Rose wouldn’t notice the shift in water’s angle if it hadn’t begun to speckle heat along her calf; she’s blind to it, otherwise. A good portion of her crackles at the contact. Wants to be swift in doling out consequences. Pearl’s being disobedient, after all… and Rose had warned her.
For a moment she just bores down, face inscrutable. Like she’s trying to pick apart, through sight alone, each striation of coriander blue.
Simply put: Rose doesn’t want that. Not right now. Pearl gave the green light again, true, but Rose can still sense something frail about their play. Vulnerable. Sweet, but softboiled. And however acid an appetite she sometimes has for cruelty, Rose can’t handle a night where she makes Pearl cry twice.
“It’s alright,” she soothes, even with the low violet of a mocking tinge, “I know you can’t help it.” Traces the pad of her thumb along that pitiful expression. God. So cute. “Maybe I will just keep you here.” Her voice is gentle, appraising -- like holding a glass of wine to the light -- and her smile is slow. Her girlish wink, too. “We’ve already gotten you something to wear.”
The collar Rose bought (butter-soft leather, lined with a silky felt that won a ticklish giggle) had been first received with polite curiosity on Pearl’s part. But that had quick to lapse into a kind of exhilarated boldness, once its effect on Rose was obvious.
(She might have been afforded a little more time to prep, if Jasper hadn’t ratted on her. Fuck. And there’s no stalling for anything, with Pearl; once she’s heard a new term, there’s hours of internet research and misinterpretation to try and unravel.)
Rose has since made certain the collar signals a very hazy, contented subspace: something that says Okay! Time to relax. Having her lounge naked on the couch, next to a very clothed Rose, head in her lap for long stretches of head scratches. Oh, those work magic. Having her head touched has Pearl melting into a lank blanket of warm, spilling limbs. So cute. It’s only been a couple weeks since Rose, having capped off her reading for Italian Vaudeville, had to carefully sift Pearl awake in her lap… only to find a dabble of drool on her jeans as a bleary Pearl wobbled upright.
God. So sweet. (Especially the babbled slur of an apology.)
Maybe it’s a good time to have her relaxed. Still with some room to be a little mean -- they both like that -- but comfortable. Somewhere other than the shower floor.
Eventually.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she croons, as her thumb teases past Pearl’s lips, “to just stay here -- not have to worry about anything? Just to try and be a good girl?” Her thumb presses along the soft swell of her tongue: prompting her to suck. “I could come home and play with you, every night.”
no subject
For a moment she just bores down, face inscrutable. Like she’s trying to pick apart, through sight alone, each striation of coriander blue.
Simply put: Rose doesn’t want that. Not right now. Pearl gave the green light again, true, but Rose can still sense something frail about their play. Vulnerable. Sweet, but softboiled. And however acid an appetite she sometimes has for cruelty, Rose can’t handle a night where she makes Pearl cry twice.
“It’s alright,” she soothes, even with the low violet of a mocking tinge, “I know you can’t help it.” Traces the pad of her thumb along that pitiful expression. God. So cute. “Maybe I will just keep you here.” Her voice is gentle, appraising -- like holding a glass of wine to the light -- and her smile is slow. Her girlish wink, too. “We’ve already gotten you something to wear.”
The collar Rose bought (butter-soft leather, lined with a silky felt that won a ticklish giggle) had been first received with polite curiosity on Pearl’s part. But that had quick to lapse into a kind of exhilarated boldness, once its effect on Rose was obvious.
(She might have been afforded a little more time to prep, if Jasper hadn’t ratted on her. Fuck. And there’s no stalling for anything, with Pearl; once she’s heard a new term, there’s hours of internet research and misinterpretation to try and unravel.)
Rose has since made certain the collar signals a very hazy, contented subspace: something that says Okay! Time to relax. Having her lounge naked on the couch, next to a very clothed Rose, head in her lap for long stretches of head scratches. Oh, those work magic. Having her head touched has Pearl melting into a lank blanket of warm, spilling limbs. So cute. It’s only been a couple weeks since Rose, having capped off her reading for Italian Vaudeville, had to carefully sift Pearl awake in her lap… only to find a dabble of drool on her jeans as a bleary Pearl wobbled upright.
God. So sweet. (Especially the babbled slur of an apology.)
Maybe it’s a good time to have her relaxed. Still with some room to be a little mean -- they both like that -- but comfortable. Somewhere other than the shower floor.
Eventually.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she croons, as her thumb teases past Pearl’s lips, “to just stay here -- not have to worry about anything? Just to try and be a good girl?” Her thumb presses along the soft swell of her tongue: prompting her to suck. “I could come home and play with you, every night.”