Authors: Seth King
BOOK 1 IN THE MRS. ROBINSON SAGA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Seth King is a twenty-five-year-old American author and contradiction. He enjoys reading, lifting weights, spending time with his nieces and nephews, playing the piano, and bondage. His family calls him Seth, but his readers are more than welcome to call him Daddy. For more shameless selfies like the one above, you can find him on Facebook at Facebook.com/sethkingbooks.
“This isn’t like one of those romance novels you read, is it, Mrs. Robinson?” I asked my client as she moaned under me.
“No,” she breathed, making me grin against her skin.
“I know – it’s better. This is real life. I’m here, I’m young, I’m horny, and – best of all – I’ve got a
big dick. Now sit back and hold on – this is gonna be like nothing you’ve ever read before.”
As Mrs. Robinson moaned once more and did as she was told, I slid my tongue south and wrapped my lips around her nipple, which hardened deliciously under my tongue. I hadn’t expected to like my client this much, but now that I was here, I couldn’t fucking get enough of her. I bit her nipple lightly, relishing in her groan again as she arched her back and took a breath, and it wasn’t until I headed still further south and placed a few kisses around her nave
that the bravado started to melt away and the guilt began creeping in.
I had to do this. I knew that. I needed this paycheck more than anything, and my sister was depending on me to save her. Everything was riding on this beautiful stranger riding my face after I fucked her. But as I placed my dick against Mrs. Robinson’s clit and prepared to torture her with the tip of it like my thoughts were torturing me, I couldn’t help but wonder:
how in the hell did I let myself become a male prostitute tonight?
I didn’t have too much time to wonder, though, because suddenly a pair of blazing headlights careened through the window from the driveway outside and lit the opposite wall like the devil’s smile, making us both sit up straight on the bed.
“Who is it?” I scream-whispered at her, my high crashing immediately. “Is it your kid or something? You didn’t tell me you had a kid!”
it was my kid,” said Mrs. Robinson, terror dripping from her every syllable.
She turned to me with the fear of a thousand gods in her eyes. “Because I think it’s my husband.”
“Yes?” I asked as my ears caught the paralyzing sound of someone pounding up the front steps and inserting a key into the door, trapping us upstairs.
“There’s something I forgot to mention. My husband is a congressman.”
Earlier That Day
I stopped on my front porch and glared down at the eviction notice hanging from my door jam, taunting me as it fluttered in the September breeze. I grabbed the paper, skimmed over a few key phrases –
failure to pay rent, forcible eviction assured in ten days if payment not received
– and ripped it in half and tossed it onto the grass just as quickly. No need in fretting over the inevitable.
I unlocked the door and tossed my backpack onto the side table, which was piled high with bills and student loan paperwork. I cursed again under my breath and picked at a stray string on my ratty old Polo shirt as the walls seemed to close in around me. Sometimes I wanted to shank whoever had fed me the lie that growing up was something to look forward to, that independence was some shining castle in the clouds, because so far the “real world” had been one giant letdown after another. Someone should’ve told me that “adulthood” was actually just one big fucked-up charade, and that everything I had been promised had come with an asterisk. Like,
Hey, Ben, welcome to college, enjoy your freedom!*
(*Now cough up fifty thousand dollars a year or you’re getting kicked out.)
Good job on getting your associate’s degree, Ben, welcome to the job market!
(*Now get ready to aimlessly drift for months because all the entry-level jobs are being taken up by either forty-five-year old recent layoffs with multiple degrees, Bangladeshi teens working in sweatshops, or computers.)
Congrats on finally getting your first job, Ben, you’re a real-life working man now!*
(*Now immediately watch your paycheck be divided away to nothing to cover the cost of being alive.)
So while the other kids at my college spent their time going to frat parties and hitting up two-dollar-Tuesdays at the Georgetown bars and such, I slaved away to keep my head above water – not that I wasn’t slowly drowning, anyway. In the past two days I’d been nearly kicked out of my gym for failure to pay dues, I’d had my debit card turned down at Subway as a crowd of people watched from the line behind me, and to top it all off, the girl I liked had told me she needed “time alone,” which probably meant she needed time riding her rich ex-boyfriend’s tiny dick again. But I couldn’t blame her – my life was a sinking ship, and I’d jump if I had the chance, too.
But at least Claire is somewhat stable today
, I reminded myself as I crouched and started removing the boots I wore whenever I rode my motorbike. Not that “stable” was anything to write home about. That awful accident five years ago had not only left my older sister paralyzed from the waist down, but the damage to her brain had instantly transformed her from a normal college student into someone with the mental capacity of a fairly intelligent toddler. Every day was a challenge for poor Claire. I did all I could, and I’d even moved in with her last winter to help her full-time nurse care for her, but nothing seemed to help. I’d work all day to help pay for her medical bills and then arrive home to find ten more bills on the table, all for infuriatingly unnecessary hospital expenses like eighty-dollar Tylenols and three-hundred-dollar sponge baths. But two weeks ago she’d been kicked off Medicaid due to bureaucratic paperwork bullshit, and now that we weren’t even getting help with a
of the bills, we were
fucked. I knew I needed to hire a lawyer to get her back on insurance and get everything paid for retroactively, but I couldn’t even
to afford a lawyer in the first place. Worst of all, her caseworker at the hospital was demanding thousands up front just to continue Claire’s weekly treatments, or else she promised to send Claire to some low-budget government infirmary that housed invalids and hopeless cases, a place I’d heard nightmarish stories about…
. A text from my MMA coach brought me back to my senses, and I shook my head and reached for my phone. Lately cage fighting had gone from a part-time hobby to being my only real release in the endless shit-storm my life seemed to have become. I loved the adrenaline rush fighting gave me; the explosive energy I felt from harnessing every ounce of anger and frustration and fury in my body and refocusing it into a single right hook I’d send flying into a stranger’s jaw. Since my life was a cage itself, I liked to feel like I was fighting back, even if I was still within the bars. (I guess that, as a secret book nerd, I never
one to miss a metaphor. Adulthood was screaming towards me at full speed, and lobbing a hit against an opponent’s head was sometimes the only thing that made me feel like I was battling fate instead of being swept away in the rush.) Technically you could say I was one of the best young fighters in the Washington metro area, but there were hundreds of cities in the country with fighters just as good as me, and I knew that rising to the top of the heap and making any money off my hobby one day was probably a pipe dream. So I fought on the side whenever I wasn’t taking classes at Virginia Community College, working part-time on Capitol Hill, and taking care of my sister. But tonight was my first big chance to turn my passion into a profession: I was challenging the number one fighter in my age group in Washington, and if I won, I’d go to New York and participate in a nationally televised fight in December. This was the chance of a lifetime, and it could open every door in the world – all I had to do now was show up and win. And if I could bet on
in my increasingly chaotic life, it was myself, and my ability to step up and rise to the occasion. After all, I had no choice – my parents had left behind a nearly unfixable mess, and I was the only one left who was even
to help. Don’t get me wrong, my folks weren’t
or anything, and there was no theatrical, soap-opera-like story to explain their absences. In the end, they’d simply found a life of drinking whiskey in seedy bars and playing pool on cigarette-stained tables more appealing than a life with their children. They’d send me to my grandma’s house like clockwork, and weekend-long disappearances soon turned into weeks and even months of no contact at all. As soon as I’d turned eighteen and my parents were no longer legally bound to me, both of them had slipped away for good; my father heading to his family’s homeland of Texas and my mother running for the hills of the Appalachians. The last I’d heard, my father was frequently unemployed and an even-more-frequent visitor of Dallas-area jails, and my mother was a semi-homeless bar fly who haunted only the classiest establishments of Charleston, West Virginia. I tried to look past it, I really did; to bury the pain within me like I buried everything else, but to tell the truth, my mother’s abandonment of me in particular still kept me up at night like bad food poisoning. Her wrinkled, weathered face still screamed at me from the shadows and jumped out at me from the dark, and sometimes I wondered if I’d
stop missing the love she’d never given me.
Actually, fighting wasn’t my
release, I noted as I got yet another text from some girl I’d met a few nights before who just wouldn’t leave me alone for some reason. Sometimes I engaged in slightly more
activities to let off steam. Anger issues manifested themselves in many different ways, after all, and mine usually led me straight to bed. I’d often find myself hitting up the bars around my gym after big matches, still buzzing from the fight, and with anger and adrenaline pumping through my veins, I’d set my sights on someone. I usually settled on older chicks, and sometimes I wondered if I was doing it because I was chasing something, but I didn’t really like to think about it. Anyway, before I knew it I’d have her legs wrapped around my neck in her apartment, and soon she’d be screaming my name louder than the whistles from the midnight trains…
I placed my boots against the wall and stood up. Suddenly my senses flared, and I noticed something didn’t feel quite right. A true fighter always had one ear out for trouble, my trainer always told me that – but what was wrong?
I looked around. For one, the house was totally silent. The nurse
left on Claire’s TV to keep her company whenever I wasn’t able to get home in time for the trade-off, and I hadn’t heard silence this loud in months.
“Claire?” I asked as I headed down the hallway to her room, which I soon discovered was terrifyingly empty.
I thought as my stomach dropped and my vision blurred. Claire didn’t understand much, but she knew she wasn’t supposed to get out of bed alone – she could fall and lay there all day, and one skipped cycle of medicine could prove disastrous to her fragile health…
“Claire?” I asked as I paced back down the hall, my worry multiplying by the second. “Claire, sweetie, where are you?”
The glow emanating from our tiny kitchen made me freeze. The nurses always turned off the kitchen light before leaving – that was their signal to me that they’d been there, and that Claire was fine. This was
really not fucking good.
“Claire?” I called, my worry blooming into white-hot panic. “Claire, where are you, baby?”
I took a sharp breath and turned into the kitchen, and that’s where I found my sister lying facedown on the floor, her broken wheelchair lying in a heap beside her.