Subclasses Ch. 01

Author's note:

As this is a romance novel first, an erotica second, and a computer science textbook third, I'll warn you up front that the first truly erotic scenes don't show up until chapter four. However, the first three chapters are peppered with hints of BDSM that I hope will sate your lusts until then.

Sarah is transgender. If you aren't okay with transgender people and still decide to read this story, please don't be an ass in the comments. As a trans woman, myself, I get enough of that IRL. Alternatively, if you fetishize transgender sex (totally fine by me), be warned that there will be little to no mention of male anatomy during sex scenes. Sorry, but that would amp up my already substantial gender dysphoria.

Without further ado, allow me to present: Subclasses.

Chapter One

It's Tuesday of the second week of winter quarter of my sophomore year attending Western Washington University—"in the year of our Lord, two thousand and twenty-three," I'd say with snarky jazz hands if I was speaking to someone. They'd be able to sense that I spelled out the year, too, rather than simply using numerical digits. Trust me.

Western sits in the heart of Bellingham, or, more accurately, the liver of Bellingham. Maybe the west kidney. It's sandwiched between Bellingham Bay to the west and the Sehome Arboretum to the east. The campus runs north to south, with little to the east or west of its red brick thoroughfare.

So far, I have spent almost my entire collegiate life on the south side of campus, where both the Fairhaven Stacks and Communications Facility—home of the computer science department—reside. My roommate, Gabi—I adore her—and I play Mario Kart and Super Smash Bros for the majority of our evening free time.

Gabi is a peach—a half-Black, half-Hispanic Georgia Peach, to be precise (and, coincidentally, she mains Peach in Smash Bros). She's currently a junior dual-majoring in linguistics and Spanish with minors in Italian and French, because, as she puts it, "I need to know all the love languages if I'm going to be a foreign diplomat." I'm not sure of that logic. I'm not sure she's sure about it, either. One of Gabi's moms being a naval officer, her family moved to Oak Harbor—a navy town an hour south of Bellingham—when she was seven. With enviable, flawless brown skin and soft facial features, Gabi possesses a curvaceous physique. Her luscious black curls spring slightly when she moves her head, and a mild Southern twang adds to her charm. It's no surprise that Gabi can—and regularly does—get any boy she wants.

Gabi does not care the least bit that I—a pre-op trans-femme lesbian a year into her transition—have a penis. She's not shy around me when we're getting dressed, and she has never once misgendered me. She doesn't even balk at either of us seeing the other in the nude. Despite my slender but unmistakably masculine build, Gabi sees me as just another girl; she makes me feel perfectly at ease. She is, in short, a godsend. Whichever goddess in the student housing office that chose to place Sarah Delphino as Gabi's roommate my freshman year deserves a raise and a Klondike Bar. And, if I believed in magic, I'd think she might just be clairvoyant.

That said, while Gabi and I do talk, it's mostly surface level—joking and goofing around—no talk of deep thoughts or emotions. Pillow fights 'n shit. Any time I turn the conversation in a heavy direction, Gabi is supportive but clearly uncomfortable, and she never mentions her own heavy stuff; I don't know whether she saves that for her male friends or deals with it alone or what. Whatever the case, it works for her. I've never seen her lose her chill. I love Gabi heaps, and while we banter like an old married couple—something our friends never let us forget—there's not a hint of romance between us, and wouldn't be even if she weren't straight as a ruler: Gabi's pure, casual BFF material.

I am, of course, kidding about the pillow fights. We girls don't actually do that between middle school and porn star school, though sometimes I wish we did. This had always been my suspicion, as I hadn't come out to myself until my senior year of high school, but Gabi confirmed it when I asked her. She had rolled her eyes at me, naturally.

The Fairhaven dorm is a series of numbered cement buildings called stacks, four floors apiece. I live on the third floor of Stack 6 this year. Most evenings, the dozen-odd people on my floor plus a couple charming gay dudes from the floor below us who, thankfully, nudged their way into our posse, head to the Fairhaven cafeteria as a group and eat and gossip and generally have a good time laughing at stupid jokes. And yet, it still feels lonely. I love being with them but I don't feel connected to any of them save Gabi. Maybe it's that the only physical flexibility I've ever had is that yoga stretch called foot-in-mouth. Maybe it's the year-and-a-half of Covid my junior and senior years of high school done remotely online. It's not that I didn't have friends back then, but I think something broke in people my age when the pandemic shut everything down; we lost some of our outgoingness and friend-making skills. It seems to me that we might all be a bit lonely and just pretty good at hiding it, like I am.

Tonight is no different. We enter as a group, grab our respective dinners, and sit at a table in the Georgia O'Keeffe Wing, a large room with one wall of windows—natural light blocked by a dense evergreen mini-forest—and three beige walls filled with O'Keefeian watercolors of flowers resembling feminine genitalia. When the group conversation turns to something I don't care about, my mind begins to wander. It has been a while since I last masturbated, and the destination of my mind-wander is a fantasy of being tied up, suspended, my body that of post-surgery me—me with a vulva, imitation though it be. A vague woman in a leather corset pushes a lubed vibrating egg into me and plays wickedly with the settings on her phone, my hands bound and helpless to stop myself from turning into a mindless puddle of subtastic bliss.

* * *

This quarter I have a chem lab on Wednesdays in the STEM building, an inconveniently placed structure—inconveniently for CS majors who prefer to haunt the third floor of the Comm Facility—just north of the center of campus. The lab is also inconveniently scheduled at 11:30, taking up ninety of the hundred-five minutes that the cafeterias serve lunch.

Lab just ended and I have three options if I want to eat before my "I learned that in 9th grade" Linear Algebra class, fifty minutes from now in Bond Hall, the building just north of my lab, abutting Red Square:

1. time travel back to last night, drive a car I don't own to the Haggen at the bottom of the long hill south of campus, spend the little money I have on groceries in order to retroactively prepare a lackluster PB&J, and hope it doesn't get squished in my backpack,
2. sprint southward, praying I don't trip on Western's walkway—designed by a fetishist of heterogeneously leveled bricks—to the Fairhaven dining hall before it closes, eat quickly, and sprint north again to get to math on time, or
3. walk north to the Viking Union to eat less tasty food in a large, vulva-flowerless cafeteria.

Look, somehow the VU cafeteria food is worse than Fairhaven's, even though the food for both comes from the same company. It just is. But, a relaxed, 30-minute, mediocre lunch beats an out-of-breath slightly better tasting lunch crammed into five minutes with a side of that girl who runs places reputation any day, even without flower vag artwork.

I grab my food—a small salad with honey mustard dressing, half a turkey sandwich, a slice of pepperoni, and a dessert plate of chocolate pie (Western's cafeterias serve the best chocolate pie)—take a seat at an empty table, and dig in.

I'll admit, I have work to do to improve my mindfulness. Mindful eating means taking time to really notice the sensations. The heft of the cool fork in your hand with a piece of pie skewered to the end of it. How it feels when the pie brushes past your lips, entering your mouth. The satisfying viscous squish of the hybrid chocolate mousse and brownie as your teeth bite down. And the glorious, sweet, dark-brown-and-white taste of milk chocolate as it swishes around your tongue. When you have thoughts, notice them, and let them drift away, recentering your focus on the sensations of eating. Let the background noise and sights of the cafeteria fade to the background.

But today, I don't do that—like I said, I need to work on the practice to be the zen master of mindfulness my DBT counselor wants me to be—and somewhere between thinking about the lab I just finished, mindful eating, and the math class I'm about to attend, I am distracted by the fantasy from last night and the fact that I didn't touch myself before going to sleep. I see it again: me bound and hoisted by white linen straps, my wicked Mistress in leather, taking pleasure in my helpless, frustrated state, pleasure at my expense.

I'm hungry and not just for food.

When I'm distracted internally, like I am now, my subconscious autopilot takes over my body, taking in my surroundings, noticing everything, ready to notify my mind of anything notewor—

We lock eyes, my lips slightly parted. I've seen her around campus several times before, but always at a distance; we've never met nor even made eye contact—until now. About 5'7" (170cm) with fair skin. Long, straight blond hair always in an immaculate, mouth-watering high ponytail that apexes half an inch above the top of her head. Every time I've seen her, she's worn a wide, light pink scarf to combat the chilly winter Bellingham weather. Today, she's in a white-on-black dress with a V-neck neckline, showing a hint of what I imagine is substantial cleavage, her signature scarf slung over the back of her chair.

I've always thought she was cute—most campus girls are. Okay, so maybe I've always thought she was a bit more than cute, but it's not like I've built up a small crush on her over the last four months and fantasize about the conversation we might have when we first meet, revising said fantasy each time I notice her. I don't scrutinize her mannerisms from across the semi-circular grass field outside the Comm Facility and overthink them until I arrive at perfectly reasonable conclusions about her personality and history. No, of course not. That would be silly, presumptuous. Not worth my time.

However, as evidenced by this mind-sundering, time-dilating eye contact, she's not merely a "bit more than cute": her face is stunningly beautiful. Literally stunning. Despite her intense, nearly palpable gaze, her face remains indifferent and otherwise inscrutable. She has complete control of me—and I think she knows it—and is choosing not to do anything with it. Aloof. I feel the sudden need to please this divine creature, but I'm rooted in place.

I fear I'm about to start panting when she breaks eye contact, releasing me from her spell. I'm ravenous, haunted by that all-consuming gaze. I imagine, if I had a working vagina, I'd be dripping wet from the silent exchange. God, I wish I could experience that, I think for the thousandth time. The girl turns, puts her meal tray away, and leaves; my eyes remain glued to her until she exits my line of sight. The whole way, she never looks back at me. And just like that, she's—Is that a smirk?—gone.

I take my first breath in days, and realize that staring probably made me seem a bit of a creeper to anyone who happened to be watching. I don't know if that's a worse reputation than the resident cross-campus sprinter, but I'm not a fan of either.

I wolf down the remains of my lunch, and head to yet another redundant hour of Linear Algebra.

* * *

For the rest of the day, my mind refuses to think of anything for more than a couple seconds before returning to that face, that expression, that body, that girl, and the smirk I swear I saw her make just before she stepped out of sight. She was walking alone, I think, so what was she smirking at? It couldn't have been a smirk for me, though, right? She couldn't have known about the lust she sparked with a single commanding look. Ugh, that look. I notify my mental janitors that someone drooled on the floor of the memory processing room.

After dinner, it's too much, and I decide to masturbate. I put that pink-on-black garbed goddess in place of my fantasy domme, and the fantasy becomes more vivid, more real. Hotter. Yet every time I think I'm about to reach orgasm, it slips away, leaving me frustrated, even more pent up. I don't understand it. I'm feeling hornier than when I started, but it's late and I have an early class tomorrow. I leave the bathroom stall and return to my dorm room; climb up to my top bunk; take my mammary-makers, anti-boy-otics, and antidepressant; wish Gabi goodnight; and struggle my way to sleep, unquenched arousal and all.

* * *

While my lab is only on Wednesdays, my math class is five days a week. Days not Wednesday, I have a two hour gap between my Mon-Tue-Thur-Fri Data Structures class and Linear Algebra, so there's no point in eating worse food at the VU without my friends.

"So I won't," she thought wisely, I think to myself, ranking my options. I'm not some desperate lesbian needing to ogle the most transfixing girl I've ever encountered. Gabi's not here to play Nintendo with, but we can all agree that scrolling through TikTok on my bed followed by a tasty lunch and a leisurely, ten-minute stroll to Bond Hall is a better plan than doing something silly like heading north early to get mediocre food and wait for a girl who probably won't even be there—one I have definitely not been thinking about every waking moment for the last twenty-two hours. And even if she is there, I can hardly expect that she will remember me; it was just a brief eye contact that I read way too much into. Yes. I will eat at Fairhaven, like always.

* * *

I walk into the VU, quickly grab some food, and sit at my empty table. I begin to eat, focusing on my food in order to rein in my unruly mind, and mentally prepare what I'll say when I talk to her, which I know will be never. "Hi, I'm Sarah. You're the most entrancing creature I've ever laid eyes on. Please call me a good girl." Yeah. That'll work. That is exactly how people talk, extremely normal conversation. Ugh. Step up your game, Delphino, I remand myself. A quick glance around the cafeteria reveals she's there, but thankfully, not looking at me. She's reading a book named One Last Stop—if I remember the synopsis correctly, a cute lesbian romance novel with dabs of sci-fi and erotica.

Fork-speared lettuce and cherry tomato halfway to my mouth, she looks up. Straight at me. She knew exactly where I was. I stare, frozen in place with my mouth hanging stupidly as it waits to receive long-forgotten salad. The eye contact—her face uninterested, mine deer-in-the-headlights—solidifies, locking in place. Expression neutral, she looks at the chair next to her around the hexagonal folding table, expectant but not hurried. The glance lasts only half a second before her eyes return to mine, but the intent is clear: I have been summoned. A second later she calmly returns to her book.

My mind reels as my stomach drops down from my throat to its usual location, a measure of sanity returning to me. That glance could have meant anything, I think weakly. Turning back to my meal, I find I am, in fact, standing with my tray in my hands and my backpack slung across my left shoulder. And now I am walking to her table, I observe. As soon as I take my first step, she looks up and watches me, her face the epitome of observant indifference.

As I walk closer, approaching from her right, I take in her details. Her face contains a smattering of light freckles—a feature I'd never been close enough to notice—her eyebrows have been professionally plucked, evoking a sternerness greater than her genetics probably provided. Despite the evident indifference of her expression, her body language speaks of determination. Today she sports a lavender, semi-professional button-down blouse with a medium-high neckline—the top two buttons undone—and a gray pencil skirt. Her incongruously pink scarf lays unceremoniously piled on the table to her left.

"May I sit here?" I ask in a miraculously even tone.

She nods to the chair again, a shade of satisfaction on her face, as if she had just confirmed a hypothesis, and I sit.

"Your name?" she says in a thick British accent I had not anticipated. It's the English equivalent of America's Hollywood accent—one with no particular dialect or region attached. It's Felicity Jones—Jyn Erso in Rogue One—or Emma Watson, but cold. My freshly reknit sanity dissolves again at the sound.

Had I really just done that? Left my isolated bubble, walked uncomfortably, dodging tables filled with people, to a strange girl who had simply glanced at a chair, and then asked if I could sit with her? The thought makes me equal parts nervous and excited and with another hearty dose of bewildered mental drooling.

Right, I need to say something. "I'm..." Crap. Line? "...Sarah. I think."

"You're not sure?" Her smile is amused now, tinged with a smirk of personal pride—the first truly readable expression she's shown me—and her tone is warmer, less detached.

My self-confidence recovering slightly, I mime thinking for a second, looking at the ceiling with a finger tapping my chin, then look back at her and say, "Yes. Sarah. I'm sure this time. Ninety-eight percent confidence level, but further research is required to confirm this finding." Idiot. Who talks like that?

She laughs. Not the half-hearted pity chuckle I've grown used to from other people, but a short, genuine laugh. "You're weird, Sarah."

"I get that a lot," I say, feigning security in my quirky personality.

"I like it." She beams a close-mouthed grin. "Why did you come here, Sarah?" Her voice had changed in an instant, now a tone balanced between cold aloofness and indifferent command. A chill runs down my spine. I'm affronted to be talked to in this manner. And I crave it.

"W-what?"

"Why did you come here?" she repeats.

"I... I thought you wanted me to."

"I did," she says. I release my breath. "And you obeyed." At the word "obeyed", a spike of energy shoots into the abdominal cookie jar that stores my arousal. To my annoyance, I notice my erection, held firmly under me with medical tape, pulse and strain against its binding. It's a somewhat painful but increasingly familiar experience, a necessity for lessening the bulge—and thus, my self-consciousness—when wearing yoga pants: today's attire beneath an out-of-season cutesy blue sundress, the skirt of which barely covers my ass.

We sit in silence for a moment, her face contorting slightly as she battles with whether to say something or not.

"I think we can help each other," she says matter-of-factly, having apparently won that battle. "Follow me to my dorm room."

Regarding feedback:

This is my first novel ever, let alone my first erotica. I'm a talented essayist, but I've never written fiction before and fiction requires additional skills I've never developed.

If you enjoyed this chapter, I would very much appreciate constructive feedback in the areas of character development, dialog that sounds like an essay rather than a conversation, lack of environmental and character descriptions, etc. Also, I wouldn't object to feedback on how to juice up the sex scenes. While notes about conventions, organization, voice (that used outside of dialog), and such are still useful, I can find and fix those issues on my own and/or with an editor.