Chapter 15: The Queer Clients of a Strange Succubus (R)

Part 1A

Standing in front of my new client’s door, I took a deep breath, a last run through of her information going through my mind. Satisfied, I gently knocked twice. No sound came from inside, yet I felt she was there, quietly coming to the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” she said, her voice timid, barely loud enough for me to hear.

“I am Lily, here as you requested.”

There was a long moment before she undid the chain and then opened the door ajar. She peered through the gap, her eye hiding behind a long fringe. I smiled politely, bowing to her.

“You are…” she said.

“Yes,” I said, knowing well the word she didn’t say.

As she let me in, I pretended not to notice the rosary beads around her neck, crucifix sticking out above her neckline. I followed her through to the lounge and her flat looked familiar, similar to some of my other clients. Almost bare, the only touch of personalisation sat on her desk. Outside of the computer monitor, keyboard and mouse, she had a half-drunk bottle of Fanta, and there was a (nearly empty) packet of Hobnobs. A few pieces of paper were strewn about—opened post she hadn’t thrown away—and a couple of sticky notes probably kept track of things she had to do. Otherwise, I thought the furniture had been there when she’d moved in, a cheap couch and glass coffee table covered in dust. Dim, the blinds let in some light, but not much.

I wouldn’t have said the smell was bad—she maybe needed to shower one more time per week, or take more care in her washing. My nose was well tuned to sweat, so I noticed the lingering odour more easily than a human would have. She seemed to at least have had the windows open now and then, but that might have had more to do with the recent heatwave than housekeeping.

The floor looked to have been vacuumed recently, albeit poorly. That was common for first visits, along with throwing away piles of pizza boxes and putting on makeup and brushing out hair. She looked like she’d tried, just not too hard. Clean hair, foundation. I doubted she’d worn that dress in months, years, nervously picking at the strap.

“You won’t… touch me?” she asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

Her half-hidden eyes didn’t quite meet mine, more looking over my shoulder. “You swear?”

“I do.”

She reluctantly led me to her bedroom. It was tidy, but I couldn’t say that the mess hadn’t been piled into the wardrobe or something like that. No clothes on the floor or cups on the nightstand—only a book. The curtains drawn, a warm light seeped around the edges, the darkness comfortable.

Without her prompting me, I lay down on her bed. It wasn’t a particularly soft or lumpy or otherwise noticeable mattress, pillow on the stiff side. Once used to it, I turned onto my side, facing the wall and closing my eyes.

It took her a minute to gather her courage, then she sat on the edge of the bed, my back to her. Slowly, she moved. The bed creaked, lightly jostled me. Finally, she touched me, her hand on my waist.

Like a plant in sunlight, her touch invigorated me, yet I made no noise, still.

Trailing her fingers along the side of my body, she stopped at my neck. I let out a long, quiet sigh. She moved closer, her leg bumping against the back of my leg. And she lay down behind me, her arm looping over my shoulder, a gentle embrace. Her breath touched my neck, warm.

For a bit, we stayed like that, then I felt my hair move, her nose tickling the back of my neck, the rest of her body pressing against me. Her arm pulled me closer. Warm—the day, her. She moved her head some more, settling into a comfortable position.

Desperate, her breaths came in shudders. I would have wondered how long it had been since she’d held someone so intimately if I didn’t already know that she never had.

“Am I weird?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to lie?”

“I make a point of being honest.”

In reply to that, she held me even tighter and gave in. My neck grew wet, her sobs muffled. I didn’t move. I offered her no comfort. I simply existed for her. In this moment, she wasn’t alone.

Many minutes passed like that, gradually calming down, almost drifting into sleep before she caught herself. She slowly sat up. I did too, still with my back to her. She wrapped both her arms around me, head resting on my shoulder. I felt her heart softly beating.

Barely a whisper, she said, “I just….”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” I said.

She sniffled, loud so close to my ear. “I know this isn’t real, but I, I….”

I let her put her thoughts together.

“I didn’t think….”

She held me tightly.

“I’ve never felt… human… before.”

Her head tilted, resting against my cheek.

Inside, I felt the desire to drink her tears, a pounding need to taste her catharsis. It echoed, loud but constrained. I kept still, moving no more than the rise and fall of my chest.

A few long minutes later, she sighed and pulled away, her hands falling either side of me. I stayed as I was until she whispered, “Thank you.”

In careful movements, I got to my feet and turned around. She looked pale and blotchy, eyes red, cheeks wet. Beautiful. The desire redoubled, begging me to lick her cheeks. I didn’t.

“That’s, um,” she said, checking her pocket and realising she didn’t have any.

“Two hours and call-out.”

Apparently planned ahead, she pulled a few notes out from under the book on her nightstand. “I’m not, not complaining or anything, but what do you… even do with money?”

I took the payment and slid it into my pocket. “Rent mostly, and clothes.”

“You don’t live in….”

Smiling, I shook my head. “My client’s feed me, but not enough to jump between realms whenever I want.”

With nothing else to ask, she led me back to the front door, though she didn’t open it just yet. “To be honest… I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She fidgeted, picking at the straps of her dress. “Aren’t… men….”

Laughing softly, I made sure to find her furtive gaze. “Is a gay succubus really that surprising?”

“I don’t… know.”

After a few seconds, she reached up and clicked open the door. I stepped outside, then turned around to face her, bowing. “I hope you will consider using my services again in the future.”

“I, um, I might,” she mumbled.

With one last smile from me, she closed the door. I let out a long breath, trying to settle down, flickers of her cheeks wet with tears in my mind. Lightly slapping my own cheeks, I put my mind to better use and started thinking about my next appointment in a couple of hours.

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Part 1B

I caught my breath outside the door to her flat, delayed by the rain, but able to make up the time with a quick pace. Even though she was one of my oldest clients, I still took a moment to run through her information in my head, rather a minute late than careless in my service.

In a practised beat, I knocked on the door.

Muffled, a woman asked, “Who is it?”

“Lily,” I said loudly.

The sound of her quick footsteps leaked through, then the door swung open, revealing her in an almost rustic dress, plain white and modest, cotton rather than anything shiny. Yet she must have been home late from work, her makeup still on. Usually, she had a nude look for my visits, but now gave off a mature and professional impression that was at odds with the innocence her outfit spoke of.

“Oh sweetie, you forgot your key again?” she said, stepping back to let me in.

I’d heard her ask me the same thing some fifty times before. It was very much like we were putting on a play, except the audience was only her. “I just want the first thing I see when I walk through this door to be you.”

As I spoke, I closed the door behind me and, the moment I finished my line, she stepped forward. A bit taller than me, she leant down and I tilted back my head, eyes fluttering closed as I waited, heart pounding. Her lips met mine.

A sensation rushed from my mouth to the rest of my body, the feeling similar to being lulled to sleep, only in reverse. The lethargy in my muscles melted away and in its place came a building desire, an instinct to use my renewed strength to grab her, pull her deeper into the kiss, hold her close until I’d eaten my fill. Of course, those primal desires never manifested as anything more than whispers at the back of my mind. My job was built on my self-control.

Besides, the kiss barely lasted a moment, little more than a peck. That was all she wanted to do and so it was all that happened.

“How was work today?” she asked with a hand out.

I slipped off my coat and gave it to her; she brushed off some of the lingering rain and hung it up on a hook. “Good, I’d say. I had a new client,” I said—truthfully. While I never divulged private details or personal information, I usually used my actual work as a basis for these bits of small talk with her.

“Really?” she said, walking through to the lounge with me in tow. “How did it go with her?”

Remembering how the lady had held me from behind and cried, my lust silently stirred again. Those emotions had been so tangible, the scent of her tears thick in the air as if it was her heart’s sweat, and I had absorbed some through my skin, making the hunger all the more intense.

“She was satisfied with my service. Whether she requests me again, hm, I guess about fifty-fifty,” I said.

My current client let out a light chuckle. “That is good, then.”

While I sat at the small dining table—two glasses of wine already out—she sauntered through to the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder to catch me closely watching her. Thirty-one years old, she kept herself in good shape and the dress showed that shapeliness when she wanted it to.

That said, it was almost lost on me. She seemed to think every dog she saw was adorable and I felt the same way towards women. I could kind of tell if someone was beautiful and whether they were a healthy weight, but, beyond that, it was like comparing two dogs of the same breed. Another way of putting it, while everyone had their own set of preferences, mine was simply “a woman”. Well, more accurately, I was attracted to a scent profile that women usually had.

At least, that had been the case at the start of my sexual maturity; how I felt now was too intimately connected with my past to be described so simply.

My thoughts came to an end when she reappeared in the doorway, holding two plates. “Sorry it’s nothing special, but I got held up at the hairdresser. Are you disappointed?”

Every time I visited, she had a different reason. Still, despite her words, the food she carefully placed in front of me was beautiful; although food didn’t taste the same for me as it did for humans, I could appreciate the presentation. If she put as much effort into the cooking, her being a generally competent person, I thought it probably tasted wonderful as well.

“Just because you’re a housewife, you don’t have to apologise for something like that. If all I wanted was to come home to a fancy meal, it would’ve been cheaper to hire a maid to cook,” I said, my tone a little light and aloof.

She pouted and, strangely enough, it looked even more childish than usual with her mature makeup. “What are you saying?” she asked in almost a whine.

I chuckled softly and cut off a piece of the salmon, dipping it in the garlic butter sauce before bringing it to my mouth—but not putting it in just yet. “I’m happy you were thinking about me.”

With that said, I popped the salmon into my mouth and started chewing, the taste sort of metallic and fleshy. I’d talked with her about my sense of taste before and, apparently, “fleshy” wasn’t thought of as a compliment. All of my senses were attuned to people, so it couldn’t be helped that they fed me strange information at times.

Opposite me, she put on a shy expression, bowing her head and bringing her chin to her shoulder, looking off to the side. But she didn’t blush, limited by her acting skills. “That’s not fair,” she mumbled loud enough for me to hear.

I finished chewing the food in my mouth and swallowed, then leant forwards a bit. “I was thinking about you too.”

“Really, really not fair,” she whispered, her tone soft and warm.

Again, I chuckled. After a moment, she looked up at me with a small smile and I returned it. “Let’s eat—my little kitten’s food is best when it’s warm.”

While she cut a piece of salmon for herself, she said, “Don’t call me that, it’s embarrassing.”

“Oh? But you always purr so nicely when I,” I said, finishing my sentence with a two-fingered gesture of “scratching under a cat’s chin”.

“Stop it! Not while we’re eating,” she said, giving me a scandalised look.

“But it’s okay when we’re done?” I asked, one eyebrow raised.

She bowed her head. “Yes,” she shyly said.

Our “script” finished for the moment, we carried on eating. Like with the food, I couldn’t tell much about the wine, finding it sweet—white wine, then (red wine usually tasted bloody). Whether it went well with the salmon, I had to defer to the competence I guessed she had.

It didn’t take us long to empty our plates. She had a small appetite and I’d told her the first time she cooked for me about my different biology, so my portion was the same size as hers.

After dabbing my mouth with a napkin, I said, “Thanks, honey, that was wonderful,” and I stood up, reaching over to take her plate.

She swatted my hand and reached over to take my plate. “Let me—you’ve been hard at work all day and I’ve just been twiddling my thumbs,” she said, a touch of quietness to her voice.

“You spoil me,” I said.

“I’m the one being spoiled,” she replied a little livelier and tapped back through to the kitchen, not as expressively as her earlier walk. “Go get comfortable, I’m gonna be a minute.”

In a sing-song voice, I said, “Yes, honey.”

Doing as she asked, I walked over to the couch and sat snug in the corner. Far behind me, I heard her footsteps creep to the bedroom—wardrobe change for the next part of our play. I shut my eyes and let out a long breath. It had been a tiring day of keeping my nature in check, but I didn’t need to sleep to recover. Closing my eyes and breathing through my mouth gave my brain enough of a break. I could still enter a sleep-like state, but that was more about saving energy than anything to do with my brain; if I wanted to, I could stay up for days on end without a problem.

A quiet footstep brought me out of my “nap” and I turned to look. She wore a white negligee, black underwear showing through, and she’d adjusted her make-up to add the look of a constant blush. She also held herself with a confident innocence, chest pushed out and chin raised as her hands slightly fidgeted by her waist.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

With my line said, she walked over, every step emphasised and every stride long, the hem rising and falling along her thighs. She stopped at the back of the couch, acting demure as she tentatively met my gaze.

“I thought we could try for a baby,” she said, the pitch a little higher than earlier.

“We’re both women,” I replied lightly.

She made a noise of agreement, and then said, “But if we keep trying, I know we can pass the pregnancy test one day.”

I caught her eye and stared at her for a long moment before breaking into a wry smile. “Oh honey, come here,” I said, patting next to me on the couch.

While she walked around, I adjusted my position, one leg on the couch and one on the floor. She then sat facing away from me, leaning back until we were in a kind of half-sitting, half-lying hug. Finally, I brought my arms around her waist, idly rubbing a circle on her stomach with one hand.

Although she didn’t purr, she let out a content sigh. We stayed like that in silence for a good minute or so before she spoke up.

“Can we just talk tonight?” she asked.

We never did anything beyond innocent hugs and brief kisses anyway; what she meant by that was that she wanted to stop our play early. “Sure,” I whispered, mindful of how close her ear was to my mouth.

She sighed again, sinking deeper into my embrace. “The truth is… this is the last time I’m hiring you.”

“Oh?” I said, curious.

“I mean, I know it’s sudden, sorry,” she said.

It surprised me to hear her a little flustered. “You don’t have to apologise. But, if you’re comfortable saying, I’d like to know if it’s because you met someone.”

A handful of seconds passed before she gently nodded. “She’s… really sweet, and understanding. Even when I told her about how I’ve been paying an escort to pretend to be my wife for five years… she just said… that I must have been lonely.”

I gave her a slight squeeze. “You could have cancelled, I’d understand.”

“She told me… I should say a proper goodbye to you and we could start dating when I was ready,” she whispered.

Smiling, I gave her stomach a pat. “It sounds like you’ve found just who you’ve been waiting for.”

Although I couldn’t see her face, I could hear the smile as she softly said, “Yeah.” After a moment, she continued. “She has a low libido. Not asexual like me, but she’s happy to keep herself satisfied, and I can still give her some special service now and then.”

“That’s good,” I said.

She giggled, and it truly was a giggle, so inconsistent with her actual personality. Even at her age, or maybe because of her age, love could bring out a whole new side of her, bright and bubbly.

You are reading story Girls’ Love Letters at novel35.com

I was truly and earnestly glad; she had been through a lot. She’d told me before about her boyfriend in high school, how they’d tried to have sex but she couldn’t get aroused, soon after breaking up. Then, when in university, she’d realised she was bisexual with lesbian leanings. However, both of her relationships with women again ended similarly. Eventually, she’d learned that she was asexual. In her case, she had no interest in sex or masturbation, but still desired physical and emotional intimacy.

“Hey, do you remember what I put the first time I hired you?” she asked.

“You wanted to lessen your anxiety about sex,” I replied.

She hummed a note. “That’s quite the memory.”

“I take my job seriously and make sure to properly prepare myself for every client,” I said.

“A consummate professional, or should I say a professional consummater,” she said and let out a snort of laughter, all too pleased with herself. After a moment to calm down, she continued in a serious yet gentle tone. “Honestly, when I hired you back then, I hoped you would use your magic to have sex with me.”

My heart tightened, painful to the point every muscle in my body tensed. That only lasted a fraction of a second, though, then I calmly said, “I won’t ever do anything like that.”

“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “But back then, can you blame me? Succubus, women only, no sexual acts—who would believe that?”

Rather than give her an answer, I kept my silence.

“Anyway,” she said, “that was what I honestly hoped. I hoped that you would use your magic and I would enjoy myself. I thought, if I could enjoy it just once, then it might… fix me.” By the end, her voice had become a whisper tinged with painful memories.

She drew in a deep breath before continuing in a measured tone. “At that time, I was suffering from suicidal thoughts. I felt like I would never have a meaningful relationship. Most of my friends from university were married or engaged, and a couple even had kids. We’d grown distant too, just a message now and then. At work, they liked to talk about their boyfriends all the time or complain about not having one, and I… found it hard to join in. I was always worried what they’d ask me. Stupid worries, like if I’m actually a virgin, or whether I should say I’m bi, lesbian, or ace.”

Her voice had begun to shake, so I gently squeezed her, both my arms across her waist. She paused, took a moment to let her breathing settle.

“If you had just fucked me and left, I probably would have killed myself soon after,” she said without emotion, simply stating a fact.

There wasn’t anything for me to say to that, so I kept holding her.

“Do you remember our first time? Because it’s still so vivid to me. No offence, but the me back there… being hugged by a sex monster… and feeling safe. It’s hard to describe. It was like… if a succubus who didn’t need sex could exist, then surely there was a human like that, another human like me.” She paused there and shook her head. “Sorry, I’m being really rude. What a way to spoil our last time.”

“No, it’s fine. Every client has her preconceptions and they’re all weary—for a good reason. It’s part of my job to build up trust,” I said.

Despite what I’d said, she lowered her head and spoke in a small voice. “What I was trying to say is: thank you. I’m still here and finally finding my own happiness because of you. And even if you say you were just doing your job, or that you didn’t do anything special, I’m so, so thankful it was you.”

The air always smelled sweet when I held her, her body chemistry very responsive to physical affection; however, the air smelled even sweeter now, I guessed because of her gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered.

She breathed in deep, straightening up while she did, and her head ended up lolling back, resting between my shoulder and head. “Can I ask why you do this? It’s not like there’s no women that would have sex with you…. Wait, that came out a bit wrong? I mean, you’re cute enough that you could just turn up at a gay bar and find someone to go home with, so why….”

When it became clear she wasn’t going to pick up her sentence, I answered her. “Have you heard about, say, a mother dog losing her puppies and adopting a kitten?”

She softly laughed. “So you see us as your kids, huh? No wonder you don’t want to fuck us. Ah, but I’m worried about your tastes, hugging your daughter in her lingerie.”

“You misunderstand—I’m the kitten,” I whispered, a content smile on my lips.

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Part 2

I felt unbelievably anxious at the door to Tessa’s flat. We had only been on a few dates, but she was just, like, perfect, and then she invited me over for dinner—I made sure to shave and wear something a bit sexy. Wondering if we’d get to the table or bed first, I gathered my courage and knocked.

After the first knock, her voice rang out, muffled by the door. “Coming!”

I swallowed the last of my fear, putting on a smile. A second later, the latch clicked and the door eased open; her cute face showed through the crack. Our eyes met. Her expression warmed and she opened the door all the way, ushering me in.

“Claire, perfect timing,” she said.

She’d told me to arrive at seven sharp—not early or late—so I had carefully left at the right time for that and waited a minute in the hall, calming down. “How are you?” I asked.

“Oh, not bad,” she said, and she followed with some small talk while guiding me through.

My earlier question was answered, immediately being seated at the table. I may have felt disappointed, but, considering we hadn’t kissed yet, that was all on me. Anyway, she popped through to the kitchen and came back with plates, then asked, “Drinks? I have wine, but water or—”

“Wine, thanks,” I said, smiling.

She smiled back before disappearing back into the kitchen. A couple of moments later, she returned with drinks and sat down, neatly placing one glass on a coaster by my plate. That brought my attention to the food: a standard enough spaghetti bolognese.

“Looks good,” I said.

“Well, let’s start then, yeah?” she said, picking up her cutlery.

I followed suit and tried some. “Mm, delicious,” I said, but was honestly too nervous to really taste it. I mean, it wasn’t so bad I noticed and not so good I noticed, so I guess that means it was good.

After swallowing the food in her mouth, she said, “Oh I’m glad.”

We didn’t speak much while we ate. I was, well, focused on not making a mess, and she seemed to really like the food—she did choose to make it, so I thought it might be her favourite. By the time we cleared our plates, I’d finished my glass of wine and she’d drank most of hers.

“Top up?” she asked, standing.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, and then hastily added, “I’ll bring my plate.”

She carried on reaching over and picked up my plate. “I like to do things my way, so don’t worry,” she said.

It was a bit of a strange answer, but I kind of knew how annoying it was to repack the dishwasher when my mum decided to visit. (The tall glasses never washed properly in the top, yet she always put them there, not to mention packing away my mug when I hadn’t finished with it.)

Anyway, Tessa took my plate through with hers, then brought back a bottle of wine. She carefully filled our glasses up to where they were in the first place—a generous third-full.

I waited for her to put down the bottle and pick up her glass before giving a toast. “Thanks for dinner, it was lovely. And thanks for inviting me over.”

She returned my smile with a warm one of her own, a gentleness to her eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

We clinked our glasses and then took a sip—a long one, in my case. “So… did you just invite me for dinner, or maybe something more?” I asked, letting the alcohol speak my mind a little.

She chuckled, then lowered her gaze as a timidness came over her. It surprised me, her appearance usually so measured and confident, making me wonder if she really did have something planned.

“We’ve been on a few dates and, um, I like you, and I think you like me—”

“I do,” I said, interrupting. Catching myself a moment later, I mumbled, “Sorry, go on.”

She giggled. “No, I’m happy to know,” she said. “So… I was saying, we like each other and, well, there’s some stuff about me I think you should know. That’s, um, if you want to make this, you know, a bit more official.”

I wasn’t exactly a beginner when it came to wine, so a glass and a sip (on a full stomach) didn’t get me more than a teensy bit tipsy. So I followed her words, getting what she was getting at. “I mean, yeah, I’d like that,” I said.

She flashed a smile, but her mood still had a melancholy undertone. “I’ll just say it: I have mild autism—Asperger syndrome.”

“Oh,” I said, too surprised to think.

After a moment, she continued. “It isn’t, um, debilitating, but I am different, so dating me would be different.”

My mind recovering a little, I adjusted my expression as I realised she was talking about something serious with me. Thinking over what she’d just said, I asked, “Can you tell me what you mean? Like, examples, or explain it?”

“Well, I invited you over because it can be difficult for me in noisy and busy places,” she said, each word careful. “Um, I am okay with them, but not for too long or too often. This… conversation would be too much for me if I was already tense.”

I nodded along, trying to understand what she was telling me, and then asked, “So quiet dates and lots of home meals?”

For a moment, she just looked at me with wide eyes, then broke into a really cute smile. “Yeah,” she softly said.

“What sort of other things?” I asked, my thoughts going to what I’d heard about autism. “Do you, like, have a special routine, or don’t like touching?”

She made a bit of a troubled expression. “What you’ve heard is probably male-centric. There’s some similarities, but it usually expresses differently in women. Well, those two are kinda right, though.”

Pausing there, she fiddled with her for a long moment.

“So, I’m pretty normal, mostly. I have a routine and I like to follow it. But it doesn’t upset me to change it, just, I get anxious if it’s sudden.”

“No surprise dates,” I said.

She nodded with a small smile. “As long as it’s, um, not on the day, then it’s fine. But if something comes up, telling me as soon as possible helps.”

I listened and memorised what she said. At least, I hoped I would remember, half of my memory residing in the calendar app on my phone (and the other half in various scribbled notes at my work desk). “And touching?” I asked.

“If it’s sudden, I don’t like it, but I… do like physical contact. Hugging, kissing, sex. It’s, um, more comfortable for me to be in control, but if I feel safe with you, I think I can….” She shook her head. “Well, we can talk about that another time.”

I’d be lying if I said hearing her bring that up didn’t turn me on a bit, and I almost asked her to carry on. Pushing through my horniness (I hadn’t dated anyone in so long), a thought came to me. “You’ve dated other people before, then?” I asked.

She nodded. “It’s, you know, I can tell you, but do you want to hear? Just, it’s not all… pleasant.”

Hearing the quietness with which she spoke that last word, my heart ached. I reached over the table, wanting to hold her hand, only to quickly remember what I had just tried to memorise. Instead of grabbing her, I left my hand next to hers. She picked up on my intention and held my hand herself, looking up with a small smile, an unspoken gratitude leaving her lips.

“I know we haven’t known each other for long,” I said, “but all that time working together on the project, I really crushed on you. Like, really crushed on you. So, I want to know everything about you that you want me to know… if that makes sense?”

She giggled, nodding. “Yeah, it does,” she murmured.

“I’m just curious if they did things you don’t like, or do like, and stuff like that. I mean, as long as you’ve been tested, your exes can stay in the past,” I said.

After a long moment, she nodded again. “I… want to tell you a bit,” she said.

“Okay.”

It took her another few seconds to put her thoughts together. “I’ve seen a few girls, like, the last couple of years? But only one of them went past a date or two, not really clicking with the others. In the end, she broke up with me because I didn’t tell her about my condition—she thought I was just being cold and distant. But I found out a lot about my… sexual boundaries with her. She, like, identified as a bottom and was pretty submissive in bed, so I got to just, you know, fuck her, or tell her how to touch me.”

She stopped there, showing some embarrassment. Meanwhile, I was getting so hot—that moment she had casually dropped “fuck her”, I swear a tiny orgasm rolled through me.

“That’s my only recent ex, but, yeah,” she said, rubbing her red cheek with her free hand.

Sobering up from my dirty thoughts, I asked, “And there’s some not-so-recent exes?”

“That’s…” she said, trailing off uncomfortably.

“Whatever you want to talk about, I’ll listen,” I said, giving her hand a light squeeze as I did.

She returned my squeeze, and added a smile. “Back at uni, I dated a guy. I don’t want to get into it too much, but that was when I learned I don’t like to be penetrated.”

She paused there for a chuckle.

“I’m actually bi, or pan, or maybe demi is a better fit. It’s all about how I feel around them. But, you know, I don’t think it’s easy to find a guy who is happy with just being jerked off. Queer culture is a bit more, um, understanding, and I fit pretty well as a top, so yeah.”

While I was lost in thought over what she’d said—not judging her, just trying to properly remember it—she seemed to take my silence as awkwardness.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m also bad with unfamiliar situations and say weird stuff. I like to blame it on the Asperger’s, but I know that’s not really an excuse.”

It was surreal trying to reconcile my desire to hug her with the knowledge that she wouldn’t be comforted by that. I now sort of understood why she’d told me, her condition really making our relationship complicated. No, I didn’t mean that. Different, it made our relationship different.

“Thanks for being honest and open with me,” I said, those words carefully chosen by the part of my brain that knew how to express itself in difficult situations.

I couldn’t read her expression well, but, with context, I thought she had maybe been feeling ashamed before. Now, she softened into something a bit more relaxed. “Thanks for being understanding,” she said.

Although she’d told me so much about herself already, I was still curious about her—especially about the gap between the two bits she had shared with me. “What were you up to between then and now?” I asked.

Her face stayed in that relaxed(?) expression, strangely unaffected by my question, not changing with her thoughts. I thought that was another sign of autism, even though she’d told me what I had heard was probably about autism in men.

“This is… going to sound a bit weird,” she eventually said.

My social instinct said to make a joke, so I ignored it—it wasn’t very well tuned to her. “Okay,” I said.

This time, I noticed her expression did soften even more, now tender, or pleasant, with a hint of a smile. “I struggled at uni, and work was worse. Not knowing the rules and getting lost in the building, people treated me like an idiot, wouldn’t give me work to do. Long story short, I eventually quit and pretty much lived in my bedroom. I had money to support myself for a while and started doing freelance work,” she said.

After a moment, she carried on. “I, um, hired an escort. Not for sex, just for company. I found her online and she specialised in providing companionship for atypical women. God, it’s been years and I still remember that tag line. But I was so excited to read that. Or, well, not excited, but hopeful.

“She was, is… very important to me. When I felt so lost and alone, she was there for me. It’s thanks to her that I learned what made me comfortable, how to be more typical—she’d even sit there and make faces, showing me what different expressions mean, and help me practice making eye-contact.”

The way Tessa looked and spoke, I found the question on my lips before I could stop it. “Do you love her?”

She tilted her head, making her smile cuter. “I did fall in love with her. Well, I thought I was straight, so it took me a while to realise. When I told her, of course she turned me down. But she was gentle, and told me she accepted my feelings, and she still helped me to explore my sexuality. Not, like, in person—we never did anything more than hug. Um, she linked me to a bunch of stuff. I learned to masturbate in a way that actually made me feel good, how to tell if I find someone attractive, so sort of a sex ed class for atypical women.”

Realising she was getting off topic, she stopped there and gave me a bit of an awkward smile. “I still love her, but it’s entirely platonic now,” she said emphatically. “We haven’t seen each other in, um, four or five years? All we do is exchange Christmas greetings. But she was such an important part of my recovery and self-discovery, she’ll always be in my heart.”

Maybe if I was five years younger, I’d be too self-conscious after hearing something like that. But I had met all sorts of people who’d had all sorts of experiences to get where they were, and I understood how transient life was. We weren’t teens falling in love for the first time. Really, at our ages, it was almost always a warning sign if someone didn’t have baggage.

Not wanting to think too much (and make her feel uncomfortable because of my silence), I just found the first acceptable answer and voiced it. “It’s great that someone was there for you.”

My answer seemed okay, her reaction another cute smile. “Yeah. It’s thanks to her I started therapy and got properly diagnosed. They tried to put me down as ADHD at first, but she pushed me to see a specialist for autism in women, so, yeah, I really owe her.”

“You say you owe her, but I bet she’s just happy you got the help you need,” I said, not giving it much thought. It was only after I’d spoken I realised it was a bit preachy and also a very strange thing to be saying about an escort. But then I thought a little more and realised that that escort was very strange herself.

Whatever I thought, Tessa just nodded. “You know, that’s exactly what she said when we… stopped. When I tried to argue, she reminded me that I’d given her a lot of money over the couple of years I, um, employed her.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that, but she’d said it lightly, so I giggled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She returned the gesture.

We settled into a comfortable silence for a while, just holding hands over the table and occasionally catching each other’s eye. Eventually, she spoke up.

“I got… kind of really off-topic,” she said.

“It’s fine. I really do want to know more about you,” I said.

“Well, there’s some other things to do with my condition. Um, I’m a bit of a picky eater, and I sometimes get really focused on work, so, like, I’ll probably ignore you. And there’s a bunch more little things. Ah, I really should have written a list,” she said, and then mumbled, “I love writing lists.”

Something stirred inside me listening to her and I carefully found the words to badly express that feeling. “I mean, really, you keep saying it’s because of your condition, but, to me, you’re just you? I don’t know if that makes any sense. Like, you can be a picky eater and not like sudden touches and all that, and I’ll still like you. I’m gonna love you as you are, not, like, I’m only gonna tolerate your… Asperger’s? I’m gonna love that part too. That’s sort of how love works, right? It’s an everything thing.”

Having rambled on enough, I shut up. I couldn’t even remember exactly what I’d said, only fragments of it coming to mind, but that was enough to make me mentally cringe. Really, I just wanted to convey… something, the feeling that… I liked her, and hearing that she had Asperger’s hadn’t changed that feeling at all.

Before I apologised, I looked up to meet her gaze; her expression stopped me from saying anything.

“Thank you,” she whispered, lips curved into a smile, eyes glistening.

It was a captivating expression and I felt myself pulled in seeing it. Maybe mutual, she copied me as I leant over the table and we awkwardly half-stood to come closer. So near, I remembered enough of what she’d said earlier to stop.

Then she murmured, “You can kiss me,” and a shock of pleasure ran through my body, something so incredibly sexy about what she’d said, the way she’d said it. A breathless request for intimacy, a show of trust and comfort.

I kissed her and it was the most amazing start to our relationship I could’ve asked for.