Morning light filtered through the slats of a small wooden window, casting golden beams into the back kitchen of the house.
The scent of freshly cooked rice and steaming bai curry lingered thick in the air. Porcelain bowls clinked softly in rhythm with the scrape of a wooden spatula against the bottom of a pot.
Four or five maidservants bustled around, preparing the morning meal for the nobleman and his daughter.
In one quiet corner sat Busaba, her head lowered as she stripped kaffir lime leaves by hand. Her fingers were calloused from years of labor, and her long hair still damp from the pre-dawn bath. Her sharp, handsome features remained expressionless—yet beneath that stillness, something burned.
All she had to do was close her eyes... and the vision from the night before returned, vivid and relentless.
Footsteps approached—soft, measured.
Chaem, a middle-aged maid, bent close and whispered,
"Lady Chantra is asking for you... in her chamber."
Busaba froze.
Her dark eyes lifted, locking with the older woman's. She didn't ask why. She never needed to.
By the hearth, two maids paused mid-task—one peeling shallots, the other shelling garlic. Both cast furtive glances toward Busaba. They didn't speak. They didn't whisper. But their looks said enough.
Everyone in this house seemed to know—about the forbidden, shameful bond between the nobleman's daughter and this striking servant girl.
And yet no one dared speak of it.
Busaba placed the lime leaves into a basket, grabbed a thin cloth, and wiped her hands in quick, careless strokes. Then she rose to her full height—silent, composed.
She walked out of the kitchen without looking back.
She cared not for glances nor whispers. She listened to only one voice in this entire household.
The voice of Lady Chantra.
.
.
The wooden door shut with a soft thud, followed by the click of a wooden bolt sliding into place.
The bedchamber fell silent once more, save for the late-morning sunlight streaming in through the shutters. The lingering scent of sandalwood infused the air—heady and intimate, as if it had been drawn from the skin of the lady who ruled this room.
Busaba said nothing.
She lowered herself slowly onto her knees, bowing until her body curved low against the wooden floor before the sleeping platform.
Lady Chantra sat motionless on the bed, her eyes fixed on Busaba with a knowing smile. Then, without hesitation, she rose.
Their gazes held as Chantra reached up and unwrapped the strip of cloth from her upper body. Within seconds, the garment slipped to the floor—leaving her entirely bare.
"Busaba," she said, voice calm yet sultry,
"I wasn't satisfied last night… did you know?"
Busaba kept her head bowed low, heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. Of course she knew what her lady meant.
"My lady… it is still daylight,"
she murmured, barely audible.
But before the final syllable left her lips, Chantra leaned in—her whisper brushing hot against the servant's ear.
"I promise I won't make a sound… so don't be afraid, will you?"
Her lips grazed Busaba's cheek before pulling back, and then she beckoned with a single, slender finger.
"Come to me."
She issued the command as she stepped back toward the edge of the bed. Naked, she parted her legs slowly—graceful and deliberate.
It was a sight worthy of a painting.
But a forbidden painting… one that no eyes should behold.
Busaba froze.
She could no longer resist the heat pooling low in her belly, awakened again by the very woman who had lit it afire the night before.
"You already know what you must do, Busaba,"
Chantra said, barely above a whisper—yet the weight of her words was inescapable.
Busaba gave no verbal reply. She merely crawled forward on her knees, inching closer to those pale thighs. The skin was impossibly soft beneath her fingertips—and as her face drew near, her breath ghosted across the heat between them.
There, she could still smell the trace of last night's pleasure—its memory clinging to Chantra's skin like a wicked perfume. It hit Busaba like a wave.
Chantra did not move.
She merely leaned back slightly, allowing her spine to rest against the firm cushion behind her.
And waited.
Busaba reached out, her fingers brushing gently against her mistress's inner thigh.
Then came the first flick of her hot tongue—delicate, unhurried—gliding over soft folds that trembled at the touch.
Chantra's breath hitched instantly.
The servant alternated between slow, languid licks and sudden bursts of urgency. Her tongue circled each sensitive spot with practiced intent—repeating, teasing, until her mistress was trembling.
She didn't just lick—she kissed, she sucked, and she captured the trembling petals with lips so soft it was maddening.
Then, with one daring nibble at the very center—just enough to sting—Chantra's entire body jolted beneath her.
The noblewoman clenched her jaw tight, both hands gripping the edge of the bedframe as though afraid she might fly apart.
Her breath faltered with every pass of Busaba's tongue. A low, choked moan escaped her lips—raw, involuntary.
"I feel… so good, Busaba…"
One hand slid down, pressing her servant's head firmly against the heat between her legs—urging her to stay, to sink deeper, to drown there.
To savor her.
To consume her.
Warm lips sealed against her slick, swollen flesh. Busaba's tongue moved in slow, relentless circles, while her other hand clutched her mistress's thigh with growing hunger.
The soft sounds of swallowing, mingled with heavy breaths, filled the room.
Until Chantra's slender body arched sharply—her moan rising into a husky, drawn-out cry. Her thighs trembled violently. Her head tilted back as waves of release surged through her.
Busaba pulled away slowly, her tongue flicking to gather every last drop of her mistress's nectar—sticky, sweet, and impossibly warm.
Then she looked up at her with eyes full of adoration.
"Come sit with me on the platform," Chantra commanded, voice thick with want.
Busaba didn't speak.
She rose in silence, climbing up onto the bedding as instructed.
Moments later, Chantra followed—straddling her lap, thighs parted, her pale body pressing close.
She cupped her breasts, offering them forward—soft, full, flushed from arousal.
"Suckle me," she ordered.
The command was clear—delivered with only a subtle movement of those reddened lips—but it seared through Busaba like fire.
She lowered her head at once, reverently. Her tongue flicked across the hardened peak, before she took it fully into her mouth.
She suckled with care, with hunger—with mounting fervor.
Chantra's breasts rose and fell in time with each pull, each breath, each drawn-out moan echoing into the quiet room...
Busaba moved in slow, reverent rhythm—alternating between licks and long, deep sucks against her mistress's breast. She circled her tongue around the flushed peak, over and over, like a loyal devotee drinking nectar from a goddess upon her altar.
At the same time...
Chantra's hand slipped down between her own thighs, fingers gliding toward the place already slick with arousal. She began to move in tight, slow circles—never once taking her eyes off the face of her servant, who remained latched to her breast with such unwavering devotion.
Her breath hitched again.
A soft moan escaped her lips every time Busaba's tongue flicked across the sensitive nub.
The servant sucked. She licked. She kissed.
She worshipped the delicate tip with her mouth, as Chantra's fingers sped up their motion beneath her.
"Busaba… don't stop,"
the noblewoman moaned near her servant's ear, voice strained with growing need.
Her fingers worked faster, circling, pressing, trembling.
"Ahh… Busaba… you're insatiable…"
Then her body jerked—hard.
Her hand faltered for a split second, then spasmed in rapid pulses.
She came.
Shuddering, breathless, undone.
And all the while, Busaba's lips remained sealed to her mistress's breast, suckling gently through every quiver, every aftershock.
Chantra, panting, reached down and cupped Busaba's face—guiding her mouth away from the overstimulated flesh. Her slender fingers stroked through her servant's dark hair with slow tenderness, and her voice—when it came—was a whisper at the edge of breath.
"And you, Busaba?" she asked, fingers grazing the soft curve of her cheek.
"Don't you want me to return the favor…?"
"No, my lady," she replied simply.
"Just seeing you come undone… that alone brings me to bliss."
And it wasn't a lie.
Busaba had not touched herself.
Chantra hadn't laid a single hand on her.
But to see her beloved reach the peak of pleasure—because of her…
That was enough.
Chantra was silent for a long moment.
Then she pulled her servant into a gentle embrace—arms closing around her, bodies drawn close. She let her eyes fall shut,
and together, they breathed in rhythm… until two hearts beat softly as one.
…