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Life before Panapsorn was an aimless wandering void of space; with Phakinee's mind full of cynicism, she strung the most hurtful words to draw a line. It effectively made the third-generation heiress appear unmerciful and cold. On nights when the pressure spiked, Phakinee gravitated to liquor. It was a terrible combination to fuel her system, for it led her to spew a venomous choice of words. Ultimately, she hadn't known fully how such a perspective had gradually evanesced her being.
By some miraculous force, Phakinee now comes home to the very woman who was once a victim of her repugnant past. Her sunshine, her angel—Panapsorn—was dressed in one of Phakinee's deep navy cashmere sweater, its hem ending right before where it met her white tennis skirt, and her feet padding softly through the rich marble of the penthouse in their matching fluffy white slip-ons. Pan looked perfect, as if the day's work hadn't consumed her into a mess. There she came running, with warmth in her eyes, and arms stretched wide open to welcome her with comfort.
Phakinee knew of life devoid of this woman, and it was akin to descending into madness. She'd rather disappear into the mortal plane than know of it again.
With Panapsorn, she's just Phakinee—stripped of the brunt of the title. She's only Pheem, adorably coined as her Siberian husky. What only remains of her is a woman who loves consumingly.
She feels Pan's limbs surround her, arms rubbing soothingly all over her back.
"You were gone for too long," Pan mutters softly against her shoulder.
Though it was said in jest, Phakinee still feels her heart grow.
"I could say the same." Her embrace tightened around the angel's waist. She questions, "Does it feel like a husband coming home from war?"
Phakinee feels Pan nod her head. "Very much so."
They hear the slight crinkle and rustle as the chauffeur drops the paper bags at the luxurious center table, the result of the heir's unwinding, and exits wordlessly in the tender exchange.
She closes her eyes, inhaling the comfort emitted by Pan's scent: floral, breeze of the sea, a whiff of fresh pastry, and something uniquely her that the heiress couldn't get enough of.
Phakinee chuckles. "I thought you said outdoor clothes are dirty?"
"It is. But it cancels out mine. I wore this earlier when I dropped by the bakery."
Just as Phakinee hung her chestnut blazer neatly on her forearm and traded her loafers for a pair of comfortable, fluffy white slip-ons, her eyes widened at the woman's words.
"You did?"
Panapsorn only hummed in response.
The heiress gawked at the long, flawless legs of the woman, who was unbothered, ever so oblivious to her quiet and natural charm, even years later, casually making her way towards the kitchen. Phakinee, of course, trotted along like a moth to a flame.
"You really wore that outside?" Phakinee stutters, high-pitched, trying her best to contain the edge of possessiveness in her tone.
Pan peered at her side as the previously seared Khao Mok Gai is being put into the oven. "Yes. Is there a problem, darling?"
"No—no, there isn't." Phakinee clears her throat. Pan kept an eye on her. Scouring past the yogurt drinks in the fridge, Phakinee grabbed a glass of bottled water, and Pan wordlessly retrieved a goblet of drinkware for her. She poured the water and drank it eagerly to dampen her brewing thoughts.
Panpasorn began to unfold the details of her day, and they sat by the polished countertop. Phakinee listened with intent, adoring the woman. The shaded chandelier cast a sense of warmth all over the place. Pan appeared more ethereal than ever.
All was well until Panapsorn recalls a woman with a golden retriever dropping by Pan Pastry-ne and how it behaved like an angel. It lit a match that felt like a trigger. She nods passively, reconnecting her focus through the undeniable enthusiasm emitting from Pan.
Although it started to weigh on Phakinee's turbulent mind, the comparison of the past flashed through unexpectedly.
The echoes of her being unreasonable and cruel grew louder—a Siberian husky that was once so childish. Far by miles from what the angelic Panapsorn adores.
On other days, it was better. At times, it was... like this. A thread to work with.
"Darling, are you listening to me?" Pan lets out a questionable low laugh.
"Yes, yes—darling. I'm with you." Phakinee clears her throat. She musters a smile. "I can't wait to taste the raspberry tart with Thai fusion that you're planning to make."
Pan's lips thinned inquisitively. "Honey, I said that ten minutes ago." The heiress stills. Meanwhile, Pan's hands found their way centered on Phakinee's vest, unbuttoning it slowly. "Tell me honestly, what goes through your mind?"
Phakinee softens at the unwavering gaze before her, her own smooth hands coming to wrap around Pan. The woman still lives up to the angel title, full of patience, despite carrying her own flaws.
"I—remembering things isn't quite a walk in the park for me still, my love." Phakinee bites her lip in contempt, trying to find the right words. "I apologize for being selfish, but I still couldn't believe how cruel I was once to someone like you, and I can't help but think what if... I still am, unknowingly? The thought terrifies me."
In Phakinee's raw voice of admittance, there's a lump in her throat that refuses to be swallowed. The shame began to creep fully through her entire body. The heiress tightens her engulfing grip above Pan's warm hands, as if she'll disappear at any moment. Though in the same beat, Phakinee averts her gaze, disarraying her thoughts through the view of Bangkok's skyscrapers peering through their floor-to-sky windows and slightly parted curtains.
Pan blinked rapidly. Before she knew it, her own eyes began to glisten. She can easily sympathise with Phakinee's concern, as the wounds were still admittedly healing even a year later.
Her lips twitched. Admittedly, it was still a struggle for Pan to open her thoughts—to say the right thing.
But if parts of them will remain like this—walking on eggshells, avoiding the pain—then Pan thinks it isn't worth anyone's time if they won't even try to unpack them.
So, the baker backtracked through their conversation to see what was wrong.
Pan threads softly. "Was this about the golden retriever?"
Phakinee slowly nods, ashamed.
Pan feels her heart ache a little. She brought her thumb up, caressing the faintest line of scar on the corner of Phakinee's right eyebrow, careful.
The woman who stood before her looked so young—the three-year gap between them making itself known—uncharacteristically meek. Despite Phakinee's bravado and temper, Pan has come to learn that her Pheem has always been tender, incredibly sensitive deep inside.
It's just as much of a learning experience for Pan herself—a reminder that this woman is her safe space to be as vulnerable. To see her beyond the title, the perfect suit, and status. That in love and pain, this woman is her equal.
"We still have to work through a lot, don't we?" Pan says delicately, though, more of a statement than a question. Pan takes a deep breath and cradles the soft skin of Phakinee's cheeks across the countertop, trying to peer through the troubled, gleaming brown eyes that she loves. "Listen to me, Pheem. That's who you are—you're blunt and too brazen for your own good. But underneath all of that, you're capable of doing good. I've seen it—I've felt it. The way this penthouse is accustomed to my needs, from the fridge to the wardrobe, the way you hold me now—is one of those things that can speak for itself."
In Panapsorn's declaration, something in the woman's chest has also untangled the knot itself, and the baker eases, too. If there's anything true, it's that Panapsorn never says something unless she means it. Phakinee feels herself falling in love with the woman again. Unknowingly, the words meant to console her heiress had also turned into a moment of clarity for Panapsorn's own peace of mind.
With a moment too tender, Phakinee figured that this wasn't enough; she moved and held her woman. The tension in her shoulders slowly dissipates.
"And that's because you deserve it all, my love." Phakinee reminds her. There was the boyish grin that Pan knows so well, and it returned a sense of color to her face. "I can't spend another second with you doubting that anymore at all. You were made for me."
The heiress pulled Pan's hands in an enclasped manner and pressed her lips tenderly, right under where her two thumbs meet. Pan melts at the gesture, her hands lying gently against Phakinee's inner vest, fingertips idle where her collarbone meets the notch.
She believes it. Phakinee hadn't given her a reason to doubt, not since their previous arrangement a year ago.
"But you can't spend a second trying to make it up out of guilt, too, my darling." Pan retorts just as sharply, though soft in its blow. "I don't mean to question it, but you need to see the fine line between guilt and genuine affection. I want you to know that learning past your prejudice is more than enough for me. You're a far better lover now—even if you're still possessive at times."
The mirth in Panapsorn's tone at the end makes Phakinee laugh openly, the latter cherishing the comforting warmth radiating in Panapsorn's palm pressed against her exposed abdomen, diffusing the heavy tension.
"That, I cannot unlearn." Phakinee bites her bottom lip in childish guilt. "You're not so bad yourself, too, you know. I love seeing you in my clothes. Not only because you look so fucking sexy in them," Her hand sneakily traces Pan's spine underneath. The woman weakly swats her away, giggling, though listening still. "But because you can finally claim it as your own—embracing the fact that what's mine is also yours."
Upon those words, Pan lets out a deep breath she had been holding. Her lips, which were previously pursed in focus, now moved to press a chaste kiss against Phakinee's luscious ones.
Pan rolled her eyes. "You really have your way with words."
"I have to keep up." Phakinee squints and raises her pinky, awaiting. "So, I'll carry as I come—a little spoiled, possessive, and extra—but we'll keep each other in check at all times?"
Panapsorn's own pinky met hers, tangled tightly in a sealed promise.
"We will," Pan says with no doubt. Phakinee feels her woman engulf her waist. "We're both stubborn to a fault. We can use that for a better change."
"Even if I am no golden retriever?"
Pan rose so slightly from her seat and whispered against Phakinee's ear, as though she was spilling a secret—
"Oh, Pheem. I love my tamed Siberian husky better."
Phakinee reels at the sultry, possessive whisper that ignites her loins. Pan traced her lapel, slowly—or teasingly—unbuttoning the fitted vest one by one.
Unpopped, she feels Pan caress the side of her waist. Soon enough, Phakinee feels the sharp nails scratching her.
"Don't start what you can't finish." Phakinee's breath staggers as her angel starts to leave small kisses around her earlobe and underneath her skin.
"Who says I can't?" Panapsorn challenged.
The oven beeped soundly. It's conveniently ignored until it automatically turns off. Another form of heat began to stoke inside their penthouse, both hungry for something else.
Phakinee's eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree as she met Pan's. "You're free from your period?"
"I wouldn't do this if I didn't."
It was a long week of torture. Besides the men who had been leering in Panapsorn's proximity, Phakinee's greatest enemy was their sequential menstrual period.
Phakinee exhaled. "Says the goddess of temptation and seduction,"
"I barely did anything." Pan flat-out denies.
Now, the two were acutely and hyperaware of the little things—the way Pan twirled a finger on Phakinee's relaxed end of her tresses, the latter's fingers tiptoeing around the exposed collarbone of the crew-cut of Pan's cashmere, and the rapid, hot breaths that were starting to mingle.
Phakinee's resting had turned into kissing and sucking onto Panapsorn's neck. For a while, Pan had let herself be caught in a delirious whirl, letting Phakinee do as she wished.
In return, the heiress feels the lightest tug in her belt loop.
Phakinee surely isn't above begging.
In a swift motion, Pan removed herself from Phakinee's grasp. "So, what did you shop for this time to effectively boost Thailand's economy?"
Even in Pan's mischievous retreating figure, Phakinee feels the heat rising from her lower abdomen continue.
She pockets her hands that were now in fists, willing herself to sanity.
Whatever Panapsorn was up to and how she was poorly trying to defuse it was ineffective and futile, painfully so. Phakinee remained set on Pan's bewitching figure. Though, she was fuller now in once hollow spaces, hadn't (and would not) stop the heiress from fixating on Pan's bottom and how she swayed her hips as the woman treaded her way towards the paper bags of the things that were forgotten already.
Phakinee humors her and follows through with her next move, like a goddamn dog with her favorite bone.
Pan plopped comfortably onto the jaded cushion of their wide couch, the deep, rich color only enhancing the beautiful contrast of Pan's long legs. A sight that she truly was. She conveniently spread them teasingly apart, and Phakinee's eyes followed. She watched, completely transfixed, as those perfect limbs moved and slowly closed, one leg atop the other.
Phakinee began to unashamedly ogle the smooth, long legs, already mapping their expanse—knowing the areas where the small blemishes reside, the weak spots that make Pan unfurl in pleasure.
"You're trying on a new scent?" Pan broke her out of reverie and retrieved the box of Chanel perfume.
Though the heiress feels her throat grow dry, Phakinee tries to compose herself.
"No, I remembered you're into a musky scent lately, so I got it," Phakinee answers with ease. She starts to unbuckle the belt around her waist, the weight of the metal clinking soundly as she places it down on the expensive marble countertop.
Pan relishes the sight. Pleased, she rewards her husky with a sickeningly sweet smile.
And Phakinee?
She almost fell to her knees.
The baker nods, painfully slow, as she maneuvers through the paper bags and their varying sizes. She eyes a familiar Cartier. Wordlessly, she points at it questioningly, and Phakinee, like hook, line, and sinker, answers in command.
"That's for us to match. You wear the one I gave you eons ago so religiously. It's about time I have one, too."
Phakinee wordlessly raised her wrist, revealing the silver, sleek Tank Française. A perfect merge of simplicity and elegance in its case and faceted crown of its brilliant-cut diamonds and blinding carat—similar to Pan's yellow gold ones. The baker feels the warmth surrounding her entire chest upon admission.
"See, darling? You keep proving my point from earlier." Pan says, then clicks her tongue.
Phakinee stops her motions. "I'm not sure I follow."
"How you express love through remembering the little details,” Pan easily supplies, her delicate fingers playing with the long, black-lined ivory Chanel ribbon and curling them on her index finger. “It’s not the worth behind it that melts me; it’s the intent of yours. The way you consider me—think of me before anything else.”
Phakinee's heart does a flip. She continues to be surprised at Pan's sudden behavior. "You got me putty in your hands. That's a fact."
Pan responds by toying with Phakinee's unbuttoned lapel; eyeing the ravishing lace of her brassiere underneath was also a weapon in itself. She pulls the heiress back to the warmth of their kitchen. The inevitable happened; with each brush of hand to elbow, her fingertips around the neck as Phakinee trapped her between the marble top and forced her to spread her legs apart—it was a wildfire threatening to grow, and it began to consume the two.
Phakinee, with her signature impatience, can no longer resist. She claimed Pan in her grasp by the thigh and kissed the woman feral and desperate, with teeth and tongue, consuming as if she had been deprived for centuries. With only the sinful exchange of spit and ruffling of movements bouncing through the walls, Pan lets herself be pulled impossibly closer—limbs and breasts flushed against each other as Phakinee carries their weight.
Pan moaned loudly against her mouth, just the way Phakinee loves it.
"Fuck, you know how to drive me crazy, darling," Phakinee breathes through the open-mouthed kisses, losing her senses to the tug and pull of Pan's grip right at the back of her head, scratching deliciously deep into her scalp.
Pan was left to succumb from the sensations with barely anything to hold onto, only the end of her spine against the marble and Phakinee’s hold being her anchor. The baker, with her free hand, was pulling on Phakinee's trousers to reel herself in. She deftly began to unbutton the tailored vest, revealing the mouthwatering black lace.
"You pull me that as if I'm packing with a strap right now," Phakinee mutters roughly against her mouth.
Panapsorn joshes in with a lilt of seductive drip, “Habit.”
“Is it now?” Phakinee bobbed her head as she grabbed Pan’s jaw, licking her bottom lip with unadulterated want. The gold rings were a cold contrast to the warmth of Pan’s flushed face, making her breathing tremble even more while at Phakinee’s mercy.
Phakinee revels in the sight of her usually composed lover.
When she saw Panapsorn’s equally blown eyes filled with want, it sent her to the edge.
Her teeth now nipping at Pan's column of neck, marking and kissing ferociously. Phakinee’s sanity was evidently threading lightly the way she gripped Pan's hips so tight, moving to knead the skin underneath past her cashmere and bra with such desire that it could bruise. Unable to resist, her free hand wandered, two fingers had trailed their way from the fluttering expanse below Pan's navel and towards her still-clothed mound.
Phakinee’s breath staggers at the feeling of her woman’s wetness. At first contact, Phakinee felt it— her angel was deviously, throbbingly wet. She can already feel the familiar slick in her bare fingers.
With little to no care, she started her ministrations, the pads of her fingers rubbing back and forth against the fabric. Slow and fast, pressing hard then soft, alternating as Phakinee watches the expression unravelling on Pan’s face. It took every bit of her restraint not to ram her fingers impatiently. She caressed first, feeling the folds of her labia and pressed hard onto her clothed hole under the lace.
For Pan, it felt appalling yet so consuming. She questions the act of being depraved and why Phakinee hasn’t plunged deep yet, though it has left her just as heady. She remained teasing with her fingertips, toying at the elastic edges of the lingerie without putting it inside—barely caressing her aching and drenched core.
"Pheem," Pan moaned, her eyes closed in deep pleasure and her hands fisted in Phakinee's now messy hair. She fucking ached for Phakinee. “I need—need you inside,”
Phakinee chuckled huskily on the expanse of her neck, her breath ghosting which made Pan moan and savor the vibrations. She immediately tugged down both the linen of Pan's now creased tennis skirt and almost ripped the flimsy lingerie that spiraled Phakinee’s train of thought.
Not one to deny her lover of pleasure, Phakinee got to work. She pushed Pan's left thigh and inched her fingers teasingly inside the velvet walls, the sopping wetness that immediately coated her digits. Her pump picks up the pace, angle adjusting, the heiress was drunk on the squelching sound and tightening that had Panapsorn rocking against her with no shame. Her figure was wrapped with Pan's legs, locking them together. It wasn't long until Pan reached her climax, her high-pitched cries bouncing off the entire room, and she held onto Phakinee's back with an iron grip.
If Phakinee were topless, her back would be clawed by now.
She slowed the pumping inside of Pan, though never leaving as she tried to milk out every drop of the woman's cum. Pan felt like she was ascending, and Phakinee's hazel eyes, piercing through her own, didn't help dampen the fire at all. As Phakinee pulled out her fingers, Pan audibly groaned at the loss of contact. She cunningly took it as a chance to pull Pan into another deep kiss, swallowing her moans.
Pan can feel that another round is about to start. Just as Phakinee's palm rested against her pelvis, with two fingers close to gliding to meet her clit, Pan stopped her by the wrist.
"You speak of reclamation, of possession. I want to express that, too, Pheem." She rasps, breathing heavily. The heiress stills on her lover’s words, her doe eyes attentively fixed on Pan—the intoxicating ones that she could not help but meet.
Phakinee feels the bathed breath of Pan, the flicker of hesitation in her beautifully parted mouth. Not in action, but in words—a habit that Phakinee has observed in Pan when it came to relenting to her wants and needs. Pan’s soft touch trailed on the side of Phakinee’s neck, all the way to her chest.
She splayed her palm against Phakinee’s chest, feeling the heartbeat, so steadfast and loyal. Pan’s hand curls into a fist, faintly thumping its end on her lover’s sternum.
"Tie me up, Pheem." Pan seductively whispered; the words were foreign and hot against Phakinee’s mouth. Then, she nipped Phakinee's bottom lip for good measure. "I want you to defile me completely. With your sharp tongue, the words and all of its filth, how rough you can get—I need all of it."
Phakinee's pulse jumped; every grip of hers had loosened by a fraction at the full consent and implication.
For Pan, despite this being uncharted territory, she was beginning to feel a sense of thrill and excitement in her core.
Her dearest Pheem, for all of her tamed glory and sweetness when it came to bed, Pan also loved the scowl and the brimming hot temperament that resides within the woman. On some of the nights she spent alone, Pan thought of how such behavior would translate into their bedroom activities.
Perhaps it was a sick thing to do, an uncharacteristic, sadistic streak for Panapsorn—who was famously revered as the angel—to let someone belittle her, indisputably, in the most peaceful state of her life.
"I don't think that's a good idea." Phakinee’s eyes fluttered rapidly in hesitation and uncertainty.
However, Pan sees it as a double-sided dagger. One that she was willing to take.
"I completely trust you, Pheem. Nothing that you'll do tonight can hurt me." Pan reassures reverently.
Pan presents her wrists, begging to be bound, her right hand loosely holding onto the Chanel ribbon that was set aside, awaiting Phakinee to give in with those equally dilated pupils in dire need that she was more than acquainted with.
Her act of submission was riveting for Phakinee. As if being bestowed as the woman's first and last wasn't enough, her request for tonight was equivalent to a trust fall, where Phakinee would carry the weight for the two of them with no harm done to Pan upon the impact. It was beyond the mere test of boundaries, where Pan can prove that in any potential display of roughness that Phakinee will show, she'll always carry the edge of softness underneath—because that's the real her.
She wants to honor it.
Craves to deliver it satisfyingly, even.
"Okay," Phakinee breathes slowly in relief. "But only if you promise me that you'll say your safeword—red—for me to stop if it gets overwhelming, even by the slightest."
Pan pursed her lips, nodding, visibly impatient.
Phakinee, in response, swiftly carried her weight, hands hooked under her thigh. Pan gasps at the motion, memories flooding through her mind.
Just a week ago, she was in the same position. Phakinee was relentlessly thrusting with the strap; Pan bent against the surface, the sight of an angel folded for her.
"Okay."
Pan was thankful they weren't in their house. The spiral staircase would have been trouble to get through, knowing how they can't detach from each other while at it.
The floral centerpiece alone in the penthouse that almost broke because Phakinee slightly tumbled in desperation of a searing kiss as she carried Pan all the way from the kitchen to the bedroom, past the soft million-threaded rug underneath them, was enough of a testament to how hazardous they can be when the two can't keep their hands to themselves.
"Hands up," Phakinee orders as soon as she unceremoniously drops her lover on the bed. When Pan did as told, her body became acutely aware of the cold air, every inch of her exposed as Pheem undressed her completely—from the hem of her cashmere tugged up to her bra unclasped, left to pool by their feet. With goosebumps rising throughout her body, her nipples erect, Pan instinctively scoots forward toward the edge to seek Pheem's warmth, attempting to close the gap.
Phakinee's lips curled into satisfaction.
"Now, put them at your back." Phakinee's voice grew raspy, making it known to Pan how she anticipates this just as much. In an almost hug, she bent down to skillfully use the Chanel lace to bind Pan's wrist. In two overlapping motions and a double knot securely finished with a teasing ribbon—tight enough not to release herself from the bounds. Pan transformed into an appetizing gift—so similar to Phakinee's past state where Pan was the one to unwrap her from their reunion a year ago.
With only the warm sconce of their bedroom to shape out Phakinee's figure, Pan feels her heart thumping against her ribcage. It was really happening.
In one swooping motion, Pan feels her body featherlight; her legs flailing in the air, and Phakinee's hands supporting at the back of her knees. Her figure was bent to Phakinee's convenience as the woman curled down with her—trapping Pan effectively in between. With barely a gap, Pan had her mouth meeting the crook of the heiress's neck, the woody scent overriding her senses.
"God, I love having your weight on mine." She was tugged impossibly closer as Phakinee held her firm by the waist for support, and Pan found herself sitting in the heiress's lap.
Panapsorn whimpered. She half-wishes that she wasn't bound at the moment so she could hold Phakinee through it. She rocked her hips slowly. With their closeness and the iron grip that Phakinee had on her skin, Pan was able to grind her core against the woman's lap. The feeling of the firm muscles was severely addictive. It didn't help that Phakinee ogled her with honey-dripping eyes and made another hand of hers occupied with one of Pan's breasts, squeezing harshly.
"Look at you grinding yourself stupid against me. I didn't say you could use me." Phakinee cackled, then smacked her firm right on her ass cheek.
Pan, embarrassed and breathless, had stopped gyrating. She feels the unfamiliar sting echo in her body—strangely moreish.
"I'm sorry," Pan amends, only to be met with an impassive look from Phakinee. In the same beat, the heiress ran a finger right onto her dripping slit.
"Unbelievably soaked." Phakinee rubbed her forefinger and thumb with Pan's sticky goo. "I'd say it's unbecoming of you, but you've always been a whore for me. I doubt you're ashamed at all."
Whore.
Panapsorn was stunned, more so at how she felt the moan trembling so soundly at the back of her throat.
Her pace stutters for a moment. Pan thought she had been desensitized to how carelessly it was thrown against her from the past. Though being labeled as one while knowing she hadn't been entangled at all with anyone but this woman who has her shackled in ways more than one—had only shot a thrilling vibration, deliciously straight right at her throbbing core. It felt different with the inquiring doe eyes filled with brimming desire and concern underneath, piercing through Pan's defenses. She cannot defy the woman, not when she also feels the soft contrast of Phakinee's thumb caressing her softly by the hips.
Then, Pan recalls how each time she surrenders to Phakinee's whims, no matter how dirty it is. It's exclusive to the woman who had turned her life upside down.
"Yes," Pan nodded profusely. The neglect of her aching pussy was becoming uncomfortable. "I am a whore. Just yours."
She lowers her head, meeting the lingering finger of Phakinee on her mouth that was previously covered in her arousal. She sucked eagerly, cleanly, tasting herself.
The angel had turned into a devil. She was too clever for her own good.
Phakinee, although pleased and just as severely wet, didn't let on. She grabbed Pan by the cheek; "My slut—mine alone. Mine to worship for the rest of my life.”
A sloppy, searing tongue-infused kiss ensued. Pan helplessly groaned at the overwhelming pleasure, her lips turning numb and swollen.
"I need you to turn around for me and face the mirror," Phakinee uttered between their make-out, which Pan barely registered as her mind was filled with a haze. She caught on to Phakinee's plans, and her cheeks were deeply flushed again at the thought alone. "I'm going to fuck you in front of it, and if you close your eyes, I'll stop."
Phakinee's motions were needy. Panapsorn did as told, her head sunken into the soft mattress and angled in front of the mirror—the same one where she stared at the heiress as they got ready in the mornings. Pan raised her ass and saw how it faced the front of Phakinee who squeezed it firmly with no shame.
Panapsorn was painfully aching again to be filled.
She sees Phakinee's fingers traveling right at her heavily heaving ribcage, how vividly how she conjoined with the relentless pinching of index and thumb around her nipple, carelessly and with greed, searching greedily all over Panapsorn like treasure. Meanwhile, the struggling baker could only take it all in. She unconsciously continued to rub her bound wrist, trying to find relief from the restraint; the lack of agency to move was proving to be a challenge.
Although given how the situation unraveled, it made her feel... inexplicably daunting. It was contradicting and intoxicating, a sinful pleasure that Panapsorn will only know of with her dearest Pheem.
Phakinee crawled forward beneath her, leaving open-mouthed kisses across her spine. As she met the bottom of her back, she rose forward again, to bury her nose against the crook of Pan's thoroughly marked neck. She heaved with white-hot breathing that tickled Pan, the tip of her nose moved in teasing motions, and latched her mouth to kiss every inch of her skin to stimulate Pan's senses further. Pan felt the agonizing trail of Phakinee's hands skimming through her soft thighs and spread her legs apart.
Then, Phakinee plunged her two digits right in.
"Pheem—!" Panapsorn cried, breathing shallow and clenched her eyes shut.
"Open your eyes." Phakinee impassively retorts.
She barely gave Pan to register the fingertips themselves from her entrance. What should've been a relief felt like a sudden intrusion. A strangled, sultriest moan came out from the depths of Panapsorn's diaphragm. It shot an immediate override, ironically, right through her brain. The muscles of her thighs clenched in desperation. Phakinee's other hand supported Pan's weight by her scapula, as the woman beneath her was sinking deeper.
Pan's need to be fucked dumb was immense. She felt so fucking full from the fingers alone on the inside that it made her feel utterly heady.
"Your body, my choice," Phakinee uttered, her tone devoid of any debate. She began to thrust her fingers in pure vigor, making Pan hump along with her motions. Her mouth and hands were in tandem with how they latched expeditiously onto Pan's bouncing breasts, then alternating on both erect nipples. Phakinee's teeth grazed around her areola teasingly.
Her choice.
It shouldn't have been that intoxicating. Something unfurled in Panapsorn's chest—she valued her autonomy more than anything, her pride and joy. But then, Phakinee has always been her Kryptonite—an exception when it came to things. Her pull was immaculate and a paradox since the first day she saw her. Panapsorn is sure that it went both ways. As absurd as it was, it actually only made Pan ten times more putty in her lover's fingers.
Pan responds by meeting the thrust of Phakinee's fingers, "Yes—yes, yes— god, yes you do!" She helplessly cries.
"Ride me harder, angel. You can do better than that," Phakinee taunts, adjusting the angle of her ring and middle finger. "You call me your husky, but you're the one shamelessly riding me like a dog."
The nerve of this woman! Panapsorn was sweaty, her hips were giving up, and the muscles of her thighs and legs were slowly becoming strained.
Pan shook her head. The lucid feeling and the image of Phakinee's relentless fucking into her in front of the mirror felt like a live wire through her veins. She was a force to be reckoned with that domineering aura, coupled with the half weight of Phakinee's hips resting on Panapsorn's ass didn't help either—it was akin to a claustrophobic conundrum, only an intoxicating one.
"Pheem, I feel so full..." She sobs, feeling how fucking filled to the brim her pussy was.
Phakinee releases her possessive kneading around her breast. She wiped the tears on the apples of Pan's cheeks.
"Better than the toy?" Phakinee questions. She dared to add another finger to stretch her pussy further, thrusting madly that Pan can only squirm and clench around the fingers. The queen-size bed was rocking along. Phakinee rose forward and bent her body, the angle making Panapsorn ache. Phakinee chased Pan's swollen lips for yet another numbing kiss before the angel could respond. "I know how slutty you get, with or without it." She whispers, eyes heavy-lidded with thick lust.
Pan saw in the mirror how her usual glorious locks of hair were rumpled. They're full of perspiration despite the cold air of the penthouse, both of their long tresses and their strands were sticking to parts of their faces and foreheads.
A huge part of Pan ached to be released, to comb through Pheem's hair, and to hold her stupidly soft and perfect face. She was really trying—though, despite all her mastery in seduction, no one could compete with her needy husky when it came to these ungodly activities.
Pan sees the heiress bite her own lip. She feels Phakinee curling her fingers just right, the spongy spot that makes Panapsorn lose control and she saw how shamelessly her face contorted into pleasure, causing her entirely to feel the burn. With the thumb that Phakinee extended to rub maddeningly against her throbbing clit, the wave of pleasure immediately comes through, rushing from her lower stomach and pelvis—she came excruciatingly hard and never-ending.
Fuck those doe brown eyes that met hers.
"Can you untie me now?" Pan hoarsely asked while looking at the mirror. The glint of mischief was undeniably there in Phakinee's eyes.
Phakinee remained mute. She simply detached her fingers from Pan, who groaned at the loss, only to be astounded by the next sight—
"I need you to watch this," Phakinee drawls. She deftly unzipped her own trousers and wasted no time inserting the same glistening fingers adorned with rings that had been inside of Pan. "God, I'm so fucking wet, darling. You have no idea." She moaned, eyes closed, as she chased her own edge.
There, Panapsorn lies her head still sunken against the mattress, helpless, and sees the sinful, vivid imagery of Phakinee—who placed herself atop Panapsorn's back, her weight against her. Biting her own lip, the angel felt jealous; she wanted to feel all of it. Pan had barely cherished the sight of Phakinee's cleavage, how delectable she looked with that vest and lace brassiere peeking through. She can only hear the relentless thrust, the unbelievable slick in it, the way Phakinee held her bound hands—Pan's own body rocked along with the husky's ministrations.
Coming hard with a groan, Phakinee swept her ruffled waves of hair with a free hand, mustering the most predatory look that Panapsorn had ever seen.
"I need my come inside of you." Phakinee sighed in utter pleasure, thrusting her wet slick inside of Pan, who grunted at the intrusion. Her insides eventually relaxed, taking all that Phakinee could give. She weakly clenched around her fingers to tease the heiress who only smirked in return, knowing how the soreness began to creep in her bones.
Feeling their fluids mix in its most impure way had sent Panapsorn's mind reeling into madness. It was a visceral feeling, the feeling owned yet cherished at the same time by Phakinee, who had her lipstick ruined, drooling, and moaning as she was pounded into a mess. It was entirely addicting and a religious experience itself.
Finally, Panapsorn feels the Chanel ribbon being untied on her wrists. Cautiously, she musters all of her strength to turn over and lie down on her back. The mischief on Phakinee's face barely dissipated, expected of the insatiable needs of the heiress. She opened her arms wordlessly, knowing how Phakinee loved to bury herself on her chest.
"Does it hurt?" Phakinee asked attentively as she caught the very wrists, pressing soft kisses against Pan's skin that were slightly chaffed.
"Barely," Pan answers truthfully as she combed through Phakinee's tangled hair. "But sore? Definitely."
"I'm sorry. But are you satisfied, my angel?"
Panapsorn wanted to flick Phakinee's forehead, remembering the way she teased her.
"Ratings are for later. Sleeping is for now."