Subclasses Ch. 04

Author's note:

Since literotica does not support blockquotes, to denote the start and stop of text message conversations, I'll use 📲 and 📵, respectively. Right-aligned messages are sent texts; left-aligned messages are received texts.

Chapter Four

I walk the fifteen minutes home to FX. I never have figured out why the Fairhaven dormitory is abbreviated "FX", but it is. Stack 6, up two flights of stairs, seventeen paces to my room. The door is wide open; both Gabi and I are night owls, and while I am introverted, I'm fond of the ambient noise from the other open doors on my floor.

Even though it's my room, I knock to announce my return. Gabi turns and looks at my face. "Okay, who is she and when do I get to meet her?"

I emit a half-groan, half-laugh, embarrassed that she can read me so effortlessly. "Her name is Beatrix and we're just friends. I think. Maybe. It's hard to say." Involuntarily, my voice drops to a confused mumble as I get lost in the memory of her. "We held hands and she kissed my cheek on the way out. And, well, I'm pretty sure we're going to sleep together soon. But I don't know if that means anything, if she wants to be friends with benefits or..."

I come to. Gabi is staring at me wide eyed, hands balled up by her collarbone. She's practically the embodiment of an anime girl—shaking hands and large, quivering, watery eyes that might as well have star-shaped pupils and a matte finish. "Oooooooh," she coos, the pitch of her voice rising. I sense a deep blush coming on. "So, when do I get to meet her?"

"I... don't know. It's complicated." Ugh, what a cliché. "I like her. I like her a lot,"—I'm astonished at my uncharacteristically forthright admonition—"but when we first met, she proposed an arrangement, a way we could help each other. Now I don't know if that's all she wants out of our friendship, or if she has feelings for me too."

"An arrangement, eh?" Gabi says, completely ignoring my insecurity. "An arrangement involving sex?"

I startle, realizing that the information I had leaked leads so obviously to this conclusion, then wince. "Err, well, yes," I admit.

"That sounds dangerous," her tone shifting to concern. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

I pause, considering the question. "I don't know if it is or not. I trust her enough to know I won't be in any physical danger, but emotionally? I don't know. When I'm around her it's like I'm the woman I know I am inside. There's no question, no doubt. I mean, there's never been any doubt, but at the same time, so long as I have a masculine physique, it doesn't feel real, somehow. I can't explain how, but Beatrix lets me forget that. I think..." I muster the grit to finish my thought. "I think she is a mistake I need to make."

A moment of silence. "Okay," Gabi says with a nod. "I can support that. I'm happy for you!"

"Thanks," I mumble.

"So, a sexual arrangement, hmm? Sounds kinky."

You have no idea. "Yeahhhh," I agree exaggeratedly and chuckle in an attempt to pass her statement off as a joke.

"So, when do I get to meet her?" Gabi asks for the third time in precisely the same tone as the previous two.

I roll my eyes. "I'll see if she wants to have dinner with our group tomorrow." She beams. "I'll see. No promises!"

* * *

"We still on for lunch? Noonish?" I text Beatrix around eleven, Friday morning.

"You can be here or you can be punished. Your choice." My stomach lurches.

* * *

When I walk into the cafeteria, Beatrix is already seated. Crap. Well, punishment it is. I grab my food and sit down at her table. As I do, I hear her mumble the same incantation she Spoke at dinner last night. Then, unexpectedly, I hear her mumble something else; beneath the skirt of my dress, I feel my anatomy change.

"You're late," she says matter-of-factly.

Almost against my will, my mind drops into sub-space. "I know," I say earnestly, knowing full well it's only a couple minutes past noon, "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, what?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Beatrix?"

She eyes me, eye-brow arched, clearly displeased with my answer.

"I'm sorry, Mistress."

"Good girl," she says, offhandedly, as if it meant nothing to her and everything to me. Her eyebrow drops and she returns to her meal.

I don't know if I'm allowed to speak, so I remain silent.

Two minutes pass. "Good," she says, "you do know how to be patient."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Unfortunately, I still need to discipline you for your embarrassing understanding of punctuality." She flicks her wrists, and the collar around my throat tightens, restricting me to shallow breaths. I try to take a bite as if nothing's the matter, but find that I can't both swallow my food and remain conscious. She smirks, and the tension in my collar slackens enough that I can eat unhindered. Mostly.

I do my best to stay in character, but my arousal is making that difficult, as is the lightheadedness my tardy arrival has earned me. I'm torn between wanting more and leaping over the table to tear her clothes off. The former seems more appropriate given our location.

Another silent minute passes.

Suddenly, my collar—and I realize it is my collar, the thought adding yet another thrill to my cookie jar of arousal—returns to its original easy, yet ever-present, tautness. "That was so hot," Beatrix gushes, no trace remaining of the dominatrix she had been. "If we weren't in the VU, I'd make you feel how turned on I am." She stumbles over her words, suddenly, and hastily adds, "That is, if you'd be okay with that. Out of a fantasy setting, I mean." Her face contorts awkwardly with what might be anxiety.

"I..." I don't know what to say to that. What are we? I wonder for the hundredth time. "As much as I would enjoy that," I say, "I think we need to talk about our wants and expectations, first. The limits of ... whatever this is," I finish, gesturing to indicate our situation.

She relaxes somewhat, and I smile reassuringly until she relaxes completely. "I agree. That's probably for the best." Then that evil grin reappears. "In a fantasy setting, however, I fully intend to make good use of that smart mouth of yours, whether you like it or not." I sense my blush and she grins wider.

We continue to eat our lunches, talking about our mornings and funny things we saw happen between classes.

When we finish our food, she looks at me. "So," she says, "do you have time to hang out at my place? I have a class at three thirty, but I'm free until then."

I grimace. "I probably shouldn't miss my Linear Algebra course two days in a row. It's..." I check my phone. "...12:25 now and my class is at two. Yeah, I have time." Not as much as I'd like, I grumble mentally. "Your place?"

"My place."

* * *

We enter her room and disentangle our clasped hands. She shuts the door and soundproofs the room, then joins me on the bed, sitting cross-legged and facing me. I twist to do the same, and lean back against the wooden post of her bunk.

"So," she asks bubbly, "what shall we talk about?"

The options jumble together in my mind. I pick the easiest one. "Gabi wants to meet you. Would you want to grab dinner with my clique tonight?"

Her face turns stricken. "What did you tell her about me?" she asks, probably more forcefully than she intended, given her sudden, anxious fervor.

"Nothing sensitive, I promise!" I say, holding my hands up. "Your secret is safe with me. I would never violate that." I never want to lose you.

She relaxes. "In that case, yes, I'd like to meet your friends." After a pause, "But for real, what did you tell her about me?"

I chuckle, and try to remember. "Well, umm, Gabi has a way of getting the truth out of me, whether I want to give it or not. I didn't tell her about your ability, though. I didn't even hint at it.

"I did, however, tell her that we have a mutually beneficial arrangement, and"—I take a deep breath—"that it involves sex." I wince, then open one eye to peek at her reaction. She's smirking at me. As usual. I exhale.

We start to speak at the same time, and she tells me to go first. "I also told her that you make me feel like the woman I am, totally and completely." I give her a genuine smile. "And," I hesitate, then plow on, speed increasing as I speak, "and that we held hands and that you kissed me on the cheek and I have no idea what to make of you or us."

Silence for a second, then she bursts into laughter. "You too?" She beams. "Sarah, when we met, all I was expecting—all I was hoping for—was a sub that would help me explore my ability and a friendship that would grow over time. But then yesterday... I've never felt so close to anyone so quickly before. And," it's her turn to inhale some courage, "and I want more. If you do. If you don-"

"Oh thank God," I say, before she can backpedal. A palpable weight of anxiety lifts from my shoulders.

We look at each other and burst into a fit of relieved giggles. "This is ridiculous!" I manage. "We've only known each other for one day."

"And yet," she replies, "I find that I don't care. Do you?"

I shake my head, still in the process of wrangling in my giggle fit. I move to her side of the bed so I can hold her hand. She grabs it and places it on her thigh. We lean into each other. Her head finds my shoulder—this time I am the tall one—and I rest my cheek against the top of her head.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" she asks. I'm stunned momentarily by the implication of the question.

"I do, now."

* * *

Once we regain a modicum of our usual decorum, she shifts, and I lift my head from hers. She shuffles around so we're facing each other again.

"Are you the type of person who finds security in labels?" I ask.

"Not really," she says, "but I'm happy to define one if you are. 'Mistress' works for me."

I choke as my stomach performs an Olympic gymnastics routine, and she smirks at the effect of her joke. "In private," she concedes. "In public, does 'girlfriend' work for you?"

"I'd like that."

"Then girlfriends we are!" she says, triumphantly.

Another comfortable moment of silence passes. We pick up where we left off yesterday in the process of getting to know each other, our histories, our likes and dislikes.

Eventually I glance at the clock: ten 'til two. "I need to head to class."

"I know," she says regretfully.

"Will you let me keep my pussy? At least until after dinner?"

"Hmm, I don't know," she jests. "Can I trust you not to go streaking across campus?"

"It's a considerable risk," I admit. "But I generally only go streaking on holidays and full moons."

"It is a full moon," she points out.

"But generally I only go streaking on holidays and new moons," I amend without missing a beat. She laughs. "Want to walk me to class?"

She grabs my hand in response.

* * *

Linear Algebra is predictably redundant for me. I hadn't realized my Algebra II course my freshman year of high school had been so thorough. However, it turns out it was good that I attended, as the date and contents of the next quiz were announced.

I text Beatrix after class.

📲

Where's your class?

CF104. Why?

📵

An auditorium in the Comm Facility.

📲

Want me to walk you to class?

Oh, I totally would, love, but I'm already here, hanging out with some friends.

No worries! Should I meet you there at 4:20 so we can hang out before dinner?

See you then! 😘

📵

With ninety minutes to kill, I head back under the tunnel and through the wooded dirt path to Fairhaven. I step into the room, and Gabi's there, playing Mario Kart. She shouts a profanity at a blue shell that just cost her the race.

Hearing me enter, she turns around and glances at my face. "Details. Now." I roll my eyes and shut the door.

"Well, we're dating, or at least have labeled ourselves girlfriends." Among other things, I think with a satisfied mental smirk.

Gabi squeals, earning her another eye roll. Seeing it, she doubles down and squeals again, louder this time, just to annoy me. "So, when do I get to meet her?" How does she say that exactly the same way every time?

"Tonight! At 4:30, in fact. I'm going to walk her back from her class and hang out here until dinner, if that's okay with you."

"Let the interrogation commence," she says in a Disney villain tone. "Muah ha ha ha."

"Dork," I mutter. She flashes me a grin. "Scoot over. Do you want to lose at Mario Kart or Smash Bros?"

She sticks her tongue out at me and hands over a controller.

* * *

I arrive at the Comm Facility two minutes late. Was it deliberate? Who can say?

"You're late," she says with questioning concern, betraying nothing to the students around us. However, she must have been preparing for this, because, with a flick of her wrist, I feel two instantaneous phantom fingers inside me, yanking me none too gently toward her by the cunt. I trip at the unexpected force—not to mention the hybrid sense of pain and pleasure—and she catches me. "Oh! Are you okay?" she asks innocently, my face planted in her enviable cleavage.

Righting myself, I say, "Yes, I'm okay. Thanks for catching me." I shoot her a private glare, the kind that says both, "I did not appreciate that," and, "Thank you, Mistress," simultaneously.

"Of course!" she says with a smile anyone watching would see as perfectly benign. I see the dangerous smirk behind it, and my vagina reacts with fluid arousal. "Ready to go?" Not waiting for a response, she grabs my hand; we both know I had no choice in the matter.

An idea occurs to me as we walk, and once we're out of earshot of anyone, I say, "So it's obvious you can conjure illusions." She shoots me a glance. "I know, I know. It's not magic. Still, would it be possible to transform me completely, as you did yesterday afternoon, and then add an illusion so people see me as they expect to?"

She needs only a second to consider. "No, unfortunately. I could maybe do it if I attached the illusion to you and you managed to hold your feminine figure within the less feminine illusion, but as soon as you spoke or touched something—hell, if you even moved—it would be obvious there was something wrong. Something wrong of the four arms and speaking out your neck variety.

"I can only do what I do at the dining hall because no one is paying too close attention to us. If someone tried to examine us with any scrutiny, the illusion would break because it would have interfered with their free will. I would feel the sudden drain on my battery, and I'd kick you under the table before you said something neither of us wants overheard.

"If, instead, I tried to make everyone else see what they expect to see," she pauses and then muses to herself more than to me, "yeah, I think I have the capacity to do that," her words address me again, "I would still need the expressed consent of everyone who saw you."

"Darn," I say. "You're right, of course, but darn all the same." She says she wants to explore her ability, but she's clearly already intimately familiar with its limitations. I wonder what else she wants to figure out.

"Yeah." She gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze. "It was a good idea though. I bet if we keep thinking, eventually one of us will figure out a solution, at least a partial one."

I look at her, as if for the first time. "What?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

"I really appreciate that you want to keep trying," I say.

"Of course, love!" Beatrix looks at me, confused, as if trying to figure out how anyone could have trouble grasping the obvious. Now that we're past the trail and into the FX complex grounds, I pull her aside, out of the way of the invisible path determined by the relative locations of the stacks' doors, the ornamental grassy island in the center of the complex, and the entrances to the dining hall, the parking lot, and the dirt path we just left.

"No, I mean," I begin, and then wrack my brain for the words. She waits patiently, running her thumb over the back of my hand. "Okay. I'm a problem solver. When I want to do something with someone—say, play a game online—and it doesn't work, I want to troubleshoot until we figure it out, even if it takes a couple hours, because it'll be worth it to me—and to us, I think—in the long run."

I look down, away from Beatrix's face, because eye contact—with anyone, but especially with her—makes it difficult for me to think.

"In my experience," I continue, "people don't seem to understand that drive, that need to troubleshoot and problem-solve, to try until there is nothing left to try. If it doesn't work the first time, and it's an issue on their end—or even if it's one on my end and I just need some time to get it working—they give up. They say, 'Oh well,' and want to move on. And I don't understand that.

"Maybe it's because I'm usually the one who knows how to troubleshoot the issue, but I require them to click buttons on their computer to test things, and so they're just bored. Maybe it's because they didn't actually care that much about doing the activity in the first place. Whatever the reason, it leaves me feeling unimportant. Like I'm annoying them by trying to fix this problem we both have. Like somehow that effort makes me needy, clingy. It feels like I'm always on the wrong side of a one-sided relationship, where I want to hang out with them a whole lot more than they want to with me. They don't mind me hanging out with them as long as I don't bother them, but I'm only worth their time and effort when it's something they want to do." My voice breaks. "And that's been my whole life."

She places a finger under my chin and lifts my head to meet her gaze. "You're worth it to me," she whispers. She holds my gaze for another second, and then I'm clinging to her, a tight embrace that takes her by surprise. I don't know how long it lasts—could be seconds, could be minutes. Unbidden tears are involved. When I release her and pull away, she smiles and reaches up to straighten my glasses.

I love her for this. The glasses, the hug, forcing me to meet her gaze, her compassionate empathy, her willingness to try. All of it.

"Thank you," I say, imbuing my words with as much gratitude as they will hold.

She smirks at me. "It was only straightening your glasses."

"No, I mean—"

"I know, love. You're welcome. I will troubleshoot with you for as long as it takes."

* * *

We get to my room—the door wide open, as usual—and Gabi pounces, leaping at Beatrix and trapping her within a bear hug.

"Umm, hi," Beatrix says, feebly trying to break free. "You must be Gabi?"

"Yep!" Gabi replies unabashedly into Beatrix's shoulder. She pulls away and examines Beatrix. "You didn't tell me she was hot." She looks at the clock—4:41—then looks at me. "You're late."

"It's a chronic problem with Sarah," Beatrix says, smirking at our inside joke. "We're working on it."

Gabi points at me and then at her bed before moving to disentangle her desk chair from our GameCube controllers. As I start to do as commanded, Beatrix whispers in my ear, "I see why you two get along," and covertly pinches my butt. I manage not to yelp.

"She's not normally like this," I whisper back. "I've never seen her this excited."