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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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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..."

Edited 2015-11-26 03:07 (UTC)

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...

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.

Edited 2015-11-26 19:58 (UTC)

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?"

Edited 2015-11-28 05:30 (UTC)

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.

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?"

"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.

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.

Edited 2015-11-29 23:40 (UTC)

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.

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.

Edited 2015-12-01 05:20 (UTC)

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.

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."

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.

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?"

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.

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.”

Edited 2015-12-13 02:27 (UTC)

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.

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.

Noises squirm their way out from within Pearl's chest. If she had a little more composure she'd try to tamp down on them out of habit, keep them bitten back or swallowed, but she's rapidly coming undone. Instead they rise and fall with the play of Rose's fingers against her: breathy little gasps, melting whines, low tremolo moans. Each exhale ragged and shaking, hot liquid want lapping at its edges. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, drunk on it. Even so, images smoulder in her mind's eye, summoned by Rose's gentle taunt: an image of herself, helpless, skin freckle-flushed all over and gleaming with sweat, moving her hips like some animal in a rut of heat. And Rose, looming above her, intent and delighted, hair tucked behind one shoulder, heavy curves, a stray curl falling across her pale skin as she focuses on what she's doing-- what her hands--

Her hands--

One of them pulling back, palm open -- Pearl imagines it but she can't predict it, and that fills her with a nervy thrill, the not-knowing just when Rose is lifting her hand to begin its graceful arc through the air --

And each time her palm lands! The heat, the sting, curling deliciously across Pearl's skin outwards from the point of impact--

Pearl is moving, wriggling, wiggling, hips bucking desperately, heedless of how ridiculous she looks and the way it twists her neck this way and that. Her knees shifting on the bed, backwards, and forwards again, as if she could escape. Trembling with the strain, till finally with a low groan she lowers herself to the bed, her hips pressing once, twice against the comforter. She whimpers out a barely audible apology, in case Rose cares -- spreads her legs a little further, as if to make up for her change in position.

"Please..."

Pearl’s legs give; she lowers trembling to the bed again.

Rose’s leer could bleach clothing.

“You certainly don’t care about keeping my belongings clean.” Her fingers thieve: feather quick and awful between Pearl’s thighs from behind, and come back bright and slippery. “Look at this mess. Shameless.” The slick makes the impact extra colorful for the next two dolloping spanks -- brusque and businesslike. Posture flat to the bed like this, the flesh becomes lax, and softer. Safer to frost with a little brutal sugar.

She indulges in a squeeze: the skin of her ass is glowing tart. A crackling little taste for Rose’s sweet tooth. “Shameless, filthy little thing.” The squeeze rolls into a knead and then another smack before Rose shifts herself for a better angle, coming to kneel just outside of Pearl’s left leg.

‘Please,’ crumbles, though, a ’please.’

“‘Please’?” Rose wants to eat it right out of her mouth. Her fingers trail to the softer inner of thigh to trace nails there, a glimmer of threat. “Please what? Surely not you.” Four little nibbles in the vulnerable flesh. Her other hand plays along the baking pink of Pearl’s ass -- easy, idle, maple-colored strokes, early-shaping the next wave of swats.

“What, then? Tell me.”

Edited 2015-12-30 05:54 (UTC)

Each carefully timed spank feeds the growing ache, heat creeping across the curve of Pearl's cheeks, licking at the insides of her thighs. Maybe she'll feel it tomorrow. A deep sweet soreness, every time she sits down or shifts in her jeans. She'll have to hide her little winces when she sits down in class or in the cafeteria, swallow her whimpers at every unexpected twinge of sensation. Reminder of Rose's hand on her, her nails marking skin. God, Pearl hopes she'll feel it.

Stretched out like this, the position is easier on her upper body; there's just enough play in the arrangement of her limbs that she can begin to move her hips again, an uneven rhythm that echoes Rose's spanking. Rutting into the bed. Shameless, just as Rose calls her: her breath hitches into a half sob, and she buries it in the bedding. She twists her head (cheeks pink, hair hopelessly tousled from struggle) as if to meet Rose's eyes, but can't quite manage to crane her neck enough.

"Please--" She doesn't know what to ask for. Knows it probably doesn't matter anyway: it's up to Rose, all of it. Still, she shapes the words, soft and quavering: "Please t-touch me."

“No,” Rose says, simply. Sweetly. “I won’t.” She bends: presses a soft kiss to the worst-abused swell of Pearl’s ass. (Her skin is glowing-warm.)The gesture is a tender one, notched between crisp cruelty. “I won’t touch you for the rest of the night.” (And a lie, too.)

She lets the verdict dredge a milky, distressed whimper before going on. The mattress snickers as Rose’s weight shifts -- leaning closer to her head, now. The change spills Rose’s hair from her back and it feathers lightly over odd parts and pieces of Pearl. A sensory 180 from spanking.

“What I will do,” another kiss: this one at the lean sliver of shoulderblade, “is toy with you.”

An important distinction. Toying is for Rose’s satisfaction. The touching is done for Rose’s enjoyment -- so goes the pretense. It can constitute any number of verbal and digital and oral and dramaturgical acts directed upon Pearl, driven by Rose, and very obviously constructed around capitalizing on Pearl’s submissive tastes. But it’s critical that any pleasure Pearl feels is treated in-game as incidental and beside the point. This kind of play relies on that illusion: that Rose is above, and Pearl is below. That’s how this particular game goes.

But there can’t be any game if Pearl isn’t enjoying. And she enjoys more when she’s a little nervous.

“I’ll play with you,” another pop on the ass: more gentle, this time, “if you can be good. It’s hard, I know -- you have no discipline to speak of --”

One last grope: a handful of flesh near her upper thigh. Quick press of a massage, right over the tiny moon-shaped nailmarks.

“-- but you can be very, very good when you try.”

It’s time to get her off of her neck. A little rearrangement. Rose leans, reaching: snags a puffed pillow from the top of the bed and lays it flat to the right of Pearl’s head. Another goes next to her shivering hips. The towel is on the dresser still, so Rose slinks from the mattress to grab that, too; fabric sighs as she drapes it over the pillow. Too little too late, maybe, but there’s no reason not to.

A quick bundle of kisses stipple the dip of Pearl’s back as Rose carefully shepherds her into turning over. It takes pressure off of her bound arms, instead letting her rest on her shoulders. And her worn-out backside, too: it’ll be a nice reminder of her fresh spanking for the rest of the scene.

All the while Rose feeds her a lulling, plaited monologue about how embarrassing it must be for Pearl, to have so little self-control -- between the showerhead, and now the bed, Rose was beginning to worry about the rest of her apartment (“You can’t help but try to get off on who or whatever stands still long enough, can you?”). How sad for such a clever, pretty, sweet girl to be so shameless, so slavishly ready to let her base wants override her. What a waste.

“But don’t worry. I’ll play nice.” Rose finishes the last adjustments to their new position. Pearl: laid flat, weight bridged between shoulders and propped hips. Propped up this way, she should be comfortable. Most of her field of vision can only reveal Rose’s expression -- none of Rose’s movements. And Rose: nestled at the foot of the bed, one leg tucked comfortably underneath the other as she guides soaked thighs to butterfly wide. “As long as you don’t break any rules.”

Her tongue clucks: tsk. Coaching her face into something pitying and tender isn’t hard. She lets her eyes linger on the full, neglected sex one moment more before reaching over for the wand. “There’s just two. Don’t kick.” Unseen by Pearl, the wand pets along her soaked lips. Just warming against her. Then it nestles low: well clear of her clit, but a bit too firm to count as a ‘tease.’ “And don’t come.”

And then clicks on with a whirrrr --

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what f i literally only use this icon for the rest of forever