It's Not Me It's My Basement Novels & Stories

If love was painful then u don’t want to experience it and ever hurt a woman the way my mother was hurt. I left her then because other matters needed my attention. Dante’s voice outside the door told me there was someone in the basement. The basement has its own geometry: narrow corridors that smell of damp concrete and oil, where secrets are dragged out into the light. It is where things that people hide upstairs get solved downstairs.

in Singapore for three weeks, and every night I hear the squelch-squelch-squelch from the basement. I thought it was her yoga ball. Turns out it’s her tit. Tonight, I’m restless. Protein shake’s still sloshing in my gut, veins pumped from deadlifts, cock half-chubbed from the gym bunnies eye-fucking me in the mirror. I’m in nothing but grey sweat shorts, the waistband riding low, the head of my dick already poking out the leg hole like it’s trying to escape. The basement door’s cracked—golden LED light spilling into the hallway.

My stomach churned in disgust. “Does no one actually come down here? I figured a basement in this house would be swanky,” I rambled to take focus off how thoroughly freaked out I was. “Like a speakeasy or something to smuggle alcohol through. If a rat runs over my foot, I swear…”

The house felt colder the further I went, the marble under my feet like ice. When I reached the ground floor, the sound came again. Low. Uneven. A shift. From below. I stopped at the top of the basement stairs. Adrian had forbidden anyone to go down there—ever. He’d said it was under renovation, full of electrical wires and old storage. But we’d lived here long enough for me to know that was a lie. There was nothing down there worth renovating. I pressed my palm against the wooden door. It was cold, colder than it should’ve been.

The wallpaper is peeling and the floor consistently creeks and moans. Goddess, if you're listening, please give me strength and patience. I pray to my true superior. My baby kicks. Yes, I know, me too, little man, me too. He guides me down a very suspect staircase. The basement is dark and reeks of mildew. I hear a small click and the whole room is lit up. Only a bit though. I look around. Nothing is really down here. This whole area seems forgotten and unused. I hear something move behind me, a rat. My jaw drops. "What am I doing down here?" I speak softly. "I'm glad you asked." Oliver turns around to face me.

Not after what I’d seen. It had been days since I stumbled into the basement. Days since I discovered the truth lurking beneath the polished floors and pristine walls of that suburban dream home. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up to him without sounding crazy. How do you even start a conversation like that? “Oh, by the way, the house we’re buying has a basement full of illegal drugs. Thought you should know.” Yeah, right. So, I had to improvise. “Konrad,” I said softly, trying to steady my voice. He didn’t even look up from the papers.

I was already late for my meeting. I took a shower,wore my suit not bothering to eat breakfast then walked into my car and drove to the philp cooperation. What she did to me was unforgivable,she reduced me like a nobody , to the lowest point like a desperate male stripper. She better watched her back, nobody embarrasses Noah Williams and go free with it , nobody.

Ian kisses me like a man thats starved and I bite down on his lips, hard. He groans and grinds against me, already hard. I hate him. I hate myself more because I’m wet the second his tongue touches mine. “Not here,” I hiss but my hands are already clawing at his belt. “Basement,” he says. I should say no. I should march upstairs, pack my bag, and drive back to the city right now. Instead I let him tug me through the pantry, down the narrow stairs that smell old Christmas decorations. The basement is half finished when we got there, a sagging couch, Dad’s ancient weight bench, boxes of my childhood stuffed animals staring at us with plastic eyes.

My patience snapped, it evaporated to thin air like smoke. My brother-in-law gave me a questioning gaze when I stood up and headed to the basement without bidding goodbye to everyone. The basement was still the same, minimalist in all sense there is. It has a bed with white linen, a desk that has books, a closet that holds only five sets of each clothing, and a wall that bears my scruffy handwriting.

Monica backed away slowly. “This isn’t funny anymore.” I quickly typed back. WHO IS THIS? The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. Then another message came. UNKNOWN NUMBER: “Check the hidden basement before midnight.”. My hands trembled violently. “What basement?” Monica asked nervously. I looked up slowly. “There’s an old basement downstairs.” Monica frowned. “You’ve never been there?”. I shook my head. “Dad never allows anyone go near it. Silence filled the room. The tension felt unbearable now.