by Dark Angel
Even my girlfriend from college who I met for lunch at 40 Carrot today for yogurt couldn’t understand what I was complaining about.
“So he doesn’t fuck you, this Michael,” she said as we began to scoop our yogurt and looked at the people walking into and out of Bloomingdales. “You better count your blessings, girl.”
“It’s not that, Cheryl,” I told her with a sigh. “It’s just that Michael seems to despise not just having sex with me but everything about me.”
“I don’t know, girl,” she says looking at me. “Why would he do everything you say he did to marry you if he’s not even going to talk to you or try to paw at your beautiful body? And don’t tell me it was to win some election.”
But that’s exactly what it is, I think to myself as I replay Cheryl’s words as I walk into the darkened townhouse. That’s exactly why he kept me around. The optics of a beautiful wife are much better than being single.
Oh, right, I forgot to mention that I went to lunch with Cheryl to celebrate my birthday. I officially turned 36 today. Married to a man who doesn’t love me. In a marriage that I can’t get out of.
Well, I guess it could be worse. Mom and dad are probably pretty aware of the fact that I’m not going to be able to give them grandkids anytime soon. So thankfully they don’t hassle me about that.
But still, I’d like to be able to someday. I don’t know if that’s something to realistically plan for anymore, though. Not with Michael at least.
I walk through the darkened house. Michael is probably at a work function or a campaign related event. I don’t know where Lance is. But that’s more of a relief than a worry.
If Lance were here, I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself. Not today, of all days.
That’s when a single light goes on in the living room. I turn around and gasp.
I really should make sure things are as they are before telling you about them.
Because there stands Lance, in front of the window overlooking Carl Schurz Park. I didn’t spot him at first because it was dark, but I see him quite clearly now.
He’s standing next to a table with two glasses of champagne and the bottle in a chilled ice bucket. Next to the bottle and ice bucket is a multi-layered tray, holding an assortment of delectable items—canapes, chocolate covered strawberries, grapes, mini-quiche.
I gasp.
“Happy birthday, Jocelyn,” he says, taking a glass and walking up to me.
I hadn’t expected this.
I hadn’t expected anything.
“How did you know?” I manage to ask as he walks up to me and hands me the glass. “I never told you.”
I can smell his cologne. I can feel the warmth of his large, hard body as he stands next to me and we clink our glasses before taking a sip.
“Come on,” he says teasingly. “You’re a fucking public figure, I looked you up on Wikipedia,” he says to me with a smirk.
I blush. I don’t know what to say. What does a girl say in this instance?
“Oh?” I manage, completely off balance. “And do you Wikipedia everyone you know?”
Lance shrugs. I was curious.
That’s it. My mind is spinning at a mile a minute.
Why did he look up my age? To see if anything with me was appropriate? Could he be interested in me?
Well, of course, he must be interested in me. I had his cock in my hands the other day. I was sitting on his lap. Making a fool of myself.
“Hey,” Lance says, taking a step closer to me. He bends his knees, bringing his face more on level with mine. “You okay?”
I close my eyes, trying to keep the tears away. God, does he know just how much I want him? How when I leave the house to go to the gym nowadays I keep imagining his body that day that I saw him working out? How every spare moment I think back to Central Park and nestling my head in his chest after he rescued me.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him, shaking my head and opening my eyes and trying to smile. “I’m just sad I’m growing old,” I lie.
He takes my champagne glass from my hands and places it on the table. While there he pushes something on his phone and the speakers in the living room come to life, playing soft, smooth, simple jazz.
“Age is just a number, Jocelyn,” Lance tells me. “It’s what you do with your life that tells people how old you are.”
“And when did you become so wise?” I ask him with a teasing smile as he comes close to me once more. “You don’t sound like the Lance Anders I know.”
“Is this what you fucking want?” he asks me and takes another step closer, looking down at me from his height.
I giggle. I can’t help it.
“The one who takes what he wants and doesn’t let the word no stop him?” I ask, batting my eyes.
I don’t know if I’m the one who takes the step closer or if it’s him, but all of a sudden I can feel my body pressed into his.
It feels so right, feeling my breasts press up against his chest. Feeling his arms encircle me. Once having made contact, I want more. I can feel myself pressing against him as I continue to look up at him.
“Why did you do all this, Lance?” I ask him, the thought going through my head that this is some elaborate prank for some reason. I don’t know why I’m thinking it, hun. “Why the whole fancy setup?”
“Why the fuck not?” Lance growls down at me, looking at me with smoldering eyes as we start to sway to the gentle music in the background. “It’s your birthday, Jocelyn.”
“I’m your stepmom,” I say back to him.
I don’t know why, okay? I don’t know why I feel awkward around him, when he’s done something so sweet as put together this surprise for my birthday.
Fine, fine, you got me, it’s not awkwardness I’m feeling. It’s nervousness. I’ve seen his giant cock. And I want it inside of me.
But standing here close to him, as he holds me, I’m starting to feel something different too.
What is it?
“No, you’re not,” Lance replies back. He’s calm. He’s collected. “Tonight you’re just a woman, Jocelyn. And I’m just a man.”
What exactly does that mean?
Are we just a man and woman who are friends? Relatives? Lovers?
God, I can’t believe I had his cock in my hands. Through his jeans, but still.
Why can’t I just close my eyes and enjoy the moment? Why am I trapped in his stare, looking up at him and only vaguely aware of the world around me?
“I’m so much older than you, Lance,” I whisper. “And I’m really sorry about the other day. We can’t let something so crazy ever happen again.”
It’s true! Can you believe the scandal involved with something like that?
He brings his face closer to me. “Don’t be fucking sorry,” he hisses. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
What? He can’t get me out of his head?
“That’s sweet,” I say to him, my panties melting as I think back to being on his lap, legs wrapped around him, looking at his cock. I can tell I’m more than wet at this point. If Lance wanted to take me, I don’t think I would stop him.
No, I most definitely wouldn’t stop him. I’d spread my legs and let him pull my thong down. Then I’d wrap my legs around him as he put that giant cock inside of me. His eyes would go wide at what I’d do and say. I’d be the last thing from boring to him.
“What are you thinking?” Lance asks me, a smirk playing across his face.
“It’s a secret,” I say with a coy smile.
“I think I can guess,” he tells me. I squirm my body against him a bit more. His cock is hard and it’s rubbing against my inner thigh. It feels so good.
“What, then?” I ask, hoping beyond all hope that he’s in my head. “Don’t keep a lady waiting.”
“You’re no lady,” he says with a grin and as I give him a mock pout, I see that he truly is in my head. Because he leans over and brings his mouth to mine.
And we kiss.
&nbs
p; Lance
Holy fucking shit. What the fuck is going on?
I can’t believe this. My tongue is literally opening up Jocelyn’s lips. Far from being the invader, her tongue lashes out and it’s wrestling mine in my mouth now. I feel her tongue massage mine. I reciprocate.
This is so much fucking hotter somehow than the other day. This feels more intimate. More real.
This feels more like love than lust.
I don’t even realize but my hands are pulling her closer. They’re squeezing her ass. Running up and down her back.
She’s grinding her crotch over my cock.
And yet, we still continue to kiss.
I’m not gonna lie. It was fucking awkward after the other day. After Rosa inadvertently interrupted us on the sofa.
I mean, give me a fucking break. She only had my cock in her hands, jerking it off. There was only one way that situation was going to go. With me exploding with thick, white ropes of gooey cum all over her.
We both knew that’s where it was headed. I saw it in her eyes. They were filled with desire. Her entire face was contorted with lust that afternoon. She just didn’t give a fuck how old she was, how fucking young I was, who we were, or where we were at. She just wanted my cock. And I wanted her entire fucking body.
But the real world came and intruded on us. We had to call it off.
The last few days I haven’t seen her around as much. But holy shit, when I discovered today was her fucking birthday, I knew that I had to get past any sort of awkwardness that we had with each other.
Fuck, it didn’t seem like this morning that anyone else was going to celebrate her birthday with her. Dad probably doesn’t even know. Or if he does, he just wants to actively show he forgot to bring out the sentiment that he doesn’t fucking care. Because he’s a sociopath.
So that left me. I had the day, and the townhouse staff to help me whip something up.
And now, because of it, she’s holding onto my arms and kissing me passionately.
I’m fucking rubbing her back and running my fingers through her hair. I’m hard. Painfully fucking hard. As in my cock is going to break if we keep this up.
Are we headed to sex again?
But it’s different this time. Last time we were in a similar spot, we weren’t kissing. That was just pure lust.
This time, there’s something different.
I feel her tongue trace the outline of the roof of my mouth and then come back down and gently massage my tongue. I return the favor.
This time, we are kissing. This time it’s gentler. As if we’re falling for each other.
Shit. That’s even worse.
And then, as is our fate, I hear the front door slam open.
“I don’t care if the fucking Teacher’s Union doesn’t like the changes we’re proposing, tell them after the election the fucking voters forget about everything anyways,” dad’s loud voice comes through. He’s either talking to an aide or into his phone.
A light goes on in the hallway.
Jocelyn pulls back immediately. So do I.
We disentangle ourselves from each other. Her chest is heaving from holding her breath in this long. I’m looking at her.
“I don’t give two shits about the MTA funding right now,” dad says. He’s definitely talking into his phone.
I see Jocelyn turn her head as the footsteps come toward the living room. She doesn’t bother looking at me, but rather collects herself and briskly walks out of the opposite exit to the living room. She wants to avoid dad.
She’s gone not a second before he comes into the room. He sees me standing next to a table filled with food and champagne.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me.
I didn’t really plan this excuse out, but it just comes naturally to me. “Today’s Jocelyn’s birthday,” I tell him.
He stares at me blankly for a second. I hope he’s not trying to figure out which Jocelyn I’m talking about.
“So?” he finally asks. “That’s what all the food and champagne is for?”
“Want to join us?” I ask him darkly.
What a fucking horrible motherfucker. I mean, sure, I was just kissing her a few minutes ago so maybe I’m not saint, but I didn’t go about marrying her, and if what she says is correct, never fucking touch her in the whole time I’ve known her.
No wonder Jocelyn is crushing all over me. For the first time in a long ass fucking time, someone is showing real, genuine, affection for her. Someone is showing desire for her.
“I think joining you would be a waste of my time,” dad says, turning around after hanging his top coat in the closet. “I have plenty of better things I could be doing with my time.”
“Dad,” I paused and watched him as he froze at hearing me call out to him. “At least go upstairs and wish her a happy birthday then.”
Dad seemed to consider, but then shrugged his shoulder. “If that's all it takes for her to feel better, then I’ll leave that to you, son,” he tells me. “No one is better than you in winning people over.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “She’s your goddamn wife.”
“She’s a political prop,” he says to me. “And don’t you dare talk to me like all of a sudden you’re my son.”
I’m silent. Seething.
“You’re nothing more than an orphan that I bought with my credibility. You’re more like a window dressing for me. Never forget that,” he says to me, looking me in the eyes, telling me he’s deadly serious.
He turns, having gotten the last word.
And with that, he’s gone.
Lance
I curl my arms in another set of bicep exercises and watch my movements in the mirror. I look good. I don't fucking care how vain you think I am. I'll admit it. It's no wonder I've banged nearly every type of woman there is—co-eds, professors, housewives, and even the President's daughter, which I now sort of regret.
Besides, after the last two days since Jocelyn’s birthday, I need to clear my head.
We’ve been fucking too close to the fucking fire. Twice. The first time, I could understand. Her fight or flight response was kicking in and she was going through adrenaline after her close call. I was there.
The second time, on her birthday. That was a fucking different animal. We kissed. And held each other fucking close.
No, I fucking need to shake myself of her.
I look around the gym at the odd mix of people. Even though this gym offers up a strange, and sometimes annoying blend of gym goers, I never miss a day of working out. Let's face it; you don't get the ripped body of a gladiator by just sitting around, right? I'm a fucking machine, and I plan to keep it that way. As I'm curling my rock-hard muscles, I overhear a couple of teenagers next to me.
"No way. Steroids are expensive. You know what you need bro?"
"What?" the other kid asks.
"You need some McDonald's in your life."
"Now you're trippin'."
"Here me out. I'm not kidding. Just eat the chicken nuggets every day. There's a lot of growth hormones in those nuggets; it's borderline unnatural. Those chickens are all breast and no legs and shit. It's an easy way to get steroids. I'm telling you."
I chuckle a little as I hear their conversation, and then my eyes immediately fall on a group of women standing a few feet to my left. I overhear them talking too.
"I don't like lifting weights. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my breasts," she says, slightly massaging them with her fingertips.
"That's a misconception. Weight lifting is one of the best ways to stay in shape. You don't want BMI problems, do you?"
"Girl, I definitely don't have BMI problems! I've got 99 problems but my ass sure as hell isn't one of them."
When she says that, I can't help but check her ass out. She's right. Her ass is nice. Not as nice as Jocelyn's ass, but still nice. Shit. There I go again. I really need to stop thinking about my dad's wife—my stepmom. But I can't. She's way hotter than I ever expec
ted. But my mind is jolted back to reality when I overhear some of the worst pick-up lines that I think I've ever heard in my life.
From a sweaty, hairy-chested middle-aged guy on the bench press to a woman nearby: "We should train together because I hear it's good for bone density."
And then from another man: "My personal trainer told me I had to come talk to you."
This line seems to work for a minute because the woman stops, and gives him a confused look, and then the man continues, "He said I should talk to you for a few minutes as part of my routine. If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you share your training regimen with me?" And then it dawns on her that this guy is talking out of his ass, and she walks away. I swear, these men are clueless—it's embarrassing. And you know what? That's fine because it gives me a leg up. They should watch me in action and learn a thing or two. I decide to do one more rep before leaving, and as I reach for the weight, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and see her. That perfect outline of the female body could only be one person. It's Jocelyn.
"Hey stranger," she says. "What are the chances? I had no idea you worked out at this gym."
She's being cordial, and I appreciate that. She could've easily seen me, and quickly slipped out the back door, or at least out of sight.
"I guess New York isn't so big after all," I shrug with a smile.
"It might not be as big as some things," she replies, and I swear she takes a quick glance at my cock. Did that really just happen, or am I imagining it?
Are we really going to go down this road a third time?
"I guess you could say that," I say, deciding to play along.
There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to give her an opening and see how far she fucking wants to take this.
"So tell me. Is the rumor true?" I ask.
She doesn't respond, but just furrows her brow, so I continue, "Do all women really love retail above all else?"
The confusion dissipates from her face. "Retail therapy is a thing." The way she responds with her head cocked back, and a slight smile parting her thick, juicy lips, makes my cock twitch. Damn. She's something else.
