Losing Myself (Part 5 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 1: Cleanup
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 1: Cleanup - The 5th in my Infidelity series about how I cheated on my BF, got involved with with the guy I cheated with for 6.5 months and what started as a mistake, became an affair and then slowly turned into my loss of self and degradation. This 5th story takes place about a month after I first cheated in what was the "happy time" but I was already seeing the control and training taking place. Be sure to read the previous stories for this to make sense.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual True Story Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Water Sports Public Sex
The carefully crafted dinner that I had planned for Mike and fed to Tyler was forgotten. The staged tiramisu dessert a-la-Beth was nothing more than a drying, sticky chocolate mess smeared across Tyler and my bodies and the duvet. My mind and body were now solely occupied in performing one task, taking care of Tyler’s heavy cock in my mouth.
My head moved in a steady, hungry rhythm, down until my lips met the base of him and the hairs in his groin would poke and prickle my lips until I would reverse the motion and move my head back up again, just far enough to breathe, then down once more. When I pushed my head forward, I could feel him slide deep into my throat until I gagged, my muscles clenching around the hard invader, causing him to moan. Large amounts of spit ran freely from my mouth, pooling on my chin before draining off onto his thighs. My eyes watered, and tears ran down my cheeks. I did not stop. I did not want to stop. There was only the thick weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips, the wet sound of my own work, and the low wreck of his breathing above me.
Part of me could not believe I was doing this.
Not the blowjob. I am a woman who really loves giving head. It is intensely erotic to me. It is when I feel most powerful during sex, because a man is at his most vulnerable when his cock is in my mouth. That part I understood. That part I had always understood.
No. It was the part of me that remained of the woman who had walked into that party a few weeks ago. The woman who had never cheated in her life. The woman who had loved her partner with all her heart. What was left of that woman, after weeks of cheating with her boyfriend’s oldest friend, was horrified by what she had become.
And still my mouth kept moving.
I love the salty, musky taste and smell of a man’s crotch. The silky texture of the skin when he is hard. The way he feels on my tongue as he glides through my mouth. I love the noises they make, the ones that tell me I am doing a good job, and then, when they start to get close, how every man reacts the same: hands gripping my hair in a tight, vice-like hold, hips shifting as if they can fit more of themselves into me, the increasingly jagged jerks when they reach the summit.
But my favorite part, the part that makes me want to give every blowjob my fullest attention, is the moment the man comes. When he loses self-control. When I can feel the pulse of semen traveling down his cock and onto my tongue. The always-different amount, the length of the orgasm, the number of spurts, like a mystery box opening every time.
Tyler brought something new to the table, though.
His words.
“Christ, your body was made for me, you sexy bitch.”
The first sentence landed low in my belly and lit there. Excitement spiked so fast it made my thighs press together against nothing. I wanted to please him. I wanted to give him the best blowjob I had in me. I took him deeper on the next stroke and held, throat working, because if my body had been made for this, then I was going to prove it.
“I love the way you gag around me. It feels better than a pussy clenching down on me.”
Heat flooded my face. Shame and excitement braided so tightly I could not pull them apart. I knew how filthy I must look and how filthy I must sound. Every time he bottomed out, my throat would convulse around him. There was a wet choke, the strings of spit and the wrecked little noises I could not swallow down. I should have hated the picture. Instead I blushed harder and tried to stay down longer, giving him exactly the clench he had just praised.
“Can you feel that, you beautiful whore? It feels like your throat is trying to milk me. Like your body is desperate for my cum and is doing everything it can to pull it out of me.”
I realized, with a jolt that was almost funny and then was not funny at all, that I was grinding my hips in the air. Unconsciously, my body was reaching for friction that was not there, rocking against nothing while I sucked him, as if I could fuck the empty space between my thighs and make it count. The observation should have snapped me out of it. It only made me wetter.
“You’re such a talented cocksucker. I could make a fortune selling your mouth to other men.”
I knew I should have been insulted. I knew I should have been furious. A clean, bright anger was the only correct response, the one the old version of me would have used to stand up and slap him for even thinking it, let alone speaking it. Instead I was upset with myself, hotly, helplessly upset, over how excited I got, over how wet I was getting from being degraded like that, over the moans I made around his cock while his words sank into me. Shame burned bright when the image arrived: me on my knees in some windowless room, a line of men waiting, each holding a wad of cash that they would hand to Tyler as I would finish one and move on to the next because Tyler had decided my mouth was simply a product that had a price attached to it. I should have gotten up. I should have ended it. What registered in my body instead was a pulse of pleasure so sharp it startled me, and then the unmistakable warm drip of more fluid leaking from me onto the already ruined towel.
“Do you want your reward? Do you think you have done enough to earn it, you sexy slut?”
Something in me answered that last sentence like a bell.
I picked up the pace. I braced both hands on either side of his hips. I threw myself into it, slamming my face down into his crotch on every stroke, taking him until my nose pressed to his skin and my throat quivered and the wet, desperate sounds filled the quiet of my bedroom. I wanted him to cum. I wanted the mystery box. I wanted to be good at this for him in the specific, ruinous way he kept teaching me to want.
His fingers slid into my hair.
Not a shove. A pause.
I came up off him with a wet sound that left my mouth empty and my thoughts a half-second behind my body. His cock shone in the low light, messy with everything we had already done and everything I had just started putting back into my mouth.
“Come here, lover,” Tyler said, voice rough but almost gentle. “Let’s finish this in the shower before the chocolate and sweat glue us to these sheets.”
I laughed, cracked and indecent. “You ruin a woman with tiramisu and your cock and then want to hose her down. What a romantic.”
“I did not ruin you,” he said. “You were already a problem.”
He pulled me up and had to hold me for a moment because my legs had opinions about standing. He kissed me like the joke had been foreplay and steered me toward my bathroom with a swift, loud swat to my ass that caused me to jump and yelp before his hands cupped my ass and pushed me toward the wide glass shower.
I turned on the water and let it run while we kept ourselves occupied kissing and exploring each other’s bodies as we waited for it to heat up. He stepped in first and held out a hand as if I might still bolt, as if I had not just had my throat full of him after asking to be called his whore.
I took his hand.
The first hit of water was too hot and then exactly right. It ran down my hair and over the places his mouth had been, loosening the sugar, salt, and cocoa clinging to my skin. Tyler pulled me under the spray and kissed me before I had finished blinking water out of my eyes. Slower this time, his mouth opened, and his tongue found mine like he had all night and no intention of spending it on anything else. My back met tile at the same time his chest met mine. The chocolate stains that covered our bodies began to disappear; the dark lines thinned and ran in pale rivers down both of us and into the drain.
“Hold still,” he murmured against my mouth.
“You first.”
He found the soap. I found his shoulders. He washed me slowly, his palms moving over my breasts, thumbs circling, sliding the last of the drizzle away until there was only wet skin and the ache underneath it. I soaped his chest and traced the marks I had left earlier, the raised red line, the darker bloom on his shoulder, and felt a tight private satisfaction that had no business living next to the guilt still parked at the back of my skull. His hands went lower. Mine did too. He washed between my legs with a thoroughness that was not only hygiene. I hissed when his fingers passed over swollen, used flesh, then leaned into it anyway because my body had stopped pretending it needed a break.
“Sensitive,” he said, almost pleased.
“You think?” I tipped my head back under the water. “Some man spent the evening using me as a dessert plate. Very unprofessional.”
“I’ll write a review,” I intoned solemnly, “Five stars. Would be consumed again.”
He laughed against my throat and kissed me there, then lower, mouth open on the water running down my collarbone. I washed his cock with both hands, slow, watching it thicken under the slick of soap and heat until the joke thinned out of the air, like the remains of the dessert that had flowed down the drain. He rinsed us both and then crowded me back against the wall and kissed me until I forgot we were there to get clean.
His hands found my hips, and he turned me around.
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