MadameFrankie

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  “Hands off, Miss Thing,” Frankie warned. “He’s staff, remember?”

  “I remember,” Yvette answered, never taking her eyes off his ass. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t window shop.”

  Everything about the drive along the highway leading to the city was a soothing reminiscence for Frankie, comfortably alone in the backseat. The warm, moist breezes flowing through the open windows of Marco’s Trailblazer danced through her hair with a flirtatious familiarity. The chasing sun reflected off the pristine turquoise sea. The white sands from which swaying palm trees sprouted swept by cinematically as they glided along the highway. The beauty gave Frankie pause.

  It was more than sex that harkened her to these alabaster beaches and ancient cathedrals older than the country she called home. It was an escape from the hustle-bustle of Hollywood, from being on, from being Frankie Templeton, from being the actress.

  She marveled and smiled at the light chatter going on in the front seat. Yvette was flirting her ass off. Poor Marcos was being the perfect gentleman, answering the cougar’s prying innuendos with blushing and bashful care.

  It suddenly made Frankie think about Jazz, her sweet little boy, her sweet little man-child. A tinge of melancholy set in. Only a tinge. It didn’t take, however. Although it made itself iridescently present.

  Did she miss him? Of course she did. But she knew she’d be fine. Edgar would see to that.

  Edgar and Jazz. Jazz and Edgar. They were the better of two wonderfully exciting, romantically fulfilling worlds. God, how she loved them both. She was torn between two lovers…but not that torn. For now, she was ready to get her some Dominican heat. Edgar was just the Latin lover to light her fire.

  She’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t even noticed they’d pulled off the highway. They were now in the center of the Colonial Zone, the oldest section of the oldest city in the Western Hemisphere.

  Marcos steered his jeep slowly down the narrow, descending cobblestone street that seemed to empty into the port.

  It was all so familiar to Frankie. Every storybook structure along the way registered with her. Oh how she remembered walking down this very street with Edgar, holding his hand under a tropical moon and that goodbye kiss after a night of fantastic lovemaking.

  Yes, he sometimes spent the night. But most nights he didn’t. She didn’t need to ask to whom he went on those nights when he left her well serviced, but wanting more. You get what you pay for. That she knew. And she paid Edgar well and got every pesos’ worth.

  Wanting is not so bad, she supposed.

  Always leave them wanting for more. Leave them wanting something to come back to.

  And she was back, back for more. Marcos couldn’t have pulled in front of House of John soon enough.

  He hopped out of his jeep and rushed around to the passengers’ side. Gallantly, he swung open both doors, offered a hand to Yvette, then Frankie, then pointed them toward the entrance.

  “Welcome home, ladies,” he said as he grabbed their bags from the back of the vehicle and followed them through the gilded doors of the boutique hotel.

  “Hola! Hola! Hola!” Cedric Whitehead, the American proprietor, squealed with glee seeing two of his favorite female patrons sashaying toward him. Immediately he abandoned his post behind the check-in desk and rushed to them with open arms. All three hundred pounds of him smothered them lovingly in an embrace.

  “Hola, Cedric,” the giggling ladies managed to say, catching their breath after his robust release.

  “You naughty girls you. Staying away from us so long.”

  “Well we’re back now and ready for some action,” Yvette declared as they registered.

  “And are you ready, Francesca?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Good. You know Edgar has been so excited ever since you told him you were coming. He can’t wait to see you.”

  “And I can’t wait to see him.”

  * * * * *

  That night, Casa de Mita’s parlor brimmed with an aura of romance, sex and expectation. Champagne, Cuba Libres and Presidente beer flowed freely under the soft light of the crystal chandelier that dangled below the huge Casablanca fan. At the baby grand piano in the corner of the room, Fidel played and sang softly. Gently suggestive songs like Bésame Mucho, Sabor a Mi and Yo Necesito filled his repertoire. And the hearts of the visiting men and women in temporary residence and permanent need were filled as well.

  They had made the pilgrimage to this particular paradise for all the carnal delights it promised. They were in a country where it was perfectly legal to exchange money for intimacy. They were in a hotel not much different from many other hotels in the country. Here, it was perfectly acceptable for tourists to discreetly invite intimate solicitations. Here, it was perfectly all right for tourists to entertain guests in their rooms for the purpose of consummating the arrangement.

  Cedric Whitfield, like many of the country’s small hoteliers, was prosperous, not because of taking a cut of the deal. Third-party participation—pimping—was strictly against the law. He was prosperous by providing a safe haven, a romantic setting, a lovely parlor with a no-host bar and a loving, watchful eye.

  He invited very select local men, some of the most beautiful in the country, to frequent his parlor. And when they became intimate guests of his registered guest, he held onto their cedula, their national identity card, until they left the grounds.

  And so Cedric’s registered guests, mostly visiting African-Americans, sat freshly bathed, cologned, perfumed and wanting in the parlor of Casa de Mita—House of John—waiting to be romanced by men who had something for everyone.

  Frankie was a vision in her white Chanel skirt and matching blouse. She sat at a small table near the piano. Her eyes were closed and her crimson lips were smiling. She was soaking in the music with a soothing calm.

  And she was happy, happy for Yvette. A handsome, raven-haired Lothario with chiseled features, midnight eyes and a small sexy mustache had swept Yvette off to her room.

  And she was happy for herself. The earlier phone call from Edgar sent a warm thrill through every part of her body. “I will see you tonight at eight, mi amor,” he had said. And so she sat smiling, eyes closed, soaking in the music. She was filled with all the sweet imaginings of what the night would bring.

  And it was as though she were dreaming when she felt the warm moist lips upon her cheek and whiffed his intoxicating signature scent. Slowly, she opened her eyes and knew she wasn’t dreaming. Edgar was smiling down at her.

  “I have already made love to you in my heart,” he said softly and simply, taking her hand, lifting her up from her seat, staring deeply into her eyes. “And now, I make love to you in the flesh.”

  There was nothing left for her to say. She led him by the hand out of the parlor, passed the other waiting dons and divas. She led him to the foyer’s spiral staircase, then up the stairs.

  He slipped his arm around her waist as they strolled lovingly down the hall toward her room. He kissed her at the door, then relieved her of her key. He unlocked the door and held it open for her. She entered. He followed. He then softly shut the door behind them.

  Fidel serenaded them on the distant downstairs piano. “Yo necesito saber. Si quires ser mi amente,” Fidel sang softly. “I need to know. If you want to be my lover.”

  They stood in the center of her room, staring longingly into each other’s eyes. Slowly Edgar unbuttoned Frankie’s blouse and eased it from her shoulders allowing it to float to the floor. A sigh escaped him at the sight of her naked breasts. He kissed each one, then cupped them in his hands as gently as if they were newborn babes. Their soft touch, their pulsing warmth, sent shivers through his body. He kissed them again, then again.

  Frankie closed her eyes and threw her head back as his mouth worshipped her nipples. She felt faint with desire. But he was there to the rescue. He lifted her up as if she were his new bride being carried over the threshold.

  But to the bed
he carried her, laid her there ever so gently, kissing her wanting mouth upon the soft landing.

  He hovered over her, admired her, beheld her glowing beauty.

  “Cuanta Belleza,” he whispered in breathless astonishment.

  She reached up to unbutton his shirt. He helped her, revealing his chiseled, hairy chest, the sight of which always made her weak.

  He discarded the shirt. She touched and kissed every inch of his hard, furry pecs. Then she moaned breathlessly, haltingly. His fingers had found her moist, naked spot beneath her skirt, between her legs. The exploration caused her to squirm ecstatically. The pleasure was nearly unbearable.

  And so he gave her a moment’s relief, a few moments only. Only enough time to zip open the side of her skirt. He then eased the garment down past her shapely hips, her smooth knees, her perfectly formed calves and ankles, her lovely feet.

  The sight of her beautiful vagina, covered with a light meadow of neatly trimmed pubes, returned him to worship service.

  “I have missed this so long,” he sighed gratefully, brushing his finger delicately over her mound.

  “It has missed you, Edgar,” she moaned, grinding against his fingers, spreading her legs, sucking his probing fingers in, squeezing down on them, coddling them. “It wants you. It needs you…”

  His hunger got the best of him. He eased his fingers out of her and slipped his hands underneath her bucking hips. He then lowered himself down to her and kissed her lovely mound, then licked her lovely slit and eased his tongue inside her.

  She gasped.

  His tongue slowly swirled inside and around her. It hit spots she didn’t know she had and drove her to hysterical bliss. It played down there, prayed down there. She gave whimpering thanks for the abundant blessings. And yet it had her begging for more.

  The taste of her moisture intoxicated him, drove him to madness, a feeding frenzy. He had her whimpering, nearly screaming while he moaned and slobbered, smacked and titillated. She grabbed his head and helped him in his digging, forcing his busy tongue deeper and deeper inside her.

  And while his darting tongue pleasured her with frenzy, he managed to undo his pants and kick them off. He then worked his way out of his boxers, his thick boner throbbing with anticipation.

  He didn’t leave her luscious crevice though. His famished mouth feasted inside her, licked her sugar walls, danced around and up and down her quivering clit.

  And still he managed to find the condom on the dressing table next to the bed by touch. He grabbed the Magnum XXX, never coming up for air and tore it open with one hand. He slipped it on his throbbing hard-on poised to replace his busy, blissful tongue.

  Then finally he let her pulsing pussy go. He pulled himself up on top of her. He kissed her mouth with a new passion. And she kissed him back with equal desire.

  And when he entered her, the full girth of his fat dick brought a pleasure beyond belief. She moaned and groaned with devilish delight. A tear ran down her face.

  And as he wildly pumped her, she grabbed around his waist. Her fingernails dug deep into his bouncing, pounding flesh.

  He rocked her. He rolled her. He fucked her with maddening merriment. She huffed and puffed until she could hold it back no longer.

  She was screaming now, just moments from exploding. And so was he as he fucked her in double time.

  And then they were there, both of them at the same time. Both of them were screaming and crying as they both came at once.

  Spent, he collapsed on top of her. Fulfilled beyond her wildest imagination, she caressed his sweaty head between her tingling breasts.

  They lay in each other’s arms like long-time lovers, which indeed they were. And then the moment came.

  “I must go, mi amor,” he whispered to her softly. Then he kissed her gently and stared into her understanding eyes. She smiled knowingly.

  He got up from the bed. She watched him walk his naked body to the bathroom, then listened comfortingly as the shower water ran.

  Minutes later, he returned to her, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp, his beautiful skin, moist. She had laid the money on the dressing table next to the bed.

  “Thank you, Francesca,” he said, noticing it as he dressed. He then sat down on the bed next to her. He held her hand and looked her lovingly in the eyes.

  “You have been very good to me, Francesca,” he said.

  “We’ve been very good to each other, Edgar,” she said, taking the money from the table and sticking it in his pocket. “We make beautiful love together.”

  “I no just mean the lovemaking. And that is what it has become to us, no? Not just sex. Lovemaking.”

  “Si, mi amor,” she agreed.

  “But what you have done for me over the years. Your kindness. Your generosity. You have afforded me much, Francesca.”

  “Same here, Edgar.”

  “Yes. I try to make you as happy like you make me. But you have also made me happy to be home owner.”

  “What?”

  “I buy a little house with money you give me over the years.”

  “I’ve given you that much?”

  “Well you and the others, of course.”

  “Good for you, Edgar.”

  “Yes, mi amor. It truly is good for me. I just hope it truly is good for you.”

  “It has been. It is.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Muchas gracias, Francesca.” He then kissed her again before getting up and leaving.

  She sank back into the bed, happy, grateful and thankful. She finally understood why Edgar never spent the night. He simply wanted what she wanted. They had the freedom to love and make love with no strings attached. They had the freedom to always want to come back for more. No jealousies, no regrets, no expectations beyond their mutual needs. They had a beautiful thing. They had wings and a nest to return to whenever they chose to.

  That night she slept like a baby.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The trip to Santo Domingo was a rejuvenating experience for both Frankie and Yvette. Each day and night in their island paradise, they were made to feel like queens. Every unspoken command was obeyed, every secret desire attended to, every want fulfilled. They had been rapturously serviced by some of the most romantically profound and sexually gifted men on the planet.

  Yvette was like a kid in a candy store whose thirst for sweets was unquenchable. She rarely saw the light of day. Sex so occupied her nights, she had to spend her days recuperating, re-energizing and reloading for the next round of nocturnal glee between the sheets.

  For Frankie, her days were filled with picnics on quiet, virgin white beaches where Edgar fed her freshly cut mangos, bread, cheese, wine and kisses. They parasailed over the aqua blue waters of the Caribbean and shopped in marketplaces for pieces of amber and turquoise and silver trinkets and whatnots.

  Their nights were promised to marathon rumbas and tangos and foot-shuffling, hip-gyrating disco merengue. Then when the music ended, they walked along sleepy cobblestone streets beneath the silent sparkling smiles of a million stars.

  They would then return to Casa de Mita and make their familiar lustful love until it was time for Edgar to leave, like Cinderella before the clock’s final toll. And then Frankie would fall asleep, easily, contentedly…most nights.

  But every now and then, her thoughts would keep her wide-awake, wandering and wondering. Every now and then, she would think of Jazz.

  Those thoughts, nearly melancholy, were strongest on that final night before she and Yvette were scheduled to return to America. Edgar was not able to see her that night, but they had said their warm goodbyes the night before and capped it off with some of the best lovemaking they’d ever had in all the years they’d shared.

  It was a particularly beautiful night in their Dominican paradise, which is to say, it was much like any other night.

  In the hotel’s courtyard right outside the parlor, she sat alone at a table near the trellise
d wall. Moonlight looked down on her as she sipped her Cuba Libre thoughtfully. Fidel’s singing and piano playing inside the parlor poured out as gently as the flower-scented breeze. She was not surprised that she was alone out in the courtyard. The other guests were in the parlor negotiating with handsome bugarrones. Even Yvette had opted for one final fling for the road. Frankie chuckled softly at the thought.

  “And what’s so funny, my lovely lady?” Cedric asked, his rotund figure filling the doorway of the parlor, casting an Alfred Hitchcock-like shadow along the courtyard’s cobbled ground.

  “Nada importante,” she answered, smiling winsomely up at her host.

  “May I?” he asked indicating the empty wicker chair at her table.

  “But of course, Cedric. Please.”

  “Thank you,” he said, sitting down across from her. He looked up at the starry sky and the bright moon. “What a beautiful night it is tonight.”

  “Yes it is. But it seems like every night’s beautiful here.”

  “That is nearly true,” he concurred. Though American by birth and rearing, Cedric had been in the Dominican Republic so long that there was a distinct Cajun-Latin cadence to his speech. “Did you have a nice time?”

  “Very nice, as usual. Thank you so much.”

  “I see Yvette is still enjoying her nice time.”

  “Well Yvette is definitely a getting-it-good-to-the-last-drop kind of gal.” Frankie chuckled again before taking another sip of her drink.

  “And no Edgar for you tonight?”

  “No, not tonight,” she sighed good-naturedly.

  “You do know there’s quite a lovely array to choose from in the parlor.”

  “I’m enjoying this right now. Sitting out here under the stars and having a lovely conversation with you.”

  “You are so sweet, Frankie. You have been one of my favorite guests ever since your brother introduced me to you.”

  “Well Casa de Mita has always been my favorite vacation spot.”

  “Good. So how is Jesse anyway? And how is his handsome Dominican husband, Étienne, right?”

  “Yes. Étienne. They’re both doing well. Very well. They’re such a married couple. They’re so much in love.”