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His Young Maid

Daisy Jane

Smeared Ink

Copyright © 2021 by Daisy Jane

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Epilogue / Brooks

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Brooks: Four Months Earlier

Reaching down between us, I unzip my jeans, my heavy shaft falling into the seam between her thighs. She whimpers, making a noise through her artificially plumped lips. Rolling my hips, I pierce her, tunneling myself inside, over and over.  It is the epitome of motion without heart, movement without thought, in and out for a purpose.

“Oh, you know just how I like it,” she whines, and my cock softens a little. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I told myself I’d enjoy this simple thing with this fine woman. Though lately it was beginning to get harder and harder to orgasm, and orgasm was really the only point of our relationship.

She was always nice enough, despite the fact that she talked too much and cared about far too little. She always had on these fake eyelashes that threatened to make a break from her face. Her hair had been stripped of color, colored added, curled and combed, or pressed and pinned. Her clothes always seemed to have a sheen, fit tight, and I could always see her nipples. Physically, she was just working so hard to be what she thought men wanted. She always seemed to be nosing around my house and she continually asked me far too many questions about my work, both signs of a woman seeking a sugar daddy.

I may have been of the sugar daddy age, ripe old at forty-eight, but I wasn’t looking to be a sugar daddy.

I just didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be the jerk so lonely and sexually frustrated that behind his back he was known as an asshole, a recluse, a complete lost cause.

Forcing myself to date casually, I'd told myself, would help with that. And now, as this woman’s forced saccharine dirty talk made me go limp, I realized, I just couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

Despite our arrangement, I knew she'd hoped I was falling in love with her. I knew she was trying all the things that worked on the other men before me. But falling in love with her?

I was not.

“Did you lose your hard on?” she reached between us and I rolled away, my body language not the only barrier as I tucked the sheet down between us.

“I did,” I admitted, not even a single ounce of embarrassment in my tone. I didn’t even care what she’d say about me after this, and that was a new low. Simply put, I’d grown tired of pretending that I could be with just anyone. Clearly, I couldn’t do casual sex. And since I’d already fucked up the whole love thing, I knew I’d not find it again. No one was that lucky.

“Can you go home now?” I urged, rolling onto my side, checking the alarm on my phone to make sure it was set.

She guffawed in shock. I could’ve said I was sorry, but the truth was, I was glad. Glad to have her out of my bed, out of my house, out of my life. It would have been nice to come, but a sad orgasm is not in fact better than no orgasm, let me tell you. And I had experience with both.

She puffed and huffed as she put her clothes back on in my dark bedroom, me watching her impatiently. Now that I had decided, I just wanted her out.

“I want to break up, end this thing,” I added, realizing just then that I hadn’t verbalized that yet.

Her jaw clenched tight; a snort blew past her lips. “Fuck you, Brooks,” she hissed, tripping as she tried to angrily shove her foot into a nude pump. “You know, you’re a real prick. Why have you been wasting my time?” I could see tears forming in her eyes and while I should’ve felt bad, hated myself, felt something—I just didn’t care.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, wishing I wasn’t such an asshole. But the truth was that I just hit a point where I couldn’t fake it anymore.

“Don’t come crawling back to me when you can’t find anyone else to put up with your selfish bullshit. You’re never going to get a real girlfriend. Ever.” She grabbed my shirt from the floor and wiped her nose with it, and dabbed at her running eye makeup before tossing it back to the floor.

“You’re paying for the rest of the month, like the contract says,” she snorted, throwing her handbag over her shoulder, clearly preparing to storm out. She needed to verify she was still going to get paid, though, so the dramatic, shocked, storm-out would have to wait. Because it was all about money with her, always. Even if she did like me, it was always about the money.

It was always about something.

Being the same age. Knowing the same people. Having the same friends. The money. The house.

It was never about love.

“I will pay through the month, yes,” I nodded and then she narrowed her eyes at me and shook her head, a symbolic scolding which had zero effect on me. Finally, she stormed out and I remained still in my bed for a few minutes until I received the front door alert that she’d gone.

Alone again. I sighed and it’s a cocktail of relief and depression.

Dating hadn’t worked for me—I felt bad seeing women just for sex, knowing emotionally I’d never connect with

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