The Physical Therapy Session I Couldn’t Control

I never thought a rehab exercise could get my dick so hard it would ruin my life. I’d been going to the physical therapy center for three months because of kyphosis that had left my back a mess, and the only thing that kept me motivated wasn’t exactly the promise of a straight spine, but the hard-on I got like stone every time I walked into that room.

The center was on the second floor of an old building, above a pharmacy. It had two treatment rooms, a small gym with rusty machines, and two physical therapists: Carmen and Sofía. Carmen was a woman in her fifties, sturdy, married with three children, and she treated every session like a divine punishment. Sofía was twenty-seven, single, slim, with brown hair always tied back in a ponytail that left her long, freckled neck exposed, the kind you wanted to bite. She had small but perky tits that showed under her work shirt, and a round, firm ass like a woman who hits the gym five times a week.

My routine consisted of stretching exercises, strengthening, and a set on the rehab table that was, no exaggeration, the closest thing to erotic torture I’ve experienced in my fucking life.

The exercise worked like this: I lay face down on the table, arms stretched forward. The therapist stood right behind me, pressed her hips against the backs of my thighs, grabbed my wrists, and pulled my arms toward her while pushing with her pelvis. The goal was to stretch the dorsal area of the back. The result, at least when Sofía did it, was that I ended up with my dick so hard I could have split the table in half, with her cunt driving into my ass with every repetition as if she were fucking me slowly through our clothes.

With Carmen it was different. She did it with the delicacy of a moving truck. She pulled hard, fast, and if she noticed something moving where it shouldn’t, she’d crush my balls with her knee without any warning or mercy. Once I asked her if that was part of the treatment. She looked at me like I’d insulted her mother and said yes.

Sofía, on the other hand, did it slowly. Very slowly. She placed her cunt carefully, as if she were searching for the exact angle so every inch of her pubic mound would be felt against my thighs. When she grabbed my wrists, her fingers were soft but firm. And every time she pulled me, I could feel the pressure of the mound of her pelvis pushing against my ass, the heat of her pussy seeping through the fabric as if she were marking me. Sometimes I felt the brush of her stockings against my bare skin. Sometimes, when the traction was stronger, a short, wet sigh would escape her lips, so close to my nape it made every hair on my body stand up and made the tip of my cock drip onto the table.

Don’t think about her cunt. Don’t think about her tits. Don’t think about that.

I repeated it to myself like a mantra every time she started. I tried thinking about Carmen. About Carmen’s knee. About Carmen’s face when I asked her if wrecking my balls was part of the protocol. Anything that would bring my erection down before it showed like a post against the padding.

But with every session it got harder. Sofía had started wearing a new perfume, something citrusy that mixed with the clean smell of the room and reached me just as she leaned over me. Her hands, which at first only grabbed my wrists, had started sliding a little farther up, to my forearms. And the pressure of her cunt against my legs was no longer just functional. I could feel how she settled in, how she repositioned herself millimeter by millimeter until the pubic bone was wedged exactly where I could feel it all. Or so I wanted to believe, because the alternative was too dangerous to think about.

The nights after my sessions with Sofía were the worst. I got home with my balls swollen and my dick rubbing against my pants zipper with every step. I locked myself in my room, pulled down my boxers, and lay on the bed with my cock pointing at the ceiling and the image of her hands gripping my wrists burned into my memory. I went over every detail: the way her cunt rested one millimeter sooner with her right hip than with her left, the sound of her breathing when she strained, the tiny pause she made between each repetition as if she needed to recover too, as if she were rubbing her clit against my ass and needed to control the trembling.

I imagined turning over on the table. I imagined yanking her leggings down, burying my face between her freckled thighs and eating her pussy until her knees gave out. I imagined driving my cock into her to the hilt and fucking her against that same table, the springs creaking, her moaning my name with a broken voice while I bit her neck and groped her tits under her work shirt. My hand always ended up in the same place, stroking my cock up and down while the other squeezed my balls, and I came in thick ropes over my stomach thinking about how my load would look painted on her chin and cleavage. I wasn’t proud of it, but I couldn’t stop either. Sometimes I jerked off twice in a row and still went to sleep with my cock burning hot.

On a Thursday in November I showed up for my six o’clock appointment. It was cold and the center was almost empty. Carmen had left early because her son had a fever, so Sofía was covering the last two hours alone. When I walked into the room, she was sitting on the table reading something on her phone. She was wearing black leggings that clung to her pussy and ass like a second skin, and a gray tank top that showed the line of her sports bra and a freckled cleavage you wanted to drown in.

—Hi, Marcos —she said, putting away her phone—. We’re alone today. Should we start with the table and finish with the machines?

Normally it was the other way around. First machines to warm up, then the table. But I nodded without thinking, as if my brain had decided caution wasn’t welcome that afternoon and that my dick, not my head, was going to be at the wheel.

I took off my sweatshirt and lay face down. The table was cold and the contact made my abdominal skin shiver. I was already half hard just from knowing we were alone. I settled my cock against my thigh as best I could before she came over. Sofía took her time. I heard her adjusting something on the supply cart, opening and closing a drawer, humming something under her breath I couldn’t identify. Then I heard her steps approach, slow, deliberate, like a cat that already knows the prey isn’t going anywhere.

—We’ll do three sets of ten, okay? —her voice was closer than usual—. Today I’m going to increase the intensity a little.

Bad idea. Terrible idea. This is going to end with my balls empty and my dignity on the floor.

I felt her cunt settle against the backs of my thighs. But this time it was different. She had come closer than usual. I could feel the full curve of her pelvis, the outer lips outlined through the leggings, pressed against the backs of my knees with a precision that left nothing to the imagination. Her fingers closed around my wrists and she started to pull.

The first stretch was slow, deep. My back cracked in two places and I let out an involuntary groan that sounded more like pain than relief. Sofía held the traction for a few seconds, her body still against mine, her cunt pressed into the backs of my thighs as if she wanted every fiber of my back to absorb the position. Then she let go slowly. Before the next repetition, she adjusted her hip position. She pressed closer. I could feel the soft fabric of her leggings brushing my skin, the heat of her pussy passing through the two layers separating us, and I would swear I felt the exact line of her slit against the edge of my ass.

—Everything okay? —she asked.

—Yeah —I lied.

It wasn’t okay. My body had reacted to the first touch with humiliating speed. My dick had gone rock hard in seconds and hurt, crushed against the padded surface of the table. The tip was already leaking pre-cum into my underwear, a wet, hot stain that was only going to get worse. I tried to shift a little to relieve the pressure, but every movement only made things worse because it rubbed my cock against the fabric of my shorts and that, instead of calming me down, made me groan inwardly like a dog in heat.

Sofía kept going. Second stretch. Slower than the first. This time, when she pulled my arms, her cunt pushed forward and I felt something that made me close my eyes hard: the softness of her lower belly against my thighs, the rhythmic pressure of her pelvis as she pulled and released, pull and release, exactly as if she were fucking me through our clothes. It was like she was rocking me. Like she was riding me slowly while pretending she was only doing her job. The world shrank to the exact point where her cunt touched the backs of my thighs, and to the dripping cock I had driven into the padding.

By the second set I was already on another planet. My breathing had sped up and I couldn’t hide it. A fine sweat covered my forehead and palms. Every time she pulled me, her cunt rubbed against my ass in a way my brain had stopped processing as therapy a long time ago. My imagination had taken over completely: I wasn’t on a rehab table anymore, I was beneath her naked, with her dripping cunt running down my back, and every traction was a thrust, every sigh of hers a whore’s moan, every pause the moment before she drove it into me again to the hilt. I imagined whipping around suddenly, throwing her onto the table and burying my face in her cunt until she came against my tongue.

—Marcos, you’re very tense —said Sofía. Her voice was soft, not alarmed, but with a new tone I’d never heard before—. Do you need me to stop?

—No, keep going —I said, my voice hoarse, barely recognizable.

Stop. Tell her to stop. You’re going to blow your load like a kid.

But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. Pleasure had gone beyond any rational capacity I had left. Sofía started the third set and something changed in her rhythm. It became even slower, deeper, as if she were savoring each repetition, as if she were measuring my endurance. The pressure of her cunt against my ass was constant, and her fingers squeezed my wrists with a firmness that edged into intimacy. I felt her thighs close slightly around mine, trapping me. I could hear her breathing, heavier than at the start, almost a pant, and the citrus perfume mixed with a warm smell that was no longer cologne wrapped around me like a drug. It smelled like a hot woman, and my cock recognized it before my head did.

It was on the sixth repetition of the third set. Sofía pulled my arms with a force that was soft but sustained, pushing her pelvis against my ass at the same time, and held the pressure a second longer than necessary, almost rubbing herself. My whole body tensed at once, every muscle contracted. The friction of my cock against the table, the pressure of her cunt against me, the fabric rubbing my balls, her perfume, the sound of her heavy breathing right above my nape, the built-up heat of weeks of jerking off thinking about her. It all gathered at the base of my cock in a knot that exploded without warning.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck! —I panted as my body convulsed.

I couldn’t hold it back. The orgasm ripped through me, violent, uncontrollable, like an electric shock that started in my balls and spread to the tips of my fingers. My hips moved against the table on their own, thrusting, while my cock throbbed inside my shorts and let out the first jet of hot cum. Then another. And another. I felt my load soaking through my entire underwear, thick, abundant, sliding down toward my balls and seeping between the fabric and the skin of my thigh. My ass kept moving on its own, rubbing against Sofía’s cunt as if it could still get more out of me, and she didn’t pull away. It went on for several endless seconds, emptying me in spurts like a fucking hopeless teenager, and when it was over, the silence in the room was so thick I could hear the hum of the fluorescent light and the drip of my own cum against the padding.

Sofía didn’t move. Her hands were still on my wrists, motionless. Her cunt was still pressed to my ass. Then, very slowly, she let go and stepped back. I could have sworn I heard her swallow.

—Marcos... —she started to say.

—I’m sorry —I cut her off without turning around. My face was buried in the table and I never intended to lift it again—. I couldn’t stop it. I came. I’m really sorry.

There was a long pause. Too long. Then I heard her let out a short, nervous laugh, trying to turn it into a cough with not much success.

—Hey, it’s okay —she said, and her tone was a strange mix of forced professionalism and genuine amusement—. Things like this happen. It’s not the first time a patient has had a physical reaction during treatment.

A physical reaction? I just filled your table with semen, fuck.

—But you’re going to have to turn over at some point —she added, and I’d swear there was a note of contained laughter in her voice.

I turned over slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. I didn’t need to look down to know what she was seeing: a wet, sticky stain spreading across the front of my gray shorts and still growing, darkening the fabric in a huge circle that left no doubt about how much cum I had just shot. My cock, still half hard, bulged under the stain like a fucking monument to humiliation.

—Holy shit —Sofía said, staring at the stain wide-eyed. She covered her mouth and bit her lower lip—. Okay, that’s... okay. I can’t let you go out like that.

I held her gaze for a second and thought I saw her ears go red, her nipples harden against the sports bra. Or maybe I was imagining it. Or maybe not.

She turned and opened the wardrobe at the back of the room. I heard her rummaging among fabrics and hangers for what felt like an eternity. She came back holding a sports set in her hands and offered it to me with a smile I couldn’t quite read.

—Here. It’s mine, but it should fit you. You can change in the bathroom.

I looked at the set. Shirt and pants. Both were such a vivid bubblegum pink they practically glowed under the room’s fluorescent light. A pink that screamed, that drew attention from every angle, that couldn’t possibly go unnoticed even in the dark.

—Don’t you have anything in another color? —I asked with the little dignity I had left.

—This is what there is —she shrugged, amused—. Unless you’d rather walk out in that.

She pointed to my soaked crotch. She had a point.

I changed in the bathroom. When I pulled down my shorts and boxers, I saw the full disaster: a thick white layer stuck to the fabric, strands of semen stretching between the garment and the skin of my balls, my cock still wet and stained. I cleaned myself as best I could with paper and water, trying not to think that Sofía knew exactly what I had down there. The pink pants fit tight on my thighs and outlined the bulge of my balls like I was wearing them exposed. The shirt clung to my whole torso. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a guy dressed like bubblegum with a face the color of a ripe tomato and a cock still sensitive brushing against the zipper. I put my soaked clothes into a plastic bag Sofía gave me without making a comment, though the corner of her mouth trembled with laughter she didn’t allow herself to let out.

—Same time next week? —she asked as I was leaving, as if none of the above had happened.

—Yeah —I said, without looking at her.

—Marcos —she called when I was already in the hallway. I turned around—. Next time, bring a change of clothes.

Next time. She had said next time.

I walked home briskly, praying not to run into anyone I knew. The pink set was visible from two blocks away and the pants outlined my package in a way that drew even more attention. A couple of kids on the corner whistled at me and a man walking his dog looked at me with a mixture of confusion and pity. By the time I put my key in the lock, I had already rehearsed three different excuses, but none of them included the truth even remotely.

My mother was in the living room watching television. She saw me come in and took exactly half a second to notice my clothes. I knew that sequence: first the eyes widened, then the mouth, then the voice went up an octave.

—Marcos, why are you coming home so late? —she processed what she was seeing and her expression changed completely—. And what are you wearing? What is that pink shirt?

—Mom, please, don’t start.

—Don’t tell me not to start! —she got up from the sofa with a speed that belied her knee problems—. My son gets home at eight at night dressed head to toe in pink and tells me not to start.

—It’s sportswear. They lent it to me at the clinic because mine got dirty.

But my mother wasn’t listening anymore. She had that look she got when she built a conspiracy theory from circumstantial evidence. I watched her eyes go from the pink shirt to the tight pants, from the tight pants to the plastic bag in my hand, and from the plastic bag to a conclusion that changed her whole face.

—Marcos, son, is there something you want to tell me?

—No.

—Because if there is, I still love you, you know? —her voice had softened all at once, which was infinitely worse than yelling—. But I need you to be honest with me.

—Mom, it’s not what you think.

—And what do I think? —she challenged me, hands on her hips.

I didn’t answer. Any real explanation was worse than whatever she was imagining. I couldn’t tell her I’d come in torrents all over the physical therapist’s table while she rubbed her cunt against my ass, and that I’d dressed in her own pink clothes because mine were soaked with semen. Between that truth and my mother’s conclusion, the less humiliating option was unquestionably my mother’s.

—I’m going to shower —I said, and closed my bedroom door before she could answer.

Through the wall, I heard her call my aunt on the phone. I only caught fragments between whispers: “all pink,” “head to toe,” “skin-tight,” “I still love him, but a mother has the right to know.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the pink set, and stared at the ceiling. My cock, incredibly, was already starting to get hard again just from remembering the weight of Sofía’s cunt against my thighs. Somewhere in the city, she’d be closing the clinic, putting the table away and cleaning up the stain I’d left behind. I wondered if she was laughing. I wondered if she was thinking about my load while wiping it up with a cloth. I wondered whether she had really said “next time” meaning what I wanted to believe, or if it was just her way of defusing the most embarrassing moment of my life.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

“Hi, it’s Sofía. Your number was on the patient file, hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to say don’t worry about today. Really. And I’m working alone again tomorrow afternoon, if you want to move next week’s session up. Kisses.”

I read the message three times. Four. I felt my cock give another tug against the pink fabric. Then I looked at the closed door of my bedroom, behind which my mother was probably already searching the internet for signs that your son is gay.

She had no fucking idea how wrong she was.