Subclasses Ch. 05

Chapter 5

After dinner, our posse disperses. Gabi and I head back to our room, Beatrix in tow.

"Well, it was delightful to meet you, Beatrix. I could tell you're something special just by Sarah's smile when she thinks of you, but now I know firsthand." Beatrix beams at the compliment. "Unfortunately, I can't hang around. The parentals want me home for my grandpa's birthday." Gabi's smile turns lecherous. "Feel free to use my bed. Just no sex juice on my sheets by the time I get back on Sunday evening."

"I appreciate that, but I don't know if Sarah and I are there yet."

Gabi gives us a deadpan smirk. "Oh, please. Don't think I didn't notice the two of you under the table tonight." The blood drains from both of our faces. Gabi laughs and pats us both gently on the cheek. "Don't worry. I don't think anyone else was close enough to notice. It was the squeak the chair made when"—she addresses me—"you were squirming, not"—she looks at Beatrix—"your hand movements that gave it away," she says. "And I thought it was cute, even that whimper you pretended you hadn't made."

Cute? I wonder. Well, to each their own, I guess. It's certainly better than the alternative. Gabi is a peach, I think for the hundredth time.

Gabi packs quickly, grabbing her laundry basket and stuffing her toiletries and a change of clothes unceremoniously into a duffle bag. "Ta ta, love birds." She walks out the door and closes it behind her, evidentially predicting we'd want privacy.

I breathe out, normal levels of blood flow returning to my face. "Well, that was ... an experience."

Beatrix turns and wraps her arms around me in a full-body side hug, pinning my arms in place. She looks up at me. "A good one, I hope. I enjoyed myself," she adds, her voice laced with mischief.

"I did, too," I reply.

Beatrix detects the note of hesitance in my tone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It was fun!"

She releases the hug and sits down on Gabi's bunk, patting the spot beside her. I take my seat.

"Baby, our arrangement—and our relationship—will only work as long as we are honest with each other. I need you to be comfortable telling me what you like and don't like. Otherwise, not only do you not have fun, but I'll get self-conscious, worrying I'm going to mess up, and can't enjoy the numerous ways I plan to torture you."

I sigh and nod. "The way you used me when talking to Gabi before dinner was literally a fantasy come true. But while I did enjoy myself, I found that the fantasy was more fun in theory than in practice." She nods, encouraging me to continue. "It was a mixture of the pleasure of being used and the boredom of being excluded."

"That makes sense," she says with no hint of defensiveness. She was clearly sincere when she said she wanted my feedback. She doesn't appear to take it personally or see my comments as mistakes she made, but merely a learning experience, a way to grow in our relationship and as a domme. "And if it's any consolation, I think that theory vs practice disappointment is pretty common among us kinksters."

I nod. "The fantasies that turn me on most," I admit with a hefty dose of vulnerability, "are ones where I'm controlled against my will, and not from threat of punishment. Though, I should note that the terse text you sent about my choice between lunch attendance and punishment gave me all the butterflies."

I continue my previous train of thought. "I don't want to be emotionally manipulated, but being physically restrained turns me on, And...." I trail off.

"And what?" she prompts with genuine interest.

"And the thought of being controlled supernaturally, controlled like a doll or marionette, objectified and used for my mistress's amusement, aware but helpless, a passenger in my own body... well, those fantasies are my favorite."

Her smile broadens to a wide grin as it dawns on her just how perfect our "arrangement" is for both of us. "Then it's a good thing you met me."

"You have no idea." I blush.

She pats me on the cheek. "I will most definitely keep that in mind." I feel a pinch on my seated ass, one not supplied by her fingers, and I yelp.

"I do think I might still enjoy being a footrest or table, or some other stationary object, but only if I have no choice in the matter. Consent, obviously, but no choice within the fantasy." She nods, knowing what I mean. "I've always,,,"

"Yes?" she says, excited for my next revelation.

"I've always thought it would be hot to be used as a manikin, mystically frozen in place, with as little or as much clothing as my mistress desires, and then displayed. In public. I don't know if that last part is possible, though, while still maintaining your secrecy. And I would hate the experience in my masculine body, but I think I would love it in my body. Also, I don't want to get charged with indecent exposure. Jail time: not sexy."

She chuckles. "I'll think on it and see what we can do.

"What did you think of the rest of tonight?"

"Fuck, Bea, it was the most exhilarating evening of my life! Aside from the manakin fantasy, I didn't know I'd enjoy semi-public sex so much."

She snorts. "There was nothing 'semi' about it, silly girl."

"Point. I know don't usually like orgasm denial—it feels like punishment, the unsexy kind—but when I'm the one trying not to orgasm... well it turns out that's a different story entirely."

"What distinguishes sexy punishment from unsexy punishment?" Beatrix asks.

I know my answer already; I've given it a lot of thought over the years. Introspection is my superpowahh. Sarah Prime snorts. Dork. "It's whether I did something deliberately wrong in character—or like if my mistress commands me to do something she knows I can't carry out—versus something I feel—or am made to feel—I actually did wrong. I'm very insecure about disappointing people, especially those that matter to me. Perfectionism plus queerness is a recipe for shame."

She nods, and a couple seconds pass. "So... 'Bea', hmm?"

"Do you not like when people call you that?" I ask.

"Generally, no. It makes my name a homophone for 'be right'. But from you? Yeah, I think I do like it; it carries a different ring to it. It made my spine tingle. Of course, I'll always prefer 'Mistress'," she adds playfully.

"Yes, Mistress," I tease.

"Good girl." Involuntarily, my heart swells at those words. It makes me feel silly, small, ridiculous. Owned. Beatrix owns me, now.

A moment passes. "I really appreciate," Bea says, "your openness to share this with me. I can tell you're feeling vulnerable, and I'm honored that you trust me enough to describe your fantasies. It's ... intimate." I smile warmly and nod. "I feel like I have a much better idea of what you enjoy, and ideas are coming to me left and right. Unless there's anything else you feel the need to share, I think I'd rather not hear them. You can always tell me whatever, whenever, of course, but I imagine it will be more fun for both of us if you don't know what's coming."

"I wholeheartedly agree."

"Plus," Bea says, "it gives me more leeway to get creative." She pauses. "For that matter, would you consent to passively forgetting which fantasies you described to me? You'll remember that we discussed some of your fantasies, but you won't remember which ones. And, if for some reason you ever do want or need to remember the details, you will."

"Kinky," I say. "I'm game." She Speaks, but for the life of me, I can't remember what she said. Whatever. I'm sure it was fine.

We share another minute of perfect, silent tranquility. I place my arm around her shoulder and she leans into it. Then I jerk and pull us straight back so we're lying on the mattress sideways, our legs still dangling off the edge. Bea lets out a scream of surprise, then shoves me playfully with one hand and giggles.

"You know," she says, "I should punish you for that, but I think I'll let it slide. Just this once."

Without warning, she rolls on top of me, straddling my pelvis, and pins my arms above my head with her hands. She leans down, her eyes jumping back and forth between my eyes and my lips. An unspoken question. She leans down further, her face aligning with my own. I bend my neck to meet her lips and we share our first perfect kiss.

Followed by another. And another. And soon I feel her tongue teasing my lips. I grant her entrance, and she's in my mouth, questing—thirsting—for more of me. I hear my blood pumping through my ears.

Her hands drop to my shoulders and she yanks us up to a sitting position, her legs now straddling my lap. We hastily throw a pillow behind me and scoot back so I can use the wall for support. Bea ignores my wrists in favor of holding my head to hers, pushing her mouth to mine deeper, harder, nearly bruising. My hands find the small of her back, and I pull her hips into mine. She tilts her head back to release a loud moan, and I take the opportunity to kiss her neck, prompting a softer one.

Suddenly, she pulls back, holding my shoulders at arm's length. "This is wrong," she breathes heavily. My face reflects my confusion, my hurt, even. Then I hear that deep resonance that's fast becoming familiar. "Your body is that of a person born with two X chromosomes, the body that matches your identity." My body changes nearly instantaneously this time, as if in response to our passion. I grow shorter, my boobs expand and press into hers—my eyes roll back into my head—my hips widen, and ass, shoulders, and face become rounder, softer. I feel like me again, for the second time in my life.

The transformation ends, and my mind returns to the present. The heady, passionate, thirsty present.

"Get up," I say. "I gotta take my clothes off."

"No time," she says, then Speaks, "Our clothes are piled neatly on that desk." We're naked in an instant. I suddenly feel her wetness on my legs and between them, and I moan at the thought of her getting off on me. I pull her hips toward me again; she needs no further prompting.

As we kiss and rhythmically press our bodies together, I feel her hands fondling my now far more sensitive breasts. I release another moan. Another? I think, momentarily distracted by the thought, Or was that my first? Fuck. Who cares?

My fingers find Bea's own full, soft yet firm breasts, and I cup them in my palms. Then I quest downward, running my fingers over her silky-smooth, lightly freckled skin, down to ... a navel piercing? God, I've always found those sexy, nearly as sexy as I find belly buttons, themselves. My hands move to her supple waist, fingers on her sides and thumbs on her front. I slide them down to her hips, my thumbs reaching the sensitive line of skin at the top of her pubic area.

Beatrix jumps slightly at the touch. I pull my legs apart to spread hers, then continue southward with my fingers. My left hand sides from her side to the small of her back—she shivers—while my right hand shifts to her front, my fingers joining the thumb already there. Together, they slide further to discover a thin, neatly trimmed landing strip ending an inch from the front of her slit.

"Is this okay?" I ask. She nods, perhaps nervously, perhaps intimately. The rhythm of her hips drops to a slow, methodic pulse, and her body slides back a little, making my access to her pussy easier for my fingers, and simultaneously moving her head down to my neck and collarbone. She peppers them with kisses and licks and the occasional sharp, moan-inducing bite.

Having been supplied access, my fingers reach the front of her lips, teasing them lightly without opening them. She moans a frustrated moan, one that demands I stop teasing her and fuck her properly already. And who am I to argue? With my ring and index fingers, I gently spread her lips, and my middle finger rubs over her clit as I enter her. She's wet. Wetter than wet. And oh so fucking soft. My pointer finger follows my middle into her easily, no friction with the lubricated state of her pussy. I feel her vaginal muscles tense, tightening around my fingers in a rhythm matching that of her hips. My thumb takes its place at her clit and begins to fondle her gently. She moans, louder this time, and I see her eyes roll up under her eyelids. I've barely started and can already tell she's close. I curl my fingers slightly, running them up and down the front side of her canal. I can feel the bone of her pelvic floor against the crook between my forefinger and thumb, and I know that, if I wanted to, I could move her any way I choose just as easily as she yanked me toward her this afternoon. That knowledge brings me to my edge. I press into her clit, a little more pressure and a lot more movement, tracing a figure eight as her nub slides under, around, and to either side of my thumb.

Her back arches, then. I feel her toes curl against my calves. In the midst of her orgasm, she grabs my nipples hard and twists. I scream out in unexpected ecstasy; I cum.

Her palms and fingers return to cupping the bottoms of my breasts, her thumbs fondling my erect nipples. My fingers continue to slide in and out of her, and my thumb continues to play with her clit. Face delirious and eyes wild, she catches another orgasmic wave, riding it all the way into shore.

I can tell she's spent. I'm nearly spent, myself, and my hand is getting tired from the angle. I pull out of her and she moans softly in both relief and disappointment that the ride is over. Breathing heavily, she hangs on me, arms around my shoulders as she catches her breath.

I catch a look in her eyes: dazed, blissed out, blank. My undrenched hand finds her chin and moves her head to meet my gaze. "Open your mouth," I say with unyielding gentleness. She obeys, our roles reversing for the moment, and I slowly slide the fingers of my other hand, slick from her own pussy, into her mouth. "Now suck," I command again, and she complies. Her mouth closes around my fingers, her tongue runs up and down the length of them, and she moans again at the taste of herself, at the simplicity and freedom of following directions.

The feel of her tongue and the soft suction of her mouth drive me crazy with desire. I slide them slowly in and out between her lips, a parallel to how they got wet in the first place. In her face, I see blissed out mindlessness, a slave to sensation. The thought that I did this to her, that I could ask her to do anything I want and she would do it without thought pulls me to the edge of what I hope will be my second orgasm.

I pull my fingers all the way out of her mouth. She stares at me, blank, enraptured, her lips still partially ajar. A little of her own cum is still on her lips. "Now kiss me," I command, and she does, passionately, a little of her sanity returning to the surface. The taste of her coupled with her obedience is enough to drive me over the edge, and my eyes roll back in my head.

I white out, and when I come to, she's staring at me, fully conscious, her breaths fast and deep. We both take some time to slow our breathing enough that we recover our abilities to speak. She gets there first.

"That was... fantastic. ... I never... knew I... would enjoy... being obedient," she manages to get out, taking deep breaths every few syllables.

All I can do for the moment is smile in understanding. A minute or so later, my breathing stills enough to speak at a normal cadence, if with effort. "It's a heady feeling, isn't it?" She nods in bewilderment. "I love being controlled," I continue, "but every now and then, the role reversal brings me an even greater level of ecstasy. The knowledge that I brought the mighty to her knees and she loved it."

Our breathing calms further in the following seconds of silence.

"So, that was good for you?" I smirk at Bea.

"Fuck. Yes. It was good."

"Best you ever had?" I tease, expecting a playful shove for an answer.

"Yes, technically," she replies.

"...'Technically?'" I ask, wondering how anything we did in that feral state of carnal bliss could be considered technical.

She looks shyly at me. "Well, yes. I don't have anything to compare it to but my own fingers."

My eyebrows raise slightly and furrow displaying curiosity but not shock. "I was your first, then?" She nods. "Wow. I'm honored." She blushes. "I couldn't tell. I ... hope it didn't hurt too much if I broke your hymen."

"Oh, my hymen broke horseback riding back in England. No, all I felt tonight was pleasure."

We twist on the bed so I'm lying lengthwise. Still straddling me, she breathes out, and scoots down my body to rest her head nuzzled up under my chin, her neck between my breasts, her body draped across me like a blanket. We stay like that. I stroke her back and admire the handiwork I did disheveling her usually pristine ponytail.

It slips out of me. "I love you."

I don't even notice I've said it until she replies calmly, naturally, "I love you, too."

We're both too tired to consider the weight of our words, or the fact that they came just a day and a half after we met. I just wrap my arms around her back and hold her close. She wiggles against me in ascent.

Then little by little, her breathing slows, her muscles unwind, and she falls to sleep on me.

Another. Perfect. Moment.

* * *

With Beatrix snoring softly atop me, I have time to recover some energy and then think about the whirlwind that was my last three days. This happened fast. Faster than the breakneck pace with which I have historically doven into relationships. Unbidden, I see the dozen or so people that have "cautioned" me in tones positively dripping with judgmental frustration. "Don't go so fast, Sarah. Your relationship will flare and burn out like they always do." Frustrated by the fact that my relationships had always flared bright then ended, I had believed them. The truth is, I had unknowingly been trying to bind my girlfriends' identities to my own. I'd find girls whose personalities—and, frankly, bodies—I envied and tried to live vicariously through them. This was far from the sole purpose I dated—I cherished the companionship; the physicality; the unfamiliar joy of being wanted, not merely tolerated—but I do believe it is the primary reason they didn't last.

Beatrix is the first girl I've dated since coming out. Yes, we've gone fast, but somehow it feels right this time. With my own female identity, my own life to live, I don't have the urge to live through her. Beatrix enhances my life—to put it mildly—rather than giving me a life. And I come to the conclusion that this is good. Our relationship isn't just a means of living out my fantasies or of being transformed into a body that fits. I like her—love her, in fact—for who she is. The goofball. The commanding, dedicated dominatrix. The compassionate and thoughtful friend. The patient troubleshooter. The kind woman who reacts by instinct to prevent kids from taking soccer balls to the face. I capital-L Love this woman. And she, as far as I can tell, genuinely loves me.

I think that's what I like most about her: she's always genuine. Regardless of the metaphorical hat she's wearing, she wears that hat with gusto. She's passionate about what excites her and makes no apologies for it. She pursues her interests, even to the point that she willingly, if timidly, told her most closely held secret to a near complete stranger based on gut feeling alone. She needed to explore her ability, and though it scared her, she sought someone she could trust with her secret.

Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, I note to myself. I've known her for two days and have only seen her interact with other people for a couple hours of that time. But no, I don't think I am jumping to conclusions. My gut says I'm right about this. Somehow, Beatrix and I know each other, know as one jigsaw piece knows the one next to it. Whether by fate or by chance—or hell, even by magic—we're connected somehow.