The Romantic

The Romantic
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

“I love you!”

The girl’s squeal of adoration cut through the screaming applause of the audience. Richard smiled at the sound and took one more quick bow before starting down the cluttered backstage path. The mass of voices followed him in thundering echoes as he strode quickly past the lines of congratulating hands to reach the limo parked outside. Inside, Richard leaned back, breathing deeply. His manager handed him a drink.

“Fantastic,” said Stephen nodding rapidly. “Couldn’t go much better than that.” Richard downed the glass of bourbon.

“Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth on his white satin sleeve. He picked up a pack of Camels and tore away the cellophane. “Beautiful audience. Not like Sacramento.” He smacked the package against his left palm and ripped at the silver folds. Richard’s hands trembled slightly as he worked his way inside. “It’s so much easier to sing with such pretty girls all around.” He flipped a cigarette out of the tight bundle and stuck it on his lip. Stephen thrust a flame beneath the tip. “Thanks,” mumbled Richard, taking a deep hit of the dry smoke.

“Preston wanted me to ask you to drop by the Stardust. He’s having a. . .”

“No,” said Richard.

“I told him you were beat, but he wanted . . . .”

“No,” said Richard again. “I’m going back to my room and get some sleep. My nerves are edgy.”

“I know, I know,” said his manager, trying to console. “Look, Angelica, one of the company’s promotion people told me that her niece is dying to meet you. I suggested, well, she might. . . .”

“Yeah,” said Richard, closing his eyes. “Send her around.”

Twenty minutes later, his hotel room door closed with a satisfying click, and Richard drooped slightly, finally freed. He walked over to the bed, sat down and took off his shoes. Picking up the phone, he punched the numbers his manager had written down.

“Stephen? Looks good. Is she coming? Great. Have them hold my calls. Yeah, I’ll let you know. Not before ten.” Richard sat the receiver back in its cradle and stepped over to the window.

The city stretched out in black glittering motion below. Even at midnight, the lights of transit poured red and yellow in lean streams. Richard sighed, imagining a room, so far away, where he could really rest; the chair, his chair, molded by evenings to his weary form; the

piano, scarred and perpetually drifting from tune; the smile of a woman who loved him for more than vocal intonations. Richard looked down, and sighed again. The pack of Camels appeared in his hand. He lit another cigarette and poured himself a glass of champagne. A knock came through the door.

“It’s Terri,” a young voice spoke. “Stephen sent me.”

Richard opened the chained door cautiously. A girl of nineteen, maybe twenty, stood in the hallway, smiling broadly, wringing her hands. In a decisive instant, Richard looked her over critically. She had pale brown hair, almost blonde, probably a touch of color to lighten it, curls added by heat in looping rings past her shoulders. Her eyes were green, probably colored contacts masking ordinary brown eyes. She had a smooth, creamy complexion, quite nice, well painted to increase her allure, but her lips were perhaps a touch too thin. Her frame was medium, not a small girl, but not big either. Richard smiled. Her breasts looked firm under the ruffles of her silky black blouse, not inflated but substantial. A slight tummy, delightfully feminine, could be seen where the blouse met her skirt. Lean legs encased in dark silk emerged from beneath the hem of black leather. Richard wished for a fleeting moment she would turn around, but at the same time reached up to unchain the door. Terri would do.

“Come in,” he said smoothly. “Come in.”

The girl seemed frozen as she suddenly faced her idol, but with a touch of his hand, she moved stiffly through his door. Her green eyes fixed firmly on him, a stare so hard that Richard felt compelled to turn away, walking ahead of her into the room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Can I get you a glass of champagne?”

“Wow,” the young woman muttered, looking around at the plush setting of the suite. “Sure,” she said. Richard poured her a glass and refilled his own. He handed her the crystal flute and touched his to hers with a gentle tink.

“Nice to meet you, Terri, did you say?”

“Terri,” she said, gulping down a swig of the sparkling wine. The alcohol seemed to calm her at once. “You were great.”

“You saw the show?” he asked, flattered.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Terri began to bubble with enthusiasm, having touched a favorite subject. “I’ll be there tomorrow night, too. I saw your show in August, too. You are so great.”

Richard gestured for her to sit beside him on the bed. Terri sat

down with a flop, spilling a splash of champagne over her hand. “Oh,” she squealed. Richard took gently hold of her wrist and kissed the wine from her pale fingers. “Ooh,” said Terri, utterly delighted by the singer’s attentive gesture.

“I thought it went well,” he said quietly.

“You were fantastic. I wanted you to sing ‘Meadows’ so badly and when you did, I thought I was going to faint, I got so excited. And then you sang, ‘In Twilight,’ and that was incredible because I never heard you sing that one and I’ve always wanted to hear you, it was my favorite album for so many years, until ‘Songs of Love’ came out, and then I wanted . . . .”

“Terri,” Richard interrupted her babbling praise. “I’m flattered, but all day long people talk to me about my songs, and I’d really just like to talk about other things. I’m a person, too.”

“Oh,” said Terri, blushing and thoughtful. “I didn’t mean to act like a crazed fan or something.” She turned away, frowning. Richard glimpsed the swell of white bosom as her blouse sagged away.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on the slow rise and fall of her tantalizing bit of chest.

“Yes,” she said shyly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t have to talk about that, if you don’t want to. But I don’t get to know people anymore, not really, and well, I’m a romantic. I like to hear people talk about love.” Terri looked into his dark eyes, touched.

“I understand,” she said.

“Do you love him?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said strongly, “very much. Just madly.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, he’s just a guy, but I like the way he looks.” Terri stumbled over her words.

“He’s lucky,” said Richard, bravely. “I envy him.”

“Jack?” Terri laughed. “But he’s just a . . . I mean . . . You’ve got everything!”

“When I was a younger man, maybe Jack’s age, I had everything. I had a girl who loved me dearly, and the whole world before me. That was when my first album came out.”

“Dark Nights.”

“I envy him, because he has you. When I signed my contracts, they gave me a king’s ransom, but they never told me what it would cost.”

“Oh, Richard.” Terri’s young voice rippled with pathos.


“She married another man, and I’ve never seen her since.”

“That is so sad.”

“I envy the love you have for Jack. I would trade all of this, just to feel that love again.” Richard turned his face away, hiding the burst of emotion that threatened to erupt. Terri put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we all love you, you sing so beautifully, and well, I love you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Still,” said Terri, thoughtfully, “it’s something.” Richard turned at once and kissed the girl. She melted, overwhelmed by the touch of his lips, and as his arms wrapped around her, she gave herself away. Strong hands caressed her warm body as his kiss grew moist and feverish. Terri threw her arms around the singer made man.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, “I love you.”

They rolled over the bed, kissing madly. Pulling her blouse from the skirt, he found her breasts beneath. She yanked the silk over her head and unclasped her brassiere. He suckled her stiffened nipples, sending shivers down her spine. Terri felt the hard throb of his manhood pressed against her thigh.

“Fuck me, Richard,” she said, letting the words roll wickedly past her lips, savoring the thought as his hands roamed down to lift her leather skirt and squeeze her full behind. “I’ll love you, Richard. I’ll love you.” Terri licked her lips. “Fuck me, Richard.”

He knelt between her spread long legs and looked into the sultry gaze of her eyes. Terri shuddered in delight. Richard slipped his strong hands down the length of her lean thighs, indulged himself in a moment’s anticipation. Taking hold of her white lace panties and with a sudden jerk, he tore the fragile fabric from her waist.

“Oh my God,” moaned Terri. Richard lifted the shredded panties to his face, and smiled as he tossed them away. Leaning down, he thrust his face into Terri’s dripping snatch, pushing his maestro’s tongue between the scarlet lips, framed in dark curls, into the swampy pit of her young cunt. “Ooh,” she whimpered and as he lapped the hot froth, he wordlessly sang her favorite song. She grasped his hair and pulled him closer. He tickled her hard clit.

Leaping forward as the shudders overcame her, Richard impaled his burning cock into Terri’s hole, and thrusting with a wild mambo beat, he soaked her womb in his mad lust. He looked into her

subdued eyes as the ecstasy rippled through him, filling her love with adoration.

Spent, Richard collapsed beside her on the bed, breathing deeply. Terri leaned over to suck the scent from his receding prick. He teased her hair with gentle fingers, encouraging her devotions, falling into quiet lethargy. She moved up close beside him, and pressed her lips to his. Richard kissed her, sweetly.

“Do you really love me?” he asked.

“Yes, Richard,” Terri said. “I love you.”

“I mean really,” he said, his voice falling dim. “Really?”

“More than you will ever know.”

“I mean, if I come back, when the tour’s over in June, if I come back, you’d go away with me?”

“Richard!” said Terri sharply. “Don’t tease me like that.”

“I’m not,” he said, sitting up. “I’ll come back in June.”

“Yes,” she said lovingly. “I’d do anything for you.”

“You’ll have to go,” he said. “I have to sleep, and with you here I won’t.” Terri giggled and blushed. Richard continued. “Tomorrow’s full of press and meetings and appearances, and then there’s the show to do and if I don’t sleep, it will kill me.”

“I understand,” said Terri, reaching for her blouse.

“Here’s some paper,” he said, taking a pad from the hotel table. “Write your name and address and number down for me. I’ll be in touch.”

Terri stepped over to the table and Richard watched contentedly as the naked girl scribbled, admiring the roundness of her creamy bottom over the dark furrow of her cunt, still dripping with their juices. She handed him the pad, smiling lasciviously and pulled her skirt down.

Richard kissed her again, deeply, and led her to the door.

“I love you,” she said, blowing him a kiss as the door closed.

“Goodbye, Terri,” he replied.

Walking over to his bag, Richard brought out a large scrapbook. Flipping through the pages, he came to a blank page, three quarters of the way through. Carefully, he taped Terri’s note onto the page.

“She was sweet,” he thought, turning the page back. Melissa. Janet. Francie. Elizabeth. “One of the best,” he said.

Richard replaced the scrapbook in his bag and picked up the phone, punching the numbers deftly.

“Stephen? Yeah. Fabulous. You have exquisite taste. Did

Mary call? I had a feeling. No, I’ll tell her. Listen, would you send Terri some flowers? Yeah, she was sweet. Have them say ‘dream of me, love Richard’. It’s the least I can do. No, she already has tickets. All right. Good night.”

Richard pressed down the button in the cradle, paused and then lifted his finger to arouse another dial tone. He punched a longer set of numbers familiarly.

“Mary? Did I wake you? Yeah. Good show, I think. I tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of you. I don’t know, just a feeling. We must be in tune or something. Stephen says I’ll be home on the third for the week, but we have to spend the sixth and seventh at some resort. I know. I’m sorry. Maybe you could . . . I know. You know I will. I’ve got to get some sleep, but tell me again. I love you, too. ”

Richard hung up the phone and stopped to stare out the window. A plane roared overhead, tiny lights flashing, headed far away. He lit another cigarette, letting the heat fill his tired lungs. “So far away,” he muttered. Looking down, Richard’s heart sank in anticipation of another dark night, alone.


About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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