Stories From The 6 Train

by Alexis Angel

  I lay back as she licks me dry, still trying to catch my fucking breath. I say nothing; fuck, I can’t even think straight right now, pleasure still coating my mind. Jocelyne goes to my side as she finishes, one arm across my chest as she inches closer to me. I turn to her, and she loses no fucking time; she presses her mouth against mine, the salty flavor of my semen hitting me immediately.

  We kiss as if there was nothing else in the whole fucking universe but us, the cum in her mouth dripping into mine as our tongues wrestle against one another. When she pulls back, there are a few drops of cum on my chin, making their way down my jawline; smiling, she scoops them up with the tip of her tongue.

  “I’m not the only one in need of some cleaning up,” I whisper, my heart still beating like a motherfucker. My hands on her waist, I turn her around and pull her into me; she doesn’t take long to realize what I intend to do, and climbs on top of me, easing herself down on my mouth. Swaying her hips, she rubs her drenched pussy against my lips, cum dripping down from her folds and into my open mouth. I open it as wide as I can, feeling my warm semen sliding from inside of her and down to my tongue.

  We remain like that until her pussy is dry, my mouth brimming with cum. Only then does she roll to the side, looking at me with anxious eyes. I know what she fucking wants, and so I just go ahead and fucking do it. I swallow, the saltiness of my load fucking clawing at my throat on the way down. Fucking Jocelyn… This woman drives me fucking insane, that’s a fact. Every time I’m with her is like fucking Christmas.

  Throwing herself back on top of the mattress, she presses her body against mine. We say nothing for a long fucking while, simply staring at the ceiling as we hear our own ragged breathing, exhaustion lacing our bodies.

  Then, hesitant, I feel her reaching for my hand. She grabs it, gently squeezing my fingers, and I squeeze back. We remain in silence, the long shadows in the room tumbling over our bodies as if they were trying to caress our naked skin. I’ve never been what I’d call a romantic, but this… This right here, this is fucking perfection. Forget everything you have ever heard about poetry, music or paintings; the only art form that can explain love is good old hard fucking. Trust me.

  “You’re right…” I finally manage to say, the words coming out of my mouth as if I wanted to say them all along. “There’s no way I’m leaving. No fucking way.” She responds by squeezing my hand harder and I smile absently, knowing that for once I did the right fucking thing. “I can’t be away from you.”

  “Neither can I,” she says, whatever there is between us suddenly becoming very fucking real.

  New York Daily Journal

  From the Desk of Amanda Adams, the Professional Gossiper of Page Two.

  Welcome to Page Two Gossip, here’s what we’re hearing around the halls of power:

  That’s right, New Yorker, the people have spoken and apparently you can’t get enough of Lance and Jocelyn Anders.

  At least that's what internal tracking polls have shown within the Anders For Mayor campaign. Sources inside the campaign are confirming for me what the majority of us think when we’re alone and watching the television: Hizzoner’s bad boy son is hot. And his new wife of less than a year isn’t too bad either. In fact, the photogenic family is one of the major reasons that Mayor Anders is retaining a slim 5-point margin of victory in most head-to-head matches against his mayoral rival, Jim Jenkins.

  That’s right. Bad boy Lance better get a car for Christmas, because his good looks and hot body, on display at his father’s side throughout the campaign are attracting New York City voters and propping up his dad’s campaign. His stepmom, Jocelyn, is doing her own good among male voters as well.

  When asked in a Fordham University poll who the sexiest person out of both the candidates and their families were, New Yorkers had no divisions among them. 89% agreed that Lance Anders was the sexiest man involved in the mayoral election. An even greater 94% of respondents agreed that Jocelyn Anders was the sexiest woman involved in the race.

  49% of New Yorkers even admitted that the reason they showed up to events or tuned in to the news was to catch a glimpse of Lance or Jocelyn Anders.

  In fact, my spies inside the Anders campaign tell me with numbers like this, they’re a bit concerned how much people must dislike Hizzoner for the margin of advantage to only be 5% over Jim Jenkins.

  We’ve always known that Lance was a bit of a handful. As the prodigal son of the mayor, his biological mother died when he was only 10 years old, and his stepfather has raised him. Over the last several years, the two have been estranged according to family sources, but they’ve seemed to put whatever issues aside for the election as son has been next to father every step of the way. In college, sources tell us Lance lived up to his bad boy credentials, partying and living it up in a big way while also excelling at his studies and playing varsity football for Yale. After college, he went to work at the White House as an intern, but you’ll remember he was caught having sex with the First Daughter and almost started World War III, leading to his dismissal.

  Jocelyn, on the other hand, comes from the politically connected Carter clan. Her brother is planning on running for Governor of New York State in two years time. The marriage between Jocelyn and Michael was certainly a whirlwind, and the two tied the knot in a private ceremony in Westchester. While they’ve been seen in public together, a few close to the family hint that there may be troubles beneath the surface between Hizzoner and his wife. But nothing that we’ve found out enough to confirm and print.

  But whatever the case, we know we’ll all be watching Lance and Jocelyn as they stand behind Michael. Will that be enough to lead us to vote for Michael? Only time will tell.

  That’s all for today, but we’re digging up as much as we can about this election. Till we hear more, this is Amanda Adams signing off. Keep your ears open, New York.

  Jocelyn

  Four.

  That’s how many months ago Lance Anders set foot into Michael’s Upper East Side townhouse. How many months since I opened that door and set my sex-starved eyes on that gorgeous body of his. That’s roughly the number of months since I tried walking into his room when he was in the shower. Since I almost gave up on the sofa after he rescued me in the Park. Since my birthday. Since I saw him at the gym and went over to touch his shoulder. Then invited him to my dressing room at Saks. Four months since he first put his giant cock inside of me and shot me into orbit. It’s like I haven’t come down since.

  Zero.

  That’s how many times Michael has asked and wondered why Lance is still here even though the election is just shy of a month away. Lance was supposed to only stay the summer. But Michael doesn’t care about anything except staying as Mayor. Who knows what he has planned after that, he doesn’t tell me.

  Zero is also the number of times that Michael has tried touching me. He just doesn’t care about me. I know I’m beating a dead horse and you get it—Michael may not be into me. Michael may be gay. You’re aware. But listen to me, hun, because this is important to me. I need you to understand this. I’m not the kind of girl who goes around cheating on her husband. I’m not some slut who sleeps with her stepson because there was nothing good on television during the day. If Michael hadn’t been cheating on me, and it’s pretty obvious nowadays when he walks in, or if he hadn’t forced my father to give me up for marriage, or even with all that, if he had shown me even the slightest bit of affection I would have never looked at Lance as hungrily as I do now.

  OK, well, let me rephrase that. I would have looked at him hungrily. I mean, he’s young. And he’s so hot. But I would have controlled myself. I wouldn’t have flirted at the gym. If Michael had even given me a hug in the six months we were married. Forget about fucking. I don’t even want a kiss. A hug. Or a caress. Even a nice word of affection. Anything.

  Can you imagine what it’s like to be treated like an employee in your own marriage? To sleep next to a stranger? And if you wake up with your arms and legs wrappe
d around them to have your partner look at you with disdain and scorn? So much so that you put a pillow between the two of you so it doesn’t happen again?

  When I cum my brains out on Lance’s cock, I’m not just doing it to have sex. I’m doing it because I haven’t found love anywhere else in this world. And Lance gives it to me unconditionally.

  Five.

  That’s how many points separate Michael’s lead from Jim Jenkins. Everyone is confident it should be enough to carry the day. I don’t really pay much attention to it. Lance and I are usually having sex. But we both know we need to keep this relationship a secret till after the election. The public can’t find out. I don’t think Michael would really care at all if he found out I was sleeping with someone. But he would kill me if he lost the election because of me. Then he’d kill my father. Then Lance would most likely kill him. I can see the fire in both men’s eyes. They may not be related to each other, but it burns brightly the same.

  Two hundred.

  That’s where I lost count when I try to think of all the times that Lance and I have…been together. Ah, we’re all grown up here, right? That’s the number of times he’s fucked me. And trust me, multiply at least three orgasms for each time and that’s how many times I’ve cum. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced or felt before. There are simply no words. I’ve quite literally become addicted to Lance Anders. I know there’s an opioid addiction problem in the country now, but to me, Lance is my drug of choice.

  At least once a day, sometimes two or three. If Michael is travelling, then even more. The benefit of youth I’ve discovered is that Lance is ready to go at a moment’s notice. And once he’s done, he’s only needing maybe another 15 minutes before he’s ready again. And each successive time the sex is longer and stronger.

  You name it, we’ve done it. One afternoon, not long ago, he found me lounging next to our pool in the basement. I was wearing a cute new two piece bikini. Lance had just come back from the gym.

  “It’s new,” I said to him, looking at his reaction.

  He didn’t hide it, but adjusted himself to show me his huge erection that was tenting his sweat pants. “Looks like you like it,” I said to him, feeling lascivious. I don’t know how I get like that but he completely brings it out in me.

  He didn’t say anything that time. Just got on his knees and began to lick my tits, moving my bikini top to the side. Then he proceeded to take his clothes off and fuck me so hard while I ran my fingers and my tongue over those chiseled abs. Those pecs. Those 8-pack abs. I must have cum at least half a dozen times by the time he finally told me he was getting close. I still remember that afternoon because he must have cum in quarts, because he spurted for what felt like forever onto my tits. Imagine your tits covered in warm, hot, gooey, cum. Then imagine yourself using your finger to scoop it up into your while he watches and gets hard.

  You can guess what we did after.

  Thirty.

  That’s how many days ago Lance and I basically went from having sex before we realized that there’s something a lot more real to this relationship. It’s not just him fucking me. I mean, that night when I snuck into his room to keep him from going to Europe—we both sort of knew then. But aside from that one time, we never really talked about it. Until a month ago.

  “How many women have you been in love with?” I asked him one day. We had just showered together. He had surprised me while I was in there. But I didn’t mind. I lifted my leg onto the wall and he took me while soaping up my tits. It was a good thing he held me, because when I came, my knees gave way. He ended up holding me as he fucked me, completely in control—treating me like a total sex object. I loved it.

  But afterwards, as we lay in bed together and watched the sun rise to high noon, I wanted to know more about this young man. I already knew a lot. How his mother died when he was ten. How with no surviving relatives, his stepfather became his primary guardian. The courts allowed it and expedited the process—anything for an up and coming Congressman it seemed. But Lance quickly realized he got a guardian—not a father. His life was a series of boarding schools and visits to New York when photo-ops were needed.

  I know about the wild period that Lance had, from high school through college. How he did anything at all to get attention, having been neglected his entire childhood.

  “None,” Lance answers my question and pulls me closer to him. “I’m not the falling in love type of guy.”

  “Everyone is at some point or another,” I told him. I can’t believe I’m asking him, a man 15 years younger than me. I sound like a teenager! I don’t know why I was so determined to hear him say that. I should be over such things.

  “I agree,” Lance said, and looked into my eyes. “I’ve never been in love with any woman.”

  I looked back at him, nodding. I could live with the fact that he just viewed this as sex, if it came to that.

  “But I’m in love now,” he continued, apparently not noticing my near complete emotional collapse a second earlier. “With this amazing girl I know.”

  And, yes, hun. He really did just call me a girl. Not a lady. Not a woman. A ‘fucking hot girl’.

  I should have stopped him there, but he wrapped his arms around me and turned to his side. “She’s cute, and funny. She makes my fucking dick so hard I think it’s going to break,” he said to me.

  “So romantic, geez,” I said back, rolling my eyes. But I was blushing.

  “She’s sweet, kind, and makes me want to protect her,” he kept going, not bothering to care what I said or did in response. “And I want to be with her for the rest of my fucking life.”

  “Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?” I asked him, smiling.

  “No,” he replied to me and then grinned. “But I lick my stepmom’s pussy with it all the fucking time.”

  I gasped. It still puts shivers down my spine as I imagine him telling me that. It’s sinful. But so delicious. It was noon. The sun was streaming in onto our naked bodies. And he was telling me he loved me.

  But he was also smirking. And without another word, he pivoted his face lower, showing me with kisses as he traveled down my body.

  He kissed down my breasts. And my stomach. Until he reached the folds of my pussy. I sighed. Then gasped.

  All of a sudden, he stopped, and looked up at me.

  “I love you, Jocelyn,” he said to me. And I still remember the giant smile that went through my face. “In case you didn’t get it from before. You’re that girl.”

  I can’t remember much more after that because he made me cum so hard I think I blacked out for a few moments. But I do remember that. And that’s all I need.

  Three.

  That’s how many days ago Lance and I were out, having lunch at Per Se, when a reporter from the New York Daily Journal stopped by.

  “You’re Mrs. Anders,” he said. “Mind if I take a picture with you and your lunch date?”

  I know that it was a common term. Lunch date doesn’t have to mean a romantic date. Two people can enjoy lunch together and make a date of it. But is that how Michael would interpret it? Would it hurt the campaign?

  All of a sudden, the feeling of absolute joy that I felt a month ago as Lance told me he loved me began to evaporate. Instead I saw the scandal. The newspaper headlines. Michael divorcing me. Running my name through the mud. One thing I knew for sure is that Michael excelled in the politics of personal destruction. And Lance. He would try to go after Lance. And Lance would fight back.

  They say there’s a big reason you shouldn’t cheat. I honestly don’t consider myself to be cheating, hun. But I still lied, I think. And it made me feel sick.

  I barely managed to excuse myself and make it to the bathroom where I ran into a stall and threw up, heaving until I was exhausted. It wasn’t till at least twenty minutes later I came out again.

  One.

  That’s how many hours ago I realized that I may have gotten a panic attack three days ago and gotten sick, but it didn’t ex
plain the next morning. Or this morning, for that matter. And I know my body, I can tell when something is different. And the fact that I’m late.

  Ten.

  That’s how many minutes ago I checked the pregnancy test I bought at Duane Reade. It’s the second one I’ve checked. I went ahead and went downstairs and bought them an hour ago after feeling like it was something I needed to do.

  Zero.

  That’s exactly how many ideas I have as to what the hell I’m going to do now that I’m pregnant.

  Jocelyn

  It's been an entire week of worrying myself sick, and honestly, I'm physically sick even without all of that worrying. If I smell coffee—something I normally love—it has me running to the bathroom with wave after wave of nausea. If you've never experienced morning sickness, consider yourself lucky. Seriously. It's brutal. Why do they call it 'morning sickness' anyways? Morning, night, afternoon—it doesn't discriminate. It'll hit you whenever and where ever it wants to. And let me tell you, even ordinary things like toothpaste and my favorite perfume make me sick. I tried to set up a spa date with one of my old friends—I thought that maybe I needed to get out, get my thoughts cleared, pamper myself a bit, and re-connect with the people I've been close with—but I couldn't have been more wrong. I had to apologize to the massage therapist for vomiting in her waist basket when I knew I wouldn't make it to the bathroom. I swear, the smell of all those candles with the fragrant lotion just sent me over the top. It was overkill.

  I wish I could describe that smell to you, or any smell that gets jumbled to your senses when you have morning sickness because I know what you're probably thinking—spas smell great—and you're right, they do unless you're suffering from an extreme case of morning sickness. But do you want to know what my body thought of the scent? My body treated it like it was the smell of belly-button lint on a hot summer day, or the cognitive dissonance that happens when you think you smell a slice of peperoni pizza, but realize it's someone's body odor. You see what I mean? Not good. Not good one bit. All I can say is that this last week has been a total life adjustment, and the constant worrying just amplifies it a thousand times. I've been feeling so sick every single day that when I saw Michael reading the newspaper this morning during breakfast, it hit me. I have to tell him. I can't put this off any longer. He thinks I've just had a touch of the flu or something all week. How long can I keep that ruse up? You can only lie for so long before it catches up with you, and besides, you want to step off a sinking ship before it's underwater, right? I'd rather sit down and tell Michael what's going on, than have him find out some other way. Honesty is the best policy. I've always believed that. I know you probably don't believe me, given everything that's transpired between Lance and I, and I can't blame you. But I mean it.