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Confession No. 27 – The Silent Tenant

Author: Gabriella4whyte
last update Last Updated: 2025-06-30 15:30:32

Samira lived on the third floor of an ageing apartment complex with paint chipped hallways, buzzing fluorescent lights, and paper thin walls that turned every private moment into public background noise.

She moved in a month ago to a new start, new city, new heartbreak.

Her neighbour in the next unit never introduced himself. No mail slipped under his door. No friendly hellos. No shoes outside. He was a ghost.

Except at night.

Late night.

When the world was quiet and she lay curled under her comforter, scrolling erotica forums with one hand under her shirt that’s when she heard him.

Groans. Deep. Gritty. Intimate.

At first, she thought it was a show some podcast or adult video. But soon, she realized it was raw. Real. Timed perfectly to the creak of his bed.

His breathing grew heavy. His voice grumbled curses in a low, broken rhythm. Sometimes, he'd moan softly. Once, she even heard a name.

Other nights were even more primal sharp exhales, the unmistakable slick slap of skin against s
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  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 38: The Vinyl Room

    The sign on the rusted metal door read: AFTER HOURS ONLY.Zariah hesitated. Her fingers hovered over the door handle.She’d been invited formally, even. A private text from Keon Maddox himself. The man whose soundscapes had gone viral for their raw energy, whose voice had earned him cult status underground. Rumor had it, women had climaxed from just hearing his breath on a track.She wasn’t here to swoon.She was here to work.Her docuseries on urban sound culture needed a final voiceover. He’d agreed one night, no retakes, no phones.The moment she stepped inside, the space swallowed her.Red lights. Low hums. A wall of analog dials. Rows of vinyl. Smoke scented like cedar and sin.He stood behind the booth, in shadows. Hoodie low over his face.“Zariah Cole,” he drawled into the mic. His voice slid into her chest like warm oil. “Didn’t think you’d come.”She raised a brow. “I said I would.”“Then lock the door.”She did.He motioned to the sound booth.“Strip,” he said.She stared.

  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 37– The Dinner Obedience Test

    Amaya stood in front of her full length mirror, breath shallow.Roman’s instructions were clear.“Dinner. 8 PM. Black dress. No bra. No panties. Hair up. Heels. Wear the plug.”She obeyed. Not because she had to but because she craved to.Every time he touched her, she unravelled. Every command he gave? It wasn’t control. It was freedom. The freedom to stop pretending she didn’t want to be owned.She arrived at the private rooftop club at 7:59 PM, escorted by a man who only said, “He’s waiting.”The place shimmered with luxury: candlelight, sharp suited men, pearls and diamonds, and waiters in black. An exclusive members only restaurant where the glass walls revealed Chicago glowing like a galaxy.Roman sat in the farthest booth, half-shadowed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at sin beneath silk.She approached slowly. His eyes lifted. Slow sweep. Heat.“You’re on time,” he said, voice low.“I always will be,” she replied.He rose, kissed her cheek almost gentlemanly, then whispe

  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 36– Executive Privileges

    Amaya West hadn’t been inside the building for more than three days, but she already knew two things:Her boss, Roman Vale, never smiled.He watched her.Not in the overt, leering way she was used to. No. Roman’s eyes were clinical. Calculating. And somehow hotter than sin.He rarely spoke. When he did, his words were clipped and cold, delivered in a tone that made her pulse flutter and her thighs clench.He moved like a man who owned the world and had no intention of apologizing for it.Amaya was assigned as his personal assistant by accident a scheduling mess up that HR claimed they’d fix "by Monday." It was Thursday. Roman hadn’t said a word about the switch. He simply handed her files, delivered curt commands, and occasionally looked at her like she was an unsolved equation.But today, something shifted.He called her into his private office at 8:57 AM.“Close the door,” he said, without glancing up from his laptop.She obeyed. Click.He didn’t speak again for several heartbeats.

  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 35– The Hotel Swap

    The air in the 11th-floor hallway smelled of citrus polish and mystery.Jules had only meant to find ice.But somehow, standing in front of a door marked 1109, barefoot in an oversized robe with her damp curls sticking to her temples, she couldn’t remember which way she’d come from.Damn spa showers. Too relaxing. And now her keycard was somewhere between the eucalyptus steam room and the lounge, and she didn’t want to call the front desk in nothing but a robe and a blush.Then the door in front of her clicked.Her breath caught.She hadn’t knocked.But it opened.And inside stood a man.Dark hair. A towel slung low around his hips. A shadow of stubble along his jaw.And a voice like honey-dipped bourbon when he said“You took your time.”Jules opened her mouth to protest but paused.His smile was slow. His gaze unreadable. But there was no confusion on his face. Only expectation.He thought she was someone else.She should’ve corrected him.But instead, she stepped inside.The suite

  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 34– Behind the Velvet Curtain

    Delilah never meant to return to the theater. Not this one.Not the creaking, gilded relic that once cradled her every dream and then spit her out.But something called her back.Maybe it was the echo of applause she still heard in her bones. Maybe it was the empty stage that still smelled of sweat, chalk, and ambition. Or maybe it was something deeper.Something darker.She hadn’t told anyone she was here tonight.The stage lights didn’t work anymore, but the backstage hall glowed faintly with the city’s spill of moonlight. She wore a black trench over her leotard and fishnets, hair twisted into a bun like the ballerina she used to be.The key still worked.She stepped into the theater’s main space, breath catching as the velvet curtain loomed in front of her deep crimson, thick with secrets. Her heels clicked across the stage’s wooden floor. The moment she stood center, she exhaled.“Hello again,” she whispered.The air was colder than it should’ve been.She didn’t see him at first.

  • Wet Confessions   Confession No. 33– The Doll House Mistress

    Zariah always said dolls were misunderstood.People thought they were cute. Delicate. Passive.But to her, they were powerful.And tonight, she was ready to play.The Doll House stood behind a velvet curtain at the back of her apartment, a soundproof room bathed in low amber light. Walls lined with mirrored panels. Velvet chaise lounges. A wardrobe of corsets, lace gloves, and porcelain masks. Every detail designed for submission.And control.She opened the door, heels echoing on the dark hardwood.Miles was already there nude, collared, blindfolded, arms tied behind his back. His cock twitched as the scent of her perfume reached him.“Good doll,” she purred.His breath caught.She walked a slow circle around him, heels clicking. Her fingers traced his spine.“Do you remember your command word?”“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.“Say it.”“Glass.”“Good. But you won’t need it.”She stepped in front of him, lifted the blindfold. His eyes fluttered open and widened.Zariah wore a porcelai

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