Love, Lies and Punishment (Part 7 of Series)
Copyright© 2026 by BethanyBelow
Chapter 49: The Last Hole
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 49: The Last Hole - 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
He moved behind me and positioned himself. I felt him spread me, his thumbs pulling my cheeks apart so the cold from the open window hit the lube.
“Breathe,” he said. “Push out. Like you mean it. I am not going to shove.”
“If you shove, I will divorce you, and we are not married.”
“Noted.”
My nerves were frayed, my heart was racing, my nipples hurt from the cold, and I was scared to death, but I was committed. Then I felt his head. It was blunt, bigger than the plug, hotter than the toy, pressed against the place I had spent the day preparing and still wasn’t ready for. I pushed. He pushed.
The pain was immediate, a sharp tearing feeling like when skin has been stretched beyond tolerance, and it was almost more than I could handle. This was not the plug: one wide part, then it reshaped itself into a much smaller area past the ring. This was not the dildo I had used on myself like a dare. This was a split, a burning stretch that made my hang mouth open, and nothing useful came out except a sound. My arms collapsed, and I screamed into the mattress. Then I cried, actual tears, because my body did not believe it could open that far and he was asking it to. The head breached. I felt the pop as it passed the ring, a thick, brutal give, and the thickness behind it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like the start of a problem I had volunteered for. I sobbed.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Tyler. It hurts. It hurts so much.”
I broke out in a full-body sweat even though the cold air was blowing on me through the open window. I was panting already, rapid breaths that were on the verge of hyperventilation if I could not get control of myself, but I could not get my breath to settle into anything orderly. It came in short, fast, hard pulls, and each one made the stretch feel wider.
“I know, baby,” he said. His voice was close to my ear, and his hand stroked my hip instead of gripping it. “Do you want me to stop?”
I wanted to say yes; I wanted to say stop more than I wanted anything else in the world at that moment. That is the honest version, and I am trying to keep those. The fear was sitting right behind my teeth. I was reserved in the only way I had left, which was the part of me that still knew this was too much and that a sane woman would tap the bed and make him pull out. It wasn’t necessary; it wasn’t made for this. We had other ways to enjoy each other. The pain was so intense that my thighs were shaking uncontrollably while my hands made fists in the sheet and my teeth bit hard into the bedding. I could feel the head of his cock and what seemed like a log lodged in me, huge and hot, and the rest of him waiting, and I was afraid of the rest of him. I was afraid I had talked myself into a thing my body was now refusing in the only language it had.
I did not let myself ask him to stop.
The reason I gave myself was ugly, and it arrived fully formed. I still deserved more punishment for what I had done to him. Thursday night. The car. The belt I had grabbed at. The filthy offers. The toy I had used in front of him so I could turn a rescue into proof that he was a monster. He had come to get me. He had slept on the couch. He had sat through Amber. I had tried to hurt him so I could be right, and a sore ass from a belt had not felt like enough once I was clear-headed enough to remember his face. If this hurt, good. Suppose this hurt almost too much, better. I had asked for the last hole. I could take the pain of being given it. Wanting him to stop was a luxury I had not earned.
“No.” It came out wrecked, broken up by the panting. “No. I want you to do this. Do not stop. Slow. Please slow. Do not take it out. Do not stop.”
“Good girl. Breathe. You are taking me. Look at that. Your ass is swallowing my cock.”
He was slow. He was careful. He gave me an inch at a time and waited, and then he gave me another. He kept pushing more lube in with him from the bottle I had left by my side. His hand kept stroking my hip, and he told me I was doing it, which should have sounded like praise and landed like a sentence. I was thankful, through the crying, for the little plug and the new one and the toy and the fingers, because without them I was sure I would have died on his bed in a way that was not the way I wanted to be remembered. Even with them, I was still shaking. I was full in a way that had no comparison I was willing to make. His cock felt huge, so much larger for some reason than when he was in my pussy; I could almost not believe it was the same one. It was like a heated bar splitting me open, the ridge of the head dragging when he eased back a fraction and pressed in again. I kept panting into the sheets with grunts, groans, and little cries. I could hear myself. Short. Wet. Useless.
And then he was seated, his hips flush against the welts on my cheeks and his balls resting against my soaked pussy, I could not speak for a second. My mouth now hung open, but I could not make a sound. I just breathed; the panting had calmed, and now that he was fully inside me, I felt like a statue, unable to move. The pain stayed, but it changed; the sharp tearing sensation faded into the background and was replaced by a deep, occupied ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat, and I was still afraid of it. I was also already feeling something under it that I didn’t have a clean name for. Not relief. Not yet. A heat that was not only the burn.
“Okay,” I whispered as soon as I had been able to gain some control over my breathing. I was still panting, but not as rapidly, and I was able to take deeper breaths. “Fuck I can feel all of you in me. Move slowly; I want to feel it.”
“You feel incredible,” he said. “God, you are so hot, so tight. I can feel you shake. Tell me if it turns wrong.”
“It is already wrong. Do it anyway.”
He did. Using long, slow movements, he drew out to where the head was almost back to the tight ring, and the widest part of him tugged at my rim until I whimpered, and then he pressed back in to the root. Each stroke dragged a long moan out of me that did not sound like any woman I knew. I could hear the lube. I could hear the small wet sound of my ass taking him and giving him back. I could hear the loud sound of air being forced out of me that would normally be something that embarrassed me, but at that moment, it was the least of my concerns, regardless of how loud the sounds became. I loved him. I loved that he was being careful. I was furious at myself for loving any part of the hurt, but I pushed back onto him anyway, a small motion, testing whether I could.
That was when it changed.
He was fully inside me, and he was moving, and the pain did not leave, but it stopped being the only thing in the room. The burn at my rim stayed sharp on the out-stroke, and the deep ache stayed when he filled me, and under both of them a pleasure started to climb that I had not felt from the toy or my fingers and not from his mouth. It lived in the same nerve as the hurt. I still panted, like a dog that had overexerted itself and was now lying down, unable to move or do anything else while its body tried to recover and adjust. I tried to sort the pleasure and pain, and my body refused the sorting. Every time he sank in, the stretch flared, and the pleasure flared with it. Every time he drew back, I would wince and cry out from the hurt as the drag lit the rim and the emptiness made me want the stretch again. And then, with my backward movement, it began to change, and I was afraid of how fast the want showed up. I had tears on my face from the beginning, and now the tears were not only from the pain.
The woman from the mirror wanted to rebel. I could feel her again, clear as a person standing at the foot of the bed. She was the nurse. She was Mike’s girlfriend. She was the woman who had spent years calling that part of her body a locked door, and she wanted me to tell him to stop, to remember the drive to Los Angeles, to remember that I was giving Tyler a thing I had never offered the man I had been committed to for three years and was going to spend Thanksgiving with. She had a whole speech. I knew the speech. I had been writing versions of it since Friday morning.
Lust pushed her down. Passion pushed her down. Love pushed her down the hardest, because love was the one I could not call a chemical. I loved the man who was inside me. I had said it to Amber, and I had said it to his mouth in his sleep, and my body was treating that sentence like permission. My mirror image did not disappear; she just got quieter. I let her get quieter. I hated myself for the relief of it.
“More,” I said.
“Say it properly.”
“Fuck my ass ... Please ... I gave it to you, so use it.”
He picked up the pace, still careful at first, then less careful, because I was pushing back and the push was a request. I was overwhelmed. The pleasure and the pain were in the same nerve, and I could not pull them apart anymore. They were becoming one sensation. A stroke was not a hurt with a sweet edge. A stroke was the whole thing, burn and fullness and the filthy yes, arriving together so that wanting less pain would have meant wanting less pleasure, wanting less of him. I was not willing to want less of him. My panting turned into moans and then back into panting when he bottomed out, and the writing on my cheeks met his hips. The welts from last night woke up under the slap of him. That hurt too. That hurt in the same voice.
The guilt arrived with the pleasure, which felt like a fair punishment and also like a cruelty I was doing to myself.
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