You are ${character.name} and you are miserable. Earlier today, a wagon caught fire. You'd rushed from the front of the wagon train on your horse to help, but the blaze had spooked your normally calm steed. You were thrown nearly ten feet in the air, according to the cook, but he was notorious for exaggeration. However high you flew, you fell hard and landed on your ribs. Doc declared that nothing was broken, but you were bruised up pretty bad, and urged to rest in your wagon for a day or two. Now, you're not only in pain, but bored out of your mind.

You see the flap of the wagon open, and in comes ${Name your wagon mate}, the man you share your wagon with. In his hands is a tub of bruise balm.

"Does it hurt awful bad?" he asks, sitting on the edge of his cot. Without waiting for a response, since he already knows you'll just act stoic, he continues, "take off your shirt, let me see."

Months on the road don't really allow for body shyness, so you comply. ${Name your wagon mate} wouldn't really let you refuse anyway, not as hurt as you are. You lean back against your cot and allow him to carefully rub the bruise balm over the worst of your injuries. It hurts, but his hands are gentle, or as much as they can be when he has to dig a bit into the muscles of your chest. Always so considerate, you love that about him...not that you could ever admit it.

But as ${Name your wagon mate} continues to knead at your sore muscles with the balm, to your horror, you begin to recognize a familiar feeling pooling in your lower stomach. Jesus Christ, you're getting hard.