The Birds Are Telling Me To Stop Fucking You- Confess Hannah

It’s 11pm and I’m snuggling into your chest as we are looking for new audiobooks for you to download when you inevitably head down the road for work again. I’m happy although haven’t slept well for a few days, and I’m looking forward to at least a small lie in before we begin the day tomorrow.

‘I’m getting up early to go to the office.’ You say, as my eyes are closing and breathing gets heavier.

I murmur back in response, half listening.

‘And by early, I mean 6AM’

Fucker.

All too quickly it’s 6AM and you’ve decided the most appropriate thing to wake us up is a rousing rendition of The Hall of the Mountain King. It starts quietly, but by the end all I can hear is the swirling music round and round my head. Accompanied by your heavy snoring. Before it starts ever so quietly again.

‘You’ve missed your wake up song, but it’s started again for you’ I whisper in his ear. Sound rarely wakes him, but movement does. I pretend I’m absolutely fine with all of this, when really I know if I have to hear this song again at 6:03AM I’ll be… mildly irritated? I don’t have too long to dwell on my irritation however, as the music is turned off and he pulls me into him- dragging an arm around my stomach and pulling my waist closer still. He is an excellent big spoon.

I know this position is dangerous. We don’t get to wake up together often, and with his ‘one track morning mind’ and my inability to say no to him as he grips my hips and rubs against me, I know we have only a few seconds to make the decision of whether he will in fact get to work as early as planned. I’m backing up against him, wriggling against his erection, and he is snaking his hand underneath my shirt until he gives my nipple a tug. Seconds are over, looks like we’re fucked.

He can do this magic thing with his fingers, and you know I love a magician. Once he works them deep inside me, he barely has to move them. I’m unsure if I’m actually the one doing the moving- it’s quite the sleight of hand. It makes me twitch and writhe, and there is no way to keep quiet. I know he’s wanting to work the morning’s first orgasm out of me already, but I know it’s just not going to happen yet. Although I happily lift my leg higher, offering him easier access as he alternates between the magic his fingers seem to achieve inside my cunt, and circling his fingertips around my clit. He knows that’s how I get wet when sometimes I find that a struggle.

Usually I’d apologise for not being able to orgasm if I know it’s going to take me a while, but this morning I hold my apologies in. My mouth is busy making all kinds of noises as I try to bite the corner of my pillow. My brain is too focused on the sensations and the intensity, and apparently not hard enough on my surroundings as I find myself on my back and he’s looming over me, tugging at the bottom of my shirt.

‘Take this off, right now.’

It’s the first time I hear his voice. Sleepy, gruff, dominant, confident. Assertive. I daren’t disobey as I begin to pull it over my head. But then he grabs the handful of material and both of my wrists with it, pinning my hands above my head. He looks me up and down, and makes this… noise. A noise of satisfaction and approval, and if I could see his eyes properly in the not-quite-there morning light I’m sure there’d be longing and want to match.

The thing you have to really be there to understand is what it really feels like when he pins me down and just wants to take me. He’s strong. Even with just one arm pinning me down I have no chance. His presence looming over me and weight pressing down on me does so many things to me. I lose all sense of everything, so that when he tells me he’s going to be rough with me, so I’ll be feeling it for the rest of the day, I have no real option but to let out a noise. I say noise because it’s never certain whether it will be a squeak, whimper, moan or some other indistinguishable vocalisation of the ripples of anticipation running through my body.

And, fucking hell, he’s rough with me. He’s biting my neck whilst holding my wrists above my head. He flips me onto my stomach as I arch my back with my legs together before he presses his hand down at the base of my neck. But something else you really have to be there for, along with the feeling of being held down by my wrists, is the way he physically moves me. My wording is deliberate, because for me it’s a very passive act. Standing by the edge of the bed, he’ll drag me across his sheets. If I’m on my front, he’ll part my legs, encouraging me to move faster with a small slap, grab the inside of my thigh and pull me to face the ceiling. I really don’t stand a chance against this tall, heavy, focused Scot- which frankly delights me. And it is a fucking incredible place to be. Especially as he grabs a fist of my hair, pushes me down into the bed, keeps me there as he fucks me over and over again and growls in my ear ‘You’re going to come for me, tiny girl.’ And I just melt and coherence leaves me as the new feeling overwhelms me.

Which makes his next sentence very confusing.

‘The birds are telling me to stop fucking you.’

‘What?’

‘The birds, they are telling me to stop fucking you.’

Then I hear it, my quiet birdsong alarm chirping through the room. Meaning it’s 7am and we’ve been at this for an hour. Our stop 40 mins in because he felt dizzy and needed water makes a bit more sense now. As does the fact it is light enough to see his eyebrows raise at my response.

‘Oh so you can hear those tiny birds, but the Hall of the Mountain King just blends into the surroundings at 6AM…?’

Obviously I get a stinging arse for being so cheeky, and off he saunters into the shower. He didn’t finish. Sometimes he has to hold back a couple of times, and apparently that ‘scares it away’. I’ve informed him there are both merits to a long fuck session, and a 4 min quickie where he can’t help himself but finish inside me, or on me, and stamina really isn’t everything- although this morning was fucking delightful. Sometimes it doesn’t happen for either of us, and we check in and ask if everything is okay before acknowledging we had a great time and normalising not always having an orgasm.

I think he’s about to start that conversation, as he reappears, damp in his towel. I feel myself twinge between my legs at the sight, whilst acknowledging I have absolutely no energy left.

But he doesn’t. Instead he says,

‘You better be here when I get back, I’m nowhere near done with you yet…’

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