WET CONFESSIONS

I wasn't looking for a roommate. Not really.

But when Dean offered me the second bedroom, it was perfect. Big, cheap, close to campus. And he was hot but safe. We were friends. We'd known each other through mutuals for a while. He wasn't pushy. Didn't flirt at least not outwardly.

Until I noticed the way he watched me when I walked around in sleep shorts. Or how he paused every time I bent over to grab something from the fridge.

There was tension. Always had been. But we danced around it like it was breakable glass.

That ended when I came home one Friday night and saw a contract printed neatly on the kitchen table.

The Roommate Agreement.

My name typed at the top. His at the bottom. Pages of terms and bullet points, like a legal doc made just for the kind of tension we'd never dared act on.

Clause 1.1: All engagements must be consensual and initiated verbally or through previously agreed nonverbal cues.

Clause 2.3: Control dynamics will be mutually respected.

Clause 3.4: Safe words apply. Red stops everything. Yellow slows.

Clause 4.0: Emotional detachment is not required.

My heart was pounding before I even turned to the second page.

Then I saw it, his signature at the bottom. Inked in bold, deliberate strokes.

He'd signed it.

And beside the blank space where mine was supposed to go, he'd written a single line in his handwriting:

If you're brave enough to stop pretending.

I carried the contract into his room like it was a weapon. Like it was a key.

He didn't look up at first just sprawled across his bed shirtless, scrolling on his phone.

"This is a joke, right?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?"

I could barely speak. "You, you've been thinking about this?"

He met my eyes then. Slowly. Dark. Unapologetic.

"For two years."

"You're insane."

"You're wet."

My thighs clenched. Hard.

And then I said the stupidest, bravest thing I've ever said:

"Where's a pen?"

First Session

I didn't sleep that night. Couldn't.

The moment I signed it, I wasn't just his roommate anymore. I was something else his to control, to please, to ruin.

That first night, he told me to show up in the living room at midnight. Barefoot. In a robe. No underwear.

I obeyed.

He was already waiting fully dressed in black joggers, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in one hand.

He didn't even speak at first. Just walked around me in silence. Circled like a panther. I felt stripped even though I hadn't taken the robe off yet.

"You nervous?" he asked.

"No," I lied.

He stepped behind me. Pulled the sash on my robe.

The fabric slipped.

And so did my breath.

"You're trembling."

"I'm turned on."

His hand slid between my thighs and confirmed it. I was soaked obscene and glistening.

"I want you to remember something," he said, fingers stroking lazily. "This is still your choice. Always."

"I know."

"Good. Then get on your knees."

I knelt on the rug, eyes locked on his.

He didn't unzip immediately.

He made me wait fingertips trailing my jaw, tracing my lips.

"You want to taste it?"

"Yes."

"Then beg."

"Please, Dean. Let me suck your cock."

He groaned low in his throat, then freed himself.

God. He was huge. Thick and veined, already hard.

I wrapped my lips around the head slowly, then deeper, letting him feel every inch of my mouth as I sucked him in with a soft moan.

He hissed.

"Fuck, your mouth was made for this."

He held the back of my head, guiding me, praising me between breathless groans as I licked, sucked, and swallowed every drop of arousal he gave me.

But he didn't finish in my mouth.

He pulled me off with a pop, eyes wild, and growled:

"Bed. Now."

The Couch. The Spanking. The Control.

He bent me over the armrest like I weighed nothing.

And then came the spanking.

Not too rough. But hard enough to make my skin burn and my core throb.

Between each smack, his fingers explored slipping between my folds, playing with my clit, dipping just enough to make me whimper.

"You've been thinking about this too, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"About being bent over like a little slut for your roommate?"

"Yes."

He spanked again harder. "What are you?"

"Yours."

He moaned into my neck, grinding against me, his cock teasing my entrance until I was shaking.

But he didn't fuck me.

Not yet.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, hand cupping my sex possessively. "Tomorrow I ruin you."

The Next Night

He kept his promise.

He blindfolded me. Tied my hands with silk. Spread me on his bed like a feast.

And then? He went slow.

Licked every inch of me. Worshipped my thighs. Bit into my hipbones.

When he finally slid inside deep, hard, without warning I screamed.

He didn't stop.

He gripped my wrists. Fucked me like he owned every part of me. Like he'd waited years to claim this exact moment.

And I let him.

I came three times before he did.

And when he collapsed beside me, panting, he whispered, "No contract will ever be enough. You're mine now."

And I whispered back, "I know."