Tied

And that, kiddies, is the best f**king seat in the house.

She sucks me hard as her head glides up, so just the tip remains between her beautiful lips. She swirls with her tongue again—this time with more pressure, less teasing. Then she bobs up and down quickly—meaning business—all tongue, decadent sloppy wetness, and rough brushes of teeth. Her cheeks hollow out and her hand massages my balls, giving them a gentle, erotic tug.

I moan and curse and chant her name.

I grip her hair and guide her up and down on my dick with just enough force to make her hum in appreciation.

“Yeah, baby, just like that. So f**king good.” I gasp.

Kate’s lips tighten and her head moves faster.

“Jesus, Kate, I’m gonna come.”

My hand clenches and I hold her in place, and every muscle in my body contracts in screaming, unanimous pleasure. My teeth grind and my h*ps thrust, and with moans of her own, Kate swallows enthusiastically until I have nothing left.

My breathing is harsh as she gifts me with one last flick of her tongue. Then she comes up smiling and climbs onto my lap. And I’m boneless—totally, sublimely relaxed. Screw wine: a b**w j*b is the best way to unwind after a long day at work.

The only thing that would make it better is if I could return the favor.

As I enclose Kate in my arms, I add another tick to the running total of orgasms I owe her. This makes . . . fifteen. And I plan on settling up all in one night—the night Roberta says Kate’s good to go. Don’t worry—as long I keep her hydrated, there’s no physical danger from too many orgasms. I asked.

“I think I’m going to go take that bath you mentioned,” she purrs. “Want to join me?”

I run my knuckles along her jaw. “Joining you is just one of the things I’m dying to do right now.”

“Things like washing my back?”

I brush my lips against hers. “I want to wash lots of places—every nook and cranny.”

Unfortunately, washing her back and rubbing her shoulders are all I’ll be able to do tonight. But it’ll be enough for now.

I keep her legs wrapped around me as I stand up, bare assed, and walk us to the bathroom.

Having two working parents in the house isn’t always perfect—schedule conflicts and work-related stress can get in the way. But it works for us.

Now, where were we again? Before we cut to the gratuitous blow-job scene?

That’s right—elbow deep in the massacre that is James’s diaper. Try mouth-breathing—it helps with the stench.

“Good God, kid . . . what’d you do last night? Sneak out of the crib and eat a T-bone steak?”

Which brings me to the greatest invention of our time. Nope—it’s not the Internet. Or the automobile. It’s not female birth control—though that’s a good one too. The best innovation of the last century is the Diaper Genie. It’s a lifesaver.

I drop the toxic ball into the holy can and quickly close the lid. Then I get him cleaned up with the heated wipes and sprinkle on baby powder. Next I head over to the closet to pick out his clothes. A black, collared shirt, jeans, and Nike sneakers. Clothes make the man—and it works the same way with boys. It’s all about first impressions. If you actually want your kid getting knocked on his ass in the sandbox? Put him in one of those pansy sweater vests. That’ll pretty much guarantee it. James is a cool kid—and I make damn sure he dresses like one.

After I gel James’s hair and brush his teeth—with some helpful suggestions on his spitting technique—I carry him to the kitchen airplane style. Zoom. And strap him in his high chair so he can’t escape.

Next up? Breakfast. You remember how I love cereal, right? That hasn’t changed. It’s Lucky Charms for me—with extra marshmallows.

But for my son? No Lucky Charms.

Those Breakfast Club kids actually knew what they were talking about. And we really do turn into our frigging parents. And phrases like We’ll see and Because I said so just pop into your head and fly out of your mouth. It’s disturbing. Like Exorcist-possession kind of shit.

Anyway, for James’s breakfast? Organic-apple slices and whole-grain Cheerios—without sugar.

I know—it’s official—I’m a hypocrite. I can live with that. It’s not like his taste buds know what they’re missing. And when they do, I’ll shove it down his throat anyway. Because it’s good for him. If one day he decides to hate me for that? That’s okay too.

Because sometimes being a father is hard. And if it’s not? You’re not doing it right.

I pour some Cheerios onto the tray and back up halfway across the room. “Hey, James, set it up.”

He opens his mouth wide and keeps it open. I hold a single Cheerio between my fingers while I bend my knees and bounce my hand as if I were dribbling a basketball. “Three seconds left on the clock, down by one, Evans gets the ball. He fakes left, he drives in, he shoots. . . .”

I toss the Cheerio in a high arc. It lands right in James’s mouth.

“He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

James holds both hands over his head. “Core!”

Then I give him a high five. See—told you. Cool, right? I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and get ready for another shot. Then Kate comes into the kitchen, texting on her phone.

All that worry about losing the baby weight? It was for nothing. Look at her—snug black yoga pants hug narrow hips, a navy Penn State T-shirt shows off her flat stomach and toned arms. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, and a touch of shiny, strawberry-flavored lip gloss is her only makeup.