It’s time for bed. We both sense that tonight—our first night sleeping in the same bed—is special.

  I stand before her, my arms atop her shoulders and hands behind her neck, hers resting at the small of my back. We share a slow, intimate kiss. Her lips are magic, her tongue even more so. Our mouths part.

  My hands trail from her shoulders to the first fastened button of her vender blouse. My mouth—and pussy—waters as her plump breasts slip further into view with each unfastened button. As I work the final two buttons with my fingers, my lips apply a tender kiss to the tops of each of her breasts, then kiss down her front, from her sternum—breasts pressed against my cheeks—past her jeweled belly button, to the top of her gray, librarian-esque pencil skirt. I straighten, untuck the tails, and gently tug her blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, my thumbs leaving a trail of sensitized gooseflesh in their wake.

  We share another deep kiss as I reach around, uncsp her bra, and slide it off her shoulders. We pull away from the kiss, and I take a step back to examine the fruits of my bor. My mouth opens slightly as I take her in. “Beatrix,” I say, shaking my head a little in disbelief, “you are stunning. Inside and out. Inside, inside, and out,” I amend, my lips quirking up on one side.

  Beatrix smiles bashfully at the intimate quip then closes the distance between us. She squats down, so her eyes are level with the bottom of my dress, then slowly rises, pulling the dress with her. Her eyes read every detail of my feminine physique as it’s revealed. Once standing, she lifts the rest of my dress up over my head and back down, off my arms. She drops it on the floor, forgotten; presses our bare midriffs together; and leisurely uncsps my bra. It joins my dress as Bea kisses a serpentine path down my torso, taking an extra second to lick and suck on my soft nipples. They pull inward and erect at the intimate touch.

  At my pantyline, she teases the skin with her tongue. I suppress a divine shiver as she moves it back and forth, slipping under the cloth. She continues, her mouth matching pace with her hands, as they slowly pull the panties over my firm, round bottom, and drop them from my thighs to the floor. My lover finds my clit and gives it a brief massage with her tongue. I fail to suppress a moan at the sensation, and she smiles as she rises.

  As she slowly stands back up, I look down at her. I see my panties in my peripheral vision, and notice for the first time that they aren’t the underwear I put on this morning. Evidently, my bodily transformation was so complete, that even my clothing had transformed, the tight blue gaff becoming a girly, silken pair of powder blue contoured cheekies. I was wearing panties that would make my mouth water, and didn’t even know it, I think wryly.

  Our bodies—mine soft, hers taut—meet once more. My hands slide down her impossibly smooth back. She giggles at the touch and says, “Your hands are cold.”

  I grimace. “They always are. Raynaud’s syndrome is a bitch.”

  “I like it,” she says, both pyful and sincere. “I run hot and your hands feel good.” I smile at that. We really do complement each other, I think.

  One hand at the small of her elegant back—her dimples of Venus spaced serendipitously to match the tips of my thumb and forefinger—I unzip her skirt with the other. Then both hands swiftly push it to the ground. I startle, discovering that she’s not wearing any underwear. She gives me an impish grin and a carefree shrug. Given the state of her pussy, I wonder absently how her skirt didn’t soak through. As if reading my thoughts, she says, “I may have stain-proofed my skirt with my ability. While I certainly intend to embarrass you in public with signs of arousal, it just wouldn’t do for your domme to be embarrassed, now would it?” I smile pcidly, while inwardly I revel at this kink I hadn’t known I possessed. I tremble at her promise to fulfill my burgeoning fantasy.

  Head now eye-level with the lips of her vulva, I get my first real look—unhurried by passionate lovemaking—at this feminine feature my exes have said are ugly, but which I have always found the most beautiful. Her lips protrude below her pelvis just slightly—just enough that there’s a hint of its shape through her underwear. That suggestion, veiled by cloth, drives me mad with lust; exposed, however, there’s only beauty, artwork I could contempte for hours on end and never grow bored.

  I give her clitoris a quick tryst with my tongue, returning the favor, then stand upright. Bea—nude but for her rectangur gsses that complement her discarded librarian-inspired attire—and I—in only a pair of sheer, white school-girl thigh-highs and pstic purple cat-eye gsses—stand before each other, completely, unabashedly naked. Beatrix is a marvel to behold. That long blonde hair done up in the sexiest domineering ponytail I can fathom. Her fwless face, marked only by a light dusting of perfect freckles. Her small, delicate ears, lobes pierced by amethyst studs, her left ear sporting an industrial piercing spanned by a chrome rod. Her lush li–

  “God. Sarah, you are positively divine,” Beatrix says, her British accent thicker than normal. It pulls me from my trance-like admiration. I flush, both fttered and uncomfortable at the bittersweet compliment. “What’s wrong?” she asks. She leads me by the hand to sit beside her on the bed.

  “I…,” I start. “It’s just that you’re saying this body is beautiful.” I gesture down at myself. “This body that I love, this body that is me, but that isn’t mine. It’s a loan I can enjoy when I’m with you, but that I can’t keep.”

  Beatrix takes my hands in hers. “But it is yours. This is who you are inside and out. I didn’t take any part in designing this body; all I did was expose it. It’s yours, through and through.”

  I give her a wan smile. “Thank you, Beatrix. That– that helps.” I know it will take a while to set in, and I do worry that we’ll break up and I’ll lose access to this body for good, but her words did dispel my belief that it was a product of our combined designs. There are details of my transformed body that I hadn’t expected—ones that I never noticed in my internal image or differ slightly from it. For instance, my shoulders, while decidedly feminine, are still broader, a little more angur than I would have picked. Even though I have yet to get a good look at my butt, it feels fuller, rounder, and tighter than the one I had imagined—a significant improvement over the butt I had pictured: the midway point between the long, ft mannish ass I was born with and this beautiful curvy new one. Those were touches, I realize, that I had assumed were hers, not my own.

  “As for the second part,” she continues, “well, we’re working on that, right? Within just the two days I’ve had with you, I’ve felt my ability grow in strength. Before I met you, I could apply the transformation for about sixteen hours. Now, I bet, that number is up to eighteen. It might seem like a small change, now, but you know how studying a new topic is: the more you learn, the faster you learn new material about it. Trust me, with your help, my ability will strengthen exponentially.”

  “Thanks,” I say calmly, smiling at her more for her enthusiasm and dedication than because I’m convinced. “I just wish I could see myself.”

  “What?” she says, startled.

  “I wish I could see myself. You gave me that hand mirror, but I don’t have a full-length one.”

  “I–” her mouth hangs open, “I can’t believe I didn’t consider that. Give me onnnnnnne sec.” Bea elongates the pronunciation of “one”, infting it like a balloon before popping it with “sec”. She stands and retrieves the hand mirror from her closet. “This is a full-length mirror.” Her hand jerks at the sudden new weight; I move to catch her, but she lets go and regains her bance before she can fall over. A sheepish expression slides up her face as she rights herself.

  I step in front of the ornate standing mirror. My jaw drops. I am positively divine. My hair, straight at the roots, but ending in loose, natural curls, is significantly fuller than the ft strands I only ever had to work with. It’s more auburn, warmer than its original dirty blonde.

  My breasts are full and perky—something I had noticed in the hand mirror, but this angle provides a whole new perspective. I barely need to pull my arms in to produce the cleavage I found visually irresistible entering puberty in seventh grade. I still cringe from time to time remembering how btantly I used to stare. And now, here I am, a woman whose chest I would have ogled for minutes on end.

  I fall somewhere between Gabi’s luscious curves and Beatrix’s sleeker—but no less feminine—build. I have some chub now—before this transformation, I was a stick at 5’10” (177cm) and 125 lbs (56.7kg)—and I find that the extra padding fits me. The weight enhances my figure; my sides form continuous, smooth curves, repcing the straight lines between my shoulders and waist, boxily attached to narrow, unpadded hips spread two pixels wider than the lines above them. While my legs are fleshier, the added mass was applied primarily to the outsides of my thighs, leaving a wisp of a thigh-gap. Embarrassingly, I get wet looking at my own reflection.

  And between my legs, my favorite feature: the thing I’ve longed for—ached for—my entire life. Unlike Beatrix’s, my bia lie ft against my pelvic floor, virtually no protrusion. Just a barely dimpled slit in my skin hiding bright, cherry-pink flesh. It’s not my “ideal” vulva, if such a concept merits existence, but it’s me. And I love it.

  “Can you make another mirror so I can see my back?” I ask Bea.

  “I’ll do you one better!” she says. “This mirror reflects whichever angles Sarah desires.”

  The image blurs into one of my back and butt. Damn. I wish I had that ass, I think automatically before remembering it is mine. It’s not heart-shaped or any silly ideal like that, but it practically screams femininity. It begs to be gripped, cupped, caressed. Licked.

  My legs and even my ankles have taken on a daintier cast.

  This is me. These legs, this ass, this vagina, these hips, this hair, these tits—all of it. All of it is Me. I sink to my knees and begin to sob. Bea joins me on the floor, holding me tight while I cry. “You were right,” I say as cheerfully as I can between sobs, “I am positively divine.”

  She buries her face in my shoulder and smiles. “And you’re all mine.”

  I look up at the mirror, and her eyes follow. The mirror’s reflection rotates and zooms in on Beatrix’s pussy. “And you’re all mine,” I say.

  Bea swats the back of my head. “Naughty pets get disciplined,” she purrs into my ear, then gives it a nibble.

  “My favorite part.”

  ??????

  Once the tears have stopped, we climb into bed. Lying on our sides, we face each other, legs entangled, faces bearing the stupid grins of new lovers. I trace invisible curves over Beatrix’s arms, chest, and back with the tip of a finger, an ice skater on a girl-shaped rink. When I stop, Bea says it’s both calming and pleasantly arousing, so I keep going. Over shoulders, around freckles. Spiraling in on her quarter-sized maroon nipples before zipping away again, a spacecraft using a pnet’s gravity to slingshot itself to another course.

  We talk of small things, the things people talk about when the emotions are too big, when speaking of them is pointless because their lover already knows, is already feeling the same things. Trying to grab hold of any part of those cotton candy emotions and squish it into words inevitably ends with giggling before a single word is uttered. We spend a lot of time giggling.

  When we’ve had our giddy fill, I roll over and scooch my way back into her. Our bodies spoon together as if they were designed to, every inch of my back touching every inch of her front. It’s warm and comforting and exciting and perfect.

  “I love you, Sarah.” My heart leaps that she says it first.

  “I love you, too, Beatrix.”

  With that, we drift softly to sleep.

  ??????

  Bea wakes up first. Half asleep, I hear her throw on some pajamas and head to the communal restroom down the hall. I fall back to sleep.

  When I wake up, she’s lying on the bed with me, scrolling through TikTok on her phone with headphones in.

  “Wuwimei’it?” I say with perfect annunciation.

  “Wuh wime wih wit?” she asks in Gibberish, native tongue of the Gibs.

  “What time is it?” I repeat.

  “It’s 9:30.” I can hear the affectionate smile in her tone. “Are you ready to wake up? I was thinking we could go out to breakfast. My treat.”

  “I–” I nearly object. Up until now, I had believed I was a guy for every date I’d ever been on. Though we’d sometimes split the bill, when we didn’t, I was accustomed to being the one to pay for the meal, movie tickets, one time tickets to the Washington State Fair, and so on. It feels weird to be treated, flying in the face of the fragile masculine veneer I had built and maintained for the first eighteen years of my life. “Yes, I think that would be nice. No one’s ever paid for my meal on a date before. Thank you.”

  “Date?” she asks in arm. “Is this a date? Are we dating?”

  I snort and toss a pillow at her.

  “Does Café Blue sound good?” Bea asks.

  “Perfect.”

  ??????

  “So,” Bea says after we order, “tell me about ‘frameworks’.”

  “A framework in software is a–” I cut off as an idea occurs to me. “Before I vomit a bunch of nerdy tech-speak at you, does your ability let you become an expert on things?”

  Beatrix startles. “I… I don’t know. Let’s find out. I know what a software framework is.” We’re silent for a moment. “Nothing happened. I didn’t even feel a drain on my battery.” She shrugs. “I guess my ability is limited to things I already know about, things I have enough knowledge to imagine. Maybe my physics degree will pay off after all.

  “Besides,” she continues, “I like listening to you expin things. Is…” she says, suddenly unsure, “that okay?”

  “Of course! I enjoy expining my passions. I just usually end up boring people with too much information. Let me know when you reach that point.”

  “I’m sure I won’t. I’m fascinated to find out how software of all things retes to my ability.” By all appearances, I have Bea’s rapt attention.

  I organize my thoughts and begin.

  ??????

  Imagine that software development is like building a new house. Frameworks, sometimes called “toolkits” or “SDKs”, are like sets of prebuilt appliances the contractors can install with little to no knowledge of their inner workings. A contractor can install a water heater and pce pipes throughout the walls and floors to hook up the dishwasher, washing machine, tubs, and so on. However, they don’t need to know how the dishwasher, washing machine, and—if they’re a moron—tubs work. All they need is to perform a quick test to ensure they’ve attached everything together correctly. After that, they can be confident that the appliances will Just Work?.

  Bea snorts at my verbal use of “?”.

  In this analogy, the appliances aren’t, themselves, the product. The product is the house. In the same way, frameworks aren’t the product, just things programmers can use in their code so they don’t need to build everything from scratch. None of us could build everything we need from scratch; we don’t have the knowledge and we certainly don’t have the time.

  The people who build the frameworks do need to know how they work, obviously, and that’s where I come in.

  One of the most important skills a coder needs is called “abstraction”. Abstraction is the concept and process of looking for patterns within a project and pulling the common parts out into reusable code rather than copying and pasting code all over the pce. A well-designed abstraction minimizes the amount of code duplication as well as the code one needs to test. In theory, if you thoroughly test the abstraction, you don’t need to retest those portions of the code when they’re used by other components.

  I am acutely aware of my strengths and weaknesses; I spend far too much time in introspection not to be. I don’t usually brag because it makes me uncomfortable, but abstraction is one of my greatest strengths. In truth, I’m exceptionally skilled at organizing abstractions. For whatever reason, it comes naturally to me. I look at the code I’ve written, or am about to write, and the logical abstractions just leap out at me. Purely intuition.

  In general terms, a framework is a set of abstractions—functions and objects that tons of programs need, so why not just put reted things in one pce, and share it with the masses?

  So, how does this rete to your ability? Right now, it seems you have figured out how to write a simple function that applies to a person. Though, considering the craftsmanship of this colr, maybe I’m not giving you enough credit—that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about. However, now that you’ve defined a simple function, you could also define another function like, “When I Speak that someone is awesome then do the following. They can only move pces via cartwheels. Protect that person from viotion. When they raise their eyebrows, their whole body rises with them.” Now this new function wards the person like you warded me without needing to list the entire set of effects you want, and applies additional effects or overrides them in some way.

  ??????

  I give Bea time to process, then she speaks. “I think I see how this might be useful but it seems kind of limited, too. It’s basically setting up shorthand; it’s convenient, but doesn’t change what I can do, what I’m capable of.”

  “It’s less about increasing your abilities than it is expanding your ideas of what’s possible. If you know you can do x, y, and z with a couple of phrases, you can start to think bigger,” I expin. “You would still need to remember the general concepts of x, y, and z, but you won’t need to remember the details in order to use them, nor would it take nearly as much time to Speak new effects into existence.

  “Having a framework in pce might also be useful if you want to change an effect you don’t like that is applied in multiple commands. Changing the one abstracted command will update all of them automatically.”

  “You mentioned that frameworks are shared so other people can use them. Is that useful for us?” she asks.

  I consider her question for a moment. “Well, no, not really. We can share what we set up with your internet friends, if you’d like, but unlike a software framework, they would still need to Speak everything we share for themselves in order for them to use it, not merely download it. Still, it would be easier for them to read what we’ve written than to come up with it on their own.”

  “Makes sense. I do have some ideas, but I think I would need your help to come up with more and turn them into a framework.”

  “That’s what I’m here for!”

  ??????

  When we get back to her pce, she renews my transformation. “Your body is that of a person born with two X chromosomes, the body that matches your identity.”

  “That right there,” I say. “While it’s probably not something you would use in other commands, you do it often enough that giving it a short name would be helpful.”

  “Oh! Good point. Whenever I Speak and tell Sarah to be girly, her body becomes that of a person born with two X chromosomes, the body that matches her identity.”

  I give her a round of appuse and she takes a bow. “Good! Would you mind a little feedback for next time?”

  “Yes! I’d appreciate it!” Bea says.

  “While I highly doubt you’ll be transforming anyone else’s body—so this command is good as-is—you could generalize it with ‘parameters’ to make it more versatile. We’ll have to work on the syntax, but something like,” I give her my best Speaking impression, “Whenev–”

  She bursts into ughter at my terrible impersonation. I grin at her and continue far too confidently in my rumbly voice.

  “Whenever I Speak and tell someone,” I emphasize the word to contrast it with ‘Sarah’, “to be girly or boyish, optionally appending for me, then apply the following to that person: if I specified boyish, then their body becomes that of someone born with an XY-chromosomal pair, otherwise their body becomes that of someone born with two X chromosomes. If the specified gender matches the person’s gender identity, their body transforms to match their internal image of their identity. Otherwise, if I specified ‘for me’, their body becomes how I imagine them, and, if I didn’t, how they imagine themselves with the set of chromosomes they’ve received.

  “I admit it is very wordy to set up—it wouldn’t be nearly so long with the symbols and keywords we use in programming nguages—but now, with three or five words, you can, one, change their sex chromosomes to whichever you want; two, make their body match their own identity or how they would imagine themselves with that identity; and three, by appending ‘for me’, optionally override their image with your own.”

  “Huh, I’m starting to see how this could be useful and—you’re right—more versatile.” She gives me an appraising look which shifts into one of appreciation and then to excitement. “Could you write that down for me? I want to practice!”

  I do so and she does. Then she Speaks a new function of her own. “Whenever I Speak and tell someone to be natural, optionally specifying a percentage, their body returns to that they were born with. If I specify a percentage, then they only detransform by that ratio, otherwise they return completely to their original form.” I smile at her use of “ratio”. Nerd.

  “Wow, you’re a quick study,” I say. I actually feel a sense of pride at how quickly Bea picked it up. “You sure you aren’t a computer science major in disguise?”

  “Gah!” she excims, holding her hand over an imaginary bullet wound in her chest. “You caught me! My pns to conquer the world have been thwarted! Now I must settle for only conquering you.” Her eyes turn wicked.

  “Come here, Pet.” She jerks her hand toward herself and I’m pulled by my colred neck. I go in for a kiss, then, but she takes a step back. “You don’t get a kiss after foiling my pns,” she chides. “You must make it up to me. Kneel.”

  I freeze at the sudden heady turn of events. Apparently, I take too long. I feel an electric shock on the back of my neck. “Kneel. I do not like to repeat myself.” The shock is strong enough that I fall to my knees involuntarily. “Good girl,” she says tersely. I whimper with need. She walks around me, invisible leash in hand, as she considers what my punishment should be. “For such a grievous sin, I don’t think my pet deserves clothing. Take off your dress and throw it to the floor behind me.”

  My body reacts before my mind can even process the command. I try to resist the sudden compulsion to move and… nothing. I haven’t an ounce of control over my body. Still kneeling, with no hesitation, no resistance or pause in my motion, I pull my dress off over my head and toss it carelessly to the floor behind Bea. It nds, a discarded green heap of cloth, well out of my reach. Looking down, I discover my panties were transformed minutes earlier into soft, ruched boyshorts, ones that don’t even hint at what’s beneath, but beg you to find out. Despite this, I have never felt so naked, as I do now. I’ve never felt so powerless, never so scared to lose my autonomy. I have never been so completely turned on.

  “Come here.” I begin to stand. “No, Pet. Crawl to me like the naughty sve girl you’ve been.” Feeling embarrassed and slightly humiliated, I feel a blush run up my face as I crawl awkwardly to my mistress. My breasts sway beneath me with each crawled step. The sensation feels … crass? Unceremoniously exposed. However, I catch the lust in Mistress’s eyes while she unabashedly watches them sway; I am an object of her desire, only an object.

  Mistress outstretches her hand, poised to catch something. The closet door bursts open, propelled by the flogger she’s summoned.

  She hadn’t Spoken. She must have prepared some things while I slept in this morning.

  No, I realize, she’s been preparing for this her whole life, fantasizing about having a sub and creating the supernatural tools she’d want to use to dominate her. It’s what I would have done.

  “Remove my underwear,” Mistress Beatrix commands. Today, she’s wearing a white, button-down tee shirt—one size too small, I’ve noticed, for her 32D bust—tucked into a short, light gray pleated skirt with seams of pink thread, and a pair of dark gray thigh-highs each topped by a tiny, blood red bow just above the knee. I reach for the bottom hem of her skirt. Whap! I feel the flogger sh across my back, sensitizing both my skin and my psyche. “If I had wanted you to use your hands, I would have said so,” she says as if it was obvious, holding me in an ironcd gaze.

  “May I use my mouth, Mistress?” I ask in a tone exuding more submissive obedience than I had pnned.

  She smiles wickedly. “Yes, Pet, you may use your mouth.”

  “Thank you, Mistress.”

  “Good girl.” My insides squirm. God, is that belittling. And fulfilling. And belittling because it’s fulfilling. I hate it. I love it.

  On hands and knees, I crawl until my head is beneath her skirt, compelled by my arousal as strongly as by any magic. As I rise, I press my face into her thighs. My nose slides between her pantied lips, and I hear her gasp.

  I tilt my head so that my mouth can reach the bottom hem of her heart-and-star-speckled, skin-tight boyshorts without disturbing the waistband of her skirt. When I bite down, I get a little of her leg along with the hem I was aiming for. She gasps at the nip. Whap! My ass stings for an instant, the pain quickly fading to heat. Involuntarily gasping, I open my mouth and lose its hold on the cloth.

  I pull my head back to see where the hem is, but I feel her hand holding me in pce from outside the skirt. “Did you let go of my underwear? If relying on your eyes results in biting my leg and losing your grip, then what use are they? Until I give her permission, Sarah loses her ability to see.” My vision goes dark. No, not just dark, not like being blindfolded in a dark room. My sense of sight, itself, vaporizes. I can no longer imagine what it means to see; it has become a foreign concept.

  I hear the mocking, sadistic mirth in her voice as she says, “You’ll have to take a more … tasteful approach.”

  I lick up the inside of her thigh, seeking the hem again. She moans, and despite myself, I feel a heady burst of pride at being the cause of that sound. I locate the hem, and, having learned what happens if I nip, I try to slip my tongue under it. It takes a few tries—and a few gasps from Bea—to wriggle under the tight-fitting cloth. I taste cum and stifle a moan of my own. Pinching the soft, wet cloth between my tongue and my top row of teeth, I carefully slide her underwear past her knees, and then let go, dropping them the rest of the way.

  Whap! “My underwear doesn’t belong on the dirty floor!” I begin to move my head in a blind attempt to pick them back up, but she stops me. “Leave it. It’s too te now.” She steps back, the front of her skirt shoving my head down from behind. Leather presses into my chin as she lifts my head to meet her gaze. I can’t see, but can still sense her eyes disappointedly appraising my face, still feel my diminutized role as my Mistress’s disobedient pet human.

  “No, Pet, for inconveniencing me, you owe me an orgasm. Your tongue will neither leave my cunt nor stop pleasuring me until I scream.” In an instant, my tongue is sticking out of my mouth—half again the length I can extend my tongue without it hurting—deep in her vagina. Her Spoken command had teleported me into that position. I hadn’t been maneuvered; I had been dispced.

  Beatix’s taint is sharp and tangy, somehow reminding me of a fecund jungle. I love the taste of women’s desire. I love Beatrix’s best.

  I physically cannot pull away from her more than the inch or two my tongue will allow. For the next five minutes, I lick and suck, her pleasure audibly building to match my own. Every time she’s on the edge, I feel her smother her arousal so the pending climax will be that much stronger. And, I think, to prolong my punishment.

  “Deeper,” she commands. “Use your hands if you need to.” My tongue is still bound to her vulva, but I use my hands to pull her by the ass closer to my mouth. My fingers tease between her cheeks, the tips brushing the sensitive skin rimming her anus.

  I feel Bea’s muscles tense as she stifles a startled scream so as not to break the spell. Recovering a moment ter—my tongue still firmly glued to her clit, a mindless sve to the compulsion of Bea’s ability—she says in her domineering tone, “I wonder how it would feel if your tongue and fingers switched pces.” I recognize the question disguised as the preamble to a command. Surprising myself, I nod my consent into the flesh above her slit. I’d never done anything anal-reted; until this moment, I had never wanted to. “… ass … anus … clean, now, … always will … begins pleasuring ….” I feel the command more than hear it as she Speaks under her breath. Then, addressing me, “Your tongue may not leave my ass nor your fingers cease pleasuring my twat until you make me scream.”

  I’m behind her, nose-deep in the valley of her soft ass, tongue touching the exact point around her rim that my finger had been. The residual cum on my tongue, lips, and cheeks lubricates the area. My finger has taken on my tongue’s job fondling her clit. My thumb joins in, and two fingers on my other hand slide into her depths, slick with arousal.

  It doesn’t take long after that. She arches her back and screams out in pleasure. I am released from my compulsion. But I am a good girl; I won’t stop with just one orgasm. Her legs trembling, she falls forward to her desk for support. I keep at it, sliding my fingers in and out of her. Between each orgasm, I vary the pressure, speed, and path of my thumb and forefinger over her clit. My face and tongue slide up and down between her Aphroditean ass cheeks. My tongue detours at her rosebud gate to tease its way into her, a little deeper—her moan a little louder—with each shallow dive.

  In all, I elicit four more orgasmic moans from her beautiful lips. “Good girl,” she says when her gasping subsides in a satisfied, liquid purr. While the clipped tone of her usual “good girl” leaves me craving more, this rendition makes me feel accomplished, a praise beyond the common treat used to train an animal.

  She recovers enough to leave the desk, then leads me—still blind and on hands and knees—by the colr with a finger. “Lie on the bed, face up, legs dangling off the edge.”

  “Yeth, Mithtreth,” I say with my exhausted, leaden tongue. Either she doesn’t remember I’m blind, or doesn’t care, so I grope for the edge of the bed frame with my hands, then climb up into her desired position.

  “You have pleased your Mistress well, Pet. How should I reward you? Your sight, perhaps?” I feel her sit on the bed next to me. “No, I think not.” She runs her hands up and down the length of my torso, each time stopping torturously short of my pantyline. “You are a cute one, aren’t you? I think I will reward myself for owning such an obedient sve girl. Let the pride of your pleased mistress be your reward.”

  She’s atop me, then, none-too-gently sliding her hand under my back. “Let’s see those exquisite tits I’ve given you.” She uncsps my bra and pulls me upward half an inch so the bra straps spring loose out to my sides. The cups jump up over my bust to smack me in the face. She pulls her hands out from under me, etching shallow, finger-width lines into my skin. Leaving the bra where it rests slung across my mouth, she says, “Ah, yes, I am quite the artist, aren’t I?” Quiet. “Answer me,” she demands with a sharp twist to each of my freshly exposed nipples. I scream at the rough treatment, and I feel myself wetten further.

  “Yesth, Misthtreth.”

  “Yes what, Pet?”

  “Yesth, you are a wonderful artitht, Misthtreth. Thank you for giving me thuch beauthiful tisth.”

  Her voice nds somewhere between warm, self-satisfied, and cruel as she says, “You are most welcome, Pet. It pleases me to do so. It wouldn’t do for me to own a pet that was anything less than beautiful, now would it?”

  “No, Misthtreth.”

  “Good girl,” she says, once again in her training voice. She climbs off me, leaving me suddenly chill, particurly where her cum-wet bia had rested against my inner thighs. I feel my face begin to itch as Bea’s own cum dries on my cheeks, but I know better than to rub it off.

  I can tell she’s on the floor facing my prone body, but little else. “Every sensation,” she Speaks softly but audibly, “Sarah gave me will bring her twice as much pleasure when I return the touch.” I’m equal parts stunned, aroused, and scared of the mindless puddle I suspect I’m about to become.

  She pulls me roughly by the hips toward her until my butt is hanging half an inch off the edge of the mattress. Even though I never touched her hips and do not receive a double dose of pleasure at the contact, my senses are heightened from the anticipation of what’s to come in combination with the residual sensitivity from the sh of her flogger and my blind inability to predict when and where the touch would nd. I moan. Loudly.

  Whap! My midriff stings at the flogger’s leather touch. “None of that. I don’t want a sound from you. You will not cum until I tell you to. Do you hear me?”

  I nod quickly in acknowledgement. Whap! “Yes, Mistreth.” Well, at least my tongue is recov–

  Her nails dig painfully into my thighs, just above my knees, but her touch softens as she strokes up between them. Up, up, u– She lifts her fingers just shy of my inner thigh crease—the skin spanning the gaps between my legs and outer lips. Forgetting myself, I moan out my carnal hunger. Whap! My outer thigh this time. There’s no accompanying verbal admonition, just the stinging sp of the flogger.

  She goes in again, this time caressing that skin between my legs and vulva. The sensation is incredible, overwhelming, mind-ending. Impossibly, I stifle this moan. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Sarah Prime notes Beatrix’s mistake: her command took the sum total of the sensations she felt on each piece of her skin, and now applies twice that total to my skin with every touch to my corresponding area. Rather than receiving sensations piece-by-doubled-piece, I’m getting every touch I gave her, twice over, every time. I choose not to make her aware of the error. Heck, who knows if it even was an error?

  She teases my ruched panties from my hips. I imagine her look of delight as my cunt is revealed, and feel a pleasure all my own, one neither amplified nor applied by Beatrix’s cruel imagination. I feel her tongue on my clit, and my consciousness dissolves.

  I am a being of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a formless creature aware only of the ecstasy of the omnidirectional touch of body against body. Over me, around me, inside me, through me. I lean into each sensation, become each sensation. Eons pass, and between each, a sharp climax of condensed bliss racks my being. How many eons? I wonder.

  I lose track at one.

  ??????

  When I wake, it’s to a fluid mass of aching muscles. I am spent. My vision has been restored, though whether by Beatrix’s choice or my de facto retraction of consent upon losing consciousness, I don’t know.

  Beatrix lies astride my body, waiting for my breathing to normalize. “You, my dear, were very naughty.”

  I raise a questioning eyebrow, mind too stupid to word good.

  “It’s like you didn’t even try to hold in your moans,” she chides, poking a bright red welt on the front of my left thigh. I wince. With a dramatic sigh, she concedes, “But, I had fun with you anyway. And considering the nine orgasms I counted, I’d say you did too.”

  I nod at her with a dazed expression.

  “You alright?” she asks, noticing my bepuddled state for the first time. I nod again, eyes unfocused, and her face contorts with concern. “Baby? Speak to me. Are you alright?”

  “I … will be,” I manage to shove through the mess of tangled wires that is my mind and out through my mouth.

  “Okay,” she says dubiously. She continues to watch my face closely, concern strengthened—not lessened—by my response.

  I close my eyes again, allowing my mind to take a break from processing visual input. It’s then that I notice I’m cold. Not just that, I am drenched. The sweat has started to evaporate in force, taking its heat with it, and now I find that I am severely dehydrated.

  “Water?” I croak.

  Bea rushes to grab a cup from her desk. “This cup is clean and filled with water.” She hands it to me, then helps me sit up. When it’s clear my muscles are too shaky to hold the cup still enough for me to drink, she adds, “There is a bendy straw in this cup.” I pull the straw to my mouth and gulp down several mouthfuls. Whether by oversight or design, the water is lukewarm, which I appreciate: it goes down easily and doesn’t tighten the muscles around my esophagus or risk an ice cream headache. “This cup is filled with water,” she repeats.

  My water tank replenished, the haze starts to dissipate. I’m at st able to focus my eyes enough to make eye contact. Beatrix releases a long, pent up sigh of relief. “I was worried,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, moving to sit up. I grab a bnket and drape it over our legs. “That was intense, to say the least. I don’t remember much after you told me not to come until you allowed it.” I start. “Did I wait?” I asked with a touch of panic.

  She snorts. “No. No, Love, you did not. You came hard not ten seconds after I told you to hold it in. You’ve got the welts to prove it.” She gives me a teasing, affectionate shoulder nudge.

  I nod, internally scanning my body. I find three welts and a dozen warm spots that had only been flogged once or twice. Of the welts, one is on my leg, one just below my ribs, and one, to my great confusion, on the bottom of my left buttcheek, none of which will st longer than a day before fading into a dark bruise. How did she reach my butt when I was lying on my back? I decide I’d rather not know.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For coming without permission.”

  She snorts again. “Well, Pet,” she says in a mock approximation of her dominant tone, “I guess that means we’ll have to do some orgasm denial endurance training.” I nod, and twist to lie on the bed lengthwise, my legs across her p as she remains sitting, her back to the wall. She gingerly runs her fingers up and down my legs, careful not to put pressure on any of the welts. “What happened?” Bea asks.

  “I more or less lost myself in a sea of bliss, pleasure mixed with small amounts of pain,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I know why the effect was so strong. If I’m right, it had to do with the phrasing of your command.” I expin my theory.

  When I finish, she says, “I am so sorry! I should have thou–”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I butt in to reassure her. “I enjoyed it. I realized what was happening after the first amplified touch and I chose not to tell you. You had my consent to continue.”

  “Still,” she says a bit calmer, “I never want you to lose consciousness when we’re having sex. Never again.” She thinks for a moment. “May I have your consent to monitor your…” She gestures inarticutely as she fails her search for the right word. “…level while we are pying? It would be like a safeword you never need to speak.”

  “I consent,” I say with unnecessary formality, and she nods crisply.

  “Whenever Sarah and I have sex I will know when Sarah reaches 85% of what she can handle. I will be notified if and when I cross her limit. I will be notified if she loses consciousness, whether she reaches her limit or not.” I feel another warm, ethereal monitor ring sink into my mind, overpping the first one, the one that lets her know when I fantasize about her. “There,” she says, “I feel much better about this. It was a learning experience,” Bea adds mostly to herself. I watch as her taut body visibly rexes. I grab her hand and kiss her knuckles. She squeezes my hand in response.

  “Was it okay,” she asks, “that I referred to your tits as things I had given you, works of art I had made? It didn’t occur to me until after the words left my mouth, and considering our earlier conversation, I was unsure whether it was okay. Obviously, I will never say things like that again, if you don’t want me to.”

  I am still unaccustomed to safety when expressing things that bother me, especially with people I’d be devastated to lose. I’m used to walking across a field of eggshells—padding my criticism in five yers of careful fttery and reassurances that whatever it is, they couldn’t have known—in order to preempt a defensive response and preserve the retionship. So, it takes me a second to work up the courage to reply to the direct question. “Honestly, it chafed at first. But soon after, I realized this body is a gift you’ve given me. While it may be my image, I did not have the ability to actualize it. You worked up the courage to entice me to your table, took me to your dorm room, revealed your most tightly held secret, and transformed my body in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It is a gift, Beatrix, one I will never forget and for which I am eternally grateful. After that, well, you can admire my ‘exquisite tits’ as often and for as long as you like. Are they mine? Did you give them to me? Same thing in the end.”

  Beatrix moves up next to me, and we spoon, our bodies seeming to fit together as cleanly as the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She strokes my hair and body, and I coo at all the right times. I twist my back to kiss her lips. The importance of tender, affectionate aftercare cannot be overstated. We cuddle for the better part of a half hour.

  “I’m sticky,” I say eventually.

  “Me, too,” Beatrix says. “Shower?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  We head, hand in hand, to the bathroom with naught but our towels to cover us. Bea waves to one of her neighbors walking by. I think he gives me an odd look, but I can’t be sure. If it exists at all, it fades before he passes us.

  Entering the loo, as Beatrix puts it, I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror. My colr is seamless, bck leather. Visible leather. And we just passed her friend. In towels. With a welt on my thigh. My face can’t decide whether to flush or drain at the realization. Staring at my reflection, I absentmindedly tug at the colr.

  “Oh. Right, umm,” Beatrix says, noticing my distress. “I… I forgot about that. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s… You know what? As embarrassing as it is, I love it. I think I love it especially because I didn’t know when it happened.” I shrug. “It seems retroactive embarrassment at something I couldn’t have prevented beats enduring the embarrassment live and in-person. Who knew? Not that I would be particurly opposed to said endurance.” I shoot her my best lesbian wink.

  Her pursed lips melt into a lecherous smile. “Good. I will keep that in mind. Just let me know if you ever want it hidden again.

  “And, for what it’s worth, while your consent to wear the colr in the first pce—a colr that had always had this functionality—plus your earlier consent to let me do to you as I please allowed for its visibility in front of Benjamin, I think it would have vanished if it had caused you to feel vioted. You’re allowed to be mortified,” she shrugs, “but not vioted.” I nod, and we step into the shower together.

  We wash each other, obviously. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to touch every curve and crevice of Beatrix’s body? And I’m far from in my right mind. And, I figure, who wouldn’t want to touch mine?

  Washing each other is an intimate activity, more intimate than one might imagine. Showering in tight confines in a well-lit room provides an excellent venue for aftercare; after the intense strain of a BDSM session, every tender touch and loving gesture becomes that much more special.

  We dry off, return to her room, and dress. I pull on my boyshorts and revel in the mirror at how cute I feel, how dolled up I look. So what if it’s a little infantilizing? I enjoy feeling cute. Then I search for my dress before remembering I had been compelled to toss it across the room. I relive the euphoric memory of having no control over my body as it moves at my mistress’s whim. It is a memory that I know will never fade, as vivid as—and more pleasurable than—the first time I had sex. I grab the dress from the floor and slip it over my shoulders, wiggling my body until gravity does its part to pull it straight.

  “So… lunch?” Bea asks, suddenly. I look up to see she’s been watching me fil in my dress, amusement dancing on her lips.

  “Lunch? It’s…” I look at the clock, stunned to find it’s only “12:15! Who has lunch at 12:15 in the afternoon?!”

  She ughs. “So, lunch?”