I stare at the screen, but the words blur before my eyes. I’ve been struggling with the documentary for hours, every sentence, every phrase that feels like it’s being pulled through thick honey. I groan softly, lean back, and rub my tired eyes. Then I hear a soft giggle.
“That bad?” Lena suddenly appears beside my table, a cup of tea in her hand. Her scent—warm, sweet, like vanilla with a hint of book pages—wafts up to me as she leans over my shoulder. “You look like you’re struggling with the text, not the project.”
The back of my neck feels hot. “I hate documentaries. I’m an engineer, not a writer.”
She smiles, her breath brushing my ear as she whispers, “Maybe you just need the right editor.” Her fingers glide over the edge of the table, inches from my hand. “I could take a look. If you want. By the way, I’m Lena.”
I turn my head, and suddenly our faces are so close I can count the golden flecks in her green eyes. “That would be… very helpful. I’m Ben.”
Lena sits down, pulls the laptop toward her, and begins to read. Every now and then, she looks up when she comes across an unclear phrase, and each time our eyes meet, she holds mine a little longer, a little more intensely. Her lips move subtly as she reads my sentences aloud, and sometimes, when she’s correcting something, she leans forward so far that her hair brushes my shoulder.
“Here,” she says, pointing to a passage, “that sounds too technical. Let me rephrase it.” Her voice is warm, almost velvety, and as her fingers glide across the keyboard, I feel my breath catch. I watch her concentrate, the way her tongue sometimes brushes against her lower lip when she’s thinking.
“Is this better?” she asks, turning the screen toward me. Her hand is still on the keyboard, and as I reach for the laptop, our fingers touch for a brief, electric moment.
I nod, unable to think straight. “Perfect.”
Lena leans back, her smile now a little mischievous. “Then I guess I’m your savior.”
I feel my heart race. “I think you are.”
I look at the screen, at the sentences that suddenly flow—clear, precise, almost as if someone had transformed the dry, technical terms into something vibrant. Lena hasn’t just corrected errors; she’s breathed life into my writing. And now she sits there, her hands wrapped around her mug, watching me with that slightly crooked smile that’s been throwing me off for hours.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice hoarser than I meant it to be. I clear my throat. “Seriously. Without you, this would have been a disaster.”
She shrugs, but I see her eyes widen slightly, as if she hadn’t expected me to be so direct. “You’re welcome. I like it when words make sense.”
I take a deep breath. Now or never. “You know, I… I couldn’t thank you enough. But I could try.” I feel my heart pounding against my ribs. “I don’t cook for others often, but my spaghetti Bolognese is… well, legendary. At least among my classmates.” I grin, unsure if that’s too much. “If you like, I could treat you tonight. As a thank you.”
Lena raises an eyebrow, and for a moment I’m afraid she’s going to laugh—not with me, but at me. But then she bites her lower lip, and something in her gaze softens. “Legendary, huh?”
I nod, trying not to be too obvious in my hopes. “Absolutely. I’m as loyal to my Bolognese as an Italian is to his Nonna.”
She laughs, and the sound of it resonates deep within me. “All right, Ben. Let me see if you can deliver on your promise.” She gets up and gathers her things. “But I’m warning you—I’m a tough critic.”
I get up too, almost a little too quickly, and bump into the table. “I’m looking forward to it. Should I pick you up?”
Lena turns around again, her smile now a little mysterious. “Send me the address. I’ll find my way.”
As she leaves, I pause and feel something stirring within me—a mixture of anticipation, nervousness, and the strange feeling that this day might be the beginning of something. I close my laptop, pack my things, and head out to do some shopping. Tonight, everything will be perfect. It has to be.
The doorbell rings, and suddenly my apartment feels much smaller than it actually is. I take a deep breath, open the door—and there she is. Lena, in a long, dark red wool sweater and black tights that make her eyes look even greener, with a smile that instantly takes my breath away.
“Hi,” she says, holding up a bottle of red wine. “I thought this might go well with your legendary Bolognese.”
I take the bottle, our fingers brushing against each other. “Come in. The spaghetti’s almost ready.”
I give her a quick tour of the apartment—the tiny living room with the old sofa, the kitchen already smelling of garlic and tomatoes, the shelf full of textbooks and a few stray novels. She stops in front of a photo on the wall of me and my friends at last summer’s party. “They look like they’re having fun,” she says.
“They usually have too much fun,” I reply, laughing.
Then we sit at the table, the plates steaming, the wine glistening ruby red in the glasses. Lena takes the first bite, closes her eyes. “Okay, this is really good.”
“I told you so.” I’m proud, but even more I enjoy watching her eat—the way she places the fork between her lips, the way she tilts her head slightly after each bite, as if letting the flavor melt on her tongue.
After the meal, she helps me clear the table. In the cramped kitchen, we stand facing each other, washing up together. Our hands brush against each other again and again, her fingers are warm, and every time she looks at me, I feel hotter. I try to focus on the dishes, but my mind is elsewhere.
“You really have talent,” she says, handing me a wet plate. “Not just in cooking.”
I turn to her, leaning against the countertop. “I could offer you dessert. I have tiramisu.”
Lena dries her hands and takes a step closer. “I think I’d like a different dessert.”
Her gaze moves to my lips, and suddenly the air between us is so charged that I can hardly breathe. Then she closes in, places a hand on my cheek, and kisses me. Gently at first, then more insistently, and I feel everything else around us disappear—the kitchen, the dishes, the whole world. There is only her mouth, her hands gripping my shirt, and this one thought: This is just the beginning.
Her lips taste of red wine and a hint of something sweet that could only be her. My hands find their way to her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space between us. The countertop presses hard into my back, but I barely feel it. All I feel is her—the warmth of her body, the gentle friction of her wool sweater against my shirt, the soft sigh that escapes as my lips trace her neck.
“Ben,” she whispers, her name like a promise on her lips. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back so I have to look at her again. Her face is etched in the dim light of the kitchen lamp, her eyes dark with desire. “I don’t want you to think I’m only doing this for the Bolognese.”
I laugh, a short, guttural sound. “I hope not,” I say, my voice deeper than usual. “That would make for a rather expensive dinner.”
She smiles, and that smile reaches her eyes, making them shine. Then she leans forward again, her lips brushing my ear. “I want you,” she breathes, and the words send a shiver through my entire body. “Here. Now.”
In that moment, I lose control. With a movement more animal instinct than deliberate choice, I turn her around so that her back is to me and she’s bracing herself with her hands on the countertop. Her dark red sweater stretches across her shoulders. I lean forward, my lips finding the soft skin on the back of her neck, and I kiss her, softly at first, then I bite her very gently. She flinches, and a soft, gasping sound escapes her.
“Do you like that?” I growl in her ear, letting my hands slide up from her hips, beneath the fabric of the wool sweater. I feel no blouse underneath, only her warm, soft skin. My hands wander further until they cup her breasts. They fit perfectly in my hands, soft and heavy. I begin to knead them, gently at first, then harder. My thumb brushes over her already hard nipples, pressing against the thick fabric.
Lena moans, leans her head against my shoulder, and gives me complete freedom. Her body softens in my arms as I massage her breasts, kiss her neck, and suck on her ear. Her breath comes in gasps, and each time I tease her nipples, she thrusts her pelvis back against me.
And I feel it. My cock grows harder in my pants, straining against the fabric until it almost hurts. It presses firmly into her ass, and through the thin layer of her pantyhose, she feels every pulsating vein. She rubs against me once, twice, slowly and deliberately, a silent question, an open invitation.
“You feel incredible,” I whisper, feeling her tremble even more intensely at the words.
She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she slowly turns beneath my hands, her face contorted with desire, her eyes burning. Her hands glide down my chest, over my stomach, until they reach the waistband of my pants. Her fingers are deft; she unbuttons them and pulls down the zipper.
Without hesitation, she pulls my pants and underwear down over my hips. They fall to the floor, and my stiff cock springs free, bouncing against her stomach. Lena glances down, a satisfied, almost greedy smile flitting across her face before she looks back up at me.
I barely have time to get my pants off my feet before she grabs my cock. Her fingers are firm and commanding, and without a word, she pulls me toward the couch. Her eyes flicker with power and lust. With a gentle but relentless push, she forces me onto the couch, so that with a soft squeak, I slump backward and spread out on the cushions.
She kneels before me, her movements fluid and graceful like those of a predator. With her hands, she spreads my legs, her gaze fixed on my throbbing member. Without warning, she leans forward, her warm, moist lips landing on my balls. She kisses them, one after the other, her tongue tracing small circles on the sensitive skin. A deep, greedy sigh escapes me.
Then she begins to lick my shaft with her tongue, from base to tip, slowly and deliberately, as if tasting a precious delicacy. Her gaze meets mine, and sparks dance in her green eyes. She opens her mouth, her lips encircling my glans, and slowly, inch by inch, she takes my hard cock into her mouth. It’s wet, tight, and incredibly good. She begins to suck me, her hands resting on my thighs as her head moves rhythmically.
She constantly changes her technique. Sometimes she sucks hard, sometimes she lets it almost slide in, sometimes she twists her tongue around its tip, sometimes she takes it so deep into her mouth that I can feel her throat adjusting to it. Every change drives me closer to madness. As she looks at me with her green eyes, slightly open and radiating pure desire, my cock gets even harder and I feel it expand in her mouth.
Her right hand, which at some point started stroking and massaging my balls, shifts its position. She takes two fingers from it and finds my perineum. She begins to massage it, gentle, circular movements that send a wave of pure pleasure coursing through my body.
This is too much. The combination of her hot mouth, her demanding gaze, and this targeted massage of my most forbidden spot rips me out of control. “Lena,” he moans, my voice rough and broken. “I… I can’t anymore… May I… may I come in your mouth?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she confirms my question with her actions. Her massage of my perineum becomes stronger, more urgent, and her blowjob becomes more intense, deeper, wilder. She practically sucks me in, wants me, wants everything from me.
That’s the permission I needed. My body tenses, my toes dig into the carpet, and with a loud, uncontrollable groan, my orgasm explodes. It’s incredibly intense, as if everything is being ripped out of me. My cum spurts into her mouth in powerful bursts, and I feel her swallow, taking it all in, until the last gush subsides and I collapse forward, panting. All I need are her lips. I pull her face toward me with both hands until our lips touch and our tongues become one again.
As our lips parted, she grinned at me and simply asked, “Wasn’t that a better dessert than tiramisu?”
I laughed shyly, my head still throbbing. “That… that was incredible,” I stammered. “I’ve never had an orgasm like that.” A renewed surge of courage coursed through me. “Now I want to give you dessert.” I was about to pick her up and lay her on the couch when she interrupted me. Her hands pressed gently against my chest.
“Ben, I have to confess something,” she said, and there was something in her eyes that looked like fear. “I… I’m a trans woman.”
That left me speechless for a moment. I hadn’t expected it, not in the slightest. My brain whirred, trying to process the information as I continued to look at her. “So you have a dick?” I asked, the words coming out more easily than I’d thought.
She avoided my gaze, looking very embarrassed. “Yes, I have,” she whispered, staring at her own hands. “And I can understand if you don’t want to continue.”
In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I wanted her as a person; everything else was secondary. “No,” I said firmly, taking her chin to make her look. “No, I want to continue. I want you. Everything about you.” I smiled. “I have to admit, I don’t have any experience with this yet, but… I want to learn everything little by little. With you.”
Her green eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. That was all I needed. I lifted her from the floor, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, and gently laid her on the couch. My fingers found the waistband of her pantyhose, and I slowly pulled them up over her hips, her thighs, until I slipped them over her feet. Underneath, she wore only a red lace thong that contrasted beautifully with her pale skin.
“Turn around,” I said, my voice already husky with desire. “Lie on your stomach and stick your bottom up.” She obeyed without hesitation, and the sight took my breath away. I sat between her legs and began massaging her ass cheeks. I kneaded the firm skin, felt it relax beneath my hands, and heard her moans slowly deepen. As her moans grew more intense, I leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “May I take off your panties?”
She flinched slightly and replied softly but firmly, “Yes, please… it feels incredible.”
I slowly pulled at the thin elastic band of her red lace panties. The fabric slid smoothly over her skin, revealing what I had expected and yet hadn’t. She is perfect. Her ass is round and firm, and between her cheeks, between the soft ridges, hangs her penis and testicles, still soft and relaxed. It’s a sight that makes me pause for a moment. Curious. Exciting. Beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, my voice barely trembling. She doesn’t reply, only letting out a soft, trembling sigh as I place my hands back on her skin. I begin to massage her, from her upper back down, over the gentle curves of her cheeks, to her thighs. My mouth kisses and slowly moves across her cheeks as my fingers knead her skin. Her moans grow louder, more intense, as I work my way back up, my hands cupping her cheeks.
“I want to taste you,” I say, my voice hoarse as I continue kissing her cheeks.
“Oh yes, please lick me,” she replies, her voice a panting plea.
I didn’t need to be told twice. I threw myself upon her with a lust I didn’t even know I knew. My lips pressed against the soft, warm skin of her left cheek, while my tongue traced a moist, thin line. I licked her with pure desire. Each touch of my tongue was a small fire I ignited. I worked my way forward slowly, savoring the reaction of her body as it trembled beneath my tongue, yearning for more. Her moans grew louder, more urgent, as I devoted the same attention to her other cheek. Meanwhile, my hands had reached her breasts. I felt the weight in my palms, how perfectly they filled her. I began to gently knead them, my thumb slowly circling her areolas until her nipples hardened into small beads that pressed through my fingers. I twisted them gently, tugged on them, and each time her whole body jerked, and a loud, uncontrollable moan escaped her.
“Eat my ass,” she moaned into the pillow, her voice hoarse, full of need. “Please, Ben… now.”
Who was I to deny her this? I spread her cheeks with both hands, giving myself a clear, unobstructed view of what I wanted. Her anus was a tiny, perfectly formed star of pink skin, twitching with anticipation in the dim light of the room. I leaned forward, close enough to feel her warmth on my lips, and breathed a hot breath directly onto it. She flinched, a sharp inhale audible. Then I opened my mouth, extended my tongue as far and flat as possible, and gently placed it on her center. The first touch was electric. She tasted faintly of rose, pure, unmistakably hers. I began to make broad, slow strokes, from bottom to top, my tongue gliding over her most sensitive spot as I felt her muscle relax beneath me.
As I teased her anus, I felt a new movement. Her arm had disappeared beneath her body, and from the rhythm of her shoulders and the increasingly wet, panting sounds she was making, I realized: she was masturbating. The mere thought of it drove me wild. I saw her before me, pleasuring herself while I took her from behind with my tongue. My own cock grew even harder, throbbing impatiently against the sofa. I had to catch my breath; my chin was wet from her, and in that moment I saw it clearly: her hand, moving rhythmically around her now-hard cock. Her balls were drawn tightly against her body.
At that moment, a thought flashed through my mind, clearer than anything else: she had just given me an incredible orgasm without asking for anything in return. Letting her masturbate now was out of the question. I wanted everything. I wanted her.
I removed my right hand from her breast—her nipple felt hard and disappointed—and reached for her hand, which was currently stroking her erect dick. She was visibly startled, her movements freezing.
“You… you don’t have to do this,” she gasped, trying to pull her hand away. “I can… I can do this.”
I held her firmly, my voice a deep, calm murmur meant only for her. “Yes, you can,” I said. “But I told you earlier that I want everything about you. And your dick is part of that.”
She lay motionless for a moment, then I heard her let out a soft, almost desperate giggle. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “That… that turns me on so much when you say that.” With these words, she released her hand and let him go.
I smiled into her skin and continued my work on her anus, this time even more intensely, with smaller, quicker licks that drove her wild. At the same time, my freed hand wandered downwards. I stroked her thighs, letting my fingers glide gently over her balls, which felt warm and heavy. I massaged them carefully, feeling them tighten in my hand. Finally, I closed my fingers around her shaft. It was hot, hard, and throbbing in my hand. I began to slowly stroke it, in the same rhythm as my tongue danced over her opening.
The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. A loud cry escaped her, her body tensed, and I felt her anus pulsate beneath my tongue, contracting and opening again. Once, twice. The combination of playing with her nipples, the constant licking of her asshole, and the rhythmic stroking of her cock was too much. Her hole throbbed more and more intensely, an uncontrollable, rhythmic pulse that heralded her impending orgasm.
“Ben,” she moaned, her voice cracking, almost desperate. “Oh my God… I’m coming… Ben, I’m coming!”
I just kept going, pushing her over the edge. A few seconds later, I felt her cock swell even more in my hand. Its pulsing became irregular, more intense, and then I felt the first warm drops of her juices drip onto my hand and my own cock, while her body beneath me shuddered in violent waves and a long, liberating cry erupted from her.
I continued for a moment, letting my tongue gently trace her throbbing hole as the final shiver of her orgasm washed over her. Then, as I slowly withdrew, she sank forward with a soft groan, letting her head fall onto the arm of the couch. It took her a moment for her breathing to calm down and for her mind to return to normal. I also had to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t suppress a broad grin when I saw her lying there like that – relaxed, vulnerable, and infinitely beautiful.
When she slowly turned over after a while, she noticed my grin. “Why are you grinning like that?” she asked shyly, pulling a pillow closer to cover herself a little.
I shook my head slightly. “Because you look so beautiful lying there,” I said honestly. “And because I can’t believe what just happened. It was so… intense and amazing.”
Her cheeks immediately flushed, and she began to glow as if she’d received the greatest compliment of her life. She leaned towards me, her eyes sparkling, and kissed me passionately. It was a deep, tender kiss that said everything words couldn’t express in that moment.
After we broke apart, however, she began to feel a little chilly. I felt goosebumps creeping up her skin. “Wait a minute,” I said, getting up to fetch the blanket that was lying by the side of the couch. I spread the blanket over us, and we snuggled together, our naked bodies covered only by the warm, soft blanket. It felt incredibly right to have her in my arms like that, her hair against my chin, her steady breath against my chest.
After a while, during which we simply lay there talking about university, our favorite movies, and fitness, she sighed softly. “I’m afraid I have to go,” she said regretfully. “I have a very early lecture tomorrow.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t like the idea. We got dressed slowly, each moment of dressing feeling like an interruption. I walked her to the door and helped her into her coat. The moment she opened the door and the cold night air rushed in, I just didn’t want the evening to end like this. I took her hand, gently pulled her back to me, and closed the door with my other foot.
“Lena,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. “I really want to see you again.”
She looked at me, and the sparkle in her green eyes was back, brighter than ever. She grinned. “I certainly hope so,” she said mischievously. “You still owe me a tiramisu.” She giggled, stood on her tiptoes, and gave me a goodbye kiss—a short but intense kiss that told me without words that she really wanted to see me again, too.