MadameFrankie (8 page)

Frankie and Yvette were as excited as high school cheerleaders
when their plane landed at Santo Domingo’s SDQ Airport. Although the ache for
Jazz occasionally surfaced, Frankie looked forward to seeing and being with
Edgar again. Yvette was just happy to be back in the land of man milk and Latin
honey. She was anxious to pick the low-hanging fruit whose taste her senses had
recorded indelibly. Her body had the memory of an elephant. And her sexual
appetite was as big as one.

“God sure the fuck knew what She was doing when She created
the DR,” Yvette hummed as she and Frankie exited customs and entered the
crowded terminal with their carry-on luggage.

There were gorgeous men everywhere. Handsome copper-colored
cabbies waved expectedly and alluringly; ready to whisk them off to wherever
their hearts desired. Hotties, from high yellow to dark chocolate hawked
ice-cold sodas and
Presidente
beers in deference to the smoldering
Dominican heat outside the air-conditioned structure. Sexy locals in
bulge-revealing jeans, shorts, khakis, cut-offs and tight fitting wife-beaters
eye-fucked them shamelessly.

The terminal simmered with a smorgasbord of testosterone.

“There we are,” Frankie said. She waved to a handsome young
hunk in beige Dockers and a crisp white short-sleeve shirt, holding up a sign
with their names on it. He waived back and approached them with a gleaming
white smile.

“
Hola, senoritas
,” he said brightly.

“Marcos!” Frankie beamed, giving him a big hug.
“Como
esta?”

“
Muy, muy bien!
And welcome back, Frankie.”

“
Muchas gracias
. You remember Marcos,” Frankie said,
turning to Yvette.

“Indeed I do,” Yvette responded flirtatiously, accepting
Marcos’ hug.

“And welcome back to you too, Yvette.
Mira
! You are
both as beautiful as I remember.”

“And so are you, Marcos,” Yvette continued her flirtation.

“Come,” he laughed, commandeering their carryons and
escorting them to the terminal exit.

Yvette clutched her imaginary pearls as she and Frankie
followed Marcos. His tight, slightly hoisted bubble-butt flexing in his pants,
moistened her.

“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.