SarahDelfino

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

  It’s Sunday morning. I have my ptop in my p 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 nguage 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 ugh.

  “I’m trying to bridge the gap between how I think and how you Speak.” I shut my ptop and put it at the foot of the 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 eborate right now. I move in for a kiss, but she pces 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 nds.

  ??????

  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 viote 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, the mere discussion of which tiptoed 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 vioting 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 temporarily 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….” I trail off.

  “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 crify 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. It’s an improper expression.

  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, even thinking for me, is just pin hot.

  “Since this is one of the primary drives for my BDSM-y kinks,” I say, eborating on my limits and preferences, “the cssic 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. Bming 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 te 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 py, though the idea of dolling me up in pigtails and cutesy clothing holds a certain appeal to her. She’s indifferent to pet py, 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 rexed, 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 zy 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 pces 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 pce.” 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 sted, 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… mmrrh. How had I never thought of that?

  ??????

  Lunch is over, and we’re back in my dorm room. Bea and I are pying 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 pyer.

  I have her on the ropes with two lives left 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 gss 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 p.

  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 cerebral bondage.

  Bea takes the cup of water from my hands and pces it on the TV stand without taking a sip. I don’t know whether to be irked, amused, or turned on, but whichever, 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, BeatrMistress. What in the actual fuck?

  Had “Beatrix” really just been forcibly overwritten with “Mistress” - in - my - thoughts?! I try a few more times. BeaMistress. B’Mistress. Mistress. Mistress.

  Mistress smiles with vilinous 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 vanil 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 vanil and/or vender.”

  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.

  Chapter 8 Appendix Entry 8.2

  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 immacute ponytail.

  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. Maybe I’ve always been naked.

  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 dispy: the pose of a comedienne closing her set with, “Thank you and good night!” to rapturous appuse. 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 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 bck leather colr. 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, helplessly still.

  “This room is three degrees warmer. Wouldn’t want you to ache from the cold.” A kindness. She remembered that my Raynaud’s syndrome, a psychosomatic condition, causes me a lot of pain if I even imagine that I am cold.

  She sits down, turning her back to me, and unlocks her phone. From the corner of my eye, I can pick out the blue and white of the iPhone Messages app, but I can’t focus my vision to see who she’s texting, let alone what. My eyes, unable to close, start to water, and a tear runs down my cheek. My eyes aren’t the only parts of me getting wetter.

  Setting her phone down, Beatrix grabs a Nintendo controller, and begins an online game of Mario Party. I’m dumbstruck. Rather, if I could speak, I would be dumbstruck again.

  Chapter 8 Appendix Entry 8.3

  She just sits there. Pying Mario Party. While I’m standing here, naked, completely immobilized, teardrops running down my face, cumdrops running down my thigh.

  After five minutes, boredom starts to war with my arousal. She could have at least moved my eyes so I could focus on the TV.

  Another minute passes. How are my arms not tired? For the first minute or two, I had held them up, knowing I wasn’t allowed to move, but shortly after, I had wondered what would happen if I sckened my muscles, so I did. Somehow, my arms stayed in pce with no mental or physical effort at all that I can sense.

  She finishes turn four of her game. Bea stretches, turns around, and yelps. Did she really forget I was here? If she hadn’t—and I can’t imagine she had—she’s a spectacur actor.

  Bea gces at the clock. “Oh, you must be getting bored. I’m sorry, Baby. Let’s fix that.” Oh good, I think. This is one of my fantasies, but it’s getting a little old now. “While frozen, Sarah can’t get bored.” Say wut?

  Immediately, my focus turns sharp and my thoughts stir to life. I am acutely aware of everything I can sense, and it’s all so fascinating. Sarah returns to her spot, continuing her game. It’s a little unsettling how active and engaged my brain remains, while I stand here, motionless, staring bnkly above and off to the right of the TV. Any time a train of thought ends, another springs up to take its pce, some reted, some total non sequiturs. In both cases, I am anything but bored. In fact, I find my arousal rising again.

  ??????

  Beatrix finishes her game. In all that time, she didn’t look back at me once. Unable to get bored and continually agitated by the scarf’s tassels, my arousal rose steadily, bit by tantalizing bit. I’m three soft touches away from climax.

  Mistress turns to me then, a self-satisfied, tranquil look on her face at pcing first. “I suppose Gabi will be here soon,” she says offhandedly. If I could move my eyelids, my eyes would have bulged. “We should probably cover you up a little.” Mistress rummages through my closet. “Nope. No. Not these. These? Mmm maybe.” I suspect she’s making a show of it for my benefit. It’s working.

  At st, Mistress returns with a ruched pair of cy peach-colored boyshorts, ones bordering on lingerie, simir to the ones that my gaff had transformed into the other night, but a little cutesier—less revealing in cut, but more revealing in opacity. Honestly, I had forgotten I had even brought them to school with me, though, of course I had; I couldn’t have my parents running across them. None of us would have wanted that.

  “Sarah is wearing these panties.” And I am. I can feel the gentle estic tug against my waist and upper thighs. Mistress steps back to survey her work. “Oops!” she says. “Can’t have that showing when Gabi arrives.” She bends down and tantalizingly licks up the lube that had torturously dribbled down my thigh. Now only two soft touches from orgasm, I think. “That would have been embarrassing,” she says, chipper.

  “That”? I think at her incredulously. That is what would have been embarrassing? Not the fact that I’m practically naked and standing stone-still in the middle of Gabi’s and my dorm room?

  I feel her pressing pasties to my breasts. Where in the world did she get those? I don’t own any and I can’t imagine she took them from Gabi, if Gabi even has any. Has Beatrix been pnning this since yesterday?

  “Knock knock!” I hear Gabi’s voice as the door opens and shuts quickly.

  I feel that psychic monitor activate in my head. Beatrix knows this is quickly becoming too much for me. “Time speeds up for Sarah and me,” she mumbles very quickly. What I can see of the animation on the TV screen comes to a virtual halt.

  “For the duration of this time dition, Sarah can move her head and speak. Once it’s over, her face will return, frozen, exactly to where it was before.

  “How are you doing, Baby?” she asks, truly concerned.

  “Uhh, honestly right now I’m marveling at your ability to slow down time.”

  “Yep, and it’s draining my battery fast. We only have forty-five seconds or so,” she says to a high tempo, encouraging me to follow suit.

  “Oh, okay, well, when I said I wanted to be shown off in public as a manikin, I was thinking more to sex-positive strangers—people I wouldn’t need to see again,” I say. “I’m kind of—okay, really—stressed about how Gabi will react to this. To all of it. The BDSM aspect, the being frozen, being shown off in naught but underwear, a scarf, and pasties.

  “Wait, I still have my feminine body. Aren’t you worried about that?”

  “I’ll tell you ter, but for now, no, you don’t need to worry about the body aspect.

  “Gabi is in on it,” Bea continues. “I texted her half an hour ago. She’s just going to come in, admire you a little bit, and leave again so we can, as she put it, ‘finish up’. I get the sense she won’t be judgmental about it at all, but I can call it off right now if you would not enjoy this. Be honest, okay?”

  “It’s a relief that Gabi knows, but I’m still on the fence. On the one hand, no, this is not fun for me. On the other, maybe afterward, it will have been a lot of fun for me, like the fingering under the table.”

  “Up to you.” She looks at me questioningly.

  “Ehhhh~alright, let’s find out which. I consent.”

  “Normal time.”

  “Hello?” Gabi chimes. “Oh! Hi Beatrix. It’s good to see you again.”

  “It is! I’ve missed you. How was your grandpa’s birthday party?”

  Really? I groan inside. I’m stuck here posing, and they’re engaging in small talk?

  “It was a lot of fun. Got to see the whole fam, all thousand and two of us. Bless their hearts.” There’s a pause, and I assume Gabi turns to find me standing there.

  “Wow, I like what you’ve done with the pce.” It’s Gabi’s voice, but I can’t see either woman. “It is a bit… well, in the middle of the walkway, though, don’t you think? We may have to move it toward a wall or something.” Gabi shoves between me and my desk with her duffle bag and clean undry. I’d have tipped over if Bea hadn’t caught me and tipped me back.

  “Oh! Oh wow,” Gabi says, “That manikin looks almost exactly like Sarah. Where did you find such a thing?” I can see her face in my peripheral vision now and she’s clearly just teasing me. Gabi’s teasing is a whole lot more bearable than her cringe-inducing acting abilities.

  “Isn’t she cute?” Beatrix asks, with sincere praise.

  “Sarah’s always been cute, whether - she - admits it - or - not.” She punctuates each segment with a pause. She takes a closer look at my face. “Wow. She’s really just standing there, frozen in pce. No muscle twitches, and … tears? Wait, can she not even blink?” She takes a step back in shock, then waves her hand half an inch from my eye. I don’t blink. “Wow. I had no idea hypnosis could be this strong. Maybe I should try it again.”

  Hypnosis, I think. Clever, Beatrix. I had wondered how she’d expin my unnatural stillness. Wait, did Gabi just say “again”? I still don’t know how Beatrix has handled making Gabi not notice my feminine body. I mean, I can feel my vagina; it’s very wet and it definitely does not feel like a penis. Maybe that’s why she added the underwear? I had assumed it had been for mere common decency. Still, to my chagrin, I’m not particurly poorly endowed; Gabi would notice a lump if she looked, and I’m pretty sure she’s looking.

  Beatrix whispers something in Gabi’s ear, and Gabi nods. Mistress says, “She’s trained so well to stand perfectly still like that, don’t you think?” Gabi oohs and ahhs appropriately. “Even when I do this!” Through the pastie, I feel Mistress twist my nipple hard; the pastie twists the whole breast with it. My urge is to scream, of course, but I make not a peep. Just air soundlessly exhaling my nose and mouth as normal, if a little faster. One touch away.

  Gabi gasps. “Wow, either Sarah is good at holding pain in, or that’s some top notch hypnosis. I wanna try!” Gabi looks to me, then, obviously realizing she won’t get an answer, turns to Beatrix.

  “Give it a go,” Mistress says with a shrug.

  And she does. She pinches my other nipple. An orgasm rakes through my rigid body, pleasure pouring in and back out of me. Magic throttles my involuntary shudder, causing the suppressed wave-inducing explosive tension to reverberate back through me. The only outward indicator of my climax is another tear forming and dropping from my eye.

  Gabrielle, oblivious to my mind-wrecked state, runs her hand from my nipple down my body. “Wow,” she says, “I wish my skin was as smooth as hers. No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of the bumps made by my peach fuzz follicles.”

  She walks behind me and I feel Gabi’s breath on the small of my back as she examines my panties, “And these are really cute! Why don’t I ever see you wear these, Sarah? Maybe I should get you to buy my clothes for me. I hate shopping for underwear, but I like what you’ve found.” She teases as if she’s going to moon me with one finger at the back of my boyshorts, knowing full well that my penis will hold the cloth up in front, and the estic in the back will just snap back up to where it was.

  Only, I don’t have a penis.