“You know what’s wrong with Pinocchio?” I ask without preamble in the middle of a particularly intense Smash Bros. battle.

“The casual presentation of human trafficking followed by victim-blaming in a movie made for kids?” Gabi suggests.

“There’s no competent or respectable character in the whole story and virtually no character growth?” Bea pitches in.

“Uhh,” I hesitate, “well, yes, but I was going to say that the bad guys were thinking too small.  What’s remarkable about Pinocchio isn’t that he’s a living puppet; it’s his nose.  His nose is an oracle.  Have Pinocchio say something, and if his nose grows, you know it’s false.  You could test anything, learn anything.  The bad guys could have won the lottery as many times as they wanted, and instead, they sold him off for a few coins to be an actor at a puppet show.

“The fact that he’s a wooden puppet probably means that he’s immortal, or at least ageless, and the existence of an oracle would inevitably lead to a dystopia.  Technology would advance too quickly.  Using Pinocchio’s nose, they would figure out how to clone him, or at least the nose-growing aspect.  He’d be used as a lie detector in court proceedings.  Eventually they’d use him to predict whether someone will commit a crime.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Gabi notes with a tone implying she means too much thought.

With a golf club to the head, Peach sends Samus from the bow of the Great Fox starship to her death off the left side of the screen.  I take the opportunity to glance at both girls as I wait for my fighter to respawn.  Gabi is focused intently on the game.  Beatrix, however, meets my eyes briefly with an amused, affectionate smile.

“That’s one of the things I like most about you, Sarah,” Bea says.

“I overthink absurd, impossible premises?” I ask, a little confused.  Once, I would have been self-conscious of Gabi’s gibe, but I’ve come to accept this trait as a part of my personality, and one I actually like.

“Sort of?” Beatrix says.  “It’s more your combination of thorough, logical thoughtfulness, creativity, and sense of humor that brings you to these conclusions.”

I blush.  “Thanks,” I say lamely, unsure how to handle the compliment.  I reflexively decide to deflect.  “You know what’s wrong with Frozen?”

“Not a damn thing,” Gabi says, thickening her southern drawl.

“Correct.”

Come Tuesday, Beatrix and I have lunch together as is our custom.  I eat my usual fare: a salad, a sandwich, and today, a cube of lime jello topped with whip cream.  It’s somewhat warm today—well, warm for Bellingham at 66°F (19°C)—so I’m in shorts, a tank top, and thin, white thigh-highs.  Bea is in her customary professional pencil skirt and blouse with that long blonde ponytail that still makes my mouth water and my insides beg to be ordered about.

“So,” I say as the previous topic lapses, “do you have any fun ideas for … our project?”

She smiles wickedly.  “I came up with one years ago that I’ve been meaning to try.”  Without warning, she twists her hand in a distinct, practiced motion, and I feel liquid arousal—literally liquid: I can think of no other way to describe it—pour into me from my collar through the nape of my neck and down my spine.  It splashes at the point between my legs, the stream splitting to either side, and pools in my toes.  My body feels like a beaker slowly filling.  It becomes harder and harder to rein in the visible effects of my vivified lust as the liquid fills up my body.  I can only assume that once I am filled completely, any more will cause an explosive orgasm, no matter how iron my will.  I am at Beatrix’s mercy, and the tantalizing realization causes an additional gush from the collar.  So, I think, getting turned on naturally increases my arousal the normal amount on top of the collar-generated flow.  I feel my cheeks redden impossibly further as my legs fill completely, and the liquid begins to spread into my ass and bikini area.  Whilst imaginary, I swear some leaks out my pussy.

“What do you think?” she asks with a smirk.  With my concentration fixated on not squirming, I find it hard to parse the simple question, much less answer it.  “You know, if you don’t speak to me, I’m going to take offense,” she chides with a tone that says she knows full well that no one would be able to speak with this sensation filling their body.  For all I know, speechlessness was one of the restrictions she defined when preparing this scenario.

I try to speak all the same, not wanting any further punishment, but all that comes out is a quiet gurgle.

She smiles with insincere warmth.  “That’s okay.  I’ll try not to take it personally.  Please, just eat your lunch, and we can see if we can untie your tongue after.”

I take an involuntary bite of my food compelled by Mistress’s ‘please’ trigger.  At my obedience, I feel the liquid sex in me empty some, though only half again as fast as it pours into me.

With that, I figure out the second rule of today’s game: obedience grants reprieve.  Beatrix reads the epiphany on my face.  I continue to eat my lunch as quickly as I can to drain the oncoming arousing flood.  Once finished—the liquid reduced back down to knee-level—I look at her pleadingly, praying wordlessly for another command to follow to forestall a public climax.

She wouldn’t really make me, would she? I ask myself.  Not in public with no safeguards like the ones at the concert in place.

As if reading my mind from my facial expression, Beatrix says, “I would,” in a cold, matter-of-fact tone of voice with a solemn nod.  With horrified realization, I believe her and my eyes bulge.  Bea has pushed my limits before, and in so doing, she has stretched them; when we first met, an involuntary public orgasm would have been a violation, and her ability would not be capable of causing one.  But now?  I have no idea whether the limitation of her ability could compel me into such a humiliating circumstance.  I suspect Beatrix doesn’t know either, and is curious to find out.  My submissive anxiety prompts another blast from the collar nozzle.  The liquid rises to mid-thigh.

“Would you take our trays to the conveyor?”  Spurred by need rather than a compulsion trigger, I grab our trays and race over.  The soft tug of my thigh-highs against my oversensitized legs nearly causes me to moan.  At my obedience, the level drops halfway back to my knees, but it’s back where it was by the time I return to the table.  My eyes water with the need for another order juxtaposed with my aroused need to tear off her clothes and take her here and now.

“Take my bag and you can walk me back to my dorm room.”  I nod eagerly, grab our bags, and urge her with body language to head for the door.  Mistress, of course, takes her time, rising from her chair and languidly stretching her arms.

She looks at me with a charming smile as the fluid fills in every cubic inch of my ass and starts up the hips.

“Take my hand,” she says, and I do.  The level drops a millimeter but immediately fills in again.  There’s a net-zero gain as we walk each step out the door, the pleasure sloshing around my abdomen, making me heady.

“Ooh!  What are they doing in the Square?” she asks with all the excitement of a child at the fair.  I look and someone is handing out t-shirts.  That’s it.  There’s nothing else going on out of the ordinary.  She pulls me by the hand toward the kiosk.

The liquid overtakes my navel, no longer stymied by the obedient walk toward her dorm.  My whole body quakes, as if feeling the liquid in that spot I fetishize brings the fetish to life.  The longer each body party is filled, the more sensitive they become.  The bottom half of my body is alight, tingling with pleasure.  The press of my socks and shoes, the air on my bare thighs, the soft fabric of my tank—all of these are as tantalizing as a continuous caress.  Sweat beads on my brow.  Bea gives me a concerned look masking a gleam of pure, ravenous sex.

And it suddenly occurs to me: I am not going to win this game.  The best I can do is lose in her dorm room rather than in public, and Vegas would not place the odds in my favor.  Fear, humiliation, and carnal hunger—carnal need—fill my mind; I feel this third component twice as an additional gush flows in from the collar.

Mistress decides she’s not interested in t-shirts after all, and pulls me to the fountain.  “Sit,” she says.  I obey, grateful for the tiny opportunity.  She sits next to me.  “I need a massage; give me one.”  I obey once more, and the liquid that had been just about to reach my nipples begins draining.  I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or disappointed not to feel the fluid stimulate my erect tits.  At the thought, I become aware that their impressions are quite visible through my bra and shirt.  More embarrassment, more arousal.  

Beatrix begins to groan quietly at the released muscular tension, and with each sound, the fluid drains further.  By the time she’s a veritable puddle, I have the liquid arousal back down to my slit, but at the thought of my slit, it jumps back up again.

“Please do a cartwheel.”  My eyes bulge at what I’m about to experience.  I am grateful she used the trigger phrase, as I don’t know that I could perform one without some magical support.  The arousal splashes around my body in a torrent as my legs lift into the air, pouring sex into my arms, head, shoulders, and tits, then empties back down to my feet.  The maneuver leaves me dizzy with want.

“Lie down.  Let me play with your hair.”  I return to the cement fountain wall and lie on my back, my head in her lap.  The liquid in me sloshes as I go horizontal, filling my entire back half, heel to occipital bone.  As it enters my brain again, I feel a rush and get lightheaded.  My eyes closed, Beatrix combs her fingers through my hair.  Her touch, particularly when her fingers reach the back half of my head, sends sensual tingles down my body.  I stifle a moan every few seconds.  I open my eyes and see Beatrix gazing at me with honest affection.  I find myself smiling back at her, for the moment, just enjoying the sensation of being with her.  As long as she’s touching my hair, the liquid in my body remains level, and so, while considerably aroused, the current situation allows for some respite from the urgency if not the sensation itself.

“I love you, Sarah,” she says quietly, full of meaning.

I blink slowly at her and silently mouth, “I love you, too, Beatrix.”

She moves the hand not stroking my hair to my face as if she intends to close my eyes for me, and I obey.

“Just rest,” she whispers.  At the calming words, I find I can rest, and the arousal begins to drop ever so slowly.  “That’s my good girl,” she says, as if to a sleeping pet.  Piqued by the verbal dog treat, the level jumps up again, but not significantly.

We stay that way for another five minutes, me just resting with my eyes closed, head in her lap, as she gently strokes my hair.  I nuzzle the side of my face into her belly, and she chuckles and drops down to kiss my forehead.

“Ready?” she asks.  I sit up, but as it was not an order, my arousal level doesn’t lower.  “I want to go pick up some things from the market,” she says, indicating a small shop in Miller Hall, which makes up the southeastern edge of Red Square.  Again, it’s not an order, so while I obediently follow her, the arousal continues to rise in me.  It reaches the bottom edge of my boobs by the time we enter the building.  I can’t help picturing the shape of the filled in portion of my breasts as the sensation brings acute awareness; I imagine that everyone can see me filling, like my shirt is gradually disintegrating from the bottom, revealing a scandalous amount of bottom-boob.  I squirm at the image, both uncomfortable and aroused beyond my enchantment.

We walk around, hand in hand, as she looks at things.  “I’ve never been in here,” she says.  “Have you?”

I still can’t speak, so I shake my head.  We tour the whole store.  The fluid reaches my armpits and begins to spill down my arms in a tingling flow, filling my fingers and then palms with paradoxical cool warmth.  The touch of her hand in my oversensitized one causes a mini-orgasm; I hold in the sound and when my knees start to buckle, manage to make it look like I tripped, holding onto Beatrix for support.  Alas, this climax adds a gush of arousal from my collar instead of relieving the built tension.  Asking if I’m alright—to which I nod weakly—Beatrix presents an outwardly concerned expression, but her grinning eyes tell a different tale.

As we exit the store, ostensibly getting closer to Nash Hall, the liquid begins to drain, halfheartedly combatting the incoming flood; I visualize it as flowing out my fingertips.  The mere touch of her hand in mine causes me to edge and my eyes start to water.  We continue our way, mercifully, toward her dorm room, but she takes every opportunity to stop and examine things.  The notorious black ninja squirrel of north campus, the man-humping-bear stone statue.  She even points out every missing or broken brick in the walkway, as if each one is the most fascinating thing she’s ever witnessed.

I’m infuriated, turned on, and legitimately scared by her creative stalling, by the way she casually risks the utter embarrassing collapse of my ego should I come in full view of the students wandering about.  My only solace is that I know she can sense how close I am to my subby threshold and that, despite what she said regarding her willingness to allow me to orgasm in public, I trust her to maintain my wellbeing.  That solace is tempered by the fact that I don’t know whether a public orgasm would harm my wellbeing or if some part of me deep down—a part I know Beatrix intuitively knows better than I know myself—wants that exhilarating humiliation, that absolute domination.

The pleasure has filled my arms and shoulders, now, and begins to rise up my neck.  It takes every ounce of willpower not to squirm, moan, anything to relieve the tension in me, counterproductive though I know it would be, given the extranatural nature of the arousal.

We get to the dormitory as the level reaches my chin.  She searches for her keys and fiddles with them before unlocking the door.  My arousal permeates my tongue, a most curious experience, and not at all an unpleasant one.  My lips fill, and I need to kiss Beatrix, to feel my lips against hers, against her neck, her shoulder, her belly, her breasts.  Her everywhere.

We walk up the three flights of stairs, and mere feet from her door, she stops to talk with a floormate.  Benjamin, I think his name was.  My eyes begin to fill and now everything I see fills me with lust and desire.  I’m a lesbian but even the image of Ben makes me hot.  I try to yank Mistress toward her dorm room door, but she resists, holding me firmly in place while she talks to Ben.  I start to shake, both from the arousal level and my fear of erupting in front of a friend to Bea and a veritable stranger to me—both thoughts equally mortifying.

At last, she waves goodbye and opens her door; the instant it closes behind me, the liquid fills me entirely, and I come harder than I ever have before.  I fall to my hands and knees as the ethereal arousal streams out of me.  Then, breathing hard and shaking, I collapse prone.

“Well that was dramatic,” she says disapprovingly.  I glance up at her and she’s bearing a wide, self-satisfied grin.  “Next time I think you should wait to come until I’m ready, don’t you think?”  I nod, too spent to speak despite having regained the ability.  “Good girl.”

She leaves me there, heaving on the floor as she refreshes her makeup and ponytail in the mirror on the door of her closet.

Eventually I recover enough to stand, by which point she’s sitting on her bed, looking at me expectantly.  I walk over and curl up on the bed with my head once again in her lap.  “Good girl,” she repeats, this time in the satisfied, private whisper that says I did well.  She again rakes her fingers through my hair, and I fall to sleep there until she wakes me for my linear algebra class.