It's the most Rose has allowed her, so far, tonight, and if Pearl weren't on her knees they'd almost certainly have given way from under her. But here she is, already heavy-limbed and helpless on the bed, further undone every second by Rose, who's barely touching her -- then petting her -- then (almost unbelievably after all the teasing) hilting fingers in her as smooth and easy as butter, every curve and crook of her hand palpable against hypersensitive flesh. Pearl almost can't keep up, but her body responds, every muscle twitching rigid against the sensation.

"Oh my god," she mumbles. The blankets are damp under her cheek -- must be a smear of her own drool. Is the tell-me rule still in effect? She can't remember and it's out of her mind in the next instant. Her fingers twitch, scrabbling in their bondage, in time with her hips as she tries to push herself back on Rose's hand. Or maybe forward would be a better direction? -- she might angle herself enough to grind into Rose's touch, to grasp at that pleasure which so conscientiously eludes her. Bewildered by the choices and sweetly uncertain, Pearl moans and trembles back and forth with the limited motion her position allows her, caught between one and the other. Not particularly graceful, as dances go -- she's so far beyond that -- but one performed with more than convincing earnestness.