I realise that my diary-like accounts of meetings with H run long. I’ve looked at this one and thought about splitting it up, but you know, I think it’s works best all together like this. So, fair warning, this is a long post. But when you’re going deeper, it’s gonna take some time, right?


I caught a glimpse of H up the street and a grin spread across my face. I saw them smiling back when they noticed me. Hugs and kisses and greetings and more hugs and more kisses when I reached them and an instant contented joy just from being with them.

Walking along the road we chatted easily, they were tired after a long, busy day of work so apologised for not being terribly chatty.

I told them it was okay; I’d just stare at them all night. Weirdly, they found that a bit creepy, but once I added in the fluttering eyelashes and coy smile they seemed happier. They laughed at me anyway, good sign, right?

They took me to a Japanese restaurant. A brand new experience for me. Thank fuck they’d already seen me eat messy food, because my bowl of noodle soup definitely ended up in more places than just my mouth.

It was delicious though. As was the company.

There was lots of hand holding before and after our meal. It really was sweet and romantic and loving but it was also sometimes really mean. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to process pain when you know you have to be quiet because you’re in the middle of a public place with people all around?

It’s really fucking hard. I pulled some funny faces. Squeaked a bit as their fingers dug into flesh and bone seeking those places that hurt the most. Anyone looking on would just think we were a cute couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  Would assume H’s smile was love or joy or delight.

Oh, it was all those things alright, but the love, the joy and the delight of a sadist revelling in the pain of their masochist.

There was time to kill as H was performing that night. We wandered to a coffee shop, sat together and talked. There was inconsequential chatter, about mundanities and silliness but there were conversations of consequence too.

They told me, hesitatingly but with great sincerity, how they found the way I wrote about them to be something amazing. They struggled to find the words to express what they wanted to say, but I saw it in their eyes.

“I appreciate that a whole lot.” I replied, genuinely choked up by the emotion. “Because I have had occasions when I have written things for people, written up my perspective of a scene and had it completely dismissed.”

They reached out to me, held me, squeezed me. I could see that they felt my pain in the deep hurt that shone in their eyes.

They shook their head.

“No, no. I appreciate it very much, so much…”

“I know,” I wanted them to feel nothing but good for what they gave me.  “And I appreciate your appreciating.”

We both chuckled at the awkwardness of that phrasing and snuggled closer together.

I asked them what they thought of my perspective. Did I ever get anything totally wrong or so very spot on? I always wonder about that.

“Well, you give me way more credit than I deserve. I don’t plan nearly as much as you think I do.”

Which thinking about it, means a lot of what I have assumed as planned is simply instinct. We work that well together. I see a plan where there isn’t one, we just give and take in a wonderfully balanced way.

A little later they said. “There is one bit in one of your early writings that speaks to me. How you describe me biting your belly and how it makes you feel better about that part of you. I can really get behind my sadistic desire to hurt you being used for body positivity.”

So I explained a little more about how I’m trying to not think negatively about my body bits, at the very least I try to be thankful for their service in keeping me alive, but I have areas of my body that I really struggle to love, my tummy being one. But when it’s marked with their bites, I want to look at it, I want to take photos of it and admire its softness because their marks remind me that they think it’s beautiful and I get to see a glimpse of the beauty they see and feel a little of that adoration.

To be honest, I could have sat in that coffee shop all night with H, just talking about the everythings and the nothings. It was there I really felt a deepening of the relationship. We both opened up that little bit more, offered our vulnerabilities and had them validated and loved.

But the night had to move on. We got to the place they were performing. We were a little early, the organisers were running a little late. We sat chatting for a bit as no one else was around.

“Why is it that the hawk is the only bird to have a hairstyle. You only ever hear of the Mohawk.” H said matter of factly and out of the blue. They do that kind of thing a lot. I love it.

It was certainly a random comment, but not as random as it might seem as a little earlier I’d told them how my son had a Mohawk. So this led to a discussion of what other styles there could be.

“Mo Swallow,” they said because they may have an oral fixation, that’s the rumour anyway.

“Mo tit.” I cried, happy with my punny, filthy self.

H pointed at my chest. “Mo tit.”

Then pointed at their chest. “Less tit.”

We laughed, embraced and kissed at that. I love how they are punny and funny and silly and we can just play with words and it’s an accepted thing we do. It’s fun. It’s not serious. It’s ridiculous but I love it so very much. I love word play and I love their word play especially.

It was fun to watch them perform. To snuggle up with them as we watched other acts, to soothe them with strokes and kisses as I felt their pre-set anxieties rising, to scream and whoop and cheer for them the loudest when they got on stage. To laugh so heartily at their jokes, admiring their natural stage presence, their hard work and of course their hot AF body. What? I can’t help it. Whenever I look at them I’m struck by how gorgeous they are.

After the gig we headed back to theirs. Snogging at the bus stop like a pair of randy teenagers until they sensibly decided to pull away and look for the bus so we wouldn’t miss it and end up waiting for another half hour.

They’d said to me earlier that I was likely to see more of kitty than the beast that night.

“That’s okay,” I said, “I love the kitty too.”

I knew the night was going to be different. There was still the raw, vibrating lust there but it wasn’t the same as before. As I sat with their legs around me half watching a show they and housemate were invested in (and I’d never seen an episode of) I could feel the want bubbling below the casual intimacy of sitting so snuggled together.

As housemate headed up to bed she called down to us

“Can you wait 5 minutes before you start fucking so I can get myself sorted for bed.”

I don’t think either of us answered.

I think because we were kissing. Hard, deep, passionately.

So we might have managed 5 seconds but we did only kiss for a while. I mean, I didn’t have a stop watch on me but there was extensive kissing and them biting my lips and caressing and snuggling close and just revelling in being together.

And then came the pain so yeah, we definitely left it 5 minutes before the fucking.

I think.

There were pressure points and that fucking centre of the breastbone thing and thigh punching though thinking back now I think there was a little fingering before that. I was definitely very, very wet too.

But the thigh punching.

“Hey!” I protested. “That’s the love heart bruise!”

They had left the cutest bruise the last time we played. An actual love heart.

I think they stopped to contemplate it for all of a moment before punching and punching and punching with a bit more punching that spot over and over and over. Bone crunching, leg shuddering, instant mark leaving punches.

Which they followed up with a bite as they slid to the floor and sat between my outspread thighs.

At this point they pulled off my knickers and before discarding them sniffed them.

My cheeks flushed. Equal parts embarrassed and aroused.

There were bites and more slaps but mostly there was finger fucking. Hard and deep and with such ferocious passion.

I tried to keep my eyes open. To look at them. They were staring at me, feeding on my reactions and arousal. I wanted to keep that connection, to keep looking into their eyes to watch their absolute lust-sodden delight at bringing me to shaking and shuddering ecstasy. I managed mostly but sometimes when the pleasure just got too much I had to close my eyes for a moment and every time I opened them again they were looking at me, looking into me, feeding off my bliss.

When they stood up and pulled out their cock I eagerly bent forward and took it in my mouth. I love the feel of their erection in my mouth. I love the sounds I make as I hum and coo my happiness around them as well as the inelegant slurps and gasps as my mouth waters and I try to hold on. Caressing them with my tongue, letting them fuck my face.

I gripped their arse, enjoying the feel of them flexing as I sucked until they pulled away and I watched as they wanked. I moved my gaze up to meet theirs. I sat, mouth open, ready to take their cum the moment they orgasmed. Gaze raised to meet theirs. Their blue eyes so stunning, so heavy with lust and impending ecstasy.

The tension so much I wanted to hold my breath.

When they came I don’t know If they pushed my head forward or if I just leapt to take their cum on my lips, between my lips, to swallow it down. However it started, that’s what happened before they collapsed on top of me, their legs giving way. I held them to me. Tightly, knowing they needed to feel me close. I needed them to. Needed that love, that connection.

I think love yous were exchanged in fact. Verbally as well as physically.

Then we went to bed.

Of course it was as simple and as non-sexual as that. Of course it was.


I’m not sure anything we do is free of some kind of level of lust, even if it’s just quaking away in the background.

They went to finish cutting their hair. They’d decided to shave a good chunk of it off, creating a rather sexy undercut the night before but wanted to take the shaved bit a little higher. When they came back I ended up on top of them on the bed handing out kisses and caresses. Admiring their beautiful do.

They were happy. Not just happy, joyful. In fact, they described it as gender euphoric as their hair just fitted so well into their non—binary identity.

It was as I snuggled in next to them that I moved from gently brushing my fingers over their scalp to kissing all over the shaved area whilst stroking their long hair with my hand. I was only being affectionate. Expecting to drop no more than a few gentle kisses. But the noises they made as I kissed and the way they arched up off the bed and pressed into me, I knew I had to keep going. They were getting a deep pleasure from my actions and I was getting a deep pleasure too. I wanted to hear more of their moans. I wanted to make them feel good, wanted to do all I could to further their bliss.

I’m glad that what I did, without much thought (but a good deal of love) brought them so much pleasure. I love them just as they are. I want them to always feel good about themselves and being part of that moment when they were so happy with their non-binary self brought me a deep down satisfying contentment.

It was a little while after this deep moment of connection that they ended up face down, deep in my cleavage.

“Don’t get lost in there.” I quipped.

For a while they lay there nestled, quiet.

“A lamp post,” they muttered, “is that a lion? Hello, Mr Tumnus?”

“Did you go to Narnia between my boobs?”  I asked. They nodded and laughed.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Narnia, but I can’t get in there.” I pouted then chuckled myself.

And from that point on, at random moments, they would part my breasts or lift them up and look for Mr Tumnus.

Isn’t that the kind of thing that makes a relationship special? The ridiculous phrases that you say to each other that make others shake their head or gawp in confusion but make you grin and laugh, snuggle and kiss. They’re the things you’ll always remember with a fond smile.

One thing I now know without a shadow of a doubt about H. They can sleep. Oh boy, can they. When they slept through ‘Welcome to the jungle’ not once but almost twice without batting an eyelash, I could do nothing but admire their dedication to slumber.

However, me whispering ‘sweetie’ in their ear gently shaking them actually got them to open their eyes.  I think there were 3 go rounds of the alarm process before they committed to being awake and even then, I think they’d have been back asleep in an instant if the opportunity arose.

Instead we snuggled. We huggled, I kissed them, lots. Caressed them, stroked their hair, their back. The build-up of arousal was slow, purposeful. There were long, deep kisses that contained so much tenderness I felt tears begin to well in my eyes with the abundance of joy in my heart.

It was during all this slow-burning kissing and caressing that H leapt up, removed their underwear—damn, H has a fine butt—and purposefully rooted around to find something.

A dildo.

I can’t possibly ever put into words how hot it is to watch someone lube up a (condomed) dildo and press it deep inside their arse. I watched their face, listened to the catch of their breath, to their moans and gasps of satisfaction.

I felt a surge of lust when they looked into my eyes.

“Fuck me.” H begged.

I didn’t have to be asked again. I eagerly positioned myself between their thighs, took the base of the flared dildo in my hand and fucked them.

Can you come from someone else’s pleasure? I know my cunt throbbed in time to their frenzied thrusts and each time they moaned I felt an explosion from my clit, through my cunt and throughout my whole body.

I bent in and kissed their thighs, their balls.

“Good girl.” They praised, hands in my hair.

I wanted to shower them with all my affection, all my desire to fulfil their needs, to bring them joy.

Things didn’t quite work to plan. There were interruptions that brought the fucking to an end. But that’s how it goes sometimes. It still took us a very long time to get out of bed.

We tried, several times, achieved it sometimes but somehow we always ended up back on the bed. On each other or in each other’s arms.

At some point they got up to have a shower. I found one of their scarves, the purple one I’d worn the time before to hide my bite bruises. I picked it up to smell them and somehow it ended up around my neck and wasn’t taken off. I’m wearing that scarf as I write this, like a comfort blanket that smells of them and feels like a gentle hug from them even though they aren’t here.

We talked, lots. Snuggled more, kissed with gay abandon. Super gay abandon. Got up off the bed, lay back down on the bed, talked more, you get the idea.

Eventually though, we got up and left the house.

It wasn’t time for goodbyes yet. We spent some time back in the coffee shop of the night before. H had their laptop and I had my phone. They had on their headphones and had writing to do. We sat together. Occasionally pressing our feet together in a gentle hug. Now and then catching each other’s gaze and smiling.

I wrote Love in the Language of Touch for them as I sat there. I felt so comfortable there with them, not speaking, not interacting (but aware of each other’s presence) as we both did our own things together.

They sent me what they had been writing. I smiled, as I read their account of how my kissing their freshly shaved head gave them such a rush and sent them what I had been writing.

I watched their face as they read. The smile spreading, the light of delight in their eye and then the sheen of tears as they looked up at me and mouthed ‘Awww, wow.’

At that point I had to get up and hug them. Tell them I loved them (which they returned) as I needed to follow up my words with physical touch. It was amazing to watch their reaction in real time. To see the emotions flitting across their face. To see that appreciation first hand.

It wasn’t long after that we actually had to go our separate ways.

“It was lovely to see you.” They said, hugging me tightly. I am sure they’ve said the same thing every time we’ve parted with the same look of joy shared and sadness at our parting.

“It’s been so nice.” I replied. Hating the word nice the moment I said it.

And the parting words continued to be awkward, so awkward.

As I stood a little while later waiting for my train I messaged them.

I get seriously ineloquent when saying goodbye. I blame all the feels. I had a wonderful time with you. I honestly feel like my time with you is an oasis of peace in the madness of my stupidly hectic life. Thank you for that.

Not long later I got a message back, quoting what I’d said with the words:

This, exactly this <3

And I smiled. Glad for our shared experience.

Eager for the next one, the next ones.

To go further,

To feel more,

To fall even deeper in love with H.