“I can stop your period and prevent you from having more with my ability,” Bea says at lunch on Wednesday after my chem lab.

“I appreciate that,” I say, “and I may take you up on the offer in the future, but for now, this is a woman’s rite of passage.  As unpleasant and unfortunately disruptive as this period is, I want to experience it.  It’s like how I like shaving my legs.”

She nods.  “Makes sense.  I guess this means no sex for tomorrow’s date then?  I’ll have to make new plans.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s alright.  This is part of being a woman.”  She smiles warmly at me.

After a moment, I say, “Come to think of it, shouldn’t you have had your period by now?  We’ve been dating for a month.”

“My IUD prevents them, though, if it didn’t, I’d probably prevent them with my ability,” she admits.  “I have endometriosis, so my periods are really painful.”

I nod.  “I’m sorry to hear that, but glad you have a solution.

“So what were your plans for tomorrow before my—as Gabi put it—red alert?”

“Nuh uh uh,” she chides, waving a finger back and forth.  “I will still use these later.  No spoilers, silly girl.”

I pout.

The cafeteria is fairly quiet this late in the lunch hour.  Hours.  Whatever.

“I love you,” I tell her.

She looks up at me.  “I love you, too.  Is everything okay?”

“Yep!  I just have a hard time not speaking when that thought enters my mind.”  She smiles at me.  “That thought pops up quite a lot, so you should be impressed that I hold it in so often!”

“Sarah will never suppress saying, ‘I love you,’ when she thinks it.”  I feel a warm sensation settle in my mind.

“Uhh, I know you mean well, but I’m going to end up saying that a hundred times a day, most of which won’t be near you.  I’d rather not blurt out ‘I love you’ in the middle of my data structures class.”  Then, compelled, I blurt out, “I love you.”  Small though the compulsion is, it turns me on.

“Oh, boo,” she says, sticking out her bottom lip.  I know she’s going for pouty, but I just want to kiss it.  She undoes the trigger, then after a moment’s thought, says, “I could just make it whenever I’m in earshot.”

“Only if you want me to interrupt movies and concerts,” I tease.

“Concerts, hmm?” she muses.  She appears lost in thought, and when she doesn’t say anything more, I let the matter drop.

“I love you,” I repeat, this time of my own accord.

She smiles.  “I love you, too, Sarah.”

As Linear Algebra gets out, my phone buzzes.  Beatrix wants some help with her ability, but…

… I can’t remember any details, and apparently I’ve deleted the text messages we’ve exchanged on my way from Bond to FX.  I suspect that means I’m in for a treat tomorrow.

I enter my room and shut the door.  Gabi’s playing Mario Party.  I clear my throat and she looks at me.  Then I begin to dance.  I don’t know how to dance, but that doesn’t stop me.  What I do know, however, is that I’m making a fool of myself.  Gabi’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but her gaze doesn’t waver as she watches my thirty second uncoordinated performance.

I pull out my phone and text Beatrix, who warps to Gabi’s bed a moment later.  Characteristically, Gabi shrieks at her sudden appearance.  “So, Gabi,” Bea asks, “has Sarah done anything embarrassing lately?”

“Hmm?” Gabi asks.  “No, I don’t think so.”

“Hey!” I protest.  “Why would you assume that was embarrassing?”

“Really?” Bea asks, addressing Gabi and completely ignoring my outburst.  I stick out my tongue.  Clearly Beatrix was the reason I spontaneously busted a move, emphasis on busted.  I am surprised Gabi didn’t mention it though.  “I could have sworn that would have worked,” Bea murmurs with an amused twinkle in her eye.

“I…” Gabi says, “I really can’t say what, but yes, she did.”

“Interesting.  Do me a favor and try your hardest to tell me what it was.  Sarah and I are testing my ability.”  We are?

“Sarah d–”  Gabi tries to spit out the word “danced” but stutters and chokes on the word.  “D-d-d-d–”  While her mouth continues to move, her voice goes silent.  She seems shocked by the change, and I swear her expression tinges aroused as she tries her best to produce even the hint of a sound.

Beatrix sighs in relief.  “Gabi is released from the dance license agreement.”

“Danced!” Gabi shouts victoriously.  “Sarah danced and it was so bad!”  She accompanies this victory with a seated bouncing dance of her own.  I’m momentarily hypnotized by the up-and-down jiggle of her tits.  I glance at Bea and notice she is similarly entranced.

Regaining control of her faculties, Beatrix says, “And now I must return to finish planning our date. See you in an hour, Gabi.  Ta!  I am now in my room.”

That evening, Gabi and Beatrix saunter into our dorm room after their date.

“You ladies look like you had fun,” I say.

“Mmhmm,” Gabi says, pleased as peach pie.

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun,” Bea says.  She sits down on Gabi’s bunk and winces.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Yes, just sore.  Tonight was my first time ice skating.”

“Ahh,” I say.  “Fell down a lot, did you?”

“Yes.  And Gabi forbade me from using my ability to keep me upright.  I was too proud to use one of the training walkers some of the kids were using.”

Gabi looks amused.  “Falling on your ass is an ice skating rite of passage,” Gabi says primly.

“I’ll rite your passage,” Bea says with a huff.  “Mario Party.  Now.”

“Ah Mario Party, notorious method for ending friendships: a Valentine’s Day classic,” I tease.  I am about to ask why they hadn’t gone back to Bea’s room for sexy times, but stop as the obvious reason occurs to me.  “So, too sore for sex, eh?”

Bea sticks her tongue out at me—in the refined, stern manner of a dominatrix, of course—then tosses me a controller.  I chuckle to myself at my beautiful goofball.

“Can’t you use your ability to heal yourself?” I ask, curious.

“I’ve had mixed results with healing.  I think it’s because I don’t have the medical background, and don’t have a clear enough understanding of what needs to occur.  Plus, since I’d be applying it to myself, I wouldn’t have the non-harm consent safeguard I’d have if trying to heal someone else.  There’s a high probability I’d end up doing more damage than healing.  Better to use conventional painkillers.”

I nod, though something feels a little off about her explanation—it’s more data to chew on regarding the inner workings of her ability.  I return my thoughts to the conversation.  “I guess none of us are having sex this Valentine’s Day.

“But you had fun?” I ask again.

“I did,” Bea says.

“Good.  That’s all that matters,” I say.  “That and that you didn’t break anything.”

“I’ll break your anything,” she retorts.  I arch an eyebrow.  “Hmm.  Doesn’t quite work as well as ‘riting Gabi’s passage,’ does it?”

I smirk with a slight shake of my head.

Bea proceeds to rite Gabi’s passage and break my anything over the course of thirty Mario Party minigames.

Sarah
How should I dress for our date?

Bea 🦹🏼‍♀️
Whatever’s comfortable 😈

Sarah
What’s with the 😈?

Bea 🦹🏼‍♀️
😈

I guess that’s all I’m getting out of her, I think.

Sarah
See you at 4:20!  ❤️

Bea 🦹🏼‍♀️
Don’t be late, Pet!

Sarah
Oh please.  When have I ever been late?

Bea 🦹🏼‍♀️
*Eyeroll* Brat

Sarah
You do know there’s an eyeroll emoji, right?  🙄

Bea 🦹🏼‍♀️
Yes.  My question is why isn’t there a whip emoji?

Sarah
😳

I put away my phone, and apply some basic makeup: foundation, clumsy mascara, and redder-than-my-usual lipstick.  I’m once again so grateful that my facial hair has been permanently removed, and I no longer need to slather my previously impervious creeper stache with concealer. Then again, I might as well hide that zit.

With no direction to go off of, I don’t see much of a reason to change out of my casual clothes—a gray tee with an untied lace-up neckline and laundry-faded black shorts over black yoga pants; any change I make is liable to be a worse choice.

A half hour of scrolling through the cats of Instagram later, I don my white, poofy winter jacket and leave the dorm room for CF104.

And wouldn’t you know it, despite my best efforts I enter the building at 4:20:15.  Beatrix locks eyes with me, and I feel a phantom belt whip across my butt.  I manage to just barely contain my cry of pain, but my eyes water and my knees threaten to buckle.  Fifteen seconds warrants a lash more painful than any punishment she’s ever given me, and I suspect it left my cheeks bright red if it didn’t leave a pair of welts.  Oddly, I see Beatrix react to pain, too, though she contains it better with barely more than a look of surprise.

And then I feel hands rubbing my cheeks, simultaneously soothing and exacerbating the pain of the lash.  They pull me toward her, and my wobbly legs have to race to stay standing.  She walks forward to meet me halfway.

“You’re late,” she purrs as she wraps her arms behind my neck.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”  It comes out louder than the whisper I had intended, and a nearby student glances toward us.  Her face is unreadable, so I don’t know if she overheard or not.  Either way, I’m embarrassed.  And turned on, as evidenced by the swelling and pleasant burn I feel between my legs.  I notice absently that I can’t tell if I’m “getting wet” because the sensation of my period is an order of magnitude stronger.  Ah yes, the quintessential romantic Valentine’s Day thoughts: blood and analysis.  Well done, Brain of Sarah.

We kiss, then hold hands as we walk to her dorm room.  I feel my body shrink and feminize gradually over the duration of the walk, slow enough that no one would notice.  Since it’s new to me and thus of immediate interest, I describe my first menstr–  Nope! I think.  Not thinking that word on Valentine’s Day (observed).  …my first time of month.  Beatrix patiently listens as if she hasn’t had the same experience dozens of times.

“Sorry for, er, mansplaining,” I say sheepishly.

“You weren’t mansplaining,” Bea says.  “True, I didn’t ask for an explanation and I obviously have had my own periods, but you weren’t so much explaining a concept I know well as describing your own experience.  It’s on your mind—and for good reason—and I like when you speak your mind.  There was no condescension or assumption, just academic, nerdy enthusiasm for something new.”  I nod, mostly persuaded that I’m not being an asshat.

“Was that belt lash too hard?” she asks, changing the subject.

“It hurt more than I like, but clearly not more than some deep part of me likes,” I say.  “I prefer being punished with pleasure or compulsion than with pain.  Sometimes pain can be pleasurable, but I think I enjoy discomfort much more than actual pain.  Like, right now, sitting will hurt; it will be uncomfortable.  That reminder, although painful, turns me on because it’s a reminder that I belong to you, that I’m worth disciplining.”

“‘Worth disciplining’?” she asks curiously.  “What do you mean by that?”

I pause, marshaling the vulnerability to explain the origin of this kink.  “Growing up, I didn’t know how to relate to other people, especially girls.  I couldn’t figure out how to get them to like me, could never say the right thing.  And I needed them to like me.  I was one of them, but didn’t know how to behave like them and definitely didn’t know how to tell them I was a girl.  Heck, I hadn’t even figured out I was a girl.  As a result, I was frequently called creepy.  ‘Creepy’ became a traumatic trigger word for me, full of shame, and while I am working on unlearning it, a large part of me still believes it’s true, both because I’ve been called it dozens of times by half-a-dozen people and because I learned from my parents that transgender people—especially transgender women—are creepy and perverted.

“So, rather than learning how to be likable, I learned how to be useful.  People tolerate and sometimes include me if I’m helpful, and so I learned to equate utility with affection.  Many of my fantasies grew from that seed.  Not all, mind you,” I quickly amend.  “I had control fantasies long before any real trauma.  As far back as I can remember, actually.

“Anyway, to be controlled, to be trained or disciplined is to be useful and desirable enough to be worth someone’s time.  I don’t so much enjoy being useful or helpful—no more than I suspect most people do—as I enjoy being required to be used.  Someone being useful can still be annoying.  I’ve proven that a time or two.  However, someone being used has been chosen.  Someone being used for pleasure, then, must be desirable.  Someone worth disciplining over a long period, of turning into a better tool-slash-pet, in and out of the bedroom, must be loved.

“Your ability is a perfect fit for me, perfect symbiosis.  You use me for your pleasure which gives me pleasure and a sense of worth, and out of that use, you strengthen your ability.”

She stops walking abruptly so I stop and turn to face her.  Her eyes are glistening, her expression a mixture of pity, pain, compassion, and … and anger.  “It’s not a big de–”  She interrupts me with a tight bear hug, and, having now shrunken to her own height, I feel a tear drop from her face and run down my own cheek.

“You are not creepy, Sarah Delphino,” she says firmly.  A dozen objections immediately spring to mind, but are silenced by the conviction in her voice.  “You are lovely and worthy and precious.  I adore you.  I’d adore you whether you were useful to me or not.  I am so sorry—so angry—that people mistreated you and taught you such ugly lies about yourself.”  Her tone has turned pained, almost pleading; she needs me to believe her.  “You are an incredible, beautiful woman.  I love you and you mean more to me than you can ever know.”

The moment she finishes speaking, my own dam breaks and I cry with her.  “Th-thank you, Beatrix.  That m-means everything to me.  I love you, too.”  I pull back and kiss her deeply, uncaring of the discomfort it might cause passersby.  This isn’t a horny kiss inflamed by passion.  This is a kiss filled with gratitude, fueled by the absolute, palpable need to be as close to this heretofore unexperienced source of love, comfort, and acceptance as possible.  Closer than that.  With this kiss, our souls touch, mingle, and, for a moment, become one.

When we at last pull apart, something has changed.  Something in the air, something in me, something in our relationship…. I’m not sure what.  But something fundamental.  It’s both a small thing and a huge thing at once.  An inflection point in the polynomial of my personal history.

“Thank y-o-u,” Beatrix says, circumventing the trigger phrase, “for telling me.  I know that took courage.”

“It wa– It was nothing,” I say, my attempted deflection betrayed by my choked voice.  She smiles and leaves it at that.

We turn and walk hand-in-hand in comfortable silence the rest of the way from the Engineering Technology building past the fountain in Red Square and on to Nash Hall.

As soon as I shut Beatrix’s dorm room door behind us, my clothes change in a wave from my feet to my head.  The gradual (as in “gradient”) but swift change feels magical like Cinderella, and again I feel that pleasant burning sensation betwixt my legs.  I find myself in a slinky red dress with a low neckline and a slit up my right leg ending a mere inch below my panties.  The fit is remarkable as if it had been tailored to hug my curves.  It presses my breasts together to effect considerable cleavage.  In place of my leather collar, I’m wearing a ruby lariat necklace, gemstone nestled between my breasts.  The standing mirror Bea had prepared reveals my hair is done up in two small braids starting at my temples tying an intricate bun, my sideburns in delicate curls.  My face feels slightly weightier: my professionally applied makeup matches my new attire.  I wobble a little as I take my next step and look down.  I’m in two-inch shiny black heels with rounded toes.  I have never felt sexier in my life.

I look at Beatrix and my jaw drops.  I barely recognize her.  Her blonde hair has been shortened and dyed to an adorable black pixie cut.  Her eyebrows have been trimmed to be starker, more controlling.  Her lipstick is a deep maroon.  Instead of a dress, she’s in a black tailored feminine suit with a black necktie against a black dress shirt.  Until now, I never thought I’d ever find hair as sexy as Beatrix’s characteristic high ponytail, but this pixie cut matches it; my mouth waters and I have to close it to prevent myself from drooling.

“I’ll take that look to mean you find this style attractive,” she says, amused.

“I….”

“You what?” she asks with a teasing lilt.

“What?” I ask, trying to remember, well, anything.

“Silly girl.”  She smiles.  “You ready for dinner?”

Beatrix teleports us to an uninhabited alley in Seattle Center.  “I hope you don’t mind playing tourist for a bit,” she says as we walk.  “I made reservations at the Space Needle.”  Anyone from Washington knows that the Space Needle restaurant, Loupe Lounge, is overpriced for the quality of its food, but the view is romantic.

“Sounds fun.  I’ve been to the top a few times, but never to the restaurant, and have always thought it was something I ought to experience at least once.”  She squeezes my hand, and we get in line for the elevator.

Two other couples share our elevator on the way up, but Beatrix and I might as well be alone as we stand, looking out at the Seattle waterfront and partial skyline.  She stands behind me, arms wrapped comfortably around my belly, her cheek pressed to mine.  Her right hand finds the slit of my dress and she teases me with a finger running up the inside of my leg.  I suck in a quiet breath, and lean back into her embrace.  Her fragrance is intoxicating and despite the view outside, I close my eyes content to breathe her in.

The host seats us and a server asks if we’d like anything to drink while we look at the menu.  He addresses me first, but Beatrix interrupts.

“We’re actually ready to order.  I’ll have the salmon and a lemonade.  The lady will have a steak, medium, a side salad with honey mustard in place of the potatoes, and a virgin strawberry daiquiri.”

He glances at me and gives me a second to object, but when I give him the slightest of nods, he says, “Very good, ma’am,” and wanders off.

I stare at Beatrix, feeling hot, feeling controlled, helpless by the simple act of choosing my dinner.  She looks at me in that domineering way she has, enhanced by her pixie cut, and I melt further; at this point, I’m unsure how I haven’t pooled into a puddle on the floor.

“Yes, Pet?” she asks.

“I… I’ve never had someone order for me.  That was hot.”

“Good,” she says with a placid tone that doesn’t match the twinkle of pride in her eyes.

“Did I tell you what I would want and forget that I did?”

“No.  I just pay attention, read the menu ahead of time, and took a chance.  How did I do?”

“Spot on,” I say, grinning.  “It’s been ages since I’ve had a good steak.  Though,” I add consideringly, “if they had a tuna melt….”

Beatrix chuckles with a wide, affectionate, closed-mouth smile and shakes her head.  God, I love her.

As the floor of the restaurant slowly spins, we talk of small things: childhood anecdotes, elementary school crushes, county fairs, and the like.

“You’ve lived in Bear Creek since the start of high school and never been to Wild Waves?” I ask, shocked that she has never visited the only major waterpark in the area.

“Nope.  Is it fun?”

“As good as any waterpark, I suppose.  I’ve only been to two, to be honest, though I’ve heard it’s not nearly as fun as the one in Coeur d’Alene.

“Wild Waves has a ride called Konga Lazy River,” I continue, “where you get an inner tube and float down a slow moving water slide—a ‘lazy river’, if you will.”  Bea rolls her eyes affectionately.  “It has multiple ‘lakes’ where you can get stuck, bumping into other people.  You often get bumped around each lake a few times before you get to the slide down to the next lake.  It’s a relaxing ride.”  I smile at the memory.  “One year, Ty and I rode it probably five times, racing each other to the bottom, completely at odds with the intended purpose.  We were pretty fast by the end, getting through each lake in half a lap each.”

“Maybe this summer we’ll have to go together.”

“I know waterparks are geared toward kids, but honestly, I’d love that.  I bet Gabi would like to join us, too, if that’s okay with you.”

We’re interrupted as our meals arrive.  The steak is better than I was anticipating given the restaurant’s reputation.  “How’s your salmon?” I ask.

“Eh, I’ve had better, but I’ve also had much worse.  The company more than makes up for it though.”  I’m touched by the compliment, simple and clichéd though it is.

We eat in relative silence, playing footsie like flirty teenagers needing constant physical contact.  Kicking off a shoe, she slides a foot up my leg through the slit of my dress, and surreptitiously presses a toe to my panties.  Her face betrays nothing, and I try to follow suit, eating calmly as if bolts of pleasure aren’t zipping up my spine, as if my mind isn’t breaking.  Ultimately, I fail and emit a soft moan eliciting a devious grin from my date.  I whimper knowing the treatment would have lasted until I failed, knowing I had no chance.

“Oh, Pet,” she chides.  “I thought you had more endurance than that.  I’ll have to punish you, now.”

Pleasure pulses from the ruby against my chest, causing me to stiffen.  It’s pure torture.  Wondrous torture.  Beatrix stiffens slightly, too, as if the pleasure she derives from my self-induced orgasm denial is being transformed to physical sensation.

After five minutes of punishment, the stimulation subsides.  I’ve managed to keep my squirming and noises in check.  “Good girl,” Mistress says quietly in her training voice.

My heart leaps at the praise.  “Thank you, Mistress.”

Beatrix ports us a ten-minute walk from Benaroya Hall.  On the way, she tells me that we’re attending The Princess Bride in Concert.  That, alone, sounds like a great time, but it sets my mind to guessing what additional fun she might have in store for me.

Still unaccustomed to heels, not to mention my as of yet unfamiliar hip-swinging gait, I have to lean on her for support.  I suspect half the reason she put me in heels was to make me depend on her, to make me acknowledge that I am hers.  A crack in the cement sidewalk catches my heel causing me to trip; Beatrix catches me immediately, like she was expecting it.  It’s a silly thing to find attractive, but my heart leaps at her attentiveness, at the sturdiness of her support.

Upon arriving, Beatrix Speaks under her breath, “Our tickets are in my hand,” sparing us the line at the box office.  We check our coats, drink some complimentary lemon water, and enter the theater proper.  She leads me to our seats.  They must have been expensive considering their location on the ground floor.  We chat amiably while leaning against each other until the lights dim, the curtains draw apart, and the first chair violinist walks in from the wings to take her seat to the audience’s applause.

Beatrix turns her head to whisper, “Don’t come,” in my ear.  Crap.

The violinist plays an A.  Pleasure shoots through my vagina, and I bend forward at the shock of it.  Beside me, Beatrix tenses.  I hear a voice in my head say, “By watching the squirming girl, you agree never to tell anyone what you’ve seen.”  A license agreement?  This must be what Beatrix was testing with Gabi yesterday.  I test out its effect, attempting to say, “I see you squirming.”  I open my mouth but no sound whatsoever comes out.  My tongue feels paralyzed in my mouth.  Cool.

The rest of the ensemble does a final tuning to the violinist’s note before the show begins.  My whole body tingles with a mild buzz, every part of me stimulated by phantom pleasure.  Beatrix must have applied the same treatment to herself for she begins to squirm slightly.

One note in—not even that of a musical piece—and I’ve figured out her game.  Each instrument corresponds to a different part of my body.  The next ninety minutes are going to be excruciating.

The flutes begin.  I feel my fingers being sucked slowly, intimately.  I even feel imaginary warm saliva coating them.  Clarinets fade in and I feel warm breath in my ear accompanied by mind-melting pleasure.  Then the strings and my vagina begins to thrum.  A guitar plucks its notes.  My spine tingles with verberating pleasure, the higher the note, the faster the verberation.  So that’s part two.  I predict that the louder the sound, the stronger the sensation will be.  This is just the quiet intro and already I feel the urge to moan.  I’m not looking forward to the music picking up, by which I mean, I most definitely am.

I’m nervous though.  Sure, people watching us will have that license, but that won’t stop them from being frustrated when I arch my back and shake the row of seats.  It won’t stop ushers from removing us from the premises.  Surely, Beatrix must have accounted for that somehow.  Regardless, I intend to hold in my impulses as best I can.

Three minutes in, the drums tap out a quiet beat.  Each tap is a kiss on my breasts which begin to heave, pressing into the imaginary lips.  The music shifts into the next number.  The harp literally plucks at my heart strings.  The music is soft, switching between major and minor chords, eliciting an odd sense of pushing and pulling, respectively, in the stimulation.  It picks up in volume and, as I had predicted, the intensity of the pleasure increases.  A glance at Beatrix reveals she’s starting to struggle to keep her motions in check.

The next number.  A fiddle soloist plays a lively jig louder than any of the music so far.  My clit responds in kind, changing rapidly in vibrational frequency.  I can’t help it; each note forces me to squirm.  My eyes pull back.  I begin to moan.  Beatrix’s arm bumps into me as she squirms.  Tambourines send jolts up my legs to a steady beat.  They twitch with each rattling tchink, tchink, tchink.

Buttercup rides a horse on the giant projection screen above the orchestra.  This is the first piece with a complex interweaving of instruments.  My body rejoices as each part responds to stimulation from dozens of sources, all at their own vibration and strength.  Overcome, I belt out my first moan.  To my surprise and relief, I don’t make a sound.  Being muted adds to my submissive arousal.

Beside me, Beatrix utters a soft moan, one I can hear.  Though no one else around us appears to have heard it, she startles, and quickly whispers, “I can make no sounds for the duration of the symphony.”

The orchestra plays on, and with it, my pleasure, as more and more instruments join in for the first time since tuning.  Midway through the Cliffs of Insanity, it’s too much and I surrender to the overwhelming flood of sensation.  Even as my back arches and I white out, the music keeps playing increasing the mounting pleasure despite the climactic release.  My orgasm rolls on for what seems like eternity.  When I come to, I absently note that my hand is between my legs, and I bless Beatrix for putting the slit in my dress.

A sustained high note as Westley and Inigo cross swords.  My vagina and clit crescendo in pleasure and I spit out a silent scream, another orgasm accompanied by Beatrix’s first.  I’m dizzy from pleasure as the strings play an eerie melody of even higher notes in quick succession.  French horns: my shoulders.  Pounds on the bass drum induce blasts of pleasure in my core.  A sustained tremolo—violins running their bows back and forth very quickly using only their wrists—quickly builds tension but painfully does not tip me over the edge.  Then trumpets.  That does it.  My whole body shakes, screaming out in ecstasy.  The music intensifies allowing me no relief.  Wave after wave, an orgasmic torrent.  I’m sweating, squirming, straining against my girlfriend who’s faring no better.

At last, intermission.  It takes me several seconds to come to my senses, still breathing heavily.  Miraculously, none of our neighbors seem to have taken the slightest notice of our raucous movements.  I turn to Beatrix and ask, “I assume you somehow made our movements invisible to everyone?”

She mouths, “Yes,” then bolts upright.  She tries speaking again, but no sounds come out.  I laugh as realization dawns on both of us: she had said she can make no sounds until the symphony ends.  Presumably, when she prepared this scenario, she only muted my ecstatic sounds.  Since the effect didn’t seem to apply to her, she had to quickly mute herself after her first moan and wasn’t thinking clearly enough to be specific in her wording on top of which, her flustered state must have jumbled her intent.

“Aww, cat got your tongue, Mistress?” I tease, laying it on thick.  She whacks my arm with her hand.  “Silly, helpless, mute girl.”  I hear the otherworldly resonance that accompanies her Speech, but she can’t say the words that would release her from her self-inflicted bonds.  The resonance fades and frustration floods her face accompanied by a furious blush.  Her helpless, embarrassed expression excites me.  “I have to admit, I’m enjoying seeing you restrained.  You’re lucky you cut me off from using your ability or I might just start to abuse that power.  Could silence you whenev–”

I cut off as a gigantic blast of pleasure erupts from the ruby on my chest.  I double over as I instantly come hard.  Mercifully, I make no sound, prevented by whatever spell muted me during the music.  An hour or two pass in white out.  When I can again see, Beatrix’s posture and expression exude smugness.  Evidently, just because she can’t speak doesn’t mean she’s powerless.  “Sorry, Mistress.  Please don’t punish me,” I beg.

She seems to consider my plea’s sincerity, and just when I think she’s decided to show mercy, another blast hits me, just as strong as before but sustained for longer.  I scream and flail, my eyes shut tight.  I feel her hand on my shoulder, and sense that otherworldly resonance again.  Then I feel her other hand between my legs, pressing painfully into me.  She rips off my panties, apparently risking the chance of blood.  Her thumb massages my clit and she kisses me hard on the lips, almost painfully; she has decided to extract her pleasure from my body with no care for how I feel: she uses me.  My eyes flick open briefly and find I’m in her room on her bed.  More resonance.

“Submit,” she commands, as she twists my nipple with the hand not toying with my clit.

“I submit!” I shout quickly.  “I submit!”

“You submit, what?”  Her voice is stern, and what little resolve I had left is obliterated.

“I submit to you, Mistress.”

“Good girl.  Now eat me out.”  Her clothes vanish.  I’m violently pulled by my necklace into her crotch, where I obediently lick her to fulfillment.  Given the pent up tension from the concert, it doesn’t take long.

She waits for our breathing to normalize.

“What– what just happened?” I ask.  “How did we get here?”

“I remembered that I can Speak without talking when an effect applies only to myself.  When I tried it the first time, I was in such a wrecked state that I couldn’t concentrate well enough, so it didn’t work.  Your insubordinate mocking, however, made things… clearer.

“Since my clothes transfer with me when I teleport silently, I reasoned that maybe if I was touching you I could transport you too.  It seems I was right.”  Is that the reason? I wonder absently.  “Then I dispelled the mute effect on myself silently.

“You,” Mistress says, “were awfully naughty, you know.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I say submissively.

“We’re not done with the consequences.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I repeat, feeling simultaneously defeated and excited.  It’s an odd combination.

“Are you ready to go back?”

“Yes, but are we okay?  Did I go too far?”

Her demeanor softens and she smiles brightly.  “Not at all!  That was hot.  I love when my little brat acts out.”  She pats me affectionately on the head.  I squirm happily under her touch, raising my shoulders to my ears as a child—or a dog—might.

“It seems your ability is evolving,” I say.

“Yes.”  She furrows her eyebrows.  “I don’t think I would have been able to teleport you silently a month ago.  Nor would I have been able to leave illusions in our seats silently.  I don’t know why, but it makes me kind of nervous.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know.  It just feels like things are getting out of hand, somehow?  I don’t want to be a god.”

“You’ll always be my goddess,” I tease.  She smiles.  “I trust you.  I know you, know your heart.  Even if your ability weren’t constrained by laws of consent, I’d trust you not to abuse your power.  I don’t think you’d be tempted to the Dark Side.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs unconvinced.  “I… I appreciate that.”  After a pause, she straightens.  “Alright, ready to go back?”  I nod.

As we leave the building, I lean heavily on Bea’s arm for support.  Between the orgasms and the high heels, I’m in no shape to walk unaided.

“How did you like the symphony?” Beatrix asks.

“It was wonderful.”  My tone is dreamy and exhausted.

“Which part?  The music or the stimulation?”

“Both, but especially the stimulation.  I love classical music, particularly live, but I found it kind of odd that they chose The Princess Bride.  Its sound track isn’t what makes the film memorable.  I enjoyed it, but there are far better movies they could have done.”

“I agree.  We’ll have to do this again when they are playing something else.”

“It’s a date.”

Once out of sight, we teleport back to her room.  I agree to letting her temporarily stop my flow so we can shower together and engage in our aftercare routine.

“Beatrix?” I say.

“Yes?”

“I’m falling in love with you.  Deeper, I mean.  I just want you to know that.”

“Mmm,” she purrs.  “Me too, Baby.  Me too.”

We kiss tenderly, our naked bodies pressed together, as the warm water washes over us.