Chapter 1: Bittersweet Confessions Over Matcha
Nong
I am a 35 year old owner of an art gallery in the city. I actually own the building; an art gallery and coffee shop + bakery are on the ground floor, offices in the next several floors and then my atelier and apartment on the top floors.
One day a gorgeous Asian woman comes in and we start discussing my work on display. She visits my atelier and we hit it off. I take her out to dinner at a very upscale Japanese restaurant. I found out that she is 1/2 Thai and 1/2 Japanese. She is spending 6 months in the US training in fashion merchandising. I suggest we see each other again, Nong agrees. Next date: we go to my box at the opera. Dinners; sports events; we date for a month; we like each other a lot, but only kiss lightly; we have not been intimate yet. Eventually I bring it up and Nong starts crying. She tells me her big secret: she is a “ladyboy” or trans. I am quite surprised and hesitant at first. I have never touched a penis, but Nong is so special to me I promise to give it a try. We head back to my apartment and start kissing. I notice a bulge in the front of her skirt. I am fascinated and get down on my knees in front of her and expose her dick. Nong ‘s cock is small, maybe 4 inches erect and uncircumcised. It is a dark yellow-ish pink color and a very erotic fragrance. Her testicles are dark yellow-ish brown, and surprisingly smooth. Her dick is rock hard and pointing straight up. I gently wrap my fingers around her dick lightly, and am surprised at how soft it feels and how warm. I move my hand up and down in the woman’s penis, sometimes pulling down on the rigid organ, then releasing so that her cock snaps back into place. I can see some pre-cum dribbling out of her piss-hole; I scoop it up and use as lube as I stroke her granite-hard dick. I stick my tongue out and touch the tip against Nong’s glans. I move my tongue back and forth over her cock-head, and slide it into her piss-hole. Nong moans my name It is the first time for me; I have never put my mouth on a penis. I begin to lick the shaft - from tip to her balls. She moans “Daniel … Daniel…It feels so good! Don’t stop, my darling! My darling!” Her use of the word “darling” excites and thrills me. I move my mouth over the tip of her penis and start to move my head downward. I get most of her 4 inches in my mouth and begin a slight sucking. My head moves up, then down. Up then down. I swirl my tongue around the shaft of her hot penis, and she throws her head back and purrs…. She shifts her hips up and…ejaculates in my mouth. The first shot hits the back of my throat and my mouth is instantly filled with a thick, warm, salty liquid. I swallow quickly but my mouth is immediately full again; I swallow but more hot semen is shot into my mouth. Again, I gulp down as much as I can. I love the taste. Finally, the last weak rope of semen shots into my mouth and I pull my head off her penis. It flops out from between my lips. Some cum dribbles out of my mouth; I suck it back into my mouth and swallow. Sweat is on my brow. I’m exhausted but excited more than any other time in my life. My own 7 inches of cock-meat threatens to rip the front of my pants open. I kiss the small wrinkled worm between her legs and pull back her foreskin and clean the space between the flap of skin and her glans.
Nong holds my face in her hands and kisses me deeply. “How do you want me?” she asks…
“Just like this,” I heard myself say, my voice rough. My hands were on her hips, holding her there, kneeling before me. The city lights bled around the edges of the blinds, painting streaks of gold across her skin. “I want you just like this.”
I stood, my own need a sharp, insistent pressure. But it was secondary. This moment was about her. About the truth hanging in the air between us, now dissolved not by words, but by touch.
I guided her back onto the deep velvet of the sofa. She followed, her dark eyes wide, watching my every move as if I might turn to smoke. I settled beside her, one leg curled beneath me, facing her. The silence wasn’t empty anymore; it was full of the sound of our breathing, the rustle of fabric, the hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
“Can I?” I asked, my fingers hovering at the first button of her blouse.
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Each button was a revelation. The delicate cotton gave way to a lace-edged camisole beneath, and beneath that, the flat plane of her stomach, the gentle curve of her ribs. I pushed the fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. She was beautiful. Truly. The anatomy was a detail, a footnote to the whole.
My palm slid up her side, feeling the warmth, the life of her. She shuddered.
“You’re shaking,” I murmured.
“I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of this. Of it being… too much. Or not enough.” Her voice was a thread.
“It’s enough,” I said, and bent to kiss the hollow of her throat. “You are more than enough.”
My exploration was slow, patient. I traced the lines of her, learning the new map of her body. The softness of her breasts, the surprising strength in her shoulders, the dip of her waist. My touch drifted lower, over the silk of her skirt, to the firmness I found there. She gasped into my mouth when I cupped her through the fabric.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.” It was a breath.
“Tell me what feels good.”
Her guidance was hesitant, whispered against my skin. A little to the left. Softer. Just like that. It was a collaboration. I unfastened her skirt, helped her wriggle out of it, until she was left in just her lace-trimmed panties, the evidence of her arousal a dark patch on the fabric.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband. “These too?”
She bit her lip, then nodded again, lifting her hips. I drew them down and off, and there she was, completely exposed. The earlier glimpse had been frantic, charged. Now, in the dim, steady light, I could just look. She was a blend of contradictions, soft and hard, delicate and potent. And she was watching me, every flicker of my expression.
“You’re staring,” she whispered, a hint of her old shyness returning.
“I’m admiring.” I meant it. I leaned down and pressed a kiss not to her mouth, but to the inside of her thigh. The skin was like satin. She jumped. “Sorry. Cold lips.”
“They’re perfect.”
I took my time, kissing a path up her thigh, nuzzling the crease of her leg, avoiding the center of her heat. I was learning her scent, musky and sweet, utterly feminine. Her hands fisted in my hair, not pushing, just holding on.
When my tongue finally found her, a slow, flat stroke over the length of her, her whole body bowed off the couch. A choked-off cry escaped her. Her taste was complex, addictive. I lost myself in the rhythm of it, in her sounds, the way her thighs trembled against my ears. Her hips began to move in tiny, desperate circles.
“Daniel… I’m going to…”
I didn’t stop. I reached up, finding her hand, lacing our fingers together as her climax broke over her. It was quieter this time, a deep, shuddering release that squeezed my hand tight enough to hurt. I gentled my touch, kissing her through the aftershocks until she went boneless against the cushions, her chest heaving.
I crawled up her body, settling my weight beside her, not on her. She turned her head, her eyes glazed. She reached for me, her fingers clumsy as they went to the button of my trousers.
“Let me,” she said.
I caught her hand, brought it to my lips. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” There was a new firmness in her voice. A sliver of the confidence I’d seen in the gallery. “Please. I want to see you.”
I let go. I let her undress me, her movements growing surer. When I was as bare as she was, she looked her fill, her gaze traveling over me with an artist’s appreciation. Her touch, when it came, was electrifying. She was tentative at first, then bolder, her small, cool hand closing around me, stroking in a rhythm that was entirely her own.
It was my turn to close my eyes, to lose my breath. The feel of her hand, the knowledge of who she was, what she had trusted me with, it all coalesced into a wave of feeling that was dangerously close to overwhelming.
“Nong,” I gasped.
“I know,” she whispered. She shifted, moving over me, her knees on either side of my hips. She hovered there for a long moment, our eyes locked. The question was in the air, more profound than any other.
I answered it by guiding myself to her entrance, by letting my hands rest on the fierce curve of her hips. “Yes.”
She sank down, taking me into the tight, impossible heat of her. We both cried out, a syncopated gasp of completion and surprise. For a minute, neither of us moved, just fused together, breathing the same air.
Then she began to move. It was a slow, rolling undulation, a dance. I watched her, the way her head fell back, the line of her throat, the sheen of sweat on her collarbone. I thrust up to meet her, and the pace quickened, turning urgent, desperate. The velvet of the couch scratched my back, a sharp counterpoint to the sublime friction.
Her name was a prayer on my lips, then a curse, then a broken chant. Her inner muscles clenched around me, and I was gone, shattering, holding her to me as I spilled deep inside her. She followed a heartbeat later, a soft, keening sound escaping her as she collapsed onto my chest.
The only sound was the frantic hammering of our hearts, slowly calming into one sluggish, shared rhythm. The room came back in pieces—the distant wail of a siren, the cool air on my sweat-damp skin, the weight of her, perfect and real.
I didn’t know how much time passed. My fingers traced idle patterns on her back.
“So,” she finally said, her voice muffled against my chest. “That happened.”
A laugh bubbled out of me, relief and joy and sheer wonder. “Yeah. It did.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows, her hair a messy curtain around her face. The fear was gone from her eyes, replaced by a wary hope so fragile it made my chest ache. “And you’re… still here.”
I brushed the hair from her forehead. “Where else would I be?”
She searched my face, looking for the lie, the hesitation. She wouldn’t find it. Not tonight.
But as she settled back down, her breath evening out toward sleep, I stared at the ceiling. The immensity of it all began to settle on me. This wasn’t a fling. This was a door swinging open onto a landscape I had no map for. The gallery, my routines, the easy, controlled life I’d built—it all seemed like a diorama now, small and contained behind glass.
She was real. This was real. And tomorrow, in the harsh, unromantic light of day, we would have to figure out what that meant.
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the blinds, clean and optimistic, painting bright stripes across the wreckage of the previous night. Empty wine glasses, discarded clothing, the indentation on the pillow next to mine.
Nong was in the kitchen.
I heard the gentle clink of a mug, the quiet sigh of the coffee machine. The normalcy of it was jarring. I pulled on a pair of sweats and padded out.
She stood by the counter, wearing one of my old t-shirts. It swamped her, the hem brushing her thighs. She was staring into her coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe.
“Hey,” I said, my voice gravelly.
She flinched, just a little. “Hey.” She didn’t look up.
The space between us was suddenly miles wide. Last night, we’d been fused. Now, we were two strangers negotiating a minefield in a sunlit room. I went to the machine, poured my own cup, just for something to do.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” A beat of silence. “You?”
“Yeah.” I leaned against the counter, facing her. “Nong. Look at me.”
Slowly, she raised her eyes. The flawless makeup was gone. She looked younger, more vulnerable, with faint shadows under her eyes. Beautiful. Terrified.
“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” I said.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it. I’m feeling it.” I took a sip. The coffee was bitter. “This is… new. For me. I won’t pretend it’s not. But you aren’t new. You’re the same person who argued with me about post-modernism for an hour. The same person who laughs with her whole body.”
She blinked rapidly. “It’s different now.”
“It is. And it isn’t.” I set my cup down. “I’m still here.”
Her phone buzzed on the counter, shattering the delicate silence. She glanced at it, and her posture changed—a slight stiffening, a mask clicking into place. “It’s Yumi. I should… I told her I’d call.”
“Of course.”
She took the phone and slipped out onto the balcony. I watched through the glass as she talked, her free arm wrapped tightly around herself. Her friend Yumi was a force of nature; I’d met her once. Fierce, funny, protective as a pitbull. Nong’s shoulders slowly relaxed as she spoke. She nodded, running a hand through her tangled hair.
When she came back in, some of the tension had drained. “She’s coming over,” Nong said. “Is that…?”
“It’s your home too,” I said, and the words felt foreign and right. “For now, at least.”
Yumi arrived like a stylish hurricane an hour later, bearing a paper bag smelling of pastries and a no-nonsense expression. She gave me a long, appraising look that seemed to x-ray my soul.
“So,” she said, putting the bag on the table. “You’re the one.”
“Guilty,” I said.
Nong busied herself with plates. Yumi cornered me by the sink while Nong was in the bathroom. Her voice was low and sharp.
“You hurt her, I will remove your balls with a rusty spoon and feed them to you. We clear?”
“Crystal.”
She searched my face, then gave a short, satisfied nod. “Okay. She’s fragile. Not broken. There’s a difference. Remember it.”
We ate around the island. Yumi did most of the talking, filling the silence with gossip about the fashion scene, a disastrous photo shoot, a toxic client. It was a lifeline. Nong began to smile, then to laugh. The sound loosened something tight in my chest.
After pastries, Yumi announced she had to run. She hugged Nong fiercely, whispering something in her ear that made Nong’s eyes go soft. At the door, Yumi turned to me. “Be smart, gallery boy.” Then she was gone.
The apartment settled again. Deeper quiet.
Nong started gathering dishes. I moved to help. Our hands brushed over a crumb-covered plate. A spark, immediate and physical. We both froze.
Her gaze lifted to mine. The fear was still there, but underneath it, a glimmer of the heat from last night. A challenge.
I didn’t move. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed. “I want not to be afraid.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was a whisper. “Keep going, I guess.”
I took the plate from her hands, set it aside. I stepped into her space, my body not touching hers, but the heat between us was palpable. “Then we keep going.”
I kissed her. It was softer than last night, less frantic. A question, not an assumption. She answered by opening her mouth to me, her hands coming up to clutch the front of my shirt.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. My back hit the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. Her thigh hitched over my hip, and I could feel her, hard and urgent against me through the thin cotton of my shirt. The contrast—the softness of her mouth, the firm pressure of her cock—sent a jolt of pure, undiluted lust straight to my core.
“Fuck, Nong,” I groaned against her neck.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Please.”
I spun us around, lifting her onto the cold granite of the kitchen island. The dishes rattled. She let out a shocked little laugh that turned into a gasp as I pushed the t-shirt up and took her nipple into my mouth. I teased it with my tongue, then my teeth, and her back arched, her fingers spearing into my hair.
My hands went to the waistband of her panties—mine, actually, a pair of my grey cotton boxer briefs she’d pulled on. I yanked them down just enough to free her. She was already fully erect, the dark pink head slick with pre-cum. I fumbled with the tie of my sweats, shoving them down just enough to spring free.
I was painfully hard, aching. I positioned myself at her entrance, my tip nudging against her. We were both breathing like we’d run a mile.
“Look at me,” I demanded.
Her dark eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, locked onto mine. I pushed inside.
It was tighter this time, more conscious. We both felt every millimeter. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. I sank in to the hilt, buried in that incredible, clutching heat, and stopped, my forehead against hers.
“You feel…” I couldn’t finish. There were no words.
She rocked her hips, a tiny, desperate movement. “Move, Daniel. Please move.”
I set a punishing pace from the start. There was no slow build, no gentle exploration. This was about claiming and being claimed. The island creaked. A spoon clattered to the floor. The sounds were obscene and perfect—the wet slap of skin, our ragged breaths, my guttural groans every time she clenched around me.
I hooked my hands under her knees, spreading her wider, driving deeper. The angle changed, and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“There?” I gritted out.
“Yes! Right there, god, right there!”
I hammered into that spot, relentlessly. Her cock jumped against my stomach, leaving sticky streaks. I reached between us, wrapping my fingers around her. She was velvet over steel. I stroked her in time with my thrusts, my thumb smearing the fluid leaking from her tip.
“I’m not going to last,” I warned, my control fraying.
“Don’t. Cum inside me. I want to feel your seed in my pussy.”
Her permission shattered me. With a final, deep drive, I came, a raw shout tearing from my throat as I pulsed into her. The intensity triggered her own climax. Her back arched off the cold stone, a silent scream on her lips as her release shot hot and thick between us, coating my hand and stomach in warm stripes.
I collapsed forward, catching my weight on my arms, still buried inside her. We were a mess of sweat and come and trembling limbs. I nuzzled into the sweat-damp hair at her temple.
“Okay?” I managed.
She nodded, her body still quaking with aftershocks. “Okay.”
Later, tangled in the shower under the hot spray, she traced the muscles of my chest. “Yumi thinks I’m crazy.”
“Why?”
“For trusting you. For… this. It’s fast.”
“It is fast.” I smoothed her wet hair back. “Do you feel crazy?”
She thought for a moment. “I feel… awake.”
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. A gallery emergency—a delayed shipment, an irate collector. The real world was banging on the door. I saw the flicker in her eyes, the worry that this was where I’d exit, retreat into my clean, manageable life.
I kissed her forehead. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
“To the gallery?”
“Yeah. You can tell me what you really think of the new installation. And maybe,” I said, a new idea forming, “you can tell me what you’d put up instead.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“You have an eye. I’d be stupid not to use it.” I stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. “Besides, I’m not ready for the day to start without you in it.”
It was a risk. Bringing her into my professional space, blending these separate worlds. I saw her understand the significance, saw the fear war with a dawning hope. This was the figuring out. It wasn’t in words, but in choices. In bringing her into the light.
She smiled, a real one, that reached her eyes. “Okay. Let me find some clothes that aren’t yours.”
As she dressed, I looked out the window at the city. The controlled, curated life I’d built seemed smaller somehow, a waiting room. She was the main event. I had no map, no guide for the territory ahead. Only the certainty that turning back was impossible. The door was open, and the light, however harsh, was flooding in.