tagMatureWhat's in a Name?

What's in a Name?

byHelenofTroy©

"Hello, Mr. Allan." Mrs. Richardson was out in her garden and took a moment to straighten up and wave at her next door neighbour as he got out of his car.

Mr. Allan was, frankly, what she considered to be the exact model against which a gentleman should be measured. He was always clean and well-groomed, with a handsome face and body that he obviously took very good care of. He always wore either a nicely tailored business suit to work or a sweater-vest that usually seemed to just work. He left his house at 7:15 in the morning every morning, and returned every day at 6:15.

Whenever he spoke with Mrs. Richardson he was always the picture of grace and charm. He would smile and perform a little bow with his head to acknowledge her presence, then wave at her and ask how her day was. He even noticed little things that Mr. Richardson never would, like the way her roses were blooming this year, or the new creeper she'd gotten for the side of the house. His eyes would light up just a little with a smile when she went on about her gardening or her children, subjects which she was sure bored him to tears, subjects which did bore Mr. Richardson to tears.

On top of that he had a well-paying professional job downtown, but wasn't overly rude or ostentatious about it. He drove a minivan like many of the other people on the street even though he wasn't married, or even as far as she knew seeing anyone. Instead, he was the soccer coach for the girl's soccer team at the local High School. Mrs. Richardson had, of course, insisted that her nineteen year old daughter Amy join the team so she could learn some manners and grace from Mr. Allan, and sometimes it even seemed to be working...

In all, Mr. Allan was a perfect addition to their little neighbourhood. He even sat on the neighbourhood council, and had gone a long way towards modernizing their Block Watch program.

Sometimes, like now, when Mrs. Richardson was close enough that Mr. Allan's clean, masculine scent filled her senses and his smile seemed to be the entire world, she wondered what it would be like if he decided to court her. Mr. Richardson would have to be out of the way, of course, but this was a fantasy, and she could imagine many ways that Mr. Richardson might be out of her life.

He would, of course, start by leaving a discreet note in her mailbox at a time when no one would notice his coming and going. She would wake up one morning to go out to the garden and wave good bye to him as he headed to work, and there it would be waiting for her when she checked the mail. It would be on his personal letterhead, and when she held the paper to her nose she would be able to detect the faintest hint of lavender.

He would profess his desires to her in simple, romantic language, comparing her to the sun and the sky and all of the snowflakes on a January morning. She would press it to her breast and smile and would, of course, accept.

One night he would come over, dressed in his best suit and smelling a little of lavender like his note, and he would bring her flowers. Mr. Richardson hadn't done anything so simple as that in a long time, and she found herself getting a little fluttery at even the idea of someone bringing her flowers. Well, he would bring her flowers, and she would treat him to a luxuriant home cooked meal. Amy, of course, would be out with friends, or at the movies, or something else that nineteen year olds did in their spare time.

He would not, of course, proposition her on the first date. That would not be gentlemanly. Instead, he would give her a chaste kiss on the lips and run his hand along her back, comforting her and reassuring her that he would be back again.

Only after a few dates would he press his intentions. Mrs. Richardson, not being easy, would of course not accept the first time. She would put him off and feed him desert, and he would know from her subtle hints and flirts that of course she wanted to, but she couldn't, not yet.

He would continue to pursue of course. Not in a vulgar manner, and not pressuring her, but he would be charming and gentle about it and, eventually, she would acquiesce. Without another word he would scoop her up in his strong arms and carry her towards the stairs. While he carried her, she would be able to feel the rippling of his fit biceps and the warm strength of his chest while it flexed and he held her against him. Mr. Richardson's muscles hadn't rippled or flexed in years.

When they finally got to her room, he would not in insist on turning on the lights, letting her keep her dignity instead.

His strong, but gentle, hands would undress her with care and slowness, allowing her to relax into it while he coaxed pleasure into her skin with brief caresses and kisses. His lips would be soft and warm and would meander across her cheeks, her ears, her neck, and her shoulders. He wouldn't go lower of course, not yet, he would stay near her head while he undressed her and carefully set her clothes aside.

Then she would lie back on the bed and in the darkness she would be able to see him smile as he took his clothes off. Unlike Mr. Richardson, he would know how to please a woman, and wouldn't jump right to the act itself, not yet. Instead, his hands and his lips would explore her body and discover everything about her. He would kiss the high, pert mounds of her breasts, and would suckle on her nipples. His hands would caress her sides, bringing tingles of joy and pleasure all along her body, and he would take the time to massage the entire length of her sensuously curved back.

Then, teasingly, he would make his way down her stomach and begin to kiss her belly button. His hands would explore lower, almost touching the curly brown hair between her legs, but then he would laugh softly and begin to lavish attention on her legs. She would squirm a little in frustration, but let him continue, not wanting to be vulgar of course.

Eventually he would come to it, and she would feel his warm, inviting mouth between her legs. He would kiss her inner thighs, and caress the skin around her sex, and then she would feel his lips on her nether lips. He would start slow, kissing and suckling on her and arousing her passion carefully but inexorably. Eventually he would start to tease her clit out from its hiding place, and then to suck on and lick it.

Being a gentleman, he would pleasure her as long as it took for her to orgasm. She would cry out his name and he would taste her juices, and it would be wonderful. Then, like a gentleman, he would take her in the missionary position.

Mr. Richardson never did, of course. He liked to do it 'doggy style', and while she admitted that it did feel nice to have her husband's organ filling her from behind while he squeezed her cheeks, she would like to do it in a calmer, more intimate way sometimes.

Mr. Alln, of course, would know exactly what to do. His weight would rest on top of her, making her feel safe and protected, and he would thrust into her slowly, taking the time to part her gently and let her get used to the feeling of him inside her. Then, while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear and held her in a firm embrace, he would make love to her. Slowly, surely, they would build to a mutual climax until the two of them could take it no longer and he spilled his seed inside of her while she reached orgasm again.

Afterwards, he would lie in bed beside her and hold her and they would fall asleep in each other's arms, basking in the warm afterglow of their love making. Being a gentleman, and not wanting to impugn her honour, he would of course leave before the morning so no one would know he'd been there that late, leaving a little note or love token for her to find when she woke up.

"Hello Mrs. Richardson."

Mrs. Richardson started, realizing she had been daydreaming, and smiled at Mr. Allan. He was close, and she wondered if she had been staring dreamily off into space. Then, she wondered if he could smell the musky scent of her arousal... and was a little mortified at what he might think.

"Your roses are looking lovely this year. How do you do it?"

"Oh, you know, old family secret." She winked and laughed and hoped that nothing showed on her face about how she'd just been thinking about this man.

"Well, I only wish I could garden half as well as you." Mr. Allan smiled and tipped her another of his little head-bows, then headed towards his house. Mrs. Richardson felt a little ashamed about watching the way his well-toned buttocks looked when he walked away, but he couldn't see her watching.

*

Amy, Mrs. Richardson's youngest daughter at nineteen, and the only one still living at home, sat in her upstairs room surfing the internet. She had one hand on the mouse, clicking through sites, and the other was slid down inside her shorts. Her fingers rested just outside the thin material of her thong and slowly, methodically, she massaged herself.

She wasn't trying to get off, necessarily, just to provide a bit of a distraction from the relatively boring activity of surfing the internet. Sometimes she got seriously into it, and then she would go to erotic story websites and work her way towards getting herself off, but for the most part she just liked the little feeling of pleasure that accompanied a good surf.

Today she was looking at movie stars and imagining what it would be like to live with them.

"Hello, Mr. Allan."

Amy nearly jumped out of her seat when her mother's voice drifted up from the yard. Pulling her hand out of her shorts, Amy wheeled her computer chair over to the window and took a peak outside. Right on time, Bob, her next door neighbour, was home. He was just getting out of his vehicle when Amy's mother greeted him.

Amy made a bit of a face at the looks her mother was giving Bob, wondering what he thought of a married woman fawning over him like that. Of course, Amy's mother had taken care of herself over the years and was still quite beautiful, but still... yuck. Besides, Amy heard her parents doing it often enough that she sometimes thought even Bob could hear them.

Then Amy glanced at Bob, and a tight little knot of excitement coiled up in her stomach. She had the overwhelming urge to dash out of her room and run downstairs to greet him, but of course she squashed that urge before it could blossom. She couldn't seem too eager, or else her parents might think there was something up, and so she had to content herself with going back to the computer and half-watching as the websites clicked by.

She couldn't even do her makeup to look nice, otherwise people might start to wonder. What would her parents do if they thought she had a crush on her coach? She was terrified at the thought of not being allowed to be on the soccer team anymore, so she kept herself firmly sat in the chair and looking for all the world like a bored teenager.

Amy squirmed out the next half an hour, pretending like she was looking for juicy gossip in case anyone decided to burst into her room. Then, exactly thirty minutes after Bob got home, she jumped up, quickly closed off her various web browsers and headed for the door of her room.

"Hey mom?"

"Yes dear?"

Amy kept a normal pace as she came down the stairs and peaked into the kitchen at her mother. Her father was sitting at the table and had a bit of a blush on his face; Amy knew that he'd been feeling his wife up before Amy came down the stairs.

"Coach said I should come over and work on some drills with him tonight. When's dinner?"

"Dinner's at nine, honey." Mrs. Richardson stopped stirring whatever was in the pot on the stove and smiled over at her daughter. "It's so nice to see you taking an interest in your soccer."

"Hey, wait a second." Her father, who always had to face that admiration in his wife's eyes whenever people talked about Robert Allan, suddenly chimed in. "Doesn't that mean you're not doing very well?"

"No, dad." Amy smiled her sweetest smile at her father, the one that usually sidetracked his train of thought. "In fact, he says that I'm good enough to make a varsity team with a full scholarship and everything!"

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Richardson rushed over and enfolded her daughter in a big, mom hug. Amy was glad of the smell of cooking food that filled the house, otherwise her mom would have immediately smelled the arousal that was coming off Amy in waves.

"Erk.. thanks mom." Amy laughed and disentangled herself, then headed for the door. "Catch you guys later."

"... catch you later too, honey."

Amy smiled to herself and slipped on her shoes. She hadn't lied, not really. Bob did say she was good enough to make a varsity team, and had in fact started going through the process of applying for her. He had not, however, asked her to come over and work on drills.

The walk from her front door, up Bob's driveway, and to his door seemed to be the longest in her life. The little knot of excitement grew with every step, as did a bit of unease. Of course she was just going over to Bob's for some drills, of course this was a perfectly teacher-student thing to do. But what if someone started asking questions?

No time to worry about that, there's the doorbell.

"Hello, Bob." Amy smiled up at Bob, but it was not the smile she'd given her dad. This one was... saucy, with Amy biting her lower lip coquettishly and batting her eyelashes ever-so-sweetly. This one spoke of the blossoming womanhood that was evident in her high, tight breasts, her flat stomach and her temptingly curved hips.

"Why hello, Amy. It's nice to see you." Bob smiled blandly at her and stepped aside. "Would you like to come in?" He took a step to one side and gestured for her to come in. Nodding, Amy did so.

Bob headed into his living room while Amy came in and closed the door. Then she turned to the closet and bent over to undo her shoes.

"Amy!"

"Yes, Bob?" Amy giggled and spread her legs so she could bend over farther and look through them. Bob appeared framed by her long, girlish legs, looking at her with what looked like a bit of shock.

"Does you mother let you go to school in that outfit?"

The outfit in question was just on the borders of good taste. Besides the sneakers, Amy wore a pair of tight little shorts that clung to her as if they had been glued on. They barely came down to cover the taut curves of her ass, and were ripped and shredded at the bottom. They had, of course, come ripped right off the store rack. Her shirt was a white button-up blouse that she'd tied against her midriff in the naughty-school-girl style, and in all she left very little to the imagination.

"Why? Do you like it?"

"It's disgraceful." There was laughter in Bob's face as he said it, though, and Amy felt some of the tension drain from her. She was never sure if it would be Bob or Mr. Allan who opened the door, but he knew what he was doing of course.

"Oh." She pouted a little, and then went back to undoing her shoes. She didn't take the time to straighten up, and from the occasional glance she stole at him, Bob didn't look away either.

"Take it off."

"What?" Amy stood up and feigned a look of shock, putting her fingers against her mouth and letting her eyes go big and round.

"A young lady like you shouldn't go around dressed like that." Bob clucked his tongue and waved his finger at her. "So take it off." Then he winked.

Amy smiled and followed him as Bob headed into the living room. His drapes were heavy and usually remained closed, ostensibly because he didn't want people seeing the wealth there. And wealth there was.

Even the couches looked expensive; they were big and plush and were, Amy knew, extremely comfortable. The coffee table was made of ebony and probably cost more than Amy had earned in her life, and his home theatre system was enough to make anyone jealous.

Bob parked himself in one of the large, plush chairs in the living room and gestured for her to stop. Amy stopped. Then he made a twirling motion with his hands, and Amy flounced around in a circle, making a point to wiggle her hips provocatively.

"Yes, indeed, there's nothing for it." Bob shook his head and settled back into the chair. "You're completely hopeless, you know that Amy?"

"Oh... I'm sorry Bob. Look, I'll get out of it now, okay?"

Amy didn't move that quickly, though. Instead she took a couple of steps over to the coffee table and scooped up the remote for his stereo. Clicking it on, she switched it to the CD that she knew he never took out.

Immediately the room was filled with a slow, steady, grinding beat. She didn't know where Bob got his techno, but this was good stuff. House-inspired with a huge amount of bass, it didn't flop around frantically like some songs did, and instead drove the listeners steadily, inexorably, to dance.

Amy followed the music and began to grind her hips in slow circles, sliding her hands up her lithe form in the process. Soccer had made her body trim and fit, with a flat stomach and small, pert breasts which drove the boys at school out of their minds. She flaunted it now, caressing her stomach shamelessly and then letting her hands rise, playing with the front of her shirt, and then tangling in her thick, luxurious hair.

As the beat drove on, she started to move closer to Bob, twirling herself in circles even as her hips rotated to their own beat, taking her slowly, gradually, temptingly towards her seated neighbour. Then, like he'd asked, she started to take her shirt off. She undid each button slowly, taking the entire course of a single turn to flip the button off, and each time she revealed more of her creamy, white cleavage.

Although there wasn't a lot of it, she displayed it to its best effect with an almost dangerous push-up bra, and the little V of skin between her breasts was the subject of many a boy's attentions. When the shirt was completely undone, she let it fall to the floor where she stood, and then stopped moving forward.

Slowly she turned in a circle, until she was facing the window and not Bob, then she reached around behind her and started to undo her bra. There were three clasps, and she took her sweet time with each. The music got louder, deeper, more insistent, and it was a struggle to keep her movements controlled and purposeful. Still, she managed it, and after what seemed like forever her bra fell to the floor, too.

She didn't turn around yet, though, instead she started to lower herself. With twists and turns she squatted to the floor, her hands working the buttons and zipper on her pants while she pointedly forced Bob to look only at the slim curves of her back. She could feel his eyes the entire way, thought, and they were like two points of fire between her shoulder blades, willing her to give up the dance and run to him.

She resisted though, instead slipping her shorts off as she stood back up. The effect was that she seemed to stand right out of them, stepping out of them at the last moment and tossing them to one side.

There she stood, clad only in a thong which rode up between her ass cheeks and left very little to the imagination, and she could feel the heat building between her legs. The mound of her pussy almost literally ached with desire, and she knew that Bob could tell from where he was sitting. She controlled the urges, though, knowing that it would be better in the end if she let it build until she couldn't stand it anymore.

So she started to turn, twisting and writhing now with the music, letting her hands roam freely across her body and her feet take her towards Bob. She heard his excited intake of breath when he finally caught sight of her breasts, and she could feel his eyes roaming over them. He took in their white curves, the two little points of her nipples, and the pink circles that surrounded them. His eyes were like physical contact, though, and she almost felt like he was touching them now, arousing her desire with his expert fingers and mouth.

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