Thread: Paradise Isle  (Fades & Good Girls)

If she had been confident before, now the flaws in her perfectly coiffed facade began to spill around her like so much of her curling volume of hair. It formed a backdrop to her posing, curling and twisting where it had been crimped as it gave shade to her calves and her hips alike, and ensuring that the light scintillated off the Sicilian in her such that with the wood beneath her and her hair behind her there was not an inch of her naked flesh that was not entirely for the viewing pleasure of the audience before her. Yet here and now, that was not for them , as so much of her career had been. Her voice, her looks, her movements, they had all been for them for years at a time. At her most vulnerable and exposed, she had given up their access to those things as surely as a rowdy turnstile-jumper at a concert hall would be turned away. She resented them in a way she hadn't when they had been eating out of her palm just moments ago. She wanted to be like this for him and for no one else, if even for only a few more minutes. She wanted to tease and flash him all over again. Instead, she was flashed again and again in the lighting of the phones and cameras gathered before her, the tautness of her balancing arms and her artfully arched thighs revealing as much about the work that went into her poise with the lean, feminine sinew of her muscles maintaining what could have been an uncomfortable repose in which to wait as it did reveal the effortlessness of her beauty in balance of the Madonna Whore that was every successful pop star. Of playing young, but not too young. Of being sexy, but not too sexy. Innocent, but not naive . Accessible, but not overbearing. Pornographic, artfully nude. She was both. She was neither. And she was not calm, as the highlighting of her muscles in the light of the stage and the tensity of her posing only served to make it visible with each breath that traced down the entire line of her torso just how her nerves began to finally take hold with each. thudding. quivering. step. he. took. He was behind her, and then down upon the stage with her. She'd watched Emilia go through this, Emilia who was only subtly watching out of the corner of her eye, her lower lip captured between her teeth in empathy and rapt attention alike while she remained as still and patient as he could have asked of her now that her shared spotlight was reaching its second climax. Soon enough, Ariana would be beside her as an equal, and they could whisper to one another while the third took the stage, but for now she could only breathe her commiseration for what was the hardest, most wonderful part of the entire situation. It still burned so, and it would never stop burning in her mind how and to whom she forever belonged. But Ariana, for all her tattoos, for all her time in the eyes of others, was still untouched in that most pertinent way. She was touched in the way she craved, her hips lifting only subtly higher and her eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly when he traced his hand across her skin and teased the sensitive attentiveness of her nipple to threaten it to go even higher still if it had been possible, it might well have. She hadn't whispered her sweet nothings to Emilia for, well, nothing. Something about watching her give up everything and be marked had been intensely erotic. And intensely terrifying. I can get pretty loud, she both promised and warned on a breath that sounded like it should have had some music of her laugh, and yet which rasped like a music box at its end thanks to the tightness in her throat. She was being so brave, in her own opinion. It wasn't even remotely enough! But his kiss there at the side of her cheek made it feel as though the spreading warmth from that act alone could shield her from the worst of what was to come, only to focus on the best of it. Just another tattoo just another permanent addition to her body, like the bellissima writ across her left ribcage, to the nearby always beneath her left breath. Always beautiful , far enough from one another to not be a mere statement of narcissism, but worn proudly for what they were and what she was, and what she would always be. Always his bellissima . It was easy to get enraptured by the intimacy and romance of the moment, to let the cameras slip away entirely. Which was precisely what left her so entirely off-kilter as he spread her wide, her eyes going just as open in almost comical timing with the drop of her jaw to make an O of her bubble-gum gloss. Because certainly less glittery, but no less pink , Ariana proved to have the matching accessory for every part of her make-up when he forced her off the line of artful and entirely into the realm of utterly pornographic. She could hear the shutters more than she could see them, the phantom clicking of mice and tapping of touch screens sharing what had been a sensual but largely chaste event and revealing just what he had revealed to the world at large. Her skin darkened furiously from cheek to collarbone, her quivering gasp of protest just shocked and girlish enough to make it clear how little she approved of the moment -- and likely, just a bit, how much she understood the price she had just paid for her torment and teasing. Act like a brat, get treated like a brat. Meanie , she whimpered with all the force of a curse behind it, the question of how wet she must have been no longer in any sort of glistening question beneath the lights of the stage. And had she any time to focus on her pretty little vagina ending up disappointingly blurred in so many news stories and not at all blurred in ninety-five percent of the rest of the internet and the come-comeuppance that she had earned, she might have even thought of a few other choice cusses to throw his way. Words weren't what came out of her, though. She opened wider still, unbidden, until her jaw ached with the first sizzle of iron on skin, a silent squeak threatening to make its way past her constricting throat while her rich brown eyes went as wide and wet as other pieces of her already had. She desperately tensed her fingertips like the cat being dragged from its perch, forcing her knees and palms to support her acute little bend with as little motion as possible. And then she hit the high note. She had both warned and promised him. She let out a wail that could have been a track on the album all itself two one-thousand which pitched and wavered with the scream of someone who almost hadn't even known what pain was prior, a girl all too used to the jabbing of the needle into her skin entirely unprepared for the precision agony of the final touch's kiss. She screamed as beautifully as she laughed, the trilling three one-thousand sound of it dancing effortlessly between the points of pent up pleasure and powerful pain to make a symphony of something entirely new. She was trying to be so brave. So strong. But she couldn't. She couldn't endure it. four one-thousand she fell to the stage, just barely avoiding residual burning and singing and searing from her abrupt motion by the sheer luck of doing so at the same time he finally pulled the iron away and left her sizzled, seared, and stamped as his property . She collapsed between the curve of her own legs, her bent feet kissing her hips in a display of flexibility that was both unsurprising in the limber little pop star and yet still surprising to see for how she might have gone entirely flat back onto her shoulders if his lap hadn't been there to catch her. Emilia had almost had no choice but to grab for him to seek the comfort of her confirmed submission, and likewise through her wailing agony and searing subjugation, Ariana was forced to clutch. Her delicate fingers had never clutched at her little seam so sweetly. She was still crying, hiccuping sobs and whimpers little succor against the pain on her breast, while she laid on his lap and furiously rubbed herself for all to capture for their salacious stories of the day's events, those close enough to the stage able to capture the slick sound of tiny, capable digits performing a disappearing act into a body that had been trapped in a performative guise for so long that it scarcely seemed to know what to do with being freed . If there had been any, even her slender little fingers seemed to have a tight fit. Even two at a time, like so. I'm--I'msr--'msorry--f'r--for actin'--up, she whimpered ever so softly to him, for so many reasons to whimper, but most of all so she could try something on for size that she'd been considering and flirting with via her youthful image so many times and yet had never really seen how it fit. It was, ugh. She was a trailblazer. She was a mold breaker. All that good stuff, right? She didn't want to ever be a cliche. But it felt like it might have felt right, and she had to try it while her voice was privately squirming up to him from his lap and she could almost even pretend that an entire auditorium and the internet through them wasn't watching her vigorously masturbate to her signed away freedom and the boundaries that had just branded themselves upon her breast. Daddy , she breathed. .. maybe it was a cliche, and it was too much, and she was going to feel really dumb for going there. But it made her sing in a third, different cadence than her laughter and her pain had, so it definitely fit just right for her then and there as the build-up from Emilia's first stroll onto the stage while she'd clutched at the curtains in the shadows to her own folded submission against Him reached its inevitable, perfect, showstopping climax. It didn't stop the livid pain burning on her skin, but it was a lot easier to ignore when the rest of her body bucked upward on her knees and quivered her petite frame into a panting, mindlessly moaning little mess that left her the exact opposite of the complete control she had shown when taking her first steps onto that stage. And that too fit just right.