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Frankie Foster What The Heart Wants	By : Wendell Urth Category: +1 through F > Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Views: 3773 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends & all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story. I do not condone sex with children, sex or drugs.

Chapter List
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Frankie Foster’s Life
Disclaimer: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.
I do not condone sex with children, sex or drugs. I do like rock & roll. This is a parody. If you are not an adult, get out of here!
Chapter 1: The Party
It was a bad time for Fosters. Many of the friends were sad. Many were frightened.
A fire had been set the night before. Gasoline poured on the front steps and on the door. The painted finish and intricate scrollwork preserved from the previous century were charred. Ruined. Rocks had been thrown through the windows at night. Police had been called, but given the owners reputation, little effort was being made to apprehend any suspects. “Just kids. Pranks.” the cops had said. “Update your security system. Check with your insurance co.” he smirked, knowing the Home couldn’t afford to update the antiquated alarm. There was only minimal insurance.
But what was worse, the Home’s best human friend was going away! Mac’s mother was relocating with her sons to the opposite side of the country. 2,842 miles. Might as well be going to the moon.
Bloo, Mac’s 'bestest' Imaginary Friend hadn’t been seen in days. Distraught, angry and helpless to change things, he had taken to hiding under the house. He wouldn’t come out, stopped eating and had stopped talking to everyone, including Mac, who he had accused of abandoning him in “his hour of need”, whatever that meant.

Frankie had been invited to a party weeks before. She no longer felt like going, but her Grandmother insisted it would do her good. She was, after all, powerless to change events and the House had been attacked before and was still standing. “Do you some good to stop moping around, young lady. When I was your age nothing could stop me from a wild party, meeting up with a hot stud or three!” she cackled.
Frankie rolled her eyes, then considered that it was probably true. You could tell by the twinkle in Madame Foster’s eyes that she was reliving some salacious moments from her past. “Good for her!” Frankie thought and smiled.
She had been looking forward to the party at her friend Letty’s. Known her since high school. A chance to wear her little black ‘titty dress’. It was getting a little worn and frayed, but damn, she still looked good in it. She’d wear her paisley shawl over her shoulders to hide the damage, anyway it was a cool evening for October. Soon she’d need to replace the dress, but money was always scarce working for her Grandmother. The dress fit like a glove, had to be worn without panties or a bra. A few gold bangles and a chain. Earrings and her ‘fuck me’ highest heeled sandals. She’d just done her toenails in the latest hot shade of red. “Sweet”. Mac had watched her paint her nails, blew on them so they’d dry evenly. Laughed when she’d wiggled her toes in his face.
Mac
She enjoyed the feeling she got in the dress. Men looked at her and wondered if she was really naked underneath. Some lucky ones might find out!
Women always knew. Some looked at her with jealousy, some with desire. Both made her feel good.
Mac.
Tonight, Frankie was a good girl with bad intentions. This was the other Frankie. The one that was kept caged up most of time, scrubbing floors, cooking meals and tending to the needs of a hundred or so Imaginaries. This was the part of her that kept her sane while dealing with “that fucking rabbit”. Just knowing that sometimes, maybe once a month, the real Frankie could be let loose…
She did her makeup. There were lines under eyes. “Going to be 26 in a few weeks. Fuck! How did that happen?” She didn’t want to think about it. Tonight, she’d have fun, dancing, drinking, a little pot, maybe some coke if Letty or someone was holding. Someone always had something to make it a real party! Frankie didn’t partake often, “but a party is a party.”
She blotted her lipstick. She still looked hot and winked at herself in the mirror. Time to go. The cab she called arrived and off she went. Maybe she’d get lucky tonight, meet some hot guy who’d fuck her senseless for a few hours, make the pain go away. Maybe a couple of guys! And if not, well, there was always Steve. Sex with him was usually OK, good for a laugh. Better than her usual Friday night romance novel and her middle three fingers. Or she would have been breaking in that new vibrator she had bought last payday. “Fucking thing sounds like a jackhammer,” she snorted. “Too bad it didn’t work like one.”

Mac had given up trying to coax Bloo out from under the house for the moment. He was sitting out on the Captain’s Walk on the highest turret of the mansion. Kicking his feet dejectedly. He was tired and sad and knew he should be have stayed home to help his mom pack up the apartment, but this was going to be his last weekend. His last chance to see Bloo… Mrs. Foster and all the Imaginaries… and Frankie. Oh, Goo too. But mainly Bloo.
No. He was honest enough to know that while he would miss Bloo… and Goo, that part of his life had been over for a while. Sure, he was still just a kid. But thinking about going away from Frankie hurt his heart in a way he didn’t understand. “11 years old in love with a woman 25. Dumb, I’m really dumb” he sighed. From as distance he saw her leave. How much more could his heart break? He decided to come down and try talking to Bloo, again. Give himself something to do.

The party was too loud. “Good!” thought Frankie, anything to drown out the thoughts in her head. She had a few drinks, took a couple of pills offered her by someone she barely knew. Gave her a headache. She danced with a couple of cute guys, Gay or Bi, but WTF? Went into a closet with them, the three made out for a while. One especially liked her breasts. Said he was an artist and wanted to paint them. “Yeah, right!” she thought. She said she was a “caregiver” … everybody lies at parties. Watched them blow each other while one fingered her. He wasn’t half bad at it. She straightened her dress. She still needed to find a hook-up for the night.
And, surprise, Letty & Steve announced they were engaged. “Fuck!” she mumbled. “When did that happen?” Then remembered that Steve had asked her out just a week ago. Well, she wouldn’t be the first to leave the party. Fourth or fifth to go seemed about right. After congratulating Letty, and Steve through clenched teeth, she left. Steve caught up to and hit on her while she was waiting for a cab. When she told him to “fuck off”, he pushed her against a fence and demanded a quickie fuck or at least a blow job.
“That’s the least you could do, I’m engaged!” he said.
“What is this, high school?” She told him off and tried to walk away, but he caught her by the back of the dress. Ripppppp! The stressed fabric easily tore. “Shithead!” Her tits popped out and her pussy was partially exposed. He laughed and tugged again, ripping away more of the dress. Then hobbled away as a black stiletto heel tried to puncture its way through his metatarsals.
“Guys are all assholes.” Then, “Even ‘he’ will be one, someday… like his brother.” The thought of Mac, her Mac, being like Terrance or Steve made her want to cry, even more than her favorite black “titty dress” being ruined. She wrapped herself in the shawl which barely covered her shame and embarrassment. She decided to walk home.
She turned back for a moment, wondering if Steve still wanted that blowjob…to go with his busted foot. “Probably not. Might make him feel better, though” Truth was, she never minded giving blowjobs, not when she was in the mood to party. Most of the girls she knew said they hated them, only did it so they could avoid getting fucked when they didn’t want to, but still wanted to make the guy happy. Sometimes it even worked! “And of course, no one ever admits to swallowing!”
Frankie always went along with the conversation. But the truth was, she didn’t mind blowing some cute guy. There was a moment when she felt she was the most important thing in that guy’s world. Oh, she hated the mess afterwards! How many outfits had been ruined over the years due to some careless asshole painting her with his cum hose? (That’s what ‘Asshole Steve’ called his dick, “his cum hose!”). “Fuck blow jobs!” girls always said to each other.
But secretly… “Yeah, tasted terrible. So, what… ever hear of mints?” Then from someplace deep inside her came another thought, “Bet he tastes sweet… My sweet lil’ Mac… such a sweetie…” She buried the thought.
“Yeah, those pills were definitely kicking in now” Maybe she could go back to the party and score some more? “’Pologize to Steve, if he’s not in the hospital… give him a nice big sloppy one... right there, front a’ evry one… Yeah. He’d like that!” Then, “Wonder what Letty would say? Hah! That cunt would be soooo jealous.”

She thought back to something that happened back in high school. Junior year. Prom night. She yelled in the street to no one in particular, “Eight years ago tonight! Happy Fuckin’ Anniversary, Mrs. Ramírez!”
An old woman, shuffling along with a shopping cart looked at her. Mumbled “Puta,” under her breath and stared at Frankie.
Frankie looked back at her and laughed. Spread the paisley shawl wide. One breast partially exposed, aureole peeking from behind the cup, the other breast proudly jutting out, free as a bird and twice as cute. “Jealous much, bitch?”
The old woman cursed something and shambled away. Frankie covered herself again. Embarrassed. Depressed. “Why did I do that?” she asked herself. “Because she called me ‘Puta’? I am… I guess. Sometimes… At least I’m not a whore. Never taken money, never would… and I’ve had offers… a while ago.”
A voice echoed in her head, reminding her… “Don’t embarrass the House! Remember. Never hurt the House!” She whispered, “Yes, Grandmother.” She had forgotten.
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Frankie Foster What The Heart Wants