Subclasses Ch 08

About the Appendix:

Some of us mind control kinksters like to know what we are being compelled to do, and some of us prefer the confusion, mysticism, and fear of losing control and having no idea what's going on or why. Sarah prefers a bit of both, depending on the situation. In order to appeal to both crowds, for sessions where Sarah doesn't know what's going on—either because she is not in the room, or because Beatrix wiped her memory—I've included snippets in the chapters' appendices written from Beatrix's point of view as she Speaks the commands to set the stage.

I'll denote when these setup scenes occur by two horizontal lines sandwiching a reference to the appendix entry. That way you can choose whether to read it first, afterward, or not at all.

While I expect most entries will largely just be set up, some will contain significant plot and character development, especially that of Beatrix. I'll mark these latter entries with a

⭐

, so that, if you're a card-carrying member of the Don't Ask Don't Know club, after you've finished the chapter, you'll know to go back and read about Sarah's missing time.

"Dramatic irony. It'll fuck you every time."

-Stranger than Fiction (2006)

Chapter Eight

"What are you working on?" Bea asks, rubbing her eyes.

It's Sunday morning. I have my laptop in my lap with VS Code—a code editor—open. "I'm brainstorming how we can standardize the way you create functions, so that it is easier for us to communicate. I think Python is the most natural language to choose here, because it's the most readable for people who have never programmed before." I pause. "Except maybe Inform 7, but I refuse."

She blinks at me twice then nods sharply as if she understood anything I just said. I laugh.

"I'm trying to bridge the gap between how I think and how you Speak." I shut my laptop and put it at the foot of my bed. "How'd you sleep?" I ask her.

"Mmm, pretty good. I think you help me sleep better. You hold the nightmares at bay."

Nightmares?

I wonder, but I can tell she doesn't want to elaborate right now. I move in for a kiss, but she places a finger on my lips. "

Sarah's and my teeth are sparkly clean, and all hint of morning breath is gone.

" I move in for a kiss and this one lands.

* * *

We spend the morning discussing our kinks, limits, and preferences.

First we establish that neither of us kink-shame, a basic level of trust prerequisite for this kind of conversation. People are into what they're into, and not into what they're not into. As long as everyone involved is a consenting adult and being safe, why should I care what gets them off? More power to 'em, I say. Bea's kinks and mine don't have to perfectly align for us to have fun together, but clearly we already have some in common.

I have a hard limit on permanent marks. Bea and I both have hard limits on drawing blood, human waste, realistic violence, bestiality, and acting out of anger—genuine anger for both of us, while pretend anger is a hard limit for me and a soft limit for Bea. Nothing illegal, and certainly nothing that would violate anyone—Beatrix, me, or anyone else we involve in our sexcapades. Consent is always mandatory, whether it be for Beatrix's ability or the conventional variety.

"I know it's kind of weird," I say, "but consent is kind of a turn on for me."

"I don't find that weird at all," Bea says.

I pause and take a breath. "Do you read much erotica?" I ask, a little nervous.

"Yeah, from time to time. What domme wouldn't?" she teases.

I nod, then ramble my way into opening up. Discussing porn and, by extension, erotica just wasn't done in my family growing up—more than a mere taboo, but instead a shameful disgrace tiptoeing the line of sin and moral decay—and though, deep down, I don't think I ever had much faith to begin with, I still find discussing porn extremely vulnerable, even "wrong". Hence, my rambling approach.

"I've read a bit since leaving home," I say. "I started with lesbian BDSM for obvious reasons, and while that was good, it didn't really scratch my itch. Then I discovered there was an entire subsection dedicated to mind control erotica. That was validating, since I had always thought my kink was pretty niche, possibly perverted beyond what even kinksters consider normal, healthy fantasy.

"Considering my kinks, you would think that mind control erotica would be my favorite. While I'm a dues-paying member of the Sub Club, I find fantasies from both points of view very ... orgasmic." At my awkward phrasing, I give her the real life equivalent of the 😅 emoji. "To be honest, though, most of the mind control erotica I've read online has left me feeling sick, sometimes right away, sometimes several chapters in. Either I feel like I'm violating the character—usually

raping

them, in fact—or that 'my' domme is heartless; there's no intimacy or trust, which I consider to be the heart of BDSM."

Bea gives me a reassuring smile and nods her understanding. "It's a fine line, I think," she says, "and, at least in my opinion, it depends on how invested the reader gets. If they can separate fantasy from reality in the midst of reading and wanking, then part of the mind control fantasy

is

the nonconsent. If they can't hold them separate—if they get so immersed that it's real to them, as it sounds like you do—then it makes sense that they—you—would feel dirty reading it. However, I don't think the

author

is responsible for the

reader's

mindset."

"That's fair. I just...."

"What is it, Love? I won't judge you." Her tone is gentle and I find myself trusting her even more than usual.

"I

did

get off to it. Despite being revolted by the rapeiness, I got off on it and I felt sick doing it. Maybe it's my tendency to hyperfocus, but I didn't—

couldn't

—simply put it down and stop reading it. There's this cognizant dissonance in my head that I can't shake. I find consent hot, including CNC—though we're obviously not there yet, and I may never be—and I find nonconsensual sex—AKA rape—repulsive and gross and horrible, and yet...." I can't finish my sentence. "Does that make me a bad person? I am disgusted by myself."

Several tears have formed and begun their descent down my cheeks. Upon seeing them, Beatrix grabs and holds me tight. "Oh, Sarah. No, of course it doesn't make you a bad person.

"I'm guessing your ramp toward climax began before the story turned especially rapey?" I nod into her shoulder. "And you wanted to stop when it did, but you were already close to the edge?" I nod again. "I think that's completely understandable, Love. I think few people at that point could put the story down and adjust the fantasy setting in their head to retcon in some consent, or whatever the non-blue-balled solution to that situation is.

"It's obvious to me that, despite getting off to that erotica, you are not the least bit tempted to rape anyone, and even if you

were

tempted, so long as you never acted on that temptation, you wouldn't be a 'bad person' in my eyes. Thoughts

may

lead to actions, but ultimately, actions are what matter; they're what define someone's morality."

She holds me until my breathing slows back to normal. "Have you tried searching the mind control category with the 'consent' or 'consensual' tags?" she asks.

I start. "Actually, no, I hadn't thought of that. That- that's a good idea. Thank you. And thank you for understanding and comforting me. It means a lot."

"Of course, Sarah. Anytime. I love you." I feel warm then, my conscience relieved and fear of rejection entering remission for the time being.

"I love you, too, Bea."

Our conversation of limits, preferences, and kinks resumes. Though Beatrix has added a monitor to my head that notifies her when things are approaching too intense for me, there are times when a safeword is still helpful. For one, I can't tell if things are getting too intense for Beatrix, and she needs a way to halt things. For another, sometimes you just need a second to clarify things in the moment, out-of-character. We come up with two safewords: the ever so creative "O-O-C" for brief out-of-character conversations, and "POJO" for a full stop.

Nothing halts a fantasy like the Java Runtime Environment,

I think with a half-wince half-smirk half-grimace.

I reiterate to her that what I enjoy from BDSM is losing control, or rather, having it wrenched from me. When I do have control of my body during sex, my mind insists on reciprocating any affection so my partner isn't doing all the work. I can't simply keep my mind in the moment and

enjoy

myself, enjoy my partner. Being controlled—or bound with no give, completely immobile—alleviates this instinct. "If I have no choice but to endure this pleasure, if I physically

cannot

reciprocate right now, why not enjoy it? No shame, no guilt, no worry. Plus, someone I love and trust taking over my body is just plain hot.

"Since this is one of the primary drives for my BDSM-y kinks," I say, elaborating on my limits and preferences, "the classic masochistic pain for its own sake does not appeal to me. Neither do I feel that I 'deserve' to be punished; there's nothing cathartic about pain or punishment. I'm not into being made to do anything gross—no human waste or eating cat food or anything. Blaming me for something I didn't do—like say, if you poured a drink on the floor, then scolded me for making a mess and made me lick it up—that would be an instant turnoff. I will also react very poorly to being shamed or disciplined for anything I

actually

did wrong. However, for instance, deliberately showing up two minutes late to give you an excuse to punish me...? Well, I admit to nothing." I shoot her a sly smile and she returns an amused one.

Beatrix has a hard limit on age play, though the idea of dolling me up in pigtails and cutesy clothing holds a certain appeal to her. She's indifferent to pet play, but is willing to try it if I'm interested.

"I'm more-or-less indifferent, too," I say, "but part of me is intrigued by the idea of either being turned into a cat or forced to behave like one so I can be a different kind of cuddly and relaxed, but there would be nothing sexual about that, and likely I'd only want to try it once. Part of the appeal is the cuddles, but most of it, I think, is academic. I want to think the lazy thoughts that cats think.

"One thing you'll find about me: I like new experiences. I don't mean the kinds of things normies usually mean when they say they like to try new things. I don't mean hiking new trails or trying new foods—in fact, I'm a rather picky eater. I like to experience new

situations

, new states of mind, new ways of thinking. I crave learning in all forms; mind control lets me learn what things

feel

like. I generally dislike traveling for its own sake—traveling to see all the sights and do all the things—but I love being in new places with people I love, or even with new friends. I do my best to soak up cultures, firsthand, and hopefully by doing so, become a little wiser, a little more understanding and compassionate."

Bea looks at me then scoffs. "And you're worried that you're a 'bad person'?"

"Yeh," I concede. "I'm not the kind of person to perform a victory dance at coming in second place." She looks taken aback. "I'm saying I could learn a thing or two from you."

"Just one or two?" she chides.

I fanfare the opening to the Final Fantasy victory music. "Dunnn dutdutdut dunnn dun dun dutduhdunn! Beatrix's pedantry skill increases to 6!" It earns me a punch. "Thank you, Mistress," I say, insincerely.

Based on the significant gap between the twentyish minutes the conversation felt like to me and the thirtyish minutes the clock says the conversation actually lasted, plus the sudden increase in lingering arousal I feel in my core, I suspect that Bea and I discussed some of our fantasies and then she wiped my mind of the details. The thought sends tingles down my everywhere.

Chapter 8 Appendix Entry 8.1 ⭐

Abruptly, Beatrix Speaks, "

Whenever I ask or tell Sarah to do something and include the word 'please', she will immediately stop what she is doing, and do as I have requested.

"

Well, now I know what we talked about,

I think.

That's- mmh. So simple yet so... mmmrh.

How had I never thought of that?

* * *

Lunch is over, and we're back in my dorm room. Bea and I are playing Smash Bros. and unlike the thorough butt-kicking I took in Mario Party, the game is a much tighter contest, though I am the better player.

I have her on the ropes with two lives to her one, and a seventy-five damage lead. One more finishing move, and the match is mine.

"Baby, would you go get me a glass of water?" she asks.

"Sure, after thi-"

"Please."

I drop my controller, stand up, and turn to grab a cup off my desk.

That's just cheap

, I think frustrated and annoyed as my inner sub squirms.

Alright. I may have no choice but to obey, but at least I can be quick about it.

"Please, take your time, Baby! I wouldn't want you to spill."

I slow.

There's nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all. I muster all my willpower to stop myself, to turn back, and win that Smash Bros. match, but no. Of course not. Mind impotent, my body walks out the door and down the hall to the bathroom, carefully fills the cup with water—not a single drop going down the drain—and walks back to the bedroom even slower. I'm a helpless passenger in my body until I bring her the water. And, of course, the match is over. Peach speaks her infuriatingly vapid victory line: "Oh, did I win?" Beatrix bears an expression to match: innocent, proud, and saturated with pity.

She timed it,

I realize.

She could have won thirty seconds ago, but she deliberately timed it so that I would hand her the cup right as Peach delivered her line.

I am in awe.

Inspiration strikes.

Loophole!

I spill the water in her lap.

Or, well, no, I don't. I can't. She, I realize, had said, "I wouldn't want you to spill," in the same breath she said, "please."

Damn her.

My inner sub purrs as she tugs feebly against the mental bondage.

Bea takes the cup of water from my hands and places it on the TV stand without taking a drink. I don't know whether to be irked, amused, or turned on, but either way, I sit down and we start the next match.

"Thank you for the water, Baby."

I stand up, again.

Wut?

"You are most welcome, Mistress." The words leave my lips unexpectedly; I'm baffled as they had not originated in my head.

What in the hell?

Heedlessly dropping my controller to the floor, I press my hands together, smile, and bow to Mistress.

I bow to Beatrix? I fucking

bow

to her?

Naturally, I'm indignant at this compulsion but above that I'm feeling ... bashful? The way I'd feel if I were to bow to her in public mixed with the awkward, starstruck feeling of being thanked by someone far superior to me for so small a favor. A blush I don't understand—shouldn't feel—fills my face, and I feel self-conscious; I

need

to show Mistress my utmost respect, and I hope my humility will please her.

No seriously, Beatr Mistress. What in the actual fuck?

Had "Beatrix" really just been forcibly overwritten with "Mistress" - in - my - thoughts?! I try a few more times.

Bea Mistress. B' Mistress. Mistress. Mistress.

Mistress smiles with villainous innocence as Kirby falls to his death, having only taken five damage.

I am so wet.

* * *

"Who knew getting a cup of water could be so seductive?" Beatrix muses. She grabs the still-full cup and takes a sip, wisps of a smile at the corners of her lips.

We're both sweaty and sticky; the tangy taste of Beatrix lingers thick on my tongue. I know I'm subby and I

am

eager to experience more of my fantasies, but sometimes vanilla sex just hits the spot. She hands the cup over to me and I take a few sips to cool off and combat my post-coital dehydration.

"Shower?" I ask.

"Do you

want

to shower?"

"No," I admit, "not really. But I don't want to be sticky and stinky either."

She nods. "

Sarah and I are both clean and smell faintly of vanilla and/or lavender.

"

I snicker.

"And/or"? Dork.

"I notice you didn't add 'clothed'," I chide. I do enjoy being nude around Beatrix, and Lord knows I enjoy the view when Bea is, but I'm starting to get cold, so I grab my dress off the floor.

Now that the dress is in my hands, though....

How does this work?

I'm confounded as I flip it around, trying to determine where the top is. I turn, rather embarrassed, to ask Beatrix for help and find she is fully clothed, makeup done and hair in that immaculate ponytail.

Chapter 8 Appendix Entry 8.2

I look down at my dress again.

Am I that incompetent? I could swear I've done this before.

A wave of shyness washes over me as I realize I'm naked while she's covered. We're not on equal footing anymore.

"Need some help?" Beatrix asks kindly. Her offer is earnest without a hint of patronization.

"Umm. Yeah, I think I do." I blush, knowing—

knowing

—that I used to know how to don a dress.

I mean, I love dresses. I wouldn't love dresses if I didn't know how to use them. And I had clothes on before we had sex. Right?

My memory is a little fuzzy, and I'm suddenly unsure.

I hand Bea my dress, somewhat sheepishly. "Put your arms up, like this." She demonstrates, raising her arms in a sort of Y-shape, hands angled as if on display: the pose of a comedian closing her set with, "Thank you and good night!" to rapturous applause. The stance doesn't make sense to me, but who am I to argue? Bea's the expert on clothes-wearing. "And make sure you smile with your mouth slightly open or the hem will get caught on your lips." I do so, feeling slightly dubious about that logic.

"On second thought," she says, "I kind of like you like this.

Freeze

."

Oh.

I get it now. Beatrix must have Spoken to make me forget how to put clothes on. I still don't know

how

to get dressed, but at least I know with certainty that I'm not an idiot. Know with moderate certainty, anyhow. Probably.

Mistress walks around me, eyeing her new human manikin. Standing in front of me, I see her reach her hand downward, but unable to move my eyes, I can't see where. She softly pinches my right hip fat and smiles admiringly at it. "My, you are a cute one, aren't you, Pet?"

By instinct I say, "Thank you, Mistress." But of course I can't. I can breathe, but my vocal cords are completely paralyzed. I make no sound at all.

She looks me in the eye, now, and caresses my face. "Oh!" she says, the 'h' clipped. "Manikins don't blink." I hadn't even realized I

had

blinked, but now, whether I am thinking about it or not, I can't move my eyelids.

She walks behind me and returns with her signature light pink scarf. Mistress loosely wraps it around my neck, accenting my seamless black leather collar. The scarf is softer than I had expected, made of alpaca wool or another luxury fabric. She pulls one end down between my breasts, ostensibly for aesthetic reasons. However, she leaves the tassels right where they tickle my lower lips. I

ache

to adjust them, to stop the itching, but remain completely still.