I slide into my chair at our customary Viking Union table, tray of food in hand, at noon on Thursday.  “Hey Goose Girl,” I say.

Beatrix pauses, fork of lettuce halfway to her mouth.  Meeting my gaze, her face lights up, her smile bright.  Butterflies stir to life in my chest seeing that look in her eyes.  It could very well be my imagination, but I think there’s something new in that look.  I don’t have more than a second to consider before her expression turns impish.  “Oh, is that how you want to play this, Pet?”

I shake myself out of my contemplation and scramble momentarily to remember the context of her question.  “It’s a cute story,” I say, “and I kinda like ‘Goose’ as a pet name.  I’ve been looking for something less generic than ‘Babe’.  How much do you hate it?”

“Only a little,” she says, the edges of her lips quirking up a hint.

I nod.  “Perfect.

“So, how’s your day going?”

Bea’s day, it turns out, is not going great.  “Someone was being a total git in Gender and Sexuality this morning,” she says, “making what seemed to be strawman arguments, and derailing the entire discussion.  I did my best to shut him down, and most of the class sided with me, so that was validating.  The professor, though, didn’t do squat, at least not at first; he seemed to think Evan had an honest misunderstanding.  It’s so frustrating that homophobic and transphobic ‘views’ are still prevalent these days, even in progressive colleges.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry, Babe.  People are the worst.”  I give her a weak smile, which she returns.  “Proud of you, though, for shutting him down.  While I wouldn’t have wanted to stay quiet, I probably would have become so upset that I went non-verbal for the rest of class.  Would even have been tempted to stand and walk out.”

“Maybe,” she says.  “It wasn’t obvious, but every time after Evan finished speaking, he’d glance at a dude I’m pretty sure is gay and probably closeted; each time he did, the kid wilted a little.  I think I know you well enough to say that, if you saw that happening, you’d rush to his defense, too.”

“Oh, yeah, that changes things.  I was picturing myself feeling attacked with no particular target in mine, rather than watching someone else be targeted, but you’re right: being in your position would be a completely different situation to me.  I’d hope I’d speak up for him, but I’m still not sure I’d have had the courage to.”

Beatrix scrunches her brow looking puzzled.

“‘Courage’ is the wrong word.”  I think for a second.  “‘Composure’ is more accurate.”

She nods.  “That’s fair.  Honestly, I came pretty close to losing my cool, myself.

“I talked to the prof after class, told him what I saw.  He said he’d have a chat with Evan.”

“Good,” I say, approvingly.  “I was just about to suggest that.  Do you think it will help?”

“It could,” she says.  She sounds conflicted.  “Usually, the professor is an excellent teacher—very persuasive, good at cutting through and shutting down bullshit.  Today must have just been an off-day for him.”

“Is Evan usually an ass in class?”  Ugh, there I go, unintentionally rhyming again.

“No, actually,” Bea says after a moment of consideration.  “He usually doesn’t say anything at all.  Until this lecture, I had no idea what his views were.”

“Huh.  I wonder what was different about today.”

She purses her lips.  “Don’t tell me you feel for him.”

“I’m an empath,” I say with an apologetic shrug.  “I can’t help it.  I’m not saying there’s anything to justify his bigotry—not in the least—but people aren’t born bigots; they’re raised to be them.  I should know; I used to be one.

“So, I’m curious why Evan would hold his tongue for the first two months of class only to speak up today.  Did something happen to him to set him off?  Is he struggling with his own sexuality?  Or was there some cultural shift that allowed Evan to feel safe enough to bully a gay kid in the middle of a Gender and Sexuality class at a progressive college?”

“Does it matter?” Bea asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.  “If something set him off, I’d want to know what and why.  Maybe some healing can be done to shift the way he thinks.  Maybe your prof can reach him, encourage some compassion and empathy, set him straight, you know?

“If he’s struggling with his sexuality, even unconsciously, I can totally relate to that.  Internalized homophobia—and in my case, transphobia—is a real bitch to overcome.  Bullying someone you see as representative of that struggle can be an outlet for that frustration, however cruel and unjust it is.”  I take a second to deal with the pang of guilt from my own past bigotry, trying to forcibly remind myself that I’m not that person anymore.

“However, if it’s a cultural shift, well, that just scares the shit out of me.  It could be an indicator of darker days to come.”  I pause.  “Sorry to be a downer.”

She gives me a sympathetic half-smile.  “It’s alright.  I feel it, too.”  She reaches over and takes my hand.  “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Goose.”

We’re in a somber mood when we reach her dorm room.  While we moved on to less dire topics, the demeanor of our lunch conversation never really recovered from the solemn discussion.

After Beatrix transforms me, by unspoken agreement, we lie down to cuddle on her bed, seeking the comfort of each other’s bodies.  After a few minutes of silent spooning while I rub my thumb against her belly in gentle caresses, she rolls over to face me.  Her gaze jumps back and forth between my eyes and my lips.  I lean in to kiss her, soft kisses.

She moans quietly then reaches over my side to pull me close.  Our kisses become firmer, more passionate.  Her hand moves to my hair, mine to her ass.  I slot my leg between hers and slide it up to press my thigh against her clothed center.  She moans again, louder this time.

Our kisses grow even more heated, needy now.  She kisses me like she has something to prove, and perhaps she does.  Perhaps we do.

I move my lips down her jawline to her neck.  “Ohhh!” she groans.  “Oh, God, Sarah, that feels so good.”

“Mmm,” I say between kisses, continuing down to her collarbone and shoulder.  “I’m glad.”

She rolls us over so she’s atop me, and spreads her legs to either side of mine so she can begin tugging my dress off over my head.  Before I lean back down, she unclasps and removes my bra.  I start unbuttoning her blouse, but after I undo the top two buttons, she reaches down and pulls it off her like she would a tee shirt.  She unhooks her bra while I work the button and zipper of her jeans, which I help her shimmy off.  Then our underwear.  Spurred by passion, we do this all in less time than it takes to describe it.  I don’t know when she shucked off her socks, and I notice with amusement that she makes no move to pull down my thigh-highs.

She could have Spoken our clothing off, but right now, I think we both sense that we need this, need the conventional.  We need to feel normal, need the reminder that this is normal, no matter what Evan Asshat or anyone else says.  Bea’s ability is fun and fantasy; we need intimacy and reality.  We need lovemaking.  We need each other.

Still straddling me, Beatrix hooks a finger through the ring of my collar and pulls me up to kiss her lips.  Our breasts meet and the electric spark between them causes me to moan into her mouth as my eyes roll up under my eyelids.  And then Bea does something I do not expect.  She reaches behind my neck and with some gesture I cannot see, “unclasps” my seamless collar.  After gently tugging it off me, she reverently hangs it by its ring on a hook where she normally places her headphones before she falls to sleep at night.  Heat races up my neck and floods my cheeks.

Beatrix gives me the tenderest of smiles before the look is replaced with desire, reigniting the passionate atmosphere.  I feel Beatrix’s warm essence on my legs and then on that sensitive triangle just above them as she begins to rock against me.

As Bea undulates her hips to an accelerating rhythm, I grab her supple ass with one hand and the small of her back with the other, causing her to gasp.  “Please!  Baby, I need you in me,” she begs.  I moan my agreement, sliding my hands to her sides, allowing her to scooch back.  I reach down and tease her lips with my fingers in that way I know drives her mad with want, waiting for…

She begins to tremble, her utter need made palpable.  I continue to toy with her, repeatedly spreading her lips to make the most frustrating of shallow dives before retreating again, waiting for…

That.  That desperate, pleading eye contact that tells me if I don’t move fully inside her immediately, she very well might die.  I plunge two fingers deep into her warm, silky flesh.  Bea tenses around them and cranes her head back in sweet relief, shoving her perfect breasts forward in the most beautiful image of ecstasy.  I reach up with my free hand to fondle one, caressing her nipple with my thumb as I begin massaging her hardening clit with my other.

“Thank you, oh, God, yes, I need– Sarah, there, hard– yes, oh, oh, please!” she groans, her words becoming increasingly incoherent, interspersed with crescendoing moans.  The heady scent of sex permeates the air around us, causing my mouth to water.  “Righ-right there, please, Baby, please make me come.  I-I need it.”  I increase the force of my thrusts, adding a third finger to the mix, but Bea does most of the work, riding my hand with mounting vigor.  In other circumstances, I might say she’s using me—using my fingers, the friction they provide—to get off, but not now, not this.  In this moment, we are making love, our humanity in full bloom.  More than fun, more than satisfaction or scratching a kinky itch or physical fulfillment.  More than any mere feeling.

Harder and harder, she strains and shoves down against my hand, bouncing and shaking the bed, clenching against my soaked fingers with her slick muscles.  With one final heave, her toes curl against my thighs, and she screams out in release, an unbridled, unrestrained celebration of our bond, of our love.

Rather than collapsing, she pulls my fingers out of her, tilts her head forward, looks me dead in the eyes, and smiles a hungry, wolfish grin.  With that look she boldly states, “My turn.”

Beatrix lunges forward, shoving me down against the bed, then holds me in place with one hand.  She wants me.  That validation, that sense of being desired—of being desirable—simultaneously melts my heart and amplifies my arousal, both.  She drives her fingers into me.  No coaxing foreplay or gentle teasing or desperate edging.  Most importantly, no reciprocation.  Bea needs me to understand—to know in my soul—how precious I am to her, independent of what I can do for her, of my “usefulness” to her.  We play together, we pretend I’m her tool, her pet, her possession.  But not now, not in reality.  In reality, in the plain light of day, in this unfiltered moment in this simple dormroom, I am the love of Beatrix’s life and Beatrix is mine.

Bea wants me to undo me, to cast me out into blissful oblivion.  And she wants it to happen now.  With dextrous motions, she drives me to the edge and shoves me over without hesitation.  The feeling of her inside me never gets old, only better every time we have sex.  She pumps in and out, curling her fingers against my inner walls.  I white out—“Beatrix!”—digging my fingers into her thighs, as my orgasm crashes over me.  Bea keeps going, fondling my clit, pumping her fingers into me.  In the brief moments my eyes flick open, I glimpse her primal determination.  It’s written on her face, spelled out in her movements, explicit in her sincerely spoken, “Come for me, Baby.  That’s it.  Good girl.”  My lover adjusts her ministrations each moment—reading my body, my squirming, the changing tones of my moans and cries and words—to perfectly match my needs, to bring me over and over to climax, riding out my rolling orgasm until we are both, at long last, spent.

“That was….” I groan as she rolls to my side.

“Yes?” Bea prods.

“That was something else.”

“Best sex of your life?” she asks, playfully throwing my words from our first time back at me.

I turn my head to face her, and with sincerity say, “That was more than just sex.”

She blushes faintly and smiles.  “I know.  It was for me, too.  I… I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” I ask.

She pauses, considering her words.  “I hadn’t known that I didn’t know what love really was.  Not until now.  Not until last night when we were in the kitchen with my mum.”

“Oh,” I say, my heart breaking, melting, and warming all at once.

“No one has ever defended me like that before,” she continues.  “You cannot know how much that means to me, Sarah.”

“I can,” I whisper.  “I do.  It means to you what you just conveyed means to me, showing me that I am desirable and not because I’m useful, not because of anything I can do for you, but because of who I am and because you love me.  I’ve never had that before.  At least, I’ve never believed it before.”

Beatrix smiles tenderly, blinking slowly.  Then she bends forward and brushes her lips against mine.  Pulling back, she whispers, “I am so glad, you believe it now.”

A moment of tranquility passes.

I glance at the clock—quarter ’til—and whimper.

“What?” Goose asks.

“I need to leave for math in five minutes, and there’s an exam today, so I can't skip.  I don’t want to move and I definitely don’t want to go sticky.”

“Sarah and I are clean.  Time speeds up around us.  There,” she says.  “That’ll buy us twenty minutes or so.”

“You have that much energy now?” I ask, marveling.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t speed us up nearly as much as I did that first time.  We’re only going about four times faster than everyone else.  Last time, we were moving so fast that people wouldn’t have been able to track our movements.”

“To be fair,” I tease, “they could track mine.  I couldn’t move at all, if you recall.”

She whacks me lightheartedly on the arm, chuckling.  “If you’re going to be a brat…”  She reaches over, plucks my collar from the hook, and affixes it around my neck.  “...then you need to look the part.”

“Yes, Mistress.”