What's In A Name?
written by:
Naughty Miranda

He was soft, but I was greedy.

His cock was a spicy wet noodle, soaked in my juices and still tender from his orgasm. But I folded him into my mouth regardless, gently sucking all the way down to his so-recently emptied balls, with just enough pressure that I knew he couldn't ignore me.

And he didn't.

There is something so very, very wonderful about feeling a man growing hard in your mouth, a motion that is almost imperceptible at first, but undeniable too. He grows warmer and heavier, and you feel his thickness returning. And every man is different. Some take their time, stretching your mouth a little wider as they grow, but so deliciously, delightfully slowly that you can taste every nerve end as it sparks back into life. And others are simply transformed almost magically, a warm soft mouthful one moment, a rock hard rod in the next, so sudden that the impact of cock against your throat almost knocks the back of your head off.

Dave was slow, and I reveled in the moment, in the gentleness of his unstoppable growth, in the wave of fresh flavors that danced on my tongue as his skin began to stretch and little pockets of our moisture opened to my tastebuds. Then he started moving his hips, his hand pressing gently down on my head as I crouched above him, momentarily motionless but biding my time.

He had already fucked me to three stunning orgasms. Now it was my turn to treat him to something unforgettable. I continued to hold him in my mouth, my heart pounding as my jaw strained to hold him. I already knew he was big - my pussy bore witness to that, still feeling stretched and raw after the pounding he had given it. But he'd long since passed the point where I could even attempt to suck him, jamming my mouth so wide that it ached, and filling it so full that I was almost too frightened to move, in case I couldn't fit him in again.

Almost too frightened. But not frightened enough,

Slowly, I began to inch up his shaft, my fingers grasping the saliva-soaked flesh as it squeezed unwillingly out from my mouth. I bobbed a little, and was rewarded with a gentle moan as my fingers teased his scrotum. Then I surfaced, took a quick grateful breath, and extended my tongue to lick him.

And lick and lick and lick.

Because that, I knew, was what he really enjoyed. In fact, it was one of the first things about him that I ever discovered, before I'd ever even met him.

I was online, darting around Second Life with an avi (short for avatar) who, if I can boast for a moment, was (and is) pretty damned hot. She's about my age, about my height, about my shape and, what a surprise, about the same hair and eye color. The big difference is, I work in an office. She works in a BDSM club, an exotic dancer on a neon pole, with a seductive word for every guy who materializes in front of her, and a ready response for everyone who Instant Messages her with a question.

Well, for almost everyone. Dave... who isn't named Dave in SL, because who wants to be known by their boring real name?... hadn't spoken a word since he arrived in the club. Just stood by the stage, in front of me, hurling generous amounts of SL cash into the tipjar that lay alongside me.

I'd respond to every one, profusive thank yous, saucy responses, even the offer of a lapdance if he so desired. But not a word in return, not a nod of acknowledgement. And I know it's just a game that you play out on your computer screen, with pixels for people and fantasies for fun, but I was growing increasingly intrigued.

A word about Second Life sex. It exists. Most men in the game have bought a cock, and most girls have allowed a would-be suitor to buy them a clitoris too. One which responds when you click your mouse on it. (Not only clits, but boobs and asses too). And if that rocks your boat, go for it. You can buy or rent poseballs that simulate sex, and the place where I work has a fully equipped sex dungeon as well. I should know - it was me who equipped it.

Good Second Life sex, though, that's something else. That's where words replace deeds and emotions move in, and your avatars could be at opposite ends of the room, but a decent lover will leave you weak all the same. Right then, I didn't know which Dave would prefer; right then, I wondered if I'd ever find out. But then my IM pinged, and he finally spoke.

"Suck or lick?"

Well, it made a pleasant change from the usual "spit or swallow." I giggled to myself. I also completely misunderstood what he meant. I thought he was asking which I preferred, sucking cock or being licked. So I answered honestly ("both, lol"), and awaited his reply.

"Sigh."

I fired the question back at him. He answered "lick," and I responded accordingly. And again that same reply.

"Sigh."

Intrigued? Now I was downright fascinated. He told me what he liked (I thought) and I'd let him know that I liked it too. An answer, it turned out, that was completely wrong.

I did what I always do in times of Second Life stress. I removed some clothes and was immediately rewarded with the biggest tip yet. Yet when I left the stage and went to thank him, typing out movements and gestures that had made a hundred other guys all but cum in their boxers, he remained unmoved. And then he moved, back sufficient paces that my poor avi would have blushed if I'd ever got round to buying the necessary software.

I returned to my pole, and he advanced again. Another ding as he hit my IM.

"Do you suck or lick?"

Again, I misunderstood. Lesbianism is a lot more common in SL than I've ever found it to be in the real world - probably, someone once told me, because most of the lesbian women in the game are actually guys trying to be sneaky. You can usually catch them out pretty quickly; it doesn't matter how good a guy may be at walking and talking the female game, get him on his back with your tongue up his snatch, and his true nature will soon come tumbling out. Either that or he'll log off the moment he's cum, and that's the biggest giveaway of all.

"Suck," I replied. Because in one word, that's true. Although I've been known to....

"Lick."

I stared at his reply, wondering what I was expected to say. Then another message broke the silence.

"From my balls to my helmet."

I was suddenly feeling very, very wet.

"Yes, but not too quickly," I typed back, and he must have had his answer ready typed, because I'd barely hit the "send" button than he came back at me with "very slowly."

"Very, very slowly," I replied, and my mind gamboled around the reality of my words, the fact that he had just hit me with one of my favorite things to do in all the world. Relax with a hot, hard cock in my hand, and slurp that sucker like an ice cream cone.

I told him that, too, and more besides, and the rest of the evening passed by in a blur, dancing on the edge of what I suppose you could call cybersex, but never actually stepping into the realms of "doing" anything. Instead we talked of fantasies and dreams, ideas and inspirations, and it was strange. Normally when I meet somebody there, I can tell within moments whether or not I'm being played; if the things we seem to have in common are just him saying "me too" to everything I say; if the connection that we make is simply the thrill of talking dirty to a complete and utter stranger.

Dave did not feel like a stranger. And it didn't feel as though we were talking dirty, either.

He had to log to walk the dog (he said). But we agreed to talk again the next night, and one conversation became just one in a long stream, so many and so absorbing that more than once I was so wrapped up in him that I missed things that even my fellow dancers were saying. But he never asked me to leave my pole, and he never asked me to go any further. Maybe, I assumed, he just got off on the idea of talking sex with a stranger, and had no need to actually "do it."

He asked me if I Skyped; I didn't but I said yes, and I downloaded the software while we were still talking one night. I'd barely logged myself in, and told him I'd done it, than my first call came through, and that was so weird, still dancing in SL and talking to his avi, while a face that fit every inch of the person I'd imagined raised a glass of wine to his camera lens, and toasted "the girl who's even more beautiful than I expected."

Which sounds great until you start to wonder what he'd been expecting.

We agreed to meet. He didn't live nearby, but he wasn't so far that a few hours made a difference, and we arranged for him to come up the weekend after next. It couldn't be sooner because... well, because. He was divorced, but he had two kids and this was one of the weekend when they stayed with him. I told him I understood, because I did, and the funny thing is, I never doubted that he was telling the truth, anymore than I doubted he'd be with me in ten days. And believe me, that was an unusual response, because that's something else I learned from Second Life. There is the Truth, and there is the Internet Truth. And seldom the twain shall meet.

Dave was telling the truth. About his background, about his family, and... oh yes, about the things he liked.

The tip of my tongue had barely grazed his cock, and the moan he emitted was almost orgasmic in intensity. And that's orgasmic for me. There is no sound on earth I'd rather hear than a man responding honestly to the things I do, and when Dave moaned, it was as though the earth had opened up and sucked me into its warm, dark depths. The sound absorbed me, and I licked again, not wanting ever to be released from its grasp.

I could still taste myself on his skin, and my odor trapped in the hairs round his cock. I inhaled deeply and suckled his pubes for a moment, my mouth twitching to the wiry tickle as my tongue pushed through the forest and bathed his flesh. He was moving again, slowly grinding his ass against the mattress as I raised his cock in one hand and, lightly holding it in place with one finger pressed to the wide-open eye, I started licking in earnest.

I lacquered his cock, I drowned it, I swamped it. Every inch, every ounce, every crevice in the foreskin that rolled to my touch. And with every long, loving sweep of my hungry, languid tongue, he moaned and sighed and whispered my name... my real name, not the SL pseudonym that he occasionally used when we talked, for a laugh.

Sometimes his pleasure seemed almost exaggerated; other times, as though it masked a sudden pain. But when I looked in his face, his eyes all but cemented to the sweeping of my tongue, I knew that nothing about this moment was false, and that every move I made was enough to transport him to absolute ecstasy.

Which meant it was time to make sure he got there.

I began swirling my tongue around his helmet, spirals of teasing motion that only slowly sped up and grew firmer, more insistent. At the same time my hand began jacking him gently, my fist barely able to encompass his thickness, and looking so tiny against his fat length.

But I jerked as I circled and his hips were grinding harder, and I started lunging forward a little, catching the tip of his prick between my lips, loud plopping kisses that mingled with his moans. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, almost feminine in their relentless "uh-uh-uh"s as my tongue made its maddening circuits, brushing that spot at the back of the head where so many pleasure points come together as one.

He spoke my name again, wrapped around the name of the Lord; "Chrissie Chrissie... oh God, Chrissie..." and I engulfed him again, my own orgasm building round the rhythm of his words, wanting him inside me, deep deep within - and then I caught myself and released him, and started licking again, harder and faster, his prick thick and slicked, so that my tongue almost glided in the sheen on his cock, my spit and his precum cocktailed together, and still he was calling me, "Chrissie Chrissie Chris...." - and a moment of silence as his entire body tensed...

... and then he was cumming, a fountain of white that splashed hard on my face and thick on my lips, deep in my mouth and coating my tongue, and he finished the last word he'd been about to say, a long drawn out "teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen...; "Christine," like my mother if I'd done something wrong, or a teacher at school if I'd just flunked a test. And it surprised me because I don't think that a guy has ever used my full name like that, as the final vocalization of a sense-shattering orgasm, and because I know I've never cum because someone called my name.

But he did and I did, and as I collapsed exhausted onto his lap, tasting his cum and lapping for more, cleaning his cock as hungrily as I'd spent the last hour devouring it, I thought back to that first night we met on SL, when two absolute strangers with fictional names spoke the first words in a journey that had taken them so far, but was always destined to circle back to where it started.

"Suck or lick?"

Oh, I lick. And believe me, no-one can do it like me.