I Remember You (An Erotic Romance) - Isis Cole (4 page)

  “Please fuck me harder.”
 

  The two men started in, got their rhythm together.  In a moment, they were thrusting fast and hard.  Rachel was trapped between them as they fucked her.
 

  Another orgasm came, and another.  She bit Andre’s strong chest.  The three of them became sweaty and hot.  The steam still rose from the bathtub.  They fucked her and fucked her.  It seemed to go on forever.  She came and came.  Ten times.  Fifteen times. 
 

  When it was over, they carried her into her bedroom and laid her on the bed.  They weren’t done.  She lay, her head on the pillow, wasted, exhausted.  She could sleep, but she knew they weren’t done.  They stood over her, on either side, stroking their massive, magnificent cocks. 
 

  “Come here, girl,” Andre said, and she turned her face to him.  A powerful spray of cum burst from his cock, and splattered her breasts, her neck, her chin.  It was hot.  She was glazed with it.  Then she turned to Clyde.  He was ready and did the same.
 

  She lay there, half asleep, her body and her face painted in their spume.  She had never done this with Michael.  He had never even mentioned it as a possibility.  Innocent Michael.
 

  These two animals insisted on it.  They would cum on her practically every time.  Then they would laugh. 
 

  “Got you good that time, girl.”
 

  Rachel didn’t know if she liked that part.  But she didn’t seem to have a choice.  Clyde and Andre did what they wanted.  They had somehow taken ownership of her.  She wasn’t even sure how it had happened, and she felt bad about it sometimes, like they were using her.  But she had to admit that when she was home alone, she would often lay in her bed and masturbate.  And the thing that turned her on the most was the image in her mind’s eye of these two massive black cocks cumming on her. 
 

  After she left Paris, she never saw them again.  When she returned to the United States, she moved around a lot the first few years.  Once in a while, a letter would turn up from Andre, forwarded by the post office from an old address.  She opened the first one.  He had financial trouble - could he borrow some money?  She threw the letter out, and after that, never opened another one.  Eventually, they stopped coming. 
 

  Years later, it occurred to her that she had used Andre and Clyde as much as they had used her.
 

  Five        
 

  “This could be a good thing for you, Michael,” the voice on the speaker phone said.  “It’ll get you back into the mix a little bit.  You’ve been gone a long time.”
 

  Michael stood in the living room of his house outside Portland, Maine, gazing through the huge bay window at the raging ocean, his bare feet on a plush white rug, a can of club soda in his hand.  It was a dark, overcast October day, two months after his lunch with Rachel.  A storm at sea was sending monster waves crashing against Michael’s private beach.  He loved to watch the sheer power of it, the waves exploding against the rocks.    
 

  The voice on the phone belonged to Sid Diamond, Michael’s manager.  Sid was a born salesman, always selling, selling, selling.  He never stopped, even when he was talking to Michael.  If Sid had a product, he wasn’t going to stop until you bought it.  If he had an idea, he wasn’t going to stop until he convinced you it was the right idea, the perfect idea.
 

  “Don’t sell me,” Michael sometimes wanted to say.  “You got me already.  I’m your client.  Sell the record companies.  Sell the producers.”
 

  All the same, Sid was one of the good guys, an honest man in a nasty, dirty business, and he had helped make Michael rich.      
 

  “Sid…”
 

  “People are going to want you again,” Sid said.  “It’s just that they need to know you’re working before anybody does anything.  It’s the chicken and the egg.  If Michael’s not working, then we don’t want him.  If he is working, we’ll pay top dollar to get him.  Do this one gig and I promise you, Michael, people are going to say you’re back.”
 

  A movie producer wanted Michael to write the score to a new movie, some kind of cowboy love story.  It sounded cheesy as hell.  The money was good, but Michael didn’t need money.  He could live out the rest of his days and never work again.  His songs made him money all day long.  While he slept at night, he was making money.     
 

  But he did need to work.  For himself, for his peace of mind, what he needed more than anything was to work.  It wasn’t that easy to break in again after you were away a few years.  Things changed so quickly.  Billy Ray Deuce, once the hottest thing in Nashville, didn’t even have a recording contract anymore. 
 

  “So what do they want me to do?” Michael said.  “Fly out to LA and talk to them?”
 

  “No.  Here’s the thing, the guy works out of Wilmington, North Carolina, of all places.  The big movie studio down there?  This guy was a kid in film school when you were with Billy Ray.  You know what I mean?  He can’t get those songs out of his head.  He wants his movie to sound like that.  He’s so gung ho to have you on board, he’ll fly up to see you.  So here’s what you do.  You take a lunch with him there in Portland, someplace nice, bring him back to the house, show him the records on your wall…”
 

  “North Carolina?” Michael said.
 

  “Yeah.”
 

  “Tell him I’ll fly down to see him.”
 

  “You want to fly down there.  Really?  Okay, Michael.  You sure?”
 

  “Yeah.  I’ve always wanted to check the place out.”
 

  When he hung up with Sid, Michael pushed the speed dial for Rachel’s number. 
She had promised him a meal, after all. 
 

  * * *
 

  Rachel looked around the house she shared with her two daughters.  It wasn’t a tiny house.  But it wasn’t nearly as nice as the house that she had when she was married, and she was sure it was nothing like the places Michael must be used to. 
 

  All the same, it was a nice three-bedroom place, a ranch, with a good back yard, in a community with a pool, and not too far from the beach.  And it was well kept.  At least, it was today.  With Rachel’s teaching schedule and the girls involved in every extracurricular activity they could think of, the place got pretty messy during the week.  Rachel had spent half the afternoon cleaning.  She had the place sparkling now.  As she gazed around, she saw it was a house she could be proud of. 
 

  Tim had picked up the girls this morning.  It wasn’t his scheduled visitation weekend, but for once he didn’t complain when something out of the ordinary happened.  He didn’t threaten to speak to the judge.  Instead, he acted like a human being, drove down here and got his daughters, no questions asked.      
 

  It was a tiny miracle and Rachel took it as a good sign.
 

  She was done cleaning, her famous chicken cacciatore was in the oven, and some delicious hors d’ouvres, including thick slices of parmesan with tomato and olive oil on sour dough bread, were out on the table.  She had opened a nice bottle of red wine and was letting it breathe.  She had showered and put on a nice summery green dress, with spaghetti straps.  She wore sandals with chunky heels.  She thought she looked sexy.  She certainly
felt
sexy.   
 

  Now she was waiting. 
 

  Michael had a meeting at the big Screen Gems movie studio in town today, something about doing the soundtrack for a film.  She hadn’t pressed him for details because he sounded embarrassed to talk about it.  Afterwards, he was coming here for dinner.  God, Michael was so successful, and he treated it in such an offhand and modest way.  It amazed her.          
 

  She thought about the last time she saw him, twenty years before.  Until their little lunch date in Boston last summer, it was the last time she had ever seen him.  She was at his apartment, and they had officially broken up.  She was leaving for Paris in a week.  She was going to spend a few days with her family before she left. 
 

  She and Michael were in his bed.  It was morning, and they were both nude from the night before.  She was crying, she remembered that much.  She was crying and he held her against his chest.  She was leaving, and she wanted to leave, but on that day something about it felt really, really tragic.  They were star-crossed lovers.  They were Romeo and Juliet. 
 

  At some point, she noticed his bare chest was heaving.  She looked at his face, and he was crying too. 
 

  “I can’t help it,” he said.  “I don’t want you to go.”
 

  She took a deep breath.  “I know,” she said.   
 

  She moved up and pushed her face against his.  Their cheeks touched.  Their tears mingled like rainwater.  She hugged him tightly, and he hugged her back.  They stayed that way for a long time, just pressing together.  For Rachel, sometimes the crying was
powerful, her whole body shaking with the force of her sobs.  At other times, the crying was softer, almost subsiding completely. 
 

  Gradually, as they lay there pressed against each other, she became aware that Michael had an erection.  Their bodies were so tight, the hardened cock was between her legs.  Soon, she was wet, maybe from all the emotion, maybe from just having his dick there.  She reached down with one hand and gently guided it inside her.  It slid in, all the way in, and then they lay still, their bodies perfectly entwined, joined, no space between them. 
 

  She pressed harder against him.  She felt almost like she wanted to become him, their chests and legs melting until they became one person.  She held the back of his head with her hand.  He was crying again, and the feeling of it was contagious, because she began to cry again, too.  And they began to move against each other, moving their bodies, until they were fucking, crying and fucking.  And their mouths found each other.  They kissed passionately, he inside of her, bodies moving gently, tears streaming down their faces. 
 

  The doorbell rang, startling Rachel out of her memories.  She glanced out the kitchen window, and there was Michael, standing at the door, with a brown paper bag in his hand.  She went to the door, and opened it. 
 

  “Hi, Michael.”
 

  He was dressed casually, in jeans, a light blue t-shirt, and a leather jacket.  A slogan across the t-shirt read
STP: The Racer’s Edge
.  They hugged briefly, stiffly, and he handed her the bag. 
 

  “I brought some wine,” he said. 
 

  She gestured for him to come in.  He stepped inside, and glanced around.  “Nice place,” he said.  His eyes got caught on the old upright piano in the corner of the living room.  She had grown up with that piano.  It had been in her family for three generations. 
 

  “Hey!” Michael said.  “You still have that same piano.”
 

  Naturally, he went straight to it.  Rachel found that a little frustrating.  They had barely even said hello.  He was like a child with a new toy.  Or in this case, a toy that had been lost, but was found again.  He sat on the cushioned seat and rested his long fingers on the keys. 
 

  “God, I remember this thing,” he said.  “In your parents’ house.”
 

  Rachel stood near him.  She was embarrassed, frankly.  She’d been meaning to have it tuned for years.  “They gave it to me when they downsized to the condo,” she said.  “I wish you wouldn’t play it.  It’s out of tune.”
 

  He began to play, something slow, with heavy bass notes on the left, and then high notes coming in on the right a moment later. 
 

  “It’s a little out,” he said.  “But not too bad.”
 

  It was a haunting song, something moody and sad, maybe a song about love and loss.
 

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. 
 

  “Erik Satie,” he said.  “French composer from the 1800s.  Alcoholic.  He died broke and alone.”
 

  “It sounds like that,” she said. 
 

  “I can’t stop listening to him these days,” Michael said.  Abruptly, he stopped playing.  The notes continued to reverberate for a few seconds.  He turned and looked up
at her.  “You know,” he said.  “You never should have gone to Paris.”
 

  “Oh, Michael.  That was twenty years ago.”
 

  He stood and faced her.  “I know.  It’s just that…”
 

  Rachel turned away from him.  “The chicken’s almost done.  And we have these little finger sandwiches.  Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
 

  He touched her shoulder.
 

  She turned back to say something, but never remembered what she intended to say because suddenly he was there, and his lips settled against hers.  She felt the damp sweep of his tongue across them.  Uttering a soft whimper, she moved closer to him.  Her breasts were flattened against his chest.  Their thighs came together.  His erection nudged her cleft.
 

  Rubbing her lips apart with his, he pushed his tongue deep into her mouth.  She moaned, with hunger, and with joy.  His hands moved to her waist and pulled her more firmly against him.  He cupped the round curve of her ass and held her against the front of his body while they kissed deeply. 
 

  She clutched at him and responded to the hungry thrusts of his tongue.  He released her long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head.  He undid his belt and pulled the buttons of his jeans open, then gathered her against him again.