When the clock reads 1:48, Beatrix says, “Alright, time for you to go.  Out with you!”

“No!” I pout.  “I’m not going!  Cuddles are better than math tests.”

“Okay then,” she says consideringly.  “Starting in ten seconds, anyone not me will feel tickled on every square inch of skin touching this bed.”

I stare her down and wait.  Ten…  Nine…  Bea stares right back at me.  Seven…  Six…  It’s just mind over matter, right?  Four… Three…  I got this.  Two… One…

Mistakes were made.

I exit Bea’s bed with the casual grace of a cat.  Fleeing a vacuum cleaner.  Wearing rollerskates.  Goose barely smothers her amused smile.

Once I’ve gotten my giggles under control and caught my breath, I begin the search for my underwear.  It doesn’t take too long.  They’re on the window sill.

“Oh!” Bea says.  “Before you put those on, I’ve got something for you.”  She dashes to her closet and rummages through it to produce a wrapped box.  “This came in the mail just this morning and I magicked it here.”

“Really?  I’m touched,” I say, taking the gift from her.  “Should I open it now?”

“Please,” she says innocently.  Too innocently.

And now I’m thinking this is maybe more a gift for her than for me.  Compelled by the trigger, my body reacts immediately, tearing the wrapping paper off to reveal a bluetooth-controlled vibrator.  “You shouldn’t have,” I say as pleasantly as I can, trying to mask the arousing fear quickly flooding my brain.

“You like it?” she asks, continuing the feigned pleasantry.  “I figured, sure, I could stimulate you with my ability whenever I wanted, but this is better for two reasons.  Can you guess what they are?”

I think for a second before shaking my head.

“Reason one,” she says in an instructional tone.  “I’m going to give Gabi access to the controls.”

The blood drains from my face.  While Beatrix is easily the more evil of my two girlfriends, Gabi is the more reckless one, especially when she’s excited.  Bea intuits my limits; Gabi does not.  “What’s the second reason?” I whisper hoarsely.

She smiles warmly at me.  “I’m about to show you.  Please open the box and take out your new toy.”

Oh.  Oh no.  I resist with everything I have despite knowing how futile the attempt will prove.  “You remember what happened last time you toyed with me during an exam, right?” I ask as my hands obey her command of their own accord.

“I do,” she confirms with a nod.  “Don’t worry.  Gabi won’t get the password for at least the first twenty-five minutes of class.  You’re clever, my pet; you can finish by then, right?”  My first Linear Algebra exam took me twelve minutes, but I’m not going to tell her that.  Granted, that entire test was math I learned in ninth grade, while half of this one will cover new material.

Mistress watches with satisfaction as my hands complete their job unpacking my new torture device.  “And now the second reason.  Please turn on the device”—I flip the switch immediately—“insert it into your pussy, and leave it in until you go to bed tonight.”

The second reason is the shame.  It feels like I have control over my body as I reach down.  It feels like I’m voluntarily spreading my lips.  It feels like I’m choosing to insert the vibrator.  It goes in easily as my traitorous pussy is already plenty slick from anticipation.  I shiver as my inner walls clench around the object, moving it to a natural, almost comfortable position and then holding it securely in place against my clit.  I know that, in reality, I had no choice—I was compelled by Beatrix’s command—but my meager resistance was so insubstantial that I cannot help but wonder if I did choose this embarrassment, this submission, this surrender.  The humiliation is so, so good.

“You’re such a good little slut,” Mistress says, cementing my shame.  I look up at her, my cheeks heating.  “Say it,” she commands.

“I’m–”  It comes out tremulous.  Defeated, I whisper, “I’m a good little slut.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m a good little slut,” I say, louder this time.

“You’re a needy slut who’s secretly looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

Am I?  Sometimes it’s so hard to tell.  I’m torn in three directions: practicality, fear of embarrassment, and desire for embarrassment.  All three have potential consequences.  There’s only one answer to Mistress’s question, however.  “Yes.  I am a needy slut who is looking forward to you playing with her, Mistress.”  My cheeks betray me with another genuine blush.

“Good girl.

“Now it’s time for you to get dressed.  You don’t want to be late to maths, do you?”

Halfway to Bond Hall, I glance at my phone to check the time.  Four minutes.  It’ll be tight.  As I’m looking at the screen, the phone unlocks on its own, an app instantly installing and opening.  The words “Connected to device” appear, followed by a buzz inside me that causes me to stumble.  All of us Vikings trip every couple weeks on the brick walkway, so, fortunately, no one gives this near-tumble a second glance.

Ding!  I look at my phone again.

Mistress 👸🏼
Just testing.  Good luck on the exam!  And don’t worry, I charged the battery with my ability

Gee, thanks, I think at her.  And I see she changed her contact info in my phone while she was at it.  Very cute, Beatrix.  I try to feel annoyed, but honestly, despite the treatment, I can’t help but feel charmed by my goofball dominatrix.

Right as I enter the classroom—with thirty seconds to spare—I receive another text.

Mistress 👸🏼
Please don’t rush on your test.  We wouldn’t want you to get another poor grade like last time

 

😘

I sigh, lock my phone, put it on silent, and slip it into my bag as the tests are passed down each row.  

Column, Sarah Prime corrects, assuming the image and accent of Beatrix the Pedant.  You’re in Linear Algebra.  The distinction is important.  She’s not wrong.

Unlike my disastrous Chem midterm, I know I can ace this, and I know I will do so while finishing first.  What’s my secret?  I never check my answers.  I used to, but I found early on that I was far more likely to second guess right answers than wrong ones.  Since then, I just do the math, use some basic number sense to decide whether it’s a reasonable answer, move onto the next question, and accept whatever score I get.  My other secret is that I know how to do the math.  I put in the work: I pay attention, take notes, and ask questions in class.  Lots of questions.  Once upon a time, I worried that I asked too many questions, that I annoyed my peers.  More than once, however, other students have told me my questions helped their understanding, allaying, if not wholly squashing, my anxiety.

I finish the first couple problems on the exam.  I don’t rush—I literally cannot rush, thanks to Mistress—I just go at my normal, swift test-taking pace.  I think that final requirement is actually helping me: if I could rush, I’d be worried about finishing before my twenty-five minute deadline.

Is it fair that math comes this easily to me?  Probably not.  I never lord it over people who have a harder time with math, only over those I consider equals who choose to compete with me—to them, I lay it on thick, especially if the margin is only a single point or two.

Three more problems down.  One left.

Am I gloating?  I feel like I’m gloating.  But the truth is, while math does come unfairly easy to me, other things like recognizing social cues, managing emotions, remembering names and faces, and physical prowess—or even competence—are much harder for me than for most others.  I figure, in most cases, it all evens out in the end.

And done.  I place my pencil down on the desk.  More accurately, in the adrenaline rush I get whenever I finish a test, I slap my pencil down on the desk, drawing the eyes of half the room, including those of the prof’s.  Embarrassed and chagrined, I shrug in silent apology, then walk carefully to the front of the classroom to drop my paper on the professor’s–

Bzzt.  My abs tighten as I—bzzzzzt—try to hold in the—bzzZZZzzzZzzt.  Dammit, Gabi.  I manage to just barely maintain my composure until the door is closed behind me.  I take two more steps down the mercifully empty hallway before a particularly long, variable intensity buzz forces me to bend double and emit a semi-stifled moan.  I reach for my phone to text Gabi when–  Crap.  Steeling myself, I sheepishly walk back into the classroom to retrieve my bag, hoping beyond hope that no one can hear the vibrator tormenting my clitoris.

Once again outside the room, I tap Gabi’s pinned icon and shoot her a text.

Sarah
Enough, girl.  I’m trying to walk!

 

Deputy Mistress 🤵🏾‍♀️
❓❓❓

 

Sarah
What do you mean “❓❓❓”?  Stop buzzing me.  It’s embarrassing enough being forced to wear this thing

 

Deputy Mistress 🤵🏾‍♀️
Babes, what on God’s green earth are you talking about?

I can practically hear the southern drawl in her text.

Then it occurs to me to—bzzZzZt—check the time.  It’s one twenty—bzzt—two.  Bea said she wouldn’t give Gabi the controls for another—bZzt—three—bzt—minutes.  I have been played.

Sarah
Right, sorry.  I suspect you’ll understand shortly.  I *beg* you in advance to show restraint

 

Deputy Mistress 🤵🏾‍♀️
Riiight….. 🤨 I’ll think about it once I know what’s going on

 

My inkling’s that this here’s a situation deservin’ of a lady’s consideration

 

Sarah
😮‍💨

Looking around to see no one can see me, I flip Beatrix the middle finger.  I get three steps further before BZZZZZZZZZZ—The intense burst of hybrid pleasure and discomfort drives me to my knees and rips a full-volume moan from my throat.—ZZZZZZZZZT.  I’m left dazed and breathless as I try to make sense of how this pulse could be so much more powerful.  The vibrator has physical limits, after all.  Beatrix must have increased my clit’s sensitivity, I realize.  My phone rumbles in my hand.

Mistress 👸🏼
Bratty sluts get punished.

My pussy takes another amplified blast of pleasure and I know I have mere seconds left before I come hard and loud.  Panicked, I choose the only option I can think of; I take another quick, sweeping glance about me to confirm I am still alone, then Speak, “I am in Beatrix’s room.”

Beatrix shrieks behind me at my abrupt arrival.  “Oh, is that how you want to play this, Pet?”  I whirl around to face her.  “Freeze,” she Speaks calmly, her demeanor instantly shifting from Competitive Monster to the cool confidence of Sexy Dominatrix.  She paces back and forth a few times, tsking and muttering, “What am I going to do with you?  You were trained better than this.”  So convincing is her tone that for a second I wonder if she’s genuinely disappointed in me, but then her pacing brings her into view again and I see the pleased and wicked grin she bears.

Mistress sadistically jams her finger down on the screen of her phone, moving it in sharp, jarring motions causing the vibrator to utterly wreck what vestiges of sanity I have left.  Frozen stonestill, I can’t even writhe in some vain search of relief.  I just have to take pulse after stimulating pulse.  Finally, the buzzing stops—a couple pleasure-induced tears inching twin paths down my cheeks—as Beatrix clearly switches apps, granting me a modicum of reprieve.  “I suppose now I must inform Gabi of how naughty you’ve been,” she comments.  She only spends enough time to shoot off one short text before she turns back to me, eyes gleaming.  That look….  Did she want this? I wonder.  As bratty as I like to claim I am, I’ve only once acted out to this degree—our Valentine’s Day date when I mocked her for accidentally silencing herself.  Wait.  Did she, in fact, plan this?

“Your lips,” she Speaks in her clipped training voice, drawing me back to the present, “may not move further away from my cunt until you have satisfied me with your tongue.”  The new spin on that first full-scene fantasy makes me come alive.  “I am going to come in your mouth, pet.”  She takes a short, deliberate step backward toward the mirror she’d been using to scry on me.  As I am frozen rigid, the new constraint causes me to tip over.  “Unfreeze,” she says, giving me just enough time to get my hands under me before I crash to the floor.

I try to scramble to my feet, but she takes another easy step back, forcing me off-balance again.  “Stay on your knees, brat,” she commands.  “And take off those clothes.  Please.”  Still on all-fours, my body reacts, heedlessly pulling my dress off over my head, unclipping my bra, shunting off my panties.  I leave my thigh-highs on because even my subconscious knows she enjoys me in those; it’s why I wear them so often in lieu of warmer leggings.  “Now crawl to me.  I enjoy watching your tits sway.”

I’m not compelled by her command, but I also know I have no means of escaping my predicament short of doing exactly what Mistress desires.  I crawl half a step forward before I feel renewed pulsing on my clit.  Beatrix’s arms are folded in front of her, so Gabi must have figured out the app and what to do with it.  Outstanding.  So much for showing restraint.

Beatrix must infer the cause of my staggered, twitchy motions as I crawl to her, for she says, “Don’t come, pet.  As needy as I know your slutty appetites are, you don’t get to come until I do.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I say, wondering how I’m going to pull this off.  I wish she had compelled me with that command.  Had she, I wouldn’t have to focus on holding my climax—or, let’s face it, climaxes—at bay; my body would do it automagically.  But my Mistress is not that kind.  And, in fairness, I have been a brat.  Bratty sluts get punished.

As I draw closer, Beatrix pulls her swivel chair around and sits.  She hikes her skirt up enough that it’s possible for me to get my head under it, tethered to her taint as I am.  “That’s it, pet,” I hear through the fabric.  She’s already not wearing panties, and I wonder once again if and how much of this was planned.  Her physics class should be starting right now, but she seems unconcerned by the turn of events.  Have I played right into her hand?  This is a fine time to be having second thoughts, I think, inches from her pussy, unable to pull away, and all the while, enduring Gabi’s unpredictable pulses on my clit.

She shifts forward to the edge of the chair, and my lips meet hers.  She shifts back again, dragging me with her, and squeezes my head lightly with her thighs, her calves wrapping around behind me to hold the rest of me in place.  “Lick,” she commands.

And I do.  I lick and suck and caress and lap, drinking in her tangy essence, fondling her hardening clit, extracting moans of pleasure from my beloved Mistress.  I focus my whole attention on Beatrix, on building her mounting arousal gently at first, then more determinedly until I drive her to the edge.  I hold her there until she trembles against me, until her body begs me for release.  With one final flick of my tongue across her clit, just the way I know she likes it, her climax crashes over her.  Her legs tighten around my head then almost completely relax as, as promised, she comes in my mouth.  It’s an experience that only gets more enjoyable with time.

Released from my invisible bonds, I kiss her landing strip then pull away from her.  So focused was I on bringing Mistress to fulfillment, that I barely felt the vibrator on my clit.  Now, however, that awareness returns, overwhelming my resistance.  I fall back, supine, to the floor, bucking my hips and curling my toes as Gabi delivers my reward and I lose track of reality.  The vibration slowly dampens as I come down from my orgasm.

“Well, that’s fun,” says a familiar voice.  I look up at Beatrix who has her phone facing me, Gabi on a FaceTime call.

“Hi’abi,” I slur in my euphoria between deep breaths with a halfhearted wave.

She giggles.  “That good, huh?  Now I know what I’m getting Trixy for my birthday.”

“Wasn–,” I begin, interrupted by another gasping breath.  “Wasn’t that in … October?”

“It sure was, but I didn’t know her yet!” she says as if it’s obvious.

“How’re ya doin’, Goose?”

“Goose?” Gabi asks before Bea can respond.  “Who’s Goose?”  A pause.  “Ohhh, Goooose.  Got it.”

“I’a goo– good,” she says, still a bit blissed out and coming down from her own postcoital euphoria.

“Are you two coming back here for dinner?”

“Read the room, Babs,” I chide.

“Right.  Well, lemme know whether you’re coming here or I’m going there.  Loveyabyeeee~”  The call disconnects.

“Wanna … move to … the bed?” I ask.

“Uh huh,” she replies but makes no move to get there.

I chuckle, wobble my way to my feet, and help her take the two and a half steps to her bunk upon which she promptly collapses face-first.  I sit down beside her then yelp, jumping back up, as every inch of my ass gets tickled.

“Right,” she mumbles into the mattress, “sorry abou’ that.  The bed no longer tickles.”  With a grunt, she rolls herself onto her side.  “C’mere, my adorable little brat.”  The way she says “brat” this time, there’s only affection in her voice.  Bea scooches back to make room for me in front of her, and I take my place as little spoon.  “I left that effect on purpose,” she confides.  “I was going to make you endure it while you ate me out.  This was better, though.”

“So you planned all of this?  Even skipping physics to do so?”

“Physics was canceled.  The professor had a family emergency yesterday and had to fly to Montana last night.”

“Huh.  I thought I was making my own decisions.  I’m honestly a little disappointed to learn I was being compelled.”

“I didn’t compel you,” she says, taken aback.  “I mean, except the times I said please.  I planned, but I didn't force anything.”

“And I just did exactly what you wanted me to?  Wow.”

“Only some,” she admits.  “I didn’t expect you to finish your test so quickly—well done, by the way—nor did I expect you to teleport into my room.  I expected you to walk here, since I was making sure you couldn’t walk back to your room.”  She pauses.  “Why did you teleport here instead of your room?”

“Well, it’s not like I had much time to think.  I guess I came here because I wanted to.  I wanted to keep playing.”

“So it was good for you?”

“Uhh, yes it was good for me.”  I roll over so I can face her.  “You really couldn’t tell?”

“I hoped.  I guess with what happened last time, I was worried you’d get upset.  Even though I didn’t get to toy with you during your exam, what I did afterward was more than I’ve ever made you do in public before.  I knew I was taking a risk.  When I watch you with my ability, I can’t see or hear anyone else.  I can only see their shadows, but the hallway was too dim for me to be certain you were alone.  Plus the moaning…?  Like I said, it was a risk.”

I smile at her.  “Well, it all worked out perfectly.  I was alone, but my moan was loud enough to possibly be heard by other people.  It was embarrassing, but I was safe-ish in my anonymity.

“If anyone had seen me, I really don’t know if it would have been too much.  More than once you had me on the edge of orgasming in public.  I enjoy that fear; it’s exciting.  But I trust you, Bea.  You take good care of me, and I’ve said it before: you seem to know what I will enjoy better than I do.”

She smiles at me, relief evident on her face.

“Honestly,” I say, “I’m still marveling at how well you planned all this and that I danced like a puppet on strings.  That’s some master-level manip–”  I catch myself before finishing the word, but it’s too late.

Bea flinches, her relief immediately replaced by anxiety and shame.  Her eyes go wide and dart around.  I recognize it immediately: hyperawareness.

“Beatrix,” I say.  She doesn’t respond.  “Beatrix, look at me.”  She looks me in the eye for half a second before her gaze shoots off again.  She’s trembling now, hyperventilating, and tears are starting to form.  

“Okay.  Beatrix, take a deep breath.  I’ll do it with you.  In for three seconds.”  I breathe in slowly.  “Hold it for three seconds.”  Pause.  “Now out for three seconds. … And wait for three seconds.”  I repeat the pattern twice more until her breathing has regulated, but she’s still clearly panicking, only half-aware of her surroundings.

“Name five things you can see,” I say.

To my relief, this prompt gets through to her, and she’s able to respond.  “What?”

“Five things you can see.  Name them.”

“Umm.  You, the clock, the mirror, my laptop and… the bedframe.”

“Good,” I say.  “Now four things you can hear.”

“Your voice, my voice….”  She goes quiet, searching for other sounds.  “My laptop’s fan and my heartbeat.”

“Good.”  I search her eyes.  “Are you calmer now or should we do three things you can feel?”

“I think I’m okay.  What was that?”

“You were having a panic attack.  The breathing exercise we did is called square breathing, and the counting thing is called a grounding exercise.  Have you ever had a panic attack before?”  She shakes her head.  “They’re scary, huh?”

“I thought I was going to die,” she whispers, on the verge of tears again.

“It’s okay.  You’re okay,” I console, rubbing her back in soothing circles.  “I get them whenever I feel rejected.  Fortunately, that hasn’t happened since starting college—well, except by my parents when I came out, obviously, but that caused an entirely different reaction.

“Anyway, my counselor taught me some techniques that sometimes help with panic attacks, and when those fail, I have an Ativan prescription, but it almost never comes to that.”

She nods.  “Thank you.  For helping me, I mean.”

“You’re welcome.  Are you okay if we talk about what I said?”

She hesitates, then I see her start to panic again.

“You’re okay, Beatrix.  I am not going anywhere.  I am not leaving you.”  She calms enough that I’m going to take the plunge and address this fear that’s been ruling her life.  Given what I had said, I don’t really see an alternative.

“Beatrix, I need you to hear me right now.”  I wait for her to nod, then continue.  “Manipulation is not inherently wrong.  Everyone manipulates.  Flirting is manipulation.  Professional attire is manipulation. Effective communication is manipulation.

“What is toxic to relationships are selfishness and narcissism.  You exhibit neither of those things.  This whole planned scene was a gift to me, and that you pulled it off with conventional manipulation rather than the brute force of your ability shows an incredible level of care for me.  You are so, so special Beatrix.  Truly an amazing woman.  I need you to believe that.  I am not going to leave you.”

Bea remains quiet, seeming to process my words.  She’s not panicking anymore, so that’s a relief, at least.

Finally she whispers, “How do I know you’re not just staying with me because I’m manipulating you into staying?  How do you know you’re not being manipulated into staying?”

I smile, shaking my head at the ridiculous notion.  “Because I’m happy, Beatrix.  For the first time in my life, I am truly happy.  I don’t feel trapped.  I don’t feel obligated to stay with you.  I don’t even feel like I need this feminine body; I could get by without it and transition with gender-affirming surgery like any other trans woman.  I stay with you, Beatrix, because I want to.  I stay with you because I’m in love with you.”

She stares into my eyes, perhaps judging my sincerity.  More likely, she’s trying to accept this truth over the lie she has believed for so long it has become part of her identity.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper.

“That I love you.  That I want to believe you, but it’s just so hard.  I don’t know if I can accept it.”

“I know, Babe.  I know.  Core beliefs are hard to unlearn.  It feels like losing a part of yourself.  ‘If I was wrong about this, how do I know what to believe anymore about anything else?’  Am I right?”

She nods, and we’re silent for a moment while she mulls it all over.  “You’re really going to stay?  Even when I screw up or when I freak out like this?”

“There’s no question,” I whisper.  “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too.”

This, at long last, brings a smile to her face.  “You do?”

“I do.”

She leans forward to give me a long, gentle kiss.  When she pulls back, she’s wearing that crooked smile I love so much.  “Did you just propose?”