“I missed you not being with me too. I like falling asleep with your dick in me.” She set her untouched glass of wine on the coffee table, then eased her knee up on the sofa and nudged his thigh with it.
“I-I love you, Frankie,” he stammered, noticing her dark nakedness beneath her hoisted sarong.
“I love you fucking me, Jazz,” she said, rubbing his growing hard-on with one hand, relieving him of his wineglass with the other.
“Did you hear me?” he asked breathlessly.
“Did you hear me?” she asked seductively.
“Yes.”
“Do you like fucking me, baby?” she was slowly unzipping his pants.
“Ye…yes.” He was barely able to speak as she pulled down his boxer briefs, boinging his throbbing rod.
“Well, since we’re both on the same page in that department, let’s agree to agree on that.” She kissed the head of his dick, licked it ever so gently, then devoured it and sucked it down to his balls. The moist warmth of her mouth going up and down on him drove him to distraction.
He tried to fight the bliss. He held her head with thoughts of pushing her away. But all he could do was pull her deeper down onto him, thrust himself deeper down her throat.
“I…want…more,” he barely managed to say as he face-fucked her near the point of coming.
But she was not about to let him get off that easy. She gave his dick one final suck, then rose and kissed him deeply with a tongue fresh with the taste of his pre-cum. She then pulled away and looked him in the eyes, slyly, desirously, wantonly.
“More?” she purred.
“Yes,” he begged.
“Let’s deal with more later. Let’s deal with this now.”
She hoisted herself on top of him. Her naked pussy found his pulsing hard-on and kissed it with a gentle rubbing that drove him to a thrilling madness he could barely contain.
She slid her slit back and forth across his swelling dickhead. Each time he tried to enter her she pulled away only to return with another teasing touch, another teasing slide across his begging, tortured rod.
Finally magnanimity took the stage. Her moist and teasing vagina swallowed his grateful dick whole and rode it wildly, cowgirl style.
She then belly-danced on it, slowly spinning her hips in a tight twirl. Back and forth. Side to side. Up and down. Round and round.
He cried and whimpered. He couldn’t remember his name. He didn’t know where he was. He only knew he was in the heavens of notorious pleasure, dizzied by the altitude of unearthly sexual glee.
He grabbed hold of her breasts and held on for dear life. He smothered himself within their softness, even as he fucked her with one rapid buck-wild thrust after another.
She rode him harder, meeting each thrashing thrust with a grunt and a succulent slam.
And then he was grunting, panting and wailing as the ache of excruciating pleasure rocked his body.
He grabbed hold of her bucking hips and stirred his flaming dick inside her.
“Yeah, baby,” Frankie was laughing and crying as his swollen cock rampaged inside her. “Fuck me baby, yeah, fuck me, FUCK ME GOOD!”
And he did as he was told, even better. She was bouncing on top of him, bouncing on top of that hot, slamming dick.
And suddenly it happened. His body shivered with Holy Roller glee. He erupted inside her like Vesuvius awakening, bringing her to a simultaneous climax. The collision caused both of them to howl. Lightning bolts of pleasure shot through their bodies. Her sweet pussy juices swam in the warm, thick cum that flooded her.
She collapsed on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. He gently sniffed the sweet aroma of her tussled hair, then kissed it. He lifted up her face to his and kissed her gently on the lips. He stared into her eyes.
He started to speak. Frankie stopped him with a finger to his lips. She knew what he wanted to say. But she wasn’t quite ready to lower the boom.
She climbed off him. His dick was still marvelously erect. She grabbed hold of it like a child would her favorite doll, her plaything.
It was her favorite plaything. She felt every inch of it, gave it a good Helen Keller perusal. Her tingle was returning. She knew she needed another round and he was good and hard enough to go.
His dick still in her hand, she pulled him to the bedroom. With his boxers and slacks bundled around his ankles, he followed in tiny geisha steps.
Oh how she loved her pretty, beefy toy of boy. And she fucked him again to total exhaustion, but not exhaustion enough.
As they lay spooned together, his arms around her, his lips on her neck, his dick, spent but still hard, inside her, he still found the strength to state the question, “Marry me, Frankie.”
And she answered him, “No, Jazz. But this is yours any time you want it.”
That night, Frankie fell asleep with a smile on her face and Jazz’s dick deep inside her. When she woke the next morning, the smile, the dick and the man were gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Even though Frankie was not that worried—she knew her boy was whipped—she was a bit concerned. She didn’t completely believe that marriage was a deal breaker, but she also knew how tender Jazz’s heart was and how young. Young love bruised easily. It hadn’t yet gotten used to the scabs that grow in time over painful wounds. For a young and sensitive man like Jazz, every blow was still a dagger to the heart. Every rejection was a reason to leap from the bridge.
He was a do-or-die Romeo courting a pragmatic Juliet almost old enough to be his mother. His leaving without saying goodbye was the child running away from home in the light of day, only to return to the nest before sunset. She knew her baby would be back. He needed his mother’s milk as much as she needed his.
She’d call him later. She’d give him time to pout and give her space to concentrate on the business at hand.
Her meeting with Shonda Rhimes could re-launch her career. Not that her career was in a slump. She hadn’t been off the air that long and the DVD sales of The New Adventures of the Flying Nun were brisk.
But playing the role of a supreme court judge would be a great career move for her. It didn’t hurt that she’d be on a show created by Shonda Rhimes, the most successful black woman in network television history. Shonda Rhimes was the creator and executive producer of Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice and Scandal. The chances of The Supremes being a hit were high.
And the irony was not lost on Frankie. Going from a nun’s habit to a judge’s robe still kept her playing against type. The sex kitten was still playing it somber and saintly.
She was the picture of understated Beverly Hills chic when she arrived at Le Dome restaurant on the Sunset Strip at exactly two p.m.
“Greetings, Miss Templeton,” the maître d’ beamed with a big smile as she approached his station. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“Good to see you again, too, Dominick. I’m meeting Shonda Rhimes for lunch.”
“Oh yes. She’s here already. Allow me,” he said, giving her a princely escort to a booth table where Shonda was on her cell in what seemed like serious conversation. He pulled out the table for Frankie and she scooted in. “Enjoy,” he said as he repositioned the table.
“Thank you, Dominick.”
“Gotta go, Marvin. We’ll talk about it when I get back to the studio.”
Shonda clicked off her phone. Her business face suddenly became sunny and sisterly.
“Frankie, what a pleasure,” she said, extending her hand across the table.
“The pleasure’s mine, Shonda,” Frankie responded, shaking her hand.
“Absolutely loved your work on The New Adventures of the Flying Nun and totally loved what you did for us in that guest-starring stint on Grey’s. Going from a nun to a nymph nurse,” she laughed. “Girl, you got range.”
“Thanks,” Frankie chuckled modestly.
“I’m so surprised we haven’t met before. Hollywood is such a small town.”
“I know, huh?”
“Cockta
il?” Shonda asked, gesturing to their waiter.
“Sure.”
“Hi George, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay. How about you, Frankie?”
“Sounds good.”
“Very well, ladies,” George responded as he left the table.
“So let me tell you about The Supremes.”
* * * * *
The lunch meeting with Shonda Rhimes was a ringing success. The show-runner was pretty convinced Frankie was well suited for the role of the beautiful, no-nonsense conservative state Supreme Court Justice Jasmine Hathaway.
But Frankie had been around Hollywood long enough to know nothing was a sure thing.
Still, she left the meeting knowing she had left one hellified impression on a woman known not to be easily impressed.
The show was set to commence shooting in about six weeks so Frankie figured she’d know something for sure in about three. She needed something to fill her time during the wait. She was glad Jazz would be around for another ten days or so, so her nights would be well taken care of.
She waited in front of the restaurant for the valet to bring her car around and took the moment to power up her phone. She was pleased but not surprised to see Jazz had called. He could try to stay away all he wanted, but she knew he simply couldn’t resist, no more than she. She knew he would be calling to see if he could come back over tonight. She also knew he would try the marriage thing again too. He was one relentless little piece of ass, trying to wear her down. But in spite of it all, he was damn sure worth it.
She speed-dialed his number. After three rings, it went to voice mail. Hmmm, she thought. She finally decided to check her messages. There was a dropped call from Jazz and a voice message. She pressed 1.
“Hi Francesca. Listen, I ah, know I’ve been acting like a big baby lately and I want to apologize to you for that. But sometimes loving you is so good that I get kinda giggly crazy childlike just thinkin’ about you, know what I mean? You’re a beautiful, life-filled woman, Frankie, probably the best thing to ever happen to me. And frankly, maybe you’re too much of a good thing. Maybe I’m not ready for you. So I’m going to do a little soul searching. I’m going to grow up a bit, man up a bit. I’m going to give you some space to exhale a bit and not have me all up in your Kool-Aid, trying to lock you up for my own personal enjoyment, when I know, or at least should know, that a woman as wonderful as you can’t really belong to one person. You belong to the world, just like the sun and the moon and the very air we breathe. I know how much we were looking forward to spending these two weeks together, at least I was. But I decided to head back home early. We’ll cross paths again one day. Hopefully I’ll be man enough to be the man you need. But until then, do know, beautiful lady, I will always—” BEEP!
The message stunned Frankie. It was the first time she’d ever received a Dear John letter via voice mail. As she thought about it, it was the first time she’d ever received a Dear John letter period. She was always the one saying goodbye, lowering the boom and doing the dumping. And now, here she was being dumped.
The valet delivered her car and held the door open for her. Numbly she handed him a tip and climbed behind the wheel. She barely heard the valet say, “Thank you, ma’am,” as he closed the door behind her.
She turned right onto the Strip and quietly headed toward LaCienega Boulevard, where she made another right and descended into the city’s basin.
The view across the basin to LA’s pastel civic center was breathtaking, thanks to an unusually smog-free day. But Frankie hardly noticed. The only thing that was clear to her was her hurt. Her heart and her ego were hurt. And she was a little pissed too, even though she knew she didn’t really have a good reason to be. After all, Jazz had every right to want what he wanted. But she had every right not to give it to him.
Maybe Jazz was right. Maybe what they needed was some time apart. God, how she was going to miss all that good dick.
But good dick was ten cents a pound. And there was some particularly good dick down in the Dominican Republic. Edgar was waiting for her down there and he never disappointed.
Slowly a strange smile of hunger, regret and anticipation decorated her face.
“Call Yvette,” she commanded the voice-activation on her phone. Yvette answered after the first ring. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Doll.”
“So what’s up?”
“Nothing much.” There was no need to share with Yvette the details, or for that matter, the existence of a meeting with Shonda Rhimes or the possibility of starring in Shonda’s next show. Although Yvette and Frankie were rarely up for the same roles—according to the industry’s unofficial rating system, Frankie was on the B list and Yvette was solidly on the D—there was no need to rub Yvette’s face in what was not yet available to her.
“Same here.”
“Except I’m really feeling a trip down to House of John.”
“For real, Frankie?”
“For real.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about, girl! So when do we start packing?”
“When’s Michael’s coming home party? Miss Trudy would have us boiled in oil if we missed it.”
“You’re right about that. The eighth of next month.”
“So let’s see what we can book for a week from Friday. That’ll give us two weeks to get back and help Trudy with the party plans.”
“So how’s Jazz taking this?”
“For now, Jazz and I are on hiatus.”
Frankie sped home with a new energy. The moment she entered her condo, she went directly to her computer and Skyped Cedric Whitehead, the proprietor of House of John.
“Frankie!” the ex-patriot Brooklynite beamed upon seeing Frankie’s beautiful face. “What a delightful surprise.”
“Hi, Cedric. How have you been?”
“Better now that I’m talking with you. We miss you, my dear. What’s it been? Six months? A year?”
“It’s been about five months.”
“My God, it seems like an eternity.”
“Well that’s about to change, Ced.”
“Wonderful!”
“Do you have a couple of rooms available around the twenty-fifth?”
“Let me see,” he said checking his roster on his tablet. “Yes! In fact we have your favorite room. Number eighteen, with the balcony and the view of the cathedral and of course the sound of the schoolchildren singing first thing in the morning in their classrooms across the plaza. And number twenty-two down the hall, also a balcony, with the view of the harbor.”
“Perfect.”
“Is Yvette coming with you again?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wonderful!”
“So book us for six nights, Cedric. You have our cards on file.”
“Will do,” the hotelier answered festively as he keyed in the information. “Oh my dear Francesca. I can hardly wait to see you again. And the guys will be ecstatic, knowing that you’re coming back down. And I know Edgar is going to be particularly pleased.”
“Well I have every intention of being particularly pleased myself,” she laughed slyly. Cedric joined in the knowing laugh.
“Well you’re all set, my dear,” he said. “We will see you and Yvette on the twenty-fifth.”
“Great, Cedric. Thank you.”
“And thank you, love. Ciao,” he said, blowing her a kiss before signing off.
She then picked up her phone and found a name in her contacts. She tapped the tiny phone icon next to the name. The phone rang on the other end.
“Hola,” the deep smooth voice greeted knowingly on the other end.
“And hola to you, mi amor,” Frankie softly replied, a smile in her voice, a tingle between her legs.
“It is good hear your voice, my sweet.”
“I will be there soon.”
“How soon?”
“Next week.”
“I can hardly wait,” Edgar said.
“Neither can I,” she said, touching
herself.
Chapter Fourteen
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.
MadameFrankie Page 7