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 four 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 the Biology Building—a sturdy structure midway between South Campus and Red Square that looks to have had three architects, each with their own aesthetic ideals.  The architect who got the right side of the building is my favorite of the three; they used clean white stone and included a rounded protruding wall.  The guy in the center thought an uninspired, scarred-cement office building was in order, and the person on the left just built a corner wall of fancy floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook absolutely nothing of note.  The small auditorium I’m in is composed of 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 sharing 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 focus—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 kink.  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 feels 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 hypothetical 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 sponge.  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 jump 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, has 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’ve thought 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 four people know it, that’ll quickly become five, you know?”

“Yeah, that’s about how I’d be feeling in your shoes.  I am 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, really, 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 is in our immediate circle; everyone else is a much smaller risk than Gabi was.”

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 it when I call you that, don’t you?”

“You have no idea.  Two syllables from your lips and I’m wet between mine.”

She beams.  “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.”

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 butthole 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 finite state machines.  Rim, clit, ear, tits, 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 off, 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—clit, ear, ear, fucking goddamn ear, tits, g-spot, ass crack, g-spot, rim—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, knowing, and more than 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—ass cheek, tits, rim, tits—though less frequent—ear, g-spot, ass crack—still cause wet-tongued ecstasy to flash through my nervous system like sheet lightning.  I come to the—tits, butt cheek, rim, butt crack—edge of climax twice—g-spot, ear, g-spot—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 sinful red lipstick, then turns back to me.

“For the rest of the night, whenever I snap my fingers, Sarah will orgasm.”  My eyes widen.  Bearing the rote expression of a programmer pressing F5 to run 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 three inches from my face, 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 almost 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.

“Mistress!”  Snap.  My eyes roll back in my head.  “Please, it’s too much!”  Snap.  Another moaning scream bursts from my lips.  “Stop!”  She ignores my disingenuous pleas for respite.  Snap, snap, snap.

Sweat pours down my face and body as I try to catch my breath.  Absently, I note 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 is sitting on her desk, one foot on her swivel chair, the other hanging off the side of the desk.  Her skirt is pulled up and her Ferrari red panties dangle from the ankle not resting on the chair.  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 cognizant 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.”  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 her 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 soft, blonde landing strip.  She shivers at my lips’ caress.

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, thoughtless.  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 between yourselves, 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 ambivalence, Gabi clarifies, “That was the good kind.  I’m glad you two see me that way.”

We’re silent for a few moments, then Beatrix speaks.  “Sarah and I are definitely in the honeymoon phase, and I think I can speak for both of us when I say that we don’t want you to feel like a third wheel.  I know you and Sarah are best mates, and I don’t want to hurt that friendship.  Please, let us know if you’re not getting enough Sarah time or are feeling left out.

“And, since you know about my ability and seem to be, well, enthused about it, I’d be happy to try some things out on you, if you have ideas that might be fun.”

Gabi’s face lifts at this.  “Oh, I do believe I do have some ideas,” she says enigmatically.  “But another time.  For now, I believe we have some Bros. that need Smashing.”  She tosses each of us a controller, we don our game faces, and then Kirby-vs-Peach-vs-Palutena it up.

I yawn and stretch.  “Alright, I need to get some rest.  Gabs,” I say, trying out the new nickname, “you cool if I walk Beatrix home?”

“‘Babs’?” she asks, giving me a weird look.

“What?  I said ‘Gabs,’ didn’t I?”  I’m a little confused.

“No, Baby,” Bea says, “you definitely said ‘Babs’.”

I flush suddenly.  “Uhh, Freudian slip after the bun buns incident, I bet.  ‘Gabs’, ‘bunny’ … ‘Babs’.”  “The bun buns incident,” my internal designation for the clothed-Gabi-turned-bunny-turned-naked-Gabi-in-my-lap event on Sunday, slips out before I can filter it.

“The ‘bun buns incident’?” Gabi gives me a suspicious look.

“I mean, from when you were a bunny.”

“Okay,” she says slowly.  “But that would be the ‘bun bun incident’—singular, right?”

My blush deepens.  “Err, yes.  Yes, I guess it would be.”

Silence.

She points at me abruptly as the lightbulb flicks on above her head.  “‘Buns’ as in my butt!  You perv!”  She cackles.  “Memorable, ain’t they?”

Bea flashes me a dire look.  “Uhh, no comment,” I say hastily.

The three of us giggle at my series of social missteps.  “But for real,” Bea says, both girls looking at me, “are they memorable?  They look memorable.”

After an appropriately lengthed hesitation, I say, “Can confirm.  Babs’s buns are memorable.”

We laugh again, Gabs with a look of unabashed pride, Bea with a look of … unreadable.

“Speaking of the bun buns incident,” Gabi says, “I can’t help but notice that when you transformed Sarah after dinner, her clothes transformed with her, yet my clothes did not.  Care to explain?”  She gives Bea a pointed look, but it’s clear that she’s teasing and, to my confusion, quite possibly flirting.

Beatrix flushes—Finally, it’s not me!—then asks a question I had not expected.  “When you gave me consent, were you thinking about consenting to change your clothes or just your body?”

I purse my lips.

“Oh!  Yeah, that must have been it,” Gabi says.  “I didn’t realize my imagination came into play like that.  Fascinatin’.”

We continue talking long enough that we forget what time it is.  At last, I look at the clock: five past midnight.  “Oh shit!  I gotta get you home, Bea.  I’ve got a 9am class tomorrow.”

“Oof.”  She gives me a sympathetic look.  “Me too, actually.  And it’s on the south side of campus.  Why did they have to place me in Nash when half my classes are on the south side and half are in the middle?”

“You can spend the night here,” Gabi offers, then fumbles.  “I mean, if that’s alright with you, Sarah.”

“I’ll never complain about an extra night spent with my girlfriend.  What do you say, Bea?”

“That–”

“Though I guess,” Gabi interrupts, “you’d have to go get your stuff either way, huh?  It wouldn’t really save you a trip.”

I give Gabi a knowing look she doesn’t see as Beatrix stares her, unblinkingly, dead in the eyes.  “Everything I need for class tomorrow is here.”  Bea’s backpack and a duffle bag appear at her feet.

Gabi jumps, then mutters, “Guess I’ll have to get used to that.”

Gabi and I turn toward our bunks.  “Our clothes are each replaced with what we consider our cutest set of pajamas.”  I know Bea only did this to screw with Gabi, and I can’t help but chuckle at her audacity.  I’m wearing my tight black, low-cut modal tank that hangs to my navel and matching loose modal shorts.  A glance at Bea finds her in an oversized button-down silk shirt and nothing else by the looks of it.

Gabi yelps at the sudden change and turns back to look at us.  She’s in quite the little getup: an emerald teddy, satin covering everything that absolutely needs covering, and sheer gossamer covering that what doesn’t.  Beneath the gown, her legs bear thin black thigh-highs fringed by half an inch of white faux snow fox fur.  The attire accentuates her curves in such a way as to leave her even sexier than plain, brazen nudity would.

I play a game of My Eyes are Up Here and, with effort, shift my focus up to her face.  I hadn’t known Gabi’s flawless milk-chocolatey skin could turn so red.  “That is so not cool, Bea!”  Her tone is slightly embarrassed, but insincere—below the surface, she hides a thrill.  “I didn’t give you my consent!”

Bea’s eyes twinkle.  “Mmm, no, you didn’t,” she says in her pitying tone that says I don’t actually care.  “But then, I wasn’t targeting you.  I was targeting your clothing, replacing it with your favorite … sure, we’ll call that gown ‘pajamas’.

“So who’s the lucky someone you had in mind when you bought those?” Beatrix asks salaciously.

“Th-That’s none of your business!” she stammers in a tone that seems just a little more flustered than I’d expect from a girl I know to be a shameless flirt.  Must be quite the guy, I muse.  By instinct, Gabs tries to cover herself up with her hands.  Then she freezes, thinks, and shrugs, dropping her arms.  “At least we know who has the best taste in lingerie,” she says haughtily, the sting of the remark spoiled somewhat by the stuck-out tongue that followed.

I cast no shade on Beatrix, but, in this case, I have to agree: Babs has the best taste in lingerie.