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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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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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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?"
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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.
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“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.”
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"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.
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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.
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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..."
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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.”
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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."
what f i literally only use this icon for the rest of forever
“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 --