Falling Head First (Part 4 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 1: Submission, Claim and Afterglow
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 1: Submission, Claim and Afterglow - A continuation of my retelling of my 6 month affair where I cheated on my boyfriend.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual True Story Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking White Male White Female Analingus Cream Pie Food Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting
“Just stop talking and let your whore take care of you.”
Without waiting for his reply, I placed my hands on his shoulders and gently guided him backward until he sank onto the mattress. Then I swung one leg over his body, straddling him as I settled on top. The change in position and the stretch caused the aching area between my legs to once again rise up as a deep, intense pain, yet still possessed a gentle undercurrent of desire.
“No,” I told him in a soft and firm voice. “Don’t move. You are just going to lie there while I take care of you.”
He stared up at me for a brief second, that half-smile flickering and then settling into something softer, almost curious. Then he nodded once and let his arms go loose under my hands. I released his wrists and sat back on my heels for a moment, just looking at him. The drying sheen of sweat, the constellation of marks I’d left, the way his cock was already beginning to thicken again against his thigh even though we’d only recently finished tearing each other apart. I experienced a strange, quiet sense of ownership descend upon me ... not a rekindling of the frantic sexual battle from earlier, but something slower and more deliberate where, even though I realized I had submitted to a man for the first time in my life, physically, verbally, and emotionally, I experienced an odd feeling of power at that moment. I intended to exert that power to its fullest.
I started with the marks again. Leaning down, I brought my mouth to his chest, kissing my earlier bite with even more care, lingering, letting my tongue trace the edge of the welt. Then I moved slowly up to his shoulder, letting my lips and tongue dance along each scratch I encountered along the way and lazily dragging my tongue along a deep red raised mark inflicted by my nails. I then made my way down to the long red lines that ran from his shoulder to his elbow. I worked my way across his collarbones, down the center of his sternum, mapping every place my nails or teeth had marked him when I had been lost in the throes of passion. His breathing deepened, and every so often a low sound slipped out of him ... half moan, half encouragement ... I watched as his fingers jerked and contracted. I could tell he wanted nothing more than to reach up and take control of the situation, take control of me, but he would lock eyes with me, and he would relent and keep his hands where I’d put them.
When I reached the lower half of his chest, I slowed even further. I kissed a trail down the hard plane of his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my mouth. His cock was fully hard now, thick and dense jutting up from his abdomen, the tip already glossy with moisture. I ignored it, and for another few minutes I just nuzzled the soft skin of his hips, the sensitive crease where thigh met body, the fine trail of hair that led downward. Only when his hips gave a small, involuntary lift did I finally wrap one hand around the base of him and take the head into my mouth.
I kept it slow, almost lazy. There was no rush or performance in what I did. This was me laying claim to his body in my own way, just as he had laid claim to mine earlier. I let the wet heat of my mouth slide down a little farther with each pass, my tongue moving in long, deliberate strokes along the underside and up to his glans. I tasted the residual salt from earlier and the clean, slightly bitter edge of fresh precum. I tasted the combined residue of both our bodies, which covered his cock, his balls, and his stomach. I took my time, using my tongue to explore the thick vein along the bottom of his shaft, which pulsed whenever I pressed against it, the soft sounds he made when my mouth engulfed him fully and then pulled up with steady suction while watching his face for reaction. I mapped every part of his cock with my mouth, letting my tongue glide along and explore each bump, each vein, each crevice. My free hand rested on his thigh, my fingers absently stroking, centering us both in the immediacy of the act.
After a while I shifted lower still. I lifted his cock out of the way with one hand and nuzzled his balls, breathing him in. Then I took one into my mouth, slow and careful, rolling it with my tongue while my hand kept up a gentle, steady stroke on his shaft. It struck me, as I performed this act of worship, that this was simply the third time I had ever taken a man’s balls into my mouth, and all three times had been with Tyler. The other soon followed as I spent long minutes alternating between them, letting the soft weight of him fill my mouth while saliva gathered and dripped. Tyler’s breathing had gone ragged. Every so often he uttered something ... a soft praise, broken pieces of “fuck, that feels good” and “just like that,” but he never once moved his hands; he never tried to guide me or speed me up. His hands and arms stayed exactly where I had placed them, and I had told him to stay.
I considered the night before, when he had instructed me to do more than this, and how I had felt so internally conflicted with the very idea of doing what he had asked me to- no, what he had told me to do. It was demeaning, it was degrading, it was something I had never done for another man and something I had honestly never even considered before. The memory glimmered hot in my mind, and I experienced a corresponding pulse of heat rise between my thighs. I had submitted then as well. I had obeyed, and I didn’t need to consider the details of what the act involved; I only needed to know he had enjoyed it, and in turn, I enjoyed doing it for him.
Tonight, he did not need to ask or instruct me what to do next. I knew exactly what I wanted to give him as I shifted myself lower again, still stroking him slowly with one hand, as my mouth came to touch the tight, sensitive skin behind his balls. I licked a long, deliberate stripe from where his balls joined downward. Then I repeated again. When I finally reached the tight ring of muscle, I paused for half a second ... just long enough for the thought to surface that this still felt strange and gross, that the taste would be sharp and earthy and not pleasant ... that I would be doing something I would have thought of as repulsive in any other circumstance. Still, I managed to push those concerns aside. I owed him this. I owed him more than this. If it made him feel good, if he enjoyed the sensations my doing this act gave him, then that was the only metric that mattered right now.
I slowly brought my lips to him, kissing it and then with my mouth around it, I worked my tongue into him, pushing him open with the flat of my tongue. I began to work my mouth and jaw, my tongue providing slow circles on the outside and then diving in with the pointed tip and pressing inside as far as I could. The taste was exactly as sharp and bitter as I remembered. I tried to ignore it and kept going, trying to go beyond what I had given the first time, to give him the experience he would remember as I pushed my tongue deeper into him, first rolling my it along the inside of his tight passage and then moving it in an in-and-out motion with the same unhurried rhythm I’d used on his cock, all while my hand continued its steady stroke. Tyler’s moans went lower, rougher. His thighs tensed on either side of my head. One of his hands finally left the mattress and settled lightly on the back of my head, lying gently on my hair ... not pushing, not guiding, just resting there like he needed the contact, the connection. I didn’t stop him. I just kept working my tongue and my mouth on the most intimate place on his body. I pushed aside all reservations and tried to get deeper, ignoring the renewed and unusual tastes and the part of my brain that kept cataloging how filthy this act was and how completely outside my normal comfort zone and anything I’d ever done for anyone previously.
“Don’t stop,” he groaned in a low guttural voice.
I lifted my eyes from my task to look up at his body to see him staring at me.
“You have no idea what this is doing to me,” he intoned.
“Seeing you like this, the perfect good girl. The innocent angel with her head between my legs and her tongue buried in my ass is the most erotic vision I have ever experienced.”
I moaned. I am not sure if it was from embarrassment, shame, or desire, or some odd combination of the three. He was right; this was such a departure from how I was, no, who I had been just two weeks ago, that it sent a sick thrill from my head to my crotch.
When I finally lifted my head, my lips were shiny, and my jaw had started to ache in a new way. I looked up the length of his body and met his eyes.
“Are you enjoying the way I am eating your ass?” I asked, voice still rough but carrying a thread of something nearly playful.
Tyler’s laugh emerged, broken and breathless. “Amazing. Fucking amazing. Christ, woman, you keep surprising me. Mike is a lucky man if he gets to enjoy this from you regularly.”
The words hurt; they reminded me that I was currently not only cheating on the man that I loved but also performing a degrading act I knew Mike would never have considered asking me to do, even if it was something he would have enjoyed.
I kept my eyes connected with Tyler’s and replied, “I have never done this for him. I have never done this for anyone. You are the first.”
I didn’t wait to see his look, and I dove down once more, in part to hide my shame and the wetness of tears forming around my eyes. My admission had aroused something raw in me, and I took him into my mouth once more. This time I didn’t stay shallow. I stuck my tongue out as far as it would go, flattened it against the underside of his cock, and made a deliberate swallowing motion the second the head reached the back of my throat. The motion opened me further. I pushed down, slow and steady, until my lips touched the base and my nose pressed into the soft skin of his stomach. The thick length filled my throat. I held there, swallowing around him again and again, feeling the way his cock pulsed against the tight muscles.
Tyler’s moan broke more loudly this time, raw and startled. His hand remained resting on the back of my head ... possessive, warm, heavy ... but he used no pressure whatsoever at all. Just the pressure of his palm and the slight curl of his fingers in my hair as they jerked with each downward stroke of my mouth. I let him leave it there while something quiet and certain rested in my chest: that was precisely where his hand belonged.
I stayed down as long as my lungs would allow, throat working, spit already beginning to run from the corners of my mouth. When the need for air finally forced me up, I pulled off only far enough to gulp a breath, then pushed straight back down again. Each time I tried to hold myself longer. Each time I pushed my mouth harder against his stomach, feeling the fine hairs tickle my lips, my cheeks, my nose, breathing in the sharp salt of his sweat along with the faint, unmistakable leftover taste of our combined juices from earlier. The combination should have been too much for me; it should have stopped me. Instead, it only made me hungrier. I gulped around him again, eyes watering now fully; the tears that had started to form at the reference to Mike’s name, now forgotten, and I became lost in the act. I forced myself to stay down until black spots started to dance along the edges of my vision before finally pulling up for another desperate, ragged breath.
I kept working in an even rhythm, going ... down, hold, swallow, up for air, down again ... until my jaw trembled and my throat felt raw. Spit and precum coated my chin and dripped onto his thighs. Tyler’s moans had turned into a continuous low soundtrack, disturbed only by the occasional ragged curse. His hand never left the back of my head. He never pushed. He rested there, claiming the space as if it had always been his.
I had told him not to move. I had climbed on top of him, taken his wrists, ordered him to stay still and receive whatever I chose to give him. For a few minutes it had felt like I was the one in control of the situation. I was deciding the pace, the depth, and the places my mouth went, and by doing so, I was reasserting myself after the way the earlier hours had torn me open and left me unconscious on his sheets. However, the second his palm settled against the back of my skull and stayed there without pushing, something inside me changed. The idea that I was the one in control slowly dissipated and thinned and was replaced by a quiet, terrifying recognition that even without any pressure, my “control” had been nothing more than an illusion. He was in fact dictating my actions. Even more disturbing, I realized I wanted his hand there. I wanted to feel its weight and the implicit claim it carried.
I had never felt like this with anyone else. Not with the men before Mike and certainly not with Mike. With Mike, our relationship and our sex life had remained inside a framework built on mutual love and respect. Our relationship was affectionate, reciprocal, and safe. Sometimes I initiated, sometimes he initiated; however, neither of us ever truly “took” the other. There is real love in what we have built, at least that is what I have always fully believed. We had the tight-knit kind of relationship where we made plans together, remembered our anniversaries, and each other’s special dates. We were always there for each other without having to ask, and he had never disappointed me. Our love is built on solid foundations and is strong, and it still lived inside me. My love for him had not vanished simply because my body kept answering Tyler so completely. That knowledge and belief apparently was not enough, as no matter how constant the accusations were in my head, they seemed impotent when the pleasure Tyler provided me drowned everything else out.
Yet here I was, on my knees between another man’s thighs, with my throat sore from deliberately choking myself on him, and the only thought that appeared honest, that appeared true, was that his hand belonged exactly where it was ... resting on my head and telling me he owned me. The word “owned” should have made me recoil. Instead, it sent a slow, liquid pulse straight between my legs, right through the deep soreness that still lived there from earlier.
The part of that still envisioned quiet weekends with Mike and his daughters, the same part of me that wanted the “American Dream” future, the husband, two and a half kids, the white picket fence that I had always been so certain of ... it kept insisting this must be temporary insanity. It has to be a temporary fracture that would heal if I just stopped feeding it. That part of me repeated back to me every reason that this could not continue: the lies that were already stacking up higher every day, the risk of discovery, the damage already done to a good man who trusted me, the way the woman I had consistently believed I was slowly eroding away with each passing day. I felt nauseous every time Tyler praised me. There was a strong cynical voice in my head that murmured that men like him said beautiful things when they wanted something, and that I was convenient, available, already compromised.
But another part of me had woken up in his bed, my body marked and yet still craving more. That part of me kept answering with a different truth. That part of me had spent my life hidden away somewhere inside me like a low-grade hunger, loving sex but never feeling quite satisfied. That part of me had learned, in the space of only a few encounters with Tyler, that intensity could feel like oxygen after years of shallow breathing. It liked the way Tyler looked at me like I was both a prize and his property. It liked the way my body became a canvas where he painted his passions. It liked the dirty talk, the degrading names, and the praise all tangled together until I could no longer separate them. And right now, with his hand resting on the back of my head and with no pressure required, that part of me felt something it had never felt before: complete, deliberate submission.
The word itself made my pulse rate jump. Submissive. I had never used it about myself. I had never wanted to. Yet the feeling was unmistakable. I was choosing, in this quiet stretch of time, to stay on my knees and keep offering him everything my mouth could give, not because he demanded it, but because something in me needed to give it. The need excited and horrified me in equal measure. Excitement because the surrender felt clean in a way nothing else had lately ... no performance, no deliberate negotiation, just the simple act of yielding. Horror because yielding to Tyler meant continuing to betray the man who had never asked me to yield anything, who had only ever asked me to stay by his side.
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