I Remember You (An Erotic Romance) - Isis Cole Read online

  But life with Michael wasn’t all sex and romance. Far from it.

  She thought of another time, a snowy night in winter, Michael curled into a corner on the floor of his room. He was crying, weeping, pulling himself into a tighter and tighter ball, his knees against his chest, his arms wrapped around them. She learned something that night - people in distress really did pull themselves into the fetal position. She had heard of it, but never seen it.

  Why was he crying? She couldn’t remember now. Michael had a terrible family life. It might have had something to do with that. But Michael was an artist, too, and he had an artist’s temperament. He was unstable. He had bursts of euphoria where he was almost bouncing off the walls. He had black depressions where he didn’t get out of bed for days.

  She remembered sitting on the bed and staring down at him. She was so young, so self-centered. She remembered that with a pang of regret, and embarrassment. On the one hand, she was worried for him. On the other hand, it was a bit of a drag to have him like this. It was the weekend. She wanted to go out.

  “Michael, what can I do for you? Should I call someone?”

  She looked up from her musings, and she saw that Michael was already signing the check. She glanced at her watch. It was 3:30. They’d been in this restaurant for two and a half hours. She realized they’d been talking most of that time, but she had no idea what they’d been saying.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Michael said. “There’s only two trains a day, and if I miss the next one, I’m riding the bus.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” she said. “This has been lovely.”

  They both hesitated, and there was a long moment where they stared into each other’s eyes. Michael’s eyes were still that same bewitching green. The moment became awkward, and Rachel looked away.

  “Well,” she said. “If you’re ever in North Carolina, you have my number. Stop by for a good home cooked meal.”

  What she really wanted to say was: “Why don’t you stay here in town tonight?”

  Three

  Michael rode the train north through the Maine countryside. At times, his window gave tantalizing glimpses of the ocean, gone as quickly as they came. No matter. The view from his own living room was better than the view from the train.

  He had the print edition of the Boston Globe on his lap during the train ride. He glanced at the pages, not really seeing them. Mostly, he held the newspaper there to cover his erection. Thinking about his time with Rachel had brought it on. He couldn’t make it go away.

  He remembered how Rachel transferred to a college in Paris after their year together. He never understood why she did that. Whether they would be together, or whether they would break up, that was a decision she made by simply leaving the country. It happened by default. She was an art major, and wanted to see the great art works. She was a vagabond, and she wanted to see the world. These were the things she told him. So she left for Europe, and she left Michael behind.

  Once the decision was made, they tried everything. They were going down different paths, and soon they would be apart, probably forever. So they took that time to teach themselves, and each other, about sex.

  He thought of the first time he had anal with her. It was the first time for both of them. They had talked about it for days. He wanted to do it. Her ass was so round and inviting. It was the perfect ass. He longed to be inside of it.

  Rachel? She was merely curious. A girlfriend of hers said it was her favorite way to have sex. By a mile.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Michael said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Rachel said.

  “What’s the delay?”

  “I’m afraid it will hurt.”

  Michael smiled. “I’ll be gentle.”

  She smiled back. “You’ll have to take me by surprise.”

  “Okay.”

  And that’s how he did it. He surprised her.

  Rachel was nothing like a man, except she had one habit that was often associated with men. She drifted off and fell asleep after an orgasm.

  So Michael hatched a plan. He would make her cum. He would make her cum so much that she would lapse into a coma. And he wouldn’t cum once. Then, in the afterglow, as she faded away, he would take her.

  Surprise!

  * * *

  Rachel walked aimlessly through the streets of Boston.

  She had lived in this city as a young married woman, and had loved it here. It was summer, and since the girls were staying with their father for two weeks, she had returned for a visit. She was staying with her friends Kate and Ron, and their two kids. She would meet them at their house this evening, but she had hours to spend before then.

  She walked up into Beacon Hill, and enjoyed the old Victorian houses and the views of the city. As she walked, she daydreamed.

  She remembered how he had eaten her that day, so long ago. He had made her cum so many times, and then she let her guard down.

  She could picture the scene, on the narrow bed in her room.

  Below her, Michael’s tongue ran along the inside of her thigh. Slowly, the tongue moved closer to Rachel’s hot, wet center. She raised her hips a touch, and pushed Michael’s head down further, pushing it where she wanted. He stuck his tongue into her wet slit, tentatively at first, but then with more authority. She held his head there with a firm hand, Michael’s tongue licking and darting even as she groaned in pleasure.

  “Lick it,” Rachel said. “Oh, please lick my clit. Please lick it.”

  Michael’s hot tongue licked her and licked her, until Rachel began to sweat, and she got the salty taste of her own sweat in her mouth.

  She looked down at him. She was so wet that Michael’s lips and cheeks began to get sloppy with moisture, her juices and Michael’s own saliva running down the side of his face. Michael licked and delved his tongue deep into her. It was an electric feeling. It felt like his thick, strong tongue was so deep, it was all the way inside her body.

  A sudden, shattering climax tore through Rachel, her whole body shuddering, bursting with pleasure, her mind shutting down, an explosion going off, synapses firing everywhere at once. It was like a dream, an out of body experience. For a long moment, she sailed weightless.

  When she came back, she was still cumming. A cat-like noise rose from her, a screech. She pushed harder against Michael’s face, her body long and stiff as a board, quaking, trembling, her hands gripping the backs of her own thighs. Hot fluid burst out of her, a torrent of it. She could barely breathe.

  In a few moments, it was over.

  Her body was a dead weight. She couldn’t speak. Instead, she raised her pussy to Michael’s face again. Somehow, her orgasms were not done. Michael flicked his tongue and slid it along her flaming, soaked slit. The flesh of her pussy was still moving, shuddering rhythmically, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

  Gently he licked her until she came again, and then again. They were less powerful, these orgasms, like the last little hills at the end of a roller coaster ride.

  This time, she was spent. She lay on her back for a time, a hand covering her eyes. She felt heavy with exhaustion. She murmured something to Michael, something about sleep, and she rolled over on her side. She opened an eye for a second and glanced at him. He was kneeling over her, stroking his erection.

  “Careful with that thing,” she said.

  She rolled all the way over onto her stomach.

  * * *

  The train was almost in Portland.

  Michael remembered how he dribbled saliva into his right hand. He moistened the head of his cock with the saliva. He got some more saliva. Spread it on her ass. Pushed the saliva into her hole with first his pinkie, then his index finger. Got some more saliva. Did it again. Soon, the surface of her ass was slippery wet, glistening in the overhead lights. The head of his dick glistened as well. He slid it along her crack. Everything was hot and slippery. From beneath her prone body, her fingers appeared between her legs. She began to mast
urbate, the fingers slowly working.

  He pointed the head of his cock at her tiny hole. He couldn’t get over the size of it – so small, and he would have to stretch it. Everything was soaked – his dick, her ass. He held her buns and pulled them apart, opening that hole the smallest amount. Slowly, he pushed at it with his cock. Below him, she began to whimper. She pulled herself tight, closing the hole again.

  “Open it,” he whispered to her. “Open it as wide as it will go.”

  She whimpered even louder, but obeyed. She was asleep and awake at the same time. In some way, she knew it was time. He pushed again, but his cock slid between her buns. It was so wet and drippy in there, so sloppy, so nice, that he could just rub his dick between her buns and cum easily. But that wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to do the thing they had talked about.

  He had to take her. He had to take her now. If he didn’t, he might never get this chance again.

  “Is this the surprise?” she said. Her voice was thick with sleep.

  “Yes.”

  He pointed it at the hole again. This time he found the sweet spot. He pushed, and it slid in, maybe a millimeter, maybe less. A microscopic amount. But she felt it, too. They both knew it. He was in.

  “Mmmmmm!” It was a frantic sound, more than a whimper, almost a cry. It was fear, and it was lust.

  He pushed further, and now his swollen head entered her.

  “Aaaahhh,” came the sound from her. Her fingernails clutched at the pillows. Her back arched and her head came off the bed.

  He was in.

  Her body subsided to the top of the desk again. Michael pushed the cock in another half inch. He stopped, and waited. Then he pushed it in another inch. His cock was in her ass now. Not far, two inches, maybe three inches, but he had done it. He had opened her.

  He held still. He didn’t drive it deeper, partly because he didn’t want to hurt her, and partly because he was already about to burst and he wanted to make it last.

  She began to move against him. She pushed her ass up, driving the cock in a little further. Then she pulled it away. Then she pushed it up again. She was doing it, working it in and out. Michael just lay there and let her work, her fingers rubbing between her legs again, her body moving very slowly, thrusting against him, the cock sliding in and out of her.

  She made sounds. Grunts, groans, little exhalations. Then she began to cum. Her body shuddered. She stopped moving altogether as her body just shuddered and shook. She raised a trembling hand and pressed her forehead against the pillows. “Oh,” she moaned. “Oh.” She just went on shaking and shaking. He was no longer moving, she was no longer moving, but her whole body vibrated.

  After a long time, he slowly pulled it out. She trembled some more once he was out of her. He kneeled behind her. It took him maybe four or five tugs to cum. His body shook with the force of his own orgasm. When he was done, he lay down beside her.

  He could see her legs still quivering.

  It seemed like a fair trade to him. She had cum probably five or ten times, and he had cum only once. But he had done it. He had put it in her ass.

  “How did that feel?” he said.

  “It hurt.”

  “But you seemed to cum.”

  “I did cum. And it hurt. It hurt and I came.”

  “Was it good?” he said.

  Her face was still against the pillow. “It was great.”

  Four

  Why did she leave him?

  She could hardly remember how the decision came about. She was young. She wanted to see the world. That was part of it. And Michael couldn’t see the world with her. He couldn’t go to Paris. He had no money.

  Her parents didn’t approve of Michael. She remembered that, too. He was from the wrong side of the tracks. His father was an alcoholic. His mother was a waitress. He was unkempt, a street urchin who wasn’t adapting well to college. He drank too much and rarely went to class. He wanted to be a musician. He was hugely talented. But it was a hard way to make a living.

  “There’s no future in music,” her father said to her once.

  Mostly, she wanted to get away from Michael. She just wanted to have fun. The world was wide open to her. There were endless possibilities. Meanwhile, Michael seemed to have a black cloud around him. He carried with him a sense of impending doom. She could practically smell it on him.

  It had gone badly for Michael after she left. He was angry. He was hurt. He didn’t understand.

  Six months later, she was in Paris. She had a small apartment in a Victorian-era building, near the Champs d’Ellysees. She got a letter from Michael in the mail. There were no email accounts in those days, and no cell phones. It was amazing to think that: Michael sent her a letter. By then, he already seemed far away and small.

  He had dropped out of school, it said in the letter. He had been in a bar fight and broken his hand and his nose. He was working in a convenience store. He made no mention of music. When she read the letter, a lump came to her throat. Of course. Somewhere deep inside, she had known it would come to this. Michael wasn’t going to make it in life. He was going to crash and burn, and her leaving might even be the thing that set off the downward slide.

  She sighed heavily. She loved Michael. She really did. But she couldn’t save him. She could only live her own life. She couldn’t live his life for him.

  In those days, she always lit her apartment with candles. She could picture how she sat at the table in the kitchen, and set the letter on fire with the candle that burned in front of her. She let it burn itself out in the ashtray.

  She remembered how she was wearing a robe when she did this, and how she could hear her new boyfriend Andre drawing a bath in the other room. She tamped out the letter, and walked into the bathroom.

  Andre was nude. He was big and beautiful and black. He wore dreadlocks and had an amazing body - a perfect body, with broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, and then big muscular legs. His penis was huge. Just looking at it turned her on. The thought of it turned her on while she was in class. The thought of what they did together turned her on when she was walking down the street. The thought of how her parents would react if they ever knew about him… which they never would… turned her on all the time.

  Andre was also a scholarship boy. But he was an athlete, and different from Michael in so many ways. She pictured Michael in one of the music rooms at school, his long delicate fingers running through a Beethoven concerto on an old, beat-up piano. She pictured Andre, giant impossible Andre, crashing headlong into other players on the football field, demolishing them. She pictured Michael quietly talking. She picture Andre laughing and shouting out the window to people on the streets below.

  Andre smiled. “Little girl, what you burning in there?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. The past.” She let her robe fall to the floor, and underneath, she was nude.

  Andre picked her up in his big arms. She was tiny compared to him, and light as a feather. His penis came erect instantly. He held her up effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his tree trunk thighs. She pushed her erect nipples against his wide chest. He slid his penis, that massive black cock, between her legs, thrusting slowly. But he didn’t enter her. Instead, they grinded together, the cock rubbing, her pussy getting hotter and wetter all the while. She was ready, he could put it in her, but still he just rubbed his cock against her. It was a game that they played.

  “Oh,” a voice said from behind her. “What do we have here?”

  It was Clyde, Andre’s friend. He had walked into the bathroom. Clyde was big and black, too. Clyde and Andre played on the same college team. They had taken their scholarship money and gone to Europe after the most recent season ended. They were teammates, and now they were double-teaming Rachel.

  She had been reluctant at first, but Andre had convinced her. And she was learning. If she had first learned about sex with Michael, she was learning about something else with Andre and Clyde. She didn’t even know what
to call it. A word as simple as “sex” didn’t seem to fit.

  Clyde pulled the drawstring on his shorts and let them drop to the floor. He approached Rachel from behind. She was sandwiched between them. A fleeting image of Michael the piano player with a broken hand crossed her mind.

  Poor Michael.

  Just then, Andre lifted her high and lowered her slowly, allowing her to slide down onto his cock. Gravity did its work and his huge pole slid in easily, penetrating her deeply, extravagantly deep, filling her. She was a big girl now.

  “Aaahh,” a sigh escaped her.

  She began to thrust against Andre, her legs dangling, her feet three feet from the floor, his big hands cupping her ass, holding her up. As they fucked, behind her, Clyde spit into his hand and wet her butt with his saliva. She felt him smear it all over her. She felt a wet finger penetrate her tight hole. Then she felt the head of his big wet cock pushing there. She stopped and remained still, giving him time to enter her. He pushed, a big cock pressing against a small hole that was still small.

  In a moment, it was in. They had her impaled, two big black men fucking the little white girl. They fucked her slowly, a cock in her pussy, a cock in her ass, and she rose slowly up, up up. They had pushed her into this. It was all their idea. Now they did it to her every day. Whatever they wanted. She was their toy. She was a slave to their big black cocks.

  And she loved it. They said things to her, little murmurings, words she would have found offensive once upon a time. Now they made her hot. The deep vibration of their voices alone could almost make her cum. This was not love. It was not lust. It was almost like a punishment, taking these two thrusting cocks at once. She was a bad girl, and she had to get fucked by these big cocks.