Massage to relieve, but caused more tension.

[Deleted Member]

67th minute and I was done. Carried off with a groin strain, the reward for fighting 15 other men for a chance to play at Rugby HQ in the final.

I was taken straight down to medical, manipulation on the cards. I sat there, in a sort of daze, agony in my right thigh/groin, knowing I had no more parts to play in the semi final, and knowing I was about to be manipulated by her.

We had been seeing each other, on and off, for several months, this was the first time she would work on me, 'sport related'.

The room had changed without either of us acknowledging it. The door was still open. The lights the same. And yet everything about the air felt heavier, warmer, as if it had decided to stay and watch.

"Take your shorts off", a cold, direct demand, without even a glance to my face. Her eyes locked onto my leg. Her hands, warm, travelled from my knee, higher, fingers spreading as though the muscle demanded it, thumbs pressing into the dense band just below where decency technically begins. There was no apology. No pause.

I shifted despite myself.

“Stay there,” she said quietly.

Not sharp. Not loud. Just certain.

Her grip adjusted, firmer now, anchoring me in place. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, the kind that couldn’t be mistaken for efficiency. Her fingers focused on the tension, the backs of them, grazing my cock She worked the same stretch again and again, hands gliding upward, retreating, then returning with purpose. Every pass brushed my manhood.

I exhaled through my nose, jaw tightening.

She noticed. Of course she did.

“That’s the spot,” she murmured, more to herself than to me, fingers lingering where my body had very clearly reacted to her attention. She didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to. The confidence of that restraint was almost unbearable.

Her shoulder grazed my face me as she leaned in, body close now, heat unmistakable. The pressure increased, not rushed, not clumsy, just enough to remind me who was setting the pace. My leg was loose, pliant under her hands, my body responding in ways that made pretending pointless.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she said.

I laughed softly. “You know I won’t.”

That earned me a pause. Then she resumed, slower still, each movement designed to draw awareness upward, to keep me balanced precisely between relief and frustration. She was meticulous about it. Cruel in a measured, almost elegant way.

By the time she finally stepped back, my skin was warm, sensitive, alive. I felt handled. Not taken, handled. Like she’d undone me carefully and left the rest for later.

She met my eyes then, her expression calm, professional, utterly at odds with what she’d just done to me.

“Aftercare matters,” she said lightly.

I swallowed. “You’re very good at it.”

Her smile was subtle. Controlled. And absolutely filthy in its restraint.

She left me there, *** tended, composure in ruins, with the certain knowledge that none of that had been accidental, and that she knew exactly what she’d started

[Ri****]

Nice story. Thank you 😊