Her hand trembled. She looked at the cock — at the thick, limp shaft, the head resting against my thigh, the veins visible even in the soft state. She had seen it before — through the window, in the room, hard and dripping. But this was different. This was in her hand. This was real.
"I — I do not know how," she whispered.
"Just like this." I wrapped my hand around hers and moved it. Up, down, the stroke slow, the grip firm. Her fingers followed — guided, taught, the motion of a woman learning to milk a cock for the first time.
"It will hurt you if I do not?" she asked, and the question was the question of a healer — not a lover, not a woman, but a healer. A woman who could not refuse to treat a patient.
"Yes," I said. "It will hurt. And if it continues — it will kill me."
Her hand tightened. The stroke quickened. Her internal voice was a tangle of medical duty and physical awareness:
