Stories From The 6 Train 1(133)

I lean toward him, my tongue reaching for his cock; with gentle movements I lap at him, cleaning his tip and shaft of the few drops still hanging there.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” I tell him, grabbing my breasts and smearing his cum all over my body. I run two fingers between my tits, and scooping up a thick strand, take them to my mouth and suck them dry, my eyes never leaving his.

“Mess? I don’t see any mess,” he says, going down on his knees in front of me. “You look fucking beautiful like this.”

“I do, don’t I?” I run my fingers through his hair and pull him to me, his mouth going straight my tits. He wraps his lips around my cum-coated nipples, and using his tongue, starts licking me eagerly. “I love you so much,” I say, throwing my head back and closing my eyes as I feel his tongue running all over my chest.

“I love you too,” he tells me, his tongue sliding all the way up from my neck to my chin. He goes further up, pressing his mouth against mine; I slide my tongue inside his mouth and he sucks on it, taking every last drop of cum inside of his own mouth.

I look at him with a wide smile, lips glistening from all of the semen. He’s smiling back at me, the kind of smile I know he saved for a woman like me.

I rest my hand against his cheek and lean in for one final kiss. “What do we do now?” I ask, not wanting to let the real world back in, but knowing that I have to do it all the same. Stroking my hair, he simply smiles.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan.”





Lance





When you love someone, and I mean really fucking love someone, there are no limits to what you'll do for that person. And now that I love two people—Jocelyn and my unborn child, my heart feels like it's ready to explode. Back at the Plaza, where happiness flooded my entire body when I learned I was going to be a father, I smiled and scooped Jocelyn into my arms, spinning her across the room. I was fucking euphoric. One minute, I thought I was losing the love of my life, getting ready to pack my entire life into a suitcase with a one-way ticket to Europe—it was like first being in a room where the walls are literally crumbling all around you—and then the next moment, when I learned I was gaining it all back and so much more, my entire emotional landscape was reversed. I had never been fucking happier. I promised Jocelyn that I had a plan. I wasn't lying, and now I'm ready to execute it.

I walk into my dad's house. I still have a spare key so there was no need to knock. When I enter, I don't see or hear anyone, but I know he has to be home. He's always home at this time. And when I called his office, I was told he wasn't there. So I decide to walk to his study—slowly, carefully—I don't know why I'm trying to be so quiet. Once I walk down the hall toward his door, I see that sure enough, the light is on. I hear him fishing a conversation on the phone and I wait until he ends the call. I don't want to interrupt. I need his undivided attention. Now's my chance. I take a deep breath, turn the knob, push the door, and enter my father's study. The room is filled with swirls of blue smoke, and I can see a cigar smoldering on his desk, smoke curling around it's tip in lazy half circles. Since when did he pick up smoking again? As a kid, I remember he'd smoke cigars in his study, sipping a glass of scotch. His study was always off limits. That was his personal, private zone and everyone knew better than to breach it. But I thought the smoking ended years ago. He must be stressed. It was always a nervous habit of his.

These days, it seems as if he's always here, networking and either buried in email, or nose-deep in a self-help book. He's throwing everything he's got into this campaign and he seems tired. The bags under his eyes give it away. He looks up at me, momentarily annoyed that I've broken his concentration.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I need to talk to you."

"Lance, can't this wait? I'm in the middle of an important project."

"What's new? You're always busy. The mockery of your entire campaign is that family has never come first for you. Please tell me that irony isn't lost on you?" I say.

"If you were planning on telling me how awful of a father I've been to you over the course of your life, spare me the sob story."

"Look, this can't wait. It's urgent."

The word 'urgent' catches him by surprise. I now have his full attention, so I take my hands out of my pockets and sit down, and I steady my nerves and continue, "I have a confession."

"Go on," Michael says slowly.

"It's about Jocelyn… and the baby."

I watch as Michael sits up in his chair, his body erect. The muscles around his mouth are rigid. His eyes look like broken glass and are hinting at violence, but I continue, "her—and I—we—" I'm stumbling, trying to find the right combination of words.