More Than Time Can Heal a Broken Heart (a Memory)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 25: Paper Thin
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 25: Paper Thin - This is a SLOW BURN story with the real sex only in the last 1/3 though some masturbation in earlier parts. While graphic the sex is very vanilla. This story focuses on when I was newly 18, inexperienced & insecure and my boyfriend of 4 years dumped me. The main purpose is to give those of you reading my Infidelity/Cheating series some background on me. This can be read as a stand alone. It is also not necessary to read this in order to enjoy my Infidelity/Cheating series.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual True Story Oral Sex
He was bent over next to me. Concern on his face. No joke. No dinner-table ease. Just Carrie’s brother in the doorway of Carrie’s bathroom, looking at the worst version of me I owned. I knew how I looked. I knew what was in the bowl. I knew the air in the room had a smell that did not belong to just the mouthwash I had used. Shame, embarrassment, and self-disgust surged through me so hard I felt sick in a second, different way.
“Are you sick?” he said. “Should I get my mom?”
“No.” My voice came out frantic. “No. Please do not. Please.” My face was still red. The tears had not stopped. They had only changed jobs, from the thing I had done to the fact that he had walked in on it.
“You must be sick,” he said. He was already building a story in his head that would make this his fault, because that was easier than the other stories. “Maybe I cooked the ribs wrong. I would feel terrible if I gave you food poisoning.”
“No. I am fine. The food was fine.” I could hear myself begging and could not make it sound like anything else. “Please do not tell your mother.”
He hesitated. His bandaged hand hung at his side as if he had forgotten it. “I came in to clean up after the grill. The walls are paper thin between my room and Carrie’s. I heard you. I thought you were throwing up. I came to check.”
The sobs that had been waiting stepped forward and took the rest of my voice. I put a hand on the seat of the toilet because I needed something solid, and the floor was not enough.
“I have a different problem,” I said. “It is not the food. The food was fine. Please just leave. Please do not tell your mom.”
He frowned, gentler than I deserved. “Is it a female problem? My mom could help. She is good at that kind of thing.”
“No. Not that.” The word I had never said to him, or to Kevin, or to anyone in this house except the version of myself I argued with in mirrors, came up because there was nothing else left that would make him stop offering his mother. “I am bulimic.”
He stared at me. Stunned is a clean word. What he looked like was a person whose vision of the afternoon had just been taken away. I cried harder, and I hated the sound of it. I hated the bowl. I hated my mouth. I hated my body. I hated me.
I thought, very clearly, that I was repulsive ... disgusting, and that, faced with the evidence in front of him and my admission, he must think so too; how could he not?
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