MadameFrankie

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

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?”

“Francesca.”

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

“So what’s Jazz short for?”

“Jazz.”

“Really?”

“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.”

“Really.”

“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.”

“Really?”

“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.