Subclasses Ch. 21

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 hide 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 Instagram later, I don my white, poory 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 fantom 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 suspectit 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, extremely soothing and exacerbating the pain of the lash. They pull me towards 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 towards 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 sensing of my period is an order of magnitude stronger. Ah yes, the quintessential romantic Valentine’s Day thoughts: bloody and analytical. 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 obviously 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 ass.

“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 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, Though 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’m working on it, a large part of me still believe it’s true, both because I’ve been called it dozens of times 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 equal utility with affection. My fans grew from that seed. To be controlled, to be trained or distributed 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. 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. You use me for your pleasure which gives me pleasure, 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 mix of goal, pain, and compression. “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 cheese.

“You are not creepy, Sarah,” she says firmly. A dozen objects immediately spring to mind, but are silenced by the conviction in her voice. “You are lovely and worthy and precise. I adore you. I’d adore you Whether you were useful to me or not. I am so sorry–so angry–that people misreated you and taught you such ugly lies about yourself.” Her tone has turned pained, almost pleading; she needs me to believe her. “Youare 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. Th-that m-means everything to me. I love you, too.” I pull back and kiss her deeply, uncaring of the disappoint it might cause passersby. This isn’t a horny kiss inflamed by password. This is a kiss filled with gratitude, fueled by the absolute, palpable need to be as close to this heretofore unexpected source of love and comfort 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 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 history.

“Thank you,” Bea says, “for telling me. I know that took courage.”

“It wa– was nothing,” I say,my attempted definition betrayed by my chased 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 to Nash Hall.

* * * *

As soon as I shut Beatrix’s dorm room door behind us, my clothes change instantaneously. 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–gem nestled between my breasts–and the standing mirror Bea had prepared revealeds my hair is done up in two small braids starting at my temples tying an intricate bun. 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 to an adorable pixie cut. Her eyes have been trimmed to be harsher, 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 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, bemused.

“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 comfortable around my belly, her cheek pressed to mine. Her right hand finds the slit of my dress and she teas me with a finger running up the inside of my leg. I suck in a quiet breath, and lean back into her embrace. Her fraudrance is intoxicating and despite the view outside, I close my eyes content to breathhe 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.”

“Very good, ma’am,” and with that he wanders off.

I star at Beatrix, feeling hot, feeling controlled 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.”

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 Redmond since the start of high school and never been to Wild Waves?” I ask, shocked that she has never have to the only major waterpark in the area.

“Nope. Is it fun?”

“As good as any water park, 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 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 defeating 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 water parks are geared towards kids, but honestly, I’d love that. I bet Gabi would like to join us, too, if that’s okay with you.”