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Confession No. 24 – Locker Room Rules
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2025-06-26 15:00:09
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Wet Confessions Confession No. 44: To Touch the Beast: My Sacred Fall in the Temple of Dust
Confession recovered from the lost Temple of Aeyra. Bound in crimson silk and sealed with sacred wax.They say the desert never forgets. But the dunes of Arkenash buried my shame under layers of scorched sand, swallowing the echo of my moans where no goddess dared listen.His name was Daryth Vorn. The Beast of Istavar. The man who would unmake me.The first time I saw him, I was in a trance, draped in sheer ceremonial veils, preparing a sacred oil bath for the goddess's blessing. The temple's dome was wide open to the heavens, letting the scent of saffron, myrrh, and anticipation fill the sacred chamber. I had not known a man's gaze until then. The acolytes whispered of lust. I knew only prophecy until he arrived.He did not speak when he entered. He didn't have to. The temple guards fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hush in deference to his presence. I knew who he was by the iron in his stare and the heat crawling between my thighs. I knelt, head bowed, hiding the way my nipples b
Wet Confessions Confession No. 43: The Garden Behind the Mask (Damon’s Confession)
PART 1: The Masked InvitationThe letter came wrapped in velvet, the envelope as black as midnight and sealed with a silver crest: a serpent coiled around a thorned rose. Damon Voltaire stared at it for a long moment before breaking the seal. The invitation inside was simple:You are summoned to La Maison d'Épine for an evening of confession. The Garden awaits you at midnight.Damon’s fingers trembled slightly, though his face remained unreadable. Only a few knew of the secret pleasure society buried beneath the old city opera house fewer still were chosen for its inner garden, a sanctum of masked desire, where pain and passion wove stories in moans and silk.It had been years since Damon submitted a scenario to the Garden's Mistress. He had described a fantasy so precise it startled even him: no talking, just silent powerplay, a woman bound in public, yet entirely his. The danger wasn’t in the act it was in recognition. To see her. To be seen.As midnight approached, Damon dressed in
Wet Confessions Confession No. 42: Boarding House Heat
The old boarding house on Maple Lane was known for its rickety steps, leaky ceilings, and an unspoken rule: what happened within its walls stayed there.Alina moved in at the start of summer, a fresh graduate with big city dreams and very little money. The house was owned by Mrs. Madrigal, a woman in her late forties with salt streaked auburn hair, strict lips, and the kind of body that turned heads without even trying. A former dancer with a reputation as sharp as her stilettos, Mrs. Madrigal had rules, yes, but she also had a glint in her eye that hinted at pleasures behind closed doors."You're in Room 3B," she said, handing Alina the key. "No loud music after ten. No boys after midnight. And don’t snoop."Alina nodded, unaware that 3B had a connecting door locked from Mrs. Madrigal’s side.Weeks passed, thick with summer heat. The house creaked with secrets. At night, Alina would sometimes hear soft, rhythmic thumps through the walls, low moans that made her breath hitch, and once
Wet Confessions Confession No. 41: Office Hours Only
The hum of the office air conditioning masked the pulse that throbbed in Nia’s ears. She sat across from Mr. Rhoades, the sharp eyed Managing Director of Whitlock & Haynes, who had just dismissed the rest of the team from the quarterly review. Her chair felt suddenly too small, the room too quiet, and his gaze far too piercing.He stood slowly, tall and devastatingly composed in a tailored navy suit. The tension between them had been simmering for weeks subtle brushes in the hallway, knowing glances during meetings, a few too long stares during after work drinks. But neither had crossed the line.Until now.“I asked you to stay behind,” Mr. Rhoades said, voice calm and deliberate. “Not because of the report. That was just an excuse.”Nia blinked. “Sir?”He stepped closer. “You’ve been testing my patience, Miss Clarke.”“I, I didn’t mean to”His hand cut the air. “Don’t lie. You know exactly what you’re doing. The way you bite your lip when I walk by. The skirt that gets shorter every
Wet Confessions ConfessionNo. 40: Mistress of the House – The Unraveling
The Langford estate slumbered beneath a blanket of moonlight, each window a flickering eye into secrets long held. The night air was thick with jasmine and anticipation. Within the west wing, behind velvet draped doors, the rhythm of control and submission reached its climax.Alina lay draped across Siena’s lap, her silk clad body quivering beneath the firm hand that had guided her through every twisted inch of desire. The room smelled of rose oil, sandalwood, and something raw need, perhaps. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the mirrors that reflected every flushed cheek, every trembling breath.Siena’s fingers slid beneath Alina’s chin, tilting her gaze upward. "Tonight, you will learn what it means to truly give. Not just your body, but your will."Alina's lips parted, but she made no sound. Her eyes, wide with both fear and hunger, spoke the words her mouth couldn’t.Siena stood, her satin skirt whispering across the floor. She unfastened a lacquered chest at the foot
Wet Confessions Confession No. 39– The Anonymous Letters
The first letter arrived on a Monday.Tucked inside a worn paperback of Wuthering Heights, it was folded neatly on cream stationery and scented faintly like sandalwood.Camille hadn’t seen who returned the book. It had simply shown up in the after hours bin.Curious, she opened it.Camille, I’ve watched you shelve novels barefoot after closing. Your lips move when you read. You blush when you touch certain passages. I want to know what part of you flushes deepest.She blinked, spine tingling.How did they know her name?The letter was unsigned.By Thursday, she’d found a second.This time inside Lady Chatterley’s Lover.You wore red today. Do you know what that does to me? I had to leave the shop before I did something rash. Your body deserves to be written on, not just admired from behind a shelf.Her fingers trembled.Who was doing this?Every letter became more explicit. Descriptive. Intimate.The third one detailed a fantasy of her bent over the front counter, dress pushed up, pan
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