Dirty Daddy

Lance

“Let me get another one, Mike,” I say to the bartender, holding out my pint glass and taking the final sip of the beer.

Fuck, I don't even know if the guy’s name is Mike still. I mean, the bartender behind the counter when I came in this afternoon was called Mike, but I can’t remember what he looks like now. I’ve been drinking pretty heavily, if you can’t fucking tell.

It’s now night, around 8 pm, and I’ve been here a few hours at the Village Pourhouse—a giant sports bar off Union Square. It gets a good

NYU crowd, but more than that, the drinks are reasonably priced and people leave you alone if you just want to get blasted, watch television, and be by yourself.

And right now, the only two things I want in this fucking world are to drink to forget and be by myself.

Yeah, okay, I know this isn’t the best thing to be doing in the world. The media catches me getting wasted in a bar, they’re going to have a fucking field day.

But I fucking need this. I don’t care what the fuck is going on.

I mean, you would be doing a lot worse if you were in my shoes, okay. Don’t even try to fucking tell me that you would be all calm and collected after you ended up fucking the hottest girl you’d ever fucking met in the fitting room of a fucking Saks Fifth Avenue.

And not just any woman off the street.

No, that would make things too easy. Then it would just be sex—and hey, you know me, I’m cool with having just sex, remember?

No, this is going too fucking far.

This time I’ve crossed a line that I don’t think I can come back from.

This is my fucking stepmom we’re talking about here. Just recently married to my stepdad—the Mayor of New York City.

It’s not that I’m worried that I’m in trouble or anything. I mean, I’m not even fucking related to my dad, so there’s no way I’m related to her.

But the optics of this situation. She’s my dad’s wife. I have never, ever, ever had sex with a woman who has been in a relationship. I’ve never cheated on any woman I’ve been with and I’ve always drawn the line on sleeping with women who were in relationships.

I mean, look at me. This body gets me enough girls to fuck. I’m able to pick and fucking choose and till now I’ve always picked to not be a fucking home wrecker.

Until today. Until the hottest fucking woman on the face of the planet threw herself at me with the power of a fucking tornado. I didn’t even have any free fucking will in this situation. It was almost like I was just there for the ride.

But afterwards, when my feet came back down to earth, I began to realize what I was doing. And now I get that what we did this afternoon—we can never do it again.

You got that right. You heard me. Look at my face. I’m fucking serious. I am never going to lay a hand on Jocelyn Anders. Ever again.

I slap my hand down on the bar, and immediately draw the looks of the bartender. But fuck it. I’m getting out of my seat and getting out of the bar, anyways.

It’s close to 9 pm by the time I get off the uptown 6 and walk the one block from the train to my dad’s townhouse. Most Mayors of New York City move into Gracie Mansion, the dwelling reserved for the person who wins the office. But my dad, Michael Anders, is different. First off, his townhouse that he owns on his own is much larger than Gracie Mansion. So it never made any sense for him to move. Secondly, the amount of money he makes on interest in one month from his inherited holdings is more than the annual salary of the position—so he basically only accepted $1 as a token salary four years ago.

I gotta hand it to the guy. He knew how to play the people and the media. Both events went down with great fucking fanfare and people looked at him as this benevolent leader. I think that's the image he was going for. And more than that, they looked at the fact that he wasn’t getting paid as a way to reinforce in their heads that he already had enough money that he wouldn't be swayed by any special interests.

That’s the kind of cunning mastermind I’m going up against if I keep fucking his wife.

But I don’t need to worry about that because I’m never doing something like that again.

I walk inside into the lobby of the townhouse and see Jocelyn walking up to meet me. She’s gotten home and she’s wearing a black skirt that comes five inches above her knees, showing off her fucking gorgeous legs. She’s got a silk blouse that's maybe one size too small, hugging her stomach and tits like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. To top it off, she’s got these pearl necklaces and when I see them, the only thing that goes through my fucking head is how much I’d love to cum on her neck and give her another fucking kind of pearl necklace.

Jesus motherfucking Christ. My cock has started twitching as she walks over. She looks at me.

“Hi, Lance,” she says, clearing her throat a bit.

“Where’s dad?” I ask, looking her into the eyes. She meets my stare.

Fuck, with as fast as my hearts beating, with the fact that my fucking cock seems to have it’s own heartbeat, how is it that I’m not just staring Jocelyn in the eyes, but meeting her stare and not looking away.