Chapter 1: Your hands are coarse (+)
The soft rasp of a bamboo comb glided slowly through the ebony strands of Lady Chantra's hair, its faint sound echoing in the silence of the wooden chamber, quiet enough to hear one's breath.
Her straight, lustrous locks draped gently down her pale, delicate back—like moonlight kissing the surface of a still pond. Her oval face framed arched brows and heavy-lidded eyes that shimmered with something unreadable beneath their calmness. Her lips were tinted with a natural blush, perfectly shaped, a portrait of feminine beauty come to life.
Behind her sat Busaba—her handmaiden—with striking, defined features: dark, almond-shaped eyes, a proud nose, and full, well-shaped lips. Her skin bore the golden hue of sun and toil, marked by a small mole on her right cheek. And whenever those eyes lifted to meet another's gaze… they had the power to make hearts plummet in their chest. Though her hands were rough, her fingertips moved with a gentleness unexpected.
And there had never been a night Busaba combed her mistress's hair without her eyes wandering—drawn to that soft, fair back.
The scent of floral water floated through the room, like it had been distilled from real petals blooming in a summer night. The lamp's flame flickered, casting dancing shadows across the still, slender figure.
Chantra did not turn… but her hand reached back, gently clasping her servant's wrist.
"Busaba… your hands are coarse,"
came her mistress's cool voice—but her eyes hinted at a hidden flame.
The pale face turned slowly, and before Busaba could speak, lips descended on her fingers—softly sucking them in. A warm tongue teased the tip—not in jest, though it seemed like it—there was nothing playful in those eyes.
"Do you know," Chantra murmured, "that I think of your long fingers every night?"
She kept Busaba's hand in hers, pulling it down—past her chest, her stomach… until it reached beneath her navel.
The servant did not resist. Her fingers were seized—guided—into the secret folds that were hot, soaked, and impossibly soft.
Chantra's skin burned beneath her touch, as if fire had bloomed beneath the surface. Her breathing turned shallow, her body leaning into Busaba's shoulder wordlessly.
Her thighs clenched, dictating the rhythm with every tremble, until a breathless whisper fluttered past Busaba's ear.
"Deeper… Busaba," her mistress said, voice low but resolute.
"Push those rough fingers in… as deep as your desire dares."
That night… the handmaiden did as she was summoned to do—again and again.
And the lust that Lady Chantra had ignited became a wildfire in Busaba's chest as well—burning through the stillness of the house… ready to consume them both from within.