Subclasses Ch. 04

I sit down on the bed, legs over the side and my arms holding me upright. Beatrix takes a seat beside me and leans back against my arm. "Hold me up or a sore arm will be the least of your pains," she whispers under her breath to me. I nod the slightest bit in acknowledgement. "Good girl," she says again with that maddeningly indifferent tone that makes my mouth water. She makes no effort to lessen the additional weight my arm must now support. Right as Gabi gets settled and looks at us, Beatrix plasters on a smile, though whether it's fake to hide what just happened or genuine because of what just happened, I can't tell.

From then until dinner, I'm arm candy, all discussion held between Beatrix and Gabi. No, I'm less than arm candy, I think. I'm a support beam. I can't decide whether I want to complain about this treatment or not. Am I bored or am I turned on? Of course, I won't complain, regardless—I'm a good girl and would never embarrass my mistress in front of other people—but it would be nice to figure out whether I want to complain.

The one time I try to interject, both girls wordlessly stare me down in perfect unison, as if they had practiced it. As they turn back to each other, Beatrix deliberately shifts, pressing a covert elbow into my ribs and making it even harder to support both her weight and mine. Her face betrays nothing. I guess this is who I am now. I am a tool at my mistress's disposal. The wetness between my legs informs me that, why no, I would not like to complain.

Just as my arm is about to give out, Beatrix sits up and stretches her arms, hitting me in the face as she does so. Not painfully, just by accident. "Oh! I'm so sorry," she says. The glint in her eye and the subtle smirk on her lips as she turns from Gabi to me in order to, ostensibly, check if I'm alright, make clear that there had been no accident.

I learn that Beatrix feels I haven't played along well enough when I feel a small, but sharp electric shock at the back of my neck. I wasn't aware the collar had that feature. The verbal craftsmanship that went into this... I marvel, and make a mental note to ask about it later. For now, I decide it's in my best interest to dutifully play my part. "Oh, I'm fine. No need to apologize." A veneer of domineering satisfaction flashes across her face and is gone just as quickly as she turns to face Gabi again.

"Dinner time?" Gabi asks.

"Yes! I'm starving," Beatrix says.

* * *

After introductions at the dining hall and the obligatory ribbing from my friends about my new lady love, we all take seats in the field of two-dimensional vulvabulbs. The tables are retangular, and we regularly shove two together so that it seats ten people: one each at the head and foot and eight people on either side. Beatrix chooses a seat somewhere in the middle of a row of eight, and I sit down beside her, sandwiched between her and Gabi. The conversation is as stupid and engaging and educational as always, as only a meal amongst college students can be. In fact, this meal, I soon realize, will be more educational than most.

For instance, I learn that Beatrix enjoys toying with me under the table, when I'm in the middle of explaining an algorithm I learned today. Her hand drags my skirt up as she slides it tantalizingly, agonizingly slowly, up between my thighs, and then slowly rubs my clit through the soft fabric of my panties. She continues to eat with her other hand, as if nothing is amiss, and, with some effort I manage to keep my composure.

The pace and pressure of her finger against my clit gradually increase. When I think I can take no more without breaking my straight face, I move to pull Beatrix's hand away from her new toy, maintaining my verbal cadence perfectly. I am quite proud of that. Beatrix shifts in her seat so she doesn't need to crane her neck in order to watch me talk. But I am wrong. Beatrix shifts in her seat so she can catch my arm before I even come close to moving hers. I glance at her, and she gives me a warm smile for the table and a chastising, nearly imperceptible shake of her head just for me. I groan inwardly, and do my best to finish my explanation quickly before I am forced to cum in front of everyone.

Here, too, I learn something new. I learn that I can hold back an orgasm despite Beatrix Wright's ministrations for at least six-and-a-half seconds longer than I thought I could. Could I have gone longer? We'll probably never know. She lets up when I finish talking. The table soon moves to other topics, and I am free. However, I observe, not before my panties have been saturated in my own lube. This time I feel multiple drops dribble down my ass cheeks. It's uncomfortable and gross and embarrassing and so, so fucking hot.

Beatrix moves to kiss me on the cheek, and on her way, because I guess toying with me hadn't wrecked me enough, she whispers "good girl" breathily, then nips the top rim of my ear. I can't help it: this was too much, and I emit a whimper. Gabi looks at me, and I look back, questioningly, gaslighting her because I know the alternative is roomwide mortification and the permanent destruction of my ego. Beatrix's head keeps moving, and indeed she plants a chaste kiss on my cheek. Gabi smiles at us, and returns her focus to whoever's talking. Beatrix looks for a moment as if she is about to rub off the lip print emblazoned on my cheek, but then thinks better of it.

I have signed a deal with the devil, herself, I think, and I couldn't be more pleased.