What Happened on the Table with the New Physical Therapist

I’ve always been passionate about soccer. Watching it, listening to it on the car radio, playing it on Saturdays with the guys from the neighborhood. But an old injury to my right knee and the slow recovery that followed eventually kept me away from the field. I started making up excuses when they called me for a game, saying I had things to finish at work, putting my body toward other priorities. At a certain age, you learn to take care of your tool of the trade and stop putting yourself at risk simply for the pleasure of chasing a ball.

I’d gone almost three years without setting foot on the grass when, at a coworker’s birthday party, they dragged me into a seven-a-side game with a barbecue afterward. They were short one player, the teams would have been uneven, and there was no way out. I accepted while pretending to be enthusiastic, though inside I was dying to play again, with the sole condition that I stay planted between the goalposts. For the first hour everything was great: shouting, clumsy dribbles, awkwardly improvised plays, the kind of things that happen in a casual game among friends. Until, going for a loose ball, I threw myself like a handball goalkeeper, spread my legs farther than my body remembered it could, and felt that dull sound in my left adductor, as if someone had driven a hot pin into me.

The next day, the ultrasound confirmed what I already knew: a partial tear of the fibers, at least three weeks of rehabilitation, physical therapy three times a week. I called Ricardo, my longtime physical therapist, the guy who had gotten me back on my feet after my meniscus operation years earlier. But the only appointments he had available were at eleven in the morning, an impossible time slot for someone who started work at nine and finished at seven. He offered to set me up with a colleague he had recently brought into the practice, a young guy who covered the last appointments of the afternoon. “He’s a good kid, Tomás. Graduated recently, but he’s got good hands. He’ll take good care of you,” he assured me.

Tomás turned out to be exactly as Ricardo had described him. Tall, lanky, almost Scandinavian-blond, with blue eyes and skin so white you could see the bluish shadow of his barely shaved beard. He had the look of a handsome kid who knew he was handsome, and he carried himself with a shameless ease around the office, speaking to older patients as an equal, joking with the receptionists, giving orders to the intern as if he’d been in the profession for twenty years. He and I hit it off right away. I was the last appointment of the night, and once there was no one else left in the waiting room, the office loosened up: the music was turned down, the formalities relaxed, and the conversations became longer and freer.

The routine was always the same. First I sat with the electrostimulation device attached to my adductor, those twenty minutes when there wasn’t much else to do but stare at the ceiling and let the electrical contractions do their work. Then came the ultrasound, cold and slow, gliding with gel over the affected area. And finally, the massage: that was when Tomás took his time, working with his knuckles and thumbs, opening up the muscle fibers with a technique that was part surgical and part tender. Meanwhile, we talked. And always, without exception, the conversation ended up drifting toward women, nights out, picking people up, clubbing stories.

“Do you go out a lot?” he asked me one night as he worked on my leg with his elbow.

“I used to. Not so much anymore. Age, work, all that.”

“Too bad. You look like you must’ve been trouble in your day. How many chicks did you fuck per month when you were in your prime?”

I laughed, a little uncomfortable with how direct the question was. Tomás laughed too, but without taking his eyes off me. There was something in the way he held my gaze a second too long, in how he lowered his voice when we talked about certain things, that I noticed without fully processing. I filed it under: “That’s just how this kid is, relaxed, it doesn’t mean anything.” Or so I told myself.

***

The session before the last was the one that changed everything. I arrived in unbearable heat, with the office’s air conditioner working at half capacity, and I was wearing a pair of athletic shorts with built-in compression shorts sewn inside. When it was time for the massage, Tomás asked me to take off the compression shorts so he could work the area properly, without any fabric getting in the way.

“I can’t. It’s one piece. The compression shorts are sewn into the shorts.”

He raised an eyebrow, paused for a second, and said with a crooked smile

“Then get naked. You’ve got the towel right there. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He said it as naturally as if he were asking for a coffee. I took off my shorts, lay on my back on the table, covered myself from the waist down with the white towel, and tried to stare at the ceiling as if this were a perfectly medical matter. Tomás pulled the stool up to the level of my hip, warmed some oil between his palms, and began working on my adductor.

The first few minutes were the same as always. Deep pressure on the injured area, small strokes along the inner thigh, that proximity to the genitals that is unavoidable in any sports massage. But something had changed in the rhythm. His hands lingered closer to my groin. They moved up a few inches, down, then back up. I tried to concentrate on something else, anything else, on my work to-do list, on the bills for the month. It didn’t work.

This isn’t a normal massage.

My body understood the situation before my head did. My cock, which habitually rested against my left leg, began filling with blood at a speed I couldn’t hide. I felt it grow thicker against my thigh, throb, gain weight and length beneath the towel, forming an increasingly obscene bulge that no piece of fabric could disguise. Tomás noticed immediately. He didn’t stop the massage or pretend not to see. He did the opposite. He lifted the towel slightly, looked without the slightest attempt at discretion, lingered over what he saw, and said in a playful, affected voice he had never used with me before.

“Aw, this sleepyhead here is getting in the way. We’re going to move it, okay?”

Before I could process what was happening, he took my cock between his fingertips, with an almost comical delicacy, and moved it to the other side, resting it on my right leg. He kept contact a second longer than necessary. Then another second. Then another. His fingers slowly closed around the base, not squeezing, measuring me, weighing me in his hand.

“Look at that pretty cock you’ve got, dumbass. And it’s thick, too. Looks like somebody’s waking up.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t. Everything that came to mind sounded ridiculous: “stop,” “what are you doing,” “this is wrong.” But none of those words represented what I was really feeling. What I felt was a mixture of disbelief, pure arousal, and a curiosity I had never allowed myself to explore. Tomás continued. His fingers abandoned any pretense of being clinical and began roaming over me with unmistakable intent. He closed his fist around my cock and began jerking me off slowly, long strokes from top to bottom, pulling back my foreskin until the glans was completely exposed and then sliding it back up with a twist of his wrist. With his other hand, he took my balls, weighed them, gently kneaded them, tugged at the skin of my sack with two fingers, playing with them as if they were ripe fruit.

“Stay still, come on. This is part of the treatment too. It’s going to get even harder, you’ll see.”

He said it laughing, without stopping his hand. I closed my eyes. I felt the perfect pressure of his fist, the oil sliding, his warm palm turning my glans with every upward stroke. A hoarse moan escaped me, barely more than a sound in my throat, and Tomás heard it and sped up a little, as if rewarding me. The office was silent; not a sound could be heard in the hallway, the doors were already closed, the reception lights were off. We were alone. Completely alone. And my body had made a decision my mind was taking longer to authorize.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

I opened my eyes. He was leaning over me, his hand working my cock at a steady rhythm, his gaze fixed on my face, looking for every twitch, every broken breath. He lowered his eyes to my cock again, licked his lips without the slightest shame, and with his thumb spread the first drop of precum over my entire glans, circling it, lubricating the swollen tip until it shone.

***

When more drops of precum appeared, Tomás let out an almost imperceptible “excuse me” and leaned over the table. I felt his breath first, hot and damp, hovering over my glans for a few seconds that stretched into eternity. Then came the warm contact of his lips on the tip, a barely-there kiss, a slow lick around the crown, and at once my entire cock disappeared into his mouth in a single motion, all the way down. The sensation was so intense I had to bite the back of my hand to keep from making a sound that could be heard in the hallway. His nose touched my lower abdomen, his throat opened to take me in whole, and I felt the contractions deep in his throat squeezing the head of my cock as if they were milking me.

He began moving up and down at a slow, obscene rhythm, letting a thread of saliva run from the corner of his mouth down to my balls. His tongue worked with a technique you don’t learn in a weekend: it rose slowly along the vein underneath, lingered at the tip, probing the little opening with its point, then dropped suddenly all the way down, veering off to suck first one testicle and then the other with his whole mouth, making wet sounds, before swallowing me whole again. When he pulled off completely, he spent a second staring at me, thick and gleaming with saliva, then spat on me enthusiastically before taking me back into his mouth all the way to the balls.

“You’ve got such a tasty one,” he murmured with his mouth full, without pulling all the way off. “Fuck my mouth. Come on, move your hips, fuck my mouth like it was a pussy.”

The command struck somewhere in me I hadn’t known existed. I began moving without thinking, pushing his face against my groin, feeling his throat open to take me all the way down. He let me do it, both hands braced on the table, offering me his mouth as another kind of opening, drawing air through his nose between thrusts. When I tightened my grip on the back of his neck to sink him all the way down, he let me, and even moaned with my cock lodged in his throat, sending a vibration up the entire length of me.

At some point he straightened up, pulled my cock from his mouth with a wet pop, and looked down at me, his lips swollen and a strand of drool hanging from his chin.

“Spit,” I told him, not entirely recognizing my own voice.

He smiled. He spat a good stream onto the head of my cock, spread it around with his palm, and lowered himself again. Now he was working me with both hands and his mouth at once: one hand at the base, giving me short strokes while he sucked the head, the other hand between my legs, playing with my balls, squeezing them and tugging them downward whenever he felt me getting close. He put both balls into his mouth at the same time, holding the base of my cock with one hand, and began a zigzagging motion with his head that sent electric waves all the way to the base of my skull, while he jerked me rapidly with a tight fist gleaming with saliva.

I had completely lost track of time. A minute might have passed; fifteen might have passed. My left hand gripped the edge of the table so hard my wrist hurt. My right hand ended up on the back of his neck, not to push him, but to confirm that this was happening, that I wasn’t imagining it, that this really was the physical therapist’s blond hair pressed against my stomach. I grabbed a lock and tugged it a little, and he responded by moaning with his mouth full and sinking deeper.

“You’re going to make me come,” I managed to say, my voice tight.

He pulled my cock out for a second with a sucking sound and looked at me with that crooked smile, his blue eyes shining in the dim office.

“Come in my mouth. Come on, come in my mouth, daddy. I want to swallow it all.”

And he took me back in all the way down. There was no slow rhythm now, no pauses, no teasing. It was pure, rapid suction, his hand working at the base, his throat opening and closing around my glans with every downward stroke. His other hand squeezed my balls firmly, and I felt my orgasm shoot up from the base of my spine.

“Tomás…” I managed, as a warning.

He didn’t stop. On the contrary, he sped up. He squeezed harder. He swallowed me to the root and stayed there, motionless, his nose pressed against my stomach, while I exploded down his throat with an intensity that left my head vibrating. It was a long, deep ejaculation, jet after jet of cum shooting into the back of his mouth, with that contraction of the abdominal muscles you only get when something takes you completely by surprise. I felt every pulse travel down my urethra, felt him swallow, felt his throat move around the tip, squeezing me and drawing out every last drop. Four, five, six jets, all of them swallowed without missing a single one.

He stayed still for a few seconds, waiting for me to finish, and then, without pulling away, slowly moved upward until he released my glans with a wet kiss. He ran his tongue over his lips, swallowed what remained in his mouth with an exaggerated little sound, almost mocking, then bent down again and cleaned everything with his tongue, making slow, meticulous passes over my cock, my balls, and my groin, gathering every trace of semen and saliva as if he were licking an ice cream he didn’t want to waste. When he found a forgotten drop on the skin of my lower abdomen, he picked it up with the tip of his tongue and showed it to me before swallowing it.

“We don’t leave anything behind, dumbass. All of it goes inside.”

When he finally straightened up, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down at me with the same crooked smile from the beginning, as if what had just happened were merely another detail of the treatment. His scrubs were pulled tight over a very obvious bulge, but he said nothing about it.

“Very good session today,” he said, getting up to throw the towel into the laundry hamper. “You’ve got two more left, right? I’ll see you Monday. Next time it’s your turn to return the favor, huh?”

He said it with a wink, as if it were a joke, but we both knew it wasn’t. I didn’t know what to say. I nodded, sat up slowly on the table, and waited for him to turn around before I started getting dressed. My legs were shaking, but not because of the injury. I left the office with the feeling that something inside me had opened, a door that had been locked for years and that suddenly there was no way to close again.

In the elevator, I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was flushed, my eyes bright, the expression of someone who had just discovered a secret about himself. As I went down to the street, I thought about the next session. I thought about the one after that. I thought about all the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I still had ahead of me. I thought about Tomás’s mouth, his tongue, the bulge outlined by his scrubs, and the outstanding debt left hanging in the air. And for the first time in years, I felt something like the anxiety of a teenager waiting for Saturday night.

I still had two sessions left to finish my rehabilitation. Two. And I was already counting the hours.