Suguru Geto Shower Novels & Stories

My husband doesn't touch me on our wedding night. He claims he's too tired and asks me to wait. Then, he sneaks into the basement in the wee hours of each night. Whenever he returns, he needs to shower to wash away an indescribable smell. I ask him what he does down there, and he tells me he works out. Why would anyone work out in the middle of the night? I can't take it anymore. One night, I decide to sneak into the basement to see what's going on down there. He chases after me and grabs my pajamas, roaring, "Come back up here! I'll divorce you if you step foot down there!"

I am a doctor who specializes in treating infertility. People liked to joke and call me the "Life-Bringer." By day, I worked at the hospital, handling the toughest, most puzzling cases. By night, I used something called the Spirit Bride Rite, a long-lost ritual from ancient times to preserve a man's ability to have children, even after he had just passed. It was a method that went against nature and drained me dry, so I didn't take just any job. I worked for the wealthy. My starting fee was 600 thousand dollars. That day, I had barely taken a sip of champagne at a client's grandson's baby shower before an urgent request came in. If I counted right, this would be my 17th husband.

When Catherine Zyla unexpectedly became the Luna of the Silverspring Pack, her world was turned upside down. On the very day she discovered she was pregnant, the Alpha handed her divorce papers, shattering her dreams. The impostor heiress came to provoke her, and her mother-in-law disdained her for having no power or influence. Catherine decided to leave, packing her bags and planning to disappear with her baby. But just as she was about to go, a stunningly wealthy and influential men came to her rescue, arriving in a convoy of luxury cars and vowing to shower her with affection and care. Julian Liddell, the eldest of the six, insisted, "Cathy, wear these exquisite jewels every day!" As Cathy flourished, embraced by the lavish affection of the wealthy man, her desperate ex begged for a second chance, "Cathy, let's remarry."

During the Thanksgiving holiday week, my husband, Caleb Whitman, keeps working overtime. I feel sorry for how hard he's working, so I take over all the household chores. While doing the laundry, I pull a food delivery receipt from the pocket of his coat. Everything on the order appears to be intended for a pregnant woman. It has bone broth, baked salmon, and fresh seasonal vegetables. It's obvious that everything was chosen with care. There's even a note that says, "For an expectant mother. Keep it low in oil and salt. Make sure the utensils are sterilized." The delivery was sent to a luxury apartment above Caleb's office building. I crumple the receipt, let out a cold laugh, and deliberately call him during lunch. "So, when's the baby shower for your kid? Don't forget to send me an invite."

At nineteen, Linda crossed a line she can never uncross... she let her sister’s fiancé taste her in the shower while Laura slept down the hall. What began as one devastating night of forbidden pleasure becomes an all-consuming secret affair that stretches across years, cities, marriages, and betrayals. Vincent Hale is the man every woman dreams of marrying except the one who truly owns him isn’t the bride walking down the aisle. With slow-burn obsession, reckless passion, near-misses, shattered trust, and devastating consequences, Linda and Vincent spiral deeper into a love that destroys everything it touches. Family fractures. Weddings burn. Lives are rebuilt only to be torn apart again. Desire becomes addiction; guilt becomes identity; and the question is no longer whether they can stop but whether anyone will survive when the truth finally comes out.

When I started college, my new roommate secretly used my phone to take a selfie. She sent it to the guy I was in an online relationship with and added the caption: [Baby, do you think I'm beautiful?] My boyfriend replied with a giant question mark, followed by a voice message full of curses. "Just thinking about dating someone with that face makes me want to puke!" "Let's break up, you ugly freak. Stay far away from me!" By the time I got out of the shower and tried to explain, I realized he had already blocked me. My roommate, holding her own phone, smugly told me, "The streamer I've had my eye on just added me. He says he wants to start an online relationship." When I looked at the account, I saw it was none other than my ex-boyfriend.

Fresh from a business trip, my husband swept me into his arms and pulled me toward the bathroom for a passionate shared bath. As our lips met in a dizzying kiss, I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye: the toilet lid was down. Seven years ago, after reading an online article claiming that men urinating while standing could splash bacteria onto the seat, he insisted we always keep the lid up for hygiene's sake. In all our years of marriage, it had never been lowered until now. A chill ran through me. The bathroom was pristine, not a stray hair in sight. But then I noticed the shower's water temperature was set five degrees higher than the 98.6°F he always preferred. Men preferred cooler water, and women warmer. In an instant, I realized that Nick Doyle had betrayed me.

While my boyfriend, Caleb Lawson, is in the shower, I grab his phone on a whim and drop a message in the group chat he's in with his friends. "Guess who I'm with tonight." I expect them to say my name, but their reply blindsides me. "That freshman who used to chase you when you were a sophomore? She's obsessed with you. She's definitely easier than your girlfriend. Want us to swing by tonight?" My gut tells me he's hiding more than an affair. Just as I start scrolling through his messages with the freshman, a notification from her pops up. "Caleb, I agree to the threesome. I'll do anything you want." Seconds later, another message appears in the group chat. "Just be careful this time. We don't need another body on our hands."

After taking a shower, I stepped barefoot onto the smart scale at home. A cheerful chime rang out. "Congratulations, Mia, you're in your second trimester. The baby weighs three pounds already!" I froze. I was pregnant? How did I not know? Heart pounding, I snatched up my phone and immediately called my husband. "What's going on with the scale at home? I'm pregnant?!" There was a moment of silence on the other end before his familiar, gentle chuckle came through. "Mila, it's just a scale. The data must be wrong. Maybe you're just too sensitive since you haven't been able to get pregnant." I hung up and connected the scale to Bluetooth. In the data log, I saw three months' worth of steadily increasing numbers. Grabbing my car keys, I headed straight for Mia Lane's university.

My health was not good, but I had always wanted a child. My husband, citing concern for my health, avoided intimacy with me for a year. Then I stumbled across his private messages with another woman. [You'll spend Valentine's Day with me, right? You're not going to touch her tonight, are you?] [You know I don't like doing it just to make babies. Got you some lingerie. Wear it for me tomorrow.] That ill-fitting lace lingerie he was talking about was on my body. I'd slipped it on while he was in the shower, thinking it was a Valentine's Day surprise from him. Turned out, he hadn't bought the wrong size. He had just sent it to the wrong address. I clicked on the woman's profile. Her latest video showed her at the beach, hand in hand with the person filming. I recognized her hand instantly. It belonged to my best friend.