She knew it. Some part of her knew it. He had saved her. He had fed her. He had covered her with his coat. And now he was asking for a massage. As if it were payment. As if it were natural. As if she owed him this.
And she did not care.
She looked at his cock.
It was limp. Visible through his trousers. The fabric was thin. Wet from the rain. It clung to him. She could see the shape. The length. Even soft, it was large. Heavy. It hung against his thigh. The head was visible—a thick, rounded outline beneath the cloth.
She took the vial.
Her fingers brushed his. They were cool. She pulled the vial to her chest. She held it. She looked at him. Then she looked at the oil. Then she looked at his body.
"Lie down," she whispered.
He smiled.
