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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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Rose sounds so -- almost desperate, a yearning that lights a hot twinge of sympathy in Pearl. That feeling is one she knows keenly, and seeing it mirrored like this in Rose makes her lightheaded. Her heartbeat thudding back into the urgent drumbeat rhythm of arousal that has had her body strung tight for what seems to have been most of this evening, already.

She tilts her head. "Yes, kiss me," she breathes against Rose's lips, eyelashes lowering. Her hips move in a slow roll against Rose's fingers, question and permission all at once.

The movement pulls Rose from the kiss and warms a buttery giggle from her belly. The sound shivers off the tile of the wall, circling the two of them.

"Eager baby!" The hand weaving itself against Pearl's heat moves to still her movements at the hip, while the arm still bracing Pearl upright strokes along her back. As best as it can, anyway. "I suppose you're restless?"

She pecks: punctuates the touch with a wink. Like they're sharing a secret. "But be still. Still as you can." Her thumb smudges slow down the half-moon of hip before pressing, again: combing a tender course to the softest place on Pearl. "Just let me feel you."

They'll need to move soon. Rose knows that. Already this position is grating on her back and hips. And Pearl's shins are still knocked awkward against the tile -- collecting a small fruitbasket of bruises, likely.

But she can't grudge them a moment of kissing. Soft, rolling touch. Drinking Pearl in through the butterfly-skin of her mouth: whorl of watercolor tongue: tease of jewelry-box teeth: stovetop hum like lovely, cooking things.

"What a gorgeous girl." Fingtertips slip along the plush heat as Rose croons, like a first draft of hypnosis, "You'd like more, wouldn't you?"

"Yes..."

Pearl's hips still. She whimpers with the effort of keeping them so. Ungraceful in the way she's folded up in Rose's lap, but as tense and focused nevertheless, as if she was holding a pose for ballet. With Rose as her only audience. Her audience and her strictest coach, even if the touch and the words are relentlessly soft now.

A small quiver runs through her frame as they kiss. For all that Rose is being gentle, it still overwhelms her like a breaker wave, roaring in her ears. Gorgeous: Rose thinks she's gorgeous: she wants to be that gorgeous pretty girl, that sweet toy. It's like Rose has her soul between her teeth, tugging and pullling, wrung out gently. And that's melodramatic, maybe, but fuck: if Pearl has one thing to be melodramatic about in her tragicomic piecemeal of a daily life, it's this.

"Yes," she says again.

Yes; yes; yes. At its most elegant, seduction isn't much more than a series of carefully timed agreements, and Rose is quite adroit at organizing what Pearl would find agreeable. Wouldn't that be lovely? Aren't you just the sweetest thing? Doesn't that feel nice?

Every "yes" is another tick of gravity to have her sinking into herself, and it might be Rose's favorite sight. Seeing Pearl actually yield to the nerves she wastes so many grating minutes of the day ignoring. So many feelings suppressed. Rose is clueless how a dancer with such a physically gifted body can also be so emotionally constipated about it.

But that fact is flexible. Rose keeps the kiss tender. She lets her lips soothe Pearl with You're safe, safe, while the hand petting between her hips insists You're mine, mine.

Rose also acknowledges that another minute in these clothes might be her last on planet Earth.

Heated, humming, Rose speaks low into the kiss: "I need to move you back, hon. Just fot a minute." (Can't resist a little hard-candy nip.) "Can you do that for me?"

Edited 2015-10-30 19:50 (UTC)

Sometimes Pearl wonders at this hold that Rose has upon her. How does she do it? If Pearl didn't have two feet firmly grounded in a worldview based on Science and Rationality, she'd wonder if Rose had the mythical eye of some goddess of romance fixed upon her. Surely the way those hips move can't be merely human. Who is she, and why? Why would she pick -- Pearl, of all people, to play these games with?

Right now, though, none of these things are on Pearl's mind. Right now she's exactly where she needs to be: fully present.

It takes her a moment to process the question; she gives herself a little shake, as if waking for a trance. A protesting little whimper, nearly inaudible. But then: "Okay." Yes, of course she can; she can do just about anything for Rose. Extricating herself from the lap, she shuffles backwards, knees knocking against wet tile. Face flushed, chest still heaving from the kiss. Her hands fold, uncertainly, on her thighs as she looks to Rose for the next move.

Rose hums approval before shifting onto her own knees -- ooh, ouch. If they end up fooling around in the shower again, Rose will have to make sure it doesn't involve too many more games of this leapfrog business.

"Mmmm..." She edges forward to where Pearl sits, pretty and waiting, and drops a kiss on the tip of her nose. "I'd like us to play a little game, now. One that will feel very nice." One hand wanders to the fold where Pearl's hips meets her thigh, and drifts back a little farther. As she dabbles another pair of kisses along her cheek, Rose's fingertips skim along the curve of Pearl's ass. Maybe they'll find some of that darling heat from earlier.

Her smile is sweet in its symmetry -- but then, so are knives. "Would you like that, sweetness?"

Rose keeps touching her, ghost caress of fingers, warm curve of palm, a butterfly tease of lips, and it's sending her nervous system into overdrive. Pearl's body arches, pushing back into the knowing hand, straining forward towards the irresistable gravity of Rose herself. If only Rose would take her now, even right here on the bathroom floor in a mess of puddles and bruises: Pearl wouldn't mind. Would spread her legs and beg and cry for fingers curling thick and hot in her -- or Rose's mouth, even, if she was feeling really generous--

Pearl licks her lips. Rose knows her answer, surely. "What are the rules?"

Oh, good answer. Rose laughs.

"Careful, now. Too eager, and you'll lose." That sounds sufficiently cryptic. Rose lets her smile dip into a more smug register as she brings her fingers to Pearl's collar and presses, gently -- nestling her back into the corner like before.

"We'll play a little discipline game." Press of lips to Pearl's, drinking her in so gently (safe, safe, safe), while Rose's hand reaches behind her for the showerhead. "See how much self-control my sweet thing has."

Rose takes one of Pearl's hands and brings the showerhead to it: shapes her fingers over Pearl's, to lace her fingers over the handle. Studies her face, too, and tries not to smirk at what she finds there.

In the next moment, she moves from the floor to the wash bench; the looming effect is not subtle. "I'm going to finally step out of these wet clothes." Pearl's hair parts easily for her fingers as she strokes, as she croons. "And you're going to watch me, and get your pretty little pussy nice and clean."

Her fingers rove. Gentle. Dreamy. They bracket the back of Pearl's nape: threat and pet alike.

"If you come," Rose's voice lulls, "you lose. If you look away, you lose. And if you let the showerhead move too far away -- and I'll be watching -- you lose. And if you lose, I'm not going to touch you for a month." Her smile is the cut and crack of lacquer. "Not even if you beg."

(A bluff, of course. But it's important Pearl doesn't pick up on that. Pretty thing is so much more vocal when she's just a little bit nervous.)

Her strokes conclude -- Pearl's hair looks oddly slicked-back now, that's cute -- and Rose tips a loving, petit-four smile down to the girl she wants to have coming in her bed within the hour. Pearl's managed to remember what name to moan each time they've been together, so far. Has yet to come so hard she can't say 'Rose.' Perhaps that can change tonight. "Would you like me to start you off?"

Thank god Pearl’s already crouched in the corner, or her legs would almost certainly have given out from under her. Her head tips back to follow Rose as she rises: collared and leashed and wound tight around the diamond edge of her grin.

The threat is almost unbelievable, but Pearl's brain, fevered with desire, can't help but imagine what it would be like. To be suspended in Rose's orbit, pulled in but held at arm's length, watching her float and flirt her way through every long, long day--

For a month!

Perhaps Rose, instead of touching her, would make her touch herself -- have Pearl run her hands down her own willowy body -- thumb at her nipples -- yearning for Rose's touch but allowed only her own fingers, stroking herself achingly slow, or a vibe against her clit, or this very showerhead--

Perhaps Rose would make her watch as she touched herself, or someone el-- the fantasy threatens to career out of control, and Pearl wrenches herself away, her cheeks burning. Her knuckles around the showerhead are bone white, and not even Rose's gentle hand in her hair can soothe her this time.

Her throat is so, so dry. "Y-yes...please."

"Lovely." Rose's hand curves over Pearl's on the handle, tipping it lower. Lazy. There's just enough room to lean: to bury a kiss against Pearl's brow. When she pulls away again, Rose laps a droplet from the corner of her godless smirk. "Very good."

Pearl's given no other warning before the showerhead clicks on to a low thrumming setting: aimed right over her clit.

"Oh--"

The rest of whatever she might have said gets caught in her throat as she sucks in a frantic breath of air, her whole body jerking taut as a strung wire. Her hand on the showerhead almost involuntarily tries to yank it away; but Rose has her caught, of course, and she can't do anything but take it, stay there under the cascade of hot liquid sensation that curls her toes and coaxes a whimper out of her chest.

And she's supposed to keep doing this, while watching Rose strip?

It's torture. Pure torture.

Rose watches her back arch with its own lean, pale strength as sweet heat bolts her own skin in sympathy (oh, whimpers are her favorite ). The image of ending the game here is tantalizing. Just pin Pearl to the floor with pleasure: corner her into a frantic, fumbling finish: have her coming in a helpless tangle of limbs: kiss the last scrap of breath from her listless mouth as she came down. And then corner her into another.

(This is a discipline game for Rose, too.)

She lets the stream play cruel and heated and lovely for a few seconds more before thumbing the nozzle off, just as sudden as turning it on.

"Just like that." Then she's rising to her feet -- to all appearances, nonchalant. But patently aware of her own clinging heat and hunger. (She'll have Pearl tend to that. Soon.) Careful, but not looking away from Pearl's face, Rose takes her first step out of the shower. Her fingertips are already playing with the neckline of her damp shirt. "Any questions, sweet thing?"

Edited 2015-11-03 17:30 (UTC)

"No," she manages, "No questions." The parameters of the challenge are clear enough. The outcome, though: that's uncertain. Rose is always so devious, so particularly good at caging Pearl with her sweet words and subtle commands. Tying her up with the gentlest hand, knot by knot, as the twin demons of helplessness and failure circle nipping at her ankles. Leaving her no way out, but never leaving her: she always holds Pearl, afterwards, and strokes her hair, and it's the best thing...

Pearl has other things to focus on right now, though. She gulps and reaches up, her hand hovering over the shower knob.

"I'm ready."

'Ready'? 'Ready'? Rose doubts that. Rose very much does.

But her approval is ample as she purrs, "That's my brave girl," and steps backward onto the bath mat.

She has a clear field of vision for every inch of Pearl, and even as she shapes soothing little nonsense sounds, Rose fucks her raw with her eyes. Dark and ripe with promise.

Her fingers play along the lapel of her flannel, like the soft neck of an instrument... thumbs at a button, pondering... but wanders away again. Instead both of Rose's hands come to cover her breasts through the fabric: cup them, testing. Pearl knows so well their weight. Must remember, now, watching her.

"On." The command cuts like a cold snap in the steam of the room. " Now."

Not breaking eye contact, Rose unfurls a slow knead against herself, and moans.

Pearl's eyes are wide, the blue of shattered china -- they flicker briefly over Rose's towering body, the looming exquisite promise of her curves, then back up to meet Rose's gaze, anchored there like she's drowning. Her hand moves, shaking in obedience, on the knob: the stream of hot water bursts into life, and she groans long and low, a sympathetic echo. Hips bucking, thighs spreading apart for just a little more... But she stills them with an effort of will. This is going to be hard enough without her making it harder on herself.

The touch is exquisite. Rose's sounds are sincere -- no need to play it up for effect. God, but she gets Rose so rapt in this. Wrapped, even.

But the high ground is always hers to lord, and she does this now: unpopping the first button of her top as Pearl sounds off soft under the heat.

"There's my girl. Doing what she does best." Rose sighs, tipping her chin against the plume of steam come to rise from the water. "Taking care of herself in any way she can -- even if it means," another button pops free, hinting the beginning of her cleavage, "hunching up on the floor," and another, and Rose sighs, "like a thing in heat."

Rose's eyes makes certain Pearl's hand is on task before she slips another button free -- already halfway down her breasts. Impatient. Her hand thieves inside to tweak a nipple, still hidden from Pearl's view, and the fizzle of pleasure has her spilling another Merlot moan. "Isn't that right?"

Like a thing, an animal, in heat...that's all she is, right now, pleasuring herself with a showerhead in the corner of Rose's bathroom like this. Pearl nearly squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing a shameful moan, but remembers the injunction just in time: keep looking. Her gaze fixes, starving, on the point where Rose's wrist disappears into her shirt; she can only imagine what Rose is doing, under there...

The water strokes her for long, aching seconds as she tries to figure out if the rhetorical question requires an answer or not.

"R-right..."

"No talking." The question is totally rhetorical, of course. "Only speak if I say 'tell me.'" It just feels odd, putting verbal stops in place, if Pearl doesn't first infringe upon them. It's more fun when it feels like a consequence.

"You have plenty to think about as it is," a wispy purr when another button drifts free, "don't you? Watching me, " she makes another blind squeeze beneath her shirt, "get properly dressed," another button plucked away: neckline plunging to the beginning of her soft belly, "to deal with your selfish little mess of a pussy."

She leans: shoulder bracing between the stall and wall: giving Pearl a banquet view of her shirt start to slip lappingly low: the beginning swell of breast. The buttons are abandoned only mostly done. "You seem to have a hard time, handling it on your lonesome."

Thumbing the waistband of her bottoms, Rose makes a plush sound of pleasure and lets her hips cant forward, just sipping at an imagined fiction, and the plump moan turns to words halfway through. A command: "Set it higher."

Edited 2015-11-04 01:58 (UTC)

Back to "tell me", then: Pearl swallows any further words that might have foolishly left her mouth. Her pussy throbs, as if beckoned by Rose's description, and she lifts her hips with an inarticulate little cry.

She turns her wrist, slightly, and the water jets a little higher, leaping against gravity. The new angle hits her clit in a different way - resensitizes her all over again -- and she has to pull away a little bit, just a little, no more than a careful half inch. She hopes Rose doesn't notice: she's sure that Rose does. For Rose's eyes are fixed upon her as surely as Pearl's are fixed on Rose, hypnotized by the way Rose's hips are moving, the sly allure written in every cursive line of her body --

She hasn't taken even a stitch of clothing off yet, has she? God.

Rose does see that. Makes note of it. But the hot water stays in an acceptable range of maddening between her tilted thighs -- certainly enough to have the strings in her waist plucking. Twitching.

(Would be so cute to see her lose the leash on her come-hither hips -- watch her grind helpless against nothing.) (Rose makes note of that, too.)

"Careful," she croons, "Much farther than that, and you'll be cold and lonely for a month."

Her hand dips along the lip of her waistband as her hips sway: edging the fabric by just sadist inches. Rose's thumb must hook her panties along for the ride, because the uncurtained cloth reveals lush slices of flesh.

"That would be just," fingertips slip along the front and she moans, "... misery. Especially for you, Pearl." Her tabby curl of tone, cutting sweet with pity, leaves scant mystery to her meaning. "That pretty pink clit just wants attention all the time... doesn't it?" The waist of her bottoms sneaks, crooked, further down plump pale of thigh. Neat nestle of hair, pressed flat from clothing, reveals a little more than Rose might like: a faint thread of glisten pulls, following along with her panties for just a moment before vanishing. If Rose notices, she fails to mention it.

"Distracts you in class... in dance... in bed, too?" The bottoms don't quite make it all the way off. Not yet. One-handed, Rose plays a moment with the new view of her thighs: lets the pressure of her fingertips dimple their suppleness. Lets the sight remind Pearl of the feel of mouthing along the creamy skin. "Tell me, sweetheart... how often do you think of me just," her other hand slips back to edge her shirt aside: flushed breast and bare nipple laid plain, "doing things to you?"

Edited 2015-11-04 06:19 (UTC)

The threat perversely just serves to notch her a little closer up to the edge, and her hand quivers, wanting to pull away, to preserve some fraction of her composure. She doesn't. Can't.

"I...I..."

If they keep going, just like this, Pearl doesn't know how much longer she'll be able to string words together -- and then her incoherence will just merit another punishment, won't it? The cocktail of sugar-sweet affection and gentle derision is devastating. It has Pearl lightheaded, skin prickling hot all over even where the water's not touching her.

She stares helplessly at Rose -- at the new revelations that tease her vision more with every second. No matter how many times she sees Rose's naked skin she doesn't think it'll ever stop short-circuiting her brain. Her mouth's not dry any more: it's watering. She moves her wrist again, trying to find a better angle, one that won't propel her into the danger zone quite so fast. (Her disobedient body squirms in protest, wanting quite the opposite.)

"I think about you...a lot." The admission, imprecise as it is, nearly chokes her. A lot, a lot. It's -- she isn't obsessed, surely, nothing unhealthy like that, of course not, but Rose has a way of sneaking into her most casual daydreams with her tumbling curls and her wandering hands and that knife-sharp smirk that is thoroughly shredding Pearl to pieces right about now.

"I know," she smooths a rumble, cut short as she steps one foot out of her bottoms -- settles her heel on the edge of the shower -- and puts every balmy inch of curve from the waist down on display. "That's your pretty clit at work, isn't it?" Rose reaches, brushing a touch over her own: unspools a syrupy sigh at the contact. "It does all your thinking for you."

Rose's other foot steps out of the bottoms while her eyes crawl over Pearl like hungry things.

"Makes it hard to focus, doesn't it -- to pay attention when you need to. All you can do is let your needy little clit make you think these things --" both hands come to cup her breasts through the cloth of her half-buttoned shirt: covering them, again, "And you just let it happen... don't you? You sit quiet in class, where you should be focused," she squeezes: chin tips back drinkingly slow as she moans, "and let your greedy body make a mess of all your pretty, color-coded clothes."

The more Rose speaks, the more her voice lowers in carnivore earnest: even over the hiss of the water, her words find no issue in stalking their way to Pearl's ears. "That's no good in class, sweetness. No good in dance... at least in bed, you can hump up on your clever hand. Just arch," Rose's hips stir, slow, "and grind," she tweaks a nipple and hums, "and squirm 'til you can scrabble at a tiny, sweet piece of relief." There's an image. One of her favorites. (Rose purrs.) "Needy little thing in heat."

Even as she chides Pearl for her want, Rose kneads at herself through her shirt: inviting Pearl to imagine doing the same.

"That's what you've let happen to yourself, Pearl. And why? Because it feels good." Another button thumbed away. "Doesn't it?" Rose's plush belly sits bare to the navel: it and her chest framed with hazardous decadence by the last edges of her shirt. "It feels good."

The last button slips away.

"Just a hungry pile of want, want, want who can't help rutting up against anything she can find -- can't help stuffing herself with whatever she can fit inside --" breathless, drinking in the steam, Rose's hands rove, "Wants to get pinned and fucked so good that she won't need to get up ever again."

Rose steps back into the shower like reclaiming territory, and her presence is a vacuum for attention. Steam sticks in swirls and eddies around her, painting her over in fog, laving heavy at her champagne curls to lick tangled and wicked over her cheeks. She's like a thing out of myth.

Her chin rises, artful, and she sears a look down, down, down as her shoulders furl: slow, her shirt slide down her arms, to her hands, and -- with a flick out the stall door -- Rose is finally bare.

"You're not even a girl anymore," she croons, "Not really. Can't take care of yourself. Can't keep it together. Can't even bathe without help." She doesn't crouch in front of Pearl like before. Just bends -- just enough to tip Pearl's chin -- just enough to eat her up with her eyes. "Why do I even let you leave?"

Each precise word, shaped soft and acute by Rose's lips, rakes across the last dregs of Pearl's dignity. Strips away another layer of the facade that she works so, so hard to cobble together, to make it through her daily life. Her stellar grades, her cogent mind, her graceful limbs long coached into practiced obedience: all of it gone to pieces as she thrusts her hips jerky and stuttering into the stream of water.

It's not even Rose's touch. Not even her own. No, all it's taking is the silky, indifferent patter of liquid pulsing against the tortured, sensitive throb of her clit.

And the sight of Rose, of course, in all her goddess magnificence, brimming with heated flesh and husky voice. Her body is as full and perfect unto itself as Pearl's is fragile and trembling, hunched in the corner. Rose wears her skin like the cloak of a ruler, boldly self-assured in her birthright of sexual pleasure: nothing like Pearl, who chokes hers down laced with shame and miserable joy.

But Pearl is wanted, somehow still wanted, and remembering that feels like a kind of mercy, a brutal tenderness burning under the hunger in Rose's eyes. Smouldering intent, single-mindedly bent on taking her apart.

Voiceless by command and by desire, Pearl shakes her head mutely: not sure if she's saying I don't know, or maybe turning her cheek into Rose's hand, or maybe forcing out some last faint denial, or maybe saying Please don't let me. Or maybe all of those, or maybe none. Grasping at the edges of thoughts as she tries to string together some last semblance of self-control. She's close and getting closer -- she'll have to pull back in a moment or she'll be dangerously on the edge of coming.

Begging with her eyes, she shifts her wrist, angling for just a second of relief.

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.”

Edited 2015-11-08 09:02 (UTC)

The shift in Rose's tone doesn't go unnoticed by Pearl. A whimper fights its way out of her throat, pathetic and grateful, and she cranes her neck to push her head lightly into the soothing hand. Desperate for the contact, lost in the fantasy.

It's a highly impractical one, of course, but no less hypnotic for that. Pearl imagines it (she's imagined it). To be in Rose's thrall every hour of every day. To live in that collar like Rose's warm fingers curved around her neck in a gentle but unrelenting grip, her obedience a quiet given. To be in her service: to cook hot, fragrant dinners and be elegantly hand-fed like a cherished pet, the good girl Rose loves to spoil. Do her dishes and mop her floors (unremarkable things, of course, but oh, just imagine doing them for Rose) and then curl up at her feet at the end of the day for a sweet reward, have her hair stroked absently while Rose writes a paper for class...

It's both absurd and utterly mundane. And hot: hot as hell. Pearl trembles all over and rolls her hips into the stream of water. Lips parted, she mouths slowly at Rose's thumb, remembering to barely graze a knuckle with her teeth, her tongue stroking against the tender pad of the skin. Her eyelids flutter shut, their lashes damp with condensing steam.

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petplay GARBAGE

humiliation TRASH

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