He looked at her.
He leaned down. His hand found her left breast. His fingers slid beneath the small mound, cupping the underside, lifting it slightly. The weight was soft in his palm, the flesh yielding, the nipple pressing against his thumb. He bounced it once. A small, testing motion, the kind a man makes when assessing the quality of a piece of fruit.
"But you would have to let me fuck you every time I want," he said. "Will you allow me?"
She trembled.
Her whole body. The eight legs scraping against the concrete, the silver fur standing on end, her human hands gripping his wrist. She held his hand against her breast, her fingers pressing his into the soft flesh, kneading herself with his palm.
"Yes," she whispered. "I will always. You can have me whenever you want."
Her voice cracked on 'always.' The word carrying twenty years of isolation in four letters.
He chuckled.
