She washed his entire body with care, paying little mind to his exposed genitals. Her gentle hands glided over his skin, soothing his weary frame.
As she finished washing his body, finally it was time for his genitals, or more specifically his cock.
Slowly, and sensually, she began washing his cock. As her gentle hands wrapped around his spent member, he let out a contented sigh, the warm water and her tender touch coaxing a final drop of cum from his overstimulated cock.
She lavished attention on every inch, her delicate fingers gliding with practiced ease along the sensitive underside, the thick shaft, and the delicate crown. It was an intimate, sensual experience, almost a mini handjob. It was as if this gentle massage was prolonging the pleasure, building the tension without the need for a climax.
Despite the erotic undertones, her actions remained pure and selfless, focused solely on his comfort and well-being. Even though he was mentally ready for another round, but alas, his exhausted body, still reeling from recent escapades, lacked the strength for another sexual encounter.
Despite the disappointment, he savored the gentle caress, grateful for her attentiveness and the unspoken promise of future pleasures once his strength returned. In that moment, the simple act of washing felt like a sensual dance, a tender demonstration of affection that nourished both his body and soul.
With a satisfied smile, she tenderly rinsed him clean, her touch a soothing balm to the aching muscles and ragged breath of his.
When she felt that he was finally clean… or at least less of a walking biohazard… Lyra gave a short satisfied nod of approval. The kind that seemed to say , "alright, now you look human again." Or maybe it was just his imagination.
Without saying much, she reached to the side and picked up a small wooden flask resting on a flat stone. The container looked worn but polished from years of use, its cap sealed with a twist of fiber cord. She uncorked it with a quiet pop.
Immediately, a rich, earthy smell drifted out… soft, natural, almost comforting.
He leaned forward slightly, peering inside. The liquid inside was thick, golden-brown, and slow-moving, clinging to the sides as it caught the light. His nose twitched. "What is that?" he asked, curious.
Seeing him look curiously, she gave him a sideways glance and snorted "Oil," she said simply. "It keeps the skin strong, I doubt you would ever have used it yourself."
He smiled awkwardly, because she was right, from the memories he had found that his previous self wasn't much keen on using oil, saying, "men don't need fancy oils," and "that's for the women." A classic case of ignorance wrapped in pride.
Lyra poured a little of the oil into her palms, then rubbed her hands together slowly. The liquid spread into a sheen across her fingers, catching the afternoon light. It was thick but smooth, leaving behind a faint scent of herbs, resin, and woodsmoke.
"This keeps the wind from cracking the skin," she said, her tone softer now. "And it wards off insects."
As she spoke, her voice lowered a little… that calm, motherly cadence she slipped into when she wasn't commanding the world. "Eira makes this from root and sap. She says it keeps the body's warmth inside."
She held her hands out. "Here."
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Her palms pressed gently against his shoulders as she spread the oil across his skin… warm, steady and methodical. It wasn't much sensual like most of the study material videos he used to watch. It was care, pure and practiced.
The scent filled the air, mixing with the faint breeze and the sound of trickling water. For a moment, everything around him blurred… the pain, the exhaustion, the memories. All that remained was her touch, the rhythm of her hands, and the feeling of being tended to.
Lyra didn't speak again until she was done. Then, wiping her palms on a small cloth, she glanced at him. Her eyes softened, the hard edges of her expression melting away.
"There," she said quietly. "That's better."
He looked at her bright satisfied smile, and involuntarily said "Yeah, it definitely is better."
…
Hearing this, Lyra capped the flask back, tied the cord neatly, and set it aside on the flat stone. Then she stood, dusting her palms together… quick, and neat, with a hint of pride that came from his praise and from helping him with the oil.
He sat there for a moment, half-dazed by her bright smile, his skin still tingling faintly where her hands had passed.
"Stay a while, let the oil sink in." she said, her tone softer than the breeze. The warm, earthy scent of the oil lingered in the air, reminiscent of the forest after a refreshing rain.
He nodded automatically, watching her graceful movements as she walked toward the door, each step deliberate and unhurried, as if she commanded even gravity to yield to her pace.
When she was finally out of his sight, he exhaled and leaned over the water basin beside him.
The surface was calm, reflecting the dying gold of the afternoon light.
And for the first time since waking up in this strange unfamiliar world, he really looked at his visage.
Despite the subtle differences, the face staring back was unmistakably his own - same general shape, same eyes, same nose, same dark hair, albeit thicker and cleaner than he recalled. The jawline was sharper, the eyes clearer, giving the impression of a man who truly lived a life, not just rot in a room. A crooked smile slowly spread across his lips as he traced the reflection with his eyes.
Well, definitely not the lazy, sleepless wreck from the old world.
He leaned closer, tracing the reflection with his eyes. His lips curled into a crooked grin.
"Damn," he muttered. "Guess I really did win the genetics lottery this time. And thank god, it isn't some stranger's face, otherwise it would have been awkward.
The water rippled as he dipped his fingers in, sending his reflection scattering. When it settled again, he couldn't help noticing the subtle strength in his features… the faint scar near his temple, which he clearly remembered, came from the day he fell off his bike, as he was too stubborn to wait for training wheels. It healed quickly, but the mark stayed.
Now, seeing that same scar again, he felt pretty ridiculous for a second. I mean there is no way there could be such a coincidence in the world that he and the body he had been transmigrated had the same face, and even the same scar, right?
For a brief second, he wondered if this body wasn't just coincidence, or this whole transmigration wasn't something random.
Maybe this was him… from some alternate version from another timeline.
Same soul, different skin.
A cosmic joke, maybe.
He sat back, staring up at the golden sky. The lingering sunlight hit his face again, warm and soft.
He exhaled a long breath, *pheeew* and relaxed.
Anyways, whatever the truth was, he was here now, and if there really was some conspiracy he will eventually find out, no need to fuss over something out of his control.