Mrs. Robinson (Mrs. Robinson #1)

by Seth King

  Shit, I’m drunk. And there’s a boy in my husband’s home. A sexy boy. A sexy, perhaps criminally young boy. In a house that might be being watched this very second…

  Now that I was getting a better look, something about Ben also seemed sort of…experienced, maybe a little jaded. He’d probably had a hard life if he’d resorted to this, and difficulty breeds personality, I knew that all too well…

  “Nice house,” he said, looking around my foyer, and I grunted something noncommittal. “They certainly don’t make places like this in my part of McLean.”

  “Thanks,” I said faintly. I guess it was nice, but Richard could barely afford it, and he’d taken out a colossal mortgage simply to have a showpiece of a home with which to impress wealthy donors and throw splashy parties that the local press could obsess over. “Can I take your coat?”

  He looked down at his coat. “I mean, you may, but I had a gym session today and I’m wearing nothing but a jock strap underneath, so…”

  I felt something heat up and then contract in my pelvic region. “Oh. That can be dealt with.”

  He took a breath. “If you insist…”

  An electric silence filled the room as he locked eyes with me and then began slowly slipping out of the coat. First he revealed strapping, tanned shoulders, then golden pecs and a muscled torso with a fine line of golden-brown fuzz trailing down to his bellybutton and below, and finally his jockstrap…which contained the biggest bulge I’d ever seen. Finally he removed the black mask concealing the upper part of his face, revealing model-worthy cheekbones and those luminous hazel eyes that seemed to spark even in the dark.

  The coat fell to the floor and he stood totally still, his leg muscles flexing and unflexing. Honestly, I felt like I was catching a felony just by looking at him – and for some reason, I kind of liked it.

  Just imagine Richard coming home and seeing this in his foyer, I thought with a devious little smile. That’d wipe the stupid smirk off his face, big time.

  “Oh,” I said, blood rushing to my cheeks. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” he said. He motioned at a sofa in the living room, looking nervous all of the sudden. “Would you like to, uh…would you like to get started now?”

  The pause that followed was absolutely explosive.

  Get started…with that boy…and that body…

  I looked away – this was moving way too quickly. I needed time to get my bearings and decide how to handle this.

  “No, actually, I’m sorry, but…can you please…put it back on?” I asked in a daze. “You’re beautiful and all, but I won’t be able to focus on anything except…well, you, if you stay like that. I’m sorry. Let’s just take it slow at first.”

  “Alright.” Thankfully he slid back into the coat, but I did manage to get one last peek before he buttoned up. I turned for the living room, away from the massive windowpanes in my front door that Cynthia was probably staring into with binoculars at that very moment.

  “Please, come sit down. Have some wine.”

  I led him into my ridiculously formal living room, with its 18th century Federal furnishings and swag curtains, all Richard’s doing. I felt Ben’s eyes on me all the while, but what was he thinking? With those looks, he’d clearly been one of the popular boys growing up, and besides Richard, I’d never really been able to catch their attention. I was always the smart, quiet girl sitting in the corner of the library, daydreaming my life away, while the volleyball girls flirted with the linebackers in the hall. Was Ben disappointed? Was I too unattractive for him, and was he still going to call the whole thing off? And did I want him to call it off?

  I sat on my sofa and handed him a glass of red wine I’d already poured.

  “Thanks.” He peered out of the window. “Should we be expecting anyone any time soon?” he asked, a little more nervously than I would have preferred. Wasn’t he supposed to have all this down to a science? Why was he so freaked out?

  “No, it’s…just me,” I said, sounding thoroughly pathetic.

  “Sweet.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson,” he said, wincing a little. “I sincerely hope your day has been better than mine.”

  “Thanks. Not a wine person?” I asked, and he looked away.

  “Um, no…I’m twenty, actually. I do have a fake ID, but I usually just drink beer.”

  “Oh,” I said, my eyes expanding, as I added another law I’d broken that night to the list – supplying alcohol to an underaged person. We sit in silence for a moment, and suddenly it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea what to say to the hooker I’d invited into my home.

  “So. Can we just, like, talk for a second?” I asked as the clock ticked away in the dark corner.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Well, tell me about yourself. Is Ben your, uh, real name?”

  He nodded, but something was flimsy in his eyes.

  “Okay, and what do you do? I mean, outside of…this?”

  He glanced away. “Uh, I’m in school. Part time, at least. And I love to fight.”

  “…Like, street fighting?”

  “No, sorry,” he said, loosening up a little. “Mixed martial arts. In a cage. It’s something between a job and a hobby, I guess. And I really like to read and write sometimes, too.”

  “But young men who look like you aren’t supposed to be able to write,” I teased, and his shoulders fell.

  “Well, um, I’m me, and I can’t change myself, and how good I look shirtless and how well I can string together a sentence have absolutely nothing to do with each other, so…”

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry for judging you,” I blushed, wanting to kick myself in the head for hitting such a nerve. “I think that’s amazing. Sorry, I can get kind of…awkward sometimes, I guess. I don’t get out much.”

  He nodded and looked away again. Ugh. What was I doing? I hadn’t been on a date – or whatever this was – in over two decades, and it definitely showed.

  “It’s fine,” he finally said, giving me a weird look. “And…this might seem weird, but do I know you from somewhere?”

  I nearly choked on my wine – he’d seen me in the press. I wasn’t famous nationally or anything, but the local papers and magazines sometimes featured me as the quiet wife of my dazzling husband, and a few people glanced at me weirdly from time to time in the supermarket and such.

  “Nope,” I said, trying to stay cool. “I probably have a doppelganger. Anyway, what else is there to say about me? I’m pretty boring. I don’t have many hobbies. I grew up playing tennis, but I don’t play it nearly enough anymore, as you can tell. Besides that, I guess I just shop and read.”

  And go to lunch with a bunch of bitches I hate and then sit at home alone all night, I wanted to say.

  “Read what?” he asked.

  “Trash, mostly. The kinds of romance novels I’d never let my mom know about. Bodice rippers, that sort of thing.”

  “Interesting.” Another long pause followed, and I bit the inside of my cheeks. No matter how much I had glossed my hair and buffed my nails, I was still a nervous, insecure wreck, and had no idea how to proceed. I took a breath and reminded myself that it was a new century, women were allowed to have desires, and I wasn’t some desperate predator for being attracted to a twenty year old.

  An idea came to me, and I stared down at my wine. “Hey, this wine – it’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m not really a wine person, like I said.”

  “Well,” I explained, “it’s good because it’s aged – some things just get finer with age. Tell me, would you agree?”

  He looked over at me, turning his glass in his hand, his eyes twinkling. “Sure I do. With older things, you can taste the…experience. They’ve been around the block once or twice and they know what they’re doing. The wine, I mean.”

  I swallowed. “Good to hear.” And then: “You know, I guess I’m kind of good with my mouth, too. I can pick up on very…subtle tastes.”

  He bit his lip
. What was I saying? Was I turning into some desperate cougar, like I’d feared? And was this even how the kids talked these days? I couldn’t even turn on MTV without immediately becoming clueless due to all the weird, Internet-y slang the young people used. And not to mention the difference in morals. In my day, something as simple as Candice Bergen’s character on Murphy Brown becoming a single unwed mother on television had become a national conversation, while today, JLo and Miley and whoever else twerked all over the place and nobody batted an eyelash extension. Had I come a generation too late to even know how to be slutty?

  I studied Ben to gauge whether I sounded sexy, or like a deranged, past-her-prime lunatic.

  “Good to know,” he finally grinned, making me slump with relief. “I’d like to try that talent out sometime, perhaps.”

  “Do you…do you drink older wine a lot?” I asked, unable to contain the questions spilling out of my brain.

  “Once,” he blushed, and I couldn’t lie – it was adorable.

  “Once? Care to share the story?”

  He stared down at his glass. “Well, I’ve never told anyone this, but…here goes. This wine is working a little too well, I think.”

  He leaned back, making his fresh, crisp scent hit my nostrils, and the reaction caused my whole body to go numb like when you walk outside in January. “Well, older women hit on me all the time, but I never did anything about it – until my neighbor, Miss Jill, came along,” he began. “She had a husband who was never home, always off on business or whatever, you know, that sort of deal, and before long she became absolutely crazy for attention.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fifty-one, but her plastic surgeries made her look about thirty.”

  “Wow. And how old were you?”

  “Well, it started out right after I turned seventeen. And – let me explain!” he said in response to my floored expression. “I went away to Alabama for football camp for six weeks and came back with twenty more pounds of muscle, and the moment she saw me, she started putting on skimpy little outfits to clean her pool and whatnot. But I’m a bit of a dufus about that stuff, and I never noticed a thing. It wasn’t until my friend pointed out how strange it was that Miss Jill was putting on a thong bikini to clean her screened-in pool every single day that I realized something was up.”

  My grandfather clock ticked away. “So this Miss Jill lady – did she seduce you?” I asked, leaning forward and slipping into a tense little world where only Ben and his story existed.

  “Hold on,” he said, sipping his wine. “This wasn’t some situation where she cornered me late one night and jumped my bones or something. I can’t lie – I wanted her, too. A lot. And I felt really guilty about it. I’d always watched – you know, like, MILF porn, for whatever reason – and I wondered about Miss Jill pretty often. I think I had some sort of fetish for her. At night I’d lay in bed imagining what it’d feel like to take off her bikini bottoms and feel around down there, and then I’d touch myself and pretend it was her. Since she paid me to feed her dogs after school, I started sneaking into her room to poke around, and…well, one day she came home early and found me smelling her underwear drawer.”

  “Wow,” I said, starting to get a little turned on, even though what we were talking about was admittedly bizarre, and maybe even criminal. My reaction was confusing and maybe even concerning, but I couldn’t stop myself – this was hot. “What’d she do?”

  “Well, I couldn’t deny that I wanted something to happen,” he said, looking more than a little ashamed. “She walked up, grabbed me by the chin, and told me I was being bad. I was so turned on and terrified and all these other things, all I could do was stare at her – I think I came a little in my pants right then and there, actually. So she asked me what my mother would say about me smelling the underwear of someone who was her own age, and I said I had no clue, but that she’d be mad. After a really long silence, Miss Jill asked me if I ever thought of her at night, and I nodded, and then she pushed me down her body by my shoulders, shoved my face into her underwear, and told me to smell the real thing.”

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs and then reached up to wipe my brow. The air in the room now felt somewhere between “piping hot” and “Las Vegas parking lot in August.”

  “Where were your parents during all this?” I asked.

  “Nowhere, I guess. My mom was in and out at the time, but she was so young – she’s still only thirty-nine – that she never would’ve suspected something going on between me and someone so old. Not that she would’ve given a damn, anyway.”

  Good God, I thought. I was older than Ben’s mother. If I didn’t feel guilty before, I most certainly did now.

  “Anyway,” he continued, his voice growing even quieter, “back to that day. I was so excited I kissed her crotch area really violently, but she shook her head and told me to lick her softly, like I licked my girlfriends’ nipples. I asked her what the hell she was talking about, and apparently she’d seen me hooking up with a girl in her pool when I’d thought she was out of town, which was totally embarrassing. So I licked her a little over her underwear, and then she started moaning and took me by the hand, laid down on the bed, and told me to do what the guys did to the women in my videos, since she could apparently see into my bedroom and had known I’d been watching MILF porn all along.”

  My eyes were now the size of my Range Rover’s hubcaps. “…So what’d you do?”

  “Started licking her pussy,” he said. “Even though I’d hooked up with a few girls from school, I was still a virgin and pretty much had no clue what I was doing, so she told me exactly what to do until I made her…well, you know. Come. It was the most erotic moment of my life – I can still picture the way she grasped her sheets while she came all over my face. It was hot as shit, not gonna lie.”

  He stared over at my crotch as he said this.

  “Anyway, from then on, I would sneak over there every weekend and do more and more with her. Sometimes when she was horny she’d come right on over to my house and make up some bogus thing that she needed fixed or figured out, like her iPad or toilet something, and demand that I come over to help. Needless to say, I was servicing a lot more than just her sink.”

  “Good gracious. And did you ever…?”

  He fidgeted. “Have sex? No. She said she didn’t want to officially cheat on her husband, not that what we were doing wasn’t already cheating, anyway. But somehow it never got to sex. She taught me how to do everything else really well, though.”

  I can imagine, I thought, my pulse – and libido – reaching runaway train status. I couldn’t hold it any longer – I wanted him, but I had no clue how to get the ball rolling. The wine getting to my head, I leaned closer and let out a long, slow breath. I stared down at his leg, unable to look at his dazzling face, when a sudden idea struck me.

  “Hey – what if we pretended I was Miss Jill tonight?”

  “…Miss Jill?” he gulped. I couldn’t believe what I was saying, but I kept going.

  “Yeah – seems like a good enough place to start. Let’s pretend, say, that it’s a rainy night, my husband’s gone, and I invited you over to, I don’t know, ‘figure out my new DVR remote.’ What would you do to me? Or, I mean, to Miss Jill?”

  A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “Well, first, Miss Jill would probably put a hand on my leg…like that,” he said as I rested my hand on his firm calf.

  “Okay. And then?”

  He closed his eyes and gulped. “Then she’d ask me if I had a hard-on, I guess.”

  I reached up towards his crotch. He did…and it was impressive. Far more impressive than my husband’s.

  “Nice. And then?”

  He licked one glistening lip. “And then she’d probably rub the tip of my cock through my pants while she asked me to roll her nipples between my fingers.”

  “Do it,” I whispered as his pre-come wet his coat. He reached up, cupped my breast, and slowly began rolling my nipple through the t
hin film of my dress. I moaned and rolled my eyes back into my head involuntarily.

  “Oh, yes, you’re sexy,” he said quietly. “Sexier than Miss Jill. Do you like this?” I nodded. “Do you want me?” he continued, and I nodded again. “Good. I’ll take the reigns now. But before I do, I have to warn you about something.” His voice grew darker, and he started rolling my nipples between his fingers with a new urgency. “I have these…issues, you know. I’m a fighter, and I have an…anger that rises to the surface sometimes when I’m intimate. It’s nothing dangerous, but just so you know, I can get a little…rough.”

  A sigh escaped from my lips as he touched me. With the wine in my blood and the heat between my legs, I was powerless to stop whatever was about to happen, even with his warnings. “I can deal with that,” I whispered. By this time I was sufficiently drunk, the kind of drunk that feels warm and fuzzy around the edges, and my shame was starting to battle with other, more pleasurable feelings within me. “I’m sick of men being distant with me,” I said. “Get close – even if it means a little pain. I’m used to it.”

  “Ahhh,” he groaned, speeding up his movements, as my insides positively flooded. I had no idea I could even get this horny. “This is so fucking hot. You’re not wearing a bra, are you? You’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you, Mrs. Robinson?”

  “Fuck yes I am,” I breathed. “But wait, you called me ‘Mrs.’ How’d you know I was…how’d you notice I had a…”

  “A husband?” he asked, and I nodded. He motioned at my wedding ring, which of course I’d stupidly forgotten to remove in all the night’s action. For a moment I felt awful, but then Richard’s words from the phone call sounded through my brain, as welcome as a foghorn at 3 AM…

  Yes, that’s right, you’re Daddy’s little slut, my wife can’t do that…

  And suddenly I didn’t feel so guilty anymore. Instead, the beads of sweat dripping down Ben’s tanned, muscular neck ushered me into a primal, visceral, animalistic state of being in which I could only think one thing: