Thread: Paradise Isle  (Fades & Good Girls)

The lyrics to Ariana's latest were a little simple. A little repetitive, perhaps. But when working on something new, it was often those closest to its production who got to truly know what it was like to undergo the creative process at its messiest and least refined. For now, her swan song for the slaving stage and slavering streams capturing every second of their performance might have been the inelegant spread of her legs giving way to the girlish touch of knee to knee whilst Jeffrey hid her away from her most public appearance yet, but for him it was the musical elegance from somewhere 'round his belly. Haah .. haahn .. hnnn .. the breathless, staccato panting of the squirming songstress was the climax of this particular set, the crescendo giving way to the final track. Her attempt to draw in breath, to still her heart, and to find herself precisely where she was meant to be. Drawn up against his lap, the eyes of the world faded away from her, she could have disappeared into sleep right then and there but for the racing of her pulse and the adrenaline kiss of her agonized skin. Like an artfully crafted marionette, no one would have been gauche enough to cut her strings, but they had been carefully wound after having been so tightly strung before and now left her temporarily devoid of any dancing. Her limbs moved only when posed, her legs closed by a warm touch and her wrist brought aloft with one warmer still. Her shame and pride one and the same gleamed in the lighting onstage. She had definitely gotten a little carried away. But you couldn't be carried without being held, and being held like this was just what she needed right now. She closed her eyes, her arched back and heaving breaths making a taut display of her angled torso across his lap. Still, nothing could have wiped the glittery pink smile from her lips when he echoed back her own little slip-up because sometimes, an accident was the best way to ask forgiveness rather than permission and gave her a gift. A trophy. An award. She'd earned it, however you sliced it, and she knew that it had nothing to do with the simple fact that she had agreed to his contract. After all, Emilia most certainly hadn't gotten anything extra for her performance. For a moment of time so brief as to be immeasurable, Ariana felt the tiniest bit of smug pride seep throughout her still-quivering little frame. But then he had to go and suck on her finger. She probably wasn't going to be able to respond teasingly or affirmingly to his gentle chide to begin with, but that really managed to take things off the rails. She sucked in a breath sharply and held it so at the very least his little cleaning ritual managed to shock her system away from its cute little mimicry of hyperventilating, the heel of her right foot stroking down against her left calf in an almost involuntary struggle. A kick in slow motion, coinciding with the lifting and twisting of her hips up off of the stage, only to come back down while she focused and tried not to let the motion of his lips and tongue across her naughty finger send her into another spiraling paroxysm. No habitttt - not fair - she managed to breathe out, her eyelashes fluttering sweetly open beneath the cracked lenses giving her a most distinguished look in her naked, sweat-kissed sprawl while she desperately tried not to let the convulsing shudder down her spine from his ministrations convince her that she needed to get back to it again already . notfair rushed out of her lips a second time, ending on a squeaking gasp of a sound that might have been the most petite of all little deaths. Or at the very least, a shiver enough to make her toes curl. Certain blogs were going to love those pictures. Don't visit those blogs. It was the preamble to her taking his suggestion and doing something that she'd honestly never done. She wasn't sure if she particularly liked it, actually. Certainly not with the same verve and interest he had shown without need for a single word, given how his tongue wrote its story all around and in between her fingers. But just as that particular story suggested an all too entertaining sort of follow-up, she nonetheless hinted at her own sort of sequel after a brief motion of her lips and tongue, her eyes only amplified through the cracked lenses in ways more subtle than certain art kitsch but with a distinct uptick in pantomimed naivety while she tasted herself upon herself. She pursed her lips and sucked , until the pout of her lips against her finger was as undeniably tight as it had been before. Once in, once out, twice in, and then done. .. not quite done, as her tongue devilishly seemed to think she was doing nothing of note and nothing at all wrong as it slid so small and pink around the tip of her equally pink nail in a final flourish before her smile returned, uncharacteristically vapid in its neatness. None of that reached her ingenue eyes, which spoke all too loudly that the adrenaline-exhausted former pop-star might not have been sure if she liked the taste of herself - but she was one hundred percent certain she'd be more amicable toward his flavor, given the opportunity. Just as at the podium, she did not linger with that suggestion it was a whisper just for him, and then gone as every little secret ought to have been in its time. Because following the flirtation of her finger and tongue, she felt just settled enough that she could actually rise up anew, if not quite a phoenix, then at the very least reborn in her own way. Of course I'm not done. We're just getting started, she told him, her chaste smile threatening to become something genuinely beaming while she tucked her feet beneath her and reoriented herself into something nearly like a vertical position, letting her tresses tickle at her ankles for a moment before she made it entirely upright. But she didn't let him get away quite as easily or neatly as he tried to, his professionalism as resolute as it had been since she'd seen him from so far offstage to begin with. While he got his bearings and extricated himself to stand up, she reached back abruptly just to give him an instant of pause, her smile seeming to have cracked the tiniest bit. Your slave, she corrected sweetly, and squeezed her hand down just hard enough to palm his dick through his slacks. He wasn't going to get up gracefully in the best of circumstances, but that minx seemed determine to make likelihood into truth. While he made his way back to the podium, regaining his composure and regaling the press with his amusement over her high note, Ariana planted one hand in front of the other. Even trying to stand would have been foolish right now, so she didn't. She prowled like a house-kitten, one hand in front of her other, one knee painfully pressing down into the hard wood underneath her slight weight after the other, and dragged her slender frame the short distance from where she'd been branded to where Emilia proudly displayed her own with the patience of a saint. Hip to hip, she gave her new sister in servitude not so much as a centimeter of space to call her own, tickling her bare skin with her hair this time as she leaned in and whispered beneath the audience's laughter at Jeffrey's nudging of the show back on the road. Does it still hurt? Ariana half hissed, half whimpered. I think it might actually be worse now a bit itchy, Emilia whispered back, her voice rich with good humor while they took their private time to themselves. Not that she had or would do anything so unladylike as to sit there massaging or scratching at her newly anointed brand even if it hadn't been threatening agony if she even so much as thought about doing so. She felt Ariana sigh against her shoulder with trepidation, as the more her high was wearing off the more she could truly feel it there on her breast. Wish I'd done like you now, actually, Emilia then admitted quietly, knowing her tiny flash of a grin and the turn of her eyes to behold the former Miss Grande out of the corner of them would be taken by the only woman they were meant for. She didn't really need to say more than that. Ariana giggled as softly as she could manage which at the moment, was quite softly! and nudged her shoulders upward, tucking her elbows inward so as to not give her brunette co-star too hard of a nudge in the ribs for her commiseration that she hadn't taken the opportunity to masturbate on stage and was now being forced to wait interminably through the rest of the program. But Ariana wasn't just giving Emilia a little ribbing for amusement's sake. The tips of her index fingers touched one another, and the tips of her thumbs did the same. While Mr. Tremonti extolled the Eagle Scouts, Ariana formed a perfectly neat little heart by turning and brought the window between her delicate fingers up until it framed her brand just about perfectly. Only one person in the audience had the exact vantage with their camera to get the pristine shot of her adorably showing off the newest permanent addition to her silky skin, but Ariana had always insisted on being photographed from her good side. She beamed, content. .. but she lowered her hands back down to her knees before long, lest she be expected to keep her arms stuck in that position through the rest of the ceremony. Elbow cramps were not a good way to start paradise off. Break a leg, came the final encouragement from the wings. Because then there was one. Though on stage, there were three. Madelaine entered the stage as though she had been born to walk a red carpet, and not simply because she was accompanied by the matching crimson drape of her voluminous hair. While her predecessor in professing the finality of her freedom might have technically beaten Maddie when it came to sheer silky ringlets by inch , it was pretty hard to argue that when it came to the deep, natural magma at sunset hue that practically basked in the stage lighting as much as the girl it was attached to did that redheads didn't have a certain advantage in turning eyes toward them. A girl on fire in book or on screen could own a capitol's attention, but Madelaine carried a torch for herself alone. It wasn't hard for her to do so, either. She moved with a confidence completely unlike Ariana's practiced ownership of the live stage. The runway model, the beauty pageant hopeful, the politician with nothing to prove, she was one hundred percent professional in her emergence to the painfully obviously muted applause. She missed no more of a step than she would have had it been thunderous or silent, because well, nobody in their right mind expected to get a bigger pop out of a crowd than Ariana fucking Grande. More impressive was how she didn't miss so much as a step even on the polished hard wood despite the fact that her feet were angled dang near vertically down toward it, her golden heels clicking in expert elegance as though she'd been born to strut in stilettos as long as her own fingers. She hadn't. It had taken far too much practice and self-questioning before she'd ever felt ready to walk an actual red carpet in heels, truthfully. Granted, few eyes were going to be that far down when the song of ice and fire that was the young woman's tresses and absolutely porcelain skin was being showcased by what may have been the flimsiest, tissue paper excuse for a little black dress that could still technically be considered clothing. What was red and white and black all over? Miss Petsch. She did not stalk to the audience, to take their measure and to control their interest in what she would do astride the stage in the way that Ariana had. She didn't walk to the center of the stage, microphone in hand, to introduce herself and her charity the way that Emilia had. For all that she came onto the stage like a lioness utterly unconcerned with the cackle of the hyenas off stage or the pride of the king at his podium, very nearly reflective of literally any judgement or praise that might have come her way, the truth of the matter was that Madelaine was simply young and driven. She was a far cry from the character she most famously portrayed who, being fair, was outside of the demographic of most of those attending hence her somewhat more sedate introduction from the peanut gallery - she was not about to burn down the stage to make her point, positive or negative, no matter how the little curls of fire at the pale snow of her back might have bounced with each expert step on the balancing act that best described her heels. But though Cheryl might have been driven in her own way, her actress was driven in another way. Without a single word of introduction beyond Jeffrey's announcement, Madelaine Petsch walked onto stage with crisp, quick, but unhurried strides that sent her skirt dancing back and forth in the slit up her skirt that might have been more appropriately referred to as a gash. It seemed dangerous, aside from how the rhythm of the press conference seemed to suggest the temporary nature of her state of coverage, to have a dress cut that high up the hip and to walk with such swift purpose. One lucky camera shutter probably caught, in the vigorous sway of her skirt, the answer that everyone asked of a redhead before she could reveal the answer herself. Nonetheless she didn't pause until she reached the table, at which point she delicately bent forward and lifted the quill enough that its feather could be seen to dance at her side by those left watching beyond the shadow of the stage lights. Madelaine , she wrote in neat script, before spinning around on her heels with a crispness that seemed dangerous on such footwear, expertly returning the quill to its place behind her without needing to glance over her shoulder to do so. One hand went up, her striking ruby lips literally and figuratively painted into a smile while she touched her collarbone and proved that the flimsiness of her dress was no mere illusion. With an audible but nonetheless soft, given the .. overall lack of substance snap and pop, Madelaine snapped and popped the tiny little strap on her little black dress, and threw her entire arm down with a flourish that accompanied a greater but still somehow delicate sound of ripping and popping as though it had been designed to break away. Like a magic trick with a tablecloth and a full setting, the former Miss Petsch's dress ended up dangling from her fingertips with a very near ta-da like pose in the way her hands angled out from either side of her body. If Emilia had suggested a personal trainer, Madelaine guaranteed one. The redhead's sloping, widening, dipping, widening, and dipping again figure screamed about the effect of beauty regimens, instagram expectations, and what it took to be a young woman in Hollywood these days good genetics, vegan diet, and thankless primping and sweating leading to an end result that nonetheless had to seem worth it to the young lady who had been certain to trim out every single ounce of fat that she could while not eradicating it entirely from the widening gyre of her settling hips or keeping any of the excess, overlooked heft from settling in her breasts. She was neither zaftig nor petite. She was fit without being a gym-bunny. She looked as though she had never shown her skin sun a day in her life, but her pale was sumptuous rather than sickly. And yes, there was an unapologetic but far from unruly, downy-soft tangle of equally magma-kissed crimson leading down beneath her trim tummy. But while she flourished with one hand to drop her now useless dress to the stage, clad in only her lipstick smile and her improbable heels, her other hand remained held out toward Jeffrey even without looking in his direction. She wiggled her fingers just the tiniest bit. Ahem. Microphone? she said without saying.