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—Because. I am struggling, finally, suddenly, with reconciling this, what you do to me, with my real life. And my real obligations. Which I want and need to preserve. Do you understand? A husband. Four children. A really fucking great life.
Yes. I understand.
Jane.
Do you remember – the last time we saw each other. It was the only time you were ever in my condo in Montreal. On the balcony. Everyone else was in the kitchen.
—I remember. The last time.
I had you alone for only a few moments. I looked at your legs and asked if you were wearing stockings.
—You put your hands under my skirt.
You gave me the most withering, pitying look. Pulled away. Do you remember what you said?
—‘Get your fucking hands off me.’
Yes.
—I was pregnant with Cassandra.
I figured it out – a few months later. At the time, it was such a slap – your first real rejection of me. You would not look at me the rest of the night. And I never wanted you more. Of course. Perversely. 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 am struggling. See, I remember that moment, so very well. I remember how you looked at me. I remember how I felt with your hands on me. And I remember…I remember realising that if I was going to do this properly – if I was going to be Alex’s wife, and the mother of his children – I had to stay the fuck away from you.
—And this bothers me, this: you and Joy, you still have no children?
No. We’ve been trying to conceive, half-heartedly, the last year or so.
—Half-heartedly?
Utilitarian, reproductive sex is boring. You know I’d think that. But, Jane, and this is what you are asking: I am not looking for an out of my marriage. I am not looking to destroy yours. I am looking to fuck you senseless when I come. Use you. And leave.
Is that blunt and honest enough for you, my forever lover?
—Tell me you’re not having a mid-life crisis, are not frustrated with your marriage, aren’t…oh, fuck, I don’t even know what. What do I want you to tell me?
This: this is about us. Always. An opportunity. A gift. A chance to come together again.
And you want it as much as I do.
—You are always corrupting me.
We were always corrupting each other. I think, deep down, you’re more a harlot than even I.
—Bastard.
At least, that’s my fantasy.
—I want to run. That’s what I do with you, what I’ve always done with you. Enjoy a little, suffer a little, then leave. That’s my MO.
Yes. The running. Your MO, as you put it. Well. Have you enjoyed enough? Tell me to fuck off and go away. Maybe I will.
—Maybe?
No. Probably not. You’ve admitted already it’s too late for you to start playing coy.
—I am promised to you.
I don’t chase. It’s undignified. You are promised to me.
—And if it’s everything we’ve been imagining, we will repeat it in another 10 years.
With great pleasure.
Now quickly.
Tell me what you’ll be doing in eight days, my lover.
—I will be your fuckslave.
Again.
—I will be your fuckslave…
—my lover
Your master
—Presumptuous.
You will be on your fucking knees before me, my whore. Say it.
—Yes.
Good.
8. xo
—8. xx
I’m so fucked.
Day 5 One night (#ulink_4bbd8361-e109-5c02-8137-8d4dbb9eaf4b)
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
