Shameless Setting Novels & Stories

Ashlyn snuffled her nose. "Okay fine. Now go and get fresh. At night we will go to the club for refreshments. Only you and me." Jami said, tickling her. Due to tickling, she laughed, and then both ended up laughing. After Jami exited the room, she washed her face and applied some makeup. She combed her open hair and went downstairs, taking her belongings. "Hello, everyone," Ashlyn said, sitting on a chair beside James. All of them replied to her greeting, then William said;

The light had shifted across the room by the time her lashes fluttered. A moan slipped from her lips—barely audible, but laced with pain. And then: panic. Her eyes flew open, wild and glassy. Her head throbbed violently. Her arms—bound. Her legs—naked and exposed. The leather cuffs cold against her skin. The shame of helplessness settling like lead in her chest. Brielle’s breath quickened. Her pulse thudded against her throat like a snare drum. Then the toilet flushed. She froze.

Anywhere but here. Even after all I said, still, no one moves or says anything. But I feel it then, shame. It’s so thick in the air that it almost suffocates me. They’re ashamed of themselves or of their alpha, I don’t care, because that’s the best they can offer me, and it’s so pathetic. “You’re all pathetic.”

Every time we were together, Noah had lingered there. It turned out that spot reminded him of his first love. Every bit of tenderness I'd believed in had been an illusion. The truth struck me like a bolt of lightning. I let out a hollow laugh and went straight to the hospital that night to have the mole removed. Exhausted, I collapsed into bed as soon as I got home. In a fitful sleep, Noah's face kept appearing and fading away. All that remained was his voice, scolding me, calling me shameless.

The intimacy, the casual betrayal of everyone around them, was exactly the selfish impulse I had mistaken for passion. My hands began to tremble. I had a tray of hot tea to deliver to Table Four, but my feet were glued to the floor. My professional focus was gone, replaced by a suffocating wave of shame. He was here, flaunting the life of casual, consequence-free wealth, while I wore a purple wig to pay for the consequence he abandoned. Move, Jamie.

Grace I sat curled up on the couch like a scared cat, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, chin resting on them. The living room felt too small. Too bright. Too normal. My four best friends surrounded me — Stella on my left, Laila on the right, Michelle and Kristy on the floor in front of me with cushions. They were trying to act calm, but I could see the worry in their eyes. I was exhausted. Scared. And worst of all, I still felt the ghost of last night’s orgasm every time I shifted. The memory of moaning his name while I came made my cheeks burn with shame all over again.

The tea steam curled in lazy smokes between us. “I feel dirty,” I said finally. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Like I’m covered in something I can’t wash off.” “You’re not,” he said. His voice was gentle, but firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I wanted to believe him. God, I really did. But shame is tricky. It sneaks in, even when you know it doesn’t belong to you. It wraps around you like smoke, until you can’t see clearly anymore.

The dress, my beautiful, expensive sapphire silk, was a defeated heap around my waist, the zipper a broken line of silver at my back. Above the silken prison, my breasts were exposed to the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent lights and, infinitely worse, to the consuming, predatory gaze of the man standing over me. A shiver raced through me, but it wasn't just the cold. It was the naked, visceral wrongness of the setting combined with the absolute, thrilling rightness of the attention. My cheeks felt flushed, a deep, unbecoming blush that betrayed the internal chaos, yet I didn’t...I couldn’t...lift a hand to cover myself. That would be an admission of shame, of defeat.

According to G****e, a walk of shame is, "an instance of walking back home on the day after an unplanned casual sexual encounter, typically dressed in the same clothes as the previous evening." That's interesting considering I am wearing the same clothes and yet, nobody has ravaged the hell out of my pussy. So why in the hell does this feel like a walk of shame, me, out here on a dark, but warm New York night? Surely, it's not because I had sex. No. I definitely did not do that.

Rose's POV: I stumble forward, the queasy feeling in my stomach intensifying. The sharp, bitter taste of bile rises in my throat, and before I can stop myself, my body rejects everything inside me. I lean into the bushes, my stomach heaving painfully. The world spins around me as I retch, the hot bile spilling from my lips. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the faint trace of humiliation hitting me like a brick. That’s disgusting, I think to myself, my mind spiraling into shame. I mutter the words under my breath, as if the shame might just dissipate if I could hide it well enough.