VERY Short Romantic Story: One Last Time

One Last Time

I loved him so hard.  Let him see all of me, take all of me, for the last time.  Never again would I open the door of the Seattle condo I’d worked so hard for.  Never again would I take him through the simple but beautiful rooms to my private sanctuary.  Never again would he be allowed in my bed. 

I hadn’t known in the beginning that he was married.  By the time he told me I was already in love with him.  I let him give me so little.  I allowed myself to settle for what scraps he threw my way over the last year. 

No longer.

Now, I felt the tears fall as his cock erupted inside me.  Lost in pleasure as my own pleasure had once been lost in him.  Hot jets spurted deep, his face locked in ecstasy, his fingers gripping my hips.  Slowly he came down.  His breathing and pounding heart settled back into normal rhythms.  He reached up to smooth my hair from my face.  “You’re more beautiful every time I see you, Lauren.  So fucking beautiful it hurts.  I miss you when we’re not together.”

I smiled but I didn’t mean it and he didn’t notice.  “You don’t have time to miss me, Devon.  Your family and career keep you busy.”  I knew his wife’s money fueled his political aspirations, that her old-family connections guided him toward Congress, that despite her being cold and calculating he would never leave her. 

At first, I thought we had a future.  Three months later, when I learned he was married…who he really was…what he was, I wondered if he would choose me.   Devon would never choose me.  He was too selfish.  He wanted it all and he didn’t think I realized that. 

I was successful in my own right and came from modest wealth but he’d insisted on buying me things, taking me places, giving me money.  It was only last week that I realized I was a transaction.  Somehow, I’d allowed him to make me his whore.  He gave me material things to ease his guilt because he knew I loved him.  I’d sobbed, raged, felt sorry for myself until I saw the truth every whore should understand.  If he considered me no better than a whore, that made him my john.  Nothing more than a trick. 

Today was the end.  No man would ever paint me into a corner as this gorgeous, successful, piece of shit had done.  I would never enable another person to make me feel like a whore.

I climbed off his body and shrugged on my robe, belting it snugly as I turned to face him.  “You need to leave, remember?”  He nodded and got up, dressing quickly until he looked like the slick politician who’d walked in little more than an hour ago. 

“I’ll see you next week?”  He always posed the statement like a question as he stood in my outer hallway, preparing to return to his “real” life. 

“No.  You won’t.  We’re done.”  Then I closed the door in his face and ignored the frantic knocking, then the phone calls and text messages.  Over the next week I returned all his gifts, changed my phone number, and finalized the sale of my condo. 

My old neighbor said he came by looking for me and nearly lost it when a strange woman with a baby opened the door.  I stared out at the Manhattan skyline and smiled. 

This time, it reached my eyes.

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