Most people don’t have the physical constitution to do well in this pose. No one, really. With anyone but Pearl, Rose would think more than twice about having them facedown with the possible support of their arms pinned back. A bit harsh on the neck; a bit cramped for breathing room. But Pearl’s weight is slight, and lovingly flexible as wax, and the position is too delicious for Rose to resist.
“That’s my last check-in,” she soothes, low, still petting along drenched inner thighs. Pearl’s tally-mark ribs show in time with her labored breathing: invitations to kiss, to graze with nails, to pock with music-notes of lovebites. Later. “You’ll have to safeword.”
(It’s almost true. Rose will be on the lookout for an early stop, regardless.)
She begins to resettle herself. Carefully, she brings herself from the side to behind Pearl proper, half-standing -- just one knee braced against the mattress. She tugs a bit, rearranging them both, and strokes one hand along the fevered curve of back while the other cups between Pearl’s legs.
Not even teasing. Not really. Just feeling her.
In a less sentimental mood, Rose would likely mime a few seconds of a giggly grind against her ass: muse aloud about shimmying into a strap-on. Postulate to an invisible spectator about the merits of fucking her through the mattress.
Rose is in a different kind of humor at this precise moment, though. She simply shapes her hands along the angles and swells and softer parts of her, gentle. “Such a sweet girl.” And Rose means it. Only several moments in does she realize she hasn’t rolled up the sleeves of her robe. They tickle every so often, she’s sure.
The only warning given to Pearl is a murmur of “Don’t come,” before Rose presses in two fingers with a single easy roll of wrist. They meet no resistance. Just summery, silky heat, rich and clinging. “Keep up your little dance, pretty thing.” Her other hand drifts along the soft crease of her hip, and onward, over the tremolo sinews in her waist, wavering just short of her clit: tracing the idea of tracing her there. “Show me how nice this feels.”
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“That’s my last check-in,” she soothes, low, still petting along drenched inner thighs. Pearl’s tally-mark ribs show in time with her labored breathing: invitations to kiss, to graze with nails, to pock with music-notes of lovebites. Later. “You’ll have to safeword.”
(It’s almost true. Rose will be on the lookout for an early stop, regardless.)
She begins to resettle herself. Carefully, she brings herself from the side to behind Pearl proper, half-standing -- just one knee braced against the mattress. She tugs a bit, rearranging them both, and strokes one hand along the fevered curve of back while the other cups between Pearl’s legs.
Not even teasing. Not really. Just feeling her.
In a less sentimental mood, Rose would likely mime a few seconds of a giggly grind against her ass: muse aloud about shimmying into a strap-on. Postulate to an invisible spectator about the merits of fucking her through the mattress.
Rose is in a different kind of humor at this precise moment, though. She simply shapes her hands along the angles and swells and softer parts of her, gentle. “Such a sweet girl.” And Rose means it. Only several moments in does she realize she hasn’t rolled up the sleeves of her robe. They tickle every so often, she’s sure.
The only warning given to Pearl is a murmur of “Don’t come,” before Rose presses in two fingers with a single easy roll of wrist. They meet no resistance. Just summery, silky heat, rich and clinging. “Keep up your little dance, pretty thing.” Her other hand drifts along the soft crease of her hip, and onward, over the tremolo sinews in her waist, wavering just short of her clit: tracing the idea of tracing her there. “Show me how nice this feels.”