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gaaaaay2015-10-11 10:16 pm
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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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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.
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(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?"
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"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.
petplay GARBAGE
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?"
humiliation TRASH
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.
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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.”
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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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(Can hear the way she squirms underfoot to her favorite ones.)
She’s so sweet, tending to the thumb in her mouth; attentive and gentle and supple-mouthed. Rose purrs her approval, bringing another hand to Pearl’s cheek -- strokes the back of a knuckle along the water trickling there.
“That’s lovely, Pearl.” Touch wanders, from there, teasing along the pink shell of her ear: fondles the soft lobe. The flesh would fit so nicely between Rose’s teeth...
She carefully tugs her thumb free, pausing only to trace it along Pearl’s lower lip: nibbled plump from all her self-restraint.
(God. That would fit nicely, too.)
“Tell me.” Rose’s voice stays tender, but its glinting, flinty edges begin again to drop hints. “You want to be good, sweetheart. Don’t you?”
Her heel lifts from the shower floor -- props along the wash bench -- as her hand smooths from knee towards her thigh. The crux of her sex sits inches from Pearl’s lips: flushed full and impatient.
“Show me.”
Her other hand threads through the water-thick locks of hair: coaxing.
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"Mmhmm," she says, more a noise than a word, spilling soft from between bitten lips. Be good -- here's her chance, to make up for her mistakes and her ungraceful carelessness, to be good. Her eyes blink open, then go wide at the sight in front of her. The graceful contrapunto of Rose's posture beckons, offering slick folds and pink heat. So Rose has wanted her too, all this while: well, of course she has. The evidence glistens before Pearl's eyes. And Pearl is starving for it. She almost cries out.
Rose's hand in her hair, firm with just the faintest threat of force, grounds her. Guides her. Her knees are going to be sore tomorrow, but she doesn't care at all -- she pushes herself up, quick and eager as anything, and begins to obey.
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It is. It’s wonderful. Maybe Rose can handle not smothering the poor thing, but it’s awful hard to keep from voicing her approval.
She’s just so sweet. So eager to please. For all their hours of the day spent in nervous chewing and scowls, Pearl’s lips are soft: worshipful. For all their moments of pause and timidity they smooth over her gorgeously -- they suckle and sweep -- they move in tender tandem to kiss pleasure into Rose and... goodness. It makes Rose want to kiss right back.
Golden-glowing warmth swirls in the bowl of her hips, and Rose untethers another sigh -- “So good,” -- and contemplates what follows after her own little piece of relief. Pearl’s misbehaved, after all.
Her back is bowed too much to see clearly over her belly, but -- with a sweet knead along Pearl’s scalp, and an especially luxurious shift of her hips -- Rose hums. The sound is knowing.
“You’ve dropped the showerhead.” Her voice is deceptively honeycomb-sweet: thick, and buzzing with danger. “Haven’t you, Pearl?”
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Pearl moans again, keens muffled and helpless against Rose, and this time it's a despairing noise. The stream patters useless against the floor, wasted water pooling damningly around her knees. Too late, she makes herself lift her wrist, turn the head back upwards, bring to bear liquid heat spilling over her and down her thighs.
And, oh, no. It's distracting. The sweet throbbing beckons her to lose herself in the useless grind of hips, double over on the floor and -- and no, no, no, the fingers tangled in her hair remind her of her task. She has to focus, or... Her lips almost shape a sorry, but Rose hasn't given her permission to speak or to stop. Instead she mouths her apology against silky flesh, moving her lips in just the way that she's learned Rose likes. A careful flick of her tongue -- a little more pressure -- a gentle suck. Rose is so wet -- and the taste... Pearl's drowning in it, could lose herself, could live on this, almost. A ragged contrite little whimper escapes her throat.
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Either way. Rose's mind is made.
She's still feathering her mouth, soft and eager, and making timid little whimpers right next to Rose's clit -- oh, yes. Gracious. Rose's hand tightens in ginger hair: demanding. She lets her hips swirl against the plume of pleasure (staggering Pearl's airways for a moment in the process) and lets her neck slip a slow roll to the side, unbraiding a moan: long, unhurried: curlicues and candy-apple --
-- before abruptly pulling Pearl away from herself. A split-second thread of slick on Pearl's chin tugs before vanishing, and Rose almost regrets her choice. Almost.
"You don't really think I'd let you get away with that. Do you?" Rose's mind is made. "This obviously isn't working." Fingers cinch. Tugging short hair is so fun. "Turn off the water."
The glass door unclicks like the start of a countdown and swings open, spilling steam to add to the mugginess. Rose lets the last scraps of cold air pour into the stall before releasing Pearl -- indulging in one last stroke under her chin -- and stepping back. She props the door open with one hand. Her eyes hold coarse, gorgeous threat. "Bed. Now."
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Only Rose tugs her away, fingers wound in her hair.
Pearl moans a long moan of protest, and licks her lips almost desperately, as if Rose could still feel that way her mouth moves. But no, Rose can't -- doesn't want it -- and it's all because Pearl's been sloppy again--
She reaches for the knob with one shaking hand. The sudden absence of the water's patter leaves an echoing silence in the bathroom that sits queasily in the bottom of her stomach. Queasy, but something else too -- a tangled curl of anticipation that propels her towards whatever's coming next. She gazes up at Rose, some unvoiced plea in her eyes. For what? She's at the point where she barely knows, herself, anymore.
The order to move hits her right in the gut -- sinks straight to her bones. And still Pearl hesitates, caught in an echo of Rose's earlier words: You must be desperate not to leave this room on your feet.
It calls up a ruinous mental image: herself on hands and knees, head hanging, crawling to the bed, tracking water behind her. It makes her skin heat in a way that's entirely different from the remembered steam of the shower water. It's a trap, maybe: Rose is remarkably good at setting those, at predicting the exact way Pearl's faltering impulses will betray her. And so after a long moment of indecision she pushes herself to her feet -- with another testing, apologetic glance at Rose -- and shivers as she steps over the threshold of the shower. Water's still trickling down her legs. Oh, she's going to soak the bed, in more ways than one. Such a mess, isn’t she? Always a mess.
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"Wait." The word drops like a ball-and-chain. "You realize I just finished wiping up after you in the hallway," she steps out, too, tone coiling dark, "don't you?"
She reaches: tugs her own towel off the rack on the wall. It isn't by much that Rose is taller, but she wrings dry every inch of difference in the smoky look she pours downwards. "Arms out." Even the kiss she presses to Pearl's forehead feels more like a claim, and she laps a water droplet from her brow before pulling back. Playful, but impatient. "Knees spread."
The toweling is rough. The arms, first, then the shoulders, so quick and businesslike that Pearl's footing is threatened more than once. Even with cloth this fluffy -- and Rose likes her things fluffy -- the perfunctory sweeps over heat-softened flesh has the fabric abrading delectably over Pearl's nipples: waist: ass.
Rose takes her time on these tender places.
"You have twenty seconds," she croons, beginning to crouch down, "after I finish drying you off --" A lean forward brings her lips to Pearl's navel: she hums a kiss, there. Just before beginning work on drying shiver-ripe thighs. "-- to get that edible little butt into bed. Facedown, knees spread. Hands behind your back."
Rose brings the towel higher: lets the fabric rasp deliciously between her thighs. Just for a moment; enough to make her point. Just enough to give this poor, aching, hungry little thing a moment's reprieve.
Well. Just the opposite, actually.
Still crouched -- still humming -- Rose aims a smile up at Pearl that's all hooks and sugar. And begins the countdown.
"One..."
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Rose is counting, Rose has started counting! With a gasp, Pearl moves, stumbling towards the bedroom, then speeding up into a half-run...five, six, seven and she nearly trips on a corner of carpet, catches herself just in time. Resists the urge to glance over her shoulder back at Rose -- a look could destroy her right now, could turn her to salt, or stone...
eleventwelvethirteenfourteen
Her heart is thudding adrenaline as she clambers on the bed, Rose's coverlet (fluffy, fluffy against the skin of her cheek) dipping under her knees, ready to swallow her up. It smells like Rose -- she only notices this half-consciously, an afterthought or maybe something she already knew, occupied as she is with her obedience. Spreading her legs paradoxically makes her all the more aware of how wet she is still, Rose's toweling nothwithstanding. She puts her hands in the small of her back, wrapping the fingers of her left white-knuckled around the wrist of her right, and the act is torment when all she really wants to do is to reach down between her legs and grind slow and deliberate against the curve of her palm, draw her fingers through sticky pleasure as Rose...watches... Almost unconsciously, her hips jerk -- grinding into the blankets -- as if it could bring her any relief.
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Rose has to bite back a giggle as she shrugs into her bathrobe. That might be too mean.
She still gives an extra twenty seconds' pause, though, before making any move to leave. Anticipation is key. (May as well bring the towel along, too. If all goes well, they'll end up needing it.)
"Oh, very nice. So speedy!" Even facedown on the bed, Pearl's posture stiffens at Rose's entrance. Good. The towel is folded and placed on the doorside dresser; Rose isn't too careful about doing it quietly. It's fun to let Pearl wonder. When drawers clatter, or objects rattle, and a partner can't see what's being done... well. The mind can shuffle through a very entertaining catalog of possibilities. "If dance ever gives you any problems, you can always try for track."
Rose considers rifling around for a few toys and ties. Making a big show of the selection process -- lots of thoughtful humming, and tutting, (not to mention quick battery checks for the vibes). A minor touch, but pleasantly effective. It takes so little to put the girl on edge. To curl Pearl's nerves tighter, and tighter, tight and tuned as a stringed-thing, and then play her into wails... Tease until she begs for mercy, then please until she cries --
Her chest snags, icy. The image of Pearl crushed into the corner of the stall, shivering with heat, racked with quiet little sobs...
Rose doesn't rifle through her dresser. She doesn't. She pads over to the bed, instead. She braces one knee on the mattress, and -- careful, slow -- settles along next to Pearl. They're close enough that the bathrobe brushes a bare knee.
With her arms pulled back like this, prone and hazy, Pearl's body is all invitation. Rose wants to sigh. Her shoulder blades each cut a dashing jut beneath her gauzy skin: mottled soft with freckles, sun damage, acne scars. Rose is close enough to see the fine little hairs directing traffic down Pearl's backbone, and she finds herself leaning closer. She finds herself kissing them. It's pleasant but bemusing. A few licks of curls unsettle from where Rose has tucked them over her own shoulder -- they spill, tickling the misty dip of Pearl's back.
(She really is gorgeous.)
"Quick check-in," Rose croons. It's an important cue. The only guarantee Pearl has that this isn't a trap -- that she should speak freely. "Alright, sweet thing? Anything feel bad?"
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But then Rose is speaking, her voice low and sweet, the exhale of her breath gentling across the twitching muscles in Pearl's back, and with an effort she makes herself comprehend the words.
Rose is so tender with her under it all, so caring and so careful, and she could almost cry (she doesn't). Her throat works for a moment, not choking back tears but piecing together her yes, the words threading their way out thin but clear: "Yes, this is good, thank you."
She turns her head -- finds that she still can't see Rose at this angle -- but her lips part anyway, seizing the opportunity.
"Um, can...can you maybe.."
The request stutters halfway into a shy pause.
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Rose shifts a little closer. Propped up on one elbow as she is, the rearrangement is a minor one. Easier than Pearl's position: ribs of sinew in her neck pluck awake as she tries to turn her head, and Rose would weigh the option of having her sit up if struggle-y Pearl wasn't so cute.
She's curious now, though. Her knuckles just graze the skin of Pearl's forearm, an encouraging touch. "Can I what?"
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Rose's hand against her leaves a trail of heat, a simmer that goes straight to her stomach. Pearl buries her face back in the coverlet. It's ridiculous, of course: ridiculous that she's asking, ridiculous that she feels so embarrassed about it. But, ah, well -- that seems to be her life with Rose these days.
"...tie me up? I really want to be good," she adds, all in a rush.
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To her credit, Rose doesn't laugh. She grins -- she tugs the side of it with her corner teeth. But her voice is leather-warm and level as wax when she shifts, and leans to press another kiss to Pearl's shoulder. The skin there feels tacky: candied with fever.
Her hand follows further past Pearl's clasped wrist, along the dip of her back. And keeps moving. "Lovely, oh." Her touch settles over the tidy curve of rear, and for a moment she simply strokes the skin there. "Why else would I bring you in here?"
And -- fingers spread like a trap -- squeezes.
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Pearl moans into the bedspread. Her hips twitch of their own accord, soft flesh giving way under Rose's grip, knees scooting apart a little further.
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Shame. It'd be a shame to deprive her, now.
"Why else would I bring you here. Where I keep all my toys." Wrist cocks back, just an inch or so, to lay a light tap against her other cheek: to twist a gentle fondle there, too. Just hinting at punishment. "Like you."
Hand wanders lower: teasing. Touch of promise along thick, tender wet.
"Don't worry, though." Swirl of touch: just enough to have hips liquid. "You're my favorite."
For a moment, she flirts with pleasing her -- with filling her -- traces the plump heat she's been crafting all evening. Rose nearly does. God knows she's been wanting.
But then she moves. She presses another kiss to Pearl's back as she shifts, beginning to spill from the bed. "And you'll be good, and wait here." Sienna kiss over the bony braid of backbone (she's so delicate) before Rose's lips seal: and suck: and lap. "Won't you?"
Her hand waits on the small swell of Pearl's ass. Curious if she'll take the bait.
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But Rose is asking her to wait. That means Rose is coming back, Rose isn't done yet. Mind addled with desire, Pearl grasps at that idea like she's drowning. Rose is going to tie her up, and touch her, and it'll be so much better. The yes is on the tip of her tongue, willingly professed obedience, but. But there's something in Rose's voice. Almost a challenge -- and the heat of her palm against Pearl's skin --
Oh.
"I'll - I'll try," Pearl stammers, the lie catching in her throat, even sanctioned as it is.
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"You'll --" Crack. "-- 'try'?" Crack. The temptation to continue laying into Pearl with an uncompromising hand presses against the inside of Rose's mouth, meaty. Nice to bite. It's an inviting crave. But she hasn't warmed her up, just yet, or at least not very well; another stinging slap instead becomes a lazy fondle. "You will." And then: "Tsk."
It will take some righteous tutting to make her feigned displeasure clear, given how lovingly she strokes the skin. For all that Pearl's bottom lacks generosity, it's delightfully well-shaped. Something of a fixation for Rose, really. Maybe if she invests enough indulgence and flattery and lingering, stinging attention, Pearl will take her up on trying more skirts. (At least that's been the strategy for awhile.)
She's touching with both hands now: massaging slow, and sumptuous. "You don't need to worry about 'trying.'" A pinch: just a little -- just enough to startle the nerves. Just enough to need kneading away, warm and tender, as Rose ponders how she'd like to have her tied tonight. "You're a plaything. That isn't up to you." Another gentle clap against her ass, and Rose coos: "Isn't that nice? To not have to worry."
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Rose's words are like a physical force, as seductive and inevitable as the slow knead of knowing hands, coiling about her with deceptive softness. Pearl moves her hips some more. She's far gone, by now, and drifting further by the minute, unmoored by touch and voice and desire. Undone. You don't need to worry. Some small part of her, ever-vigilant, struggles against this injunction: how can she not worry! She has to -- has always had to, to work as hard as she can for everything, and she has to please Rose...
But Rose is pleased already, isn't she? Even if it's fun when she pretends she isn't.
Pearl whimpers, her eyes fluttering shut. Something uncurls inside her, goes soft and languid. She sighs out her assent, pushing back into Rose's touch, asking for more.
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what f i literally only use this icon for the rest of forever