Falling Head First (Part 4 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 4: Wide Awake
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 4: Wide Awake - 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
I woke to being filled.
Not all at once. It arrived the way heat arrives under a blanket: a slow, deep slide already in progress, a thick length moving inside me in an unhurried roll, the wet sound of it almost a shy acknowledgment of what was happening. I felt a hand on my hip, breath warming the back of my neck, the mattress dipping beneath me. For a few unmoored seconds I did not know whose house I was in or where I was. The weight on my eyelids felt immovable, like a weekend morning I was allowed to sleep in. Thoughts of Mike, comfort, and safety started to coalesce in my mind. The familiar rush of being wanted, being part of a union without the need to perform. I made a small sound, a gentle sigh that escaped my mouth as I pushed my ass back to meet him, sleepy and willing, my body offering itself before my mind had fully clocked in.
Then he bottomed out.
The head of him pressed that specific, aching kiss against my cervix. It was a sensation that was deeper than Mike ever reached, a fullness that had a name attached to it, and my eyes opened, and the room snapped into the right shape. Tyler’s sheets, Tyler’s arm around me pulling my body back into him.
Not Mike.
Tyler’s cock opening me and the groan that left my mouth was filled with both shame and pleasure, so tightly wound together I could not pull them apart. I was still leaking him from earlier, and he used that, sliding through the mess of us with a patience that felt almost cruel in its gentleness. Each stroke came out coated and went back in easier, warmer, further. My face burned into the pillow. My hips, the traitorous things, kept moving back to meet him.
“Move with me, angel, stay with me,” he whispered against my skin. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
This was different, this was new.
No slaps. No hair in a fist. No dirty names or demeaning orders. No rush to prove he could take the air out of me. No battle for dominance. He fitted himself along my back until our bodies molded together and there was no gap left: chest to shoulder blades, mouth at the join of my neck, one arm under my head so I was pillowed on him, the other splayed over my stomach as if he could pull us together until our bodies began to meld together. An image of our bodies sprang into my mind, him gathering me into him until we began to melt together and I slowly was absorbed by him, until his body had consumed me fully and there was nothing left of me.
He moved as if the earlier version of him who had taken me with intensity and broken me down earlier that evening had never existed. My mind could not comprehend how two such opposing people could exist within the same body.
He continued with long strokes, almost pulling all the way out, a pause where I clenched around the loss of him, then a slow push back in that seated him so deep my breath caught. The wetness made a soft, filthy rhythm against the backs of my thighs. I could feel every ridge of him. I could feel how open I still was from his fingers, a faint used throb in my ass that made each deep stroke feel bigger than it should have.
He kissed my shoulder. The place under my ear. The corner of my mouth when I turned toward the sound of him. His hand on my stomach slid lower, not to work me, just to rest over the place where he disappeared into me, two fingers framing himself so I could feel the in and out from the outside too.
“You’re so special,” he murmured. “Do you know that? I have never felt anything like this with anyone else.”
I should have flinched from the tenderness. It was the same mouth that had called me a stupid cunt and then told me to cum on him, as Mike had never made me cum just a few hours ago. It was also the mouth that was undoing me now, and my body did not care about the accounting. I reached back and found his hip, not to stop him, to keep him close. He made a low sound of approval and slowed even more, grinding at the end of each thrust so the pressure bloomed behind my navel and spread down the insides of my thighs.
The first orgasm did not ambush me. It gathered like weather. A warmth low in my belly. A flutter around him that made his breath stutter. The shame was still there. I was in his bed, full of him, rocking back into a man I was not supposed to wake up to, but that shame sat beside the pleasure, and instead of fighting it, I heard myself sigh, then moan, a softer register than the screaming late afternoon.
“That’s it,” he whispered, when the shake started in my thighs. “You can let go. Come for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
I heard him; I had gained his permission to experience pleasure, and I felt my release as I came with my mouth open against his bicep, quiet and complete, pulsing around the slow slide of him in helpless little grips. He held still through the worst of it, buried, kissing my hair, telling me I was a good girl, that I was his angel, that I could take all the time I needed. When the clench eased, he started moving again, same pace, using the fresh wetness I had just given him.
The second one took longer. It felt almost kind, which made the shame worse, because kindness after the names and the way he had taken me earlier should not have been allowed to work. It worked anyway. He shifted my top knee forward, opened me a fraction more, and the new angle dragged him across the swollen place inside me on every pass. I could hear how soaked I was. I could feel his stomach against my ass, the fine tremor in his arm, the way he was holding himself back on purpose. Sweat cooled between my shoulders. His mouth never left my skin for long.
“You’re wonderful,” he said into my neck. “So soft like this. So perfect around me. I could stay here forever.”
“Tyler...” It came out broken, not a complaint.
“I know. I feel it. You’re close again.” His hand covered mine on the sheet, fingers lacing, grounding me in the small ordinary fact of being held. “You don’t have to chase it. Just let me make you feel good. Now cum for me.”
I did not have to chase it; his words were all I needed. It arrived on a particularly deep stroke and unrolled through me in a long, shaking wave, stronger for being unhurried, the kind of climax that made my feet flex and my eyes sting. I said his name into the pillow. I said it again. He kept the rhythm through it, praising me in fragments that had no edge left in them: “beautiful, that’s my girl, I love the way you come for me,” and I let myself believe, for the length of the orgasm, that this version of him was the true one.
A few strokes later, his control thinned. I felt it in the hitch of his hips, in the way his hand tightened on mine. He pressed his forehead between my shoulder blades.
“Can I?” he asked, as if he had not already spent himself in me once today. “I want to come in you. Please.”
I pushed back onto him in answer.
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