She had thought he probably would. “Yes, my Master.” She untied him, carefully, letting him down as if every knot undone was a sacrament.
“Your wrist, my Master.” She washed his hands and arms with scented oil. She’d gotten her blows in. Now it was his turn. “Your legs, my Master.”
She bowed her head when he had been freed, dropped to her knees, and pressed her forehead to the floor. “I am yours.”
“Stay.” His voice rumbled. “Stay, while I-” he grunted. “Stretch. Recover.”
She pressed her head tighter to the floor, and silently, she waited.
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