All Chapters of Wet Confessions: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

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.

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.

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.

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

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