It’s not that Rose intends to eavesdrop, really. But there isn’t much else to do, once Pearl’s sodden outfit is humming away in a soapy load of wash.
Rose considers whiling away the time until Pearl is finished by thumbing through her novel -- maybe with a glass of dark wine. Maybe with enough mulled invitation in her gaze to draw her into bed. Keep her here, a little longer. It is awful cold outside.
Instead she finds herself wheedling away at the hardwood with her toe -- a few stray streaks of damp lead to the bathroom from the couch. For all her half-sincere efforts, she hadn’t gotten her guest completely dry.
But even with the traces of water long gone, Rose lingers still near the bathroom. And she feels herself listening a bit too intently through the wood of the door. (Pearl can never keep quiet for long.)
Pearl. Oh. Oh, just imagine. She has such trouble with coming while standing. It hasn’t happened yet, in fact; at least Rose has yet to see. Her knees give out, first -- turned to water, spilled and runny under warm blossoms of pleasure -- shivering and folded double at the waist: legs useless as she unspools with a ribbon of moan. Sometimes she curls inward so tightly that her nose buries between her knees: like she’s trying to hide from her own candy-bright livewire body.
It’s so sweet. So wickedly, unbearably sweet, Rose can’t help but picture it now. How the strings of muscle in her legs would jump as she leaned against the tile wall for support -- maybe posting a leg on the wash bench, craving a tentative hold -- wringing every ounce of coordination available to remain standing as she gasped, as she grinded -- rolled her hips against nothing but a pour of heat --
-- just as a tangle of clatters and knocks and a furtive ”Shit!” seem to prove her right.
They aren’t the happy sounds Rose expected, though. Sounds like they fucking hurt. So without much consideration for how conspicuous the speediness may be, Rose flurries a few knocks against the door.
“Pearl? Everything alright?”
… and at the same time begins to crack the door open, impatient for an answer.
no subject
Rose considers whiling away the time until Pearl is finished by thumbing through her novel -- maybe with a glass of dark wine. Maybe with enough mulled invitation in her gaze to draw her into bed. Keep her here, a little longer. It is awful cold outside.
Instead she finds herself wheedling away at the hardwood with her toe -- a few stray streaks of damp lead to the bathroom from the couch. For all her half-sincere efforts, she hadn’t gotten her guest completely dry.
But even with the traces of water long gone, Rose lingers still near the bathroom. And she feels herself listening a bit too intently through the wood of the door. (Pearl can never keep quiet for long.)
Pearl. Oh. Oh, just imagine. She has such trouble with coming while standing. It hasn’t happened yet, in fact; at least Rose has yet to see. Her knees give out, first -- turned to water, spilled and runny under warm blossoms of pleasure -- shivering and folded double at the waist: legs useless as she unspools with a ribbon of moan. Sometimes she curls inward so tightly that her nose buries between her knees: like she’s trying to hide from her own candy-bright livewire body.
It’s so sweet. So wickedly, unbearably sweet, Rose can’t help but picture it now. How the strings of muscle in her legs would jump as she leaned against the tile wall for support -- maybe posting a leg on the wash bench, craving a tentative hold -- wringing every ounce of coordination available to remain standing as she gasped, as she grinded -- rolled her hips against nothing but a pour of heat --
-- just as a tangle of clatters and knocks and a furtive ”Shit!” seem to prove her right.
They aren’t the happy sounds Rose expected, though. Sounds like they fucking hurt. So without much consideration for how conspicuous the speediness may be, Rose flurries a few knocks against the door.
“Pearl? Everything alright?”
… and at the same time begins to crack the door open, impatient for an answer.