Madamefrankie, p.1

MadameFrankie, page 1



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  Madame Frankie

  Stanley Bennett Clay

  Part of the Dominican Heat Series.

  Bold and beautiful Hollywood actress Frankie Templeton is torn between two lovers. One is Jazz, a young, handsome Creole political activist and musician from New Orleans. The other is Edgar, a hot and hunky Latin lothario she hooks up with during her frequent excursions to the Dominican Republic. Because she truly loves them both, she concludes that giving one up is not an option.

  She devises an arrangement to keep them both. But convincing her two gorgeous hunks to go along with the plan may be her hardest challenge yet.

  Inside Scoop: This story alludes to a brief m/f/m ménage scene. Hey, what else is a girl to do with two hot hunks who both want her?

  A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Madame Frankie

  Stanley Bennett Clay

  Chapter One

  It had been a great five-year run for forty-two-year-old actress Frankie Templeton. And she had no regrets.

  The pilot surprised everyone and sold to CBS with an initial eight-episode order. And when The New Adventures of the Flying Nun made its network debut, the online critics predicted its early demise before the last commercial break. The print media was even more damning, calling it the worst new sitcom to hit the airwaves in two decades.

  But in spite of all the critical pans, the audiences loved it. The New Adventures of the Flying Nun stayed on the air and in or near the top twenty for its entire run. Frankie played Sister Christopher, the flying nun’s black partner-in-good sidekick. She was making great money and earning loyal fans.

  And it didn’t matter they were often taken aback by her in-person bodacious, ribald and quick-witted sass whenever they approached her for an autograph, which she gladly gave. No one cared. The perky diva was often spotted and recognized sashaying through the Grove outdoor shopping plaza near CBS Studio Center with some young hunk on her arm.

  In West Hollywood, her gushing gay fans—they called her Sister Fruit Fly—were welcome to approach her table when she dined at the Abbey. Tourists were happily obliged when they asked to take pictures with her lunching with friends and coworkers at sidewalk cafés on the Sunset Strip.

  Even the gorgeous, young local sexual-hunks-for-hire down in the Dominican Republic, at Santo Domingo’s notorious House of John, lined up to service the beautiful TV personality during her frequent visits to their country.

  This of course infuriated the hot and handsome Edgar Reyes, her more or less regular Dominican trade. Edgar was six-feet-two of rock-hard muscle, a cut body from head to toe, with a deliciously dark-olive complexion. He had been Frankie’s dependable sexual hookup since she first began visiting House of John more than six years ago. Even though he was part of the stable at House of John, a special bond had been created and acknowledged between the Hollywood diva and the gorgeous sex-worker. From the very beginning, he was always her first stop when she visited his island country. And she paid him well for the service he provided. But a bond that went beyond sex had been created between the two. They had become good friends as well as good fuck buddies.

  Still, Frankie had always been a lady of restless tastes. Her three divorces had little to do with the failure of the men to whom she’d been married. They had more to do with her relentless famish. She just always needed sexual variety in her life. She had an unquenchable thirst, the hunger of a nursing child. And she had the means, the wherewithal and the position to quench the unquenchable.

  So over the years, her visits to House of John became less about her and Edgar. The island pickings were too ripe, the low-hanging fruit too irresistible. And much to Edgar’s chagrin and Latin jealousy, she indulged herself in much of the variety House of John and the island paradise provided.

  Back home in Hollywood, Frankie was always willing to entertain visiting dick with her celebrity pussy. She was a veritable tourist attraction, in bed and out.

  Yes, The New Adventures of the Flying Nun was good to Frankie and she was good to it. But all good things come to an end and she knew it was time to move on.

  And quite frankly, she was a bit tired of playing so far against type. She even had to laugh when she was first cast as a nun, considering how far she was from a nun’s habit. Celibacy was certainly not her thing.

  At forty-two and still fit, fierce and metro-fabulously beautiful, Frankie liked her men young, hung and full of cum. There wasn’t much an old man could do for Frankie except point her in the direction of his male offspring or younger brother.

  And she was quite the size queen. The bigger the better. Anything smaller than kielbasa only made her mad, which was why she absolutely adored Jazz Mornay.

  Jazz was a beautiful twenty-six-year-old, six-foot-two, mocha-colored, hazel-eyed meatpacking beau hunk Creole from New Orleans. She met him at an Obama rally in Cincinnati. And he was smart too. Frankie liked that. She liked men with brains as big as their peckers. And she liked her men able to use both with skill and passion, something Jazz was quite capable of.

  The New Adventures of the Flying Nun had just been cancelled when President Obama launched his campaign for a second term. Team Obama thought it would be perfect to have Frankie on one of the launch daises. She would join other accomplished women in various fields of endeavor. The campaign wanted to emphasize the president’s commitment to women, the nation’s largest voting bloc.

  Frankie was thrilled and honored, for more reasons than one. Not only was she committed to the president’s agenda, but she also had a secret sexual fantasy thing for him. Barack Obama was the only older man she would gleefully sex down.

  She spent more than a few nights finger dancing around her sugar walls daydreaming about getting some presidential sweet dark mulatto cock. She closed her eyes and salivated at the thought of riding it cowgirl-style, bent hard and thick and nasty inside her, doing double duty on her G-spot and her clit. Oh how she’d ride that long, thick presidential weapon of hot seduction in a lap dance of husky desire. She would grab hold of those big, beautiful ears of his as he sucked on her nipples and pumped her with shameless hunger.

  “Yeah, Mr. President. Yeah, Mr. President,” she moaned and groaned as she threw her head back and tossed her hair every which way. And in no time at all, she wet herself with the thick juice of their lovemaking and screamed and bucked as he slam-dunked deep inside her.

  “Goddamn, Mr. President! Yes! Yes! Mr. President! Yes! Yeeeees!”

  When she opened her eyes and saw herself in her vanity mirror, she was pleased and well spent. After all, she was an actress. She knew how to make make-believe work in her favor.

  She licked her fingers dripping with her sex juices, showered and dressed. She then re-examined her auburn beauty in her bedroom mirror in anticipation of her night on the town and in bed with Jazz. What more could a not-bad-for-forty-two-year-old cougar ask for? Jazz worshipped her. No silly, giggly schoolgirls for him, although the little bitches were always throwing themselves at him. But Jazz liked his women sexy and seasoned with conversation, passion and sophistication in bed and out. Frankie was Jazz’s kind of woman.

  And although he wasn’t President of the United States, he knew how to legislate what was between Frankie’s legs. And he knew how to satisfy what was inside her heart, which fluttered at the very thought of him and nearly kept her full attention.

  She remembered the first time they met. It was outside a Cincinnati auditorium on a sweltering summer day. Dozens of fresh-faced Obama volunteers swirled about, herding an enthusiastic crowd inside and to their seats.

  “Hello Ms. Templeton,” he said, extending his hand, smiling a perfect smile, accented by square-jawed, dimpled cheeks. “I’m Jazz Mornay.”

“What a pleasure.” Frankie smiled back. She took his hand and allowed him to help her out of the sparkling black chauffeured SUV.

  “I’ve been assigned to you,” he continued, closing the vehicle door behind her and escorting her toward the venue. “So whatever you need, please don’t hesitate in asking.”

  “I won’t,” she assured him, not sure if it was the steamy midday sun or the heat of her hot and hunky escort that was causing her to grow sticky in her va-jay-jay.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, please?”

  “Sure,” she said, smiling back up into those beautiful hazel eyes.

  “Thanks,” he said, stepping away from her and catching up with a young blonde woman lugging an armful of manila envelopes.

  As Jazz and his co-volunteer huddled in serious conversation, Frankie took advantage of the view. He truly was an Adonis. No amount of clothes could hide the fact. The crisp white shirt he wore with a loosened necktie showcased his broad shoulders and well-pronounced chest. The rolled-up sleeves strained lusciously under the heft of his biceps. The khaki slacks he wore barely contained his twin-boulder ass and his thick, jutting calves. And the huge bulge in his crotch was an explosion about to happen. The shoes—size elevens she guessed—did not lie.

  As he walked back toward her, his bow-legged stride went slo-mo. Her heart pounded with lust-filled muffled hosannas. Under the shield of her sunglasses, she watched in subtle awe. His thick package swayed back and forth with every step he took.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Templeton?” He frowned with a knowing smile, clocking the swoon on her shielded face. “Let’s get you out of this sun.”

  “Oh I’m fine,” she crooned, allowing him to squire her toward the auditorium entrance. “And please, call me Frankie.”

  “Okay, Frankie. And what’s Frankie short for?”


  “Nice,” he said in the bottom of his mellow baritone.

  “So what’s Jazz short for?”



  “Mom and Pops are crazy musicians. They met in a high school band class. Between the two of them, they play about ten instruments.”

  “And what about you?” she asked suggestively. “Do you play?”

  “I can handle a couple,” he chuckled knowingly.

  “Just a couple?” she purred. “Looking at you, I would’ve taken you to be quite a player.”

  “I guess I could be if I put my mind to it.”

  “So when do you?”

  “When do I what?”

  “Put your mind to it.”

  “When the mood hits me.”

  “So is the mood hitting you now?”

  “Well right now I’m working on re-electing my president.”

  “All work and no play…”

  “I get plenty of playtime in.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “I bet you do too.”

  “I would love to check out your instrument.”

  “I would love to show it to you.”


  “Those blackout sunglasses don’t hide a damn thing, Ms. Templeton.”

  “Frankie, remember?”

  “Frankie,” he repeated with quiet but bold subtext.

  He held the door to the personnel entrance open for her. After clearing her through security, he escorted her down a barely lit corridor toward the green room.

  “You know I used to watch your show all the time.”


  “You were pretty sexy for a nun.”

  “And you’re pretty sexy for an altar boy.”

  “What makes you think I’m an altar boy?”

  “Sincere, principled, clean-cut, virginal, waiting for an old dick-lovin’ nun like me to do something to you that’ll send you off to confession.”

  “I don’t do anything I have to regret in a confessional,” he chuckled. “Trust me.”

  “Can I?”

  “Can you what?”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Trust me to what?”

  “To make good on your promise.”

  “What did I promise?”

  “A twirl around your world.”

  “Did I?”

  “By inference.”

  “I guess I did, didn’t I?” He chuckled again.

  He held the door of the green room open for her. She entered past him, but not without brushing her hand across his hardening bulge.

  “Oh my,” she swooned with quiet amazement.

  “To everything, a time and place.”

  “That’s what your mouth is saying, but that thick piece of beef seems to be saying no time like the present.”

  “You’re a hot little lady, Frankie. And I’m hot for you. But right now I’m on the president’s time.”

  “Tell that to your johnny.”

  “Just an involuntary male reaction to the sight and touch of a beautiful woman. I’m finished here after the panel discussion and your plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow afternoon. You can always invite me back to your hotel.”

  “Consider yourself invited.”

  “Thank you. So make yourself comfortable. The other panelists will be arriving shortly. We’ll take care of our president and later…”

  “We’ll take care of ourselves.”

  He smiled with a schoolboy’s wickedness. She smiled right back at him, licking her lips. They were lips she couldn’t wait to use on his lips, on his neck. They were lips in need of filling, lips in need of a taste of his thick, young dick. They were dick-sucking lips; lips ready to taste the jizz of Jazz.

  He chuckled as he witnessed her unabashed hunger. He took her hand and kissed it gently, gallantly. Then he turned and walked away, down that long and dimly lit corridor. His boulder cakes rode those thick Clydesdale thighs with princely pride.

  She nearly fainted in the doorway. It took everything in her power to tear herself away from the door, knowing the wait for him would be interminable. Her body simply didn’t have the patience.

  “Dayum…” she sighed in breathless awe, closing the door behind her. A slithering soul was she. She was weakened by want. She was aching for the pleasure the very thought of him conjured.

  She eyed herself in the mirror hanging on the wall above a table covered with assorted juices, fruits and canapés.

  “Damn, you look good when you’re horny,” she whispered to herself, admiring her reflected beauty. She rubbed her fingers across her breasts, teasing her nipples stiffening beneath her Chanel blouse.

  The thought of fucking Jazz sent her to the powder room. She grabbed a banana on her way. Once there, she locked the door behind her. She went to the sink and placed the banana on the Formica countertop. Her nipples were bulging buds beneath her blouse. She rubbed them slowly, moaning.

  She needed more. She unbuttoned her blouse and freed her juicy breasts. She grabbed hold of them, caressed them, massaged them and pressed them together. She palmed them, then squeezed them. Her moans became sighs. Her sighs became whimpers as she imagined her hands were his hands.

  Freeing one hand, she then picked up the banana. She rubbed it against her wanton lips. She kissed it, then licked it, licked it the way she would lick his sweet dick. She stroked it with her tongue, stroked Jazz’s joint until her mind heard him moaning.

  She then felt the slow thrust of his thick brown and yellow pecker part her hungry lips. As it slid slowly back and forth, cradled on her quivering tongue, teasing the back of her throat, she gagged with desire. She was on fire.

  But she still needed more. She lowered the hand that was busy with her breast down to the hem of her skirt. She lifted that skirt and found the band of her panties. She yanked them down desperately, down past her knees and shimmied them down to her ankles. She then probed the pink of her sweet, sticky warmth with fingers spry and flirtatious.

  Still her greedy lust was begging for more. She kicked off her heels and kicked off her panties, gathered at he
r ankles. Huffing and puffing with flaming desire, she hoisted her leg up to her chest and landed a bare foot on the counter. Now straddled above the sink, she took the hand that was teasing her dripping wet pussy and made it soothingly caress her leg and her thigh and her sumptuous ass. She dizzied herself as she broad-stroked her limb from one end to the other.

  “Oooooh shit dayum…” she meowed gutturally. “Oooooh shit fuck goddayum, Jazz…”

  Her famished fingers went from limb to hot pussy with delirious delight. She then took the banana she’d been face-fucked with and took it downtown.

  Breathlessly, she slipped his big yellow banana inside her lip-smacking hole.

  She was almost there.

  She rode that banana. With one foot on the floor and the other on the counter, she humped and she pumped what she knew was pure jazz. It was syncopated sex that had her wailing on the downbeat and sucking teeth on the upswing.

  She swallowed it whole and then oozed it back out. The lips of her pussy took total control, coating the fruit cock with her juices.

  “Uh! Uh!” she neighed desperately, pumping herself with a frenzy. She threw her head back, then forward, then back again. The mounting of her sexual high crazed her.

  She rode that banana like a buckaroo cowboy. She rocked it and rolled it, then danced it around the walls of her pussy.

  “Yes! Yes!” she screamed with desperate glee.

  And then she was there. The explosion of her climax sent her body into conniptions. She shook all over. She laughed and she cried. Then she huffed and puffed and grunted like a first-place runner at the finish line. She was gloriously spent.

  She fixed herself up, then went to the door and opened it. The other panelists had arrived. They eyed her demurely in awe and with envy. She eyed them right back with a smile. She then went to the table and feasted on grapes and a thin slice of Brie on a sesame seed cracker.

  Chapter Two

  She couldn’t believe how distracted she was by Jazz standing in the wings. She and the other panelist chatted winningly about what women could expect from an Obama second term and the Democratic Party. But all Frankie could think about was the party she had planned for Jazz back in her hotel room.

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