Pure Taboo Homeless Novels & Stories

“Those stepbrothers won’t know what hit them.” “Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. We lock up and head out, the city air crisp with snow flurries. The café’s a short walk, a cozy spot with fairy lights and the smell of fresh coffee. We slide into a booth, and Jess orders a latte and a croissant sandwich. I go for black coffee and avocado toast, my stomach growling now that I’m awake. “So,” Jess says, leaning forward, “you gonna survive this Christmas thing? New stepdad, stepbrothers, your mom acting all lovey-dovey?”

We find him and Marge in the living room space, and I know I am talking fast, but I fear we may be too late- even now. “We think she is under a bridge with ICUP written above it. We think she’s homeless, and we need to get to her now- something is wrong,” I tell him. Ken’s expression is sad, and he nods, “I know where that homeless camp is. I can take you there right now. It’s about a 20-minute drive, but you should know it is riddled with drugs and even mafia presence. The mafia uses that camp to disperse their drugs. They even have guards that guard them on the overpass. They see the people there as mules.”

Just like Dad always told us would happen, lightning struck, and I'm not about to ignore it. I check the address three times as I look up and down the street. Someone who makes a couple of grand a dance should not be living in a place like this. There's trash everywhere, gang markings all over the building, and a homeless camp in the alley with at least half a dozen people sleeping in it. The building itself has a huge crack on one side and some of the windows are busted out. Could someone have given Rogue the wrong information?

The Taboo Chronicles is a curated collection of dark, twisted, and unapologetically erotic stories designed to push the boundaries of conventional desire. From the sacred halls of a silent church to the high-stakes shadows of obsessive power plays, these stories explore the raw, unyielding side of human hunger. Whether it’s the thrill of a secret shared in the dark or the surrender of a soul to a dominant force, nothing is off-limits.

This is my home, the kingdom of Satia—a beautiful country where even people experiencing poverty have beauty. Our neighborhood wasn't like this until the tyrants threatened the low-income citizens like trash. They left us with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Tents and broken-down buildings are what we call a shelter. There are no stores to shop for fresh food or water. The garbage from the main kingdom flows down into our river and clouds it up.

The avenues for the homeless people were now a dirty driveway as the vehicles loudly and mercilessly impinges the papers and mats that was used as mattress to sleep on by the paupers. "Bargain, bargain!" "I swear to the heavens, if one of my jars breaks, I will murder these little pests here!" A trader cursed as one of the jovially playing youngsters smashed his products, spreading them across the floor and almost shattering them. "How dare you curse my child!" Retorted an affluent mother, turning the cuss into rumbling. "You should pay for what your child did to my jars!" "I don't notice any scratch on your stuff, old man!" Said the woman.

Lian joked but Keane had a satisfied smile on his face. "You don't have to share more if you don't want to." "No, I want to. It's been long overdue anyway," Lian took a deep breath. "I, uhm, I was homeless for the first three years and I was cold and hungry and I wasn't earning enough from all the jobs that I took so I started doing drugs," his voice cracked as he said the last few words. "It kept me from feeling the cold and hunger and then uh-"

"You haven't fucked a single man, ever, gay boy. The world has only been insane for a month. What's your excuse?" "That I have standards," Jonah says with a scoff, giving me a superior look, "All there is in the market here is drug addicts, half-animals, homeless guys and criminals. Even before the change, to be honest. The fact that you're the last thing I've fucked is sad, but not as sad as fucking two homeless guys."

I’ve got one word for ya, constables. They patrol the alleys looking for homeless people to wrangle up. And sure, the idea of going to a shelter may sound good in theory, except just like that orphanage, a meta-human like me would be treated like shit. I’d be fed scraps and have to fight off people because even other homeless people don’t treat meta-humans like their equals. It’s fucking bullshit. So instead, here I am freezing my ass off, probably getting hypothermia.

The tension I had singlehandedly created. An instant burst of cold air caught hold of my clothes and started swinging it wildly. Living in Durban, one had to be accustomed to the ridiculous temperatures. We experienced symptoms of all four seasons in just one day. The sun shone but the blistering wind made it cold as hell. Hugging myself, I trudged forward. About a minute later I found myself looking at an old brown flat with black tinted windows and white windowpanes. My home. A dead pot plant lay on one of the panes and an orange cat, unoriginally named Tabby, slept soundly on another. The building went up six stories and seemed to be touching the sky. It also looked like it could crumble