My Neurodivergent Lothario

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Note to readers:

All characters over 18, details in the tags--on the characters' natures, as well as the sex. Enjoy!)

***

Why do I keep doing this? Why does

he?

We don't belong together. Sex ought to be a pleasurable experience. The physical joy should be paired with an emotional connection. I never have the latter, with him. All we do is calm down our anxious bodies, so we can move on to the next things in our separate lives.

I said some of that out loud today. To him, at his place. For the tryst scheduled on our calendars.

"It's efficient, this way," he said, in response to my complaint. "An hour of my time, every two weeks." Yes,

his

time. He's never thought in terms of

our.

Which is why I gave up on him as a potential life partner.

He arranged his clothes neatly on a plain wooden chair.

"I'm the one who has to go back to an office," I said, "where, like all women, I face judgment over my appearance."

He blinked, needing a moment to process what I said. "I have hangers," he said. "I can make space in the closet."

"Yes please," I said, genuinely surprised by his response.

Then I reminded myself that this wasn't actual consideration on his part, merely the exertion of his problem-solving reflex. Which he would use again, to develop deeply arcane software, after I leave.

As he approached with a few hangers, I was amused by the sight of a nude man who did not appear excited, or exciting. His facial expression was blank, his glasses were securely lodged, his short black hair was immobile. His torso showed the lean frame given him by his DNA. My eyes went no lower, blood would not engorge him until I did certain things.

I turned away to disrobe, because I didn't want to be reminded of his presence, and what I was doing there. I have no shame or embarrassment, only perplexity. I should have my life arranged better than this.

With the hangers filled, including with the mesh bag for my underwear, I walked to his closet and stowed them--and with them, my life beyond these walls. Now nude, I could look at him with no negative feeling. I was now a sexual being, and so was he. For the rest of this hour.

The lube was on his nightstand, as always. I figured it might be there for the entire two weeks. This might seem odd, for a man who is neat and precise about everything. Yet it fit in with his belief in efficiency. Putting the lube away after I leave, and bringing it out before I arrive, are two actions he doesn't have to take. There's plenty of space on the nightstand.

Our next actions were just about automatic. He stretched out on the bed, on his back, while I, still standing, picked up the lube bottle. What happened next could also be automatic: He'd put on a condom, and I'd stroke his cock to erection, while lubing on and inside my labia. Then I'd mount him, my wide hips spanning his narrow ones to bring him within me.

Our bodies do this so well.

It's a real shame about our minds.

I tried to squeeze the plastic bottle--but nothing happened. This ended our automatic actions.

Curiously, I looked at the nozzle under the hinged cap. I saw something white inside.

I unscrewed the cap/nozzle, and saw a seal covering the top of the bottle.

"You got another lube," I said.

He said, "Yes."

I looked at him, just in time to see his blank expression give way to a frown.

I said, "The old one wasn't empty."

Inefficiently, he took at least two seconds before he said, "No."

At least he didn't try to gaslight me. Then again, I'm not sure he could. Deception isn't in his skill set.

I chose to be crude. "Are you fucking somebody else?"

His eyes searched me. "Are you angry?"

For an instant, I considered putting on an act. But I was standing there naked, and I really wanted to ride his pole and get my jollies and resume my life. So I decided not to exploit his neurodivergence.

"No," I said. "Just tell me if the condom slips. I don't want to catch whatever microbes you might have now."

I was pleased to have cooked that up so quickly.

I made a show of removing the seal from the bottle. Then I resumed our automatics. His face looked dour, but his dick responded as usual.

And so did I.

If anything, I was a little more turned on than usual. This man was actually banging someone else? Has he found a dating app for people on the autistic spectrum?

As I got his glans past my labia, I reached behind my ass to get a grip on his base, and steer his rod. Yes, oh yes. I moved it nicely on the G Spot a few times, back and forth. This has always been very good for me and doesn't push him over the edge.

He said, "I can tell you about it."

"No," I responded quickly. "And I don't give you permission to talk about me, to her. Do you understand that? And why?" This started to bring me down, as I recalled the bad old days, of giving him tutorials on what neurotypicals want and believe.

"We were safe," he said, skipping over my questions.

I decided that was enough. I shifted around to take him all the way inside. As ever, he allowed me to move our body parts. Also as ever, he filled just enough of me, without hitting the cervix. The deep warmth, the fullness. It's so damn good. Why can't I get this from some other man?

For the first time, I worried that I might stop getting it from this man.

Despite my mental negatives, my body stayed on automatic. Tension built, my gut tightened, and the pleasure swelled towards orgasm. I gave myself up to that. I set aside pondering whether he was giving me breakup sex, or if he's even aware of what that is.

This whole time, he was little more than an appliance. He never even puts his hands on me, yet he seems content to lie there while I do what I must. And, yes, I must. This physical peak has to last me through two weeks at my low sensory baseline.

We continued, as sexual beings. Even with his glasses still on, that's what he was, a screwer to my screwee. I never call him Kyle, and he never calls me Janet. I have to make an effort, to achieve that state of mind. He doesn't.

Then, yes, yes! I didn't say that out loud, he wouldn't care, and I might have been unable to speak. There were flashes inside my tight-shut eyes, heat zoomed along my spine and into my limbs, and my brain was awash in chemicals that elevate me--with a man who's on a different, parallel, track of existence.

My gasping, and my drool landing on his chest, should make this obvious even to him, but I gave him this tutorial anyway. "I'm there!" I howled. "Cut loose!"

His trunk flexed up and down rapidly. His prick throbbed against my spasming walls. He gave off that strangling wail that always makes it seem like he's choking to death.

At last, his voice calmed, at the same time as his hips, and his shlong.

I dismounted. Far be it from me to take him past his allotted hour. And mine.

But I didn't yet go to begin cleanup. I stood next to the bed, and snapped shut the cap on the lube bottle.

Once he was sitting up, I asked, "Do you still want me here in two weeks?"

His look was simply puzzled. That's probably better than guilty. "Yes. Why wouldn't I?"

I couldn't help but smirk. Oh, my neurodivergent Lothario! Stringing me along, as well as his new side piece! Probably I'll have to find out, someday soon, if she (or he? or they?) knows what he's up to, and is okay with it. But for the present, I hoped to hang on to this no-strings opportunity. Now that he might need it less than I do.

I got my hangers from the closet and headed for the bathroom. With a smile that was more than polite, I skipped over his question and said, "See you then."