More Than Time Can Heal a Broken Heart (a Memory)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 40: Just His Mouth
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 40: Just His Mouth - 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
The first touch of his tongue was so light I almost thought I had imagined it. A single slow lick up the center of me, parting the wet, not aiming at anything yet. I jerked. A sound came out of me that was more breath than voice. He did it again, firmer, and my hands found his hair because I needed to be holding the person who was doing this.
He licked me like he was learning a language. Long passes through the folds. The flat of his tongue spreading me. The tip tracing the entrance without pushing in. I was so wet from earlier that every pass made a small obscene sound I could hear over the music. I would have been mortified if I had had the spare attention. I did not. The nervousness was still there, a tight band behind my ribs, but it was competing with heat that kept winning inches.
“You taste so good,” he said into me, and the words landed on my clit like another lick. “Fuck, Beth. I could live right here.”
“Oh, my God.” It was not a performance. It was the only sentence available. “Andrew. Oh my God.”
He sealed his mouth over me and sucked, gentle, then less gentle, and my hips tried to come off the bed. He pinned them with his forearms, careful of the burned hand, and kept going. Circles around my clit that did not land on it yet. Then the direct press of his tongue, flat, warm, moving in a rhythm that made my thighs start to shake. I moaned. I kept moaning. The sounds stacked on each other and got less polite: a whimper, a groan, a cracked little fuck when he flicked the underside of the clit and my whole body jumped.
I thought, stupidly and clearly, that this was what people had been talking about. Not the idea of it. The fact of a mouth that wanted to be there. He was not checking a box. He was making a low, pleased noise against me every time I reacted, as if my sounds were feeding him. That loop—him enjoying my enjoying—did something to the scared girl on the sheets. She did not leave. She sat down and watched. The rest of me started to get lost.
He licked faster. Then slower when I got too loud, drawing it out, which was a cruelty I had not known to want. He sucked my clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue inside that small wet seal, and I said his name like it was the only word I had paid for.
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