The Captain

And the Physiotherapist

This story received a lot of great feedback, and so a part two was written.

The synthetic turf of the training ground felt solid and uncomplicated. It wasn’t the chaotic noise of the house, where three teenagers demanded different things at once, nor the loud expectation of the weekend crowd. Out here the floodlights were sharp, the air smelled of liniment and fresh-cut grass, and the only rules were physics and discipline.

I came early because I liked the sound of my studs on the empty field, the low hum of the gym vents before the rest of the team arrived. A chance to stretch, loosen up, and ground myself first. The stadium maintenance staff kept their distance, acknowledging me with a nod from the service tunnel. They knew my name: the captain, the one who played clean, the one who always showed up. There was no small talk that morning, just the metallic clank of the weight room and the distant thud of a ball against a wall before I went out to the pitch.

Football was the discipline I still knew how to follow. It was the rhythm I could control. Thirty-six, but still playing at a level few expected. The contract extensions were current, my wife Maria had her perfect life, and the team relied on me.

Paul was with me that morning. He was the midfield organizer, a decent footballer who’d been playing longer, sharper mind, but his legs weren’t as reliable anymore. Good company though. He didn’t talk much between drills, which was why we got along.

I dropped a ball on the turf and took my stance. The touch should have been simple, but my body wasn’t in the form I’d hoped.

My first pass was too heavy, forcing a teammate wide. I reset, took a breath, tried again. Better, but still not sharp. I lined up for another touch. The thought didn’t slip in; it slammed: the tightness in my lower back. I’d ignored it since the last match, but today it was a low, insistent ache.

I’d come in early to stretch it out and make sure the game would go well. But that now meant a mandatory trip to the therapy room, and more time with Graham, which I wanted to avoid.

I focused on the ball again, but too much was going on in my life. Contract extension, Maria’s charity event, tuition fees, the team relying on me. The list was supposed to be concrete; it offered no resistance. I gripped the ball tighter.

My cross was wild, sailing high over the net, a visceral failure, and my stomach tightened.

“Cap, you’re pulling everything right today. Go see Graham, man. That hip flexor looks locked up,” Paul called over.

I forced a laugh, but the humiliation settled heavy and hot. I nodded, walking toward the tunnel. The pitch was supposed to clear my head, but now I had to confront that I just wasn’t young anymore.

The therapy room was too bright, too sterile. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and that faintly metallic scent of professional gym equipment. The leather table was cold, and I was lying face-down, my sweat-damp top pulled up to my shoulder blades, the club-issue compression shorts hiked high enough to expose the tension in my hamstring. I hated being this vulnerable, especially here.

Graham’s hands, I noted, were thick and strong, with calluses earned from gripping dumbbells, not medical work. They were professional, though, moving over my glute and lower back with practiced, clinical efficiency. I could feel the low thrum of his concentration through his fingertips.

The entire erotic Bathroom Stall series in one book.

“It’s the piriformis, Cap. You’re overcompensating for the adductor strain. This is going to be tight,” he murmured, his voice low and close to my ear. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint.

He leaned in, using his elbow to dig into a knot of muscle near my tailbone. The pain was sharp and intense, like a brutal kind of relief that made me clench my teeth. I focused on the white paint of the wall, trying to breathe, trying not to notice the hard press of his thigh against the side of the table, close to my hip.

Something else felt wrong, deeper than the ache in my back.

“Relax,” Graham instructed, applying steady pressure. “You’re fighting me, Steve. Let it go.”

I tried. I wanted to. But my body had its own confusing agenda.

Let it go. That phrase. It struck me as intensely personal. I was fighting everything: the pain, the tension, the suffocating normalcy of my life, and most of all, the man whose weight was now bearing down on me and causing me even further complications.

His hands moved lower, easing past the practical limits of my shorts. He wasn’t touching anything inappropriate, not technically, but the proximity of his wrist, the brush of the soft hair on his forearm against the smooth skin of my inner thigh, was a violation of the boundary only in my head. He was moving slower now, tracing the line where the muscle met the soft tissue.

I swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room, like he might notice my discomfort. My mind screamed at me to tense up, to push him away, to say, that’s far enough. But my body betrayed me. I felt myself softening on the table, a shameful lightness pooling in my groin.

I tried to talk, to break the silence, to remind us both this was a professional engagement. “How long will this take, Graham?”

“Long as it takes,” he replied, his voice still low, now slightly husky, as if the effort of working the muscle was taxing. He pressed his knuckles into a spot near the root of my thigh, and I nearly gasped. “There. That’s the knot. Been feeling a tightness there for a while.”

Graham didn’t speak, leaving a silence that felt almost personal.

His hand lingered, a heavy, warm weight, resting there for a second longer than surely was medically necessary. I felt the shape of his fingers through the thin material of my shorts. They were firm, capable.

“Relax your hips, Steve. I need you to drop into the table.”

I did as I was told. The action forcing my hips to flatten, pushing my erection, which was now undeniably pressing against the table, further into the leather. The shame was suffocating, but the feeling was raw and undeniable and very confronting.

Why was my cock hard?

Graham leaned over, bracing his forearm and body weight heavily against the table frame to gain deeper leverage. Graham paused. The table gave a faint, specific creak beneath his bracing arm, the low sound of something hard shifting its pressure through the leather. Graham’s movement stopped dead. His hand, heavy and warm, did not lift abruptly, but simply moved. It slid slowly, clinically, from the root of my thigh up to rest flat on my lower back, right above the compression shorts. It was a clear, steady weight, an anchor that held me in the moment.

He didn’t speak and it felt as though the air thickened.

“Good,” he finally murmured, his voice now lower, rougher. He didn’t step back. He let his body weight settle against the table’s edge. His eyes met mine in the reflection of the stainless steel machine in front of us. “Now, I need you to roll onto your back.”

I didn’t. Instead, I sat up, adrenaline flooding my system. I tried to look normal, but my hands were shaking in my lap. I forced myself to meet his eyes, staring instead at the hard line of his jaw and the physio slogan on the front of his tight, gray t-shirt. The professional veneer was cracking. I saw not clinical detachment, but a raw, charged intensity. The air in the room, already heavy with liniment, now felt suffocating.

It almost appeared like he was struggling to swallow too.

He didn’t move, just watched me, daring me. “Well, Steve? Roll over.”

But I couldn’t move. I had an erection and sat with my hands in my lap, looking toward the door with longing. I had a desperate urge to run.

“Steve?” he said, an edge to his voice.

I looked up, my throat dry. I couldn’t meet his eyes as panic gripped me.

Then he saw it. The tent in my shorts.

He smiled, which quickly turned into a laugh and I hated him for it. I hated myself more.

“Oh!” he said, reaching around to rub his neck, then looking away for a second. “That’s normal, don’t worry about it. It’s because I’m manipulating your muscles and pushing you into the table. Come, lie down, we’ll ignore it.”

Feeling an overwhelming set of emotions, I finally pivoted and lay down face up, as he requested, staring up at the cream ceiling willing my body to stop playing whatever game it was playing.

Graham began to massage the muscles in my thighs, his hands lightly touching my balls.

That’s when I felt it.

He moved across me, his heavy torso resting against my thighs as he reached for a deeper stretch. His body pressed against mine, and I felt the undeniable, rigid shape of his own erection pressing hard into my side, through his shorts and mine.

My throat worked uselessly; it seemed all the saliva was gone.

His gaze was on my thighs, and his hands, being professional and doing his job, but I’d known Graham a long time, and I could tell something was making him extremely uncomfortable.

He lifted my left knee, held it into his stomach and massaged the muscles in my thigh, while I felt his erection against my hips.

And that just made things worse. Any hope of controlling my erection, let alone eliminating it, was gone.

We both pretended not to notice, but the usual banter was gone. The standard catch-ups, verbal sparring, jokes, the jabs, they were eerily missing.

Something big was happening and we both appeared terrified.

I forced myself to think of Maria, of the kids, of the unbelievable amount of work I had on the following week. There were drinks tonight with our neighbors, sitting out on the porch talking nonsense until early hours while our combined teens shunned us and gossiped.

But Graham’s cock was rubbing against my thigh. Whatever restraint he’d had before seemed to have gone. He seemed to be enjoying it, like an itch you have to scratch.

I watched him, then the ceiling, followed by my leg, which was raised while he manipulated it, and kept my thoughts on the mundane things I normally enjoyed.

Graham brought my leg down, pressing into my thigh again, and this time, his arm pushed down on my cock.

I swallowed. Struggled to breathe, trying not to look. But when I did, my eyes darting on parts of the room for less than a second each, they finally caught his eyes.

And that was enough. There was something there I’d never seen before.

I knew his wife, she was friends with mine. I’d met his kids. All of us swam in similar circles.

I knew Graham, and whatever was happening here, it was new.

The compulsion to run was strong. To turn away, slide off the table, announce an urgent appointment I forgot about and run.

But I couldn’t. His arm rubbed across my thin shorts and massaged my cock while his hands did the legitimate work of working on my thighs.

He reached over, grabbed my right leg and in doing so pushed his cock deeper into my side.

There was no denying that somehow, both of us were experiencing the same anomaly.

And then there was the crazy impulse to touch it. Right there, against my leg, so hot and firm and insistent, with my hand awkwardly on my stomach. I could just slide it down, lightly brush it.

Again, thoughts of my life flooded my mind, anything but being in that room alone with Graham, both uncomfortably experiencing random boners.

So when he lifted my right leg high, and bent over, my hand slipped to the side, and just for a second, his body lifted. Just enough time for my hand to slip in-between so that when he lifted my leg and pressed in again, my hand was against his cock.

I swear I felt it throb.

My throat was so dry, I couldn’t even make a joke out of it. My eyes flicked to him and he appeared to be staring at the wall with a blank expression on his face, struggling to swallow.

But he didn’t move. My hand was stuck as he pressed into it, and I knew he was aware of it. But instead of moving, he stayed, pushed into it. I even felt like, and I know I wasn’t imagining it, he was gyrating against it.

When he brought my leg down, I had a moment of release and to pull my hand out.

Instead, I turned it around.

When Graham moved back against the table, my open palm cupped his shaft.

We both swallowed, the sound echoing in the room. The sound of blood rushing to my head was heavy in my ears.

His arm slid along with a strangely satisfying intention along my shaft, pressing into my inner thigh while his hand gently stroked my cock. But it was the way his hand did it, just enough pressure, lingering just a few seconds longer than it probably needed to.

Graham went back to massaging my inner thigh, his wrist moving against my wrist, up and down, causing my cock to swell.

I squeezed my hand. I had no idea why I did it. The feel of his cock felt hot through his shorts, with the palm of my hand gripping it firmly. Whereas before he moved away and back in again, the movements changed so he kept it there.

I could hear him breathing, the table under me squeaked as he applied pressure.

My hand was trapped, but I didn’t want to let it go, strangely comforted by his cock in my hand.

Neither of us were surprised when Graham’s hand slid down again, this time resting on my erection, and his hand gripped it.

“Graham,” I managed, the word a desperate rasp against my dry throat.

His eyes, which had been fixed on my thigh, finally lifted, and they looked panicked, charged, and utterly defeated.

He swallowed hard. “Just… hold still.”

I couldn’t. I panicked and bolted up, eyes looking around the room. I saw the door again, and I was about to swing my legs over, but Graham’s hand stopped me.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice raspy and much quieter, as though all the confidence I’d known had vanished.

Our eyes locked for a second, he leaned in, studying my face, a tension between us that we’d never experienced.

I just couldn’t find the words, and his face was inches from mine. I studied his eyes, the small button nose, and his lips, full; plump and dry.

Our eyes locked, and both of us said nothing, but somehow something exchanged between us. It’s like the tension suddenly dissipated and the entire world comprised of us and only the two of us.

Before I knew what was happening, our faces moved closer and I closed my eyes as our lips touched.

Something within me shifted, something to analyze later. His lips felt hot against mine, his breath sweet and there was more, but I couldn’t place it.

I no longer wanted to run, I wanted to see this through, find out what was happening and why this was happening.

His lips pressed into me, and I opened mine slightly, then felt his tongue in my mouth.

I swiveled off the table, and stood, suddenly pressing my body against his, my arms moving around him to feel him, to touch him like he’d been touching me.

His cock pressed against mine through our thin fabric, our chests pressed together as blood surged through my veins and a desperate hunger overcame me.

Our kiss intensified as we began to push our cocks together, my hand reached down and grabbed it with a firmer hold. I needed to touch it again, I even wanted to see it.

His tongue met with mine, our kiss signaling a point of no return, but in that moment, I don’t think either of us cared. Whatever had just happened could not be walked back.

His hands gripped my head, slipped behind me and touched my back, slid down and stroked my ass, massaging and squeezing.

I pulled down his shorts and dug behind the jocks to his cock. I gripped it, feeling it, craving it.

We stopped kissing and I dropped to my knees, coming face to face with his cock, it was big, he had foreskin, I stroked it, moved the foreskin up and down and heard him moan.

I slowly jerked Graham, fascinated by his cock, and the smell of his balls was just like he’d stepped out of the shower. My mouth moved in before I could think and stop myself, burying myself into that space I suspected only his wife had been and felt his hot cock press against my face.

As I stroked Graham, listening to his moans, feeling the wetness against my cheek and my own cock straining in my shorts, I forced myself to push away any other thoughts.

Having touched it, and seen it up close, I stood again. I wanted to say something, but he moved in and kissed me again, his tongue immediately in my mouth and our bodies pressing together again, so I reached down and I pulled my shorts down, released my cock so it could touch his.

This time, Graham pulled away and dropped to his knees. He stared, touching my cock. I could tell that he also had never done this by the way he studied it, like a foreign object. Like something you wanted to eat, and you knew it would be tasty, but also poisonous.

Graham licked my shaft, sniffed my balls, stroked my cock as I felt myself getting close.

“Graham,” I said, voice still uneven and barely a whisper.

He came up, kissed me, gripping both our cocks together, jerking us off.

We both moaned, breathing each other in, tasting each other as I felt it.

“Oh!” I said, realizing I was about to nut.

“Mhmmm,” he sounded, louder than I thought was good for the small room.

It was so quick, the way I suddenly shot my load between us. I felt it squirt up, there was so much of it, I even heard it drip onto the floor, and land on my sneakers. Then I realized it wasn’t just mine, it was his too.

We’d both just cum together.

I stood back, shocked, reeling, hitting the table behind me. My cock was still hard, the semen dripping off both our cocks like a foreign substance I didn’t want to name.

We both quickly pulled our shorts up, Graham turned, grabbed some wet wipes and handed me a bunch, which I accepted.

Neither of us spoke, we quickly cleaned up, turning away from each other. There was a mirror by the door, which I went to, realizing there were stains on my shorts and on my clean, light blue sneakers.

“Fuck,” I said to myself, in the quietest whisper.

Behind me, I heard Graham. “Yeah.”

I didn’t look back at him, I just mumbled something about needing to go, and I opened the door and I ran. I didn’t go back to practice, I ran to my car, I felt an overwhelming feeling that I didn’t want to consider.

Something had just happened with Graham.

I should have been disgusted, terrified, shocked.

But I wasn’t.

The adrenaline in me surged as I ran to my car, even as I threw the car into gear and sped out of the stadium lot, I felt an undercurrent as my heart beat.

This was the most excited I’d been in a very long time.

Part two is now available here.