Tell Me More. Janet Mullany

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      “I’m not sure we’re even arguing. I don’t want you to get hurt by our … affair.”

      “Affair. You’re so old school.”

      “Yes, I am. How would you define our relationship?”

      “I don’t know. Does it matter? It is what it is, whatever that might be.” I paused. “If I did fuck someone, what then?”

      “You mean, should you tell me?”

      “Yes.”

      “If you wanted to.”

      “Tell you or … describe it to you?”

      “Whatever you feel like doing.”

      He kept throwing the ball back into my court, giving me the control—or pretending to give me the control.

      “I might ask you to do the same. Tell me about an encounter you had. Would you do that?”

      “If you asked, yes. Gladly.”

      I stood, pushing my feet into my shoes and reaching for my shawl. “Let me think about it. I should go home. I’m glad you called.” I was a bit scared. We seemed to have moved very fast into kink territory and what alarmed me most was how it excited me. Kimberly had once said that even ordinary people have the most bizarre sex lives, that a huge amount of kinky stuff goes on in nice normal neighborhoods between nice normal people. I’d asked her what her preferences were, not really believing her, challenging her.

      She had leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Woof. Woof.”

      Then we’d both collapsed in giggles. But ever since then, my mind had opened up to the possibilities. I’d wondered. I’d been curious.

      And now here was my chance to go on my own voyage of discovery and storytelling and while it was exhilarating I was scared by it. Would I regret not going on the kink voyage when I was old and gray (although Kimberly assured me the old hippies were the best—or the worst—depending on how you looked at it)? Would Sinbad have regretted never taking the voyage?

      “Before you go …” He cleared his throat. “Very high heels and stockings with seams, my source said. Real stockings?”

      “No. Thigh-highs.”

      “Ah. No garter belt, then. A pity.”

      I smiled at the regret in his voice. “But with no panties,” I lied, and pushed my ordinary white cotton pair down. Not quite a lie.

      “No panties at the symphony?” He laughed.

      “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. The orchestra was pretty good tonight. I don’t know if your source actually listened to the music. Maybe he spent the whole night looking at my legs.”

      “My source also mentioned your nipples.”

      “Your source needs a cold shower.”

      “Jo?”

      “Hmm?” The air had shifted, or so it felt, although the studio was perfectly warm and comfortable. My nipples were erect.

      “Show me.”

      “Show you what?”

      “Take off your top.”

      I turned on the speaker to the phone and untied the halter top. It slithered down my torso in a caress of satin.

      “That rustling sound …”

      “My skirt.”

      “Ah. And your nipples …”

      “Erect. Very hard. Dark pink like raspberries. I’m pinching them.”

      “Good. Are you standing or sitting?”

      “Standing.”

      “Spread your legs. Can you feel the air on your cunt?”

      It was the first time he’d ever used the word, the first time I’d ever liked a man to say it to me. The contrast between his cultured voice and the crudeness of the word made me shiver.

      “Now lift your skirt. Tuck it up, if you can, so you can keep your hands on your breasts. I want to see you exposed, the contrast of the black stockings against your skin. That rustling is supremely erotic, by the way.”

      “Say it again,” I whispered, my skirt tucked up.

      “What?”

      “Talk about my cunt. Please.”

      “Your cunt.” I could hear the smile in his voice. That’s what we say in the business, when you want to convey an upbeat attitude on mic. Put a bit of smile in it.

      “Your cunt,” he repeated. “I’m imagining your hair looks very dark against the white of your legs. Quite a lot of hair. You’re not the sort of woman who’d shave or wax it into submission. Is your cunt wet, Jo?”

      “Yes. I want to touch myself.”

      “Not yet. Can you come from touching your breasts?”

      I moaned and rocked my pelvis forward. I thought of the pinkness and wetness between my legs, my clit a hard splinter of nerve endings. I pressed my middle finger hard against my nipple as though it was my clit, rotating.

      “That’s right, darling. Get yourself off.”

      “Talk to me,” I gasped. “I’ll come if you talk to me.”

      The studio door banged open, and I blinked as the room flooded with light.

      Jason stood there, his mouth hanging open at the sight of me.

      I stood there for a moment, horrified, my fingers stilled, before I lunged forward and disconnected the call. I fumbled to pull my top up, my skirt down.

      “I’m sorry—” Jason mumbled. He had an erection; I could see it distending his jeans.

      “No, I’m sorry. Oh, fuck.” I could get fired for this.

      “I was … uh, I didn’t think you were here.”

      “I didn’t know anyone else was here.” My fingers shook as I tied the halter top. “I’m leaving now.”

      I grabbed my shawl and purse, mortified, further embarrassed by having to scoop my panties from the floor. I’d find another phone and call a cab. I’d wait for it outside, braving the freezing temperature, rather than having to face Jason after what he’d seen.

      “I’m sorry,” I said again. I walked toward the door, toward him, discovering it was almost impossible not to walk with a sexy sway in the shoes.

      “Uh. It’s okay. It was hot.” Jason blushed. He backed away from me. “You’re hot.”

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