Smuggling Raisins

***** Thursday August 5, Madeline picks up Jesus

In Folsom State prison parking lot there were two people sitting near the guardhouse, one in uniform and the other a boy in an orange outfit, like pajamas. She idled by the gate for almost three minutes unable to force herself to go in. On the drive up she had imagined she would be the property of a brutal gangster; three hundred pounds of muscle, tattooed black and blue. She almost drove into oncoming trucks twice on grounds that would be easier, but there was Alan to think of. This inmate looked nothing like her fears, though. He was latino, short and slender, small enough to be fourteen. With a sigh, she drove in, pulled up next to them and conferred with the officer.

The inmate was eighteen today, and he was here at Folsom transferring in from the Youth Authority. Mrs O'Hare signed the papers that testified she would provide a place for him to live in San Francisco and a job at her restaurant. Without her help he would be sent back for another four years, and this brightened her up considerably. The boy needed her. The officer gave her a copy and trudged back to the guardhouse.

Jesus opened the back door of the sedan, swung a duffle bag through the door and then climbed in beside it.

"Aren't you going to sit up front?" Madeline asked.

"No, Miss O'Hare. I'll just be back here. Let's go."

"Mrs O'Hare."

"Yes Ma'am, Mrs."

"A present from the Cook." She said, and handed a package back to him. The boy opened it, allowing her to watch. There was a knife in a sheath, no longer than six inches, a cord with plastic rings and a letter. He read the letter, slowly, mouthing the words, while she climbed in the driver's seat. She let him finish before starting the car. They pulled out of the prison parking lot and in the mirror she could see Jesus watch the guard at the gate as though afraid they would be stopped. They said nothing for a long time but eventually the urge to ask was overpowering. "Alan will be ok now?"

He ignored her question. "Pull over." He said. "Let's get this done."

"Here? On the highway?"

"Yeah. We need to now, before we go further. We need a contract, important shit and it can't be done on the road."

"No? The Cook already made a deal with me. I signed with the guard."

"You're owned now. You don't belong to Irving Street, you belong to me and I belong to the Street. I mean you pledge to me to be square with Irving." He was getting more fidgety, she could feel his leg jumping, pushing the back of her seat.

She pulled over on the gravel, wheels crunching. Cars whizzed by and Madeline tried to listen while anxiously watching the highway.

"So, your question," began Jesus, "Alan is not all right. Tonight he's turned out, punked, after a couple years as girlfriend, he's whacked out." He eyed her in the mirror. She looked scared and vulnerable.

"What have I gone through all this for?" She whined, her eyes teared up and she craned around to see Jesus in the back seat, "What do I do?"

"I gotta tell the Cook you pledged. And don't you ask me to lie. That shit would whack us both quick. I mean it would get us whacked. Please Mrs O'Hare, let's do this right."

"No, not if this is all for nothing." She replied, panic rising in her belly.

"Mrs O'Hare..." Jesus opened the car door facing the median. He turned and put his feet out on the ground, but didn't get out. "Mrs O'Hare..."

She got out, circled the hood and stood in front of Jesus. She was a half a head taller than Jesus standing, and towered over him seated. Her thick brown hair was piled over her head and pinned in place, designer pants suit in cream, white blouse buttoned to a priests collar at her neck. The suit jacket was wide shouldered, and her large bosom thrust it out like a breastplate, hands, surprisingly small and dimpled rested on her wide powerful hips. "What is this pledge?"

"Like this," he started, "I don't know God or Nation, I know you Irving Street G: You say, I do."

"A oath of loyalty?" She squeaked, not believing. The cars seemed to slow down and she became aware of the heat, the smell of exhaust and the sky moving in an arc overhead, slow...

He looked up, the brown skin of his forehead glowed in the hot sun, his eyes invisible in shadow. "Yeah. You have to, for Alan... a trade. Take it off him, on you."

Her hands moved from her hips to her breasts, protecting them. "You're not going to touch me, young man, you understand me?" Her voice rose high, almost a shriek again, "I'm old enough to be your mother. Because of me you have parole. You can live in the cottage on the grounds. I have a husband, Horace. Horace can be dangerous. No touching."

Jesus looked down again. Sweat beaded on his forehead and she could see he was shaking a little.

"Not going the way you thought? What did you think would happen Jesus, I would roll over like some gangster groupie? I'm a grown woman and a business owner."

"No, of course not Mrs O'Hare. But the Street has rules. For reasons. You gotta prove you belong. I thought about you lots, Miss. Years ago I worked with Pedro on your grounds. Before I got put away. You came out, your hair back under a blue do-rag. Pedro was afraid of you, and me too. One time we worked late. I saw you come home, party dress, hair high, glossy. I watched your show in the CYA, dreamed about you at lockdown, over and over. But. But, this ain't like I thought." He put his fingers to his temple. "In my mind you were more... I don't know. I don't deserve to touch you, maybe..." Jesus looked up again, she could make out the whites of his eyes in the shadow under his brow, they were very wide open. "When the Cook auctioned you, I cashed in two whacks and three K. If you don't take it for Alan, he'll die a girl. A sad girl. All them prison bitches are sad."

"You payed... You bought me?" This was exactly what the Cook had made her agree to, she just couldn't believe a boy had bought her.

"Yeah."

"You're just a teen." She said. "What will you do with me?"

Jesus winced. He knew he looked younger than eighteen and it galled him; not enough food when he was small, not until the CYA. "The state says I'm adult, so I am. Take the vow, and live by it, or Alan is fucked. You choose. I'm not gonna let you go." His voice sulky and quavering.

Jesus was a boy, even if the state had decided otherwise, or more accurately he was neither boy nor man but in between. He had no hint of facial hair and his skin was flawless and smooth as a baby's, a warm light brown color. He was beautiful in an almost sexless way. No doubt by the time he was twenty-five he would fill out more, get a rougher texture. Seeing his uncertainty Madeline guessed if he failed to get her compliance the consequences for him might be as bad as they would for her or Alan. She wanted to take him in her arms and console him, but swear to obey? Her body physically revolted against it.

Madeline's head swam in the heat. "What's the vow again?"

"Kneel first." He pushed his state orange pants down around his ankles and shifted up until his ass was right on the end of the seat, then spread his knees very, very wide.

Madeline's stomach turned and she staggered as though hit. Men were so proud of their penises, but they weren't much to look at, limp. Not like her body. Her hips and thighs drew stares from across the street. And the sight of her breasts could suck the air out of a man's lungs. Penises are small potatoes she thought. I cannot accept I've been bought by a scrawny boy. He doesn't look ready for Folsom, he looks ready for school. His hair is too long, his frame hasn't filled out, he scared shitless. Jane said no blacks; look at how brown his skin is. Her hands clenched in tight little balls. She looked at the sky. Alan. Guilty pain lanced through her belly, I used Alan, sweet Alan. An image of him playing in the living room with blocks as a toddler drifted in her head, his face filled with joy. "For Alan." She whispered, and went back and opened the trunk, fished out a blanket and spread it at Jesus's feet over the gravel, tidy.

Madeline knelt on the blanket and as her knees touched the ground the boy's cock twitched and flopped over like a fish dropped in the bottom of a boat.

"Give me your phone." Jesus said, thrusting out his hand. "Show me how to film. We need a movie."

Mrs O'Hare leaned in to show him how to work the movie application of the phone, but her attention was distracted by his penis which twitched and grew larger at her physical closeness, as though it was an autonomous animal. There were black markings on it's skin.

"Ok. Now, Say it. Into the camera. I don't know God or Nation, I know you Irving Street G. You say, I do."

"Will this save Alan?"

"Yes, but then... You have to... have to... serve. Or it's not binding."

So she repeated the vow, ending with the "I do" like she was getting married.

"Show me." He said.

She looked confused.

"Open your top."

His voice no longer quavers. The vow is real for him, she thought. Removing her jacket, folding it neatly on the blanket. Her face dropped and her hands reached for her collar. Her lip quivered, exposing herself to this boy in the sunlight was more difficult than the conference table had been. His cock pulsed, then stretched out while her fingers worked at the button behind the priest collar, pulled it open. Her large white bosom spilled out of her bra. By his stare, Maddie guessed he had never seen breasts in the flesh before. A silver chain encircled her neck and then disappeared between her fat white bosom. He reached his hands out, shaking, but withdrew them without touching her. His cock was hard though, swaying out in the sunlight, superhuman. His penis isn't so pitiful anymore, it's a little frightening, even. The head of his cock was small and pointed, but the shaft was very broad in the middle, then tapered again at the base. It had the shape of a football. On the side was a tattoo: "IRVING" in black gothic letters. That must have hurt, He's tougher than I though. A tough boy. She could see his balls, now the shaft was up, his nut-sack had a fleece of dark, latin hair, and was wrinkled and plump. She ran her fingers over her breasts lightly. Thick brown puffy nipples filled and stood erect. She hefted her weighty white teats, let them drop and bounce. Despite his erection, Jesus was tense, his mouth was making an "o" shape, sweat poured down his face, dampened his shirt and his hands gripped the seat. He was frightened and vulnerable.

"Are you ok, Honey?"

"Just do it."

She licked her lips, opened her mouth and lowered her head over his erection... but couldn't. She rocked back, pushing her fingers on her mouth.

Jesus' face fell, his cock throbbing like it would rip open. Thick white goo oozed from it's head, beading up in a standing puddle on the tip, dripping down the fat column of flesh.

"It's been a long time..." She said. "Years." Her breasts were getting hot in the sun, a new sensation. "Why does it have to be sex?" She asked. "You can take my money, the restaurant, everything. You can have young girls with firm bodies, willing girls, why humiliate me?" She sat back on her haunches and running a finger behind her ear, pushing stray brown hair from her face.

Jesus groaned, frustrated. His penis softened agin, the letters of the tattoo warping, threatening to shrink out of existence. His balls were getting sore and when he adjusted his body was jerky, the leather seat was sweaty and stuck to his ass. He kept her in the viewfinder on her phone, kneeling, his cock visible at the bottom of the frame. "Well... " he said, changing gears painfully; "Well... Two years ago my dorm was run by a shot-caller named Vinnie. Everyone had to kiss Vinnie's ring to talk to him, I mean kneel down and kiss like he was Queen or some shit. One time I asked him why and he said "Words lie Man, words lie." The body speaks it's own language, and persuades the mind. So every time those fucks get down on their knees and kiss my ring they may be thinking "what an asshole", but their body is telling them Vinnie's the man. Mrs O'Hare, I dreamed of you for five years, I respect you and I don't wanna hurt you. But the Street don't budge." Jesus pulled a cord from his shirt pocket, two feet long with thick plastic rings on both ends. He dangled it down in front of Maddie. "You show you know your place, or I leave your body here by the highway, and it does Alan no good."

"My place?" She repeated. Madeline didn't understand what the cord with rings had to do with leaving her dead, but at Alan's name, the weight and stabbing pain in her belly came back. She leaned in, and opened her mouth very wide. He held the phone still, lowered his bottom down on the seat and closed his eyes, the light from the sunroof glowed red through his eyelids and he heard the cars zoom by. He felt her tongue slide over his gland, then trace down the shaft, making small circles. Her lips moved in to kiss his organ here and there, and a gentle breeze drafted in and out with her breath. Cool fingers pushed his thighs even farther apart, and the soft flesh of her breasts rubbed up against his groin, enveloping his cock. She tit-fucked him for a while. He could feel her saliva dropping on the cap several times then her bosom dropped away and her lips sucked his shaft in warm wet envelopment, sliding halfway down until it got too fat for her. She braced one hand on the hot metal of the car and lightly tickled his sack with the other. Her breasts wiggled as she bobbed her head, gently slapping his thighs. He eyed the phone, making sure he got everything. Pleasure rushed from his groin up through his body. He never touched her head with his hands. He jerked, neck to thighs, one, two three, spurting in her mouth. When she pulled her head back she saw his eyes on her, watching her spit and wipe his semen from her eye and nose. Embarrassed she smiled involuntarily. He smiled back and stood to pull up his pants.

She shoveled her vast breasts into her bra, right and left, pulled her blouse shut, surprised her nipples were hard. It's the scent of his body, she thought. The smell of male genitals either repulsed her or excited her, depending. It had nothing to do with character, she either drooled or shrank from the scent itself. Her head still swam with the heat, and now her body was sweaty from crouching. "Alan is off the hook?" She asked.

Jesus smiled at her eagerness; "Alan's safe, and you're my bitch."

She wiped more semen off her cheek and nodded. "I'm made for it anyway."

"Yes Mrs O'Hare." His eyes were on her hips. "Yes you are."