Being Remade (Part 6 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 9: Tablecloths
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 9: Tablecloths - The 6th 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 6th story takes place about 6 weeks after I first cheated in what was the "happy time". I was already seeing the control and training taking place and in this story I tried to stand up for myself. 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 Romantic Heterosexual True Story Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Masturbation Oral Sex Squirting Voyeurism Doctor/Nurse Public Sex
I dressed for Mike in what I hoped exuded sex.
The tiny black dress was the kind that made a steakhouse with $150+ entrées and a $25 baked potato look low rent: fitted, dark, with a plunging back and neckline and a hem that sat just above mid-thigh if I was careful and much higher if I was not. No bra the dress would allow and no panties, because I had decided I wanted to be his slut tonight and I needed the decision to have a texture. The plug stayed in because Tyler’s instruction and my own stubbornness shook hands on that. Walking to the car with bare skin under the skirt and a jeweled piece of metal in my ass made me feel dirty in a way I could aim at the man I was meeting, if I concentrated.
I concentrated.
Mike opened the door in a collared shirt and looked at me like I had arrived out of the walkway of a fashion show or brochure on an escort site, or perhaps a combination of the two. I was hoping for the latter.
“Jesus, Beth.”
He laughed, low, pleased. “ I said tablecloths. I did not say try to stop my heart in the hallway.”
“You said tablecloths. I interpreted aggressively. You can write a letter to my complaints department if you have an issue with it, but I warn you they are quite lazy and usually don’t reply.”
He kissed me in the doorway, warm, no performance. I kissed him back and felt the dress, the plug, the lack of anything under the hem, and the lie I had told him this morning about passing out all occupying the same body. The guilt was there, but so was the heat. I let both of them come to dinner.
The steakhouse was big, with low lights and dark booths tucked into corners with walls for privacy and curtains that blocked anyone passing by from seeing much more than the outline of the people in each booth. It was the kind of place that assumed you had something to say that did not belong on a speakerphone. He had reserved a booth. Of course he had. Mike held back the curtain slightly so I could slide in, and his hand found the small of my back in that unshowy protective way that used to be enough to rearrange my week.
We ordered wine, and then we ordered food, both of which cost more than my better judgment would typically allow.
“I am paying for half tonight,” I told him, just to get it out of the way.
“You are paying for nothing, and because of the way you dressed and look, I am the one who is going to owe you something before the night is over.”
“You like?” I queered with a soft, shy smile on my face.
“If you Google sexy woman, you would be the first hit on every search engine.”
“Well then I guess I accomplished my goal.”
For a while, we just talked and enjoyed each other’s company, and everything about the evening was good. He told me about a meeting that ran extra long and could have been handled with just a simple email. I told him about a patient who had tried to leave with his IV pole like it was a plus-one. He laughed with his whole face while under the table, my bare thighs stuck faintly to the leather booth, and the plug sent tingles up my spine each time I moved.
I flirted on purpose.
Not the polite or tentative kind, the other kind where every word has two meanings. I asked if he was hungry in a tone that had nothing to do with steak. I told him I had spent the day thinking about being taken care of and let him hear the second meaning first. He caught it. He is not a stupid man, and he gave it back across the candle with a look that made my stomach dip, dirty enough to surprise me coming from him, fond enough that it stayed Mike.
“You are in a mood,” he said with a wide grin on his face, clearly enjoying the evening.
“This dress makes me feel and do things I normally would never consider.”
“I noticed the dress.”
“Notice lower.”
His eyebrows went up. I slipped one heel off under the table and found him with my foot, toes pressing the line of his cock through his slacks until I felt him thicken. He inhaled through his teeth and glanced at the room.
“Beth.”
“What? I am sitting here like a perfect lady talking to her man. I am also checking whether you meant tablecloths as a setting or as a constraint.”
“You are going to get us thrown out.”
“Then you should tip well in advance.”
He was hard as a rock under my foot. The power of that — simple, old-fashioned, aimed at him — went through me brighter than I expected. I wanted to be good at this with him. I wanted the new door to open in his direction.
I looked once more at the dining room through the curtain, at the waiter’s back two tables away, and then I slid down.
While the booth was larger than a table at most restaurants, the space underneath was not designed for comfort. It is designed for purses and knees, but I was able to fit myself between his legs anyway, opened his belt with fingers that knew how to be quiet, and took him out. He was already leaking. I put my mouth on him and felt his whole body go rigid above me, one hand landing in my hair not to push, just to have somewhere to put the shock.
“Beth— fuck— you cannot—”
I could, and I did. I sucked him in the dark under the cloth with my eyes open on the shadow of his stomach, the plug seated, my bare ass on my own heels, and the murmur of other people’s anniversaries moving past our booth. He throbbed on my tongue, and I used spit and the angle to make it good for him. Footsteps.
The waiter’s shoes. A pause at the edge of the table.
“Can I interest you in dessert this evening or should I wait for the lady to return?”
Mike’s voice came from a long way up and did not sound like a man choosing between cake and no cake.
“No,” he said. Too fast. Then, thinner: “Just the check. Please. The check will be fine.”
“Of course, sir.”
The shoes left. I smiled around him, which is an undignified thing to do to a person, and took him deeper. His hand tightened. I felt the warning in his thigh and stayed, swallowing when he came in a hard, helpless pulse that he could not make a sound about without turning the booth into a story. I took all of it. I made sure. I tucked him away, zipped him, and climbed back onto the leather like a woman who had dropped a napkin.
I wiped the corner of my mouth with my thumb and looked at him.
He was wrecked in a collared shirt. Flushed. Staring at me like he had never met me and had also been waiting to meet me for three years.
“Hi,” I said.
“You are insane.”
“You said tablecloths.”
When he paid, he was barely able to sign his own name. In the car he kissed me at a red light like he had forgotten we were in traffic, and I let him, grinning against his mouth, dirty and pleased and almost convinced I had pulled myself back into his orbit by force of will and a missing pair of underwear.
At his house the conviction lasted as long as the hallway.
We did not make it to the bedroom; his shirt and pants came off in the hall. I was able to disengage from him long enough to escape to the bathroom, where the plug came out with my forehead against his medicine cabinet because I had promised Tyler I would remove it if we had sex, and I was, if nothing else, a person who kept the wrong promises. I left it wrapped in tissue in my purse like contraband and went back to him naked.
Missionary. His favorite shape of intimacy. My legs around him. His face above me, open, loving, a little stunned by the restaurant. He pushed in, and I waited for the “new door” to recognize him.
It did not.
I looked at him, and the looking was the problem. His eyes were not a gate.
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