Giving Myself Away, One Piece at a Time (Part 3 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 7: To the Victor Go the Spoils
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 7: To the Victor Go the Spoils - The third in my infidelity series, dealing with the continued fallout of my cheating and my continued descent.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual True Story Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Analingus Masturbation Oral Sex Spitting Squirting
Tyler stood there in soft grey sweatpants and a faded Pink Floyd vintage T-shirt, hair still slightly damp from an apparent shower, his ice-blue eyes looking down at me with nothing but pure, undiluted lust. No greeting. No polite smile. Just the raw, open hunger in his eyes as they moved over me from head to toe.
“God,” he said, voice low and rough, “you are so fucking sexy.”
That was all it took...
We threw ourselves at each other in the same instant, mouths crashing together, hands already everywhere, the kiss deep and starving and completely without hesitation. I shoved him backward into the house with both hands flat against his chest, the door slamming shut behind me with a hard and final boom that echoed through the quiet entryway as the rest of the careful plan burned to ash between us.
The door had scarcely closed behind us when the last thread of restraint ignited and vanished in a frantic, desperate rush.
Our mouths stayed fused, barely parting for no more than a single breath while our hands clawed at clothing with clumsy, feverish hunger. Tyler’s grey sweatpants dropped in a soft heap; he kicked them backward down the hallway without a glance, the heavy length of his cock already swinging thick and rigid with every hurried movement. My top was hauled up and over my head roughly and thrown where it snagged on the entryway lamp, hanging there, one sleeve dangling like a forgotten banner. His vintage T-shirt landed across an indoor fern, leaves shivering under the sudden weight. Capris went next; his fingers hooked the waistband and wrenched hard. The fabric sailed toward the sitting room and vanished under a chair. Only the final scrap remained, the small, delicate black triangle of fabric which I had chosen earlier because it made my ass look exactly the way I wanted—the thin, deliberate thong that had felt so intentional when I slipped it on. Tyler’s hands closed around the sides and tore. The fabric gave way and snapped with a sharp, final rip; the ruined scrap was flung aside and forgotten as our mouths collided again, tongues sliding and battling together in slick, hungry strokes. The liquid sounds of our kissing filled the narrow space, loud and unbroken and depraved.
He lifted me as though I weighed nothing, one strong hand under each armpit, raising me until we were face to face. Our mouths locked deeper, wetter, tongues sliding while I moaned into him. My legs locked tight around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, heels digging into the hard muscle of his ass as I pulled him closer. His cock, thick and already leaking, pushed upward between the cheeks of my ass, the hot length pressing insistently into the cleft and leaving a slick trail of precum along my skin.
He turned and pinned me hard against the entryway wall. The plaster was cool against my bare back for only a heartbeat before the heat of my body erased it. His eyes locked on mine, dark and burning, while his hands moved down and each enveloped one of my butt cheeks in a strong, possessive manner.
“I have not been able to think of anything or anyone else since you left,” he growled, voice low and absolute.
Then he drove his cock into me in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying every thick inch to the base. The sudden stretch and the force of it tore a raw, high cry from my throat that he swallowed with another suffocating kiss. He fucked me standing with a slow, relentless power, hips moving in and out in a deep, even pace. Each stroke created an impact that drove my shoulders into the wall and caused me to groan with a forced exhalation. The sharp percussion of skin meeting skin filled the narrow space, joined by the lewd, rhythmic “thuwappp ... thuwappp...” sound of my already-drenched pussy loudly expelling air with each of Tyler’s thrusts. My juices coated his cock and ran down my thighs in thin, continuous rivulets before dripping onto the floor below us. I moaned and grunted into his mouth with every thrust, the sounds muffled and desperate, while he answered with low, animal grunts of his own against my lips.
“You are so fucking sexy, so fucking gorgeous, so fucking perfect, and I want you, I need you, and I am going to take you and make you my dirty little slut.”
The intensity of his words combined with the fervor of the fucking was almost overwhelming—possessive, consuming—and every slam of his hips sent shocks of pure, electric pleasure racing up my spine and out through my limbs. It felt sharper and deeper than what my body knew how to process. A quiet voice tried to surface for a moment, whispering that this was wrong, that I should not be this wanton, this wet, this open, this eager for a man who was not my own. Embarrassment followed, hot and prickling. Guilt flickered next, brief and sharp. Then anger reared its ugly head—anger at Mike, anger at Tyler, and most of all, anger at myself. My mind tried to rebel and exert control over the situation. Still, with each thrust of Tyler’s hips those thoughts were driven out again, leaving nothing but the urgent demand from my body to take more of him, to feel him somehow deeper, never to allow these feelings to end.
We crashed into things without slowing. The floor lamp that still held my discarded top toppled hard; glass shattered across the hardwood in a thousand glittering pieces, the crash loud and sharp, yet neither of us paid it the slightest attention. He kept pounding into me, each stroke harder than the last.
My left arm shot out to grab onto one of the hooks of the coat rack attached to the wall, trying to find something solid and grounded to hold onto, but when he moved another foot down the hall, the hook grasped in my hand just tore off the wall in a spray of dust and plaster. Neither of us noticed.
“You are the fucking hottest, sexiest woman I have ever met,” he snarled, swiveling his body and taking a step down the hall before delivering another deep, bottoming-out thrust that forced a broken cry from me. The coat hook, now useless, fell to the floor as my hand reached behind him and grabbed onto the meat of his back.
We were not making love, or having sex, or even fucking. This was a battle, a war of sexual dominance as we fucked each other with aggressive, raw, and unrestrained ferocity. There was no love in these acts; it was a contest of wills as much as a physical expression of lust, culminating in an expression from both of us of pure, unadulterated need.
“I am never ... never ... never ... going to let you go,” he growled, promising me as he slammed me against the opposite wall and delivered more intense impacts, his cock slamming home so the wall shook. My hands raked down his back, leaving deep red marks that showed my ownership over him as much as his previous bruises and marks had left on me.
Both my hands came up hard on either side of his head, each grabbing a handful of his hair and holding him still, looking into my eyes. “Just shut up and fuck me,” I almost spat the words in his face.
“Mike should have never let you out of his sight...”—a rapid series of powerful thrusts that stole my breath. I howled in pleasure and pain, and I reached out and bit his chest, almost drawing blood as the first orgasm ripped through my body.
“ ... and kept you locked away...”—still deeper, punishing strokes that made the wall itself shudder as my orgasm continued in waves.
For a brief, single, vivid second, the mention of Mike’s name sent a sudden, sharp wave of guilt and shame washing through me. I saw him kissing me tenderly in his living room only an hour earlier, right before I had lied about where I was going tonight. But that image evaporated quickly as Tyler’s unrelenting fucking against the wall drove every thought of him and everything else clean out of my mind. There was only the stretch, the wet heat, the audible suck of my body taking him, the brutal rhythm of his hips. The pleasure climbed higher still, so intense it felt almost dangerous, as if my body was being rewritten stroke by stroke.
Each pounding thrust crashed my back against the wall so hard the plaster shook. A small framed picture tore free and fell, more glass shattering across the floor. Still we both paid it no heed. He kept fucking me with the same urgent force, the thicker, creamier suction of my cunt around him growing louder and filthier with every impact.
He slowed for a moment, just enough that every word was distinct, powerful, demanding, his eyes boring straight into mine and through to whatever was left of my soul. At the same time, his hips delivered one deep, powerful thrust after another.
“You...” —thrust—
“are...” —thrust—
“going to...” —thrust—
“be...” —thrust—
“mine...” —thrust—
Then the pounding resumed full force, my back slamming against the wall with every impact of his hips. For the moment, I could only grunt, howl, and scream under the sudden savage insanity of it. My arms now wrapped under his, holding on for dear life as my hands grasped the opposite sides of his back and shoulder blades, nails digging hard into the muscle of his back. Later I would discover the lattice of deep bruised indentations, long red trails, grooved claw abrasions, and streaks I left along his entire back, some deep enough that small amounts of blood had been drawn.
On one especially brutal stroke that bottomed out so hard against my cervix, stars burst behind my eyes. I bit down again uncontrollably, this time into the meat of his shoulder, and screamed into his flesh as the second orgasm of the night was wrenched right out of me—violent, sudden, my vaginal walls clamping down hard around him. At the same time, clear fluid flooded out around his cock and ran down both our thighs.
“That’s it, you sexy bitch, cum for me,” he growled against my ear, ignoring the pain from my mouth and never slowing. “I’m going to make you cum so much and so hard you will not even remember who you are anymore.”
The words—filthy, claiming, terrible—only pushed the climax higher. Hearing him talk to me like that while he kept driving into me made something dark and hungry coil tighter in my belly. I wanted to hate him, but the more he said, the fouler and more demeaning his words became, the more the need to please him flourished in me. Shame tried to rise again at how much the degrading talk turned me on. Guilt flickered once more. Both were drowned instantly by the next wave of sensation as he continued to fuck me through the aftershocks.
Our mouths smashed together again, our lips swollen and red as our tongues fought as if it were a matter of life and death.
Still buried inside me and now both dripping sweat, he carried us out of the warzone that was the entryway and into the living room without ever pulling free of me. The movement made his cock shift and grind against every sensitive place until I was whimpering, nails still locked in his back. He threw me down onto the couch, the cushions flying with the impact. My legs splayed wide the instant my back hit the fabric. He mounted me in one smooth motion, driving back into my absolutely saturated cunt with a force that shoved me deeper into the cushions and tore another scream of his name from my throat.
“TYLER ... FUCK!”
He power-fucked me into the couch, hips pistoning hard and fast, the messy, frothing slap and slide of my pussy growing louder and more obscene with every stroke. White cream began to froth around the base of his cock where our bodies met, coating him and the insides of my thighs. The roughness felt almost too much and yet nowhere near enough; every brutal thrust sent fresh sparks of pleasure cascading through me, higher and brighter than I had known my body could produce. Guilt tried to surface again—Mike’s face, the lie I had told, the life I was supposed to be protecting—but the intensity of what Tyler was doing to me erased it, leaving only the urgent, animal need to take everything he gave.
He looked down at me, eyes dark.
“Open your mouth.”
I was too lost in the overwhelming pleasure, the wet slide of him, the way my body kept clamping down around his cock. The command barely registered. He slapped my face hard enough to snap my head to the side. The sting brought my eyes back to his and my mind into focus; no one had ever slapped me before, not like that! I glared up at him, anger flashing hot even while my hips still rose to meet every thrust.
“FUCK YOU!” I screamed as my right arm shot out and I made a fist in his hair and yanked his head back, but he slapped my arm aside and looked down at me. Our gazes locked. His will pressed against mine, unyielding, while he continued to fuck me with the same relentless force. The pleasure finally broke whatever resistance remained. Slowly, almost against my own pride, I opened my mouth wide.
He gathered a loud, heavy amount of spit and let it fall. I watched it descend as if in slow motion, the thick strand stretching and then breaking, landing warm and wet on my tongue. The sensation was filthy and intimate and strangely fascinating.
“Swallow,” he commanded.
I did, the act sending another pulse of heat straight to where his cock was still driving into me.
“Open.”
More spit followed, large and deliberate, again and again while he kept fucking me hard. Each time I swallowed on command, the degradation of it only made me wetter, made the next thrust feel even more intense. The shame of how much I wanted to obey, how desperately I still wanted to hate this man but at the same time how much I needed to please him, was overwhelming me. My mind warred with the pure physical ecstasy until the pleasure won, driving every conflicting thought out once more.