A Name Is Just A Name

"Stay there like that," I said.

I positioned her just slightly differently as she stood in front of me. I took hold of her arms and brought them to her sides. I rotated her just a fraction of an inch by placing my hands - possessively - on her hips.

She stood there, on display in her own living room. I knew this much: She hadn't envisioned this particular scenario as the

finale

to our otherwise lavish lunch-date. It was our first meeting as a potential couple (or however we might think of ourselves, if we ever got to that point) and she was in a sense, 'auditioning.' As I viewed her, just standing there, I slowly withdrew my hands from her hips and noted her shape. I kept on wondering how much I could I ask of a woman like her. In certain ways, we were from two different worlds.

Would she follow my directions - my commands?

Strangely, I had the sense that I was auditioning, as well. She had a type of need. And she was evaluating and wondering if I could fill that need too...

She had these "tendencies," she had said earlier.

At the time we were sitting outside on a terrace, finishing a late lunch. Empty plates and glasses decorated the table. A fountain trickled water and the restful sound provided cover to whoever might be trying to listen in to our conversation.

She would pay the bill, she said, because she had ordered the lobster; she knew just how much it cost, and how ridiculous it would seem to someone like me. Many people in her life were accustomed to such profligate spending, but I was not one of them. Still, I had listened intently as she nearly whispered her next words. Sometimes she liked it (she quietly confessed) "when the man takes control... otherwise."

I gently prodded her, in an equally quiet voice: "How do you want to be controlled... otherwise?"

She smiled, but wouldn't answer. I gathered, the answer was up to me to find out.

At the time I listened to her perhaps more closely than she anticipated. I swooned with the thought of her bending to my wishes. She couldn't have known, but an icy shiver traveled through my body, and a puff of breath left my lungs.

I responded to her, honestly, but with an artificial aloofness in my voice: "Well," I said, finishing my drink, "I would very much like to have a certain type of control over you..." Perhaps, I thought, this was a wonderful game we were playing. "Thank you so much for lunch," I added innocently. "I would love to get the check for the next one, Lobster or not."

Now, the scene had changed. She stood there, dressed... waiting. In her own living room, in the middle of the afternoon, which made it all seem just that much more indulgent. Grand artworks decorated the walls, and her twice a week cleaning staff had made their earlier presence known, with perfectly fluffed pillows on either end of the couch.

She looked just as she did a few hours ago, when we were bantering over lunch and trading quips; finishing our drinks; and pretending it was all so conjectural, and not entirely serious. Yet, here I was now sitting on her couch. I was looking at her as she presented herself to me - just a few feet away. Her clothes were still beautifully covering her body but my mind was thinking of her elsewise. Perhaps she realized that I was considering her in a certain way. And that was what she really wanted from a man.

"Close your eyes," I said. She thought for the briefest moment, and then shut her eyes.

My own eyes crawled over her. I took the opportunity to leer at her - it was the type of contemplation of her body, which was unflinching and unabashed. I saw her height; I saw her curves; I saw the cherry-red lipstick she had applied (and then re-applied as we finished our lunch). It made her look somehow perfectly

womanly

.

I thought to myself, that was less than an hour before this.

We had sat there at the table, talking. And innocently, she had brought her purse up to eye level and clicked it open. And then she dug around inside to find the correct shade of lipstick, and then she applied it just so... as if she suddenly decided she wanted to look a certain way, and whatever that way was, I had fallen at that moment.

Now with her immediately in front of me, I again regarded her. I tried to seem ignobly interested in her, as if I merely considered her a physical prospect. That, I gathered was my part of the audition. Still, I crumbled just a bit when I again thought to myself - she is a

woman

. I thought about the way she had described her life: A busy life full of demands. I realized that her world was filled with difficult compromises, and it was nearly impossible for her to take time for herself - just herself. All sorts of privileges, but also expectations as to who she was and how she was to conduct herself.

And (for someone reason) it seemed she wanted to invite me into one particular part of that complicated life. Artlessly, I ran my hands over the curve of her hips. I wanted to feel their shape. I also wanted her to feel my hands on her, in that certain way...

Then, without a prelude, I started unbuttoning her blouse. She knew exactly what I was doing, and yet she stood there, perhaps more nervous than she looked. I saw a little tremor on her lipstick-red lips. I heard a sound escape when she exhaled. I knew that her previous boyfriends had wanted her for

other

reasons, and not this one.

Beneath her bra - which was composed of a beautifully lacey material - resided her tits. I reached behind her, and my fingers found the clasp, and then a few seconds later the strap was undone, and my hands were pushing the cups up and over her breasts, which wobbled into view.

She stood there, eyes shut, and arms at her side as I played with her breasts. I didn't try and hide the way I was transfixed by them - by her. I didn't try and explain or pretend that I viewed her as anything other than a sex object, and I wanted her to understand - right at this moment - her breasts were the only things I cared about. And yet, she stood there motionless, allowing me to involve myself with her on this completely indulgent level. No kiss, no words of appreciation. Just my hands, enjoying her physique, and learning her feeling.

Perhaps she knew I would venture further down her body, but still when my hands found the zipper to her skirt, she made a little quiver.

How far would she let me go? I didn't wait to find out. The sound that the zipper made as it traveled down its length announced exactly what I was doing. And how I viewed her.

And then, there she was - displayed anew right in front of me.

Her panties were barely hiding the place I wanted to see most of all, her tits showing behind the unbuttoned blouse - her bra pushed up and over, making her look

groped

... and better for it.

"Wonderful," I muttered.

Her high heels were still on her feet, providing yet another dimension to her suddenly

used

quality. They were, of course, the same shoes she had worn to our little lunch date, and which I had complemented, noting the way they gave even more height (and attitude) to her already impressive features.

"I am giving you a new name," I said. She nodded her head, and then managed a breathless, "Yes?"

"But I am

not

going to tell you your new name. At least for the moment... I want you to figure it out by the way I use you."

She nodded her head. She quivered. The words "use you" applied to her in perhaps a way she had never experienced before. "Okay - yes," she said. Unsure, but wanting something, and willing to trust me. She stood there on display.

Groped,

I thought - and on display.

********************

"Lay down, length-wise, on the couch," I said.

I stood up, off the couch to give her room, and she opened her eyes (barely giving me a glance) and then proceeded to arrange herself as I described. She didn't cover her breasts; she placed her hands at her sides, as she lay there, and I looked at her from a different perspective - overhead, and overwhelmed with the view.

I said to her: "You are going to need study breaks, occasionally, aren't you? You can't spend

all day

concentrating on school and reading. And doing all those other things that are expected of you. You need something else in your life, don't you?"

She nodded her head.

I joined her on the couch. I moved on top of her, as she lay out on display. Facing her and straddling her - my legs on either side of her torso - I supported a portion of my weight on my knees and shins. My cock, still hidden and protected by my clothing, was only a few movements or two away from her face. She looked at me - in the eyes - and again nodded in assent.

"Yes," she said. She needed those so-called study breaks. Her hands now tentatively rested on my thighs.

I spoke: "And I am going to need different kinds of breaks in my life, as well..."

She nodded, comprehending something.

I took her hands in mine - I manipulated her by holding onto her wrists - and pulled her arms over her head. She breathed a little heavier, for an instant. She met my expression, full-on. Her arms were now pinned by my hands, just above her hair.

"I don't care what kind of person you are normally, but with me, you are going to be a certain kind of girl."

She nodded her head.

"That's why I am going to give you a new name."

********************

As she had described it, her life was mainly about two things: studying and family "responsibilities."

She was working - hitting the books - for several hours of every day in anticipation of taking a difficult entrance exam (and then - hopefully - going back to school, as was expected of her).

And she was also acting as a privileged (and perhaps spoiled) daughter to an astoundingly wealthy family. In her case, that meant stolid social events, an abundance of shopping trips with her mother, and maintaining a particular façade of satisfaction with her life. Keeping certain schedules, and company. In its way, it kept her busy and distracted.

"There are going to be times," I said, "when you receive a message from me."

I held her arms over her head and looked into her eyes. My weight was now pressing down onto her body. It would have taken all of her strength to force me from her, but she stayed there, listening, thinking.

"And that message will simply say something like: 'Be ready for me at 4:00, this afternoon.'"

Her breathing was shallower now. She quickly nodded her head in small movements. Her face had almost no expression - as if she didn't know how to formally respond. It was as if the normal rules of conduct and personal expression were not important. She didn't speak. She stayed there - quiet, and yet totally aware.

"Or," I said, "I may send you a message that says: 'Late, tonight.'" She nodded her head, as if she expected me to say this.

I said: "And then you will know, that sometime on that night, I will let myself in... And I will find you in bed."

I waited a moment for her to consider my proposition - or was it more truthfully, a demand? And then I added: "And I want you to be ready, and waiting for me..."

There was a pause. The new ideas and expectations were crowding out the older thoughts behaviors. "Waiting - How?" She asked.

I didn't hesitate to answer. I looked her in the eyes, and she looked away, as our game finally collapsed and fell apart and into something else.

"Waiting, here on the couch, or in your bed... Dressed like my blow job provider."

I wanted her to satisfy all of my selfish desires, and my words were the clearest proof, yet.

She nodded her head, "Yes."

********************

The open secret was that I couldn't resist all of her. I had tried to keep her in that role, to control her and deny us some different and ultimate expression of sexual connection, for a least a short while. But it was me that fell apart. I tried to second guess her, and imagined that she needed that distance, yet I needed her more. All of her.

"Have you told your friends?" I asked her, already knowing the answer. She shook her head slightly 'No,' not being able to speak.

My fingers were inside her, pumping her pussy gently, and lovingly. Her mouth was wrapped around my cock. Perhaps for a half-an-hour, I had been on the edge, cradling her head in my hands and watching as she nursed on me. We took out time, usually.

Yet sometimes, when I felt her waves crest, and her moans heighten, I also let go.

I couldn't help it. And then, after I recovered, I again mounted her face. Or sometime just spread her legs so I could feel her wrapped around me in a more complete way. "You haven't told your friends about the appointments you keep with me?"

"No," she fumbled.

"You haven't told them about why you need to get back home?"

"No," she sighed. "Not the real reason. How could I?"

Other times - often when it was very late at night and she was asleep in bed and her high heels were still on, and her nightie was barely covering her torso - my cock simply needed her pussy first and only. And so when I found her, I rolled her over and placed my hands on either one of her thighs, and opened her up. And then I pushed into her with no prelude. We never talked at those times. She had a certain role to play and her pussy - flooding and

needing

as well - was all that I demanded of her.

At those times, I wondered if she felt like I did: I was simply fucking her. And she was simply

that

girl, and only that girl.

She was my sex provider. She was my cock-milker. She was my on-call fellatist. She was a lovely woman, who also wanted me to control her in certain way. At times I held her hands over her head, as I had done that first day, and forced her to acquiesce and comply with my demands. The only pleasure she gave was with her mouth. I gathered she wanted to be adored and lusted after in a selfish and single-minded way. Those were the times she knew a man didn't care about her wealth, or what doors her family name opened.

I wanted to tell her what her name really was.

I hoped she recognized the way I looked at her when she wore that particular color of lipstick. I hoped that she felt the same things I did, when our eyes met as she sucked on my cock, and I urged her to stay right there, yet again. I had an impossible dream. I pretended that whatever bad things had happened to her with men over the years (and there were a few of those times) were simply being over-written by our time together. And our time mostly consisted of this... My hands in her hair, on her tits, and guiding her mouth. Or parting her legs. Of her looking at how big she made my cock, and then how much I wanted it inside her.

********************

She was still bashful when she spoke, which was okay, because I was still overwhelmed. "Tell me," I whispered. "Tell me your secret name."

It would always just stay between to the two of us... It was always going to be our secret.

She smiled, and she avoided my eyes, putting on a demure front which I adored. She tried to change the subject. She said, "You already know," and looked away, as if talking about it in the aftermath was somehow more revealing than the actual act itself. I gently prodded, again.

"Remember when you said you liked it when a man takes control?"

Yes. She smiled and looked away.

"Do I do that with you?"

She looked at me. She nodded her head.

"Tell me," I said. "What do I make you do? Whisper it in my ear."

She said, "It's what my name is..." She came close to me, and I could feel her breath on my neck, and near my ear. She gathered her courage. She thought about saying it... she thought about pulling away. Then I heard the words gently drop from her mouth: "I'm just your blow job girl."

We both knew she was much more than that, but the rest of it would have to wait before we could say it out loud.