Search Stories Novels & Stories

We roasted it relentlessly for half an hour, sharing naan and chicken tikka from the same containers, passing the wine around like old times. Then, because alcohol apparently turns me into an oversharer when I’m desperate for touch, I blurted it out. “I haven’t gotten laid in ten months.” The room fell silent except for the thunder outside. Jordan stopped chewing. Luca’s fork hovered mid-air. “Ten?” Jordan echoed, eyebrows shooting up. I groaned and yanked my tee over my face. “Don’t make me repeat it.” Luca lowered his food gently. “Ethan?” he asked, voice low and careful.

I sat back from the island. I had told this story in pieces. To Victoria across a folder of documents. To Noah on a Singapore rooftop in the early days when the telling was still fresh and raw. To Nina over eggs at nine-thirty with forty-three minutes of anger on the other side of it. I had told it in the clinical register of a legal deposition and in the private register of a woman processing her own history and in the careful, managed register of someone who understood that how a story was told shaped what the listener did with it. I had not told it to Ethan.

It was coming from her—my stepmom Sarah—and him—my stepbrother Jake. I lounged on the big sectional couch in the living room, legs stretched out, my nipples already hardening against the thin white fabric of my tank top. No bra. I hadn’t worn one on purpose. The wine had me flushed and bold, my pussy tingling with that slow, forbidden ache I’d been ignoring for months.

I consoled him and gave him some water. “She locked me up in the store room” “WHAT? IN THE STOOR ROOM? HOW DID YOU COME HERE! Tell me everything.” I questioned. “I was locked inside since morning and when she opened me up, I ran and hid here. She warned me that she’ll lock me again if I told this to anyone.” I stood up and as I went forward Zac held my leg and started to cry. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to get locked please.”

There would be nothing left but emptiness. After that, my father never showed up again. One day, Little Zoe came home carrying a letter and a cake. My mother showed me the letter. It contained the address of the house my father had promised, along with a bank card that had two hundred million dollars in it. We did not move there. We never touched a single cent of that money. The following winter, I saw news from Harbor City on television. Rowan Xanders, a prominent entrepreneur, had died at the age of twenty-nine from an old injury.

"Stories can be managed. This isn't Cross. Nobody is trying to kill us. It's simply attention, and attention, however unwanted, is survivable." "You don't understand," I said, frustration bleeding into my voice despite my best effort to keep it controlled. "I spent years building a career on managing exactly this kind of narrative for my father's company. I know precisely how quickly a story like this can spiral into something that overshadows everything else, the fraud case, Cross's death, my father's genuine victimhood in all of this. If the press decides this is the story, a client falling for her hired protector during a dangerous ordeal, that becomes the only thing anyone remembers abou

She introduced herself as Maya, a student at a local university researching our story for a class project. "Your story," she began, her eyes filled with an eager curiosity, "it's an inspiration. It's about defying expectations, about finding love in the most unexpected places." A smile spread across my face. Our story, once a source of scandal, had become a beacon of hope for a younger generation, a testament to the power of love and unexpected connections. Over the next hour, we shared stories of our journey, the challenges we had faced, and the unwavering commitment that had kept us going.

---- Note: Do you want to see the visuals of this story? Follow our Ins-tagramm account: @sagastories.id. By the way, this story is available as a comic/w*****n. Just look for the same title "Loving The Mad King" on W e b t o on app.

You all can check it out here on the app if you want to read more stories from me! Thanks again! Love you all ❤️ ~S.Y

The next day at work felt like absolute torture. I was the manager of Velvet Desires, an upscale adult store located in a quiet corner of the city. We sold high-end toys, luxurious lingerie, premium lubes, and everything a woman could possibly want to explore her deepest fantasies. Normally I loved my job. I helped shy customers find their first vibrator, recommended the perfect bullet for discreet public play, and smiled through awkward conversations with complete confidence. Today, however, I could barely concentrate on anything.