I never saw or heard from Amanda Williams again. Those incredible times in my treatment room became a never to be repeated memory. But what a memory?
As I got back into the routine of being a physiotherapist I continually hoped that another Amanda would come across my treatment table. “No chance though,” I thought, “that was a once in a lifetime experience. I could though hope and did every time a remotely attractive woman became my patient.
I’d been in the UK for just over two years when my Amanda experience happened. London seemed to have so much more to offer a twenty six year old very randy Aussie. But by Christ was it expensive. Despite being lucky in landing a good job as a, very, junior partner in a physiotherapist practice in the Docklands area of London, money was tight and I had nowhere near the life-style I wanted or, I had to be honest, .that I could have back in Oz.
I wasn’t really sure, particularly after what had happened with Amanda, that I was really cut out to be a physio. Although I felt that I was good at diagnosing problems and could treat them effectively I found dealing with women so difficult. I mean what twenty six year old wouldn’t have problems massaging half naked women? I still suffered from terrible urges when treating them particularly, of course, attractive ones. As it happens I didn’t get that many and those I did get tended to be older, thirty five an upwards usually, but that didn’t make it any easier for I’d always had a really big thing for older women. I sometimes found the temptation of having a half naked woman lying in front of me, my hands on her bare skin, my eyes catching glimpses of parts of her that I shouldn’t, so difficult to resist.
Almost a year had passed since that momentous last time with Amanda when she’d dressed up in a white tunic and had then effectively fucked me. But nothing remotely promising had happened with any other woman since. This was despite me developing a way of testing the water. So far, unfortunately but maybe inevitably, all the tests had been negative but I was, if nothing else, optimistic and I persevered with my little test programme.
I’d been told about it by a mate who still lived in Melbourne and worked there in a similar job to me. He was older, well into his late thirties. We chatted on the web quite often so I could keep in touch with what was happening in Melbourne and I’d told him about my problem.
“Nothing unusual in that mate,” he’d written in yahoo messenger, “we all live in hope, you’ve just got to shorten the odds a bit haven’t you?
“How d’you mean, Bruce?
“Just lighten your touch Brad when you massage her when she’s laying on her front,” he’d said. “Run your hands gently up the inside of her thighs, going close to her pussy but not touching. If she likes it you’ll see and then you’re in, if she gives no signs then back off and you’re ok. Simple ennit mate?”
So I’d tried that half a dozen or so times and had got no reactions whatsoever. But I persevered; I kept trying, after all the ethics lecturer at Melbourne Medical School had warned my class,
“There’s a type of woman around who’ll want more than a medical massage and most of you are likely to have one on your massage table within a couple of years.”
Brad hadn’t yet, that is unless you counted Amanda but he felt she was different.
Jill was about forty-five. A short-haired, blonde with a slightly dumpy body. “Nice face though,” I’d reckoned on first meeting her, immediately putting her into the “worth a try category.”
I’d given her strained thigh muscle some faradic and ultra heat treatment and, as usual and proper with muscular problems, was finishing the session off with a massage. The slight tear in her thigh muscle was on the outside but nearer to the front so she was lying on her back. I’d draped one towel across her middle and another across her boobs and was working on the muscle. Although a little heavy her legs weren’t that bad and under the top towel there seemed to be quite a lot of flesh although I hadn’t yet had even a glimpse of any of it. The towel though, rather promisingly, had slipped a little so that, almost but not quite, the tips of her nipples were on display. I’d pondered on how to move it from almost but not quite to something more visually impactful but hadn’t yet come up with anything.
As she laid there her eyes closed I remembered Bruce’s words and lightened the massage on the inside of her thigh. Nothing, no reaction at all. “Bugger it,” I thought resuming the proper massage on the outside of her leg.
“How’s the massage Jill?
“Er fine, its fine thanks.”
“Not too deep and heavy is it?
“No I don’t mind it deep,” she replied making me smile at the unplanned I expected double entendre.
“Really?” I said letting my voice go higher towards the end of the question.
I saw her smile before she replied, “the massage that is?”
“Of course, whatever else?” I responded quite jauntily.
As I said that for some reason I turned my hand over and ran the back of my nails up the inside of her thigh from just above her knee to almost the edge of the towel that was about six inches down from her crotch.
Shit was that a jerk? Was that a sharp intake of breath? Had her eyes close more tightly. Were her hands gripped the edge of the bed?
I ran them back down and massaged where the triceps meet the ligaments just above the kneecap as I contemplated what to do. What to do about two things. Firstly testing the waters further and secondly hiding the fucking great hard on that had reared up in my tight tracky trousers. Looking down at her I saw that the top towel had moved a little more and I felt encouraged that she hadn’t pulled it up to cover more of her evidently quite large boobs as she could easily have done. The view of the nipples was still almost, but not as, not quite, as previously.
I did the same thing again with my fingernails but this time I let my hand brush against the edge of the towel. Not lifting it or moving it or anything quite as obvious as that but just enough so that Jill would have felt me touch it.
The tightening in her leg was so obvious to my trained hands but I couldn’t be sure whether that was from sexual arousal or from my nails tickling her. I had to test further to be sure. Mistakes of this nature just couldn’t happen
Leaving my right hand where it was, resting on her thigh just a couple of inches from her panties I said, “Here let me put this back,” as with my other hand I took hold of the towel covering her boobs. “It seems to have slipped,” I went on pulling it very slowly up and over her breasts thinking that the material dragging across her nipples would be an extra sensation for her if I was right with my guess as to what the reaction I’d felt meant to her.
Her reply gave me a little more confirming information that she was feeling something for her “thanks” was delivered in a tight voice that raised my hopes considerably. I still kept my other hand where it had been for a few seconds now with my fingers pressing into the slightly flabby inside of her thigh.
“There,” I went on, “that’s better Jill, all ship shape and Bristol fashion now.”
She smiled at the referral to Bristol that I had only recently learned was cockney rhyming slang, Bristol City = titty. I hadn’t meant it like that but was pleased that she took it that way.
“Yes,” she said her voice still tight and to my ambitious ear maybe a little croaky as well.
