purpose? No. Of course not. It’s just me. I think about her ear lobes at the most inappropriate times.) ‘We’ve been ring shopping!’

As she reaches into her purse – to pull out a box? – I’m stunned. Yes, Clint allegedly proposed last summer, after he turned 50. Part of his mid-life crisis. And Lacey seemed to actually believe it. But ring shopping? Really? Clint?

Lacey whips out her phone. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I like this one. And this one. And this one. Clint likes this one.’

Just pictures. Not yet the real thing.

That I can believe.

Clint has opened his car door. One long leg is hanging out. The rest of him will stay in the car until I’m gone. That’s his MO. Limit contact with women he’s not sleeping with – and keep contact with the women he’s sleeping with or wants to sleep with to the minimum necessary to sleep with them.

‘They’re beautiful, Lacey,’ I say sincerely.

Lacey smiles, and puts the phone away.

‘I think it’s actually going to happen,’ she says. ‘You know, the wedding.’

I flush. My scepticism about the ring, the wedding – the relationship – is justifiable. How many years? How many ‘Lacey is single’/‘Lacey is in a relationship’/‘It’s complicated’ switchbacks on her Facebook status? But I would not express that to Lacey for anything.

I arrange my lips into what is meant to be a supportive smile. Perhaps it comes out wrong, as Lacey takes a step back.

‘You look different,’ she says. ‘Have you cut your hair?’ I shake my head. ‘Lost weight?’ ‘Uhm-no.’ ‘New dress?’ ‘No.’

‘Well, there’s something about you.’ She gives me a critical look. ‘I like it,’ she pronounces. ‘Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!’ And she saunters into the house.

Lacey claims to be a little bit psychic. Perhaps she is.

As I unbuckle Annie, I see Clint get out of his car. As I lock the van, he’s reaching Lacey’s front door.

Jesus Christ, was he unbuckling his belt with one hand while reaching for the door knob with the other?

I need to get my mind out of the gutter.

‘Mom!’ Eddie wails. ‘Open the door! It’s so cold!’

The kids snack, then disappear into various corners of the house, except for Annie, who sits in my lap as I make pasta. Alex makes it home just as I’m slopping it into bowls on the table; the children squeal with delight, and then fight over who gets to sit next to him. He offers to do bedtime if they stop fighting, and they suppress it, a little.

I do a half-ass job cleaning the kitchen – good mother. A morally ambiguous wife. A horrid housekeeper. And then, to the sound of my husband running our children’s bath, I pop open the laptop. And this time I take the initiative.

Because I am clearly insane.

—I’ve rethought the visuals. I’ve never seen you in a tie. Use your belt. It’ll have to come off anyway.

And of course he’s there.

No, the only time I’ve ever used a tie on you, we borrowed it. Remember?

And leather is more fun.

—Indeed.

How long will I have you?

—I guess that depends on when you untie me.

I’ll try not to be greedy. // Try // I make no promises.

Now tell me. In detail. What you did last night.

—I don’t know how to start.

Begin at the beginning, insatiable you. And take me through every filthy detail.

—No. I think I’ll just tell you Alex had gouge marks all the way down his back at the end.

Lucky man. Unless he doesn’t enjoy the scratches.

—And you? Did you aim at the lace and watch it trickle down?

I had you tied up (thinking ahead…though your wrists were behind your back), working your mouth, laced breasts jutting forward from having your wrists bound. Then when I was ready, I stroked the last few moments, freeing your mouth. I wanted you to word-fuck me to the end.

Then I aimed.

A hot beautiful messy sight.

—You were always much better at this than I.

Love making you wet

(presumptive)

—(right)

hungry

—yes

ready to devour you

—trembling

are you ready to be put to work?

—no

no? wet and trembling sounds ready to me

—still need something

Tell me. What do you need?

—something to nudge me over the edge

—a hand in just the right place, a tongue on just the right spot

a firm handprint on your lovely skin

—perhaps

—just enough pressure

just enough to motivate

an encouraging spank

not being punished.

(yet)

—Fuck. Has it been 10 years since we’ve seen each other?

more, perhaps

a long interval

—I’m astounded you can still do this to me.

Amazing how fast to rekindle, yes.

—primeval

I’ve never stopped wanting you.

I always thought we were sexual equals.

—I like that.

We are a twisted pair.

—twisted?

In the best way – woven together in some primal way. We match.

Tell me you want me.

—So much. You?

I want to feel your hair in my hands as I take you from behind.

I want to unleash you, drive you mad. Fuck you until you lose your words, all your self-restraint.

—Fuck. So primal. I still remember the way you smell, you know. I didn’t think I did, but in this moment, it is all around me.

It’s what you need to nudge you over the edge.

Now get on your knees.

Open your mouth.

—oh

Thrust your tongue out so I can fuck your mouth deeper.

—yes…

further

—you’re bigger than I remember

I can feel the tip of your tongue on my balls each time I bury my cock in your face.

—you curve

—where are my hands?

rubbing your wet pussy

your moans transmit along the shaft of my cock

—vibrating

‘come for me while I use your pretty mouth’

I tighten my grip on your hair to raise the tension.

Raise the stakes. Nudge you over the edge.

—teeth on your cock

I like it

now come.

—teeth and mouth off your cock, my face just pressed against you while I writhe

I press your face against me, clutching you, almost smothering you, your hot wet breathing burning into me.

—I moan. You tell me…

‘Come for me. Show me how hard you can come.’

—My teeth are clenched and I hiss

—My hands can’t keep up any more. I press myself against your leg, I rub