Subclasses Ch. 06

Chapter Six

It's time for bed. We both sense that tonight—our first night sleeping in the same bed—is special.

I stand before her, my arms atop her shoulders and hands behind her neck, hers resting at the small of my back. We share a slow, intimate kiss. Her lips are magic, her tongue even more so. Our mouths part.

My hands trail from her shoulders to the first fastened button of her lavender blouse. My mouth—and pussy—waters as her plump breasts slip further into view with each unfastened button. As I work the final two buttons with my fingers, my lips apply a tender kiss to the tops of each of her breasts, then kiss down her front, from her sternum—breasts pressed against my cheeks—past her jeweled belly button, to the top of her gray, librarian-esque pencil skirt. I straighten, untuck the tails, and gently tug her blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, my thumbs leaving a trail of sensitized gooseflesh in their wake.

We share another deep kiss as I reach around, unclasp her bra, and slide it off her shoulders. We pull away from the kiss, and I take a step back to examine the fruits of my labor. My mouth opens slightly as I take her in. "Beatrix," I say, shaking my head a little in disbelief, "you are stunning. Inside and out. Inside, inside, and out," I amend with a smirk.

Beatrix smiles bashfully at the intimate quip, then closes the distance between us. She squats down, so her eyes are level with the bottom of my dress, then slowly rises, pulling the dress with her. Her eyes read every detail of my feminine physique as it's revealed. Once standing, she lifts the rest of my dress up over my head and back down, off my arms. She drops it on the floor, forgotten; presses our bare midriffs together; and leisurely unclasps my bra. It joins my dress, as Bea kisses a serpentine path down my torso, taking an extra second to lick and suck on my soft nipples. They pull inward and erect at the intimate touch.

At my pantyline, she teases the skin with her tongue. I suppress a divine shiver as she moves it back and forth, slipping under the cloth. She continues, her mouth matching pace with her hands, as they slowly pull the panties over my firm, round bottom, and drop them from my thighs to the floor. My lover finds my clit and gives it a brief massage with her tongue. I fail to suppress a moan at the sensation, and she smiles as she rises.

As she slowly stands back up, I look down at her. I see my panties in my peripheral vision, and notice for the first time that they aren't the underwear I put on this morning. Evidently, my bodily transformation was so complete, that even my clothing had transformed, the tight blue gaff becoming a girly, silken pair of powder blue contoured cheekies. I was wearing panties that would make my mouth water, and didn't even know it, I think with amusement.

Our bodies—mine soft, hers taut—meet once more. My hands slide down her impossibly smooth back. She giggles at the touch and says, "Your hands are cold."

I grimace. "They always are. Raynaud's syndrome is a bitch."

"I like it," she says, both playful and sincere. "I run hot and your hands feel good." I smile at that. We really do complement each other, I think.

One hand at the small of her elegant back—her dimples of Venus spaced serendipitously to match the tips of my thumb and forefinger—I unzip her skirt with the other. Then both hands swiftly push it to the ground. I startle, discovering that she's not wearing any underwear. She gives me an impish grin and a carefree shrug. Given the state of her pussy, I wonder absently how her skirt didn't soak through. As if reading my thoughts, she says, "I may have stain-proofed my skirt with my ability. While I certainly intend to embarrass you in public with signs of arousal, it just wouldn't do for your domme to be embarrassed, now would it?" I smile placidly, while inwardly I revel at this kink I hadn't known I possessed. I tremble at her promise to fulfill my burgeoning fantasy.

Head now eye-level with the lips of her vulva, I get my first real look—unhurried by passionate lovemaking—at this feminine feature my exes have said are ugly, but which I have always found the most beautiful. Her lips protrude below her pelvis just slightly—just enough that there's a hint of its shape through her underwear. That suggestion, veiled by cloth, drives me mad with lust; exposed, however, there's only beauty, artwork I could contemplate for hours on end and never grow bored.

I give her clitoris a quick tryst with my tongue, returning the favor, then stand upright. Bea—nude but for her rectangular glasses that complement her discarded librarian-inspired attire—and I—in only a pair of sheer, white school-girl thigh-highs and plastic purple cat-eye glasses—stand before each other, completely, unabashedly naked. Beatrix is a marvel to behold. That long blond hair done up in the sexiest domineering ponytail I can fathom. Her flawless face, marked only by a light dusting of perfect freckles. Her small, delicate ears, lobes pierced by amethyst studs, her left ear sporting an industrial piercing spanned by a chrome rod. Her lush li-

"God. Sarah, you are positively divine," Beatrix says, her British accent thicker than normal. It pulls me from my trance-like admiration. I flush, both flattered and uncomfortable at the bittersweet compliment. "What's wrong?" she asks. She leads me by the hand to sit beside her on the bed.

"I..." I start. "It's just that you're saying this body is beautiful." I gesture down at myself. "This body that I love, this body that is me, but that isn't mine. It's a loan I can enjoy when I'm with you, but that I can't keep."

Beatrix takes my hands in hers. "But it is yours. This is who you are inside and out. I didn't take any part in designing this body; all I did was expose it. It's yours, through and through."

I give her a wan smile. "Thank you, Beatrix. That... that helps." I know it will take a while to set in, and I do worry that we'll break up and I'll lose access to this body for good, but her words did dispel my belief that it was a product of our combined designs. There are details of my transformed body that I hadn't expected—ones that I never noticed in my internal image or differ slightly from it. For instance, my shoulders, while decidedly feminine, are still broader, a little more angular than I would have picked. Even though I have yet to get a good look at my butt, it feels fuller, rounder, and tighter than the one I had imagined—a significant improvement over the butt I had pictured: the midway point between the long, flat mannish ass I was born with and this beautiful curvy new one. Those were touches, I realize, that I had assumed were hers, not my own.

"As for the second part," she continues, "well, we're working on that, right? Within just the two days I've had with you, I've felt my ability grow in strength. Before I met you, I could apply the transformation for about sixteen hours. Now, I bet, that number is up to eighteen. It might seem like a small change, now, but you know how studying a new topic is: the more you learn, the faster you learn new material about it. Trust me, with your help, my ability will strengthen exponentially."

"Thanks," I say calmly, smiling at her more for her enthusiasm and dedication than because I'm convinced. "I just wish I could see myself."

"What?" she says, startled.

"I wish I could see myself. You gave me that hand mirror, but I don't have a full-length one."

"I..." her mouth hangs open, "I can't believe I didn't consider that. Give me one sec." Bea elongates the pronunciation of "one", inflating it like a balloon before popping it with "sec". She stands and retrieves the hand mirror from her closet. "This is a full-length mirror." Her hand jerks at the sudden new weight; I move to catch her, but she lets go and regains her balance before she can fall over. A sheepish expression slides up her face as she rights herself.

I step in front of the ornate standing mirror. My jaw drops. I am positively divine. My hair, straight at the roots, but ending in loose, natural curls, is significantly fuller than the flat strands I only ever had to work with. It's more auburn, warmer than its original dirty blond.

My breasts are full and perky—something I had noticed in the hand mirror, but this angle provides a whole new perspective. I barely need to pull my arms in to produce the cleavage I found visually irresistible entering puberty in seventh grade. I still cringe from time to time remembering how blatantly I used to stare. And now, here I am, a woman whose chest I would have ogled for minutes on end.

I fall somewhere between Gabi's luscious curves and Beatrix's sleeker—but no less feminine—build. I have some chub now—before this transformation, I was a stick at 5'10" (177cm) and 125lbs (56.7kg)—and I find that the extra padding fits me. The weight enhances my figure; my sides form continuous, smooth curves, replacing the straight lines between my shoulders and waist, boxily attached to narrow, unpadded hips spread two pixels wider than the lines above them. While my legs are fleshier, the added mass was applied primarily to the outsides of my thighs, leaving a wisp of a thigh-gap. Embarrassingly, I get wet looking at my own reflection.

And between my legs, my favorite feature: the thing I've longed for—ached for—my entire life. Unlike Beatrix's, my labia lie flat against my pelvic floor, virtually no protrusion. Just a barely dimpled slit in my skin hiding bright, cherry-pink flesh. It's not my "ideal" vulva, if such a concept merits existence, but it's me. And I love it.

"Can you make another mirror so I can see my back?" I ask Bea.

"I'll do you one better!" she says. "This mirror reflects whichever angles Sarah desires."

The image blurs into one of my back and butt. Damn. I wish I had that ass, I think automatically before remembering it is mine. It's not heart-shaped or any silly ideal like that, but it practically screams femininity. It begs to be gripped, cupped, caressed. Licked.

My legs and even my ankles have taken on a daintier cast.

This is me. These legs, this ass, this vagina, these hips, this hair, these tits—all of it. All of it is Me. I sink to my knees and begin to sob. Bea joins me on the floor, holding me tight while I cry. "You were right," I say as cheerily as I can between sobs, "I am positively divine."

She buries her face in my shoulder and smiles. "And you're all mine."

I look up at the mirror, and her eyes follow. The mirror's reflection rotates and zooms in on Beatrix's pussy. "And you're all mine," I say.

Bea swats the back of my head. "Naughty pets get disciplined," she purrs into my ear, then gives it a nibble.

"My favorite part."

* * *

Once the tears have stopped, we climb into bed. Lying on our sides, we face each other, legs entangled, faces bearing the stupid grins of new lovers. I trace invisible curves over Beatrix's arms, chest, and back with the tip of a finger, an ice skater on a girl-shaped rink. When I stop, Bea says it's both calming and pleasantly arousing, so I keep going. Over shoulders, around freckles. Spiraling in on her quarter-sized maroon nipples before zipping away again, a spacecraft using a planet's gravity to slingshot itself to another course.

We talk of small things, the things people talk about when the emotions are too big, when speaking of them is pointless because their lover already knows, is already feeling the same things. Trying to grab hold of any part of those cotton candy emotions and squish it into words inevitably ends with giggling before a single word is uttered. We spend a lot of time giggling.

When we've had our giddy fill, I roll over and scooch my way back into her. Our bodies spoon together as if they were designed to, every inch of my back touching every inch of her front. It's warm and comforting and exciting and perfect.

"I love you, Sarah."

"I love you, too, Beatrix."

With that, we drift softly to sleep.

* * *

Bea wakes up first. Half asleep, I hear her throw on some pajamas and head to the communal restroom down the hall. I fall back to sleep.

When I wake up, she's lying on the bed with me, scrolling through TikTok on her phone with headphones in.

"Wuwimei'it?" I say with perfect annunciation.

"Wuh wime wih wit?" she asks in Gibberish, native tongue of the Gibs.

"What time is it?" I repeat.

"It's 9:30." I can hear the affectionate smile in her tone. "Are you ready to wake up? I was thinking we could go out to breakfast. My treat."

"I-" I nearly object. Up until now, I had believed I was a guy for every date I'd ever been on. Though we'd sometimes split the bill, when we didn't, I was accustomed to being the one to pay for the meal, movie tickets, one time tickets to the Washington State Fair, and so on. It felt weird to be treated, flying in the face of the fragile masculine veneer I had built and maintained for the first eighteen years of my life. "Yes, I think that would be nice. No one's ever paid for my meal on a date before. Thank you."

"Date?" she asks in alarm. "Is this a date? Are we dating?"

I snort and toss a pillow at her.

"Does Café Blue sound good?" Bea asks.

"Perfect."

* * *

"So," Bea says after we order, "tell me about 'frameworks'."

"A framework in software is a-" I cut off as an idea occurs to me. "Before I vomit a bunch of nerdy tech-speak at you, does your ability let you become an expert on things?"

Beatrix startles. "I... I don't know. Let's find out. I know what a software framework is." We're silent for a moment. "Nothing happened. I didn't even feel a drain on my battery." She shrugs. "I guess my ability is limited to things I already know about, things I have enough knowledge to imagine. Maybe my physics degree will pay off after all.

"Besides," she continues, "I like listening to you explain things. Is..." she says, suddenly unsure, "that okay?"

"Of course! I enjoy explaining my passions. I just usually end up boring people with too much information. Let me know when you reach that point."

"I'm sure I won't. I'm fascinated to find out how software of all things relates to my ability." By all appearances, I have Bea's rapt attention.

I organize my thoughts and begin.

💬

Imagine that software development is like building a new house. Frameworks, sometimes called "toolkits" or "SDKs", are like sets of prebuilt appliances the contractors can install with little to no knowledge of their inner workings. A contractor can install a water heater and place pipes throughout the walls and floors to hook up the dishwasher, washing machine, tubs, and so on. However, they don't need to know how the dishwasher, washing machine, and—if they're a moron—tubs work. All they need is to perform a quick test to ensure they've attached everything together correctly. After that, they can be confident that the appliances will Just Work™.

🗨️

Bea snorts at my verbal use of "™".

💬

In this analogy, the appliances aren't, themselves, the product. The product is the house. In the same way, frameworks aren't the product, just things programmers can use in their code so they don't need to build everything from scratch. None of us could build everything we need from scratch; we don't have the knowledge and we certainly don't have the time.

The people who build the frameworks do need to know how they work, obviously, and that's where I come in.

One of the most important skills a coder needs is called "abstraction". Abstraction is the concept and process of looking for patterns within a project and pulling the common parts out into reusable code rather than copying and pasting code all over the place. A well-designed abstraction minimizes the amount of code duplication as well as the code one needs to test. In theory, if you thoroughly test the abstraction, you don't need to retest those portions of the code when they're used by other components.

I am acutely aware of my strengths and weaknesses; I spend far too much time in introspection not to be. I don't usually brag because it makes me uncomfortable, but abstraction is one of my greatest strengths. In truth, I'm exceptionally skilled at organizing abstractions. For whatever reason, it comes naturally to me. I look at the code I've written, or am about to write, and the logical abstractions just leap out at me. Purely intuition.

In general terms, a framework is a set of abstractions—functions and objects that tons of programs need, so why not just put related things in one place, and share it with the masses?

So, how does this relate to your ability? Right now, it seems you have figured out how to write a simple function that applies to a person. Though, considering the craftsmanship of this collar, maybe I'm not giving you enough credit—that's something I've been meaning to ask about. However, now that you've defined a simple function, you could also define another function like, "When I Speak that someone is awesome then do the following. They can only move places via cartwheels. Protect that person from violation. When they raise their eyebrows, their whole body rises with them." Now this new function wards the person like you warded me without needing to list the entire set of effects you want, and applies additional effects or overrides them in some way.

🗨️

I give Bea time to process, then she speaks. "I think I see how this might be useful but it seems kind of limited, too. It's basically setting up shorthand; it's convenient, but doesn't change what I can do, what I'm capable of."

"It's less about increasing your abilities than it is expanding your ideas of what's possible. If you know you can do x, y, and z with a couple of phrases, you can start to think bigger," I explain. "You would still need to remember the general concepts of x, y, and z, but you won't need to remember the details in order to use them, nor would it take nearly as much time to Speak new effects into existence.

"Having a framework in place might also be useful if you want to change an effect you don't like that is applied in multiple commands. Changing the one abstracted command will update all of them automatically."

"You mentioned that frameworks are shared so other people can use them. Is that useful for us?" she asks.

I consider her question for a moment. "Well, no, not really. We can share what we set up with your internet friends, if you'd like, but unlike a software framework, they would still need to Speak everything we share for themselves in order for them to use it, not merely download it. Still, it would be easier for them to read what we've written than to come up with it on their own."

"Makes sense. I do have some ideas, but I think I would need your help to come up with more and turn them into a framework."

"That's what I'm here for!"

* * *

When we get back to her place, she renews my transformation. "Your body is that of a person born with two X chromosomes, the body that matches your identity."

"That right there," I say. "While it's probably not something you would use in other commands, you do it often enough that giving it a short name would be helpful."

"Oh! Good point. Whenever I Speak and tell Sarah to be girly, her body becomes that of a person born with two X chromosomes, the body that matches her identity."