LOGINWet Confessions Thirty Taboo Tales You’ll Never Forget Some secrets are whispered. Some are moaned. And some are written between trembling thighs. From steamy offices and dimly lit confessionals to forbidden bedrooms and midnight rendezvous, Wet Confessions is a raw, unapologetically sexy collection of 30 taboo short stories that explore the desires we hide behind closed doors. Every story is a sin dressed in silk. Every character is someone you shouldn’t want but do. And every ending leaves you aching for more. These are the fantasies you never say out loud. The confessions you’d only whisper in the dark. And the kind of love you’re not supposed to crave. Read if you dare. Want more when you're done.
View MoreAda lived in quiet routines. Married for five years, she had learned the rhythm of her life: work, dinner, phone call to her husband Tunde at the hospital, sleep. Silence was comfortable or at least predictable. Until Kunle moved in next door.He wasn’t loud or brash. He was friendly, observant, unnervingly aware. He noticed the subtle things: how she hummed while baking, how her ring caught the light, how she lingered over her coffee as if savoring more than just the taste.That Sunday evening, he knocked.“I’m sorry,” he said, holding a small measuring cup. “I ran out of sugar. Could I borrow some?”She should have said no. She should have closed the door. But curiosity and something unnameable made her step aside.The kitchen light was soft, warm. Flour dusted the counter, a tray of cookies cooling nearby. He lingered, casual but deliberate, as she reached for the sugar. Their fingers brushed. The pause between them was electric, filled with a tension that neither could or wan
THE CONFESSION She didn’t plan to say it out loud. It slipped out the way truths sometimes do quiet, unguarded, irreversible. “I don’t feel wanted anymore.” The words hung between them, fragile and naked. Dr. Elias Moreau didn’t react the way men usually did when a woman admitted loneliness. He didn’t rush to reassure. Didn’t soften his voice into pity. Didn’t lean back like he was uncomfortable with intimacy. He leaned forward. Not close. Just enough. Enough to let her feel that her words had landed somewhere real. “How long have you felt that way?” he asked. His voice was low, steady, practice but something in it made her chest tighten. It wasn’t warmth. It was attention. She stared at her clasped hands. Her wedding ring felt heavier than usual. “Since before the wedding,” she admitted. That was the real confession. Elias made a note but his eyes stayed on her, not the page. He watched the way her shoulders curved inward, the way she shrank when she spoke
He noticed her restraint before he noticed her beauty.She didn’t sit fully back in the chair. Most people did collapsed into it, surrendered to the safety of upholstery and permission. She perched instead, spine straight, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap like she was afraid of spilling something if she relaxed too much.Her wedding ring caught the light when she moved.“I don’t know how to say this without sounding ungrateful,” she said.Her voice was soft but deliberate. Not timid. Controlled.He inclined his head, pen hovering above his notebook, posture open but professionally neutral.“You can say it however it comes,” he replied.She drew in a slow breath, eyes lowering.“My husband is kind,” she began. “He’s responsible. He never forgets anniversaries. He never yells. He provides.”A pause followed heavy, expectant.“And yet,” she continued, lifting her gaze, “I feel invisible in my own marriage.”The sentence landed with a quiet finality. She seemed surprised by
They never asked if she wanted it.The envelope waited on her kitchen table when she came home, black against the pale wood like a bruise. No stamp. No seam. Just her name pressed into it embossed, not written as if the paper had been taught to remember her.Inside lay the key.It was larger than she expected, old-fashioned, its teeth asymmetrical, almost organic. When she lifted it, warmth bled into her skin, spreading slowly up her arm. The metal carried a faint scent iron, skin, something intimate and closed.She wrapped it in a cloth and placed it in a drawer.That night, she dreamed of mouths opening where doors should have been.At first, nothing happened.Then came the awareness.Not of the key itself, but of him the man she worked with, the one whose presence had always felt carefully neutral. They had shared elevators, meetings, nods of professional courtesy. A man who never leaned too close. Never let his eyes linger.Until they did.It was small. A hesitation before he look





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