THE PHYSIO'S REWARD
Leslie is a man in his mid-thirties, marooned in a sexless but amiable marriage. He is on the lookout for a new sexual interest in his life, and a conversation at the physiotherapist's holds out some possibilities. Read on to see how it unfolds.
I've placed this in the "Romance" category because there is a love story at its heart. This is my first attempt in this category so I'd greatly appreciate your comments. But please read to the end!
She came highly recommended by my neuro-surgeon. When I first walked into the physiotherapist's studio, I was disappointed to find that Phyllis was older than I'd expected. Still, her hands did wonders and she engaged me with her conversation. I found myself liking her more and more.
Our weekly sessions lasted several months. In the surgery there was a second treatment couch, curtained off for privacy. It gave me a little sexual
frisson
to take off my shirt, loosen my trousers and adjust my underwear, knowing that there was another woman behind the curtain. Once or twice I got a glimpse of a light blue bra strap. Her voice attracted me with its even, rich tone. She sounded educated and experienced.
I fantasized about my fellow-patient, trying to visualize her. What breasts were hidden in that blue bra? When the physio's cool hands were on my hips, working down towards my groin, I could sense my prick responding, thankfully not enough to cause embarrassment.
From time to time the talk would turn to sex. I gathered that my fellow-patient, Myrtle, was widowed and unattached. Phyllis, the physio, was no longer in the first flush of youth, but she had a lot to say on the subject. Both of them insisted on the importance of plentiful, good sex. So my ears pricked up when Phyllis mentioned a friend of hers who ran a facility, as she called it.
"My friend caters for a niche market," she explained. "Many successful men have a much livelier libido than their wives. The clients treat her business as a kind of extension of their married life. It's not unusual for a wife to phone if there's something she needs to discuss, and the girls are well trained. There are things you can do to a man while he is talking to his wife on the phone, so everyone is kept happy. Some men only want to lie with a girl and hold her. They crave a woman's touch."
A woman's touch. I felt the ache.
"So, what's your opinion on that, Myrtle?" she asked.
Myrtle must have been lying on her side, facing me, as she answered, her unseen breasts swelling into cleavage. I had to be content with what she said: "I'm not shocked, but I am surprised. Surely there are enough amateurs around? Does anyone really need a professional?"
I made a mental note. Was she one of these amorous amateurs?
"And you, Leslie? Are you shocked that I mingle with harlots?"
I chose evasive tactics. "Better than tax-collectors."
"Agreed," interjected Myrtle. "But do you approve?"
"Well, I suppose if there's a need, that's a common-sense way of dealing with it." I was trying to play it cool, while my loins told a different story.
"How practical you are, Leslie! I'd expect you to show more interest," said Phyllis. Surely she was becoming aware of my rising interest? "But after all, you're a happily married man and so there's no need there." On the word "there", her hand came perilously close to the mark.
I chose my words carefully. "The two don't necessarily go together."
"They should come together, at least," Myrtle suggested. Good. She was listening, and she was clever. If she liked the idea of coming, perhaps I could help her out. Perhaps we could help each other out.
I willed Phyllis's hands to go a little further, but she was far too professional. I did, however, wheedle her friend's number out of her.
2.
Ingrid agreed to meet me at a coffee shop. She was not your typical madame. She was petit, and carried her neat, compact figure well.
"So, you're Leslie."
"I am. And you must be Ingrid. Thank you for coming." I felt nervous. I'd never done anything like this before. Not remotely.
Where to start? "I believe you may be able to help me with a problem I have."
"Indeed?" She wasn't going to rescue me from my awkwardness. I was going to have to say it. But we were in a public place.
"My friend Phyllis tells me you have a -- an establishment."
"Yes, that's true." She said no more, but stirred her coffee and played with a ring on her finger.
"Okay, well, I think I might like to become a --." Become a what? Member? Client? Patron? I was at a loss for words. "I'm sorry, I'm new to this kind of thing."
She raised an eyebrow, then continued to gaze fixedly at her cup.
"I don't know how to put it." Still no response.
There was nothing else for it. "Maybe you can tell me how much it costs?"
Another pause. Had I blown it? If you have to ask, they say, you can't afford it. Could I afford not to?
She seemed to be enjoying my predicament. At last she looked up and smiled. "Oh, we never talk about money. Let's just say, it's negotiable. You won't find us unreasonable."
I breathed again.
"However," she continued, in a low, confidential voice. "There is a down-payment. If you'd like to pursue this further, here's my address." She passed me her card. "Call me, and I'll see you there on Tuesday afternoon, 4 o'clock, to discuss terms."
3.
Ingrid's suburban house didn't look anything like a facility, or an establishment. It was a nondescript bungalow behind a low wall, with a wrought-iron pedestrian gate. I rang the bell, heard the lock click open, and walked in.
When I passed through that gate, I crossed a threshold. No longer was I confined to a world of respectability and sexual deprivation. No need, any more, to conceal or suppress what I wanted. I felt as if I had walked out of a prison gate into freedom.
Ingrid met me at the door, wearing a kimono. She took me by the hand.
"It's all right, Leslie, everyone's nervous the first time. All your upbringing is telling you you shouldn't be doing this. But you know what? All your upbringing has been leading you here, to my door."
This made sense to me. Like so many, I had been brought up to be decent and upright, and have absolutely no idea how to handle my sexuality. This was going to cost me something, but it was a price I was willing to pay.
"What you want," said Ingrid, as we walked down the hall, "is what we call in the trade The Girlfriend Experience. You don't want a whore or a slut, but a nice, pretty, friendly girl who won't say no."
By this time we were seated on the couch in the living-room. "But I need a bit of naughtiness, too," I said, slightly disappointed. "It's got to feel sinful." Her approach so far seemed too prosaic for my liking.
"Oh, yes, she can provide that, too. You're the kind of guy who wants her to wear the stuff your wife only brings out on Valentine's day, and probably not even then." She laid a hand on my knee.
"Oh dear, I seem to be a type."
"Let's say we've found the right category, that's all. Every one's needs are unique, and I respect that." She was making her way upwards. "My girls know that as long as they're with you, you must be the only person in the world. You can act as if you're in love."
Did I want to fall in love? I just wanted sex. But what did sex mean? What did it entail? While I was pondering these things, her hand was getting close to the furthest the physio would ever go.
She reached her destination, just as I was hoping. One or two firm strokes and I was on the edge. Efficiently, she levered me out for inspection. Not in a medical way, you understand, but with due concern for my well-being. I wasn't sure why this was necessary. After all, I was the buyer, not the seller.
"Nice," she said, when she had examined me from every angle. "Let's give it some more attention?" I groaned with the extremity of my excitement. She had a way with her hands, and I was rigid and aching. She leant back to admire her handiwork.
"Excellent. Now for the down-payment. Follow me."
I clutched my trousers together as best I could and made my way into her bedroom. She loosened the belt of her kimono. Underneath, all was smooth and sumptuous.
"Do this really well," she said, "and you could become one of my favourites. Are you ready to make a pitch for a discount?"
I needed no further incentive. Burying my face in silk, breathing in the fragrance of her womanhood, I called to mind all the porn movies I'd ever watched, concentrated hard, and put my tongue to work.
"You're doing well, Leslie," she said, squirming with pleasure. "Now come get your reward."
I proffered my penis to her willing mouth, and climaxed in a whorehouse for the first time. My freedom was sealed on her lips.
Before I left, she kissed me warmly and asked, "Can you make six o'clock tomorrow evening?"
Heavens! Would the lying and evasion have to begin so soon? Couldn't we set a time when I could sneak off for an hour or so without any questions being asked?
Ingrid could sense my hesitation. But she didn't do sneaking. "No, you don't have to make up stories for your wife. I want to see her here, with you."
I swallowed. Here was something I hadn't expected. This wasn't prosaic, it was epic, and terrifying. How could I possibly tell Shirley that I was signing up at a brothel and she was expected to be collateral?
"Just tell her there's someone you'd like her to meet. Leave the rest to me."
4.
And so it happened. Shirley was puzzled, but intrigued. This time Ingrid was dressed like the professional business woman she was, but not according to her profession. The table was spread with salad, crusty bread and pasta.
