Piano Man

"Frank!"

"Unless Frank had—"

"Frank? Get down here you fucking...! I'll get a cloth for your cheek," Marie said on second thought, thinking mainly of the timer that had just gone off on her iPhone on the kitchen counter. Her oven-baked chicken parm, it killed.

It must've been a funny sight the two lovers reasoned, the prison-corpulent Frank climbing out a second story window...sliding down the garage roof, tumbling legs-first to the concrete driveway. Breaking one—a leg.

His limo driver, good creds according to his associates but new to him, running up to his putative boss's grimace and flashing far different creds: FBI. As six—not one or three or five but six—unmarked sedans and SUV's pulled up on cue, dashboard lights flashing.

Violation of parole, true. But the charge that got Frank's pained attention was...Attempted murder in the first degree. Then something vague about RICO statutes, a big guy found in a gay bar bathroom cooperating with authorities...before the morphine kicked in. An ambulance. Ankles and wrists cuffed. Ten, nine, eight...

Frank didn't even get a chance to ask Marie to call his attorney. As if she would've, the prick.

Marie was going down on him. A beautiful cock—the best ever? Seven inches, and thick. Said he'd once been a male model. Then the gig dried up. Now he cleaned pools for a living.

No, really. Tanned and twentyfour. Fucking 24 years old! Marie couldn't believe her luck. Luck? Providence. She was single, rich and...Hot! A MILF. Are you kidding me? She gagged on it.

Luke said enough and smiled and she rose up to kiss him. He liked to kiss her after oral. Was it a gay thing? Said he'd done a shoot once, hard as a rock, and posters of it had been printed. He was famous, sort of. In these parts. Marie said I'd love to see one sometime and Luke said she'd probably have to go to a gay bar. It was one of those things.

Marie said she'd love to go to a gay bar—with him—and they made a kind of tentative date. Drunk, that is. But Luke said right now I want to fuck you up the ass baby. And Marie fake-blushed and said my ass is fat. And Luke countered that her ass was just right; big and beautiful. And Marie said don't call it big and wondered, secretly, why men were turning so weird.

What if she wanted a child? Not by the pool boy, although he was gorgeous and had blue eyes...

"Whatever happened to the piano man guy?" he asked, as he rolled Marie onto her belly and spread her pocked white cheeks and rubbed K-Y over and into her asshole.

"Who? Oh him. Freaked out and moved to, I think, Seattle."

Luke pushed his perfect mushroom head into his mother's hole, as he saw it. Six inches to go. He couldn't wait to cum in her. He could...but he couldn't. Pushed deeper, kneaded her wide cheeks.

"What freaked him out?"

"My husband."

"I thought you told me he was, like, dead."

"He is. Kind of."

Luke had begun to fuck whatshisname's wife's generous ass. He'd heard about him on the news. He would take his time but couldn't wait to shoot his thick white load. Into the darkness...

"What do you mean?"

"Fuck me. I love it up the ass!

"I am. But what do you mean about him being...dead?"

"He has this way..."

"Yeah?" breathless.

"Of reaching out from the grave."