Subclasses Ch. 10

Regarding this chapter's appendix:

Literotica has a 750-word minimum limit for stories, and this chapter only has a single, ~350 word appendix entry. Rather than contriving additional story which, in my opinion, would cheapen the chapter, I've simply placed the appendix at the end. To those of you who want to know what Beatrix has planned for Sarah before Sarah figures it out, I offer you this blessing: May the anti-spoiler gods favor you this day.

Chapter Ten

It's Tuesday. I'm sitting in my Data Structures class, which is probably my favorite this quarter and is being taught by my favorite CS professor. Granted, I've only had five different CS professors over the seven courses I've taken to date, so I've met just under half of the department's faculty.

It's a small auditorium in College Hall—a modest stone building tucked behind Bond Hall—with two one-desk-deep tiers raised three and six inches above the "stage". About half of the seats are filled by the eighteen students who'd signed up for the course. On the front wall of the room are two pairs of wide, vertically conjoined dry-erase boards, three panels of which are filled with diagrams of blue, red, green, and black that look a little like Christmas trees with numbered ornaments. The 90s-style fluorescent lights are slightly dimmer than designed due to their translucent plastic coverings, tinged yellow by age. The room's two thin windows abutting the doors at either side of the room look out into the even dimmer-lit square hallway that surrounds this rectangular classroom and its mirrored counterpart that shares its back wall.

I'm trying to pay attention to the prof's explanation of self-balancing AVL-trees—something that, under normal circumstances, would hold captive this nerd's attention—but my mind keeps slipping away from me.

Shortly after what I've privately dubbed the "bun buns incident" on Sunday, I had walked Beatrix home to Nash Hall. She had understandably been stressed by all that had happened that day, and so we had remained mostly quiet. Once we had arrived, she thanked me for walking her home and for letting her process in silence. She gave me a long kiss, some of her usual self returning to her demeanor, and then Spoke me back to FX.

Yesterday, Bea and I had grabbed lunch together, but she had had too much homework to do for us to hang out after classes. Our luncheon discussion had stuck to more mundane topics than my roommate catching us in the act of performing supernatural feats. I tried not to worry too much. Despite what she'd told Gabi, I know being forced to reveal her secret—in essence, outed—to someone she barely knew, someone she only trusted by proxy, was scary to her.

I'm still processing the turn of events myself. On the one hand, it's nice that, from now on, as long as our door is closed, I can be in my body when it's just me and Gabi in our dorm room. That's a selfish consequence, though, and I feel a pang of guilt about it. On the other, I liked that it had been our—Bea's and my—secret. Not only was it a little thrilling to know something no one else did, but it felt now like Gabi had been injected into our relationship, reducing its potential for intimacy. Gabi is my best friend, but that's all I feel for her, flirty butt jiggles notwithstanding. Through no fault of her own, Gabi's imaginary presence when I picture myself with Bea feels like an intrusion.

Class ends. As I close my laptop, I idly notice I hadn't taken a single note. That's alright. I never end up looking at my CS notes, anyway. Computer science knowledge clings to my mind like water to a spunge. At least, that's the case when I pay attention.

I walk to the VU and sit at our empty table. Lost in my thoughts, I start when Beatrix takes the seat next to me.

"Hey, Baby," she says. I give her the best smile I can muster. "What's up?" she asks, concerned.

"I'm just processing the consequences of Sunday afternoon."

"I know what you mean. The last day and a half have been a daze to me. Is anything in particular bothering you?"

"I guess... okay, I know this is kind of silly, maybe even clingy, but I liked having you to myself. Our relationship, for better or worse, had been built upon,"—I look around to see if anyone is nearby—"your secret. Now that Gabi knows it too, I feel like I have to share you with her."

"I don't think that's clingy," she assures me. "I understand that feeling, too, but the more I think about it, the less I think it'll be a problem. Think about it. When you first told me about Gabi, how did you describe her?"

I cast my mind back. "I think I called her bubbly and chill."

"Exactly! She knows how to give people space and respect boundaries, and she's not offended if she's not included in every single activity. She's a chill, laid back kinda girl."

"Huh. I hadn't thought of that. Thanks, Bea. That does help."

Beatrix beams at me, and takes my hand.

"How are you taking having your secret outed to someone new?" I ask.

"It's ... troubling," she says honestly. "It felt like the biggest risk of my life to tell you, and four days later someone else found out. I'm glad I told you—really—but I'm worried that now that three people know it, that'll quickly become four, you know?"

"Yeah, that's about how I'd be feeling in your shoes. I'm feeling that way and I'm not even in your shoes." I smile weakly at her. "I do believe that Gabi is trustworthy though; she won't willingly share your secret.

"Maybe," I suggest, "we need to set some boundaries about when and where we play with your ability to avoid repeats of Sunday."

"Probably. I've been thinking about that, but I don't have any good ideas yet. Though, I suppose, Gabi was the person most likely to find out since she lives in your room. Since I don't have a roommate, no one else in our immediate circle."

I nod. "Well, I will do whatever you think is best, and I'm sure Gabi will agree to it, too."

Bea smirks at me. "Oh, I know you'll do whatever I think is best. I'll make sure of it."

I chuckle. "Yes, Mistress."

After lunch, we head to her dorm room until my math class. She reapplies the triggers, monitors, and other effects that she had hastily dispelled on Sunday—at least the ones that I can remember. I have vague flashes of memory of ... bowing? Who knows, but if that was due to a trigger, I don't think she reapplied it.

"So is this collar invisible again?" I ask, as I feel the tight leather band reform around my neck.

"Would you like it to be? I can change it," she says casually.

"Yeah, it's probably best that I don't advertise my kinky appetites to everyone during school hours," I don't say. What instead I hear from my mouth is, "No, Mistress, I like when people see that I am your pet."

"Good girl." I beam and squirm at the praise, still a little confused that I had said no instead of yes. "You really like when I call you that, don't you?"

"You have no idea. Two syllables from your lips and I'm wet between mine."

She smiles. "Good girl."

* * *

Beatrix saunters into my dorm room at 4:30. Gabi and I are enveloped in a close Smash Bros match, and we both greet Bea with distracted heys as she sits down behind me. Waiting for an opportune moment, Bea grabs and fondles my tiny, HRT-grown tits, derailing my gameplay long enough for Gabi to reverse my slight advantage.

I open my mouth to complain about the injustice, but before I can utter a syllable, my collar constricts. Reflexively, I shut my mouth and it loosens. I test again: the wider I open my mouth, the tighter it pulls. Beatrix gently massages my shoulders as I fall further and further behind, eventually losing the match.

"Good girl." The breathy, seductive whisper precedes a soft lick to my ear, an erogenous zone I hadn't known I had. My muscles melt, my mind goes blank, and my vision fades white.

When I regain control of my faculties, we're twenty seconds into the next match. Apparently, I had switched to Zero-Suit Samus—arguably the hottest fighter, sporting a bright blue, skintight bodysuit, high heels, and a long, blonde high ponytail—a character with whom I have zero talent. Beatrix is playing Bayonetta—arguably the hottest fighter, sporting a skintight black bodysuit, high heels, and a long, black high ponytail tied with a blood red ribbon—and is midway through an expert attack combo I never have been able to get the hang of.

Each time I lose one of my five lives: "Good girl."

I whimper.

* * *

Dinner is the standard fare: a bunch of nerds taking stupid hypotheticals way too far and arguing as if the fate of the world hangs on the outcome of our debate, peppered with discussions about things we've learned in our studies.

As I take my seat next to Beatrix, she leans over and whispers, "Don't come," and then nothing. She doesn't do anything, and I don't feel anything unusual.

Chapter 10 Appendix Entry 10.1

That is, until I open my mouth to speak. "I had," I start to say. Ethereal tongues lick my ear and clit. I barely suppress a shudder, but somehow, I keep talking at my normal pace, "a good"—my clit gets licked, followed by a spot in deep between my legs, twice, and, at the surprise of it, I almost come then and there—"lecture"—the rim of my anus, each of my tits in quick succession, and then my anus again—"today"—my g-spot again, followed by my clit, and finally a long lick up my left butt cheek.

What did Mistress do to me? I think in a dizzy mixture of pleasure, embarrassment, and panic. Realizing it has something to do with words, I try to stop talking so I can think, but I don't; I keep talking as if nothing is happening to me, as if all of my most sensitive spots aren't shooting ecstatic bolts of pleasure up and down my body as wet tongues take me from every direction while I sit and speak helplessly, knowing I am the cause of my own wondrous torment. I'm no longer shocked but already I'm nearing the edge of a mounting climax. If this continues—if I can't stop talking—I will orgasm right here in front of my friends and everyone else in the cafeteria, and it seems there's literally nothing I can do about it.

I continue to speak, discussing what the professor of my automata theory class had taught. Up to this point in the quarter, we had been discussing state machines. Rim, clit, ear, clit, clit, ear, rim, g-spot, g-spot, ass cheek, tits. I hold the climax in as long as I am able to, but I can tell that one more word will push me over.

"... the nodes ...", I say, continuing heedlessly in my explanation, dreading the reaction of my friends, and the sheer embarrassment I'm about to feel. Nothing happens. I jump slightly, and relief—emotional, not physical—floods through me. I finish my sentence, and still, no more phantom tongues. A glance at Bea's mischievously innocent face is all I need to know that she was the reason for my reprieve, the person I have to thank for denying me what would surely be a scream-inducing orgasm.

My arousal recedes as I continue explaining state machines to my semi-interested peers. About halfway cooled down, I hear a soft snap. The next word out my mouth: clit, ear. Annnd we're back, folks.

At the word "automaton"—clit, tits, g-spot, clit, g-spot—I figure it out. It's the vowels. Every vowel I speak causes a sensational tongue to lick a different part of my body. I look at Beatrix again, and the impish, knowing smile she gives me tells me she knows I've figured it out. She looks as turned on as I feel, as if she had been hungrily waiting for me to piece together the rules of her twisted game.

Of course, the knowledge doesn't help. I know the rules, but I can't stop talking, every sound I utter bringing at least one illusory tongue to my most sensitive nerves, until I finish my explanation of pushdown automata.

At last, at most seven more syllables from an orgasm, I can let my mouth—and body—rest. "Good girl," I hear in the whispered seductive voice of the succubus beside me. I whimper loud enough that a couple people look at me, but, aside from Gabi's look, they're the glances of people believing that I have something I want to say, but don't want to interrupt. Gabi's smirk, of course, is something else entirely, playful and a little condescending.

The group conversation continues, and mercifully I am not compelled to speak at length on any one topic, but I do play my part in the discussion, cracking jokes and such. The consequences of my words, though less frequent, still cause wet-tongued ecstacy to flash through my nervous system like sheet lightning. I come to the edge of climax twice more, and twice more, I hear Bea snap her fingers just in time. She's good, I think. How can she read me so well when everyone else seems oblivious to my libidinous turmoil?

By the end of dinner I am simultaneously wrung out and incredibly horny.

* * *

Back in the dorm room, Gabi shuts the door behind the three of us and, in a formal tone, says she wants to discuss something.

"Do you need to discuss it right now, or can it wait ten to twenty minutes?" Beatrix asks. "I've just put Sarah through a gauntlet of pent up pleasure, and I think she'll be able to focus a lot better if I ... relieve her of it."

"Oh, we can wait. Would you like me to leave the room?" Gabi asks.

"No need! Sarah and I are in my room." I can only wonder how Gabi's face looks right now.

"You, Pet," Mistress says, "were a very good girl tonight. I think you deserve a treat."

Too saturated by physical craving, I can't even respond verbally. All I can do is start to undress.

"Stop that." I drop the hem of my dress back down. "Just a little more patience. I promise, I'll make it worth it.

"Come sit on the bed." I obey. I actually begin to pant from the need of her, the need to release this pent up arousal. Beatrix smiles at that need, at my impatience. Without thinking, I start to grope my boob and clit through my clothing, while Bea examines and fixes her hair in the mirror. She glances at my reflection. "No touching yourself." She reapplies a coat of her attention-demanding red lipstick, then turns back to me.

"For the rest of the night, whenever I snap my fingers, Sarah will orgasm." Bearing the rote expression of a programmer running a new piece of code just to make sure it works, she snaps her fingers.

Pleasure explodes through me, and I release a carnal scream. All at once, that pent up tension rips through my body. I white out for who knows how long.

When I regain consciousness, Mistress is looking me straight in the eyes. As soon as she sees my lucidity return, she snaps her fingers again. Another wave of hormonal bliss washes over me, not nearly as strong as the first one, but nearly as wonderful. I come to a couple seconds later.

"Each orgasm at my snapped fingers will be ten percent stronger than the one before it." She snaps her fingers again. And again. And again.

Each time is exponentially stronger, harder, faster, more demanding. It doesn't matter that there's no build up. She snaps and tension that hadn't been there a moment ago rips through me eliciting moans, gasps, screams, and "Oh God! Fuck!"s by turns.

Sweat pours down my face and body as I try to catch my breath. Absently, I realize that at some point, my clothes had come off. They are neatly folded and stacked on her desk, most likely magicked there.

"Good girl," Mistress says. "Are you feeling better now? Ready to go back?" I nod, more because it seems like the right answer than because I have given it conscious thought. Snap.

Snap snap snap.

I know it must have only been a few minutes, but it feels like hours have passed. When I can recognize shapes again, Beatrix's skirt is pulled up, her panties around her ankles. She's pressing her fingers in and out of her to a frantic rhythm. While her gaze is more-or-less focused on me, her face is one of pure, barely coherent bliss, apparently having gotten off on my reactions to her fingersnaps as strongly as I got off to the snaps themselves.

I regain my ability to speak, first. "Let me help you with that." She's seated on her desk, one foot on her swivel chair, the other hanging off the side of the desk. I kneel in front of her and gently pull her hand away from her resplendent folds. I relish the feel of her hand in mine, the soft, warm intimacy of one person guiding the movements of another. Then, slowly, I press my face to her and begin lapping her up, my tongue moving in and out of pussy, up and down her clitoris, in and out again. In moments, she's shuddering, and I reach up with my hands to steady her while I perform a couple more languid licks and a gentle, precious kiss to her landing strip.

I stand up before her. Her eyes are unfocused, her mind clearly elsewhere. I give her a long kiss on the lips, and she returns it automatically. I reach around her legs and lift her just long enough to bring her to the bed and lay her down. "Take your clothes off, Mistress," I whisper in command.

"My clothes are off," she Speaks without much thought. They vanish—to where, I know not. I lie down beside her and gently run my ice skater fingertips up and down her soft skin for the three or four minutes it takes for her breathing to recover.

"That was... was...." she says, slowly, trailing off. "Thank you, Sarah."

I give her a warm, pleased smile, but find myself rolling off the bed to stand up. I bow. "You are most welcome, Mistress."

A silent second later, we both burst out laughing at the unexpected, unintentional trigger phrase.

* * *

"We are in Sarah's room."

Gabi shrieks in surprise at our sudden appearance. "Warn me when you're gonna do that!" She playfully whacks Beatrix on the thigh. "You're liable to give a gal a heart attack."

"Sorry, Gabs," Beatrix says, a little sheepishly.

"Did you two have fun?"

"You could say that," I say, shooting a contented glance at Bea.

"Good.

"Now, are you two focused enough to have a talk? About ... the three of us and whatever our relationships are now?" Gabi's tone is nervousness in a cloak of businesslike confidence. I'm a little anxious, but I nod, and Beatrix does the same. "Don' worry," Gabi says, "this ain't nothing scary.

"I know you two are at the beginning of your relationship, and I know that your ability, Beatrix, is part of the foundation of that relationship. I imagine that you two are a tad nervous, now that I know the secret you two had expected to keep, that I'm going to want to intrude.

"Well, of course I do. But I won't. I'm curious about your ability—and would absolutely love to see what you could do with me—but more than that, I can see that you two are perfect for each other, and I do not, under any circumstances, want to come between that."

She stops there. Bea gives her a smile, and I say, "Thanks, Gabi. That means a lot to us. Yes," I admit, "we were a little nervous, and what you just said helps a lot. And, if it means anything to you, Bea and I talked about this at lunch today, and we both believed this is exactly how you would react—that you're laid back and very good at respecting boundaries."

"Aww, you mean that?" She says with her Southern twang. "Bless your hearts." I can't tell if that's the earnest "bless your hearts" or the underhanded one. Apparently reading my expression, Gabi clarifies, "That was the kind good. I'm glad you two see me that way."