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The kettle had been just over halfway to boiling when Pearl’s text came through, and was whistling steam by the time Rose could calm her laughter over the phone.

She looks halfway freezerburnt in the pic she had sent: Pearl, already layered in the muss of a long day and the sweat of dance practice, red-nosed and miserable and bundled up to her chin with the snow-caked doors of the rec center behind her. A sign in one of them reads “NO WATER -- PIPES BURST”

The caption, though, is the clincher: “My dorm’s plumbing is out, too. I hate to ask, but would it be okay if I showered at yours?”

First of all, that picture was going to be Rose’s new home screen. But the real punchline, here -- which she tried to articulate to Pearl over the phone, through her doubled-over gigglefit -- is that Pearl would think twice about asking to come over. That she would 'hate to ask'! She’s been doing so for months. And with all other possible showers on the opposite end of campus, and Rose’s apartment hardly a couple blocks from the rec center, it just hits her as a uniquely Pearlish blend of pitiful-funny that she would even feel the need to ask permission.

To use her shower, especially. (Well. She left that a bit more implicit, over the phone.)

Rose grins to herself, still, watching the tea steep. She isn’t exactly dolled up -- it’s a healthy piece of late in the evening, and she had just planned to read until bed -- but Pearl has a way of shyly eyeing Rose in even her most kickaround outfits.

(Gold-good things flutter in her chest, there. Sweeten soft.)

Instead of changing, she’s piled a stack of towels and her bathrobe next to the door -- a couple mugs of hot, cheery chamomile on the coffee table, too. So when the door sounds off with a tangle of tender knocks (oh, oh, her knuckles must be numb), Rose is quick to whisk it open with one towel over her shoulder, making little effort to hide the bubble of laughter in her voice: “Poor thing, oh no! Come on, come on -- oof, goodness, it is cold out --”

Hopefully her smile doesn’t look too pleased.

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Pearl leaps to obey. Her other hand's on top of the first in an instant, fingers lacing together, the thumbnail of one hand digging into the flesh of the other. It's a humiliating position, deliberate in its performativity. A position for bad girls who can't keep their hands to themselves. But she straightens her back, raising her chin -- she can do this, show Rose how good she wants to be. How good she can be.

Even if the promise of punishment sends a flash of heat straight down her centre.

You're so fucked, Pearl.

The way Rose handles her is firm but deft, almost casual. It makes her nerves quiver. She turns, and spreads, obedient.

Rose almost regrets how neatly Pearl moves to comply… had she waited a bit longer, maybe she could wring some stumbling and fumbling from the dancer. God, that would be cute.

But Pearl obeys, and she has to croon approval. Tugs her closer, even, until her damp back is brushing the front of Rose’s shirt. Her flesh is warm enough to send a shiver through the cloth, sticking humid and wishful as August, and hunger stirs heavy in Rose.

“Better.” Pearl’s hands over her head -- sometimes by order, sometimes by ties -- is always a lovely sight. Toothsome symmetry of latissimi and shoulder and pectoral and breast. But especially now, when Rose can reach from behind… can toy with the slight softness of her slim chest, can stroke the tremble of sinew in her belly. “Not perfect, but better.”

Can nibble her fill along the creamy curve of her neck.

“And so pretty...” Rose lets the pads of her fingers tease along Pearl’s navel, curious to see how strong her conviction is to keep her hands still. Her other hand, in the meantime, thumbs the nozzle to a softer setting again: brings the water to play over her waist. Lowering by dizzying inches. “Shame that such a pretty girl is so messy."

The water dips -- abrupt and stark as vertigo -- below the tender notch of navel, just grazing between her thighs. "You want to be good, though. Don't you, sweet thing?"

Turned like this, she can't see what Rose is doing. Can't see her face or her smile, and somehow that makes it worse, because her runaway brain fills it right in. Rose's lips, curved in a sharp smirk, pressed against the side of neck. Teeth, nipping at the tender, sensitive skin beneath which her pulse leaps and trembles. Sometimes Rose leaves marks -- a reminder for every time she unwinds her winter scarf.

(God, Pearl hopes she leaves marks.)

Messy, Rose says, and the characterization slices straight to her core -- she works so hard, to be so put together, all the time. Classes, grades, test prep, dance practice, colour-matching her outfits. But here she is, stripped of all that and trapped in Rose's shower. Making messes: herself a mess. Falling apart piece by wretched piece. Pearl whines in her throat -- fingers twitching atop her head. Unlacing and then lacing back together, not quite breaking position yet. But if Rose keeps pushing...the hint of a tease of sensation between her legs sends her up on her toes for a second, before she rocks back onto the balls of her feet.

"Yes!"

Her little jump nearly jostles Rose back from the shower door, and her reward is a sharp swat: underhanded, and stinging-swift, right on the curve of Pearl’s taut little ass. The harsh sound echoes thin and pink in the confines of the shower, and darling warmth nestles neatly in Rose’s palm: in the bowl of her hips.

Oh, it’s lovely. That’s lovely. And not nearly enough. Rose rears back again with her hand -- careful with the showerhead -- and marvels at her own rolling urge to just drop all pretense and stuff her fingers into Pearl now. Fuck her up against the tile, here: have her coming and crying thick nonsense in under a minute.

But Rose is patient. And disciplined, and creative. And none of those things are quite as fun as being vengeful.

“No!” Swat. “Moving!” Swat. Stinging heat glows from the skin she’s popped thrice, now -- the same tiny, localized spot, just the way it bites worst -- and Rose rakes her teeth over the pale curve of shoulder before her. Leaves a hard, reddening kiss. “You’ve lost your talking privileges, now! The ‘tell me’ rule is in effect until you can learn some self-control.”

Rose never quite growls, but her voice is all menace: liquid-black and hot and sinking. Her hand strokes over the flesh: firm from dance and nervous pacing, but still soft enough to massage. The drizzle of water returns, lower, letting the threat of pleasure thrum only against Pearl’s lower thighs. “Tell me, do you understand?”

Edited 2015-10-25 08:12 (UTC)

Pearl gasps as Rose hits her -- and again, and again. She hangs her head, shaking. Spanked, like a child: shame clenches in her chest, racing tense and hot up her arms to where her knuckles whiten on her head. Fingers twisting around each other as she fights the urge to drop her hands and rub the sting from her ass.

That would be so very bad. Would most certainly merit a worse punishment. God. Rose is hungry tonight, isn't she? She's going to keep -- giving Pearl just enough rope to hang herself with. And she's setting the pace slow. So, so slow.

"Y-yes," Pearl chokes out in guilty assent. She follows it with a quiet moan, her hips jerking fruitlessly although her feet stay firmly in place.

A low sound blooms in Rose’s throat. It’s a blend of approving and skeptical. “See that you do.” Her lips move to smooth over she skin of Pearl’s shoulder -- ringed red from a harsh kiss. Rose’s mouth forms a gentle seal over the flesh, and she sucks, just lightly. “You’ve been sloppy all evening. I’d like to be kind, if you could only straighten up.”

She might go on fondling Pearl’s cute little butt all night (with swats, when appropriate), but Rose’s left hand sets to drifting once again. Fingertips branch: savoring the slight swell and fall of Pearl’s belly from her quickening breaths.

As her hand pets down along the slender waist, the stream of water begins to creep higher along Pearl’s thighs.

It’s a cruel move, she knows. But Rose is growing impatient. Wants Pearl to crumble, and quickly -- wants to prize ripe whimpers and tender pleas.

As hand and water move to meet (goddamn these clothes), Rose nuzzles closer against Pearl’s fevered neck: sets to teasing the soft shell of ear between her teeth.

The stream of hot water dips upwards, brushing against the neat thatch of peach-colored hair, just as fingertips feather to meet it.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve left a mess for me here, too.”

Pearl opens her mouth and then shuts it, remembering just in time, thank god. What could she have said, anyway? Yes -- I'm filthy-- she is a mess, slick and heavy and hot. No -- an outright lie, given that she can feel her own arousal with every shift of her thighs, even untouched, with her legs spread like this.

Her hips want to thrust -- to grind against Rose's hand, seeking sweet relief, but she holds herself back: no moving, Rose said. Still, she can't help but sway back and forth in minute little jerks. She bites her lip, teeth digging into quivering flesh as Rose's hand and the water inch closer to each other. Caught beneath the two, she sucks in air in frantic little gulps, and holds it.

And when they finally meet...! Rose is giving her so little, still, but the feeling of it sears through her body anyway, making her limbs heavy and sluggish. Knees buckling slightly, she turns her head away from Rose's teeth with a moan: reflexive, as if she can hide, or escape.

Each little mouthful of sound Pearl is spilling drags like a physical touch along the inside of Rose. And the cute little dance Pearl’s putting on for her -- oh goodness --

It’s a bit uncomfortable for a moment, but Rose pinches together her elbows over Pearl’s waist and pulls her flush against her front. Warm and shivering. Good. Very good. All that’s needed is a little more syrupy helplessness to put a fine point on Rose’s appetite.

“If you move your hands,” she purrs, nursing the soft flesh of her neck, “or jump again,” the kiss hardens, nip of teeth and warm wave of tongue, “You’re getting tied to the bed and edged ‘til you’ve soaked the mattress through.”

Nevermind that that would involve another mess to be punished for. That’s part of the fun. The game is all about removing options for Pearl -- cornering her, more surely even than she’s cornered now -- thieving solid ground from beneath her piece by merciless piece until she can only beg and cling and cry with miserable pleasure at Rose’s feet.

Good.

The palm of her hand shapes to cup Pearl, and encounters enough slick that a fingerpad slips past the first folds with no resistance.

Rose tsks. “You can feel that, can’t you? Feel how wet you are?” Her fingers idle and toy along the swollen flesh -- feathering teases -- gentle despite her harsh tone. “Do you enjoy giving me a hard time?” And because it’s a trick question, and because trapping Pearl is as filling as a warm meal, Rose takes her earlobe between teeth like it’s her own sweet treat and adds a cruel garnish: “Tell me.”

Edited 2015-10-25 18:43 (UTC)

The threat's not an idle one, Pearl knows; Rose has done it before, will do it again, with her hands and her mouth sure against all the most sensitive places on Pearl's body stretched vulnerable over the covers, maybe a little vibrating toy thrown into the mix, that quick, cruel little smile playing on her lips all the while.

It strikes her as something likely to happen regardless of how good she manages to be.

The light, deliberate touch of Rose's fingers against her heat-slick folds squeezes a high-pitched tremble of noise from the back of her throat. It's just as frustrating as the water that teases her skin with warmth and pressure, relentless and insubstantial all at once. Her brain's so addled with twisting, yearning want that she barely catches the tail end of the question -- she catches it enough, though, to know that Rose is toying with her, and groans helplessly.

"No, noo, I don't..."

Oh, wrong answer.

“‘No’? ’No’?” The sticky hand pulls away just long enough to rear back and smack the inner curve of Pearl’s thigh. The skin immediately pinks. “So you want to lie to me, now?”

(Any answer would have been wrong, of course.)

Rose’s hand burrows back between her thighs again -- rough now -- (“Don’t you dare move --”) practically wrestling with the plump heat and layers of Pearl’s arousal to coat her hand in brazen slick.

She brings her wet hand up, closer. There’s no pause, no wait for her to open: Rose bullies fingers past lips into the ripe groan of Pearl’s mouth, and at the same time thumbs the nozzle to a hard-humming stream.

“Is this someone else’s shameless little pussy, loving every moment? Of me trying to teach you some manners?” Careful not to press too far -- Rose hates gagging sounds -- she nevertheless makes certain to thoroughly invade the soft places in Pearl’s mouth, with generous smears along the way. “Suck. No teeth. Do something useful.”

Rose steals another stinging kiss along the soft flesh (oh, feel that pulse throwing a tantrum), just as she begins to angle the showerhead -- “Let’s see if I can’t get your filth cleaned up,” -- and at last feeds the pounding stream right between Pearl’s shaking legs.

Edited 2015-10-26 00:08 (UTC)

The noose is closing in about Pearl's neck; she feels it happening and can't help it, has to struggle. Even though she knows the rules of the game say she has to be quiet and just take it, a protesting sob wrenches itself from her throat: "No, I like this but I'm not, I'm not lying--"

The words disintegrate into an incomprehensible whine as her mouth is abruptly stuffed full. She tastes her own want, her own filth, salty and musky and sticky-slick all over Rose's skin. On the verge of choking, but not quite -- the backs of her eyes prickle with the sensation and with her own shame -- maybe she even tears up a little, it's hard to tell when her face is already so very wet with the sweat and steam of the shower. She shuts her damp eyes and sucks. Her dignity's in tatters, her breath coming in shattered gasps through the swollen 'o' of her lips, but she still tries to be as graceful as possible. Sends her tongue darting delicately around and between fingers, across tender skin. As if she could show Rose with her mouth how desperately penitent she is, how useful she can be.

When the water hits her full on, though, she loses it. Rose's aim is perfect -- the pulsating stream strokes mercilessly across her folds, her throbbing clit, and it empties out all of her carefully hoarded nervous control in a single instant. One of her feet lifts off the floor, breaking position as her whole body goes rigid and she can't help the jerk of her jaw as her teeth dig into Rose's fingers for a second before she forces her own mouth back open--

The bite doesn’t break skin. It couldn’t -- Pearl’s neat little pebble teeth wouldn’t dare -- but it does pop a warm corsage of pain down Rose’s arm. Quick and liquid sienna. It’s a silky slice of sensation, one that unbuttons Rose’s present layer of arousal and lets rise a warmer, darker one.

“Oh.” The water cuts off. “Oh, honey.” Rose’s arms fall away from Pearl: slow. “You must be desperate not to leave this room on your feet.”

Then she turns her, again -- “You are desperate.” -- and herds her a stumbling half-step backwards into the corner of the stall.

Her finger still smarts delectably. Oh, oh. Rose hasn’t been bitten in awhile. (She’s missed it.) And all the tastier by being a trap, of course -- Pearl could have done nothing but bite down -- and one that Rose delights in making note of for the future. Maybe with a little tying down, too. And a nice, healthy vibe, buzzing away all friendly against her pretty little clit: driving her to the tipping point: and her trying so hard not to thrash away: trying so hard not to bite or clench: Rose cooing sugarspun sympathies, fondling the sounds right out of her mouth --

Oh, oh. She’d look so nervous. (And Rose needs these clothes off. Fuck.)

“If you can’t stand,” she croons: all deceptive, deadly softness, “Then you’ll sit.” She shapes her hand over Pearl’s shoulder and, with a responsible amount of force, shoves down.

Edited 2015-10-27 04:08 (UTC)

Failure and terror wind a queasy knot in Pearl's stomach. It's a powerful cocktail, intoxicating, for all that it's part of their intricate dance. First her hands, now her legs and her teeth -- her needy unruly body betraying her bit by bit, feeding her straight into Rose's carefully set ambush. Her limbs trembling, adrenaline skittering through her veins.

"I'm sorry," she stammers out, as Rose manhandles her. She is desperate, unable to stop the instinctive apology from bubbling up, her voice thin and small against Rose's dangerous purr. How much more can she be punished for speaking, anyway? "Sorry, sorry..."

She goes down with no protest, no more than an unsteady little whimper, her legs folding sideways under her until she's curled up on the wet tile. Shoulders hunched over, bedraggled hair dripping slow trails down her pinkened skin. Wide, watery eyes looking pleadingly up at Rose.

She is smaller than Rose in every dimension, even tall as she is. But now, soaked to the bone -- bundled up on the floor with her gangly knees near her ears -- Pearl is especially small. Doubly subdued. The collected moisture from the steam and shower have left her normally full-bodied hair in trickled strands and straggles, and it only lends to the pitiful image of some cute little pet left out in the rain.

The dark heat in Rose’s belly curls, languid. Loving.

Poor thing.

She croons, like dolloping cream: “You better believe you’re sorry.”

Just rough enough to qualify above ‘nudge,’ she presses her foot between Pearl’s long knees and separates them, as though sifting through merchandise. The hum Rose makes is almost satisfied. Hard not to be, at what she sees: darling coltish thing, folded up like a toy: wedged politely in the corner of the stall with her petal-pretty centerline bare. So pretty. (Were it not for the tile, she might be leaving a stain.) And Pearl’s so flexible that her thighs lie practically flush with the rest of her body: pale flesh framing strained breaths, and twitching tummy, and ripe lips and clit swollen torturously lush.

Rose wishes she had two Pearls. One to play with forever, and one to eat up in a single bite.

“It must be so hard.” The bathroom is quiet without the water, and Rose’s voice rings especially heavy with it. “Letting your messy little cunt make all these bad choices for you.” Her foot, warm and wet from the water, lifts -- “And having to deal with the consequences.” -- and presses hard against supple flesh.

Pearl turns her head to one side, pressing her cheek against the tile as Rose spreads her legs. It's the smallest escape afforded her, trapped as she is. Her hands fell off her head sometime in the past few minutes; they're balled up in twitching fists on the floor now, and she knows better than to raise them. Except for the sobbing breaths that heave her chest, she keeps perfectly still: deer frozen in the lion's gaze. Rose's eyes, raking over every inch of her exposed body, could scorch her skin like a brand.

For some reason it's the foot against her that does the trick. It's utterly degrading. Toes digging into the most sensitive and tender areas of her body as she cowers in the corner. The thrill of pleasure that the touch sends through her, even for what it is, even now. Rose's voice pitched to its most devastating register, so cutting in its disappointment and contempt--

Her jaw trembles as she tries to hold back the tears.

She’s so warm. And silky, and succulent, and full enough to ache, and so warm -- Rose wouldn’t be shocked if she could feel her heartbeat.

Might have, too, if Pearl wasn’t doing so much twitching and jerking underfoot. So squirmy. So sweet. It’s not something they’ve tried yet, but sometimes instinct strikes, and when it does it never fails to reward Rose with a warm puddle of girl: garden-soft sounds at the shock of learning something so new about herself.

Moments like those?: Rose plucks off the shelf when alone. Good enough to make her toes curl.

“I have to wonder,” soft and sweet as cream and venom, “what goes through such a pretty head --” She rolls her heel a little harder, a little harsher, though Pearl’s pleased little noises sound different -- “-- when you decide to be such a bad girl --”

Then she sees the tears.

Her heart gums the bottom of her throat. Freezes.

Pearl’s cried a few times, before. Usually from coming too hard, or from sheer overload, but… but Rose doesn’t think that the case, this time. She didn’t safeword, but...

It’s important not to panic. Not to be too loud, or shocked -- that could upset her more. So Rose is gentle, pulling her foot away; she’s cautious, bending to read Pearl’s expression.

“Oh, sweetheart -- oh.” Rose’s voice is a whole different paradigm: careful, cupping, wrapping warm as cashmere. She hunkers down to Pearl’s level -- careful not to lose her balance -- and studies her face a moment. Reaches, too: lets fingertips graze over her cheek. “Am I playing too rough?”

Pearl still can't look; she shuts her eyes, hot tears welling from under her pale lashes. Her shoulders are shuddering for real, now, a sniffle trembling in her nose. Chest tight and hot, like there's a fist clenched around the fluttering muscle of her heart: a sensation that creeps outwards, colonizes her body, makes her limbs fragile.

This feels -- deep. Deeper than they've gone before, maybe, for all that there's no fancy toys, no wild scenario, just the two of them in the bathroom. And it's terrifying. Like walking an electric tightrope of thrill and pleasure out over an abyss where good and bad feelings no longer have distinction. Her safeword floats into consciousness, slowly, as if from a great distance. It's in the back of her throat: coda, coda, coda. She can say it, quick or stammering, clear or desperate, and dive out the escape hatch. But she waits -- something caught in her throat -- and after a moment the impulse fades. It's Rose. Just Rose, all Rose. The question hangs in the air.

"It's..."

Her voice teeters on the brink of a sob. "C-can you hold me for a second?"

The request unplugs a soft, stinging thickness in Rose's chest. Dizzy greens and spilled things and an ounce of clammy guilt.

She doesn't answer. Not right away. Rose sets the showerhead on the wash bench and -- shifting backwards -- folds her legs underneath herself before settling on the shower floor. Uncaring of the wet.

She sits next to Pearl on the tile, and takes up a shaky hand. Skims her thumb along the wrist: soft.

"Come here, babydoll." Tries to guide Pearl into her generous lap. Dark eyes doleful. "Come on."

Edited 2015-10-28 03:11 (UTC)

Something in Pearl, wound tight and brittle, eases. Of course she knew Rose wasn't really mad -- of course she knew Rose wouldn't, doesn't, really think those things of her. But knowing and feeling aren't the same thing at all, are they? Or so she's learning.

Rose is beckoning her -- is pulling her in -- Pearl's suddenly desperate for as much contact as possible, wanting to be held and surrounded and comforted in soft arms, and she tries her best to crawl into the waiting lap. It's difficult, because the space is so tight and the hard floor is awkward and her legs don't have anywhere to go, but she manages to put her arms about Rose's neck and bury her wet face in a warm shoulder. Her throat works. "I'm sorry," she tries uncertainly. Somehow the words feel so much more heavy than the apologies she was whimpering earlier.

The apology smarts -- for a couple of reasons -- none of which are any fault of Pearl's. Rose winces. Her voice stays easy, though. "Shhhh... none of that." The position is a bit ungainly, but Rose manages to shape herself to Pearl well enough: has her curled halfway in her lap as she burrows into her neck. Rose has her wrapped up just enough that one hand is free to rub circles in her back, and this she does now -- careful as a craftsman. Tacky skin notwithstanding.

Slow, clockwise, slow; stroke of thumb; slow, clockwise, slow.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You did so well, sweetheart." Rose can feel the teartracks, even through her shirt. She drops a kiss in Pearl's damp hair. Hums, a little. "So good."

Edited 2015-10-28 03:45 (UTC)

Pear thinks that the trickle of shower water off her naked skin must be soaking Rose's clothes through, but they're clearly both beyond caring. The thought is detached, distant, and with an effort she lets go of it, focusing instead on being present in her body. Here with Rose. The shaking of her hands slowing. Her rattled breathing smoothing out. Being held, like this -- it's like, well, it's like maybe she doesn't have a ton of descriptors for it. Almost how her body feels when its dancing, a kind of unearned grace. Rose's endearments, her praise, a soothing pour of honey over the raw confusion of her emotions.

This is fine. She was trying her best and maybe it just wasn't right but they're fine: everything's fine.

A shaky sigh brushes Rose's shoulder. "I don't know what...happened?" Muffled, her voice lilts up at the end, almost a question. In case it wasn't clear, she hastens to add, tripping over her own words, "I was having fun."

"That's okay." The warmth of Pearl through her clothing is almost good enough to ache. Rose's obnoxious body taps a reminder in Morse -- Ummm, excuse me? Down here? -- but Rose ignores it. Wholesale. She wants the body curled up over her and still faintly trembling to calm, not coil.

"It's okay, not to know." It feels as though keeping a low, soothing roll of speech is a good move. Steadying. Nuzzling along Pearl's neck (oh: there was her body wash, tart and bracing), Rose drops another careful peck behind her ear. "Sometimes different parts of us want different things... that's okay, too."

If Rose notices her own innuendo, she doesn't have the mind to mention it.

Edited 2015-10-28 05:36 (UTC)

"Okay." Pearl falls silent and just breathes for a little bit. Unexpectedly a quiet warmth blooms in her chest. Startling delight, perhaps just relief, or something inexplicable like joy. To have had all of herself laid bare before Rose: to have survived it. After a moment she squirms, and turns her head to bravely dare a kiss of her own, just above the curve of neckline. The corners of her lips quirk up as she mouths briefly at bare skin.

"I did like it when you..." Oh, she's flushing again, she knows it. "Turned the showerhead on high."

The kiss, small as it is, breaks the tension for Rose. She smiles against it -- sighs, a little.

And can't keep down a chuckle. Making certain that her breath washes warm over the shell of Pearl's ear, she murmurs: "That wasn't high, sweetness."

Tucked close the way she is, Pearl feels clearly the gentle vibration of Rose's laugh as it bubbles up. The little exhale of delight curls against her skin so neat, so easy, and the sensation makes her keenly aware of the fact that she's still naked in Rose's lap.

"I-" She clears her throat, still a little rough from the sudden flood of tears. "I suppose you weren't done demonstrating."

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