"I know," she smooths a rumble, cut short as she steps one foot out of her bottoms -- settles her heel on the edge of the shower -- and puts every balmy inch of curve from the waist down on display. "That's your pretty clit at work, isn't it?" Rose reaches, brushing a touch over her own: unspools a syrupy sigh at the contact. "It does all your thinking for you."
Rose's other foot steps out of the bottoms while her eyes crawl over Pearl like hungry things.
"Makes it hard to focus, doesn't it -- to pay attention when you need to. All you can do is let your needy little clit make you think these things --" both hands come to cup her breasts through the cloth of her half-buttoned shirt: covering them, again, "And you just let it happen... don't you? You sit quiet in class, where you should be focused," she squeezes: chin tips back drinkingly slow as she moans, "and let your greedy body make a mess of all your pretty, color-coded clothes."
The more Rose speaks, the more her voice lowers in carnivore earnest: even over the hiss of the water, her words find no issue in stalking their way to Pearl's ears. "That's no good in class, sweetness. No good in dance... at least in bed, you can hump up on your clever hand. Just arch," Rose's hips stir, slow, "and grind," she tweaks a nipple and hums, "and squirm 'til you can scrabble at a tiny, sweet piece of relief." There's an image. One of her favorites. (Rose purrs.) "Needy little thing in heat."
Even as she chides Pearl for her want, Rose kneads at herself through her shirt: inviting Pearl to imagine doing the same.
"That's what you've let happen to yourself, Pearl. And why? Because it feels good." Another button thumbed away. "Doesn't it?" Rose's plush belly sits bare to the navel: it and her chest framed with hazardous decadence by the last edges of her shirt. "It feels good."
The last button slips away.
"Just a hungry pile of want, want, want who can't help rutting up against anything she can find -- can't help stuffing herself with whatever she can fit inside --" breathless, drinking in the steam, Rose's hands rove, "Wants to get pinned and fucked so good that she won't need to get up ever again."
Rose steps back into the shower like reclaiming territory, and her presence is a vacuum for attention. Steam sticks in swirls and eddies around her, painting her over in fog, laving heavy at her champagne curls to lick tangled and wicked over her cheeks. She's like a thing out of myth.
Her chin rises, artful, and she sears a look down, down, down as her shoulders furl: slow, her shirt slide down her arms, to her hands, and -- with a flick out the stall door -- Rose is finally bare.
"You're not even a girl anymore," she croons, "Not really. Can't take care of yourself. Can't keep it together. Can't even bathe without help." She doesn't crouch in front of Pearl like before. Just bends -- just enough to tip Pearl's chin -- just enough to eat her up with her eyes. "Why do I even let you leave?"
petplay GARBAGE
Rose's other foot steps out of the bottoms while her eyes crawl over Pearl like hungry things.
"Makes it hard to focus, doesn't it -- to pay attention when you need to. All you can do is let your needy little clit make you think these things --" both hands come to cup her breasts through the cloth of her half-buttoned shirt: covering them, again, "And you just let it happen... don't you? You sit quiet in class, where you should be focused," she squeezes: chin tips back drinkingly slow as she moans, "and let your greedy body make a mess of all your pretty, color-coded clothes."
The more Rose speaks, the more her voice lowers in carnivore earnest: even over the hiss of the water, her words find no issue in stalking their way to Pearl's ears. "That's no good in class, sweetness. No good in dance... at least in bed, you can hump up on your clever hand. Just arch," Rose's hips stir, slow, "and grind," she tweaks a nipple and hums, "and squirm 'til you can scrabble at a tiny, sweet piece of relief." There's an image. One of her favorites. (Rose purrs.) "Needy little thing in heat."
Even as she chides Pearl for her want, Rose kneads at herself through her shirt: inviting Pearl to imagine doing the same.
"That's what you've let happen to yourself, Pearl. And why? Because it feels good." Another button thumbed away. "Doesn't it?" Rose's plush belly sits bare to the navel: it and her chest framed with hazardous decadence by the last edges of her shirt. "It feels good."
The last button slips away.
"Just a hungry pile of want, want, want who can't help rutting up against anything she can find -- can't help stuffing herself with whatever she can fit inside --" breathless, drinking in the steam, Rose's hands rove, "Wants to get pinned and fucked so good that she won't need to get up ever again."
Rose steps back into the shower like reclaiming territory, and her presence is a vacuum for attention. Steam sticks in swirls and eddies around her, painting her over in fog, laving heavy at her champagne curls to lick tangled and wicked over her cheeks. She's like a thing out of myth.
Her chin rises, artful, and she sears a look down, down, down as her shoulders furl: slow, her shirt slide down her arms, to her hands, and -- with a flick out the stall door -- Rose is finally bare.
"You're not even a girl anymore," she croons, "Not really. Can't take care of yourself. Can't keep it together. Can't even bathe without help." She doesn't crouch in front of Pearl like before. Just bends -- just enough to tip Pearl's chin -- just enough to eat her up with her eyes. "Why do I even let you leave?"