More Than Time Can Heal a Broken Heart (a Memory)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 30: What Talking Means
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 30: What Talking Means - 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
I had said we could talk. I had told him that because I needed him off the floor and I needed my face to stop looking like a crime scene. Talk, in practice, would require sentences. Sentences would require me to pick a version.
Version one: Thank you for not telling your mom. I am fine now. Please forget the kiss. I am your sister’s friend, and I am having a bad weekend.
Version two: Say it again. Say gorgeous while I can see your face and there is no toilet behind me. Put your mouth back. Let me find out if gentle is a real speed and not just a story I told myself on the office sofa last night.
Version three: I am in love with a boy who dumped me, and I am also wet for you and I also just made myself sick, and I also do not know how to be looked at, so any promise I make in the next ten minutes is a person trying not to drown.
Version three was the true one. I was not going to lead with version three.
I splashed more water on my face. It did not help the eyes. It helped the illusion that I was doing a task. Tasks were how I survived. Wash the tomato. Stir the coffee. Turn on the fan. Clean up my face. Walk out. Speak.
He thinks I am hot, I told the glass, and the glass did not blink.
He saw you at your worst and stayed, I told the glass, and the glass did not congratulate me.
He is Carrie’s brother, I told the glass, and the glass had the decency not to look away.
I wanted him to mean it. That was the thought that finally sat down and stopped spinning in my head. Not I want to have sex with him, although the weekend had already proven my body was happy to run that experiment without a vote. Not I want to parade him in front of Justin, although the petty picture from last night was still filed where I could reach it. I wanted the sentence to be true. I wanted a person who had seen the bowl and the crying and had heard the word bulimic and had not run out the door. I had not known how badly I wanted that until he said beautiful, and my first instinct was to call him a liar.
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