Stories From The 6 Train 2(104)

I lay back and watch the dress fall to the floor. She's wearing a lace black bra and a tiny thong.

Her breasts are big. Her stomach is flat. Her thighs are slender.

Fuck, she even has a thigh gap.

But she can't hold a fucking candle to her beautiful daughter.

Lorna slowly puts her hands to her back and unclasps her bra. She shakes her shoulders and the straps fall off and she lets the garment fall to the floor.

"Like what you see?" she asks me, hardly paying attention, but rather looking down at her melons as she caresses her body. Her hands go down to her waist and she hooks her fingers under the waistband of her thong and pushes it down.

She kicks her thong in my direction and it lands on my chest.

She's shaved. Completely.

Understand this. If I had never fucking met Becca, I'd probably man the fuck up and I'd tell my cock to get hard and fuck her.

"I guarantee you, I'll be a lot better lay than my daughter," she purrs.

What the fuck? My eyes flash toward her in shock.

"Oh, yes, I know," she gives me a lascivious smile. "Well at least I suspected there was something there, but I didn't know till just now."

Fucking Christ.

"I think it's sort of kinky," she says, stepping towards me and running her fingers over my pants. "First you had the daughter. Now you'll have the mother. And I know you'll choose me."

Lorna puts her knee in between my legs and gently brings it up. I feel her press against my cock and I can tell that it's twitching involuntarily.

But just hearing her words I realize what I'm doing. What I'm allowing to happen to me.

You know what, Gorgeous?

Fuck it.

I don't care if I lose fucking Kane Price.

I don't care if I never work on Wall Street again.

I'm not going to give up the one good thing in my life for a company. I'm not going to sacrifice my happiness to make more money.

Lorna brings her mouth toward me. "I know you're going to enjoy me," she purrs. "And if you even want I can do a press conference and tell the world I know for a fact you're not impotent and gay. Describe how good you fucked me. I bet Becca will cry for days."

Fuck off, bitch.

"Did you say something?" she asks me. She must have heard me mumbling.

Apparently I didn't speak loudly.

"I said to fuck off," I say, looking at her. "And then I called you a bitch."

Lorna looks at me for a moment.

I don't know where that hand of hers comes from but it's at an awkward angle and trying to slap me.

I grab it by the wrist and hold it up. She yelps as I lift my body up.

Lorna tries to latch on, but I throw her.

Not hard, mind you, Gorgeous.

I'm a hard fucking man and I've left my enemies in the dust, but I would never touch a fucking woman.

No, I throw her against the sofa where she crouches as she looks at me.

I take one last look at her.

"I think our deal is fucking off," I tell her simply.

I'm not mad.

I'm just removing her from my goddamn life.

"If our deal is off, then your company is mine," Lorna shrieks. I pause and turn to look at her. She has no fucking clue. "I won't stop until Becca ends up just like her father!"

Becca told me all about her Dad and Lorna.

You know how I told you I never hit women?

Well, Gorgeous...just this once I am so fucking tempted.

But it won't do anything.

I'm strong enough to leave.

My mind is a jumble as I hail a cab that takes me downtown.

“Where do you want me to take you exactly, man?” the cabbie asks me and I jump.

I’d been in my own little world. Not even realizing that we’re already in Midtown.

Fuck, I need to get my mind off of this shit.

“Just drop me near 6th Avenue far corner,” I tell the cabbie and he pulls up to the curb. I swipe and get out.

I need to get my mind off of Lorna.

I also need to get it off of Becca. I mean, my brain needs a complete reboot.

So what do I do?

I head into Lace.

It’s a strip club off 35th street, in the shadow of the Empire State Building.

Don’t shake your head, Gorgeous. New York City is filled with strip clubs, massage parlors, peep shows, and brothels.

They’re just sitting right in front of you in plain sight.

Times Square? You got peep shows where you pay a buck per minute to jerk off to the girl in the room fingering herself.

Near Grand Central? $200 an hour gets you a massage with a happy ending from a fucking Eastern European or Asian masseuse.

On the East Side? $300 and up and you can go into apartment buildings and pick the girl and take her for an hour to a room where you can fuck her brains out.

Sure, I’ve done some of it.

But I work on Wall Street. This is the fucking culture.

“Hey Mason, long time,” a stripper says as I enter the dimly lit main stage.

I look at her.