My Confession: I Pretended to Be His Physio to Seduce Him

Marina wasn’t exactly an expert, but she’d got around enough. She’d been with plenty of men and tried plenty of things, almost all of the ones she considered normal: oral sex, outdoors, with strangers, the occasional threesome. She measured it by the same standard she used for porn: out of the hundred categories any site offered, she always went into the same four and left the rest to other people.

One chapter was still pending, though. A single curiosity she had never allowed herself to satisfy and that, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, had lodged itself in her head. She wanted to be fucked by a Black man. And not because of the color exactly, but because of what the color promised: a thick, long, dark cock sinking all the way to the hilt into her white cunt.

She realized it one night, browsing. She had typed three initials into the search engine that had nothing to do with a British television network, and the videos that came up left her staring at her forearm, comparing it to what she saw on screen. What would it really be like? she thought, as she ran two fingers over the top of her panties and felt them get wet on their own. In the video, a blonde was trying to suck a colossal dick and could barely take the tip; spit dripped down her chin and her eyes filled with tears every time the Black guy shoved her head down. Marina came in five minutes, with two fingers inside and her other thumb on her clit, and when she was done she knew nothing else would do. Size didn’t matter as much to her as skill, she’d always said that, but if she had to choose, that night she chose. Decision made.

The problem was logistical. She didn’t know any guy like that, didn’t have one in her contacts, and couldn’t remember ever seeing one in the bars she usually went to. She went through her contacts for half an hour and gave up. She also didn’t feel like opening a profile on one of those apps and putting her face out on the internet. She was old school; she trusted her own resources. She just needed a stage.

And sport gave her that stage. She ruled out football, too familiar and too full of flies. She ruled out basketball, because the proportions of those giants intimidated her a little; she didn’t want to stuff herself on the first try. Rugby, on the other hand, seemed perfect: strong, athletic, anonymous players who were easy to approach. That Sunday there was a derby in the city.

***

Marina knew nothing about rugby and didn’t need to. Looking was enough. She sat as low as she could in the stands and, as soon as the teams ran onto the pitch, counted seven players who fit what she was after. She eliminated them one by one: the first two, too bulky, were the ones who pushed in the scrums. She wanted something else. She wanted a flat stomach, broad shoulders, and legs like columns.

By halftime she couldn’t take her eyes off one of the wingers. His name was Marcus, the crowd shouted it every time he touched the ball. Six foot three, two hundred pounds distributed where they should be, and a torso she managed to see in full when he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. She also saw the bulge outlined under his shorts when he bent to tie his boot, and her mouth went dry. If the rest is made from the same mold, Marina thought, I’m taking him home.

The match got complicated at the end. Marcus got trapped under a mountain of bodies after a brutal tackle, a dull thud rang out, and two seconds later came a scream. The stands fell silent. They took him off on a stretcher to applause from both teams, twisting and clutching his thigh. Marina, who knew a thing or two about injuries, had it clear in an instant: hamstring.

She thought her plans had gone to hell. But as she walked back toward the car, she heard some girls talking about how Marcus would definitely show up for the third half. She had no idea what that was, so she turned around and asked.

—Of course! —one of them replied, very sweetly—. At the club, in Cathedral Square. We’re all heading there now.

The third half, she deduced, wasn’t any sort of match. It was a celebration. And a celebration was exactly the ground where Marina played best.

***

She got there before the caravan of cars with flags. She ordered an ice-cold beer on the terrace and waited. When the team bus unloaded its cargo of euphoric fans, the square turned into a hive. She recognized several players, but Marcus was nowhere to be seen. She was just about ready to give up when a car pulled up double-parked and two hulks took a folding wheelchair out of the trunk. Between them they dumped Marcus into it badly, put a crutch in his lap, and left him stranded on the sidewalk while they ran off for a beer.

The poor guy was trying to maneuver toward the door and knocking into everything. And to get anywhere, he had to pass, no matter what, right by Marina’s table. She stood before anyone else offered.

—Wait, I’ll help you —she said, moving a chair out of the way so he’d have room.

—Thanks —he answered—. I can’t manage this contraption. Don’t worry, one of these bastards will come help me soon enough.

—You think so? —Marina smiled wryly—. The way they got you out of the car, I’d say right now you’re worth less than a cold beer.

Marcus laughed out loud. He played along, she offered to bring him a pitcher and a slice of tortilla, and went back to the bar, forcing her way through the crowd with shoves and shouts of “make way, I’m carrying!” When she set the pitcher down in front of him, the guy could hardly believe it. He had just pulled a girl without moving from his chair, and with a girl who was, besides, genuinely beautiful.

—Did you see the match? —he asked, surprised, when she mentioned the tackle.

—I was in the stands. It hurt me just watching it. The first thing I thought was that something must be broken, but you’re not in a cast, so that points to a muscle tear. Hamstrings?

—Fuck, exactly! Are you a doctor?

—A nurse and a physiotherapist —said Marina, taking a sip of her beer—. I know a bit. Has the team physio told you about decongestive massage?

—He hasn’t told me anything about massages. Is it important?

Marina set the pitcher down slowly, like someone laying out bait. She explained manual drainage in the first few hours, the hematoma, how rehab would be easier if someone worked the area that very same afternoon. She was being serious: it was all true. Only every technical word was wrapped in an intention that Marcus, fortunately for her, still hadn’t picked up on.

—And where could they give me that? —he asked, now worried about his career.

—The clinic’s closed today. But I’ve got a treatment table at home, with oils and everything. I sometimes make a bit of extra money doing home massages. —She paused deliberately—. After eight, if you want. And I won’t charge you. I like you.

Marcus hesitated over whether it was a good idea to go to a stranger’s place. But his leg hurt, the idea of his career terrified him, and, to be honest, Marina seemed incredibly attractive. He accepted the card with the address.

—Do I need to bring anything? Bandages, ice?

—Just bring the leg, that’s enough for me —she replied—. I’ll take care of the rest.

***

Marina spent the afternoon getting everything ready without it looking like she’d gotten it ready. She bought a pizza and a pack of beers, took a long bath, shaved her cunt completely, leaving only a narrow strip, perfumed herself between her tits and between her thighs. She chose a white lace lingerie set, with panties so thin the shape of her lips showed through, and over it a pair of jeans and a sheer blouse: pretty, but not looking like a formal date. The important thing was that, when the massage moment came, it would be easy to change into a robe. A robe opens with a single knot.

She picked out some records. For the treatment table, calm music with water sounds. For after, just in case, she set Barry White aside. The doorbell rang just as she was finishing tidying everything up.

It took him so long to come up that Marina got worried, until she remembered the stairwell and the lack of a ramp. She went out to the landing and found him wrestling with the wheelchair inside the elevator, jammed in facing forward, unable to get out.

—Sorry, I didn’t think about the stairs. How did you get up? —she said, pulling him out.

—On one leg, throwing the chair ahead of me. I don’t know how people who really can’t stand do it.

Inside, she settled him into an armchair by the picture window. The orange light of sunset poured in and lit up the dark skin of his face. Marina handed him five records to choose from; he looked at them like incomprehensible relics and ended up confessing he didn’t know any of those singers.

—You’re very green —she said, taking them from his hands—. I’ll choose.

She put on Barry White, opened two beers, and while the deep voice filled the living room, she propped his legs on a cushion so the circulation would calm down before she started. She took off his shoes and socks.

—I love your feet —she said, and she meant it—. The contrast between the dark instep and the almost white soles. You don’t mind comments like that, do you? There’s no hidden meaning.

There absolutely was hidden meaning. But Marcus, who would have blushed if he could, merely smiled.

***

The treatment table was in a dim little room. Marina asked him to undress from the waist down and cover himself with a towel, and went off to get the oil to give him some privacy. When she came back, he was face down, the towel over his ass and those two enormous legs stretched out before her like a promise.

She started with the healthy calf, professionally, warming the muscle. Then she moved up to the injured leg and worked the hamstring with exactly the right technique, pressing slowly, draining upward. Marcus groaned with pain and relief in equal measure.

—Relax —she murmured—. The tighter you are, the worse it hurts.

Her hands slid with the oil and each pass ended a little higher than the last. It was the right massage, until it wasn’t anymore. When Marina’s thumbs brushed the edge of the towel at the top of his thigh, she felt under her palm the heat of something that had nothing to do with the injury. She moved the fabric aside by a few centimeters, just enough to confirm what she suspected.

He didn’t disappoint her. My God, she thought, and for a moment the forearm from those videos stopped being an exaggeration. Under the towel, flattened against the table, Marcus’s cock was half-hard and already thicker than Marina’s wrist, darker than the rest of his skin, with the glans peeking out swollen beyond the foreskin. Just seeing it made her cunt clench and she felt her panties stick to her, wet.

—Marina… —he said, voice rough—. I think this isn’t the leg anymore.

—No —she answered, without removing her hand—. It isn’t anymore.

She wrapped her fingers around the shaft from below, still pretending to massage, and felt the flesh grow in her palm, felt it throb. Marcus slowly turned over on the table and the towel fell to the floor. And then Marina saw it in full, hard, pointing at the ceiling, so long it nearly reached his navel and so thick it made her clamp her thighs together on instinct. A gasp escaped her before she could stop it.

—Fuck —she muttered—. Fuck, Marcus.

She untied the robe with the same calm she’d used to pour the oil, and the white lingerie was left lit by the room’s single lamp. He pulled her by the hip and kissed her like he’d been holding himself back all afternoon, which was exactly what had happened. He shoved his tongue down her throat and at the same time ripped off her bra in one yank, his two black hands closing over tits that looked small in his grip. He bent down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and Marina threw her head back with a moan.

—Wait —she panted—. Wait, I want to see it.

She knelt on the floor between Marcus’s open legs and stroked his cock with both hands, comparing it to her forearm the way she had so many times in front of the screen. Reality was worse, or better. It fit in both her hands together and there were still two fingers’ worth of glans left over at the top. She licked it from the base, running her tongue flat over the thick vein that ran along the underside, and reached the helmet, which disappeared completely into her mouth. Even just the tip made her cheeks bulge.

—Fuck, girl —Marcus groaned, gripping her hair—, watch your teeth…

Marina looked up at him, her eyes shining, and went a few centimeters lower. She felt his cock pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, felt her throat opening under the thrusts. Saliva started dripping from the corner of her mouth and onto her tits. She pumped with both hands what wouldn’t fit in her mouth, which was half of it, and licked his balls with the tip of her tongue between thrusts. She gagged twice, pulled back coughing, wiped the spit off with the back of her hand, and went back to sucking him with even more hunger than before.

—You’ve got to fuck me now —she told him, her voice hoarse and her mouth still full of saliva—. I can’t take it anymore.

She climbed onto the table and straddled him, and he ripped off her panties with one tug. Marcus’s dark fingers sank straight into her cunt, two at once, and she realized how soaked she was when she heard them sloshing. He fucked her with his fingers while his thumb rubbed her clit, and Marina knew she was going to come in less than a minute if she didn’t stop him.

—Stop, stop, I want to come with your cock inside me.

She placed his cock at her entrance and lowered herself slowly. Even the glans alone, thick as a fist, was hard to take in. She sank two centimeters and stayed still, panting, adjusting. Another two, and she felt herself opening from the inside, her flesh giving way. Marcus held her hips with both hands, matching her pace, letting her work.

—Slowly —he whispered—. You set the pace.

Marina went down a little more, and a little more, until she felt his balls against her ass. He was all the way inside. She stayed still for a second, mouth open, airless, arched, and then let out an incredulous laugh against his shoulder.

—Are you laughing? —he panted.

—I’ve spent months fantasizing about this —she confessed—. Shut up and don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. Marina began moving up and down, first with short rocking motions that let her get used to him, then rising almost to the tip and dropping back down onto him whole, with a dull slap each time their hips collided. The professional table, built for something else, creaked under them but held up better than they did. Every downward plunge tore a new moan from her, deeper, more animal. Marcus stretched his neck to catch her tits in his mouth without letting go of her ass, opening her up, marking her cheeks with his fingertips.

—Like that, like that, fuck, don’t stop… —she panted—. You fill me up completely, bastard, you fill me up completely…

She came for the first time riding him, with a tremor that started in the backs of her knees and climbed to her chest. She stayed still for an instant, his cock buried to the hilt, clamping her from within with spasms Marcus felt perfectly. He took advantage of the moment, flipped her with a force his injury should not have allowed and laid her on her back against the table.

He lifted both her legs and threw them over his shoulders, folding her in half. And from there, balancing on his healthy leg, he started fucking her for real. Marina felt him going deeper than before, felt every thrust reach a place she hadn’t even known she had until that night. She grabbed the edges of the table and howled without the slightest shame, because any neighbors who heard her were tomorrow’s problem.

—Fuck me, fuck me like that, open me up all the way…

Marcus spat in her cunt to make it slicker and kept going at a pace the table could no longer hide. The smell of sex, oil, and sweat had taken over the room. Marina could see in the mirror on the wall the contrast between their two skins, hers pale and offered up, his dark moving between her thighs, and that image finished pushing her over. She came again, with a long shudder that ran down her legs, and he followed shortly after.

—Not outside, not outside —she begged in a thread of a voice, grabbing his ass with both hands—. Come inside me.

Marcus drove into her to the hilt with two, three final thrusts, holding her by the hips, and she felt his cock thicken for a moment and the first load shooting out inside her, hot, abundant. He kept thrusting as he emptied himself, and with every push more semen came out, so much that Marina felt it running out of the slit of her ass onto the table. He stayed inside a little longer, still hard, breathing heavily against her neck.

When he finally pulled away, his cock came out with a dull sound and behind it came a thick white thread that slid down his thigh. Marina caught it with two fingers and brought it to her mouth, looking at him, and Marcus gave a growl that made her feel him hardening again against her stomach.

They stayed still for a moment, sweaty, catching their breath under the lamp’s warm light.

—The massage —Marcus said with a laugh— I don’t think the physio recommended it like that.

—Trust me —Marina replied, kissing his chest—. I’m a professional. Tomorrow you’ll hurt less.

He did, in fact, hurt less. And he came back on Tuesday, and Thursday, with an excuse that grew thinner each time: rehab. Marina had finally ticked off her one outstanding item, and it turned out she liked passing that exam so much that she decided to enroll for the whole course. She never told anyone. Until now.