More Than Time Can Heal a Broken Heart (a Memory)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 43: Missionary
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 43: Missionary - 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 did not shove. That was the first difference, and it was so large it almost made me cry before anything else happened.
He rubbed the head of himself through my slick, painting it on me, pressing against my clit on the way past, until I made a sound that was not fear. Then he set himself at my entrance again and pushed the smallest amount, just the head, and held there. Thick. I felt the stretch immediately—wider than I was used to, even if he was shorter than Justin—and I waited for the tear, the burn that meant I should go away inside my own head.
It did not come. Pressure. Fullness. A sting that stayed a sting and did not turn into a problem. He kissed me through it. He told me I was doing so good. He told me to breathe. I breathed. He gave me another inch and stopped again.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Slow. Keep going.”
He worked himself into me like the afternoon had taught him my tempo. A little, wait, a little more. I could feel every ridge of him, the thickest part opening me, my body making wet sounds around the slide that I would have died of if I had been capable of dying of anything except wanting. My moans started small. Soft. The kind you could still take back. Then he bottomed out, hips flush to mine, and the sound that left me was not small. Full. So full. Different from the length that used to punch the air out of me. This was depth I could hold. This was a stretch that made my toes curl instead of my eyes fill for the wrong reason.
“Oh, my God,” I said it into his shoulder. “Andrew. You are—fuck. You feel so good.”
He groaned like I had put a hand around his throat. “You feel better. Tight. Wet. I am going to go slow until you tell me not to.”
He pulled back and pushed in again, unhurried, the whole thick length of him dragging through me. I felt it in my stomach. I felt it in my hands, which had stopped being fists and started being things that could hold his back. The scared girl watched the first dozen strokes the way you watch a car that might still swerve. It did not swerve. Pleasure started to stack on top of the stretch, the same bright heat his mouth had built, except now it had a center. I moaned on the in-stroke. I whimpered on the out. I said his name because his name had become the handle I reached for when a feeling got too large.
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