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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 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.”

[justapearl]

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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Watching the little flickers and flexes in Pearl’s expression as she talks is a treat in itself. Rose can watch as her eyes haze -- lashes shutter low -- and all the images Pearl has to listen to in glowing, siren coils paint themselves into a film reel on the inside of her eyelids.

(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.

[justapearl]

Pearl moans as Rose pulls away, and yes, that is a moan, full-throated and low, tremoring through her entire body. Her eyes still shut -- all conscious thought melted into a jumble of yearning by the touch, by the praise -- it takes a long, sweetly confused moment for the question to register.

"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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“Oh, yes...” Her hips want to ripple and roll against her mouth but Rose resists. Even if only barely. Cants them forward, though, to grant some more room. Rose’s chin drinks back, blending somewhere between whisper and moan, and she threads a gentle massage along Pearl’s crown as encouragement: “That’s wonderful...”

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?”

[justapearl]

Yes. Yes, she has.

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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Cute. It's cute, how quickly Pearl falls into the make-believe of "not in trouble." Or maybe she's just dazed enough to fail to notice.

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."

[justapearl]

That certain way that Rose is moving her hips signals for Pearl something like the beginning of a crescendo... And that's a knowledge no textbook or internet guide could have taught her, no; she's learned it over hours spent on her knees on the floor or between Rose's thighs in her bed, has slowly tuned her body to every consonant note of Rose's pleasure. And so she takes gasping breaths whenever she can, moving with every generous roll of Rose's hips. Never faltering.

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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Her ass still holds a hint of that tart, loving pink, and Rose leers headlong as Pearl steps out of the shower.

"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..."

[justapearl]

Pearl freezes when Rose stops her, then leaps to obey -- arms out knees spread -- holding herself so open and so very still, so that Rose can reach all of her, all her of sensitive and tender body, an instrument played skillfully by Rose's hands. Muscles trembling and flexing under her flushed skin as she tries hopelessly not to move, even as the towel strokes her exactly where she wants to be touched, coaxing a quick movement from her hips, and another--

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...

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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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Watching her scamper out of the bathroom and crashing down the hall is far better than whatever novella Rose had planned on for the evening. It also makes it very, very tough to resist giving chase.

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?"

[justapearl]

Pearl's so tense from the waiting and the noises and, oh, what is Rose doing -- she flinches as the mattress shifts under her, the sudden nearness of Rose's body like static electricity between them. But no mocking reproach comes, no playfully chastising blow. Instead: just the soft brush of Rose's lips against her back, tracing the faint line of her spine. Her skin's so sensitized by now that she feels every touch clearly. It's a kind of torture in its own way, and despite her determination to keep still, Pearl arches into the sensation with a little moan.

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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Her fingers have taken up the role of tracing the braid of backbone (it's a bit of a strain to bend over and kiss for too long, in that position -- even with someone less willowy than Pearl). They pause, though, at the fumble.

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?"

[justapearl]

"Can you..."

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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Goodness, isn't she sweet.

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.

[justapearl]

Of course. She should have realised that, shouldn't she? As much as Rose relishes surprising Pearl sometimes -- as she did in the shower, my god -- tying Pearl up a little is something she always likes. Something they both like. Hands together, or legs spread, no way to struggle, no choice and finally no escape as Rose slowly reduces her into a puddle of whimpering bliss...

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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The sneaky roll of hips doesn't escape Rose's notice. Very little about Pearl does. Pink run of tongue over lips at the first threat of bondage, months ago; bitemarks sunk in Rose's pillow at a teasing pat on the butt. How much harder she comes around Rose's fingers when she's wholly, sweetly helpless.

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.

[justapearl]

Her toy. Her favourite. The words stroke her ears as Rose strokes her wetness in a shivering moment that seems to stretch for eons. But when Rose pulls away a second later Pearl knows it wasn't nearly long enough. She thrusts back against thin air, seeking the absent touch with a groan of frustration.

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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It's better than the swats in the shower. Much cleaner. The wine-colored crack of flesh-on-flesh shifts the air in the room to something more shallow, immediate, and warming darling as a kettle under Rose's touch.

"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."

[justapearl]

Pain: quick, stinging pain, teasing but not bruising. She cries out, more out of startlement than real distress. It melts halfway into a moan, just as Rose's touch melts into a caress, lingering in the bright afterglow of heat diffusing across her skin. She lifts her hips into it briefly -- comes down against the bedspread -- is racked by a little shiver as the movement shifts her lower body in the most delicious way.

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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There it is. Rose watches, glowing, while the fine cords in Pearl's shoulders go lax, as a shiver trickles through her, as her sigh unspools. Relinquishing. Relaxing fully into the play, and Rose couldn't be more endeared. She purrs her approval at what she sees: Pearl -- Pearl! -- stripped clean of all discretion and dignity and thoroughly, preciously debauched.

It's a sight that's yet to get old. To get even close. The valedictorian, 5.2 GPA, 99th percentile, golden scholar and honors student exemplar, and here she is: mewling and humping the mattress.

So damned cute. Trying to wriggle her martini-glass hips for any crumb of friction. All she's doing is teasing herself, of course -- there's no relief to be found like that -- helplessly turned on and nothing to be done about it. Oh, Rose's belly twists in the sweetest way.

There's still time to switch gears. Isn't there? Rose wets her lips. Could thieve Pearl's collar from its hiding place in the closet, maybe. Could pull her arms back, in a cozy little box-tie... leash her back into the living room... only let her come if she can satisfy herself on the furniture --

Still palming the beginning crease of her thigh, Rose swallows. Another time. Another time, soon.

But for now: "That's right," she hums, "It is a soothing thought, isn't it?" She toys another tap against flesh before taking a step back towards the dresser. "Let's find you something to play with."

Maybe they won't push it as far as she'd like tonight, but Rose does pull from her earlier inspiration with the box-tie harness. It's simple-looking -- just a little starfish of leather with buckles and studs -- but has proven quite challenging to anyone besides Pearl. They just lack the flexibility. (Or maybe Rose lacks the self-control to keep people tied for reasonable amounts of time.)

At any rate, it's the box-tie Rose opts for after a moment's weight. Spread-eagled Pearl is good too, of course -- an arm apiece to either bedpost as she whimpers and shivers -- but there's something very nice about having her facedown in the covers like this. Head down, and soon hips up. Offering herself whole. It might be the most decadent way to submit through body language, and Rose intends to reward her for it.

That's where the Hitachi comes in. Rose takes that, too, along with Pearl's personal wand attachment (giddy-pink, moderate texturing, soft gel cap. Pearl's sensitive.)

No point in rustling for dramatic effect when Pearl's this far gone. So Rose is quick, and Rose is methodical, and Rose has Pearl's arms pinned pretty and her hips propped perfect in under a minute. A gentle hand at the dip of her back encourages her to arch, and Rose hums. She looks good. She looks very, very good. Rich and full and flushed and hopelessly pink and fuck, her helplessness is hot. An ounce less of self-restraint and Rose might just flip her over and eat her up.

But this isn't about Rose. Not only, anyway. Her knees fold carefully on the bed next to Pearl as she settles in, again -- sets the Wand in easy reach -- and pets the soft upper of shaking thigh. So wet. Poor baby, oh. (The coverlet will take some washing after all this.)

"Quick check-in," she murmurs. In this position, Pearl's hips are about level with Rose's mouth. So she presses a soft kiss there as she strokes, patient. "Feel okay?"

[justapearl]

Pearl lets Rose move her, pose her, fold her arms perfectly behind her back. If she was in less of a hazy state of bliss, she'd be pleased by the symmetry of the position. It's like dance, in a way, or something like that; well, the other thing this has in common with dance is the way it allows her to just be in her body. Just feel...

Tied, she paradoxically feels safe. She turns her cheek into the bedspread, half-burrowing into it with a noise of contentment.

"Feels good, Rose, feels s-so...."

The words trail off into a moan as her hips jerk again: Rose's hand, her mouth, so close and so maddeningly far. At least when she was belly down against the bed she could grind a little, press herself into the blankets with the force of her own trembling muscles... Now in this position when she moves her hips she searches desperately for pressure, sensation, something, anything, but all there is is the unbearable tease of cool air against her wet folds.

"Please keep going," she whimpers, muffled by the blankets.

[likestoplay]

Most people don’t have the physical constitution to do well in this pose. No one, really. With anyone but Pearl, Rose would think more than twice about having them facedown with the possible support of their arms pinned back. A bit harsh on the neck; a bit cramped for breathing room. But Pearl’s weight is slight, and lovingly flexible as wax, and the position is too delicious for Rose to resist.

“That’s my last check-in,” she soothes, low, still petting along drenched inner thighs. Pearl’s tally-mark ribs show in time with her labored breathing: invitations to kiss, to graze with nails, to pock with music-notes of lovebites. Later. “You’ll have to safeword.”

(It’s almost true. Rose will be on the lookout for an early stop, regardless.)

She begins to resettle herself. Carefully, she brings herself from the side to behind Pearl proper, half-standing -- just one knee braced against the mattress. She tugs a bit, rearranging them both, and strokes one hand along the fevered curve of back while the other cups between Pearl’s legs.

Not even teasing. Not really. Just feeling her.

In a less sentimental mood, Rose would likely mime a few seconds of a giggly grind against her ass: muse aloud about shimmying into a strap-on. Postulate to an invisible spectator about the merits of fucking her through the mattress.

Rose is in a different kind of humor at this precise moment, though. She simply shapes her hands along the angles and swells and softer parts of her, gentle. “Such a sweet girl.” And Rose means it. Only several moments in does she realize she hasn’t rolled up the sleeves of her robe. They tickle every so often, she’s sure.

The only warning given to Pearl is a murmur of “Don’t come,” before Rose presses in two fingers with a single easy roll of wrist. They meet no resistance. Just summery, silky heat, rich and clinging. “Keep up your little dance, pretty thing.” Her other hand drifts along the soft crease of her hip, and onward, over the tremolo sinews in her waist, wavering just short of her clit: tracing the idea of tracing her there. “Show me how nice this feels.”

[justapearl]

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

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

[likestoplay]

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.