Foreskin's Lament A Memoir Mga Nobela at Kwento

My body betrayed me at every turn. Even now, as I waited for him, my skin fumed with memory. The soreness in my rear passage had not faded, a deep, throbbing ache that reminded me with every shift how brutally he had claimed that forbidden place. Yet the pain only seemed to fuel the heat pooling between my thighs. My womanhood throbbed insistently, slippery and empty, craving the very hands that had brought me nothing but ruin and ecstasy.

And I knew. It was one of the feelings I dreaded so much— A feeling that began my doleful story about three years ago, I cannot forget. And now, I was revisited by it. I sat down on the ground. I rested against a tree and looked at the skies once more as I shivered to my bones. I cursed it. I cried and cursed every entity that this very night gave birth to. I knew all around the Reigns that mates were finding their soul halves and mutual pulls were going crazy. It was a beautiful night for the Reigns but for me, it was a wretched one.

It was written clear across my damn forehead. I gasped, stumbling up, the ache between my legs making it hard to stand straight. I reached for the belt, working at it frantically. When it finally fell from my wrists, I stared back at my reflection. I was cum-covered, exhausted and wild-eyed. “I can’t do that again,” I told myself. “It was just one night. A wild, filthy mistake. Jamal never has to know.” The water in the shower ran hot, steam filling the room. I stepped in, letting it scald my skin, trying to erase every trace of what I’d let them do.

The truth had proven a bitter tonic, for Carspey had just ordered me to disrobe, then bent me over the bed and serviced me like a horse, ending in seconds and leaving nothing but a cold and hollow hole in his wake. “Deep thoughts for the late hour,” Tristan remarked softly, and I jerked my eyes up to meet his stare, feeling caught out despite my memories of Carspey having vanquished the lust blazing in my body. Though now I am burned with humiliation. “I wasn’t thinking of anything.” I removed my hand from his clutches and concealed it in the fold of my cloak. “Thank you for your assistance. The pain is significantly reduced.” Tristan shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

I was too proud and too stubborn to admit my mistakes while I was free, and by the time I wanted to make things right, it was too late. Theodore—he is a good man, despite everything between us. He cares for you deeply, and for that, I am grateful. I hope you find happiness and love in your life, the kind I never provided. Alina, I am truly sorry. I can only hope that in time, you will be able to forgive me, not for my sake, but for yours. Holding on to anger and bitterness will only cause you more pain. Please, live your life fully and freely, without the shadow of my failures hanging over you. I have signed everything that I had left of my property in your name. It's not much after the loss

He stopped mid-sentence, realizing just then that it was difficult to bring up what he had done. My heart was cold even as I watched him avert his eyes in embarrassment. Of course I remembered—the way he looked at me in disgust and every insult he slung at me before he finally abandoned me. All my delusions of family affection vaporized right then, but I pretended not to remember. I creased my brows as if it took me some effort to recall.

Five years ago, Vivienne Cross was London’s most brilliant rising sports rehabilitation therapist. She was also secretly in love with Marcus Vance, the arrogant, generational talent of Premier League soccer. But when Marcus forced her to falsify his medical clearance under pressure—ruining his knee permanently on the pitch—he didn't take the blame. Instead, he publicly branded her a medical fraud to save his own sponsorships. His lie blacklisted her from the industry, sent her family into financial ruin, and caused her father’s fatal stroke. Now, Marcus is the ruthless, bitter General Manager of London United, living with a failing body and a hollow soul. Desperate to salvage his mobility,

“Please, Daniel. Put it in me. I need it.” He opened his pants. His cock sprang free—longer and thicker than I expected. Heavy. Already leaking. I couldn’t look away. “It’s bigger than I thought.” He stroked it once. “You still want it?” “Yes.” He spun me around, bent me over the shelf, and kicked my legs wider. One hand gripped the back of my neck. The other lined himself up. He pushed in hard. The stretch burned. Full. Almost too much. I cried out into the linens.

Caleb's finger had been cut by the metal edge of the gift box, and blood was seeping out. But he seemed to feel no pain, just staring blankly at my ring. "Uncle… he treats you very well," Caleb murmured, his voice thick. "Cliff roses, pink diamond rings, moonstone necklaces…" "He gives you everything I couldn't." I was silent for a moment, not quite understanding the depth of his regret. "Caleb, you chose to refuse two years ago," I said calmly. "It's too late to regret it now." "I know," Caleb gave a wry smile. "I just wanted to prove that I could also…"

Two days of relentless, aching denial—mornings where I woke up soaked and grinding against nothing, showers where I had to brace against the tile and recite poetry aloud to keep from circling my clit, nights riding my pillow until it was drenched while his name spilled from my lips like a plea. Today I’m wearing a loose, flowing skirt. Mistake. The fabric brushes my bare skin with every shift, reminding me how swollen and sensitive I am. I haven’t been dry since I remembered his promise: nothing under these trousers at all. The room fills. I don’t look at anyone. I can’t. 10:09. The door opens.