Unlike most smart people, I tend to ignore the fact that warming up before strenuous exercise is essential for your overall good health and for best performance. I’ve always been lazy like that and until recently, I’ve been lucky. But my luck ran out playing tennis on a hot day, and during the course of stretching to make a shot, I pulled and injured some tendons in my upper thigh.
I ended up assigned to physical therapy twice a week, and the first day was uneventful. My therapist, Gretchen, was very patient and compassionate considering what would have to be done to get me back to normal. Gretchen is tall, with light brown hair, usually braided down her back. Even those scrubs she wears cannot hide how toned her body is. She explained that subsequent visits would include exercises along with some manual therapy on my upper thigh.
No problem, right? Except that it requires direct contact with the skin to effectively manipulate the muscles and tendons. At the second therapy session, I was covered by a sheet over my lower body and had only my boxers on underneath. She told me to relax and even though I tried, the proximity of her hands to my groin made it less and less possible to avoid an erection.
On the third visit, I lost control and the sheet poked up from my obvious excitement. I tried to apologize, but she was very reassuring. “Don’t feel embarrassed, Mr. Jameson, it’s perfectly natural and it happens all the time.” That didn’t help quell my embarrassment but at least I felt better about getting hard when her hands grazed my ball sac.
Yesterday I arrived at the office early and I tried to ignore the stupid cooking program on the television in the waiting room. I tried looking at a magazine but found myself staring at it blankly, anticipating those firm hands with wonderfully kneading fingers.
Gretchen stuck her head out of the office door, as always with a polite (and beautiful) smile. “Ready, Mr. Jameson?”
When we got inside, I noticed there were no other patients, when there are usually at least two and sometimes as many as four being treated. I questioned Gretchen and she said, “One of my aides is on maternity leave, one called in sick and the other is not scheduled until after lunch. Luckily you’re my only patient this morning.”
The warm-up pad on my upper thigh relaxed me, and I was ready for another physical struggle of sorts. Once I had my pants off and the sheet over my lower body, Gretchen began. “Your skin is so dry, Mr. Jameson that I’ll need to put some moisturizing lotion on it so my hands won’t bruise you.” She poured some oil in one hand and reached under the sheet, starting at my knee. She used both hands, pulling, pushing and kneading the leg, working her way up my body.
When she was ready to work on my upper thigh, she applied more oil to one hand, lifted the sheet and slapped her hand on my upper thigh. It didn’t hurt, but it splashed some of the oil on the crotch of my boxers. She apologized profusely and then insisted she do something else.
“Slip off your underwear and I’ll put them in the oven where we warm our towels. They’ll be dry by the time we’re finished.” I already had the usual erection, and the idea of being naked worried me, but she was genuinely convincing.
Then things got scary as she returned to the massage part of the therapy. This time when she grazed her hand against my ball sac, she stopped. “Oh, my gosh, some of that oil splashed all over you; I’m so sorry, Mr. Jameson.”
“That’s okay, it won’t hurt anything,” I answered.
“I’d better rub it in before it drips down somewhere uncomfortable,” she said. And at the same time, one of her hands slipped under my balls and the other one gently massaged them, and the warm oil and her hands made me not care that she was making my erection even bigger and harder. “This will help relax you so the pressure on your thigh won’t hurt so much.”
I closed my eyes and thought to myself, The best part of this hand job is that the insurance company is paying for it!
Without any hesitation, she slipped one oily covered palm around the base of my cock. I gasped involuntarily but did not want to acknowledge what she was hopefully going to do. The hand under my balls moved up to fist the shaft of my cock, squeezing firmly. I held my breath, too embarrassed and aroused to say anything.
She pulled the sheet back, which did not bother me at that point. “I need just a little more oil to do this right,” she said. Fuck! I was going to get a hand job, for real. The pain in my thigh may have still been there, but I was totally unaware of it.
She poured some oil on the head of my cock and let it run down the shaft, loosening her fist to allow the oil to seep under her fingers. Then she slowly began to pump her fist up and down, and my breathing got very audible.
She used a finger to rub the oil around the head of my cock as it began to throb. I smiled and moaned and she asked, “Is that feeling okay?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll bet that lotion would make intercourse feel really good,” I said, afraid to open my eyes and see her reaction.
But she giggled, “Maybe so, but we can only use our hands for therapy, so this will have to do.”
Damn! She read my mind.
She slowly worked my cock into a pulsating rocket, ready to blast off whenever she would allow it. Suddenly I heard a timer go off and she said, “Oh-oh, this is where we usually wipe you down and put the cooling band on your thigh. Do you want to skip that part today so I can finish this?”
“Oh, hell, yeah, Gretchen, PLEASE finish for me!” I said, trying not to sound like I was begging.
She continued the slow teasing stroking and rubbing until cum literally bubbled out of my cock, running down over her fist and onto my balls. “Wow, that’s very impressive,” she said, taking her hands away. “We could have used some of that for the massage if we had it to begin with.”
I felt like asking permission to bring some for the next therapy session, but I didn’t.
And then the strangest thing happened. I heard Gretchen’s voice loudly calling my name; “MR. JAMESON! Mr. Jameson, I’m ready for you now. Oh my goodness; what’s that big wet stain on your pants?”
Fucking cooking show had put me to sleep.
