Confessions

Jacob has always been the ‘giver’ type. He’d sooner go down on me than ask me to blow him, or he’d always make it a point that I come first. I asked him before why it seemed that he didn’t really care about his own pleasure. His response was simple: “Knowing that I made you lose control? You don’t know how much that gives me a high.”

But today is his birthday and there’s nothing more I want than seeing Jacob losing all semblance of control. Yes, there were times that he was rough with me and oh God, let’s not even start about those times where his lewd sounds of pleasure were loud enough that we’d get complaints (and those propositions for a threesome). But despite the seemingly wildness in his actions, Jacob never truly lets go of his inhibitions. In that way we are so much alike, but unlike me Jacob is very good at hiding his true nature.

In the same way where he seems to be domineering when he’s actually a submissive who would offer *everything* to give me pleasure, Jacob Frye actually has a very tight lid on the true extent of his sexual impulses. I *want* him to finally let them loose on his birthday. I *want* him to completely dominate me, defile me, take everything I can give until I have nothing left.

“Tell me what you really want, Jacob,” I whisper as I circle my tongue around the head of his cock. “Tell me your dirtiest fantasies. It’s your birthday. I can make them come true.”

He shakes his head, mild panic in his handsome face. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, love. There’s a reason why I never told anyone about them.”

I smirk at him. “You know every dirty fantasy I’ve had, and not once did you flinch. What makes you think that I’m not ready for what you have in mind?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He looks conflicted.

“I promise I won’t judge,” I assure him, tracing my thumb lightly and around his frenulum, smiling when I see his eyes glaze over at the sensation.

The morning after his birthday, I lay face down on our bed, the sweat on my back still cooling off. I feel sore and tender all over; both of my orifices feel stretched and I imagine it would take days before I can sit down without discomfort. I feel the stickiness of his ejaculate in between my thighs, my breasts, my buttocks, even my face. Dimly, I wonder, ‘How many times did Jacob come last night?’ I lost track of time after *I* came six times.

“You should see yourself right now, love,” Jacob remarks from behind me. Ah, yes. That smug tone. I turn around slowly to face him, wincing when my muscles ache in protest. He is sitting on the windowsill, his brown hair mussed in the most epic (and adorable) bed head. “You sound chipper for a man who got knocked out cold after his last orgasm.” My statement would’ve been a retort if it weren’t for my tired hoarse voice.

He smirks and walks over to me. He lays down, resting against his elbows. “I came seven times, you know. I was 14 the last time I did that.”

A slow teasing smile lifts the corners of my mouth. “Just seven? I was hoping you’d hit nine, considering the 9th is your birthday.”

He makes an exaggerated groan and spanks my thigh. “You’d be the death of me, you know that?”