What’s in a Name…

My Master calls me by my full name. Though Delilah is not my real name, imagine that everyone calls me “Di” and only he calls me Delilah. Nobody has called me by my full name for most of my life, and hearing it from his lips is just another example of a way he has claimed me like no other ever has. I hear his smooth voice purr my name and I positively melt.

The other night, as we had a simple, vanilla chat, I noticed that he was using my name. Using it a lot. He would start one sentence with my name, and end the next with it. And the reason I became so aware of it was because I was getting progressively more wet. I had a flash of embarrassment because we were not having such moments and yet there I was getting hot and spicy. In my head I found myself thinking “Good god, woman, are you ALWAYS on???”, knowing full well that the answer was, and always is, YES. But still, we were chatting about things not at all sexual and I was starting to drip.

He’d used it about 4 times and I’d finally made a comment, which he laughed off. Upon the fifth time I heard it I was suddenly, and with no warning, completely naked. As if he’d snapped his fingers and my clothing had evaporated. Then I knew why I’d reacted so strongly to my name – he’d been using it to trigger something in me. And like that I was naked for him. And still dripping.

But when I commented on it to him I suddenly found myself fully dressed again. This is something I often struggle with: I cannot trust my senses to ever tell me the truth, as my master can control what I see and hear and smell as easily as telling me to kneel. So I sat on the couch completely unsure – was I really dressed and the naked had been a mirage? Or was I really naked and only thought I was dressed? He delighted in my conundrum as I sat and fretted. But at least he admitted that yes, my name had been some kind of trigger.

So I wasn’t surprised that he continued to use it, over and over. Or that I got progressively more excited. I could easily use the term “sopping wet” to describe myself eventually, though I couldn’t know what else was happening to which I was oblivious.

A few more uses and once again I was given the clue, this time when I heard my name and found myself slavishly shoving my fingers into my cunt, and then licking them clean enthusiastically. Once I was finished moaning and gasping and licking and sucking I laughed at the surreal moment I’d experienced, but he was far from done.

I don’t remember how the rest of the evening unfolded exactly – these kinds of nights often get a little muddled in my sex-rattled head. I remember moving to the floor, on my knees like a good slave. I remember shoving all four of my fingers into my cunt – something I’m not sure I would have expected that I could even do – and then pulling them free to clean them with my mouth while my other hand burrowed into my cunt even deeper. Back and forth I fucked my cunt with my fingers as my mouth slurped my juice off of my other hand. One hand fucking, the other being sucked, and swap and swap and swap…

He left me there, moaning and whimpering and writhing on my knees, as he built himself to his own orgasm. I loved the feeling of helplessness, knowing that my sounds were inspiring his own pleasure and that was all the purpose I served at that moment. When he uses me I have value. The most value I ever have.

At last I remember hearing him cum, and it filling my mouth the way he does. I know it’s not real – he’s not even on this continent – but each time he fills my mouth with his hot, delicious cum I shudder from the taste and feel of it. Still, though he’d reached his goal I continued to be on the ragged edge of climax, still wriggling on my spot on the floor. Master said the words I longed to hear.

“Cum for me.” And I did.