Frankie's Drunken Night

BY : Wendell Urth
Category: +1 through F > Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
Dragon prints: 4131
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated or other characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.

Disclaimer: Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends and all associated or other characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story.

 

Frankie tiptoed quietly through the mansion. Or at least she thought she did. She had tripped over the throw rug by the main entrance and had thrown one of the high heels she was carrying through a window. “Shhhhhh… shush you!” she scolded the tinkle of broken glass.

It had been quite a party, she thought. She doubted she’d even remember it in the morning. That’s how she would know she had fun, by the holes in her memory. She wasn’t a blackout drunk, not yet. But there were a lot of grayed out spots.

She belched and hiccupped at the same time and wiped some spittle off her lips on the back of her hand. She sniffed it for a moment, “Tequila? When did I drink that?”

She paused for a moment, slipped her one shoe back on and looked around for the other, sure that she had both of them a moment ago. “Fucking Uber musta’ stole it. Wouldn’t-a tipped him if I knew he was a shoe thief.”  She had already forgotten the rug and the window. She shrugged and walked up the stairs, it took a long time, swaying as she did. She idly wondered why one leg seemed so much longer than the other, then giggled. “House must be settling.” She lost the remaining shoe on the second-floor landing and tottered up to the third and found her way to the familiar room.

She tried to pull the door and muttered to herself when it refused to open. She was about to start banging on it when it swung inwards on its own. “Since when does the door open ‘that way’?” she wondered. “Who changed it? Gotta’ get that fixed.” Then, “Who moved my stuff?”

She stumbled around in the darkness, shedding her dress, tossing stockings one way, panties another. She found the bed more by accident than design and was asleep or passed out before she hit the pillow.

Mac was a deep sleeper, but no one sleeps that deeply. By the time the panties landed on his face, he was awake. Having a naked drunken red head land next to you is not conducive to going back to sleep.

She was drinking a lot lately, mostly weekends, he knew. But nothing like this had happened before.

His bed was pushed up against the wall of his small room, right below the open window. Dark as it was, there was starlight.

Mac was a good kid. He looked at the naked woman next to him. There were a lot of ideas going around and around his brain. He knew he should wake her up or leave. He knew the right thing to do. He waited five or ten minutes until he was sure she was asleep. His brain was at war with his conscience.

He touched her.

He touched her breast. He’d never seen a real one before, not like this. He had seen his brother’s magazines, heard stories, seen some things online. Touch it. That was all he wanted to do. Touch a breast. That’s all, just once. For a second…

He touched it.

Then he kissed it. Gently. He felt her nipple on his lips, his tongue. It was the most wonderful moment of his life and it was over in a second. He meant to crawl to the foot of the bed and leave.

Frankie turned over in her sleep (or stupor) and pulled him in close… and snored.

He tried not to panic. She turned again and found himself pinned under her.

“Mmmmm. Mac? Mac? What are you doing in my bed?”

Mac stuttered. “Yu-yu-yu-you’re in my bed. Fra-Fra-Frankie. Honest!”

“You naughty boy. Why are you naked?”

“I’m not! I’m in my underwear! Frankie, I swear I…” He sounded scared. He was scared. And guilty.

“Shhhhh…” Then, “Am I naked?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are. Look, let me up and I’ll…”

She turned again, but instead of freeing him, she hugged him tighter, his head was between her breasts. He was warm and smelled clean and was trembling. He thought she was asleep again. In spite of being in the most wonderful place he had ever imagined, he slowly tried to get lose. She wouldn’t let him.

“Go back to sleep, Mac… talk… talk in the morning.” Then after a long moment, she giggled. “No more licking my nips, kay? You tit-kle… tit-tickle… tickle-tits” she giggled again. Moments later she was snoring gently.

Mac was sure he would never fall asleep. Never! He might never fall asleep again. But sometime later, in the darkness he woke. He had been in her arms, but now she was moving. He expected to be thrown out of bed, but no. She began kissing him. And her hands were moving, stroking, moving.

Moving to his undershorts.

Stroking.

 

6:00 AM

His undershorts and her panties lay tangled at the foot of the bed.

Frankie sat naked on the only chair in Mac’s room, staring at the still sleeping boy with the tousled hair.   “Does he have to sleep with that shit eating grin?” she wondered.

She had been drunk. Very, very drunk. But had she been ‘that drunk’? No. She might try to convince herself otherwise, but she had too much self-honesty for that.

She hadn’t meant to come into his room… had she? No… but she had lived in this house her entire life. Mac’s room was on the third floor, hers was on the second. She wondered. She would wonder for the rest of her life.

Her memory of exactly what happened was fuzzy.

There was taste in her mouth… and it wasn’t just the booze.

She knew that taste.

She did remember saying that they would talk in the morning, but “What can I say?”

“That I’m sorry I raped you? I’ll never see you again, I promise”

“I’ll stop drinking, I’ll never touch you again. Never see you…

 I’ll turn myself into the police.”

She closed her eyes, lips moving “Never… never…”

“Frankie?” came the soft voice of the boy.

“Shhhh” she whispered and slipped back into his bed. “We’ll talk later.”



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