Subclasses Ch. 06

"It's okay. It's okay," I butt in to reassure her. "I enjoyed it. I realized what was happening after the first amplified touch and I chose not to tell you. You had my consent to continue."

"Still," she says a bit calmer, "I never want you to lose consciousness when we're having sex. Never again." She thinks for a moment. "May I have your consent to monitor your..." She gestures inarticulately as she fails her search for the right word. "...level while we are playing? It would be like a safeword you never need to speak."

"I consent," I say with unnecessary formality, and she nods crisply.

"Whenever Sarah and I have sex I will know when Sarah reaches 85% of what she can handle. I will be notified if and when I cross her limit. I will be notified if she loses consciousness, whether she passes out or not." I feel another warm, ephemeral monitor ring sink into my mind, overlapping the first one, the one that lets her know when I fantasize about her. "There," she says, "I feel much better about this. It was a learning experience," adds mostly to herself. I watch as her taut body visibly relaxes. I grab her hand and kiss her knuckles. She squeezes my hand in response.

"Was it okay," she asks, "that I referred to your tits as things I had given you, works of art I had made? It didn't occur to me until after the words left my mouth, and considering our earlier conversation, I was unsure whether it was okay. Obviously, I will never say things like that again, if you don't want me to."

I am still unaccustomed to safety when expressing things that bother me, especially with people I'd be devastated to lose. I'm used to walking across a field of eggshells—padding my criticism in five layers of careful flattery and reassurances that whatever it is, they couldn't have known—in order to preempt a defensive response and maintain the relationship. So, it takes me a second to work up the courage to reply to the direct question. "Honestly, it chafed at first. But soon after, I realized this body is a gift you've given me. While it may be my image, I did not have the ability to actualize it. You worked up the courage to entice me to your table, took me to your dorm room, revealed your most tightly held secret, and transformed my body in a way that shouldn't be possible. It is a gift, Beatrix, one I will never forget and for which I am eternally grateful. After that, well, you can admire my 'exquisite tits' as often and for as long as you like. Are they mine? Did you give them to me? Same thing in the end."

Beatrix moves up next to me, and we spoon, our bodies seeming to fit together as cleanly as the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She strokes my hair and body, and I coo at all the right times. I twist my back to kiss her lips. The importance of tender, affectionate aftercare cannot be overstated. We cuddle for the better part of a half hour.

"I'm sticky," I say eventually.

"Me, too," Beatrix says. "Shower?"

"Yes, let's."

We head, hand in hand, to the bathroom with naught but our towels to cover us. Bea waves to one of her neighbors walking by. I think he gives me an odd look, but I can't be sure. If it exists at all, it fades before he passes us.

Entering the loo, as Beatrix puts it, I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror. My collar is seamless, black leather. Visible leather. And we just passed her friend. In towels. With a welt on my thigh. My face can't decide whether to flush or drain at the realization. Staring at my reflection, I absentmindedly tug at the collar.

"Oh. Right, umm," Beatrix says, noticing my distress. "I... I forgot about that. I'm sorry."

"It's... You know what? As embarrassing as it is, I love it. I think I love it especially because I didn't know when it happened." I shrug. "It seems retroactive embarrassment at something I couldn't have prevented beats enduring the embarrassment live and in person. Who knew? Not that I would be particularly opposed to said endurance." I shoot her my best lesbian wink.

Her pursed lips melt into a lecherous smile. "Good. I will keep that in mind. Just tell me if you want it hidden again.

"And, for what it's worth, while your consent to wear the collar in the first place—a collar that had always had this functionality—plus your earlier consent to let me do to you as I please allowed for its visibility in front of Benjamin, I think it would have vanished if it had caused you to feel violated. You're allowed to be mortified," she shrugs, "but not violated." I nod, and we step into the shower together.

We wash each other, obviously. Who in their right mind wouldn't want to touch every curve and crevice of Beatrix's body? And I'm far from in my right mind. And, I figure, who wouldn't want to touch mine?

Washing each other is an intimate activity, more intimate than one might imagine. Showering in tight confines in a well-lit room provides an excellent venue for aftercare; after the intense strain of a BDSM session, every tender touch and loving gesture becomes that much more intimate.

We dry off, return to her room, and dress. I pull on my boyshorts and revel in the mirror at how cute I feel, how dolled up I look. So what if it's a little infantilizing? I enjoy feeling cute. Then I search for my dress before remembering I had been compelled to toss it across the room. I relive the euphoric memory of having no control over my body as it moves at my mistress's whim. It is a memory that I know will never fade, as vivid as—and more pleasurable than—the first time I had sex. I grab the dress from the floor and slip it over my shoulders, wiggling my body until gravity does its part to pull it straight.

"So... lunch?" Bea asks, suddenly. I look up to see she's been watching me flail in my dress, amusement dancing on her lips.

"Lunch? It's..." I look at the clock, stunned to find it's only "12:15! Who has lunch at 12:15 in the afternoon?!"

She laughs. "So, lunch?"