What's My Last Name?

1.

She had stopped trying to study at the library. She was tired of school and her dull classmates. They had no idea about her. They didn't suspect. They would never guess--how could they? Their awkward talk, their dull and limited vocabulary.

She had sampled two of the taller ones last semester: earnest, sweet boys who would one day each make a dull, suburban-minded woman blissfully happy with once-a-week missionary. The best thing she could say about them is that they didn't take too long, and they didn't fight when she kicked them out afterwards.

It was winter now. Literally and figuratively, she thought. The winter of her discontent. So with her backpack and books and laptop she trekked to the local coffee shop. She was halfway through a large cup of bitter black coffee when she had the presence of mind to notice her surroundings. Or, more accurately, notice him.

He must have sat down while she was outlining this last chapter, she hadn't noticed him come in. He was a table away, but she could smell his cologne. The scent reminded her of how men used to look to her when she was sixteen.

His face and his clothes matched his cologne perfectly.

But what really got her attention--what gave her pause and then inspired her to act--was what he was doing. He was sipping from a mug and occasionally turning the pages in a small, paperback novel with a plain cover that had no images, only words.

The Story of O.

Boldness rose inside of her. "I didn't know you could read a book like that in public," she said to the stranger.

He looked up from the book. He looked at her in the eyes and then she saw that his eyes quickly dart to take the rest of her in. He smiled.

"You can," he said, "because most people have no idea what it is about. Only the most discerning."

2.

Her heart was racing. They were walking down the hallway to his apartment, or so that's where he said he was taking her. The books and laptop in her backpack--normally such a heavy, awkward burden--felt light as a feather. Everything was light, it was almost unbearably light, just liked Kundera said it would be.

Their banter at the coffee shop had turned witty. Then it turned into flirting. Then he moved his chair to her table and they sat so close his knee rested against hers under the table while they took turns reading passages from The Story of O to each other in low, conspiratorial whispers. She checked his left hand for a ring, saw none, not even the trace of one. She inhaled the scent of him and she noticed the intimate signs of her own arousal.

"I live two blocks away," he said. "And I make better coffee."

"Prove it," she said.

He opened the lock of the door and said, "Be it ever so humble . . ."

She paused in the hallway, and did not move.

"Don't worry," he said in his smooth baritone. "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back." He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the apartment.

The first thing she noticed was that the apartment smelled like him. Also, it looked like a man's apartment, not like the perennially unmade boy apartments of her grad school life.

He made the coffee while she looked around his living room, reading the spines of his books. She had stopped being nervous. The solidity of the apartment--the hardwood floor, the rug, the furnishings--reassured her need for security. She looked at the pillows on the couch and thought--will he give me one of those to kneel on, or will he put me on my knees right on the rug?

She had no doubt that what he asked her to do, she would do. If he asked her to open her legs for him, she would. She would open them and show him the sweet secret of her pussy. He'd inhale her scent the way she had been enjoying his. She could already imagine the light stubble of his cheek against her inner thighs.

He returned with two coffees. They sat on the couch, making small talk, cradling their cups. After a few minutes she realized why he suggested coffee--because of how warm his hands were when they reached out to touch her. First, on the exposed skin of her arms. Then, lightly on her neck. Then, the side of her face. He told her she was pretty, he gave her some specific compliments that disarmed her, and before she could reply they were kissing. Rather: he was kissing her, slowly and then more insistently and she yielded into him, into her own lust, into the hard arousal that she could feel he had for her.

He took the coffee cup out of her hands and set it down on an end table. His arms enveloped her. He did not ask permission but he did not rush, either. He explored her form while they kissed.

"Show me how lovely you are," he said to her after awhile. "Stand up and let me see what you look like with less clothes."

"Yes, sir," she said.

She rose and stood in the middle of his living room. "First the sweater," he said.

He sat on the couch, watching her. She was acutely aware that she was the very center of his attention, now. She could feel the raw energy of his lust for her. She undressed in response to his directions--they were not orders, but they were not requests. She saw the bulge of his arousal, but his tone was calm and unhurried. He was savoring her. Savoring the perfections of her body and all of her flaws alike.

"Do you like stripping for strangers?" he asked. "There's a certain thrill," she replied.

"Ahem," he said.

"There's a certain thrill, Sir," she corrected.

"Good girl. Do you like giving men pleasure?"

"Some men, Sir" she said.

"Do you like sucking cock?"

"Love it. Sir."

"Do you like sucking a man's cock less than an hour after you meet him?"

"If he tells me to. If he wants me to, Sir."

"I going to fuck you, sweetie."

"I know."

"Sit in that chair," he indicated, "and show me how beautiful you are."

She did as he instructed. She laid back into the over-stuffed chair, opening her thighs reflexively.

It turned out the pillow from the couch was actually for his knees. She was right about his stubble.

3.

She slipped down the peaks of orgasm and coasted into that soft valley on the other side. Her awareness slowly faded back into the present. Here she was, caressed in the afternoon sunlight warming the living room. The living room of a stranger's apartment. Of a stranger's nice apartment, she corrected. She was adventurous. She smiled a hazy smile.

She realized that her hands were in his hair; it was short and soft, messy now, which helped show off the slight grey at his temples.

"You're a very sweet girl," he said, rising to his feet. He looked down at her. She lounged in the chair looking like Maggie the Cat.

"Thank you, Sir. And—THANK YOU, Sir."

"It's important to be a good host. Don't you agree?"

"Yes. I mean, yes, sir."

"You look like such a cute kitten."

"Meow."

"Luscious. Let me give you a tour of the rest of the house."

She took his arm and rose out of the chair. He guided her down the hall by resting his palm confidently on the part of her neck that joined with her back and shoulders. The warmth of his hand made the rest of her body feel cool by comparison. She jolted in a shudder that raised gooseflesh on her limbs and caused her nipples to harden even further.

He saw that and said, "Let me raise the heat in here," and made a quick adjustment to the thermostat.

"Raise the heat, I thought that's what we're doing," she quipped.

"Oooh, you're quick," he said, smiling, and dealt her a sharp spank on her bare bottom.

She let out a girlish yip.

"I like that," he said, and kissed her.

Sunlight illuminated the bedroom through a large picture window. The bed was under the window. The bed was nicely made with dark-colored pillows and a comforter, with the sunlight making another blanket atop all. It looked like a comfortable place to fuck a stranger. But he did not lead her to the bed.

First, she was first put on her knees. The carpet was soft. Good cocksucking carpet, she thought. The room gave off the air of masculine comfort, it was easy to relax and feel girly by contrast.

She was aware of how favorably this position showed off her breasts to him while he enjoyed the pleasures of her mouth and throat. From above her head, his encouraging words and moans of pleasure rained down on her, the aural proof of his pleasure and her skill.

His intensity built. And, then—he pulled away.

He bent down to her: "You are so fucking good at that," and kissed her hard. He touched her cheek, cupping her face in his palm. Another passionate kiss. Then his cock was presented again to her mouth, her mouth accepting the invitation with girlish modesty, her tongue playing his member with womanly cunning.

He broke her fellatio again. He dropped to his knees, grasped her lightly by her shoulders, kissed her slowly, then helped her lower down on to her back. The carpet was soft but scratchy.

"You give such good head I have to have you right here and right now you fucking beauty."

He rested himself atop her, one arm supporting himself, one arm resting on its elbow and cradling the top of her head gently and protectively with his hand. His knees lightly pressed against her thighs. Her thighs gently gave way in graceful consent. He leaned in—to kiss her, she thought—and rubbed his face into her neck, inhaling the scent of her, deeply. This is what this pill's for, she thought to herself. For adventures.

The lubrication from her spit smoothed his passage into her. Slow thrusts until she loosened around him and they found their harmony of pressure. He spoke in sharp epithets. She knew what that meant. Her cunt was too good for coherent thought. She was too good for coherent thought. She was going to short-out this charming man's mind.

"What's my last name?" he asked her. "What?"

"My last name. What is it?"

"I-I-I don't know."

"Exactly. So fucking hot."

"Okay. What's my last name?" she asked, picking up the game.

"No fucking clue. What's my address?"

She laughed. "Fuck! I don't know."

"What's my apartment number?"

"I don't know."

"Who am I?"

"I don't know."

"What you doing right now?"

"Getting fucked. I'm getting fucked. You're fucking me."

"What are you doing?"

"Getting fucked. Getting fucked. I'm fucking a stranger. I don't even know you and I'm fucking you. I don't even know you and you're going to come in me, aren't you? Aren't you?"

He was and he did and while he did he told her she was fucking beautiful.

THE END.