Subclasses

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It's Tuesday morning, the last day of February. Gabi left five minutes ago for her French class in the Humanities Building on north campus, but I still have a little time before I need to leave for Automata Theory in the STEM Building.

I knew it would be cold today, so I had checked the weather before choosing my outfit: a high of 39­­°F (3.8°C), currently 33°F (0.6°C) and snowing.

About a foot from the door, I reach for the handle when my body changes. It's not a full transformation, maybe an additional 5% girly, but it's noticeable. I shrink half an inch, my cheeks and butt fill out a bit more, my hips widen slightly. My hair gains a bit of body and luster.

Cool,

I think,

Bea must have decided that people's memories have adjusted to seeing me at 5'81/2" (174cm) long enough that we can move onto 5'8" (173cm).

To my surprise, a full-length mirror springs into existence hanging on the door, granting me a view of the changes. I approve.

I reach an inch further to the door handle and my breasts grow out to C-cups—the size they are when I'm 100% girly–-my bra adjusting to compensate.

I guess people will just think I'm wearing an especially padded bra?

Then my bra vanishes.

With each additional inch closer to the door, another piece of clothing changes.

My oversized, purple wool tunic becomes a white, short-sleeve button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone. Its cotton is thin enough that a hint of the light tan of my skin shows through. It's loose around my arms and midriff, but my breasts have enlarged enough that they press taut against the fabric. The small area of double-ply provided by the shirt's two breast pockets are all that hide the dark shade of my nipples.

My heavy Michelin Man winter jacket vanishes outright.

My jeggings transform into my wavy black skirt pulled up to two inches below my breasts, so the bottom hem reaches mid-thigh.

My thick wool socks turn into sheer, white thigh-highs ending just below my skirt, revealing half an inch of skin.

My collar becomes a gray necktie beneath the oversized collar of my shirt in a loose

four in hand

uneven knot, more a necklace than a tie, which ends at my navel.

My uggs become delicate black leather pumps with sturdy, one-inch heels and a strap just above each ankle.

At last my fingers touch the handle and– I lift the bottom of my skirt with my left hand to check. Yep. My panties are gone.

Very cute, Beatrix,

I think,

but this is too impractical for this weather, not to mention mildly sexier than is appropriate for a collegiate setting.

I turn back to undress to change into winter clothes.

The buttons of my shirt won't come undone. I can see the buttonholes, see that the buttons aren't sewn to both layers of the shirt—there's nothing special about them—but they simply won't move. I try to pull the skirt off, thinking I can at least put on some pants, and it won't budge either. Nor can I unclasp my shoes. I only have one jacket, and it's vanished to who knows where, but I figure a cardigan will be better than nothing. My hands won't go into the arms; they slide right over the holes, as if the holes are an illusion.

I briefly consider skipping class, but remember I have a quiz today.

Dammit, Beatrix.

I frantically try to come up with some other solution, but a glance at the clock shows I need to leave now or risk being late. I turn back to the door and see a sticky note on the mirror.

Naughty girl

, I read,

trying to change the clothes your mistress picked out for you. For that, I've fixed up your hair.

I look at my reflection; my hair has been done up in two long pigtails held in place by ribbons—one pink, one powder blue—tied in bows.

A mixture of emotions fills my gut. I find the whole getup extremely attractive, and in a different situation, would give my wholehearted approval. However, the prospect of walking into class wearing these clothes fills me with dread. My pussy betrays me, submissive that I am, becoming slick in preparation for fingers that won't provide satisfaction for at least a few more hours.

With no recourse, I grunt in frustration and open the door.

* * *

I exit Stack 6, and to my vast relief, find that I am warm, supernaturally so. Bea doesn't want me to be uncomfortable. Or at least, she only wants me a specific kind of uncomfortable. I begin my trek north, paying no heed to the havoc the dirt path might wreak on my classy shoes.

Once through the tunnel and onto the brick path, I drop my gaze to the ground in front of me—a veritable requirement of traversing Western's campus if you want to avoid tripping on the brick pathway—and notice my shoes are as pristine as they had been before I left. Despite my current frustration, I have to admire Bea's foresight. She toys with me and often throws me into embarrassing situations, but I cannot deny that she also protects me in the midst of her games. She cares deeply for me, and I love her for it.

A gust of frigid headwind blows out the back of my skirt high enough to reveal a fraction of my ass.

Yep,

I think through gritted mental teeth,

I. love. her.

I get more than a few appreciative glances from the dudes I pass, and I notice that even a few chicks are checking me out. I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I realize that I'm really not. I feel attractive, even in this 85% masculine body, and it's a major boost to my esteem.

As I reach the entrance of the STEM Building, I get a glimpse of myself in its glass door. I'm supernaturally warm; somehow it did not occur to me that this would melt the snow. My thin white shirt is damp—not enough for a wet t-shirt contest, but enough to hint at the color of my nipples, erect from the nippy weather, through the double-ply fabric.

Fantastic.

You know what?

I think, pulling open the door.

Screw embarrassment. I have no choice in this situation. I'm hecking sexy. I'm going to own it.

Decision made, my entire outlook changes. I feel

good

. Bea may have intended to humiliate me—for my own subby pleasure—but the opposite happened. Yes, my attire is slightly inappropriate, however, I look cutesy, not trashy or gaudy. It's not so revealing that I'll get in trouble. So far, all the sidelong glances I've noted have been positive rather than reproachful.

I chuckle as it suddenly occurs to me that I didn't even consider using the safeword in my dorm room. I'm certain that, had I, my clothes would have all changed back. At the time, it had seemed like too much—I had been genuinely miffed—but it really hadn't been. I didn't forget about the safeword—if it had crossed a line, I

would

have used it—I just didn't need to, so it didn't occur to me. Once again, Beatrix proves she knows my limits better than I know them, myself.

"Aren't you cold?" Joe asks as I take my seat beside him. He's one of the three guys with whom I compete for the highest grade in our shared CS classes—not for any practical reason, just for bragging rights. He's currently winning in this class, but I have two points on him in Data Structures. I carefully cross my legs, all too conscious of the view I'd expose otherwise.

"Nope," I tell him, smiling. "I think the temperature was shocking enough that my skin forgot to notice."

"Hah. Well, you look good," he says, with an involuntary glance toward my chest.

"Thank you," I say appreciatively, but smirking at his line of sight.

He catches my smirk, blushes, and looks away. "You, uhh, ready for this quiz?"

"Always am!"

"So, uhh." He clears his throat. "What's the occasion? For the attire, I mean."

Crap. I knew he was going to ask that.

"This quiz, obviously," I say, overconfidently using the first words that come to mind. "I gonna make pushdown automata look

gooood.

"

He laughs. "Yeah, I bet the class average on the quiz would be 10% higher if

you

had taught us how to convert a state machine to a regular expression while wearing those thigh-highs."

"No, in these thigh-highs, I'd be teaching how to make regular

sex

pressions."

"Heck yes!"

* * *

Between classes, I head for the restroom. I reach under my skirt to pull down my panties before remembering that, thanks to Mistress, I'm not wearing any. The action, however, makes me wonder when my inability to undress will end. I experimentally undo the top button of my shirt and succeed.

So, it was probably when I left my room or the Stack,

I decide.

Maybe it's time for a little loving payback.

I begin brainstorming, and an idea springs to mind. It's one I've always wanted done to me, but I'm feeling sexy, dominant. The notion of topping Beatrix, especially when she expects me to have been flustered with embarrassment, excites me more than I can put into words.

I don't Speak—I don't know if I'm alone in the bathroom—but I prepare to in order to check if I have access to Bea's ability. I feel that resonance and hold it for a second before releasing it.

Excellent.

A few more auxiliary ideas jump out at me.

I think Gabi deserves a little revenge, too.

Having finished relieving myself, the imaginary Sims diamond floating above my head restored to a lustrous green, I head south to the Biology Building for Data Structures where I take notes.

Only some of them are about structuring data.

* * *

There are two problems,

I think as I go over the scenario in my head on my way to the VU.

The first is consent.

What I'm planning is blatantly mind control. If Bea were to pull this on me, should things get too intense or uncomfortable, my consent would end the effect due to the limitations of her ability. While I'm uncertain of the truthfulness of her belief, she believes that she is not protected from the effects of her own ability the way that I am, and we've never tested it. Since that first time compelling her to kiss me on Saturday, I haven't used her ability.

We probably should have tested it. It's why she wanted to try ending the bond in the first place.

It's too late now unless we want to test it and then temporarily wipe her mind of the test. She's done that kind of thing to me. Still, it would take some of the fun out of my plans; doing something academic like this would pull the scientist in me to the forefront, likely crowding out my inner domme's rare appearance.

Oh!

I slap my forehead, earning me a weird look from the guy walking toward me.

I'll just make sure she can say POJO, even in the midst of her trance.

Problem two is logistics. Initially, I thought I'd meet her in her room and let my unexpectedly assertive demeanor surprise her. However, I'm hungry, and we already have plans to meet for lunch. I could text her to have her grab food and bring it back to her room, but that ruins the surprise, as well; she'd know

something

is up, even if she didn't know what. She's expecting me to be cowed. She's not expecting me to have devious plans of my own.

Another logistical problem occurs to me.

Problem two-point-five

, I think, because for some reason admitting there are three problems when I had already stated there were only two feels icky to me, even though I didn't say it aloud—look, my mind doesn't make sense to me either—

is that if I use her ability, the drain on her battery will tip her off.

For that matter, while it's unlikely she's running on fumes, I don't actually know that she has the energy for me to use.

Maybe I solve one problem with another.

She's expecting me to be submissive when I get to lunch. I can just pretend to be, thus charging her battery. Then, on the way from the VU to her room, I can Speak, either making her not hear me or feel the drain on her battery, or making her forget what I said and that she had been drained. I can't imagine my plan will take that much of her energy, certainly not compared to some of the other feats I've seen her perform, such as turning me into a cat multiple times without recharging in between.

Yes, this should work.

* * *

"You're late," she says. I feel two phantom fingers slip into my vag and begin pumping in and out. It's impossible not to squirm under the treatment, but I manage to hold in most of it.

"I'm so sorry, Mistress," I say, only half feigning a submissive tone.

"Good girl." My will threatens to buckle at those two simple words. I decide to try something I first read of in

Wizard's First Rule

by Terry Goodkind, and have since read of in a few other places. I partition my mind, compartmentalize it. The part of me that's feeling sexy and dominant gets shoved into one container to be recalled later, while the other part can fawn and simper and drool all she wants.

"You look cute, today," she says. The fingers increase their speed, causing my eyes to roll back in my head and my abs to tighten. Each penetration stimulates my clit just a little, just enough to drive most thoughts from my head, just enough to fill me with need, but not enough to push me toward a climax.

"Thank you," I say to a jagged cadence. "I thought the pigtails were a bit much, but I know how much you like them."

She gives me a wide, playful grin, and the disciplinary fingers evaporate. "I hope it wasn't

too

much," she says, Sexy Dominatrix making way for Loving Girlfriend to surface.

"At first, I thought it was, but once again, you demonstrate you know my limits better than I do," I say. "It was fun." She sighs in relief. "I appreciate that you kept me warm, too, even if it did melt the snow and make my shirt a bit transparent."

"Oh! I hadn't considered it would do that!" A lusty blush tints her cheeks. "Now I wish I had watched."

"I'm surprised you didn't."

"Unfortunately, I had to finish some last minute homework before class. I just wanted you in the...

proper

mood by the time you came to lunch."

"Oh? Am I in for some trouble when we get back to your room?"

"That would be telling, now wouldn't it?" She gives me a wide, mocking grin.

A contest of wills, then,

I think.

This should be interesting.

Hopefully our respective commands don't clash too badly. As it appears Bea has finished with her games for now, I let the confident domme out of her cordoned section of my mind. The pent up arousal Bea had thrust into me only bolsters my assertive persona.

Best avoid that clash, altogether,

I think.

When I Speak my plans on the way to her room, I'll also undo whatever she's planned, but let her think they're still in place.

We spend the rest of lunch joking around and discussing various miscellanea, just enjoying each other's presence like we normally do.

"If there was a crime," I say, kicking off a new topic, "that you could completely divorce from all negative consequences—legal, ethical, moral, and otherwise—if performing this action hurt absolutely no one and had no negative effects on the world, what would you do?"

"Oooh, that's a good question. Let me think about it a bit. I trust you have an answer in mind for yourself?"

"I'd probably be an arsonist," I say. "I think fire is nifty, and it might be fun to see how big of a fire I could make."

"I can see the appeal. Bonfires are fun, so why not something bigger?"

With Bea, I know I don't have to elaborate or qualify my explanation to ensure she understands that, because arson

does

have consequences, I'm not remotely tempted to burn down a building in real life. The presented hypothetical was explanation enough, so there's no judgment. It's something I once again find myself so grateful for: besides being my domme and my girlfriend, Bea is my best friend with whom I can truly be every version of myself without reservation. That is so incredibly rare to me.

"I think I'd be an art thief. Or maybe pull a bank heist. Something requiring an elaborate scheme and precise execution."

"Not world domination?" I ask, half teasing, half curious.

"Nah, I reserve my domination for those worthy of it."

"Thank you, Mistress." I smile at her.

"You're welcome, Pet.

"But yeah, I think I'd want to try to steal something with an elegant plan that avoids the use of weapons, just to see if I could pull it off."

"Who doesn't love a good heist movie?"

"Exactly!"

* * *

We get to her room, I close the door behind us, and Bea Speaks, "

Be girly.

" Then she sits in her computer chair and swivels it to face me expectantly.

I had spent the walk here using Bea's ability under my breath to prepare my plan: first, making her not notice what I was doing; second, undoing whatever machinations of her own she had in place; third, ensuring her access to our safewords; and finally, Speaking one simple statement with a world of intent behind it. "

Beatrix finds my tits hypnotic.

" Each line I Spoke turned me on more, made me feel more empowered, more ready to flip our fantastical dynamic on its head and make Beatrix

mine

.

She crosses her legs and strikes that domineering pose that on any other day would have my will twisted around her little finger in a heartbeat: legs crossed, long blonde hair in her customary pristine ponytail held in place by painted wooden chopsticks, right arm under her bust, left elbow resting upon it, left hand on her face with fingers splayed. Aloof, thoughtful, and unequivocally in control.

I meet her expectant gaze head on, and she visibly startles. "You– You're not–" Then she blushes deeply, and I can't help but think she looks eminently aroused.

"I'm not what?" I say with a wolfish grin.

"But I..." I arch an eyebrow at her and she trails off. The normally unflappable girl is flustered.

To draw attention to my chest, I loosen my necktie—hardly necessary considering it had always been loose enough to fit over my head—pull it off, then languidly untie the bows from my pigtails and shake out my hair. She stares at me, dumbfounded, the whole time.

I have her.

I pretend to struggle to unbutton the third button of my shirt—the first one she had left buttoned this morning. "Would you help me?" I ask. "It's kind of warm in here."

She rushes to me.

Good girl,

I think at her; there will be time to say it aloud, later. She quickly undoes one button, eyes fixed on my cleavage, and moves to start the next. "Just one for now, Love."

"Oh! Of– of course," she says shyly with a slight tremble.

I take her chin in my hand and gently, but firmly, lift it until she meets my eyes. "Thank you," I whisper. She smiles in response, and then I pull her to me and kiss her slowly. I wait for her to close her eyes before I close mine. I press my tongue to her lips and wait and wait and wait. Beatrix opens her mouth, and I move inside her. She moans and leans further into the kiss.

I drop my right hand to the small of her back, then run the fingers of my left up her body, and she shivers. They reach the nape of her neck, which I massage briefly, before continuing upward. I pluck one chopstick from her hair and drop it on the floor. It makes a soft triplet of clicks on the hard ground. As if sensing the symbolism of the act, she moves to break the kiss, and I let her.

She looks at me full in the face. Fear, excitement, and

intrigue

war across her expression. I can read her thoughts in her eyes as plainly as I hear my own:

This wasn't what I wanted.