Shame Application Novels & Stories

It has been replaced with concern and worry. The two of us made our way to the den discussing though the link what exactly we were going to tell Dad. All the times we had done things with Heather and been caught, I had never been ashamed of what we had been doing. Embarressed at being caught, oh most definitely, but never ashamed. This? All I feel is shame, disgust and disappointment in myself. Shane POV

"Maybe. Or maybe you do not know me as well as you think you do." Eric stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. "You would not do that. You would not tell anyone. You are too ashamed." I stood up too. Slowly. I did not rush. I did not let him see me shake. "Shame is a funny thing," I said. "It makes you do stupid things. Like let someone hurt you. Like let someone threaten your family. But eventually shame turns into something else. Eventually it turns into anger. And anger makes you do things you never thought you could."

Rebecca groaned at the sight and pushed her down onto the mattress. Daniel stripped fast—T-shirt gone, sweatpants shoved down. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, the head already shiny. Rebecca pulled the shirt over her own head and climbed onto the bed naked. Full breasts, dark nipples, the soft thatch of hair between her thighs already glistening.

His voice was soft, measured, like someone reciting a poem he’d practiced since childhood. “You’re nostalgic for drama, Jason. You still believe in shame. It’s quaint. Shame is a tool you learned to use in another era. It’s messy. It’s loud. It bends and breaks.” He tapped the papers with one finger. “I prefer cleanliness. Contingency. Removal of variables.”

It was a peculiar amalgamation of sensations, a complex interplay between shame and arousal that coursed through me like a potent elixir. It wasn't just any ordinary night. It was an evening filled with a deep sense of both regret and anticipation, as he punished me leaving an indelible mark on my memory. The weighty consequences of my near faux pas reverberated through my mind, evoking a cascade of emotions that danced on the fine line between humiliation and desire. The embarrassment, like a deep crimson blush, suffused my cheeks, creating an external marker of my inner turmoil. However, intertwined within this unwelcome shame, a flicker of excitement and arousal took hold, igniting a capt

Maybe. Maybe I can’t. For the first time, instead of power, all I feel is shame. Deep, twisting, choking shame. I scroll through the folder with the photos and video. These are the only copies and if I wasn’t going to keep them to hurt her somehow, why would I take them? I have to stop fooling myself. Then I select everything. Select All. Delete. Delete Permanently.

The shame is deep, disgusting, and it is shredding everything I have built over so many years. My hand trembles as I pour myself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim. My home office that usually feels like my pride now feels like a tomb to me. Every award on the wall and other symbols of accolades now seem worthless, all because of that damned blog, Conscientia Institutum. What a pretentious, self-righteous name.

I could never talk openly about what happened to me to anyone, besides being humiliating; it is embarrassing and shameful. "What point? I just don't want to talk about myself to a person I don't know. You are the mother of the man who sells women and you treat this as if it were normal!” I let out between fruit and sighs, I wanted to feel relieved, but all I felt was shame.

"I was wrong. I was arrogant. I was nonchalant. And I'm ashamed of it." I studied her face. There was no defensiveness. No excuses. No attempt to shift blame. All I could see on her face was shame. Oddly enough, that made all the difference. People often apologized because they wanted forgiveness. People said they regretted things because regret was uncomfortable. But shame was different. Shame meant someone looked back at who they had been and genuinely disliked that version of themselves. It meant growth. It meant awareness. It meant they understood the damage they'd caused.

“You said it yourself, Blair. You wanted a family. There's nothing shameful about that.” “That isn't true. My shame is so deep I don't know where it even ends. And now I'm stuck, so stuck, and I never wanted to be in this mess or position.” Her fingers curled into my T-shirt, clutching me like the only thing tethering her from falling under all this heaviness. “I apologize, I shouldn't be holding you this way.” She softly whispered.