Ladyboy Airways Ch. 02

Ladyboy Airways Chapter 2

No Flight, but British manners meets Bangkok appetite. I brought Lagavulin. She brought the vials.

by Miles Vane

*All characters are 18 years of age or older.*

My serviced apartment near Ratchathewi was small but clean. Fifteenth story, with a little balcony that caught the evening light and a view of Victory Monument. It wasn't luxury, but it was quality. The kind of place you rent when you don't plan to settle, but still want your shirts to hang properly, a good gym, and your coffee to taste right.

It had been three days since the flight. I'd texted James the morning after. Just a simple thank you.

"That was... extraordinary."

He didn't reply right away. But when he did, it was short and warm.

"Glad you came. The girls liked you. So did Marc and Oliver."

Marc and Oliver. The other men on the flight, I assumed. Then, last night:

"Sirinya, my hostess on the flight, the purser, would like to meet you. Have drinks with us at her place."

I stared at the screen longer than I meant to. Re-read it. Would like to meet you. Not summon, not evaluate, not use. It was the first message that felt personal. Human.

I replied: "Of course. When?"

He sent a time. An address. No emojis. Just:

"Call it a date."

A date.

The word sat strange in my head. A strange word for drinks with a man who moved like he owned the room, and a mature ladyboy who had watched me worship, fuck, and be fucked by another ladyboy with the focus of a disciple. But it landed. Heavy. Curious.

It had been about a year since the divorce. No drama, just wear and erosion -- the kind that builds slowly and then all at once. I'd taken a time out, booked a long stay in Bangkok. I'd been here before -- a few times over the years, for extended spells -- and I'd always loved the place. The chaos, the calm, the contradictions.

I didn't really consider myself gay, or straight. I didn't find men attractive, usually. But I did find women attractive -- and ladyboys? Ladyboys were something else entirely. Exciting. Different. Like someone had bent the rules. I wasn't new to kink. My ex-wife used to peg me -- not often, and not always with much care, but it was there. Part of our rhythm once. Until marriage sanded it down like everything else. And Bangkok? This wasn't my first time at the edge. I'd had a few one-night stands in Nana and Soi Cowboy over the years. Fleeting, but not forgettable. They'd left something behind. Not shame. Not regret. Just... curiosity. A question I hadn't stopped asking.

Now I stood at the edge of my bed, towel-wrapped, staring at my wardrobe. Before I dressed, I reached into a cabinet and took out the bottle of Lagavulin 16 I'd been saving. Protocol probably called for an expensive wine as a gift. I may not be flashy by James' standards, but I was being respectful to the hostess.

What do you wear to a date with James and Sirinya?

Eventually I chose dark chinos, a pale linen shirt, and loafers. No belt - the sweep and contour of my bum and the tight stretch of the chinos made it unnecessary - and maybe I was sending a signal. The detail made me smirk. I cleaned fingernails, breath mints, and sprayed light deodorant. Tonight, my Omega Speedmaster.

I walked to the BTS Sky Train station and tapped in. The air outside was hot and thick with Bangkok's usual 6pm soup. The national anthem played, as it did every day at this time. Everyone stopped -- even the tourists mimicked stillness. I stood with them, holding my bottle of Lagavulin, feeling like a respectful imposter. The platform was crowded -- students, office workers, tourists. I stood near the edge, listening to the electric whine of the oncoming train, heart doing odd things in my chest.

I could have taken a taxi -- AC, cheaper -- but slower, stuck in traffic.

On the train, the cool air was welcome. A girl in high socks and platform shoes. A man in a suit, eyes closed. Two girls near the door -- dressed and acting like typical demure Thai twenty-year-olds, but with a more confident and playful edge. I recognised the rhythm -- bar girls. Quiet now. But I knew they'd change the moment the neon hit them.

I wasn't nervous. Not exactly. Just aware -- of how much my body remembered from the flight.

I changed at Siam. A tall ladyboy stood nearby -- not a bar girl, probably. Too shy. Just one of tens of thousands in Bangkok. She looked like she was on her way home, or maybe to work. My mind slipped again -- back to Nam folding me into the reclined seat, rimming me like she'd been waiting her whole life to taste me. The memory hit like gravity.

At Asok, I passed the neon blur of Soi Cowboy. Then into the MRT -- air cooler, world quieter. Three stops to Lumphini. By the time I emerged, I was sweating again. Ready.

Walking through the Bangkok air, I drifted again: Somewhere over Chonburi, descent announced, cabin lights brightening. Nam wiped me with a warm towel, helped me dress, her fingers careful and unhurried. She smoothed my shirt collar, kissed my cheek without heat, and tucked my boarding card back into my pocket. "Well done, Mr. Vane."

Outside the airport, the same black car was waiting. Engine low, AC humming. On the seat beside me: a small envelope. No logo. Inside -- the winged pin. And a handwritten card: If you ever need to fly again, you won't have to ask.

The lift opened directly to the apartment's private hallway -- secure, silent, softly lit. At the far end, the front door was open. Sirinya stood waiting barefoot on cool stone tile, legs bare, short skirt hugging the curve of her hips. Her blouse was sleeveless, almost sheer in the light. Her makeup was precise but minimal, a diamond stud catching the light at her nose. She didn't smile -- not yet. Just looked at me, calmly. Like she'd been expecting this for a while. "Welcome," she said, and kissed me on both cheeks. Not flirtatious -- not yet. Just... intentional.

She took the bottle from my hand. "Lagavulin," she said, reading the label like it mattered. "Thoughtful. James likes peat." She didn't thank me. Just turned, gliding toward a side table already set with glasses, as if the offering was expected -- and accepted.

James appeared a moment later, no shoes, dark shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled once. He looked relaxed, like this was his second home -- or his twentieth. He smiled when he saw me, stepped forward, and extended his hand.

"Miles," he said warmly, like we'd known each other longer than we had "Good to see you again."

I shook it. His grip was firm, steady. No posturing -- just presence.

"Thanks for the invitation," I said. I gave him the once-over, noticed the Patek -- not discreet. Gold case, white dial, layered with complications. I like watches, but I'm not fluent in haute horlogerie. Still, I knew enough to be impressed. He held the handshake half a beat longer than necessary, then let go.

"Come," he said, gesturing to the lounge. "Let's sit before she starts feeding you things, the way Thais do"

Thais offer food like the Brits offer tea -- constantly, and with quiet insistence. And before you know it, you've had three dishes and a second helping of mango and sticky rice.

The apartment was on the twentieth floor -- glass walls, textured stone, soft neutrals. Understated wealth. There were no photos. No clutter. Just orchids, scentless candles, the faint hum of air conditioning so smooth I barely noticed.

The lounge was sunken slightly, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass that turned the skyline into art. The air was cool, scented faintly with jasmine. A large, L-shaped sofa dominated the space -- low, wide, upholstered in pale grey suede that looked too soft to touch and too expensive to spill anything on. Cushions arranged with precision, not comfort. A place designed to host... and observe.

Sirinya returned with the three glasses. Poured mine first. Neat. No ice. The way I liked it. She didn't ask. Then James'. Then her own.

James raised his glass. "To curiosity," he said.

We clinked, drank. Smoky, warm. It settled in my chest.

Sirinya sat beside me, one leg tucked under the other. Her bare knee touched the side of my thigh as she leaned in and refilled my glass without looking.

Then she turned to me, casual as breath. "I was sucking his cock ten minutes ago," she said, as if mentioning what she'd had for lunch. "He didn't cum, but he leaked".

I blinked. Raised my eyebrows. She smiled.

Sirinya touched and swirled my glass, then leaned in -- so close her firm, hard breast brushed my arm -- and let a long, slow string of spit fall into the drink. Then, without a word, she stirred it with her finger. Her nails were painted a soft lavender. She put her finger in my mouth for me to suck her residue briefly.

She held the glass to my lips. "Tell me how it lands."

I didn't move. Not right away. James was watching, but not pressing. Sirinya's eyes were calm, almost kind.

I sipped.

It was warm, sweet, familiar. But something in my chest twisted -- not fear, not shame. Just the knowledge that this wasn't a game anymore. Or if it was, one I didn't control.

There was a silence. Not cold, but weighted -- like both of them were waiting to see what I'd do with the drink. I sipped again, smaller this time. Still warm. Still faintly sweet.

I wasn't nervous. Not exactly. I was built for this kind of moment -- calm, observant, good in quiet rooms. But something about their stillness made me feel... visible. Like they were reading my reactions frame by frame.

"Nice place," I said, eventually.

Sirinya's expression softened -- the Madame melted, replaced by something warmer. Pride.

"Four-hundred and twenty thousand," she said, almost playfully. "Per month. Fully furnished."

It was a very Thai thing -- dropping the price into conversation without shame or showiness. Not to boast, just to state. As if cost were as natural to share as the weather. "Baht?" I asked, joking, already knowing the answer. The exchange rate made it easy. £10k.

She just smiled. "Would you like a tour?"

I nodded. She stood fluidly, bare feet on stone tile, and gestured for me to follow. I carried my glass -- and everything in it.

The apartment was two floors, all light and texture. Balconies with heavy glass doors. Drapes that moved like water. Four bedrooms upstairs -- one softly lit with books and incense, one darker, colder, designed more like a guest suite or a place to play. One was used as a gym, I liked how it was equipped. There was a maid's room too, small but tidy. Empty at the moment.

Sirinya didn't say much. Just let me take it in, but smiled, happy to show it off.

We ended in the kitchen -- sleek, pale wood, brushed steel. The fridge was a full-size Sub-Zero. She opened it.

Top shelf: Leo. San Miguel Light. Perrier.

Middle shelf: vials. Neat rows. Sealed, labelled. Some handwritten in Thai. A few in Roman letters. J. L. -- flight. Another with S -- post-gym, and a heart drawn next to it.

Sirinya saw me looking.

"Treats," she said, closing the fridge slowly. "For special guests."

We returned to the lounge where James was still seated, drink in hand, the skyline behind him, showing the glow for the evening. Sirinya settled beside me, close but unhurried, folding one leg beneath her and letting the other stretch out -- her bare foot resting lightly across my thigh. It wasn't casual. It was placed. A subtle show of dominance, like a flag planted softly but unmistakably.

Conversation flowed easily. Travel, food, small scandals in high places. Nothing too deep, but there was rhythm -- the kind that comes when everyone in the room knows how to listen. I sipped my whisky and glanced at the glass in her hand.

"Must be pretty lucrative," I said, gesturing to the apartment, "being a stewardess."

Sirinya smiled. "We're salaried," she said. "Not per flight. Full contract. Housing, wardrobe, monthly wellness, private training."

"And hazard pay," James added, smiling into his glass. "For turbulence."

"Standard girls earn around eighty." Sirinya continued. "USD, not baht. Those selected for full VIP service? Closer to two hundred."

"And the purser?" I asked.

"Three," James answered, without hesitation.

"Hundred thousand," Sirinya added. "Per year."

She said it like it wasn't unusual. Like it was simply what excellence cost.

I grinned, and joked, "So, how do I become a stewardess?"

They both paused -- a beat where the laugh hung in the air. Then Sirinya chuckled first. "You're too handsome for that, Miles."

James lowered his glass, thinking. "Too classically handsome. Like me." He smirked. "Not quite... pretty enough."

The room went soft. But then his eyes flicked to mine, "Though," he added slowly, almost too quiet to hear, "nothing's impossible."

A brief lull settled over the conversation. Sirinya's fingers paused on her glass. James's gaze on me -- steady, deliberate.

"Strip," Sirinya said softly.

I froze. Not out of fear, but from the weight of their eyes.

"Everything," James added, voice calm--almost rehearsed. "Let her see."

Sirinya's tone slipped from friendly hostess to quiet authority. It wasn't a demand; it was an invitation drenched in expectation.

I set my drink on the low table and began. Shirt first, then chinos. Footwear, underwear. Each piece folded and placed beside the glass. When I was bare, she leaned forward, inspecting. James watched too--silent, unwavering, his eyes tracing every line of my body. I'd left my watch on, its stainless steel glinting under the soft light, a tether to my composed self. Now, exposed before them, I felt oddly vulnerable--and more alive than I had in a long time.

"Muscles," she said, voice low. "Defined."

She reached out, her fingertips tracing my thigh. "Beautiful curve," she added, sliding a hand around my bum with soft gentleness.

"You work out?" she asked, almost conversational.

I nodded.

Her eyes flicked to James. He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

She moved in closer, fingertips on my knee bone. "Strong legs," she said. "Good balance."

The silence grew heavy. It was no longer polite conversation. It was evaluation -- but it felt intimate, even kind.

James sipped his drink. Sirinya smiled as she leaned back.

"You're good at this," she said. "Very... well-built."

James held my gaze, with that same calm certainty.

Sirinya slid along the sofa behind me while I was still standing, silent and deliberate. Without warning, she placed her hand on the small of my back, tilting me forward so that the arch of my spine pressed into her palm. Reflexively, my hands came to rest on my knees--and with that simple shift, she gained perfect access to my bum.

She inhaled, quiet but audible, tracing her nose along the skin of my anus. The sensation was incredible. "Your essence," she murmured. She paused, then added in a voice so hushed it felt like worship: "I can smell your shower gel... even hours later."

Then she leaned in and began to rim me. I stood rigid, every nerve alight -- her tongue warm, insistent. Her hands ghosted over my glutes, gentle strokes punctuated by soft, precise spanks.

I heard James's soft intake of breath, then: "Nice watch -- Moonwatch?" His voice was calm. Appreciative. "I've got one too. Older version."

I caught my breath. "Yes." I swallowed against the swirl of sensation. Glanced at his -- gold, white, unmistakably Patek. "I like yours..." I started, voice trembling. Then I laughed out loud at the absurdity of trying to hold polite conversation while being tongued open.

James smiled, playful. Let me linger in that hesitation.

I was unsteady, drowning -- bliss heating my body while our voices echoed around me like theatre. The Patek's quiet luxury clashed beautifully with the rawness pressed into my flesh. Each lick. Each tease. I was being bent around sensation. And I wasn't going anywhere.

Sirinya ended her ministrations with a loud, deliberate smack against my left cheek, and the impact jolted me like a slap of cold water -- awakening every sense. The sudden shift snapped me back into the room: the hum of conversation, James's quiet presence, the soft glow of the lounge lights. The delicious heat in my body remained, but my mind was alert again -- present.

Sirinya gave my arse one final smack, loud and playful, like punctuation. Then she slid back onto the sofa and pouted -- genuinely, almost girlishly -- arms folded, one brow raised.

"You're handsome, Miles," she said. "Strong. And very clean."

She let her gaze roam. "But..." -- and here her voice softened into a flirt -- "I don't know if you'd do a good job."

I blinked, still half-dizzy from the afterglow of her rimming.

She leaned forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with the kind of care only someone used to being watched could master. "My ass deserves the best," she said with gentle solemnity. "And I'm worried you'll disappoint me."

The air thickened again. Not with threat. With intent.

"Do you want to rim me, Miles?"

I met her eyes. Steady. My voice came quiet, automatic. "I do."

She nodded slowly. "Good. Then show me."

Her eyes flicked to James.

My heart twisted -- not in panic, but in pure, electric tension. I followed her gaze.

James said nothing. He stood, smooth and calm. Undid one button. Then another. His shirt slipped off without fanfare. He folded it in thirds and placed it on the armrest.

His trousers were next. Black, light, tailored. They dropped to the floor in silence. He stepped out of them barefoot. No socks. His cock was large and semi hard. His body was lean -- not overly muscled, but hard in the right places. A man who maintained himself with quiet discipline.

He didn't look at me. Just turned, lowered himself to the sofa, and leaned forward, placing both hands on the backrest. Knees apart. His back arched. His head slightly bowed, like in prayer.

I knelt behind him.

There was no instruction. No "go ahead." Just... the moment.

I leaned forward, not to taste -- not yet -- but to breathe him in.

His scent hit me first. Subtle, but specific. Clean skin and sweat ironed into cotton. A trace of musk that wasn't artificial -- not cologne, not soap -- but his. Warm. Male. Faintly metallic. I could almost name it, like a memory just out of reach.

I hesitated.

Not because I didn't want it -- but because I did.

Because I knew this would change something. Not just in the room. In me.

I moved closer, pressing my face in.

His cheeks were smooth. Barely stubbled. I brushed my nose along the crease, then up -- slowly -- to the centre. His crack was warm, lightly parted. I inhaled again, deeper this time.

Sirinya's voice came low, calm. "Tell me what you smell."

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't ready. I wasn't playing.

"It's..." I whispered. "Clean. Deep. Like the smell of linen dried in the sun. But... warmer. Body heat. Salt. Breath."

She said nothing.

I opened him with both hands -- gentle, reverent. His skin yielded slightly under my thumbs. The shape of him was beautiful. Taut and smooth. I saw the rise of his balls underneath, firm and waiting. I didn't go there.

Instead, I opened my mouth.

My first lick was experimental. Soft. A trace. Just the outer rim.

His body shifted slightly, like a sigh. I licked again -- broader now, pressing into the valley. My tongue flattened, warmed, found the pulse beneath the surface. I tasted him. He was salt, heat, and something bitter. Something real.

Behind me, Sirinya inhaled softly.

"You like it," Sirinya said, her voice low.

I didn't answer. My mouth was too busy, and the truth was too full.

She let the silence stretch, watching me work. Then, with a small sigh -- almost indulgent -- she said:

"You're doing okay."

A pause. Then: "If you keep going like this... I might let you taste me. Properly."

My heart surged.

Her bare feet padded quietly across the stone tiles. I didn't lift my head, but I felt the faint whisper of air as her thigh brushed past my shoulder, the soft creak of the floor near the hallway.

Then nothing.

Just me. And James.

I held my position. My tongue was wet now -- and braver. I explored deeper, slower. Not hurried. This was something else. Worship. Submission. Curiosity.

From the corner of my eye, I caught James shifting slightly -- not away. Just opening. Giving. His breath was calm, but I could feel the tension in his thighs.

A quiet hum of the air conditioner. A faint clink of glass.

Then: the sound of the fridge.

Low suction. Rubber seal giving way. Cool air escaping.

I knew that sound. I'd seen those vials. Neat. Labelled. Personal.

She was selecting something.

A drop of sweat ran down my chest. My hands were firm on James' hips now. Not for control -- for grounding. His scent was in my mouth. His taste on my tongue. And Sirinya was preparing the next course.

I wasn't stupid.

Things were escalating.

But I didn't stop.

The fridge closed with a soft thud. Then silence again -- deliberate silence. No footsteps yet. Just distance.

I stayed where I was, face pressed between James's cheeks, tongue working in long, slow circles. He didn't speak. But he shifted once more -- hips angling upward, offering more.

I took it.

It wasn't about attraction, not in the usual sense. It was about obedience. Trust. Scent and salt and submission. I could feel his body warming under my tongue. And mine? Already past the point of confusion. I was hard, humming, raw with some need I couldn't even name.

Then I heard her footsteps return. Slower this time. Intentional.

I didn't turn around. I didn't stop.

She set something down. The lightest sound. Glass on marble.

"You like him," she said. Not a question.

Still, I nodded.

Sirinya came close. Her bare foot touched the inside of my thigh -- a gentle nudge. Not to stop me. Just to remind me she was in control of everything I felt.

"You're very good," she said softly, fingers sliding through my hair. "But not finished."

I sat back on my heels, chest rising.

On the table now: two vials, both with white liquid in. Both faintly sweating from the fridge.

Sirinya crouched beside me, her arm brushing mine. She picked up one.

"This," she said, "is me. Post-gym. Collected after a squat session. Still hot when I bottled it."

She held it up like wine at a tasting. "Smell it."

I did. Sharp, high, personal. Sweet at the edge, but earthy underneath.

She put it to my lips. "Sip."

I obeyed. The fluid hit my tongue -- salty, electric, unmistakably her. I held it, let it warm, then swallowed.

She nodded. "Good boy."

Then she reached for the second vial -- more in volume, thicker. The writing on the side was faded, but I could see a date. Three days ago.

James.

"I milked this from him during the flight," she said. "He didn't cum inside anyone. Just on me. I saved it."

She unscrewed the cap slowly.

"You may drink this," she said. "But only if you ask me properly."

I looked up, lips parted. Throat dry.

"Please," I said. "Let me drink James's cum."

Sirinya's smile was slow and warm -- maternal almost.

"Then open," she whispered.

I stayed kneeling. Still naked. Still hard.

Sirinya held the vial between two fingers, her nails catching the light -- soft lavender, deliberate. She didn't hand it to me. Instead, she tilted her head back and poured it gently between her lips. Not a gulp -- not vulgar. Just enough to fill her mouth.

She held it there.

James shifted slightly. Still seated. Still exposed. Watching.

Sirinya turned to face me. Her eyes calm, soft.

Then she leaned in, slow and precise -- her hand guiding the back of my neck.

Her mouth hovered over mine. I opened without hesitation.

She kissed me.

Not a peck. Not a show. But a seal.

Her lips parted, and the warm, thick taste of him slid into my mouth -- smooth, bitter, unmistakably male. Her tongue followed, slow and guiding, like a dance. She held me there, gently controlling the exchange. Her breath was steady. Her fingers in my hair.

I didn't pull back. I didn't swallow yet.

We stayed like that for a few breaths -- joined at the mouth, the cum shared between us, suspended. A holy communion. Offered. Received.

Then she pulled away, her eyes scanning mine.

"Now you may swallow."

I did. Slowly. With reverence.

James exhaled. Not heavily. Just enough to let me know he'd seen everything.

Approved.

Sirinya wiped the corner of my mouth with her thumb. Then put that thumb between her own lips and sucked it clean.

"Very good," she whispered.

Sirinya remained close.

Her breath was warm on my cheek. She didn't move away fully -- just rested one hand on my shoulder, grounding me. Like I'd passed a threshold, and she was making sure I didn't float away.

James hadn't spoken. He didn't need to. His presence was steady -- like gravity in the room. I could feel his eyes on me, but there was no judgement. Only... knowing.

The air conditioning purred.

And me? Still kneeling. Mouth tingling. Heart thudding slow and deep in my chest. Not racing. Not panicked. Just... alive. Full.

Sirinya finally stood. Her movement was smooth, catlike. She didn't speak. Just walked to the table and poured herself another finger of whisky.

Then she turned, leaned against the counter, and watched us both -- James still seated, me still kneeling between his legs.

Time didn't move the same way in that room.

There was no hurry. No agenda. Only the knowledge that more was coming.

And that whatever it was... I'd welcome it.

Sirinya straightened.

She didn't speak -- just unbuttoned her blouse, slow and fluid. Beneath it: large, sculpted breasts. Clearly enhanced, but beautifully done -- full, round, the kind that defied gravity and demanded reverence. Her nipples were dark, stiff. She let the blouse fall, then peeled off her skirt, revealing a thong that barely covered anything. Her cock pressed against the thin fabric -- half-hard, curved slightly upward.

Without ceremony, she removed the thong and climbed onto the low sofa. She didn't lie flat -- instead, she reached for a silk cushion, folded it under her hips, and settled in, raising her arse just enough and her legs high.

"Here," she said, voice steady. "For you."

Her legs parted slowly. I took my place between them, the scent of her body already rising -- fresh, slightly sweet, with a faint masculine undertone that made my pulse throb.

Her cock lay along her belly, heavy, uncut. But my attention was behind her. I spread her cheeks gently, reverently. Her asshole was tight, soft, clean -- a darker pink nestled in smooth brown. I leaned in and began.

My tongue traced circles first. Gentle, warm. Then deeper. My nose kept finding her smooth balls. She gasped softly and lifted her hips just a little higher into the cushion, feet over her head. My hands gripped her thighs. I licked her with devotion -- slow, wet, patient. I wanted her to feel worshipped.

Behind me, James moved. I felt the familiar heat of his body close. Then the pressure -- his cock pushing inside me, steady, lubed. I didn't tense. I let him in. Let him fill me as I buried my face deeper in Sirinya.

She moaned, loud now. Her cock throbbed, twitching against her belly.

James fucked me slowly. I rocked with it, obedient, mouth working between her cheeks as she began to tremble. Her hands gripped the edge of the sofa. Her thighs closed slightly, then opened again, as if unsure whether to hold me or let go completely.

Her breath turned ragged.

Then, without warning, she sat up -- fluid and powerful.

She grabbed the sides of my head, pulled my face from her arse, and tilted my chin up toward her. Her cock was right there -- thick, veined, angry.

"I'm going to cum," she hissed. "You'll take it."

I opened my mouth.

She stroked once -- twice -- and cried out. Her cock erupted, hard and hot. The first shot hit my cheek, thick and glossy. The second, across my lips. Then more -- five, six, seven spurts. It poured out of her like she'd been saving it. Forehead, a little on my eyelid. I could feel some on my back. Some probably hit James. My chin dripped. My tongue reached for what it could.

She held my face in both hands, breathing hard, cock still twitching, cum smeared across my skin. She wiped the tip against my upper lip and nostrils, so that I could smell her. She pushed her cock in my mouth, her final act of dominance. I sucked the last of the cum out of her. Then she leaned in and kissed me -- deeply, tasting herself in my mouth.

Behind me, James still moved. Slower now. More intimate.

And I was somewhere between two worlds -- full, used, worshipped, blessed.

Sirinya still held my face in her hands, her cum smeared across it. Her chest rose and fell with soft aftershocks, her cock slowly softening against her thigh.

Behind me, James was still inside.

He didn't speak. He didn't thrust hard or break the moment. He just moved -- slow, rhythmic -- hips rocking gently, filling me completely, as if this were the final act in a long, sacred ritual.

Sirinya kissed my forehead, then let me go, sinking back into the cushions, spent and glowing. She glistened where my mouth had been. Her smile was quiet now -- not playful. Just proud.

Then I felt James' breath shift. The subtle tightening of his grip on my hips. The faint tremor in his thighs. A breath in through his nose, then out -- slow, controlled.

He came inside me. Silent.

He stayed buried deep, then held for a long moment. When he finally began to withdraw, I felt the warmth of him trickle down my thighs -- no urgency, no shame. Just truth.

Sirinya didn't ask. She simply guided me, her fingers gentle on my jaw as she turned me toward the sofa, lowered me back. She reached and took my cock in her hand -- wet already, aching. Her grip was firm but slow, practiced. I gasped. My hips bucked, but she pressed her palm flat to my belly, holding me down. "Stay still," she whispered. "This is mine." Her strokes deepened -- long, wet, relentless -- until I felt the coil tighten, then break. I came hard, helplessly, across my own chest. Sirinya didn't flinch. She watched it land, thick and hot, then dipped her fingers into the mess and brought them to my lips. I opened. She fed it to me slowly -- one finger, then another -- her eyes locked on mine. "Taste what you are," she said softly. "What you give." I sucked her fingers clean. My cum was bitter, hot, still fresh from me -- and now hers, to do with as she pleased.

The room felt still now. Sacred, almost. Sirinya had gone quiet -- not distant, just softened. She rose slowly from the sofa, not bothering to dress yet. Her body, her presence, was bare and unguarded. I stayed where I was, lying on the sofa, chest sticky, thighs wet, still pulsing faintly with James's warmth inside me. No one spoke. No one rushed.

Sirinya knelt beside me again -- slower this time, her movements careful, like I might bruise. She took a warm towel from a small ceramic bowl by the table and began to clean me. With care. Her hands were slow. She wiped the cum from my chest, the sweat from my temples, the gloss from my lips. Then she kissed me -- once, soft, on the corner of my mouth.

"You were beautiful," she whispered. "Exactly what I hoped."

James helped me to my feet. Still naked, still solemn. He didn't need to speak. His touch said enough -- a hand on my back, a squeeze at my shoulder. I stood there between them, raw and grounded. Whole.

Sirinya disappeared into the bedroom and returned holding a small, matte wooden box. Dark grain, smooth edges. She held it in both hands like an offering.

"For you," she said, and placed it on the table. "From both of us."

I opened it slowly. The hinge purred -- not loud, but expensive. Inside: a dark brown leather folder with papers tucked neatly, and beneath that, nestled in soft beige suede -- a Patek Philippe Calatrava. Reference 5226G. White gold, charcoal textured dial, cream lume. It was rugged elegance with vintage charm.

I stared.

"Box, papers, full set. We wanted you to have something timeless. Something that suits the way you serve. Quiet. Exact. Rare."

My throat closed slightly. I didn't trust myself to speak. It was too much, and just enough. The kind of watch no one buys themselves unless they're ready to become someone new. And suddenly, I wasn't sure who I was without it. I lifted it gently from the cushion, felt its weight -- dense, elegant -- and slipped it onto my wrist. Strap black with a subtle crosshatch texture -- it looked like sailcloth or ballistic nylon, but was actually calfskin leather. It sat on my wrist like it belonged. She kissed the side of my neck. James poured three small whiskies. And for a little while, we just stood there. Not as players in a scene. Just... people. Connected by something wordless. Something permanent. James swirled the last of his whisky.

"Fancy Monaco in two weeks?" he asked, swirling his glass -- like it was already arranged.