He called her "Gwyneth." Not to her face, and not because she really deserved it, but because her public persona almost demanded it. From the simple straight blond hair she wore sensibly pulled back, to the long flowing dresses she wore at candle-lit parties, to the wide-eyed loving looks she gave him as she clung to his arm possessively when other women flirted with him - in his mind, she was "Gwyneth," her real name be damned. In his mind she was "Gwyneth," and everything was all about her. For she had created him, had taken a badly-dressed, scrawny geek couch potato, brought him new clothes, dragged him to the gym with her, and turned him into a confident, handsome, muscular geek couch potato, a man whose arm she could look radiant on in public, a man who would cause no offense, a man others would look up to her for having. Sometimes she called him by his real name, and sometimes in that flitting winsome way of hers she called him "Cary," (to his face) after Cary Grant, though he could never see the resemblance for himself.

You might very well think that a relationship which is all about one of the people, a relationship which is all about fulfilling one of the people's unfillable (and worse, undiscussed) needs, a relationship in which real names are discarded in favor of references to movie actors, is a relationship in trouble. You might very well think that. I couldn't possibly comment. I will, however, tell you a story, or at least share with you a short slice of life and a few of the thoughts of our unnamed protagonist (who we will call "Cary" for purposes of this story) so that you might draw your own conclusions.

Our story begins on Gwyneth's birthday, which happened to fall on the same weekend that the apparently happy couple had rented a small townhouse together, and a scant eleven months after Gwyneth had rescued Cary from obscurity, recognizing the potential of the shy, ignored man in the corner at a friend's party. Gwyneth was Cary's first real girlfriend, and he wasn't sure what one does with or for a girlfriend on the weekend of her birthday when you've just moved in together. Fortunately, Gwyneth had solved the problem for him, letting him know that she had a standing dinner engagement with an old friend on her birthday itself, and was scheduling a combined birthday/housewarming party for the weekend after.

On the morning of her birthday Cary ate Gwyneth to what was (for him) an incredibly satisfying orgasm, her legs wrapped around his head, her hands clutching the bars of the bed, her head turned, her blond hair spread captivatingly on the pillow, eyes closed, biting her lip in angelic wantonness; then fed her an omelet and orange juice in bed, watching her eat with as much pleasure as he had watched her come. The rest of the day was spent largely in trivialities, a shopping trip for clothes, a food court lunch, some puttering around in the new garden. As evening fell he watched her prepare for her dinner out: showering, washing her hair, putting on the slightest makeup and jewelry while sitting naked at her dressing table. At her request he answered the door when the bell rang, Gwyneth still being quite unclothed in front of the mirror, a tube of lipstick poised fetchingly in front of her mouth.

Standing on the doorstep was a large man in a black leather jacket, with long curly dark hair, twinkling eyes, a disarming smile, a jovial handshake, and for some unfathomable reason, a glowstick dangling around his neck. The cheerful stranger, who introduced himself as Paul, broke into an even bigger smile and whistled as Gwyneth emerged from the bedroom. The dress, for Gwyneth, was daring, certainly more daring than anything she'd worn on any of her few dozen dates with Cary, revealing a great deal of leg and the clear outline of her otherwise unencumbered breasts. She smiled, hugged Paul, kissed Cary, said "don't wait up" and whirled out the door, leaving him for the first time alone in the new home to make himself dinner, which he ate on the couch, watching sports and movies until midnight when he finally fell asleep. An hour later, thinking he heard a noise, Cary awoke with a start, found the lights still on and Gwyneth still out, stumbled to bed, and fell again into fitful sleep.

Cary was awakened again (at what time he knew not, but there was a faint hint of morning in the air) by the rhythmic shaking of the bed. He found himself lying on his side, facing away from the center of the bed, the unmistakable sounds of Gwyneth masturbating coming from just behind him. He dared not turn over, picturing her instead as he had seen her so long ago that morning, but with her hands on her breasts and between her legs. He listened in silence, trying hard not to alter the pattern of his breathing lest she notice he was awake, quelling his excitement as her breathing reached a fevered pace, biting his own lip as she came, yet again. Twice, in one day, at least by his count.

Awakening for real, hours later, Cary could not bring himself to mention her dinner (he refused to call it a date) or her early morning handwork. Nor did Gwyneth volunteer any information as she flitted, bright and cheerful, about the house, dressed as plainly and properly and beautifully as always.

Every night that week they went to bed naked, and most of those nights Gwyneth attacked him the minute the light went out, sucking him and riding him with a ferocity Cary had not known she had in her, collapsing on top of him and then drifting off. Not once, before, during, after, or the next day, would they speak of their sexuality nor hardly even touch each other. He found it odd, and yet what they had was so exciting that he thought better than to question it, lest she disappear as quickly as she had entered his life in the first place.

The following Saturday, the day of the party, Gwyneth slipped from their bed early and began her preparations. All day she was cleaning, finishing the unpacking of the few stray boxes that were left from moving in, running errands, preparing food, decorating the house with candles and little twinkly lights, and generally shooing Cary out of the way, until he retreated to the couch to watch sports, movies, and from the corner of his eye, Gwyneth. An hour before the guests were to arrive she retreated upstairs to shower and change, admonishing him to put on "something nice."

Gwyneth, like the house, was radiant. She introduced Cary to every guest, showing him off with obvious pride. It occurred to him, after the 10th or 11th introduction, each one made with Gwyneth clinging to his biceps in her powder blue floor-length dress with an enormous smile on her face, that he had invited not a soul to the party, nor had he even been asked if he wanted to. He was to make four other mildly profound observations over the course of the evening: in the eleven months he had been dating Gwyneth he had never met any of her friends; every male guest was greeted with an exceptionally long hug; almost every woman asked "Have you known Gwyneth long?" and every time one of them started to get too friendly, Gwyneth would materialize beside Cary, and lead him away by the elbow. Despite the constant interruptions, Cary managed to socialize at what seemed to him (minus the rather intense flirting that everyone else was allowed to engage in) an extremely calm and refined party, and he did not worry for a moment what or whom Gwyneth might be doing, despite her obvious concerns about him.

That night Gwyneth rewarded his good behavior with the most incredible blowjob Cary had ever received. But all day and all night Sunday through Thursday she seemed distant and preoccupied, so Cary left her alone.

On Friday Cary arrived home to find Paul seated in his living room, his leather jacket on the coat rack, the glowstick again (still?) around his neck and Gwyneth in an extremely cheerful, if demurely dressed, mood, wandering back and forth between setting the table in the dining room and preparing food in the kitchen, with a smile on her face and her breasts swaying provocatively beneath the long gray dress. She kissed Cary, with a "Hi honey! Paul's here for dinner" and disappeared into the kitchen. Cary, somewhat confused, sat down in the chair closest to Paul.

Paul smiled ruefully, and shook his head, chuckling. "Man, man, man."

"What?" asked Cary.

"She didn't even tell you she'd invited me, did she?"

"Uh. No."

Paul took a sip of beer from his glass. "You come home, expecting a quiet evening with the missus, and instead you get me. Dude, you cannot let her push you around like that."

Cary stared, not quite sure how to take such advice, and pondering Paul's use of the phrase "missus," given that they hadn't even talked about marriage. "I can't?"

"Nope. It's not good for her. You let her get on a high horse like that and she'll be completely out of control. How well do you know her anyway?"

"I've known her eleven and a half months and been living with her for two weeks now. Why does everybody keep asking me that question?"

Paul shook his head again and put the glass down. "They ask you because you don't act like you know her."

"What do you mean?"

"You act like she's a fucking queen."

Cary was finding the conversation more and more bizarre the longer it went on, and yet he was hopelessly drawn into it. "Maybe she wants to be treated with respect?" he asked, instantly regretting his questioning tone.

"Respect yes, deference, no. People tend to confuse them."

"What do you mean?"

Paul stared at him. Stared at him hard. There was a sudden edge to his joviality that Cary had not noticed before. "I'll show you. But I'm not doing it unless you really want to know. Once you know, you know. It's done. You're not going back, and for some folks, ignorance is bliss. Are you one of them?"

Cary had completely lost track of the conversation. The question was ambiguous. Was he one of those people? Did he want to know anyway? He considered his answer carefully. Finally he spoke. "Yes, I am one of those people, but... I need to know."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Last chance to change your mind."

"I'm sure already!" Cary tried not to shout.

Paul did shout, but not at Cary. "Hey slut!" he yelled in the general direction of the kitchen.

Cary, having completely lost touch with reality, watched Gwyneth, smiling, demure Gwyneth, stick her head out from the kitchen and answer "yes, Paul?" Watched her walk to the couch and stand before him, legs slightly spread. Watched Paul's large hand snake up under her dress and cup her panty-clad ass. Heard them talk, as though through a fog, Paul's hand kneading her flesh beneath the dress the whole time...

"You've been a bad girl"

"I have? How?"

"Did you tell your boyfriend here I was coming to dinner?"

"No"

"Does he know anything about us?"

"No"

"Does he really know anything about you?"

"No"

"That's really not very nice of you is it?"

"No... oh" as Paul's finger grazed her clit and then "OH!" as his hand slapped her ass. Hard.

The rest of the evening was kind of a blur for Cary. He remembered having a drink, or perhaps a few. He seemed to remember Gwyneth (at Paul's insistence) serving them dinner topless, her small pointy breasts swaying excitedly as she walked back and forth to the kitchen. He remembered standing in front of the sink with Gwyneth brushing teeth while Paul wandered around their bedroom brushing his, the glowstick still hanging from his neck. He remembered wondering why Paul had brought a toothbrush to dinner. He remembered wondering why Paul was naked in his bedroom. He remembered thinking that Paul had an enormous cock. He remembered Gwyneth walking from the bathroom to the bed, smiling sweetly at him over her shoulder, pulling off her panties, jumping into bed, and turning out the light. He remembered Gwyneth's mouth on his cock, her ass in the air, illuminated by the faint light of the moon through the open window and the eerie green glow of Paul's glowstick which swung back and forth bouncing against Paul's chest as Paul fucked Gwyneth from behind, driving her forward, forcing her head down and over Cary's aching cock.

It may have been a blur, but it was a blur Cary could not forget. He was still remembering two days later as he sat on the couch next to Gwyneth stuffing wedding invitations into envelopes. He remembered that evening, but he still had no recollection of discussing marriage. He looked at Gwyneth, prim and proper, radiant, wide-eyed and loving. He looked at Gwyneth, looked at the invitations, remembered that evening, and wondered what the hell he was getting himself into.