More Than Time Can Heal a Broken Heart (a Memory)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 5: What the Fuck, Bitch
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 5: What the Fuck, Bitch - 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
Carrie’s bedroom still looked like Carrie: clothes in negotiation with the chair, photos on the wall, the bathroom attached like a privilege I had always been a little jealous of. She shut the door, and then she looked at me, smiling in the specific way that meant I was about to be emotionally mugged, and then she pushed my shoulder.
“What the fuck, bitch.”
“What.”
She laughed. It was not a small laugh. “You were drooling all over my brother. That is gross as fuck. I leave you alone and unattended in the pool, and you start making goo-goo eyes at Andrew as soon as he walks in, like he did not use to eat string cheese in this exact room with his mouth open.”
Heat climbed my throat so fast I felt dizzy. “I was not.”
“You were. You went pink every time he looked at you. You answered him like you had been issued a two-word limit. You stared at his arms like you wanted to wrap yourself in them.”
“That is not true! I was just being polite.”
She pushed me again, and I stumbled back a foot.
“You were being a natural disaster, Hurricane Beth rushing in with an apparent crush. Which, given the day you have had, is almost impressive.”
Another push and I fell back onto the toilet, laughing, while Carrie’s eyes twinkled and his face broke into a huge grin.
I would be proud of you slut, if it wasn’t my brother we are talking about. My brother, Beth! Gross! The same guy who used to think deodorant was optional and we would fight over not having to sit next to him in the back seat.”
I stayed sitting on the closed lid of the toilet she had pushed me onto because my legs had decided the conversation required architectural support. Carrie began to lay out a litany of examples of mannerisms I displayed around guys I found attractive. Then I compared them to the last forty-five minutes we had spent at the patio table catching up with Andrew.
I was blushing hard enough to feel it in my ears, and the denials kept coming out in a steady stream because that is what shy girls do when they have been caught wanting something they haven’t given themselves permission to want.
“He looks different,” I said. “That is all. I have not really seen him in years. I was surprised. People are allowed to be surprised.”
“People are allowed to be surprised without looking at him like they want to devour him.”
“Carrie.”
“Beth.”
She did not let me off the hook. She started the shower and kept talking over the water while she pulled her hair up, the running commentary of a best friend who had decided teasing was a form of first aid. I sat there in the towel and the chlorine and the wreckage of Friday and listened to her tell me I had been obvious. I hated that she was not entirely wrong. I hated more that what she had seen in me wasn’t a plan. It was just a reflex. A stupid, newly eighteen reflex in a body that was still learning it could be looked at and a heart that was still bleeding on a boy who had not known how to touch it.
“He is your brother,” I said.
“Yes. Thank you. I have met him. That is the problem.”
“It would be weird.”
“It is already weird. You made it weird with your face.”
I put my head in my hands. “I just got dumped.”
Carrie’s voice softened without losing the needle. “I know. That is why I am giving you a hard time instead of a lecture. You are allowed to notice a person is hot. You are even allowed to notice it is my formerly unfortunate brother. You are not allowed to sit at dinner like you have been unplugged. Use your mouth for talking. That is one of its advertised features.”
She showered, and I stayed on the toilet lid and listened to her be merciless and fond in the same breath, which is the only way Carrie knew how to love people. She talked about Andrew’s mysterious blonde. She talked about the band. She talked about how Kevin was going to spend the whole nine days pretending he was not proud and doing it loudly. She told me I looked better than I thought I did, even in her too-small suit, and that I should try believing her for ten consecutive minutes as an experiment.
When she got out, she left me a pile of lounging clothes on the counter. Soft shorts. A shirt that would cover more than the swimsuit had. Socks, because Carrie understood that comfort was sometimes a textile problem.
“Hurry,” she said, wrapping her hair. “I will be downstairs. When you come down, keep your jaw off the floor. Use your mouth to talk, because that is what it is for, and stop being a weirdo.”
“I will,” I said.
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