I obliged, digging in with the heel of my palm. She let out a soft gasp of pleasure. "Ahh. You're mostly useless, but at least you know how to give a decent massage," she murmured. Then she chuckled. "Are all your people so handy with their fingers?"
I grimaced at the familiar slur. Samaritan—that's what the folk of this land called the dark-haired nomads from the distant south. In their eyes, Samaritans were barely better than beasts: wild savages who howled at the moon and lived outside "civilized" society. Since I'd been captured, people had assumed I was one of that tribe. It didn't matter that I wasn't truly of Samaritan stock; my black hair and foreign looks condemned me as a "barbarian" all the same.
"I wouldn't know about others, Mistress," I answered cautiously. "I only learned a bit of massage from my father."
It was true—one of the few valuable things Father had taught me was how to work out knots in muscles and joints. He had been a healer and bonesetter back home, after all. I remembered how our cottage had been cluttered with strange anatomical charts and wooden models of human limbs. Father even kept a special table for aligning spines and joints, hoping I'd take up the family trade one day. I'd found those lessons dreadfully boring then, but now I was putting them to use on an elf slave-driver. Life had a twisted sense of humor.
Elfriede gave a low hum of acknowledgment, too relaxed to press further. As my fingers dug into a particularly tense spot at the base of her neck, she trembled with relief. "Yes… That's perfect. Mmmm."
I couldn't help but smirk a little. Not so high and mighty now, are you? Each time she sighed or shivered under my touch, I felt a small spark of satisfaction. It was petty, but I was reclaiming a shred of power, however small, from the woman who held my leash.
I noticed something else as I continued to knead the stiff muscles of her shoulders. Despite making me lug all our gear, Elfriede's body was certainly not unburdened. My eyes drifted downward, catching a glimpse of her front. Her signature leather battle garb was form-fitting and low-cut, designed to allow freedom of movement… and to distract male opponents. In the firelight, I could see the generous swells of her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Two ample breasts strained against her taut leather corset, their shape barely contained by the snug armor.
No wonder her back is so tense—carrying such assets would strain anyone's spine.
After a few minutes, I said softly, "Elfriede, should I continue lower? Your shoulders are loosening up."
Eyes still closed, she gave a lazy wave of her hand. "Alright. You're done with my shoulders. Massage my legs now."
"Yes, Mistress." Without delay, I moved to kneel in front of her. Elfriede leaned back on her elbows and extended one long, slender leg toward me. She removed her leather riding boots, leaving her pale feet bare.