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The Virgin Tutor: An Agegap Novella
The Virgin Tutor: An Agegap Novella
The Virgin Tutor: An Agegap Novella
Электронная книга90 страниц1 час

The Virgin Tutor: An Agegap Novella

Автор Daisy Jane

Рейтинг: 4.5 из 5 звезд



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Об этой электронной книге

Marie is a 20-year-old inexperienced bookworm attending college in the City when the pandemic hits. She returns home to her parents and gets a job as a tutor and instantly falls for the father of the student she's tutoring.

Big Jake is a retired police officer who spends most of his time at the gym he owns. He’s not experienced love since his late wife but as soon as he lays eyes on Marie, he knows he has to have her.

Will their 25-year age difference be a problem? Or will Jake be the man to take Marie's flower and give her pure happiness?

Passion, eroticism and love line the pages of this tale about a Virgin looking for a real man to quench the thirst she has growing inside of her. This self-contained, standalone is for adults only.

ИздательDaisy Jane
Дата выпуска20 окт. 2021 г.
The Virgin Tutor: An Agegap Novella
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Daisy Jane

Daisy Jane is a romance author writing about quick flings, hot romances and forbidden lusts. When she's not penning a hot erotic novel or dreaming up steamy stories, she's enjoying the sunshine and warmth at her home in California. She enjoys reading, true crime, exercise and, of course, romance.On Amazon, her Forbidden Love stories include age gap, work relationships, positions of power, socially unaccepted duos and much more. Here on Smashwords, she writes about anything and everything. No idea too dirty :)Have feedback, a story idea or just something to say? Drop her a line. She responds to every email. http://www.daisyjane.com

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    The Virgin Tutor - Daisy Jane



    I didn’t want people to be sick and the world to be in utter chaos, but to tell you the truth of it, I was happy my life was slowing down.

    Going to school in New York was hard to get used to, and despite having already been there nearly two years, I still hadn’t completely adjusted.

    People walked all over me, knocked me down and most of the time, unless I was exchanging money with a cashier somewhere, I felt invisible.

    In the streets, in classes, walking on campus—I was just moving matter, as far as anyone else was concerned. 

    I hadn’t made many friends, except for my roommate Helen. Even then, she was my friend simply because we shared butter and occasionally coffee.

    When I was in high school, I dreamt of meeting a guy in college and being able to share myself with him wholly. Meeting my soul mate would enrich my life and give me all the things I’d been missing. So I thought.

    Instead, college guys turned out to be merely boys with more freedom and less manners. I had a Tinder date push his hand up my thigh under my skirt in broad daylight once, and only stopped after I screamed I SAID STOP.

    I had been groped on a bus in broad daylight, no one batting an eye as I peeled a strange man’s hand from my ass.

    My last date left me at the restaurant once I made it clear that I would not put out.

    My time in the city left me both alone and lonely and very tired of my own inner dialogue.

    But the classes.

    Oh, the classes were so good. I didn’t know what I would do with my English literature degree, but I did know that I loved classes. And I had not been disappointed by the campus or dorms in any way, either. Just the lack of men. And the city. 

    Well, and my writing.

    My job at the paper was quickly turning from an exciting, cool thing which I eagerly told my parents about every time they’d call to something I avoided at all costs. 

    My articles kept getting curbed, my dailies never posted and when I grew the courage to ask my editor just one single time why, he looked at me over the top of his old glasses and deadpanned a single word: "devoid." 

    It took me weeks to realize that it wasn’t an insult— it was meant to be helpful. I reread my work and saw that I was lacking experience and writing about anything with no experience is always… devoid.

    I didn’t know how to change but I was appreciative that he told me the truth. I needed a spark, within me or outwardly, to pull my words off the screen and make them cinematic in people’s brains as they read. I needed a spark badly.  I did not want my writing to be devoid.

    Then the pandemic hit, in the midst of my already struggling sophomore year. I had become quite lonely and pairing that with my writing taking a dive, the idea of going home and leaving my insecurities and anxiety in the city sounded… great.

    So, when I got the news to evacuate, I packed my bag and was out of my apartment in under 10 minutes. My parents lived in Vermont and still had a room in their house for me, in case.

    I secretly suspected they believed I would fail as a writer, as all my articles I had written for the paper the week before leaving had been sacked, yet again, before print. 

    I tried to explain to them that journalism and writing meant struggle. Maybe they didn’t believe me because how could they believe in me when I didn’t believe in myself? I knew, though, they only wanted the best for me. 

    My mom had set up some tutoring jobs for me to do while I was quarantining with them. That seemed confusing since schools were closed and people were supposed to be staying home—shouldn’t tutoring be postponed too?

    But apparently my Dad’s friend that owned a gym had an 18-year-old that needed a lot SAT prep work in… ding ding ding, English. Perfect for me, right? 

    I guess I should be happy that my Mom was trying to give me something to do, somewhere to go. She didn’t know that I had grown depressed and anxious in the city, wanting nothing but a man in my life who would make me feel safe and loved. I swear I didn’t feel like that before I moved to New York. But I was changing, wanting new things. Wanting more.  

    Before I went to college, I thought I could be single forever. Boys seemed like more work than they were worth and I was fine being a virgin—I was still young.

    But after freshman year, I began really wanting a man in my life. Many nights I’d wake and find myself with my hands stuffed into my panties, rubbing myself silly, a puddle of wetness between my swollen lips. I can be a feminist and still recognize that as a woman, I need things. Things only a man can provide.

    Now with this pandemic, I knew meeting someone would be highly unlikely, but I still hoped to find some happiness back home. Maybe I wouldn’t meet someone but I could recharge my batteries and hopefully give my writing a boost.

    When I got out of the car in front of my parents’ house, all my warmest memories came flooding back. Reaching for the front door, it swung open and immediately my mom pulled me into her warm and comfortable arms. My Dad was right behind her, reaching around to rub my back.

    Glad to have you home, sweetheart, he said, wandering off down the hallway muttering to himself after the welcome home back rub.

    How have you guys been? I asked, settling into a chair at the kitchen table.

    Things looked exactly the way I remembered and the familiarity of it all gave me great comfort. 

    Oh, we are the same as we always are! My mom loved that line and used it every time I called. Meet any boys? Her eyes were wide with a guilting hope when she asked.

    She perhaps thought I was gay since I’d never brought home any boyfriends. The truth was, I’d never had any boyfriends and since I’d been away at school, I no longer found myself even wanting a college boy—I wanted a man.

    I didn’t want to be drunkenly groped at parties, I didn’t want to be ghosted or wait for a text back— to have a beautiful thing like my virginity in my hands after all these years just to give it to a sweaty frat boy? No.

    But I couldn’t tell my mom that. 

    No one yet, I said, sipping the coffee she sat down in front of me. The city is kinda scary, I said, having never told her about getting harassed on the bus or

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