I was nervous as I drove to Mark’s house for the first time, the silence punctuated only by the occasional chirping of directions from my phone. We’d been dating for about two months and had had the “exclusivity” conversation over perfectly cooked steaks at a local fancy restaurant.

But it was the first time I was going to visit his house. Things were always different in those sorts of private spaces. Especially for trans women.

He at least knew about that—I’d disclosed it in my profile—but it was still something I worried about. Yes, he was a sweet guy, but what if...

I shook my head, turning onto the last street, my phone helpfully reciting the number. I knew better than that, however much doubt cloyed to me. I cared about him a lot, and the feeling was undoubtedly mutual.

Besides, he had kissed me. Multiple times. We had made out in the parking lot of a local Mexican place, even—along with several other semi-private sorts of places.

But alone? In private?

“He’s into you, Christine,” I muttered to myself as I scanned the houses for the right one.

My phone told me that I’d arrived, and I saw the number. The porch light was on, even though it was still day. His car—a blue sedan—sat in the driveway.

As I pulled in and parked, I looked over the house for a moment. It was a one-story brick deal, and looked relatively small and cozy—and I wondered for a few minutes what it would be like to live there.

“Getting ahead of yourself, girl,” I muttered, then realized I was sitting closer to my boy voice than I wanted. I focused a moment, bringing it more into my girl voice while reciting “Heat from fire, fire from heat.” Back in the range I wanted it to be, I continued my muttering narration to myself. “First, let him make you dinner.”

The lawn was tidy and well-manicured, if not impressively so. The bushes looked like they needed to be trimmed, and the sea of green beneath them spoke to a lack of weeding.

Respectable, but his aptitude at doing yardwork wasn’t what I liked about him.

I checked my makeup in the mirror, and brushed some stray strands of my brown hair behind an ear.

He was cooking me dinner.

It was a really sweet gesture, even if I was nervous about it. But he’d seemed extremely enthusiastic about it, and had joked that his love language was cooking. I wasn’t going to complain; cooking was one of the feminine skills I had neglected in my transition.

I felt self-conscious as I climbed out of my car and walked up to the porch. I’d worn a reasonable date-night outfit: a nice maroon short-sleeve v-neck top and a professional-looking ash-black knee-length skirt (shorts underneath for modesty), with very sensible black flats. Watch on one wrist, chunky black bracelet on the other, and an obsidian pendant on a silver chain for a necklace. My purse was slung across my body.

My heart was pounding as I rang the doorbell. I liked this man a lot! He liked me! We were dating! Scenarios ran through my head of what could happen that evening. Some of them bad: violence, breakup, that sort of thing. Some of them good: dinner, making out...

Sex.

The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down my body just in time for him to open the door.

He smiled at me, and my insides melted. His oval face was cute in a boyish way, and his trim body was still taller than me. Those blue, piercing eyes of his glanced up and down my body as he greeted me. “Hey Christine. Glad you could make it; dinner’s just about to come out of the oven.” The apron he had on over his yellow shirt and khaki shorts had a few splotches of previously cooked meals on it, but he wore it well.

“Smells delicious, whatever it is.” I couldn’t tell if it was meat or bread or what, but the aroma of homeyness emanated from behind him.

“Why don’t you come in, then?” he suggested, gesturing. “Though shoes off, please.”

I glanced down at his bare feet, and matched, slipping off my flats as I entered, looking around.

No sooner had I straightened back up than he slid closer to me and leaned in for a peck of a kiss on my lips. “You’re cute,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks.

He made sure the door was closed and smiled at me. “Normally I’d like to greet you with a little more than a peck, but—” The sound of a timer beeping from within the house interrupted him. “That,” he said with a laugh, and began to make haste into the house. “Make yourself at home,” he suggested.

The front door opened into a cozy living room, with a brown couch and a blue chair arranged for watching TV. The walls were white, with artwork that largely seemed to be of the figure-painted-on-white-paper variety. Two bird portraits hung on either side of a corner bay window, and a charcoal Albert Einstein face over the couch grabbed my eye for a moment. I set my purse in the chair—I’d been told putting a purse on the ground was bad luck, after all—then ambled over to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, perusing over the titles. A couple nature-focused, some science things, and a smattering of literary fiction and romance novels.

The last almost surprised me a little, but it tracked with what I knew about him.

The living room shared a large opening with the dining room, where the table had already been elegantly set with candlesticks ready to light. The art on the walls continued the nature-and-portrait theme, and a small china cabinet in one corner held a small smattering of glassware.

From there there was a doorway to the kitchen, where he was busy getting asparagus out of the microwave while something that smelled delicious sat cooling on the stove. It looked like a pastry, maybe?

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, flashing me a smile.

“Water’s fine,” I replied. “What did you cook?”

“Beef wellington,” he said, pride in his voice. “It’s one of my favorite fancy dishes to make.”

I was taken aback. Beef wellington? That was the sort of dish I’d only heard about, and had absolutely no idea what to even expect. I didn’t think it looked like a pastry! But it did! Was the beef inside it?

“It’ll be just a moment,” he said, continuing to busy himself with the food, dishing out mashed potatoes from a pot on the stove. “Sorry I’m not much of a conversationalist at the moment. You know. Cooking.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, leaning against the door frame. “I can watch.”

He flashed me another smile—making very glad that I was leaning against something—and went to work, humming softly and tunelessly to himself.

And in short order, we were seated at the table, a perfect slice of beef wellington—the steak was indeed inside the pastry!—served to me alongside the asparagus, mashed potatoes, and gravy, with chalices of water at each place.

“Bon appétit,” he said.

I felt so loved.

“So, beef wellington?” I wondered as we ate. “That’s pretty fancy.”

He laughed. “I’ll confess to wanting to impress you.” He paused a few moments, his eyes distant. “I actually did a couple years in a culinary school before going to college for a more boring career.”

“Why’d you stop?” I had a few mental guesses.

“It just wasn’t for me, to be honest.” He shook his head a little, obviously reminiscing. “While I absolutely love cooking—especially for someone else—I realized I didn’t want that to be my job. It’s a lot of stress that I just didn’t want to deal with.”

I let a smile play on my lips. “So now you’re doing logistics for a shoe company.”

“Pays the bills, and lets me take the time to cook impressive meals for my beautiful girlfriend.”

I looked down at my plate, my cheeks warm. I never felt beautiful—just passable—and every time he told me otherwise it was overwhelming. “You’re sweet.”

“My parents were happier when I decided to go boring,” he replied. “They were pretty upset the day I came home from school and declared that I was going to be a chef. Big arguments, lots of shouting.”

“I know how that can go,” I said dryly, trying very hard not to think of the arguments I’d had with my own family.

Mark seemed to realize the nerve he was dangerously close to hitting. “Oh, sorry.” He looked away.

“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. The wound of my family’s disownment would never truly go away, but time had mostly cauterized it. “So they still let you go?”

He scratched the back of his neck theatrically. “The chocolate cake I baked for them might’ve been pretty convincing, I guess.”

“Chocolate cake?” I raised my eyebrows.

The mischief in his grin made my heart leap. “Patience, Christine. Good girls get what’s coming to them.”

Well, he did know how to make me squishy inside, and using the magic phrase ... I was speechless, again looking down at my plate.

“Anyways, I think they were willing to let me try it out, though I also had to bake a cake when I decided to change, as an apology. They didn’t complain too much, and I think were mostly happy I ‘saw the light’ and decided to go boring. They joked that they should have named me Paul.”

“Instead you got Mark,” I replied with a small laugh. “Close enough, right?”

“Well, my older brother is Matthew, and my younger sister is Luca.”

I stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Well, that and they were apparently enamored with Crono Trigger at the time, which is why they didn’t go with Lucy.”

“I didn’t think they were that religious ... right?”

“Unimaginative, more like. They tried to pass it off, saying that Matthew was named after Matthew Broderick—the actor—and that I was named after Mark Antony because a local theater did Antony and Cleopatra that year and...”

I laughed. “Okay, I get the point. Names are interesting, and that’s still quite the pattern.”

“Mmhmm.” His hand played with his glass, and I could tell he was debating his next question. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

I braced myself, a reflex I’d learned over the years to that question. Sometimes it was innocuous, sometimes not, but I wanted to be ready for the not-innocuous side. Not that I expected Mark to actually be like that, but ... you never knew. I was more of an open book to my boyfriend, so he could ask things most people couldn’t, but there was still a part of me that worried. “Sure,” I said.

“Why’d you pick Christine? As a name, I mean.”

I relaxed. That was a very reasonable question that I was more than willing to answer. “The ultimate answer is that it just felt right,” I said. “But it wasn’t related to my deadname.”

“Deadname? That’s your name from before transition, right?” He was a sweet guy who’d done his research—even before our first date, even!—so I found it a little odd that he was asking about something so basic about being transgender. Then again, he obviously knew what it was; this was him attempting to make conversation. He was showing interest in me, and the reality of the world in which I lived. I appreciated it.

“Yeah. Some people who like them more will just call them their birth names. But I don’t; my deadname can die in a fire for all I care.” He had on that expression I’d seen before, that curiosity of what my deadname was, but he was at least too polite to ask.

And for how much I cared for him, I wasn’t ready to reveal that to him yet.

“So I intentionally sought out a name that wasn’t anything like it. Different initials, even.”

“You changed your last name, too?”

I nodded. “It’s not like I felt like I belonged to my family. So I got to choose not just one, but three names for myself.”

“That must have been quite a task.” From some people, I would have considered that patronizing; from him, I understood it as interest.

“It took time. I tried on names like clothes, you know?” I laughed softly. “I actually used to use Christy online, way back when, and so it ended up on my list, but sounded too ... mmm ... juvenile, I guess? But then I made it Christine and, well ... it fit.”

“I think it fits you very well.”

“Thank you.”

He paused for a few moments, watching me. “I feel like I should know your middle name, though.”

“Only if you tell me yours.”

“Norman,” he replied. “Old family name. And you?”

“Lucy. My grandmother’s name.” I decided to be a little vulnerable and explain further. “She was a sweet lady, and told me when I was six years old that I made a better girl than a boy.” I paused, smiling softly to myself as I considered the memory. “While she never knew me after I transitioned, I feel like she would have been the one family member who’d have accepted me.”

“That’s sweet.” He frowned again. “Though I’m sorry to bring up your—”

“No, it’s fine. Comes with the territory.” I smiled at him, then looked down at my plate for a moment as I decided to change topics. “The food is absolutely delicious, by the way. Your time in culinary school was not wasted.”

He laughed. “I hope you say the same after dessert.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So you’re saying there is a dessert.”

A mischievous smile played on his lips. “Finish your dinner first, dear.”

I smiled back at him with what I hoped was sufficiently seductive. “As you wish.” I put one of my last bites of dinner into my mouth, eagerly looking forward to what would come later—both with dessert, and after.

Dessert was indeed chocolate cake. Flourless chocolate cake topped with raspberries and whipped cream.

I love raspberries.

I may have let out a giddy squeak as he put the plate with my slice in front of me. The warmth in his smile in response was loving.

And after dessert, we retired to the living room, where we cuddled as we watched a movie—a relatively brainless romcom, but enjoyable nonetheless—then I excused myself to use the bathroom.

After doing my business and washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror and took a few deep breaths.

How far was I really willing to go tonight?

It wasn’t a small question, and it wasn’t the first time I had contemplated it.

I had the opportunity to leave, right then. It was a natural breaking point in the evening. But I didn’t want to, even knowing what would possibly transpire. Dinner, movie, kissing. That’s how it went, right?

And I wanted to kiss him again.

I took the opportunity to tuck my hair behind my ears, and make sure my makeup was still presentable. Given the likely kissing—and possibly other things—I wasn’t inclined to put lipstick on again; and everything else still looked fine.

With a deep breath, anticipating the possibilities that could arise from the rest of the evening, I walked back out into the living room.

He was there, sitting on the couch again, though in an adjusted position, sitting thoughtfully—not even idly looking at his phone. Instead, he was looking at me, and his smile melted my heart again.

“You look more beautiful every time I see you, Christine,” he said, angling his body to clearly invite me to join him on the couch.

Heat rose to my face again as I settled on the couch next to him, turning my body to face him. I hesitated a moment, letting him bridge the gap, feeling the desire welling up in my body. “You’re sweet,” I said.

“So are you,” he replied, leaning forward, making up the space between us. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”

“Please,” I whispered, wanting him so badly

His lips met mine and I could not help but melt into him as best I could. There was something so viscerally pleasurable about simply kissing, of our lips together, of our tongues exploring.

I let him take control, to be the mold into which I formed. It felt so much more right to me, submitting to him in that way, letting him lead. I’d never been comfortable in that role, myself, always wanting someone else to do that. I was better as a supporter, not a leader.

My hands pulled him closer, and his me. We explored each other’s bodies for a bit, just as our tongues explored each other’s mouths. One thing that I appreciated about him was that he was ginger with boundaries, respecting them when I enforced them.

But tonight...

Fingers found my breast, and I let out a small moan of approval. It was one of the wonderful things about breasts, that I had learned to appreciate soon after I’d grown them: it felt so good for someone to massage them, as he was. I knew that from my own ministrations on my own body—but I was learning that it was even better when it was someone else.

Our lips broke, both of us panting for breath, and his hands slid down, finding mine between us. “So...” he started.

I could sense the question he wanted to ask, and I knew the answer I would give.

“Mmhmm?”

“We’ve been going out for a while...”

“Yep.” I smiled at him, our foreheads together.

“And I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do...”

“But?” I had just a hint of trepidation. A sliver of doubt.

He leaned back, sighing just a little, though our hands stayed together. “I want to talk about sex. I mean, every couple needs to talk about it at some point, right? And you’ve mentioned having had bottom surgery before, right?” It was endearing, how nervous he was. He’d obviously been thinking about it for a while, and had probably worried about how I’d respond. “I just want to know what you’re comfortable with.”

I smiled at him, then sighed. “It’s ... complicated. Yes, I have had bottom surgery, and that helps my comfort level a lot. I wouldn’t even be willing to go as far as we have if not for that.”

“But?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s fine if you’re not ready.”

I shook my head. “I’ve thought a lot about sex, and when to have it. If I were cis, I would probably wait until the right date, but there’s oh so much advice on when is the right time and all that. And ... well, I don’t have the advantage of years of experience there.” My hands tightened on his. “I’m basically a virgin.”

“Basically?”

“I had sex as a boy,” I explained. “But never as a girl. Hell, I’ve only had a pussy for a little over a year now. I’m still getting used to it.”

“That must be fun.”

“And frustrating sometimes. Do you remember how long it took to figure out your own parts? I’ve been having to go through that process, but without the advantage of being a teenager in the process. The libido of one sometimes, sure, but my body’s not what it once was.” I chuckled. “In many ways.”

“It’s okay if you want to take it slow,” he said. “It really is.” A worried look crossed his face. “I know it must be hard for you; while I’m sure it’s not as obvious to me, I’ve heard of the violence. I can tell you’re worried, here in my home.” His hand slipped from mine, and he placed it on my upper arm gently. “But I love you just the way you are, Christine. I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t want to have sex with you—and to be clear, I do, in whatever way you’re comfortable with.”

“And if I’m not?”

“I didn’t ask you out just to sleep with you,” he said with a laugh. “Yes, I want to have sex, but I’ve also gone a long time with just my hand. I can go a little longer. I don’t want to pressure you into anything—and I don’t want you to be scared of how I’ll react.”

I had a swirl of emotions as he talked. It was one of the reasons I’d fallen for him, that he was such a caring and empathetic person. He didn’t feel the need to prove himself by being strong or conquering the girl—his strength came from being gentle. His power came from compassion.

But there was always that seed of doubt. He might say he wouldn’t care, but what would he really think? Would he just compare me to every cis woman he’d ever bed? Would I even measure up to them? Was I just “good enough” for him—and would he really be willing to admit to his relationship with me?

Yet, my body had needs. And wants. And curiosities.

“Quite honestly,” I said, letting mischief play in my smile. “Like I said, it’s rather new for me, and I am quite the curious girl. If I were cis, I would probably wait—but I’m not, and ... well...”

He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“The fact of the matter is that you’ve charmed me into your bed, Mister Williams. Or would, if you asked. Assuming you have lube.”

The surprise on his face made it clear that he wasn’t expecting that answer. “Already? I wouldn’t want you to—”

“Look, Mark, I went through a lot of effort to get this pussy and I have a lot of years to catch up on.” I laughed, and shook my head. “And maybe I’m just thinking like a horny teenage girl.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

“You’re too kind,” I said, leaning again into him. “But you have me in your house. And I want you to be my first, Mark. I love you too much not to.”

That love had slid into our conversation had seemed thoroughly natural, and that he didn’t flinch—had even said the word first, himself—made me relax in a way that I hadn’t in a couple months of dating.

“I love you too, Christine,” he said, hand coming up to cup my face for just a moment. “All of your beautiful, wonderful body.”

Before I could blush and turn away, he brought his lips to mine again, and it was heavenly.

I thought I had melted before, but now, more of my defenses had been whittled away. I was his.

As we broke the kiss, he laughed softly. “And yes, I do have lube. You’ll have to help me apply it, though.” He kissed my nose. “If you want.”

I decided to be bold, and brought a hand to his crotch, gripping with enough pressure to make my point. “I’d love to.”

He kissed me again, and my body was practically on fire. My arousal had been building all evening, my desire for him slowly accumulating despite the twists and turns of our conversation. And even with some discomfort, there came vulnerability, and with that, acceptance—and desire.

“Come with me,” he said softly as we broke the next kiss and disentangled from the couch. I followed him back to his bedroom, and took a few moments to look around. It was neat and clean, and I guessed he’d done that for me. He knew there was a possibility this might happen.

Had even gotten lube.

I loved a man who did his research and was prepared.

He closed the door to his bedroom, and gestured to the bed. “I uh ... well, I don’t know how you want this to go.”

“Me either,” I admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at him. “But ... just to be clear, I’m not your first, right?”

A small grimace crossed his face, and my heart began to sink. “First trans woman, yes. First woman, no.” Whew. While I knew he’d had some dating success in the past, that was a detail I hadn’t inquired about. “But the first time together is always awkward, as you try to figure out well ... how to do it over again.”

I brushed some hair behind an ear. “I know what you mean, but ... you’re the experienced one here. Guide me.”

He hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. Maybe he finally understood what I had been asking for, ever so subtly. “You want to be a good girl?”

Maybe it was those two words, and how he used them on me from time to time. With those two words he could get me to do almost anything. I nodded, my eyes pleading.

He crooked his fingers, gesturing for me to get up. I obliged, happy to obey. Not that I was really into BDSM or kink or anything, but ... I wanted him to take charge. I wanted to be his, and to let him guide that. “Have you ever even sucked a cock, Christine?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to?”

I nodded, keeping my eyes open and pleading as I stepped forward.

There was the tender touch of his hand on my arm, where even when he was in control—and I let him be in that control—he was caring for me. Supporting me. “Do you want to try it on your knees, or something more comfortable?”

I grimaced a little, glancing at the floor between us. Carpeted, at least, but... “More comfortable?” I suggested. “I know porn has a lot of on the knees, but I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me gently on the lips. I sank into him, letting him seduce me further, feeling the warmness grow within me. “You’re new at all of this.” Another kiss, this time quicker. “So how about this? Why don’t I get naked and lay down on the bed, and let you do what you want?” His hand came up to my cheek. “And you can stop when your jaw starts to get tired, okay?”

“You are too good to me,” I said with a sigh. “You’re almost too perfect.”

“I can have my moments of being pushy for sex, don’t get me wrong,” he said, “But I’m keeping that in check right now for you.” One more quick kiss on my lips. “Everyone’s first time should be special, after all.”

He pulled away from me and reached down to the hem of his shirt, and pulled it off. I stook a step back, watching appreciatively. He wasn’t extremely toned or anything, but he also wasn’t flabby, and I had to resist the urge to rub his chest with my hands, just to feel him against me.

A cheeky grin on his face, he undid the button to his pants, then began to push them down, revealing a pair of red plaid boxers, a prominent bulge in the front. My eyes glanced at his face, then back down at his bulge, wondering just what I was getting myself into.

And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I got cold feet—that if it became too much—then he would stop. Would let me leave.

But I didn’t want to leave, not so close to a man who wanted to have sex with me.

“Ready?” he said, hooking his fingers in his boxers.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I replied, my eyes firmly on that prize.

Laughing, he slid them down, his dick falling out, mostly hard. At least, I thought it was mostly hard—I realized I didn’t really know for sure. For having had one for most of my life, it occurred to me that while I knew how mine had acted, I didn’t quite know about other people’s.

This one, though, looked quite nice. Not too long—one of my worries avoided—and not too thick. He was circumcised, as near as I could tell, and didn’t shave at all. It looked natural and beautiful and I couldn’t wait to explore it.

“I take it you like what you see,” he said with an awkward laugh.

I realized my mouth was open, the sides tugging up. “Y ... yeah,” I said. Of course guys would also be nervous about what their lovers would say about their parts. I had been, years ago.

He took that as a cue, and almost a little nervously he got into his bed, pushing the sheets down to lie down on his back, his hardness sticking more or less straight up.

I realized then that my skirt was not going to do me any favors on that bed, so I shuffled it off, leaving the shorts I had on under it. I also quickly shed my jewelry, putting the pile on the floor nearby. His eyes were on my body and I smiled at him, still nervous about letting him see me, even as vulnerable as I was.

What would he think when he actually saw me fully naked?

I pushed the worry aside and climbed into bed next to him, kneeling by his side, his semi-hard cock standing there. I looked at it, watching for a moment as it twitched. Trying to remember how that had felt for me.

One of the weird things about having had bottom surgery is that I’d slowly forgotten what it was like having a penis of my own. My vagina just felt so much more natural.

But, I wasn’t in bed with my boyfriend to pontificate on my body quite like that. I was in bed with him to suck his cock.

So, moving like I knew what I was doing—and in a way, I kind of did—I reached forward and grasped his shaft with a hand.

It felt so weird to be holding on to a dick that wasn’t mine. I knew the sort of motion that I’d liked, once upon a time, and started trying that. It was awkward because of the angle, but the sounds Mark was making let me know I was on the right track.

It throbbed in my hand, slowly becoming harder.

I looked up at his face, and giggled softly. He smiled as he watched me. “You’re doing good,” he encouraged.

Emboldened by his praise, I pushed some hair behind an ear and looked at it again. How would that fit in me? Particularly, my mouth?

I’d stuck a dilator in myself often enough that I had a pretty good sense of what I could comfortably accomodate, and he was in that range. Being confronted with the reality of it was still intimidating.

But I’d promised him a blowjob. Well, not promised, but had decided for myself that it was what I was going to do. So I leaned over, trying to make myself comfortable—suddenly having empathy for the girlfriends I’d asked to do the same—and opened my mouth, taking in the head.

Mark’s sudden intake of breath was again encouraging as I began to lick, tasting him. It was saltier than I’d expected, but I quickly realized that was his precum already leaking out.

Thankful for the tutorials I’d read online about how to go down on a guy, I grasped his shaft firmly, making sure I wouldn’t go any deeper than I wanted to. I had a very strong gag reflex, and didn’t want to trigger it. Instead, I just kept licking, getting my mouth a little more used to its new denizen.