“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 a focus that defines the domain.”  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 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 looks somehow 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 scolding, 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 holds her tongue.

“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 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.  And she sticks the landing!

“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.

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 on 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 bedpost, 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?”

“Cunnilingus,” I say, unabashedly.  “Did I really just say that?”

“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 in history.

“Shh,” she hushes me.  Her tone is gentle but firm.  I quiet like a good 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 so tired.”  She stretches her arms and yawns.  “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, not that I can explain that rule any better.

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?” I say to her crotch.  “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 folds.

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 cleft, 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.  Mistress Beatrix’s lube coats my cheeks as I heedlessly press my face into her; the messy sensation adds to the mindless bliss mounting in both of us.

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 try to move my pinky into her.  She’s too tight for that, however, and our fingers move back to their original positions in unison.  Even three fingers is a bit snug.  The stretching sensation as my movements become increasingly hard and fast, is 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.

The spell breaks.  Mistress 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.

Bea tells us about the lands her parents owned in the UK and her upbringing there, and about her family’s horses.  Hers was black with white feet named Freddy after Freddy Mercury.  He would dance whenever she played Fat Bottom Girls.

“Can you turn me into a lesbian?” Gabi asks, a complete non sequitur.  Beatrix shoots me a look.  “I mean temporarily,” Gabi adds quickly, “just to see what it’s like.”

“No,” Bea says simply, almost as if she had been expecting the question.  Gabi looks crestfallen.

“Really?” I ask.  “What rule prevents your ability from doing that?”

Bea sighs.  “I can do it, but I won’t.”

Now Gabi looks confused and a little hurt.  “Oh.  Umm, why not?” she asks.

Bea collects her thoughts before speaking.  “It makes me uncomfortable.  Sexuality is fluid, yes, and some people would call it a preference, but it’s not a choice.  I won’t make it one, even with the person’s consent.  I feel like it dishonors queer people’s experiences.  Being queer is hard; no one chooses it, and it’s certainly not a holiday destination.”

Gabi looks pensive.  “So what’s the difference between turning me gay and giving Sarah a cis-femme body?”  Her question isn’t accusatory, exactly, but a little pointed alongside her earnest desire to understand.  I’m curious about this, too.  Was Bea only willing to help me so I’d agree to our arrangement?

“Sarah is already a woman,” Beatrix answers.  “I’m simply allowing her to more fully manifest her nature.  I’m not altering it, not really.  Her physical nature, yes, but not who she is.”

“That– that makes sense,” Gabi says, disappointed but not upset.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to offend you.  Either of you,” she says, turning to me.

Bea waves a dismissive hand.  “It’s alright.  You couldn’t have known.  Now let me ask you something.  Why do you want to be turned into a lesbian?”

“I’m curious!” Gabi says, perhaps a little too fervently.  “My moms are lesbians and you and Sarah are lesbians.  I guess I wanted to be able to step into your shoes for a bit.”

Beatrix doesn’t look convinced, and not just because I know how to read her facial expressions.  She fixes Gabi in her domineering gaze.  It’s not aggressive, per se, just expectant.  Bea believes Gabi hasn’t told her the whole truth, and she thinks that Gabi should continue speaking.  In fact, she has decided that Gabi will continue speaking.

“I–I,” Gabi stutters, clearly feeling intimidated by Beatrix’s expression—who wouldn’t be?  While I wouldn’t say Gabi has a domineering personality, not like Bea does, she is used to directing a conversation unchallenged.  She’s not used to confrontation by someone with a will more iron than her own.  “I’m curious,” she says at last.  “Not about what it’s like to be a lesbian.  I’m curious if I am one, or at least if I’m bi.  If you made me into a lesbian, I’d have an excuse to experiment.”

I’m baffled by her admission.  “Why would you, of all people, feel like you need an excuse?  You’re one of the most progressive and sex-positive people I know.  You have two moms for chri’sake.”

“Because I have two moms!” she says, throwing her hands up in frustration.  “Growing up, everyone—perfect strangers—gave me these ‘knowing’ looks, like having two moms will make me a lesbian by osmosis, like my fate is sealed.  I hate fulfilling stereotypes.  I’ve insisted that I’m straight to everyone, especially my moms, and now… now I feel boxed in.”

Bea’s expression softens.  I reach my hand across the table and Gabi takes it.  I give her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.  “You’re in college, babe.  Now is the time to experiment.  No one’s going to judge you.”

“I’ll judge me,” she whispers.  I know that feeling all too well.

“Yes, but it’s well established that you are a terrible judge of character.”  She looks up at me, skeptical.  “After all, you’ve befriended these two dummyheads.”  She giggles at that.

“Thanks, Sarah.  I–”  She pauses.  “You’re right.  Both of you.

“Sarah, how did you know you were gay?”

“I didn’t,” I say honestly.  “I still don’t.  It’s strange.  I was straight my whole life: I liked girls.  I came out as trans: I still like girls.  Nothing changed about the people I like, yet suddenly my sexual orientation had swapped.”

Gabi raises her eyebrows in comprehension with a small nod, then turns to Bea.  “What about you, if you don’t mind sharing?”

“For me, there was never really a question.  I’ve been exclusively attracted to girls my whole life.  When I finally came out, my parents said they’d known I was gay since I was four.  Sorry, I know that doesn’t help you.”

Gabi purses her lips and nods slightly.  “I’ve always liked guys—I still do.  What can I say?  I like d’em dicks,” she says flippantly.  Beatrix and I dramatically mime gagging in unison.  Gabi rolls her eyes.  “Whatever.  They turn me on, and mmh if they don’t hit the spot sometimes.

“I’ve always found girls hot, too.  Boobs turn me on nearly as much as dicks do.  I’ll even find myself staring at my own tits in the mirror sometimes.  I figured that didn’t ‘mean’ anything because I have always been into dudes, and dudes have always been into me.  If I have never been with a girl and have really never felt the need to be with one because guys practically line up for these sexy-ass hips, am I even bi?”

I burst out laughing, and Bea practically does a spit-take.

“What?” Gabi asks, unamused.

“‘aM i BiSeXuAl EnOuGh?’” I tease her.  “I thought you hated fulfilling stereotypes.”

She swats my hand with the one that’s not holding it.  “I’m serious, guys.”

“I know you are,” I say, trying to rein in my facial muscles.  “That’s what makes it funny.  Babe, you like guys and you like girls—or at least you find them attractive.  Have you ever wanted to sleep with girls?”  Gabi nods.  “Do you still want to sleep with girls?”  She nods again.  “Far be it from me to tell someone how to identify, but that sounds very bisexual to me.  Whether or not you have slept with girls is immaterial in my book.”  I look to Beatrix.

“Yep, couldn’t agree more,” Bea says.  “I hate to tell ya this, Gabs, but you’ve got the queer.”

A smile spreads across Gabi’s face as she rolls her eyes at us.  “Thanks, girls.  I–  This helped.”  We both nod to her.  Her tone turns seductive.  “So which of you fine ladies is going to enjoy these perfect lips of mine first?”

I snort, but to my surprise, I hear Bea say, “Sarah will.”

I look at her sharply, both shocked and confused.  “Excuse me?”

“C’mon, Pet, do it for science.  You know you want to.  There’s a ‘good girl’ in it for ya,” she says playfully.

I swallow, taken aback, then turn to Gabi.  “I mean absolutely no offense to you, Gabs—you do have some very fine lookin’ lips—but,” I turn back to Bea, “volunteering me like that is not okay with me, certainly not without asking first.”

Beatrix stares at me a second, then crumples, chagrined.  “I’m sorry, Sarah.  You’re right.  I– I just thought it would be hot.”

My eyebrows shoot up.  “You do?  You didn’t say it because you think Gabi has a crush on me?”

Now Gabi looks sharply at Beatrix.  “I do?” she asks.  “I mean, you do?”  I glance at Gabi who’s blushing furiously, then back at Beatrix.

Bea looks beaten.  “I–  Yes, alright?  Gabi, since the ‘bun buns incident’, and actually since you asked to twist her nipple an hour before that, I’ve suspected you have a crush on Sarah.  I could be, and probably am, completely wrong about that.  I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, especially if I made a bad assumption.”

She turns to look at me.  “And yes, I think sharing you with another smokin’ hot girlie would be hot.  But you’re right; it’s not something we discussed, and I should have asked.  I am really sorry.  Forgive me?”

I smile at her.  “Of course I do, Love.”  Beatrix smiles back.

As the moment cools off a bit, it gives me a chance to think.  I turn to Gabi.  Her cheeks are still beet red, and her face bears a confused mixture of relief, shyness, and disappointment—not an expression common to the usually bubbly, self-confident girl I know.  She is my best friend, I think.  But no, she’s my best friend!  But, well, she’s my best friend.

I look at Gabi.  “So, what of it?  Still want to kiss?  For science?”

“Wait, really?”  She mouths wordlessly a few seconds, maintaining eye contact.  “I–  Yes!  If you’re sure.”

I look at Beatrix.  “I’d ask if you’re certain you’re alright with this, but your expression says enough.”

Lust and embarrassment war across Bea’s face; lust wins out.  “Umm, well.  Yeah.”  She pastes on a sheepish grin, but her eyes tell a different story.

I turn back to Gabi.  “Not here, though,” she says.  “Back in our room?”

We put our trays away, and head back to the stack.  Gabi’s nervous, Bea is turned on, and I … well, I don’t really know how I feel about this.  I do know I want to help Gabi figure out who she is, and as long as Bea isn’t jealous, why not?  I get to kiss yet another of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and turn my girlfriend on in the process.  The question is, will I be able to fake enough passion for the kiss to give Gabi good data about whether she’s bi or not.

Yes, that’s the relevant question here, Sarah Prime says sarcastically.  What’s that supposed to mean?  This is only for science.  Gabi knows that and I know that and Bea … is a physics major and gets turned on by science!  I shrug off Miss Prime’s bad attitude.

I am, I notice, a little nervous about the impending kiss, more about getting it right than about any relationship consequences, though.  Gabi and I are strong but shallow friends.  That’s just the nature of our friendship.  I don’t see that changing after one kiss that doesn’t even mean anything.

The three of us enter the room and Gabi shuts the door.  Standing in the middle of the room, I turn toward her.  “I guess I’ll just let you take th–”  Gabi’s lips are on mine, her hands on my face, holding me to her.  I’m startled at first, but quickly melt into kissing back.  This is not the tentative press of lips I had been expecting.  By all appearances, Gabi wants to give it her all to really make the experiment valid.  I reciprocate.  For science.  Really.

I’ll say this for her: Gabi is a fantastic kisser.  Her lips are warm and soft, neither damp nor dry, and they taste slightly of the orange soda she had with lunch mixed with … goodness?  I feel the comforting touch of her nose against my cheek as her tongue teases my lips.  Her tongue is—my stomach lurches—particularly skilled.  The sensation as a whole is indescribable, and when we at last pull apart, I’m giddy and lightheaded.

My first thought is to look for Bea’s reaction.  Her jaw has dropped.  “Beatrix?” I ask.

“That was … so hot,” she says, her wide eyes still fixed on the spot our lips had met rather than on either one of our faces.

“So,” Gabi asks her, “you’re not mad about things getting a little, er, enthusiastic?”

Bea shakes her head dumbly.

“And what about you, Sarah?  Was that okay or did I go too far?”

Had she?  I’m having trouble thinking.  I’m having trouble feeling.  “I … enjoyed it.  You are a great kisser, Gabi.”

My tone and expression must convey more of the truth than my words, because she beams at me, then turns back to Beatrix.  “Thanks for letting me borrow your girlfriend.  I think that’s something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”

“I-It is?” I stammer.  My brain is still rebooting.

Gabi blushes, then says meekly, “Yes.  Beatrix is right.  I have been crushing on you.”

The room starts spinning.  Dammit Windows; just because my brain is rebooting does not mean this is a good time to update.  I regain some of my mental composure and process her statement: she’s been crushing on me.  So I guess this wasn’t for science?  “Did you figure out whether you’re bi or not?”  I ask, avoiding the bigger question—the one I now realize is what Sarah Prime had meant.

She grins impishly.  “Yes, hon, I am most definitely bisexual.”

“What–” I struggle to get the question out.  “What does that mean for us?  You’ve got a crush on me, but I’m with Beatrix and I’ve only ever thought of you as a friend.”  The kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach might take issue with that statement.  “I really don’t want things to be awkward living together.”

“Don’t worry, silly girl.  They won’t be.  I know you’re with Beatrix and I am glad that you are.  You two are great together, and I was sincere when I said on Tuesday that I never want to come between you two.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I want besides that.  What do you two want?”

Before I can think of an answer, Bea gives one.  “I want to kiss you.”  What?  “If… if you don’t mind sharing, Sarah.”

“I….”  Do I?  “I don’t think I do mind, actually.”  It’s a strange realization.  I’m not jealous.  I should be jealous, I think, but I’m not.

“Do you want to kiss me, Gabs?” Bea asks.

“Darlin’, I thought you’d never ask.”

And in an instant I know why Bea’s jaw was on the floor after my kiss with Gabi.  Theirs is the hottest kiss I’ve ever seen.  Bea’s and my bodies seem made to fit together, but damn if Gabi’s isn’t a close second as they pull each other close while their lips press harder together.  Why am I not jealous? I wonder.  Why am I, in fact, happy about this?

They detach from each other, and Bea immediately looks to my face, like I had done after my kiss.  I imagine my expression looks very similar to how hers had.  “That– wow.”

“So, you’re not jealous?  Be honest with me, please.”  Bea didn’t mean to compel me to honesty with that trigger word, but I was compelled nonetheless.  It didn’t matter though; my answer would have been the same.

“No.  For some reason, I’m really not.  This–  I–  I don’t want to assu–”  I take a beat.  “I don’t know what we are, but this, the three of us right here, this feels right to me.  This feels like home.”

Both girls, facing me, light up at the same time.  Pure smiles.  Not lusty, not lecherous, not impish.  Wholesome, Good smiles.

“Gabi, you’ve been my home away from home the last year and a half,” I say.  “Living with you has been as easy and natural as living alone.  More so, actually.”  The words are pouring out of me, uncharacteristically forthright.  Maybe it’s the lingering compulsion to be honest.  Maybe it’s my soul pouncing on this thing I’ve always needed.  It doesn’t matter; I need to say it.

“And Bea, being with you has been the first real Home I have ever felt.  I love you so much.

“But the three of us together….  I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but if you two feel it, too, I think maybe we should”—I gesture inarticulately—“see if we can be a home together?”

They look at each other, then, and suddenly realize they’d each still had an arm around the other when they turned to face me—Bea’s arm around Gabi’s shoulder, Gabi’s around Bea’s waist.  They both smile girlishly at each other, and after a moment of telepathy, bend forward for another deep kiss.