Foreskin's Lament A Memoir Novels & Stories

The memo line contained only four words: For the real work. I stared at it, the numbers blurring. This wasn’t just money. It was an apology. It was a testament. It was him, finally, after a lifetime of trying to protect me from the truth, putting his money, his own separate identity, squarely behind the messy, complicated, and very public truth of me. “He can’t…” I whispered. “This is his retirement…” “He said you’d say that,” Ben said. “He told me to tell you that some things are more important than a comfortable retirement. And that he’s sorry he forgot that.”

Looking down at my naked self, I shook my head in disappointment, especially when I saw the hickeys along my inner thighs. Although I'd been drunk, the memories of how Francesco had made hot, aggressive love to me, was extremely vivid in my mind. Swallowing harshly, I pushed the lascivious thoughts down and got out of bed. Thankfully, my clothes and shoes were on the floor, so I quickly changed into them, my cheeks reddening as I remembered how Francesco had slid my dress off me. “Get a grip, Jo,” I muttered underneath my breath, as I grabbed my phone from the nightstand.

A woman, broken and hastily glued back together. I let the water run in the shower, very hot, until the room fills with steam. Under the burning stream, I rub my skin with a violence bordering on self-mutilation. The company's perfumed lemon soap fails to mask his smell that mixture of leather, spice, and male sex that seems to have eaten into my pores. I wash my private parts with surgical precision; the touch of my fingers brings back a painful and shameful echo of the pleasure that overwhelmed me minutes before. I despise myself for this retrospective shiver.

Lila’s POV; I spent the whole day pretending everything was normal. I woke up early—too early—skin still tingling from last night, ass tender when I rolled over onto my back. The sting had faded to a dull warmth overnight, but every time I shifted in bed I felt it: the memory of Connor’s palm cracking down, the way my thighs had trembled, the humiliating drip between my legs when he finally stopped. I showered longer than usual—hot water pounding my shoulders, steam filling the bathroom—trying to wash away the shame. It didn’t work. My clit stayed swollen, sensitive, brushing against the towel when I dried off.

He said, voice low and calm. He dragged the flogger across her back first, soft leather teasing her skin. Then he brought it down on her ass causing a sharp sting that bloomed into heat. Clara gasped. He did it again, harder, alternating cheeks until her skin burned and her pussy dripped onto the sheets. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmured. “Ass all red for me already.” He pushed two fingers inside her without warning. She wet, but the stretch made her moan into the pillow. Julian fucked her with his fingers while the flogger kept landing lightly on her thighs, and harder on her ass. Every strike pushed her closer, and her clit throbbed untouched.

I would be far away from here tomorrow, far away from all the pain, far away from all the sad memories here and most importantly far away from Adrien, I would finally put the past behind me. I got ready pretty early the next morning, excitement brewing in my chest. I put on a white floral dress with simple black sandals and my hair in a neat bun. As soon as my Uber driver informed me of his arrival, I was on my way to the airport, the feeling of freedom better than I ever expected. As I sat by the window in the airplane,I went over all the years I wasted trying to make Adrien love me, all the years spent in America, all for nothing. Not once did Adrien treat me nicely, not even for one day,

She opened her mouth, but not a single sound came out. "You lied to me," Romano said, his voice cracking. "You lied about having cancer. You lied to have me donate my sperm. You lied about Selene coming back. You lied to drive her away." "Romano, let me explain—" "Stop lying to me! Teresa Fiorino, our history wasn't a blank check for you to spend! No wonder all of Selene's things vanished. I thought she'd secretly come back for them, but it turns out you were behind everything!"

Milan was half a world away, and the club tonight annoyed him. He flipped open his leather journal, a prized possession he preferred to keep a secret. The pages were half art, half confession: ink sketches of thighs, breasts, cocks, penetrating organs and arched backs, paragraphs of his raw memory. He wasn’t just an artist who painted—he wrote too. Raw, explicit entries about his most intense sexual encounters. And tonight he would write to steady himself. He opened to a fresh page, pen hovering before the words began to flow. His mind drifted immediately to that last night Jax had shown up mad in the rain. The memory hit him with heat, sending pleasure pulses to his cock.

And so the pathetic act begins again. I stroked slowly, from crown to base and back again, my foreskin pulling back and precum dripping out every time it did. It wet my dick, and I used it as lubricant, my breath hitching as my hand moved smoothly. While I was doing this pathetic act, there were only two things on my mind: how utterly pathetic this was, and Isabella.

Pressed his hips down into the mattress once, twice, chasing friction that never quite satisfied. Nothing worked. The aftershock wasn’t dramatic like the full heat waves. No collapsing, no desperate sobs, no frantic fingers inside himself until he came dry. It was quieter. Meaner. A constant, low-grade simmer that lived under his skin like a second heartbeat. His gland throbbed in slow, lazy pulses—hot, swollen, begging for teeth that weren’t there. Slick leaked steadily, warm and slippery, soaking through his boxers and into the sheet beneath him. Every time he shifted, the fabric clung wetly to his thighs and ass, reminding him exactly how open he still was from last night.