She inhaled sharply at the contact — the warmth of the oil, the firmness of my palms — and then exhaled in a long, trembling sigh as I began to work. My thumbs pressed into the tight muscle above her collarbones, moving in slow outward circles, spreading the oil in thin gleaming layers across her skin. The scentless formula vanished into her flesh like water into dry earth, leaving only a soft sheen and the faintest rise in temperature where my hands had been.
"Breathe," I murmured. "Long breaths. The way you would if you were settling the child to sleep."
She breathed. Her eyes fluttered half-closed. I worked down from her shoulders to her upper arms, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythm that was patient and thorough, each stroke pressing the oil deeper. The system's gift was already waking — I could see it in the gradual deepening of the flush across her chest, the way her breathing shifted from deliberate to distracted, the faint parting of her lips.
'That feels… oh, that feels better than it should. His hands are so warm. Warmer than the oil. When did I last feel hands on me that were not my own?'
I moved to her chest.
My palms settled on the heavy undersides of her breasts, lifting their weight, and Elira made a sound — small, startled, caught between protest and pleasure. I did not pause. I spread the oil across the pale stretched skin in careful upward strokes, my fingers molding around the soft mass of her, thumbs brushing the outer edges of those dark, widened nipples with a pressure that could still be called medical if one were feeling generous.
"The milk paths," I said quietly, as if reciting a lesson. "My mother said they must be encouraged. Gentle pressure, following the body's own design, so that when the child comes the abundance is ready."
'Milk paths — is that real? It must be real. He sounds so certain. And his hands are… gods, his hands are under them, lifting them, and the oil is so warm, and I can feel my heart beating in places it should not beat—'
"Is the pressure too much?" I asked.
"N-no." Her voice had gone thin. "No, it is… it is fine, my lord. Please continue."
I continued. My thumbs crossed her nipples in slow passes, once, twice, feeling them tighten and rise against the oil-slick pressure. Her breasts shifted and rolled beneath my hands with a liquid heaviness, the flesh dimpling around my fingers, the dark peaks standing stiff and glistening. Elira's hands had found the coverlet and knotted themselves in it. Her knees, which had been modestly together, had drifted a hands-width apart.
I poured more oil. Moved lower.
The belly required a different touch — broader, slower, the full spread of my palms sweeping in wide arcs across the taut dome, following the dark line from ribs to the edge of her hair and back again. Beneath the surface I felt the child move — a slow rolling pressure against my right hand that made Elira gasp and then laugh, breathless and wonderstruck.
"Did you feel that? The little tyrant. Active today."
"I felt it." I kept my hands moving, oiling every inch of the stretched, shining skin, the dark patches, the faint silvery marks where her body had expanded beyond its original map. "Strong. Certain. A child who knows where it is going."
'His hands are so close to… lower. He is being careful. Respectful. But the oil is running down between my thighs and it tingles — why does it tingle so? And I am wet. I can feel it. Not the oil. Me. What is wrong with me? I am a married woman, I am with child, and this boy's hands are turning me into something shameless—'
I heard every thought. Each one was a compass needle, and I adjusted course accordingly. When her mind said 'careful', I slowed. When it said 'lower', I drifted lower. When it said 'shameless', I gave her a reason to feel that the shamelessness was virtue.
"The hips hold the most tension," I said, sliding my oiled hands along the outer curves of her waist to the wide shelf of her hips. "The body guards the cradle. We must persuade it to trust."
My fingers dug into the thick, soft flesh of her hips and upper thighs, kneading with firm circular pressure, spreading her legs further apart as the massage demanded access to the inner muscles. Elira's breath hitched. Her thighs trembled — not with cold. The oil had reached the places where her skin was thinnest, most sensitive, and the aphrodisiac was singing through her blood now, turning every nerve into a struck string.
I massaged the inner thighs with long, upward strokes that ended a finger's width from her sex and retreated, again and again, each pass lingering a heartbeat longer. The plump outer folds had grown visibly swollen, parting slightly with the spread of her legs, the inner flesh a deep flushed pink that glistened with more than oil. Her scent rose between us — warm, salt-sweet, unmistakable.
"My lord—" Her voice cracked. "That is… you are very near to…"
"The channels of birth," I said, calm as a physician, while my thumbs pressed into the soft junction where thigh met pelvis. "They must be made supple. I know it is intimate. Close your eyes if it helps. Think of the child."
'Think of the child. Think of the child. Do not think about how his thumb just brushed against — oh. Oh, again. He did it again. Was that accident? It must be accident. His mother taught him this. It is medicine. It is medicine. Why am I aching? Why do I want him to—'
I brushed the outer lips with the pad of my thumb, a slow stroke that parted the oil-slick folds and found the heat beneath. Elira's back arched. A moan escaped her — muffled instantly by her own palm pressed hard against her mouth, but not muffled enough. The sound was raw, involuntary, torn from a place beneath language.
"Easy," I murmured. "The body releases what it has held. Let it."