Love, Lies and Punishment (Part 7 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 26: The Tray
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 26: The Tray - The 7th story in my Infidelity series about how I cheated on my BF, got involved with the guy I cheated with for 6.5 months and what started as a mistake, became an affair and then slowly turned into my loss of self and degradation. This 7th story takes place about 7 weeks after I first cheated. Be sure to read the previous stories for this to make sense.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Reluctant Romantic Heterosexual True Story Cheating BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Anal Sex Cream Pie Enema Exhibitionism Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Water Sports Public Sex
I did not hear him until he came through the door.
He stopped when he saw me. I saw enough through the blur to know he was shocked. He held a tray in his hands: omelets, potatoes, bacon, coffee. The ordinary kindness of a man who had cooked while I was indicting myself. He put the tray on the dresser like it might break if he kept holding it, and then he was on the bed, arms around me, pulling me in against his chest.
“What is wrong. Beth.”
I apologized. It was the only thing I knew how to do when I was sure that I was the problem.
“I am sorry. I am sorry I am such a terrible person. I am sorry I am so broken. I am sorry you cooked.”
The last one was absurd. I cried through it anyway. He held me. He did not fix it. He just held me, a hand in my hair, his voice low, and I could not take the comfort without the rest of it coming out, so I gave him the rest.
The things only Amber knows.
My youth, the troubles I had faced, and what originally broke me. I did not give him the graphic version. I did not have one I could say without coming apart into pieces smaller than the morning. I told him there had been a before and that I had not arrived at twenty-six intact. That I had spent years pretending the before was a room I no longer had a key to.
I told him about the bulimia, not the method. The fact. That I had been fighting it longer than I had been a nurse.
I told him about the men. Every relationship before Mike had been terrible because I had chosen them terribly. Men who used me, men who hurt me, men who got what they wanted and discarded me when I was no longer convenient or no longer new. I had loved some of them. The parking-lot boy had been the first. He had not been the last. I had a type, and the type was the man who would confirm the word.
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