Falling Head First (Part 4 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 8: The Last Course
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 8: The Last Course - 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 went into the main bathroom on bare feet and shut the door as if a closed door could still make me into someone who had not already set the table for this.
The mirror was waiting. I washed my hands, then drew a warm cloth down my throat, between my breasts, along the insides of my thighs. A careful pass lower, though there was no unmaking what the evening had already done to me. I smelled like heat. Lip gloss next, a thin shine I knew would not last. I leaned on the sink and watched the smile try to climb back onto my face, the same helpless spread Amber had named across a wineglass. I forced it down. It twitched at the corner of my mouth. I forced it down again.
“You can still put dessert on a plate. You can still be a person who served dinner and then stopped.”
I did not stop.
The bedroom was already half-prepared, which felt like a letter I had written to myself and then been too much of a coward to unread. I lit the candles along the dresser and the windowsill. The playlist I had built in a private burst of insanity came on low. I dimmed the lights until the room went amber and soft.
Then I took the dress off.
The lace followed. Bracelet stayed. Pendant stayed. The earrings stayed, bright and dishonest against my skin. I spread a towel among the petals I had scattered earlier and lay back, shoving a pillow under my head so I could look down the length of my own body. Phone camera. Closet mirror. The angle of a woman arranging herself like an offering and trying desperately not to call it a joke.
No tray.
That detail made my hands unsteady. A tray would have been prettier. A tray would have been a boundary, even a thin one. Instead, I set the tiramisu directly on my stomach, just below my navel, the cool weight settling onto bare skin. Cream. Cocoa. The mascarpone’s faint chill against a body that was already too warm. I had to stay still, or the whole thing would slide.
I drizzled chocolate around it, then lower: a dark line over the slope of my belly, down over the hood of my clit, onto my labia. My knees fell open a little because there was no dignified way to do this. Napkin on one side. Wipes on the other. One fork resting on my skin beside the dessert, the metal a small cold shock.
I picked up my phone.
“Dessert is served. Master bedroom.”
Sent.
I could smell myself under the chocolate. Sharp. Alive. The towel already held a spreading wetness I didn’t have to see to recognize.
The argument in my head would not stay in one piece.
I loved Mike. That had not evaporated because the candles were pretty. This dessert had been imagined for him: his shyness, his hands unsure where to start, the laugh he would have given before he leaned in. Giving Tyler the lasagna had been a betrayal with a recipe card. Giving him this, the petals, the sauce, my skin used as a plate, well, it felt like handing over everything to the enemy. There are mistakes you can call heat. This one I had choreographed.
And still I could not remember falling like this. Not this fast. Not with this much of me leaning forward. I told myself it was the sex. I told myself it was the talk, the newness, the way he looked at me as if I were a newly discovered hobby. Another part of me, quieter and more frightened, suspected those were only the door that he had walked through.
I watched the hallway with my pulse in my throat.
“If he laughs, you will never recover. If he stays, you may not get to go back to the woman who only meant to scratch an itch.”
Footsteps.
He stopped in the doorway and forgot how to come in.
For a long moment he only looked. Candles. Music. Petals. Me, naked, dessert melting its first faint edge against my stomach, chocolate already threatening to run. My nerves took off. Too much. I had done too much. He was going to see the need in the staging and choose the safer humiliation of walking away.
He shook his head instead, slow, wonder written clean across his face.
“Beth.”
My name, said like that, almost undid the whole pose.
He unbuttoned his shirt while he stood there and let it fall. The rest followed. He came to the bed and sat just below my waist, close enough that the fork trembled, close enough that I felt the heat of him before he touched me.
“You beautiful, impossible thing,” he said softly. “You are what I have been dreaming about my entire life. Every time I think I have seen all of you, you do something like this. I do not have words to express how that feels.”
I watched his face for the joke. I did not find one.
“You are the most beautiful dessert I have ever seen.” His eyes moved over me without rushing, as if rushing would have been rude. “The sexiest. The sweetest and the filthiest in the same breath. Nothing else comes close. Do you understand that? There is no comparison. There is just you.”
The praise sank in somewhere I had been trying to keep locked. I felt my throat tighten.
“I feel ridiculous,” I whispered.
“You look like an angel, a temptress, something so sweet you cannot help but take a bite.” He smiled, small, almost helpless. “Stay still for me. Let me look. God, Beth. Look at you.”
He picked up the fork, cut a small bite, dragged it through chocolate, and brought it to my mouth. I opened. Coffee, cream, cocoa. His gaze was on my lips while I took it. Then he took a bite from the same fork, and the shared metal felt more intimate than the pose.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and there was no bite in it this time. Only warmth. “That’s it. Let me feed you.”
Another bite for me. Another for him. A smear of cream transferred from the dessert to my skin when he misjudged, or pretended to. He leaned down and kissed it off my belly beside the tiramisu, a slow press of mouth, and I felt the first brick in my hesitation loosen.
“This is still just a scene. You can still keep the rest of yourself separate.”
His tongue drew a line through chocolate, and I made a sound that did not belong to a woman who was keeping anything separate.
He moved the dessert when it became impossible, lifting it away with both hands like it mattered, setting it on a tray on the nightstand, and the loss of that cool weight left my stomach marked, sticky, exposed. He looked at the print it had left on me and shook his head again.
“Even that,” he said. “Even the mess of you is beautiful.”
He drizzled more chocolate himself, a thin dark thread over the curve of one breast, and followed it with his mouth. No hurry. He cleaned what he spilled as if the cleaning were the point, tongue warm, lips closing over my nipple until the sweetness was gone and the ache was not. The other breast. The hollow between. He told me I tasted like sin and dessert. He told me my skin was better than the meal.
I had arrived in this room trying to hold a line. The line kept moving under his mouth.
When he kissed lower, I put my hand in his hair. Not to stop him. To feel him doing it. That was the first honest surrender: I stopped performing the offering and started inhabiting it.
He gathered chocolate and the wetness that had nothing to do with cooking on two fingers and painted a small bite of tiramisu through it, then brought that to my mouth. I hesitated. He waited, watching, no push in his hands.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “But I want to share this with you. All of it.”
I opened my mouth.
The taste made my eyes close. Sweet. Bitter. Salt. Me. He made a low sound of approval and took the next ruined bite for himself, and something in my chest ... something that had been braced since the doorbell gave.
“There she is,” he whispered. “That’s my girl. You don’t have to hide from me. Not tonight.”
His mouth found me.
He licked the chocolate away first, thorough as a promise, then forgot the chocolate existed. His tongue was slow on my clit, then flatter, then a gentle suction that made my hips lift. He held me with a forearm across my belly, not pinning to conquer, pinning to keep me from escaping my own pleasure. The restraint in it made my eyes sting.
“You are exquisite like this,” he said against me. “So wet. So sweet. I could live here. I would thank you every day for letting me.”
The first orgasm arrived like a long exhale. It shook through my thighs while I watched his hair between my legs and felt, with a kind of terrified clarity, that I was not only being touched. I was being received. I came with a broken sigh, and he stayed with me, easing, praising, calling me beautiful while I trembled, until the sensitivity made me whimper and he kissed my inner thigh as if I had given him a gift.
He moved up my body. I pulled him into a kiss that tasted like cocoa and the sweet nectar I knew was all me. We rolled. Petals clung to his shoulder. The towel bunched. What was left of the dessert, the smears on my stomach, crushed between us in a warm, ridiculous streak. I laughed into his mouth, shaky, and he laughed too, and he said, “God, I adore you like this,” and the word “adore” landed harder than any of the filth he had ever used.
We made out like lovers who had forgotten anything existed outside the two of them and that moment. His hands learned me as if the earlier nights had only been drafts. The back of my knee. The underside of my breast. The place at my ribs that made me twitch. I touched him the same way, slower than I had ever allowed myself, and every time I started to retreat into my head, he brought me back with his mouth or a sentence.
“I have never wanted anyone like this.”
“You feel like you were made to be in my hands.”
“Look at what you do to me. Just look.”
I did look. I let myself look. That was another piece of the crumbling: I stopped treating his wanting as a trick I had to outsmart and started feeling it land.
When I kissed down his chest, it was not strategy. It was hunger with manners. I took him into my mouth and went slow, and he gathered my hair back and told me I was perfect, that my mouth was a blessing, that he had not earned the way I looked up at him, and he wanted it anyway. I felt my own eyes go wet and kept going until he drew me up, kissing me like he could not stand the distance any longer.
“I need to taste you again,” he said. “I need all of you.”
We found the tangle sideways, mouths on each other, my thigh over his shoulder, his tongue inside me while I took him as deep as the angle allowed. The doubled attention unstitched me. I came again with him in my mouth, had to pull off to breathe, forehead against his hip, shaking, and he stroked my hair and said, “That’s it. Give it to me. You don’t have to hold anything back.”
Give it to him.
The phrase stayed.
He kissed his way back up and settled between my legs. I felt him there, bare, hot, the dinner rule flickering once, the drawer, the condoms, the speech with my fork on his lips, and then his hand cupped my face.
“Yes?” he asked.
I could have saved the last fence. I nodded. I reached for him. I pulled.
He slid into me in one long, careful stroke and the sound I made came from a place that did not care about fences any longer.
For the first few movements it still felt like being taken, in the gentlest sense of the word: his weight, his depth, the way he set the rhythm and watched to see what it did to me. I clung to him, my mouth opened on his shoulder. My body accepted the stretch as if it had been waiting through salad and wine and every lie I had told that week just for this moment in time.
Then something shifted.
I stopped only receiving the motion and started meeting it. A lift of my hips. An answer. He felt it, made a broken noise, and dropped his forehead to mine.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Like that. With me.”
We found a pace that belonged to neither of us alone. When he pushed, I rose. When I tightened, he groaned and gave me more of the angle I chased. The wet sound of us filled the small space between kisses. My legs hooked higher. His hand slid under my back and lifted me into him until my back was off the bed and arched, and I went to him, not because I had been told to, but because there was nowhere else I wanted my body to be.
It stopped feeling like an act being done to me.
It started feeling like a thing we were making.
I had never had that, not like this. Sex with Mike was love and safety and a known map. The other nights with Tyler had been fire and surrender and the thrill of being used until thought left. This was a third thing. Intimate in a way that made my chest hurt. Unique in a way I did not have language for except the look on his face when he sank all the way in and stayed a second longer than the stroke required.
“You’re perfect, like you were made for me,” he said, and I could have wept.
A began to overtake me, and he stared into my eyes. “Yes, beautiful, cum for me,” and the climax took me in a long, rolling wave. I shook under him and around him, and he held the rhythm through it, telling me I was gorgeous, telling me he could feel every bit of me, telling me not to look away. I didn’t; I could not have if I had wanted to. I was totally lost in the sight of him, and that made me feel more naked than the missing dress.
“Again,” he murmured. “Please. I want to feel you give me another.”
Please. That undid me as much as the depth.
The next one built from the togetherness itself, from the way our hips had stopped negotiating and moved. I was not counting anymore. I was not managing my face. I was not keeping a part of myself on the far side of the bed for later. I opened myself and gave him everything.
“Cum for me, angel, cum for me.”