What Happened on the Physiotherapist’s Table
It had been a long time since I last wrote, perhaps too long if I think about it now, but what does it matter? Let’s get to what counts. There isn’t much to say about me. If you crossed paths with me on the street, you wouldn’t give me a second glance, and that’s as it should be. Where I once stirred up passion, now everything lives inside my head, in my fantasies and in the quiet pleasure I take in myself.
I’m just over five feet tall, I have more curves than fashion considers proper, and a chest I’ve always been proud of. I wear my hair straight, a little below my shoulders, brown with a few lighter highlights. With the years, like good wine, I’ve learned to appreciate the art of sex, the art of play, and the art of waiting. So much so that I decided not to share my body with anyone who wasn’t up to my level.
I’m not saying that out of vanity. I’m saying it because I got tired of meaningless fucks, of taboos, of having to pretend I don’t know what I want for fear of being seen as a pervert. I’d rather keep to myself. That way there’s no argument and no disappointment.
To set the scene: I’m forty-nine, divorced, and I live with my three children, who are already teenagers. It’s been more than a decade since I last had a steady partner. The last time I indulged myself for real was on my birthday, when I treated myself to a much younger guy I met at a work conference. But that’s another story, and I’ll tell it later. Since then I’ve been living in abstinence that doesn’t weigh on me, because I’ve learned I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself happy all on my own.
***
I’d been going to physical therapy for a few weeks because of back pain. It’s a big clinic with several practitioners, and usually a very nice girl treated me. That afternoon, while I was waiting in the lobby, the receptionist let me know the physio was running late. I did what I always do when I can steal a few minutes from the day: I took out my tablet and kept reading.
I love erotic literature. I devour one book after another, fantasizing about those scenes, knowing no one around me realizes my blood is warming up, my breathing is changing, how wet I get by the time I come home. That afternoon I was right in the middle of a steamy chapter, my pulse racing, when the receptionist came back out.
—I’m terribly sorry, but in the end she won’t be able to make it —she told me—. But one of the partners has just had to cancel his appointment. If you want, you can go with him and we won’t lose the day.
I agreed without thinking. The idea of having hands on my body, in that state, seemed like a gift. I knew that for him it would be a mechanical chore, pure work. Even better. No one in my head, no one to explain myself to, just me enjoying it in silence.
***
A few minutes later I walked into the private room and, I admit it, that man would be part of my fantasies for a good couple of weeks. His name was Adrián. Athletic body, easy smile, a more than pleasant face. He was around forty, with the calm confidence that comes from age and skill at the job. We talked for a moment about my condition and the treatment, and right away I felt I was in good hands. Never better said.
Since it was summer and I was wearing a light dress, there was no need to undress: he just had to lift it a little so he could work on the lower back, the glute, and the leg. I have sciatica, and anyone who’s suffered from it knows the source is often a small, treacherous muscle that sends pain radiating all down the leg. In practice, that means every session includes a good kneading of my ass, strictly medical, of course.
I lay face down, my face tucked into the hole in the table and my hands gripping the supports underneath. I’d never seen that contraption before, but I immediately understood its full usefulness. Legs together, a pillow under my calves, my dress rolled up to my waist and a towel covering my thighs.
Adrián oiled his hands and started on my glute. There were spots that really hurt. Every so often he brought his head close to mine to tell me to let him know if the pressure became unbearable. Just when I relaxed, he dug a finger into that damned muscle. Jesus. I nearly burst into tears. But he went on kneading the flesh around it with calculated softness, a mix of pain and caress, tension and shiver. He repeated the movement for several minutes, unlocking the muscle, as he said, while I gripped the bars with both hands.
When he finished with the glute, he oiled his hands again, covered me once more with the towel so I wouldn’t get cold, and moved on to my thighs. And that’s when the surprise came: he didn’t limit himself to the upper part, he also worked the inner side, pressing his fingers into every knot he found. He leaned close to my ear to warn me he was going to press a little harder, that I should say something if it hurt too much.
He moved up and down my thigh, one leg and then the other. Because my legs were together and my thighs are rather thick, his hand got trapped halfway along the way. God. My imagination couldn’t have been more fired up. That constant pressure, that mix of pain and softness going up again and again. My mind conjured a thousand scenes, and they all ended with that hand disappearing between the folds, reaching the place that was burning for me.
***
He oiled himself again. I couldn’t see him, only feel him: the snap of the bottle cap, the brush of his hands rubbing together, the whisper of his clothes as he went around the table searching for a better angle. He asked me to open my right leg a little and lower it onto another side support. God, how I loved that table, everything in exactly the right place.
I did as he asked and spread my legs to give him free access from the knee to the glute. He leaned in again, now almost at my ear. I could smell his cologne, fresh without being intrusive, mixed with something of his that was utterly intoxicating. I felt his breath grazing the nape of my neck.
—This may be uncomfortable, even painful —he murmured—. I can see how your body reacts when I press in certain spots, but if you can’t take it, let me know.
I said yes, understood, though it took effort to swallow the lump in my throat. I knew it was all my feverish head’s doing and the bad luck of reading an erotic scene right before going in. But my mind was no longer listening to reason, and the atmosphere was far too inviting. In any case, who am I hurting? And who’s going to find out?
He placed his hands behind my knees, opened his palms to cover as much skin as possible, and climbed upward, pressing with his fingertips. When he reached the upper part of my thighs, with my legs already open, there was nothing to stop him. He kept going until he reached my crotch. Please. In that instant I melted completely. He stopped and stayed there for a few seconds, waiting for my reaction, I suppose for the muscle to release, but I was more tense than I had ever been in my life.
Face down, in my panties, feeling his knuckles near my lips. I squeezed the bars, praying he wouldn’t notice anything, though I’ve never been good at pretending. He lowered his hands while maintaining the pressure and then came back up. I imagined it, I told myself. He didn’t touch anything. But no: there it was again, the open path to my crotch and those knuckles pressing against my already oversensitive lips.
***
I heard the bottle of oil again. That damn oil had me at his mercy. I opened my legs a little more, convinced I hadn’t spread them enough and that because of my clumsiness the poor man was ending up brushing me without meaning to, in the most intimate place. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
His hands returned to the backs of my knees and, with steady pressure, slowly traced all the way up my thighs to my crotch. By then my panties weren’t wet: they were soaked, and I was mortified just thinking he might notice. When he got to the top, while his left hand kept moving toward my glute, his right one stayed there, sliding along the line of my crotch, back and forth, and the back of his hand went up and down, brushing all over my sex.
My breathing caught. I could feel my center getting hotter and hotter, my nipples sore against the table from the pressure and the slight friction of my body shifting with his hands. I didn’t dare breathe hard, partly because I didn’t want to misread a situation that was already embarrassing enough, and partly, I confess, because I wanted to feel it a little longer.
He leaned over my ear again. His breath on my neck made goosebumps rise over my skin.
—I know it’s hard —he whispered—, but this is going to make you feel much better.
Even better. I was about to come on a physiotherapist’s table and my head no longer knew how to reason. I couldn’t answer with words, only with a soft “mmm” of assent. I heard his quiet laugh behind my back, and that laugh ran through me like an electric current.
He kept going up and down both thighs, with more and more pressure and rhythm, and every time his knuckles ended up bumping against my soaked opening. His hand didn’t stop until my sex stopped it with the contact. When he finished with my legs, he returned to my glute to press those spots that no longer caused me discomfort, but electric currents that went straight to my core.
***
When he finished, he told me it was his last day before vacation, but that he’d be delighted to resume the treatment when he got back. I told him that sounded great and booked an appointment for early September. As I left, I turned my head toward his work corner and saw him bring his knuckles up to his nose to smell them. Our eyes met for an instant, and on his face there was a smile of satisfaction, as if a job well done. I nearly tripped at the doorway. I got out of there so turned on I doubted I’d be able to hold out until I got home.
I got on my motorbike and, with the warm seat rubbing right where it shouldn’t, I was almost about to come right there and then. I couldn’t help rocking my hips, searching for relief. Those were the longest five minutes of my life.
I didn’t get a moment alone until bedtime, which that night came early, because I couldn’t stop thinking about those hands and those knuckles rubbing my lips. When I finally had some peace, I opened the drawer with my “toys,” where I keep my best friends, and chose one of my favorite vibrators, though I knew it wouldn’t last me even a couple of minutes. I was still totally aroused and soaked.
As soon as I brought it close, my lips welcomed it and took it all in, proof of how wet I still was. I didn’t take off my panties: I wanted that pressure, so I pulled them snug against me to feel it better. The gasps came quickly. I ran my hand over my sensitive nipples and, with a soft pinch that swept through every nerve ending, I felt my muscles clamp down on the vibrator. I kept rocking on it while I stroked my breasts, and I had a huge orgasm thinking about Adrián, his hands, and the excellent investment I had just made in my health.
Jesus. Just remembering it and writing it down, I’m getting aroused and wet again. This is seriously not okay. I hope you like it. Thanks for reading me, and see you in September.