After she used the washcloth, Monica rubbed the ointment on my wound. She dabbed it on my thigh and gently massaged the cream into my skin. She put a pillow under my knee to keep my thigh raised to lessen blood flow. That exposed me even more. Monica left and got some ice. As I sat there drinking more wine, I reflected on where I was and how relaxed I was feeling. Monica returned and placed an ice-filled washcloth on my leg. I could've held the cloth, but she did instead; there was no other way to keep it on the affected area. Of course, she would frequently look at the washcloth with my p***y a few inches away. At times, the cool washcloth and her hand casually touched my p***y lips. It seemed to be unintentional, at first.
We had more wine and talked, getting to know each other. I learn
