No sooner is Pearl grinding back, clunky and drunken, than does Rose slip her fingers free with a little coo. Her right hand pets along the lean curve of Pearl’s ass, trailing hungry glisten, (wringing out a deprived little whine, too) while her left tampers one last tease along her sweat-slick belly. Then it presses lower to finally, finally roll a pad of thumb over Pearl’s plump clit.
The whine melts into an open-mouthed whimper as Pearl’s hips jerk forward, obedient to the touch, wanting more, and Rose obliges. For a moment. After a scant second of touch, Rose’s left hand roves back higher -- petaling sticky fingers over Pearl’s jittery jut of hip -- while her right moves again with feathering touches, cruel tweaks, and teasing inside: one lone, sadistic inch.
It’s Rose’s pleasure to carry on this way for some time. Little touches, just enough to heat and press, then swirling away again -- then circling from elsewhere. Maddening. Delicious. Rose half-regrets not blindfolding her. Bound and bare and burrowed in the blankets like this, Pearl’s very self is an invitation to overwhelm.
But it’s only once the muscles in her legs and waist finally begin to shake -- no longer up to the task of propping her hips -- that Rose begins to pepper in more spanking. Determined to see her laid prone on the bed again, dancer’s limbs spilled and useless, before laying into her more -- then flipping her, flat -- giving a full, tantalizing view as she starts up the Wand --
Rose licks her lips, slow.
“Just look at you.” A healthy, heated swat connects with the swell of her right cheek. Rose has to notice how heavy her own words sound. Syrupy with breath. “You don’t even know which way is up, do you?” She tries to calm it, for the both of them; measures her words carefully as she strokes along the left cheek. Still a bit taut, with Pearl’s hips still propped. “And you don’t even care.” Then she doles another thick crack there, too.
no subject
The whine melts into an open-mouthed whimper as Pearl’s hips jerk forward, obedient to the touch, wanting more, and Rose obliges. For a moment. After a scant second of touch, Rose’s left hand roves back higher -- petaling sticky fingers over Pearl’s jittery jut of hip -- while her right moves again with feathering touches, cruel tweaks, and teasing inside: one lone, sadistic inch.
It’s Rose’s pleasure to carry on this way for some time. Little touches, just enough to heat and press, then swirling away again -- then circling from elsewhere. Maddening. Delicious. Rose half-regrets not blindfolding her. Bound and bare and burrowed in the blankets like this, Pearl’s very self is an invitation to overwhelm.
But it’s only once the muscles in her legs and waist finally begin to shake -- no longer up to the task of propping her hips -- that Rose begins to pepper in more spanking. Determined to see her laid prone on the bed again, dancer’s limbs spilled and useless, before laying into her more -- then flipping her, flat -- giving a full, tantalizing view as she starts up the Wand --
Rose licks her lips, slow.
“Just look at you.” A healthy, heated swat connects with the swell of her right cheek. Rose has to notice how heavy her own words sound. Syrupy with breath. “You don’t even know which way is up, do you?” She tries to calm it, for the both of them; measures her words carefully as she strokes along the left cheek. Still a bit taut, with Pearl’s hips still propped. “And you don’t even care.” Then she doles another thick crack there, too.