The Physio's Reward

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.

"It's just a simple meal. Come and sit."

She poured red wine and passed around a jug of iced water.

"This is very nice," said Shirley, helping herself to butter. "I'm curious to know what it's all about."

I fervently hoped that Ingrid knew what she was doing. Presumably this was not the first time.

"I'm trying to interest your husband in a business deal," she said. "It involves some investment of time and money, so I wanted to know that he has your approval. In this kind of project, he needs your support."

"Goodness," rejoined Shirley. "I hope it's not some hare-brained scheme. Do we stand to make a lot of money? That usually means we could lose a lot of money, and we haven't much to lose."

"Well, no, you won't make any money at all. In fact, it will cost you. But you stand to win a happy husband."

"Aren't you happy enough?" enquired Shirley, turning to me sharply.

"Of course I am, love."

"What else could you say?" Shirley seemed to dismiss me, and addressed our hostess. "Ingrid, what have you got that would make my Leslie any happier?"

"Think, Shirley." Ingrid looked her full and steady in the face. Shirley held her gaze, and the two women looked at each other for what seemed an age. Then it was as if an understanding passed between them.

"I see," said Shirley, slowly. "You'll supply his needs, and you want my blessing. We keep it simple, no funny business." She took a sip of wine, looked from me to Ingrid, and back again to me. Was she assessing Ingrid's charms? Imagining us together? "Yes," she said, evenly. "It could work. But how much will it cost?"

Ingrid named a sum. Shirley concentrated, weighing it up. After a pause, she said, "I suppose that means paying about the equivalent of the instalment on a new car every month. All right, Leslie, if you're prepared to stick with our present vehicle, I'll put up half the money."

Was I hearing right? My wife was willing to pay good money for me to have regular sex with someone else. A courtesan, or a concubine. So that was what it was worth never to have to feel under pressure herself? I had read somewhere -- in Look Homeward, Angel -- of matriarchs who would save a few dollars from their housekeeping to send their menfolk out every Friday night to get it out of their system and leave them alone. So perhaps it was not unprecedented.

Still, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was going to have plenty of high-octane sex, for less than I had expected. On the other hand, my wife was making it clear that she was shutting down business on her own account, purposefully and without fuss.

Ingrid could sense my ambivalence. She came to my rescue.

"Now, Shirley, you mustn't think I'm going to provide for your husband in person. I've chosen Penny for the job."

"Penny by name, pound by nature?"

"Neat. I don't suppose you'd like to meet her?"

"Actually, I think I would. No secrets."

"Drink up, then, and I'll take you over to my health centre."

5.

The house of ill-fame gave nothing away. There were no expensive cars parked outside, no furtive figures scurrying away; just a few trees and a neatly-trimmed garden, the white petals luminous in the moonlight.

Ingrid explained. "Either the wives drop their husbands off, or I go to fetch them. We don't want the neighbours to complain." She escorted us into the house, which was quiet and apparently deserted. "Wednesday is the girls' night off. Sometimes they socialize together; sometimes, like tonight, I show new guests around."

The living-room was expensively furnished, but with taste. After all, this was the high end of the market. I took in the drinks cabinet, a bookcase of carefully chosen paperbacks -- I recognized last year's Booker Prize winner, some history, world affairs, biography -- and all the current news magazines neatly spread out on the coffee table. Nothing sleazy here. Shirley seemed impressed. She put her hand over mine as we sat down together on a sofa. We might have been waiting to see the doctor.

After a while, she got up and stood in front of the fire, pensively. "You know, Leslie, I think this must be just what you hoped our life would be like. Good books, a fire, conversation, and plenty of sex waiting for you in the bedroom."

"And how did all that come to an end between you?" asked Ingrid, gently.

"It just kind of happened," said Shirley. "And I didn't mind. It suited me. Sex is really just about getting to know your partner, when you're young. After that, you rub along together as friends and companions: a kind of team, you know."

"Exactly," said Ingrid. She had heard it all before. "And here I am to help your man over the rough patches on the road."

It was Shirley's turn to express satisfaction. "Precisely. Everyone is happy."

"So long as we all know where we stand," said Ingrid, with an air of finality. "A couple of house rules. You've got the run of the place all evening, from five to eleven. We don't do things by the hour, here. If you want to chat to other clients and their partners here in the living room, that's fine. But no politics, no religion, no sex; those topics are off limits. It keeps everything friendly, like."

"Got it," said Shirley, smoothing her dress. Ingrid stole a glance at her. Trim figure, brocade bolero jacket, stylishly cut fair hair framing her fine features -- an intelligent, lively expression. A bit of a waste, really.

"Good. All right, then, I'll introduce you to Penny."

This was crunch time. Suppose I didn't find her alluring? It was like meeting the bride at the altar.

I needn't have worried. She could have walked straight out of the first class lounge, with her clear complexion, bright manner and slender figure. Her jeans flattered her hips and ass, and her crimson square-necked top showed off her exquisite collar-bones, her forearms and wrists. She wore her black hair short. I guessed: late twenties, maybe saving up for an apartment or a world trip? She would have made any mother proud.

Shirley caught my eye and nodded her approval.

Penny greeted us warmly. "Nice to meet you, I'm so glad it's you."

"We're glad it's you," Shirley replied. I was not sure I liked the way she was taking charge, but I could imagine much worse scenarios. "I'd love to see your room, please, Penny."

The two women disappeared down the corridor. Ingrid poured whisky.

"Nice to have a little time together, just the two of us," she said. "They may be some time." Perhaps this interlude was by arrangement, but I didn't complain. Beneath her loose jumper, her breasts were easily accessible and unrestrained, and I had several minutes to enjoy their ripeness before we heard steps in the corridor.

Shirley was glowing in a way I hadn't seen for years. "Penny's perfect," she announced.

6.

We were bound to have a discussion when we got home. It took an unexpected turn.

Shirley had no inhibitions about undressing in front of me, but there was nothing erotic about her night-time routine. She might have been getting ready to go to bed with her sister. As our sex life dwindled to nothing, I found it increasingly melancholy to observe how well-toned her body still was, no flab anywhere and nothing but firmness, bounty and bounce in the bust.

Pretending not to take too keen an interest as she unbuttoned her dress, I asked, casually, "Is that a new bra you're wearing?"

"Ah, you noticed!" she said, mysteriously -- almost accusingly, as if she wanted me to take more interest in her underwear. She measured the cups with her palms, and proceeded to uncouple the back fastening. I could feel the return of my hard-on as those familiar but unavailable 34B breasts came into view. She turned the bra over a few times in her hands.

"Expensive tastes," she murmured appreciatively, as if to herself.

Whose expensive tastes? I wondered. It was a long time since we had done that kind of shopping together. "Has someone been spoiling you?" I said, trying to avoid any hint of jealousy or suspicion in my voice.

She laughed. "No, no. Nothing of that kind. Do you remember when --?" She stopped. "Those were good times." She might have been mocking me.

She returned to her examination. "Damn good fit. Damn sexy feel. Your friend Ingrid has chosen well."

"She gave it to you? As a receipt for my down-payment?" Ideas and images began to jostle uncomfortably in my mind.

"No, silly. This is Penny's. We're exactly the same size. What do you think we were doing in her bedroom? Admiring the light fittings? Discussing the pile of the carpet?"

"You took your time about it," I put in.

"Well, yes, what do you expect? When two women start making comparisons, it's not something you can do in a hurry. She's good, you know. Nice breasts, like mine" -- she looked down with satisfaction at her perfect pair, on show for longer than usual -- "flat tummy, sexy thighs, lovely knickers."

"Sounds like you had a good look."

"I did. And so did she. And when you look you appreciate; and when you appreciate, you touch; and when you touch, clothes start to get in the way."

"No! You didn't!" I was not sure if I was shocked or delighted by what she was telling me. I was certainly surprised.

"We didn't have time for everything we would have liked to do. Long enough for me to know she's the real thing, though."

"Wow, Shirley. I never knew you were into women. Is that why --?"

"No, Leslie. Just appraising the merchandise. When we realized we were the same size, we thought it would be fun to swap bras. So now, here's the deal. When you go over there of an evening, I want you to choose one of my bras and get her to wear it while you're fucking."

Now I was way out of my depth. Still, it might be quite arousing, to be holding and touching real breasts in the bras that at present were just a laundry-basket symbol of my deprivation, mere empty relics of what was over and done with. She went on: "And then you must bring it back to me. Have you any idea how much that would turn me on?"

My erection was now out of control.

"Now, if you don't mind," she said, buttoning her pyjamas over her breasts, "I'm going to continue where I left off."