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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