Subclasses Ch. 11

Chapter Eleven

"So," I say without preamble as I sit down across from Beatrix at our customary Viking Union table, "Gabi's clothes didn't change last night because of her intent?"

Bea winces. "You didn't buy that, hmm?" The edges of my lips curl into a ghost of a smug smile. She sighs, knowing she's been caught. "No, that wasn't the reason.

"Intent fills in the details left out by the wording. The words are more of a focus that defines the domain." Good math word, I think. "They constrain the imagined details so that things like this don't happen."

My wry smile turns downright lascivious, hungry for the scandalous details. Beatrix sighs again, a mix of embarrassment and resignation. "I was curious, okay? I tried to imagine her clothes being transformed with her, really, but my curiosity intruded, hoping to find out what she looked like naked." She looks at me, nervously, likely fearing a jealous reaction.

"Well," I say with an encouraging tone, "I'd be lying if I said I had never had that same curiosity. Mine was just satisfied early last year when we became roommates." I smirk at her. "You know my lusty eyes are yours, but I can't say I don't admire the gods' handiwork from time to time."

Beatrix somehow looks relieved and troubled at the same time. "What?" I ask.

"Are you sure you don't have feelings for her? None at all?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Because," her voice drops to a nervous hush, "I think she has feelings for you."

I bark a laugh. "What? That's silly. Gabi only goes for men, trust me. She's had three boyfriends since I've known her and gone on dates with half a dozen other guys. I've seen her tell multiple people that she's straight up straight. Guys drool over her, and she obviously enjoys that attention."

"Are you sure?" Bea asks, clearly unsure herself. "You don't think she protests too much, then? Like someone in the closet? That was the vibe I was getting, but maybe I'm wrong."

I don't want to dismiss her feelings out of hand, so I revisit the topic I've considered several times before. "I really don't think so, Bea. She has two moms for crying out loud. What reason would she have for staying in the closet?"

"Okay," she says. She seems unconvinced but lets the matter drop.

We eat in silence for a minute.

"I love you," she says.

I smile. "I love you too, Bea. Any reason in particular?"

"Plenty of reasons in particular," she nods.

"I'm not sur-" Zap.

"No, Pet. I'm the pedantic one. You're the obedient one," she chides.

I rub my neck. "Yes, Mistress."

"Good girl." Despite the stings of both the collar and the scold, at this "good girl", I feel my backbone soften. I feel more compliant, ready—no, eager—to obey her, to simply do as told. Sarah Prime arches an eyebrow but remains silent.

"Aside from being my Mistress," I ask Bea, moving to safer topics, "do you have any other hobbies?"

"Hmm. I played football as a little girl in the UK, and I played volleyball my senior year of high school. None of us were very good, though, since the previous two years were interrupted by Covid. Still, it was fun. What about you?"

"I've played the cello since first grade, though I really haven't touched it in a year."

"Oh! I wondered whether that was yours or Gabs's," she says.

"Yup, it's mine. I put in a lot of practice over those years, but it was definitely just a hobby for me. Like so many things in my life, I was either the best of the bad or the worst of the good. Aggressively average. In ninth grade, I quit taking lessons and joined an orchestra instead. I made it to first chair by my senior year, but only because the actual first chair broke her arm a month before the concert."

"Oh! That's terrible, though, I guess the saying 'break a leg' has similar origins. So, serendipity doo dah, I guess!"

"Plenty of arm breaks, comin' your way," I supply, musically. She snorts so I keep going, "Little blue sling on her shoulder. It's the truth. It's fractural. Everything is satissnaptual."

In response, she throws a French fry at me. By reflex I try to snatch it with my mouth, but instead I perform an even more talented catch with the lens of my glasses. Just as planned!

"So was that a feat of the 'best of the bad' or the 'worst of the good'?" she teases with an amused smirk.

* * *

Beatrix didn't join us for dinner Friday evening; she had a group project she needed to work on, and had told me she'd text me when she was ready for me to come over. She had done so ten minutes ago, so here I am, in Nash Hall, having slipped through the door when another Nash resident exited the building.

Appendix Chapter 11 Entry 11.1

I knock on Bea's door.

"It's unlocked," I hear her say.

I open the door to ... another room. It's a bedroom, presumably hers back in Bear Creek. I walk in and quickly shut the door behind me.

I don't know where I am, so I take in my surroundings. The room is a study in pink. Light pink walls with white trim, carpet of a deeper hue. There's a four-poster bed against the left wall made up cleanly with powder pink sheets and an elegant white duvet. The bed is curtained by off-white tulle or gossamer—something transparent—the slightest tinge of pink to them.

There's a brown wooden walk-in closet door on the right wall, and a nook that probably hides a bathroom door on the inner wall that I can't see.

I detect movement and look to the end of the room where, sitting in a plush red armchair against a window, is the most stunning young woman I have ever seen. She's maybe 5'6" or 5'7" wearing a loose, black blouse with a plunging neckline more than hinting at the plump breasts beneath. A silver lariat necklace adorns her neck supporting a jade pendant nestled within her cleavage. Below her blouse, she has a gray, pencil skirt with a slit just to the inside of her left leg, above knee-length black stockings.

Her long blonde hair is done up in an immaculate high ponytail tied with an intricate knot pinned together by a pair of pencils. Her glasses are librarian, opaque black frames. She holds one hand to the side of her face, pinky toying with the corner of her mouth, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, while the other hand holds a book open in her lap. A thick, light pink scarf is folded neatly in half, strung over the back of the chair.

"Who are you?" she asks, not unkindly, in a British accent that makes my knees weak and my mouth water.

"I'm..."—"Crap. Line?"—"Sarah, I think."

The girl giggles at me. "You're not sure?"

I look at the ceiling, tapping my chin with my finger, then look back at her and say, "Yes. Sarah. I'm sure this time. Ninety-eight percent confidence level, but further research is required to confirm this finding." "Idiot. Who talks like that?"

She gives me a warm, disarming laugh. "You're funny," she says. "I'm Beatrix."

"Of course, she's fucking Beatrix. God, I love that name."

"What are you doing in my bedroom, Sarah?"

"I-" I pause. "What am I doing here?" "I don't actually know. I don't remember how I got here."

"If you don't know why you're here, maybe you should go and then come back if you do remember," she suggests helpfully.

"Yeah," I say lamely, and turn to leave.

But I can't. I try to take a step toward the door, but I don't move. I turn back to her, confused. "It seems like that may not be an option." Part of my mind tells me I should be alarmed at this, but I'm not.

"Oh," she says. "Well, maybe you should come in then." Beatrix gives me a curious look, like she doesn't know what to make of me, this stranger in her bedroom.

I take a couple steps forward, out of the small entryway and into her room proper. I see a chair to my left and move to grab it. But again, I can't. My body, or really, my head, refuses to move in that direction, like there's an invisible force field in the way. I look back to her. "Where should I sit?" I ask her.

"Why not that chair?" she asks, calmly.

"I can't reach it. I don't know why."

"That's alright," she says with an inviting smile. "Sit on my bed, then."

I move in that direction, past the farmost post, and turn to sit on the edge of the mattress. Once again, I can't reach it. I can't move closer toward the bed than the post. "Umm," I say with an awkward smile. "I don't understand, but I can't seem to get to the bed."

"Oh! Well, that's okay. Maybe just sit on the floor in front of me."

It seems the most reasonable solution, so I do.

"What do you like to do, Sarah?"

"Cunnalingus," I say, unabashedly. "Wait, what?"

"Well, that's rather honest of you," Beatrix says with a loud burst of genuine mirth. "I like that about you, Sarah." I smile, taken in by the charm of this transfixing woman before me. "But you should know, I don't share myself with strangers."

I nod. That makes sense. Of course not.

"You know, Sarah, my legs are kind of tired from reading so long. Could you pull that ottoman over to me?"

I reach for it, but it's too far. "What is going on?" I wonder. "It's like I can't move away from her." "Umm. I can't reach it," I say. A flush of embarrassment tinges both my face and my voice.

"That's disappointing," she says. "Would you be my footrest, then?"

Would I? Why, yes, it seems I would. I wordlessly crawl forward and kneel on hands and knees. She rests her stilettoed feet on my back, and returns to reading her book.

"What are you reading?" I ask. "Don't stare at her panties. Don't stare at her panties," I think, eyeing the filmy, white cloth veiling what I'm sure is the most beautiful pussy.

"Shh," she hushes me. Her tone is gentle but firm. I quiet like any other ottoman.

She finishes a few pages of her book, the soft turn of the paper the only sound in the room.

"You know," she says at last, "my eyes are getting tired. Would you come read my book to me?"

"That sounds fun," I say. I move to stand up, but I can't. My head won't rise above its current height. It also, I find, won't move below its current height. I don't understand it at all. Moving up or down wouldn't be moving further away from her, which itself is a rule I still can't explain.

I move a little forward to see if that will give my head more slack to move upward. It doesn't, and I can't move back to where I was a moment ago.

"I'm really sorry, ma'am, but I don't think I'll be able to read to you, after all. Maybe if you put the book down here?"

"Oh, that's alright," she says kindly, unconcerned. "And call me Mistress or Mistress Beatrix."

"Yes, Mistress Beatrix," I say far more naturally than makes sense to what I'm beginning to suspect is my very addled mind. "Umm, Mistress?" I say, unsure of myself.

"Yes, Pet?"

"'Pet'?" I think. "Yes, that sounds right. I like it when she calls me that. I'm Mistress's pet. Her pet human.

"Oh!" Sudden realization strikes. "I bet that's why I'm wearing this collar! When did she give me that?

"Wasn't I saying something?" I think. "Oh, right." "I'm really sorry about this, but, well, I can't seem to stop my hands. I'm really trying not to, but they're about to reach your underwear, and I think they're going to try pulling them down."

"Oh! That's not good. I told you that I don't share my body with strangers."

"I know! I'm really sorry, Mistress. I think as long as you stay seated, I won't be able to pull them down, so maybe do that?"

"Okay," she says. "If that's the best you can do."

"She's being awfully reasonable," I think, absently. That's good, because I don't feel like I have a choice and I really don't want to make things worse for her.

We stay like that for a little while. My hands holding the top hem of her panties, her legs across each of my shoulders, feet resting on my back. She turns another page. I focus really hard, trying to retract my hands, but it's no use.

She giggles suddenly. "Your fingertips tickle."

"I'm sorry, Mistress Beatrix."

"No, it's alright, Pet. It feels kind of good, actually."

"I'm glad, Mistress," I say in genuine relief. Every emotion in me seems amplified. Concerns are mountains and relief is breath itself.

I feel her feet dig into my back, then, as she readjusts her position. As soon as her butt leaves the seat cushion, my hands swiftly pull her panties as far down as they can go, which, in this case, is right to my face.

"Mistress?" I say through a mouthful of fabric.

"Yes, Pet?"

"I'm really sorry, but when you moved just now, my hands took advantage and pulled your panties down. I tried to stop them, honest!"

Her melodic giggles tinkle in my ears again. "Yes, Pet, I noticed."

"Right. Of course she did."

"I'll stand up so you can put them back where they were." I highly doubt that's what's about to happen, but if she trusts me, I will try.

She moves her legs off my back and begins to stand up. My head is pulled up with her, and as soon as there's room, my hands quickly pull her panties all the way down.

"Umm. Mistress? That didn't work."

"That's okay. I know you tried your best." I really had. "As long as you don't actually touch me, though, I think I'm okay."

"Yes, Mistress Beatrix," I say. "I can do that, right?"

She sits back down, and my head goes with her. The spring of the cushion as she sits down jerks my head forward a little closer. It finally clicks that maybe I can't move my head further from her pussy? It certainly seems that way.

She adjusts her legs, spreading them a little wider. My head is up her skirt, now, about four inches (10cm) from this kind stranger's lovely lips. Lips that, though I know I shouldn't, I need to kiss, to lick, to caress. To make mine. I feel the bottom of Mistress's book at the back of my head through the skirt. My head moves forward easily as the book comes to rest in what I assume must be a more natural position in her lap.

"Mistress?"

"Yes, Pet?"

"I think- I think I'm about to touch you. I'm sor-" My words cut off as my tongue pulls from my mouth of its own accord and begins teasing her soft lower lips.

At first I feel horrible for breaking this singular rule she has, but then she moans, and inches closer to the edge of the seat. My nose presses against her soft skin, and my tongue reaches further in, stroking her against my will. I feel my hands reach up and pull her hips to me. I have to hold my breath as my nose gets plugged, pressed to her as it is. And still, my tongue keeps caressing her, tasting, consuming.

Her hips' thrusts become steadier and more violent as the pleasure in her mounts. "Now," I hear her say in an unfamiliar tone I feel resonate within me, and suddenly I feel a tongue in my cunt, moving in sync with my own tongue in hers. I don't think it's a real tongue, just the sensation of one, as if I'm feeling what she feels.

Now doubly spurred—compelled by whatever mind my tongue has of its own in combination with my own pleasure at its movements—I speed up. Unable to resist any longer, I give in and, to my shame, just enjoy the experience. That shame dissolves as the back of my mind concludes I have no choice. I can't be blamed for something if I have no choice, right? And if it's enjoyable, then I can't be blamed for enjoying it, either.

I am a mindless fuck machine. My one and only purpose is to please the delicious pussy in front of me. And I am very good at my purpose. Mistress Beatrix's moans increase in frequency and magnitude, echoed by my own.

Her back arches. My back arches. And together we share the most fantastic orgasm.

My memories flood back into me in a rush. I know who I am. I know how I got here. I know my Mistress and that she brought this favorite fantasy of mine to life. I hadn't expected her to make me forget who she was, nor that I would feel what she felt. Those were her own additions and they made it twice as personal and a thousand times better.

I remove my head from between her legs, and move up to kiss her. Her lips reach mine and she moans, "More," into my mouth. I slip two fingers into her, and begin pumping. Though the rest of the effects seem to have been ended, I still feel phantom fingers drive into my own pussy. I smile against her lips, and quickly bring us to another mind-blowing climax.

"Oh God," she moans, our lips still pressed together. I find myself echoing her words, as if now even our minds are in lock step, not just our sensations. "Oh, God, more," we say as one, and my fingers speed up. I press another finger into her; her ring finger moves in tandem. Saratrix moans, unable to stop, unable to let up or end this unbearable pleasure. There is no line between her and me anymore. We are one mind, one body, one person.

Her hands are pressed to my face, the pinky of her right hand bent down. She moves it up, and with it, I move my pinky into her. And then our thumbs, ever so slowly stretching the hole between our legs. With utmost care, I gently fist us. One part pain, twenty-five parts pleasure. Another wave crashes across us, and then another. At last we arch our back in an ultimate orgasm. I feel us squirt, liquid shooting down our leg. It's pure bliss, and we fall into each other, panting.

The spell breaks. I remove my soaked hand from her. She strokes my hair with her hand as we catch our breath.

"Good girl," she whispers in that rewarding tone, the one that lets me know I did well and should genuinely feel proud of my accomplishment.

"Thank you, Mistress."

"No, thank y-" She catches herself. Now is not the time for me to take an involuntary bow. "Thanks, Pet," she amends.

"I love you, Beatrix." The session has ended; aftercare has begun. We are ourselves again.

"I love you, too, Sarah."

* * *

I text Gabi, letting her know that I'll be spending the night in Beatrix's bed, and asking if she wants to have breakfast with us at The Bagelry in the morning. She does.

I climb into the four-poster bed after Beatrix. It's such a plush mattress, especially compared to the decades old mattress supplied by the college. I'm the small spoon once more. The feel of Beatrix's tits against my back is phenomenal. Our afterglow still hasn't fully receded, and these cuddles are divine. There is literally no place I would rather be than right where I am with my lover's arms wrapped around me, her hand absently fondling my belly button, my butt pressed to her lap, our legs a tangle at the foot of the bed.

There I fall into a dreamless sleep with the love of my life.

* * *

Gabs, Bea, and I eat lunch together in Fairhaven's cafeteria. The O'Keeffe Wing is closed for a conference of some sort, so we sit in the other room. With three real vages between us, I suppose we don't need the watercolor flora variety.

The room is sparsely populated as many students had gone home for the weekend. We're wearing our Saturday bests: flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers. Gabi's slippers, I notice with new perspective, have bunny ears.

We swap stories. Gabi tells some I've heard before but which are new to Beatrix about her life in Georgia, and what it was like to have a naval officer for a parent. She explains how she was adopted by her moms, Rebecca—Bex—and Rita, the day she was born. Her birth mother, Mia, is actually Rita's sister, the mom with whom she shares a last name. Her birth father fled the picture as soon as he found out about the pregnancy. Mia didn't want to have an abortion, but wasn't equipped to be a single parent, and Gabi's moms had been hoping to adopt for a while, so it just worked out.