Confessions Novels & Stories

Not impatiently, but with the measured assurance of a surgeon asking where it hurt. The question was the pinprick that burst the dam. The words, bottled so long, brimming with guilt and fear and nightmare thrill, burst out. They were not loud. They were a whisper, torn from the darkest, most fragmented part of him, a confession whispered into the holy quiet of their common ground. "I don't know who I am anymore."

He merely thought it was a waste of money when he assumed it was my mother who got into an accident. He never expected his own mother to be the one who got injured. Zachary was overwhelmed with regret. Not only did he regret not trusting me and giving me the money I asked for, but he also regretted believing Gigi and getting her acquitted.

Then his tone became serious. "I plead guilty to compromise." The room fell silent. "I accepted money I should have refused." "I made alliances I should never have made." "I protected men who deserved prison." Another pause. "I told myself it was temporary." His voice lowered. "It never is." Damian listened carefully. There was something striking about the confession. It didn't excuse anything. It simply acknowledged it. "Did you kill Samuel?" "No." The answer came instantly. Without hesitation. "Did you try to?" "No."

"Well… did the group confirm it? They didn't, did they?" "Yes, they didn't… But we have our own ways to find out and most reports coming back to us are definitely something that we need to confirm on our own. Here is a list of your achievements we secretly gathered in a month prior to your survival in the sudden S-tier quest. I hope you understand our suspicions." "Sorry, why are you particularly invested in investigating me? I'm an F-tier remember… What do you guys want from me?" The NPC became silent, "It is confidential information… we cannot tell you anything until we confirm the rumor."

“I believed lies because I wanted certainty more than truth. I was arrogant. Blind. Foolish.” The confession scraped raw on the way out. “I want you to see it so you understand how thoroughly I was manipulated. Not to forgive me. Not to absolve me.” I reached into my hoodie pocket and pulled out the worn leather journal. It looked harmless. Small. Ordinary. Yet it had destroyed us once. I held it toward her, my hand unsteady. “This is my confession,” I said quietly. “Everything Edmund used against you. Everything I failed to question.” My voice dropped.

Every fear, every doubt. I couldn’t stop replaying the conversation we had. The way he was so confident in his belief that I would eventually be his. That no matter how much I resisted, no matter how much I told myself I wouldn’t fall for his games, he would have me. He said it so casually, as though it were a simple fact. And, damn him, part of me—no matter how much I hated it—almost believed him.

The dried wax that clung to the edge of my ribs. And the collar. I ran my fingers across it feeling not restrained, but claimed. Underneath the pillow, I found another card. Rest. Breathe. You're not broken. You're opened. When you're ready, write your next confession. There were no flowers. No demands. Just space. And the echo of everything we’d shared. Somewhere between heat and silence, I smiled. Because I wasn’t just a submissive anymore. I was a story unfolding. One confession at a time.

SARAH Confess. To openly admit something or declare something that you’ve been hiding, keeping secret, or feeling guilty about. Turns out what the rest of the world knows—and that includes their psychotic foster father who has been out of touch with the world, their world, for almost twenty fucking years—that I don’t, exists. It is not just a concept I made up in my head. It is not an abstract. It is a thing. It is their history, their truth.

Brown smirked, “Of course you’re a slut. Only a slut would agree to be locked up in a room with strange men, begging to me fucked senseless.” I felt a drool slip out of my mouth. I wiped it off and for the first time, the corners of my lips curved up. “I’m a slut.” It was a confession, one I had longed to say out loud. “Shit boys, we’ve got ourselves a real one here.” that was Green eyes. I felt cinnamon spank my ass, I gasped out. “Get on your knees, Slut” I didn’t care who the order came from, I scrambled to my knees without a second of hesitation.

My notebook lies open on the bed, pages scattered with scrawls that don’t look like journalism anymore. I stare at them, ink smudged by my own fingertips, and realize with a slow rush of shame—and something darker—that I’ve stopped writing articles. I’ve started writing confessions. Entry 1 “Pain is not pain when it’s chosen. It becomes something else. A doorway. A release.” That was Jennifer’s voice echoing in my head tonight. I had scribbled it down after watching her work with Leo, but the words feel like mine now.