HELLO, MY NAME IS…
codes: MF



HELLO, MY NAME IS…
By Christof Bour


"HELLO, MY NAME IS LULU DIMARCO."

What a great name, he thought, as he gazed at the adhesive tag on her
left breast. What great breasts, he also thought.

She stood at the booth table, examining the items there, all the
ridiculous paraphernalia his company was hawking, most of it silly. She
was wearing a knee-length dress, sleeveless. Her bare legs were pale
and nicely muscled, as were her arms. Her shoulder-length brunette hair
framed an oval face, fair skinned, large brown eyes, small nose, pouty
mouth.

She looked up from the display and smiled at him. For a moment he
forgot why he was here. His eye glanced quickly at her left hand. There it
was: a huge rock, plus a thin gold wedding band. Then she was gone.
*
"HELLO, MY NAME IS PETER JONES."

Forgettable name, she thought, but a cute face. His hair was a little
shaggy for a white collar guy, a touch of gray at the temples. He
looked good in that dark suit, the pale blue shirt, the subtle tie. Very
tasteful.

She was on her lunch break and was looking around at the other booths
at the convention. It felt good to walk. It felt even better to receive so
many longing looks from the men here. She had grown accustomed to being
ignored by her husband.

She waited for Peter Jones to say something, to tell her about his
wares, but he was ignoring her, so she moved on to the next booth.
*
He took his break an hour later. He was starving, but instead of
rushing to the concession stands, he took a walk around the convention center,
trying to find her. Lulu.

Her booth was in the far corner, not a good spot, and yet there was a
small crowd gathered there. Then he noticed that the crowd consisted
entirely of men. Young, good looking men, most of them, in their blue
power suits and red ties. They asked her questions just to hear her
talk. She responded professionally, but there was the occasionally
flash of teeth, a laugh, a toss of her hair.

He stepped up and pretended to take a look at her items.

"Any questions?" she asked.

She was smiling. He thought it might be a little more than professional
courtesy. He had a vision of his wife back home, sitting on the sofa
watching soap operas. Then the vision was gone.

"Just looking," he replied. He picked up a brochure with his left hand,
making sure to flaunt his wedding band. He wanted her to know. That
way, if she were to appear later, everything would be on the up and up.
*
So he was married, too, she thought. Did it even matter? Even if he
were single, she'd still be committing a sin.

After he left the booth she found herself thinking of him. He had a
nice way of holding himself, as if he were comfortable in his own skin. That
was rare. For the rest of the day she waited for him to return to her
booth, but he never did.

That night there was a party in the ballroom of the hotel. Open bar,
buffet, bad music. She spent longer than usual preparing, shampooing
her hair, applying lipstick just so, checking and rechecking her outfit.
When she entered the ballroom she was immediately set upon by several
men offering to get her a drink. She shook them off and made her way
around the room.
*
He was just about to leave the party when he caught sight of her. He'd
been waiting almost an hour. He didn’t like these parties, being shy,
and half hoped she wouldn't show up. But then there she was, in a red
dress that stopped just short of her knees. Her legs were a mile long.
He watched as men descended upon her. Surprisingly, she refused their
offers and moved farther into the ballroom.

He finished his gin and tonic and moved toward her. As he got closer,
he was tempted to keep on going, back up to his room, to play it safe. But
he kept on course, his eyes glued to her face. She had not spotted him
yet. He decided that if she did not make eye contact with him by the
time he was five feet away, he would forget about her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"Can I get you a drink?" she asked.

"I was just about to ask you that."

*
They remained at the corner of the bar for an hour and a half, huddled
close so as to hear over the loud music. They started off talking
business, but moved quickly to travel, and then finally to their home
lives. She told him about her husband, the former football player, as
handsome as a movie star, and an indifferent schmuck. She was glad to
hear that he was in a similarly bad marriage, his wife depressed and
uncommunicative.

"When was the last time you had sex?" he asked after his third
cocktail.

"Can't remember," she told him.

"I can." She waited for him to continue. "Two years ago," he said.

"That’s a long time."

She was ready to go upstairs with him, but wanted him to suggest it.
She was old-fashioned in some ways.

*
He was desperate to be with her. But he could feel the guilt already, a
wave washing over him just for thinking about it.

"I'd love to make love with you," he confessed. "But…"

She smiled warmly. "Is it your wife?"

He nodded.

"That's very sweet."

She finished her glass of white wine—her third—and turned away. He
could see she was thinking. Maybe she was going to give up on him, move on to
some other, more available, man.

She turned back to him and said, "We could go up to my room. There's
two beds."

"What would we do there?" he asked.

She shrugged. "We'll think of something."

*
The elevator ride up was torture. There were three other people in the
car. Peter stood close to her, his hand lightly brushing against her
side. She wanted to take it and press it to her breast.

At the 14th floor, they got off together. He followed her to her room,
half a step behind her. She could hear him breathing. She could also
hear her own heart in her ears.

She opened the door, switched on the light. There were two full-size
beds, four feet apart. The large window looked out on the drab city
below.

He followed her inside and remained standing near the door.

"I shouldn't be here," he said.

"Me, either."

There was an awkward pause. She wished he would throw aside all his
guilt and run at her, knock her down on the bed, tear off her dress.

*
He felt helpless. There she was, gorgeous in her red dress. It felt
like lighter fluid was running through his veins.

"Take off your clothes," she told him.

"What?"

"Don't worry," she said. "Just take them off."

She flipped off her shoes, then reached back and unzipped her dress.
She peeled it off and stepped out. Her breasts were held snug in a red bra.
Her panties were a matching red, with thin lace around the edges.
"I wore these for you," she told him. "Do you like them?"

"Very much."

He hadn't moved. Finally, he removed his jacket, undid his tie. He
kicked off his shoes.

"Don’t forget your socks," she said.

He slid them off. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it off and
tossed it onto a chair. He unfastened his belt, then paused.
"Go on," she said.

Seeing her like this, he felt his cock stir. He was self-conscious
about his penis. It wasn't small, but it wasn't large, either. It was
depressingly average, at best. Would she be disappointed?

*
When he removed his trousers, she could make out his erection pushing
out his boxer shorts.

"Good," she said. Then she undid her bra. She was happy with her
breasts. They were not large, but not small. Just right, she thought,
with small, pink nipples. She could see he liked them, also. There was
movement in his boxers.

"Your turn," she said.

His face was pink. She took her left breast in her hand and squeezed.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she said.

She ran her other hand down her flat belly toward her panties. His face
grew more pink.
"On three?" he asked.

"Okay."

She held the elastic band of her panties. He did the same with his
shorts.

"One," she said.

"Two," he said.

Her heart stopped for a moment.

"Three!" they cried in unison.

The first thing she noticed was that the air felt cool on her moist
pussy lips. She watched him standing there, his hands uncomfortably
held at his sides. His cock was not big, but it was hard, very hard. Her
husband had a big cock and she considered them over rated. What was it
Abe Lincoln said? Your legs need only be long enough to reach the
ground?

"Okay dokey," she said. "Let's sit down."
*
She sat on the edge of the far bed, facing him, and gestured for him to
take the other bed. He sat down, feeling his cock tap lightly against
his belly.

He was hypnotized by her body. The alabaster skin, the pert breasts,
the little swath of dark hair between her legs. He'd never seen such a
beautiful woman.

"I'm going to assume you're an old hand at self-pleasuring," she said.

He laughed. "You could say that."

"Me, too," she said.

She opened her legs slightly, showing him the thick lips of her pussy.
They glistened with wetness. She put her hand over them and rubbed
lightly. Her head tilted back a little as she moaned.

His cock throbbed. He touched it, ran his hand over the shaft down to
his balls.

With her free hand Lulu caressed her breasts, rubbing them until her
nipples stood upright.

His balls tightened. He felt like he could come right now. He looked
past her to the window, the sky lit up by downtown lights. But he
couldn't look away for long. He watched her roll her clit between her
fingers.

*
She liked watching him stroke his cock. She imagined his hand was her
mouth, taking it in, from tip to base. His balls looked tight, a small
leather sack. She wanted to grab it, squeeze it hard, make him squirm a
little.

Her fingers were soaked now. She lay back on her elbows and inserted
two fingers inside her pussy. It felt warm and soft and wet. She reached
upward and tapped at her g-spot. "Yesssss," she hissed as a shudder
went through her.

She watched him change his grip, knuckles facing upward, as he
continued stroking his cock. His mouth hung open slightly, his tongue at the
corner of his lips. His chest rose and fell as he pumped. She wondered
what it would be like to have her pussy wrapped around that perfect
cock. She pictured it moving in and out of her, shiny and wet with her
juices.

"Mmmmm…"
*
He felt himself getting closer. His cock, unbelievably, was even harder
now. He felt he could cut glass with it. He could break a concrete
block.

Her fingers were moving in and out of her cunt, her thumb rubbing
roughly at her clit. Her whole hand was soaked. He could smell her from
here, a thick, pungent aroma pouring out of her.

"Don’t you come yet," she said. Her eyes were hard, boring at him as
she concentrated.

He slowed his strokes, hoping to delay his orgasm. The muscles in his
groin were so tightly coiled he thought he might shoot his cum all the
way across the room. He pictured her doused with it. It was just
seconds away.

"Not yet," she repeated. "Not quite yet…"

Her hand moved like a piston. Her breasts bounced. Her face went pink,
then red.
"Three," she said. Then, "Two…"
*
It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. But she desperately
wanted to see him. She prayed that he would keep his eyes open, too.

"One!"

She came in three waves. With the first came a thick gush of juices, a
veritable waterfall that poured past her fingers and onto the bed. With
the second, another, interior sort of wave rolled up her belly and
washed over her tits. It was at this point that she saw him shoot a
thick wad of cum onto his chest and stomach. Then her third wave,
smaller but in some ways the most intense, rose up inside her pussy,
then quickly crashed.
*
He kept coming. Great gobs of jiz splattered onto his stomach. More and
more of it poured from the tip of his cock, like a fountain, onto his
hand. He could feel the muscles spasm inside him as they forced the
stuff out. He pointed his cock forward and a thick jiz ticker tape
spurted onto the carpet.

When he was tapped dry, he fell backwards onto the bed.

*
An hour later, when she woke up, the room smelled like an orgy had
occurred. The air was humid with it. Her body was sore, her thighs
still wet and sticky. Peter lay on the other bed, sleeping soundly. His cock
lay shriveled between his open legs.

Tomorrow there was a breakfast. She wasn't sure she would attend.
Afterward, there was a plane to catch.

Peter snored softly across the room. She smiled and shut out the light.
Maybe she would see him tomorrow. Maybe not. For now, she would let him
sleep.


© 2007 Christof Bour