(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. The song—and operetta storyline in general—that inspired this story was "Oh, Is There Not One Maiden Breast," from Gilbert and Sullivan's
The Pirates of Penzance.
)
* * * *
He was late. Or she thought so. Had she gotten the time wrong? She didn't think so. But she knew that they took their sweet time with this. She was in the system herself, so she knew how men got jerked around even at this point. They'd jerked her around too. She'd been here in Dannemora, in upstate New York, for three days, and only this morning had the powers that be at the Clinton Correctional Institution informed her of his release time. And that was eight hours ago. And she was a lawyer in the system. She wondered how family members learned where to come to pick their men up.
Family members. Did Frankie have family? Would they be here, thinking they were picking him up? She must have been through his paperwork a thousand times and couldn't remember there being any family. There certainly hadn't been any family that showed up at trial. Sometimes family members didn't, though—being too ashamed or too upset or too angry.
She hadn't gotten a reply to her message that she'd be picking him up. He didn't always answer her messages, though. Did that mean she sometimes came across as too needy, too pushy? Hell of a time to think of that now, though, she thought. There hadn't been much time for a reply to reach her. She'd look at it that way. She had always tried to look on the bright side where Frankie was concerned. That's one of the things he said he liked about her.
May checked the buttons on her blouse. Was it too tight? Was it expecting too much to wear the bra that hooked in front, between her breasts? Had she gained weight in the last eight years? She knew she had gained age and gray hairs. The hair could be dyed, but what other signs of age hadn't she been able to hide? Was the blouse attempting to be too sexy—or too dowdy? Was the skirt too short?
Well, there wasn't anything she was going to be able to do about that now. She looked in the rearview mirror for, like, the twentieth time since she'd been parked out here in her car. Would he like the car? She'd bought the Mustang just for him. A welcome home surprise. He wouldn't be able to get a license for a while, but he'd have a dream car to think about and look at while he was waiting.
It wasn't her, of course—the Mustang. The Corolla she'd traded in for it was more her. But she needed to try to change those things now. He wasn't even thirty yet. She wasn't behind the times, really, but she hadn't been in the age set he was in for some time. She wasn't even in it when they were together before. Before he was sent up. Before she hadn't been able to get him acquitted—even when it was obvious that he was innocent and had only been forced to be along for the ride.
Was this the only gate, the gate where they all came out? Or was he already waiting at another gate?
She took the paper out of her purse and looked at it yet again, at the instructions for picking up inmates when they had served their time. When they were spit out on the street of some small town like Dannemora, with the clothes they came in with, if they still fit, and bus fare to New York City—in this state. And that was it. No wonder that it was only a matter of months before the men were inside again.
How had the eight years affected Frankie? He was so young and innocent—really innocent—when he'd gone inside. Had the life hardened him, drained all of the faith out of him—even in her?
And how would he feel about her now? Eight years older, the years hadn't been that kind. But she had waited. Waited just for him, just like she'd told him she would.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught that the gate in the chain-link fence into the prison was opening and that there were a couple of men standing there. She swiveled her head to see if he was there.
* * * *
The first time he fucked her, May had known that it was because he wanted something. But since she was over thirty, had never been fucked before, and had more or less maneuvered him into fucking her, she didn't care. Besides she had reasoned later that he was just scared, not much more than a boy, and in shock, and that he'd just been grateful that she had believed him. No one else had—well, not enough to keep him out of prison. Most of the "something he wanted," she told herself, was his need for comfort, for something real to hang on to, for assurance that someone in all of this was sane and on his side.
She had been on his side from the beginning. If he hadn't been so hunky and young and hangdog looking, would she have instantly been on his side, she sometimes wondered. But she didn't wonder about it for long, because what had happened had happened. The theory of it had no meaning for her.
It was all because of his girlfriend, April, the first woman, one two years older than he was and more experienced, who he'd ever fucked regularly. Or so he said, and May had been careful to tell him that she believed everything he said. And it was because of April's friends, the Manhattan street gang she'd run with. All rich, cocky snots, protected throughout life by Daddy's money and position, so that they thought they could get away with anything. Anything had included robbing a Brooklyn liquor store and, maybe unintentionally, shooting and killing the Korean night clerk.
Frankie's story was that he had been at the wheel of the car they arrived and left in. He'd just been told they were taking a nice ride. He hadn't been told they were taking the ride to a liquor store in Brooklyn, to rob the place—or that their "ride" had been stolen. April was not so dumb as to be riding with them that night. Frankie wasn't from Manhattan. He didn't have a Daddy with money and position. So, naturally, Frankie took the brunt of the punishment.
When the Brooklyn police started to unravel what had happened, they hadn't given a shit that most of the young men were from wealthy families in Manhattan or that they weren't much more than boys. The shooting hadn't been in Manhattan; it had been in Brooklyn. They'd dared come to Brooklyn for their crime spree.
The Brooklyn cops built strong cases, which they turned over to the prosecutors, who continued the hardnosed pursuit of the perpetrators and maximum sentences. It only was when the cases, which had been separated, got to court that every one of the young men except for Frankie, all lawyered up with attorneys with national reputations, got hand slaps. With only a public defender, Frankie got eight years.
At least that meant the jury believed some of his claim of innocence. May had told him that, of course, but Frankie had been too young to appreciate the difference between eight years and life.
April never contacted him again after that night she asked him to be the designated driver, Frankie not knowing the others weren't just going to get drunk, but that they planned to get rich and also to acquire a trunk full of "free" liquor had gotten across to the jury, thanks to May's lawyering, enough to spare him the full rod.
May had been Frankie's public defender. She didn't just feel sad for the young man—or didn't just melt to him right away as a man, in a life in which few men had ever looked her way. She actually thought he was innocent by reason of not having a clue what the other men intended to do that night, even if they didn't intend on killing anyone in the process. All Frankie had done was to agree to be the designated driver for friends of his girlfriend.
May did everything she knew to do to defend his case. And it wasn't that she wasn't a good lawyer or that she had too many cases on her hands at the same time—she neglected the rest of her caseload to fight for Frankie. The police and the court system just had to have its pound of flesh for the offense—from someone.
Frankie became that someone.
Her belief turned to sympathy and then to empathy as the nobility of the young man shone through, refusing the offers of plea bargains—only offered in token anyway—and insisting on his innocence, and doing so in a bewildered, but humble way that emphasized his innocence. May couldn't fathom why the jury and judge couldn't see all that she saw in Frankie. And she was shocked and felt defeated and inadequate when they didn't.
She stuck with him through the appeals process. And he stuck with her as his lawyer. She had been the only one to believe him and fight for him. He had been let out on bond—an impossible amount for Frankie, who claimed no family, to swing, but one that May herself backed because she believed in him and believed she'd let him down.
They worked on his appeal with fervor into the night in her cramped law offices, routinely being alone after the others had left for the evening. Her empathy moved into admiration and then a mothering instinct and then something else entirely as he continued to be a beautiful, young, lost man. It turned into arousal.
Late one night he fucked her on the conference table, little knowing how hard she had had to come on to him to put him in that position. They fucked with just her blouse open, her panties off, her skirt bunched up around her waist, and his fly unzipped, in the missionary position. Her back was on the table, her buttocks at the edge, and, lacing his arms around her thighs and spreading them, he entered her deep and pumped with a fury. His cheek was pressed between her breasts and he was softly crying as he gave her everything he had to give her. As painful as it was for May, it being her first sex of this kind, it was what she wanted. She just cradled his head to her breasts and crooned to him between her gasps and groans as he let out all of his frustration, fear, and anger in the cock thrusting hard and deep inside her.
Frankie couldn't have said afterward how he got into that position. May could have told him, but chose not to. She just crooned to him that it was OK, that it was a natural and welcome way for him to find comfort—that she too was hurting over the frustration of these trials and also found comfort and release of her tensions with him inside her. She told him he could find this means of comfort whenever he needed it.
"There wasn't . . . I didn't . . . we didn't—" Frankie, still enfolded in May's arms, his flaccid staff still inside her, mumbled afterward—after having apologized and been shushed down for that.
"Never you mind that, baby," May had whispered to him. "I'll take care of that."
He had no idea, of course, that the way she would have taken care of the lack of protection and his releasing his hot seed deep inside her would have been to have the child—that she'd do anything she had to do now to hold him bound to her, that she would love to have something of his to hold and nurture during the inevitable time he'd be incarcerated. For him to have a family to come home to. Because she knew that Frankie would be going to prison.
No matter how often they fucked, though, May never got pregnant. She frequently wondered if this was divine punishment for what she was doing. But she wasn't a Catholic, so she didn't carry the burden of guilt long or deeply.
He needed her special comfort, the softness of her pillowy breasts, the motherly smell of her, the warm depths between her thighs, the sensation of splitting her puffy nether lips and sinking into her, nearly every night in her offices or her apartment or her summer cottage up until the day he lost his appeal and was hauled out of the courtroom and straight to a holding cell. He found various inventive (to her) positions to take her in that comforted them both. She found that riding his cock was comforting to them. Giving him blow jobs and being eaten out in turn also had their comforts.
And then it was all gone; their intimacy was cut short. He was a beautiful young man, being hauled off to prison on an eight-year sentence, where his beauty would cause him a daily struggle for survival. May was left a not-so-beautiful woman in her thirties who had only known the cock of one man—and who had no desire to know the cock of anyone but that young god.
Frankie would probably have been out of prison in three years on good behavior, if "good behavior" hadn't been negated right off the bat. There were far more sinister prisoners than him on the bus taking him to prison, ones with friends and with little intent to serve time. The bus was assaulted and, though, thank god, none of the guards were killed, Frankie, in fear and confusion, had dispersed as quickly as most of the other prisoners had.
