The award-winning story, Marcy's Playground:
Marcy is a shy, book-loving, just-out-of high school, and now out-of-a job girl. Then she gets a job as the receptionist for a sex club. Whoa! A virgin in a sex club? She discovers a lot about herself, love, sex, and romance. Marcy finds, over one hot summer, that the world is a lot broader and better than she thought.
- Title: Marcy's Playground
- Subtitle: The Playgrounds
- Author: MJ Roberts
- Type of Book: eBook, Erotica
- Pages: 47k words
- ISBN: 9781310037467
I effing love this book. It walks the line between believable and ridiculous with precision, and the characters are so likeable, I was in love as soon as each started to speak.
MJ Roberts's style is similar to my own in many cases, so reading her books feels good to me, but this series has the potential to totally blow my mind. Naive girls who don't know what to expect from this sex thing meet men (and women) who teach them all about it. I love it. But in this book, it is the characters and the incredibly hot sex scenes that kept me glued to my Kindle. I highly recommend this book to anyone older than the protagonist.
Even in my wildest fantasies, I never dreamed something like this could ever happen to me. Not that my fantasies were ever all that wild to begin with—but still—me, little, quiet, shy Marcy, in the midst of…
Well, I should back up.
It all started the week after high school graduation.
I hugged the box I was carrying to my chest. It contained a small plant, a framed picture of the Dallas Cowboys (with signatures, thank you), a toiletry case, and two books.
Fired, after one week as a secretary for A & M. I stood in the blinding hot Indiana summer sun and bit back tears.
This sucked. My first real job. My plans to save for college. Ruined.
I had the urge to dig a hole in the pavement and stick my head in it; a tiny human ostrich with head in the ground and butt in the air. But instead I forced my shoulders back. I wrenched open the door of my beat-up Honda and put the box on the passenger seat.
Jobs were scarce here. If it took most of the summer job hunting, then where would I be? Ahh, crap.
I took my cell phone out of my purse and dialed my friend Bevvie.
“Hey Marcy,” she said when she picked up.
“I’m having a triple chocolate Haagen Daas emergency,” I said.
“Come right over,” she said.
I was a few blocks from Bevvie’s house when I saw the hot guy with the wavy dark hair. As usual he was walking his two big dogs. He was always just far enough away that I could never get a really good look at him. Just as I strained to see him better, my air conditioner conked out. It was 100 degrees outside with a UV index of a thousand, and bang, no air conditioning. My long brown hair immediately plastered to my face and shoulders.
I arrived in one piece and knocked on Bevvie’s door.
“Whoa,” she said when she saw me. “Serious emergency, Marce. You look like you’ve been through a high-test washing machine on the super hot water setting.”
Bevvie stepped back and let me in. She had a pint of ice cream and a spoon in her hand and she handed them to me. I opened the container and dug right in.
“I was fired,” I said around a mouthful of heavenly goodness.
“Oh, poor baby,” she said. “I would hug you, but, ah…”
She got an ice cream container for herself, and we stood in the kitchen near the sink enjoying the creaminess.
I caught a glance of the two of us in the reflection from the window.
Bevvie weighs about 350 pounds. She’s really tall, has curly, short blonde hair, and an outgoing personality.
I’m just barely over four feet, ten inches tall. When people ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I say, “Five feet tall.” It always gets a laugh.
I used to be a competitive gymnast, but when I started sprouting serious major curves in all the right places I gave it up. I have bone straight dark brown hair that reaches down to my butt in the winter. As a concession to how hot this summer has been already, I cut it so that now it’s just barely half-way down my back.
My point is that Bevvie and I are as different looking as Laurel and Hardy, or whatever their names were. Bevvie’s my only good friend. I’m a book person. I’m a little on the quiet and shy side. I’m friendly, but I love books so much I’d rather spend time with them than most people.
So the fact that Bevvie and I are best friends is weird. But we live on the same block. We’ve been BFFs since middle school.
I’m damn lucky to have her.
I started crying. I put down the ice cream.
“Awwww, sweetie,” she said, and engulfed me in her big body, even though I was hot and sweaty. “It’s not a big deal. It was just a shitty job.”
“I know,” I said through sobs, “but—” hiccup— “I was hoping to have my weekends free to go down the lake and sit in the shade and read and be relaxed about it. I wanted to save up to buy a new car for college. My car is older than I am, literally.”
“You’ll get another job.”
She pushed me away from her a little, and ate more ice cream with a thoughtful look on her face. Then she snapped her fingers.
“I know, the Jangensens, next door. I overheard them talking a few days ago that they needed a receptionist. I didn’t ask about it because I know their business is somewhere out in the boonies, in Jasper county, like 45 minutes away. It probably doesn’t pay for shit.”
“Yeah, but if it’s not too busy a desk I could read on the job,” I said.
“Why don’t you ask them? But you better hurry up, that was a few days ago.”
“Thanks, Bev. You’re the best.”
I hurried home, took a quick shower, put on a pair of khakis and a pink polo shirt and walked over there.
I didn’t know the Jangensens at all, but I had seen them watering their lawn and coming and going. They were a nice looking couple, in their late 60s maybe, and looked like everybody’s slightly doughy grandparents.
I knocked on the door, and Mr. Jangensen answered.
I re-introduced myself, and told them Bevvie had overheard they might have a job opening, and I’d be interesting in applying.
He gave me a really weird look.
“How old are you?”
He frowned slightly.
“I know that’s young, but I have a lot of experience from school doing business stuff, like working on the yearbook coordinating advertising. I’m very responsible.”
I wiped my forehead. It was the hottest summer on record, and I was starting to sweat.
He sighed. “Come in.”
Their house was nice, really nice. I didn’t know the name brands, but I could tell all the furniture and paintings and everything were expensive and classy.
Mrs. Jangensen came out, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“We have a visitor,” Mr. Jangensen said.
“Marcy, right?” she said.
“Marcy wants to apply for the job of front desk,” he said. Something about the way he said it was weird. Like he paused too long before the word apply and stretched it out too long.
“I’m a really quick learner,” I said. “I’m great with phones and computers and, ah, people.”
I sensed that I needed to shut up.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen, Marcy,” she said.
We all sat down in the kitchen. I expected them to tell me about their business and make an appointment for me to go in and fill out an application but it appeared they were starting on an unofficial interview right here.
Mostly they seemed to want to get a sense of my personality. They asked me a lot of questions about myself, and of course, when talking about myself, the conversation naturally turned to the two things I love, reading books and watching football.
They were Dallas fans, so obviously they were good peeps.
The only question they asked me that seemed related to work was how much experience did I have?
My Spidey sense started tingling. Was I missing something? There was some silent communication going on between them. That secret talk without words that adults do when they don’t want you to know something. Like when my parents say they’re bushed and they’re going to hit the hay but they seem pumped but they’re trying to hide it.
What the hell?
Maybe I’m imagining it.
They asked me to come back tomorrow.
Okay, whatever. I guess that went well.
I went right to Bevvie’s door and knocked. She was eating some Pepperidge Farm milanos right out of the bag. I snagged one as I walked in.
“I don’t know. They asked me a lot of questions about myself.”
“That’s good, right? They probably want to make sure you would get along with everyone else who works there.”
“What kind of business do they have anyway?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s some kind of exclusive country club or something.”
“That’s good, that’ll probably mean I’ll have time to read if I’m working the front desk.”
“They want me to come back tomorrow,” I said.
“I really want this job,” I said. “I mean, now I need this job. Forget paying for a new car; I need a summer job so I can pay back the money I’m going to have to borrow from my parents to fix the busted air conditioner.”
“No shit,” Bevvie said. “Scorcher summer plus black Honda hot box equals super suck.”
“I just need to keep a positive attitude. They need a receptionist; I need a job. I’ll just smile and look eager, and hopefully it will be a piece of cake.”
When I went back the next day I wore a fancy business suit. I hadn’t really expected to have an interview yesterday, so this time I thought I’d dress more like I would if I were working in a fancy place.
Mr. J. frowned when he saw my suit.
“Come on in, Marcy.”
Mrs. J. also frowned slightly when she saw my suit. But she recovered quickly. We went into the kitchen. She pulled some biscuits out of the oven and offered me one.
“Listen,” Mr. J. said. “I’m going to be straight up with you. Our place is a sex club.”
“It’s not a sex club,” Mrs. J. said, and gave him a slight slap on the arm.
He looked at her. His expression said, ‘What would you call it?’
“I thought it was a country club,” I whispered.
“It’s a private club, and it’s in the country,” he said.
I began tapping my fingers on my leg. Nerves.
“It’s a very…” but then Mrs. J. trailed off and didn’t finish.
“Okay, perhaps it would be better to say it’s….” but then he trailed off, apparently unable to put it in words either.
Oh my God.
“It’s a very nice place,” Mrs. J. said. “With wonderful members. It’s not sleazy at all.”
“And you’d never have to go in the main rooms,” Mr. J. said. “You can stay in the front reception hall, you’d be completely separated from any action. You’d never be exposed to anything.”
“But, if you’re… squeamish about this,” Mrs. J. said, “this is not the job for you.”
I really, really needed a job. I told myself this wouldn’t be a big deal.
“It’s a very simple receptionist job,” Mrs. J. said. “There’s nothing else too it but checking members in.”
I liked her. I trusted her. It would be okay. I was just happy at the possibility of a job.
“And loyalty and discretion are paramount,” Mr. J. said. “I mean ESSENTIAL.”
“Oh, I got it,” I said. “You can count on me. I’m the epitome of prudence and discretion. Bevvie told me a secret in the sixth grade, and I’ve never told a soul. I’ll take it to my grave before I tell anyone.”
They stared at me. They looked skeptical.
Fake it till you make it. Right? I pushed my shoulders back.
“I can do it.”
“So you want the job?”
“So be it,” he said.
I left sort of in a daze. Of course I should go tell Bevvie the news right away, but instead I walked back to my house.
Holy gamoly. A sex club.
A totally bookish virgin in a sex club. It sounded like a theme for a porno movie.