Genitals - Helper

Elara knelt. “What hurts, love?”

She opened her satchel. First, she pressed a warm river stone against the automaton’s lower abdomen—a trick to soothe muscle, even brass muscle. Then she uncorked a vial of camphor-infused clock oil, the kind used for delicate French orreries. Using a deer-antler spoon, she gently lifted a hinged panel beneath the Maiden’s garter. genitals helper

Her brass hips gyrated in a grinding, agonized loop. Her copper eyelids flickered. A thin whine of stripped gears escaped her ruby lips. The arcade owner, a sweaty man named Mr. Grubb, wrung his hands. Elara knelt

Grubb was delighted. The constable looked relieved. Elara refused payment, accepting only a cup of gin and a promise that Grubb would never strike a patient again. Then she uncorked a vial of camphor-infused clock

One fog-choked Tuesday, a frantic knock came at her cellar door. It was a young constable, face pale as suet.