It’s a low, constant ache that starts at the base of your spine and radiates up into your shoulders.
You’ve tried everything—chiropractors, massage, ibuprofen, sleeping on the floor. Nothing works. Your friend Mike suggests physical therapy. “Annabel,” he says. “She’s a miracle worker. Fixed my tennis elbow in three sessions.”
You book the appointment.
Her office is in a quiet part of town, above a coffee shop. The waiting room is warm, soft lighting, plants in the corners. There’s no receptionist. Just a bell on the counter. You ring it.
Annabel appears from a doorway behind the desk. She is younger than you expected. Mid-twenties, maybe.
She wears pink yoga shorts and a simple white t-shirt. Her hair is blonde and short and messy. She smiles—a warm, open smile that reaches her eyes.
“Come on back,” she says, turning before you can say anything. You follow.
The therapy room is spacious. Mats on the floor. A treatment table. A large mirror along one wall. It smells like eucalyptus and clean cotton.
“So,” she says, closing the door. “Lower back pain. Tell me about it.”
You tell her. The ache. The stiffness in the morning. The way it seizes up after you sit for too long.
She listens, nodding. Her eyes are on your face, attentive, but you get the sense she’s reading more than your words. She’s reading your posture, the way you shift your weight from foot to foot, the tension in your jaw.
“Okay,” she says when you finish. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
She has you stand in the center of the room. “Take off your shirt, please.”
“It’s just us,” she says, her voice calm. Certain. “I need to see your spine. Your shoulders. How you carry yourself.”
You take off your shirt. Fold it. Place it on a chair.
“Good.” She comes behind you. Her hands—warm, dry, professional—land on your shoulders. “Now, relax.”
“You’re holding everything here,” she murmurs, her thumbs pressing into the knots along your scapula. “And here.” Her fingers trace the line of your spine. “Your pelvis is tilted forward. That’s putting strain on your lower back.”
Her hands move to your hips. She guides you into a different stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Soft knees. There.”
Her touch is clinical. Efficient. But it’s also intimate in a way you can’t articulate. She’s mapping your body with an authority that feels absolute.
“Now bend forward. Slowly. As far as you can go without pain.”
You bend. Your fingertips brush your shins.
“Hmm.” She sounds thoughtful. “Not great. Your hamstrings are like piano wires. Your hip flexors are tight. This isn’t just a back issue, sweetie. This is a whole-body compensation pattern.”
She has you do a series of movements—side bends, twists, reaching overhead. She watches, her head tilted, her expression one of focused assessment.
You feel like a specimen under a microscope. But a specimen she finds interesting.
“Okay,” she says finally. “I have a plan.”
She outlines it. Twice-weekly sessions. Homework—stretches you’ll do every morning and night. And one special requirement.
“For the work we’re going to do, your usual clothing will get in the way. Jeans are too restrictive. Sweatpants bunch. I want you in something that lets me see your alignment clearly and gives you full range of motion.”
She walks to a cabinet. Opens it. Takes out a small, sealed package. She hands it to you.
They look like briefs. But… not quite. The material is a soft, stretchy microfiber. The cut is… higher on the hip. Smoother. Like panties.
“Therapy briefs,” she says, as if reading your confusion. “They’re designed for this kind of work. No seams to dig in. No compression where you don’t need it. They’ll stay in place no matter how you move.”
You turn the package over in your hands.
“Put them on for our sessions,” she says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s an instruction delivered with the same calm certainty as “bend forward.”
“You can change in the bathroom. Today, is just the assessment. Next time, we’ll begin the real work.”
Week Two: The First Realignment
You wear the briefs under your jeans to the appointment. You change in the bathroom. When you walk out, she’s waiting by the mat.
“Better,” she says, her eyes sweeping over you. “Now I can see what’s happening.”
Today is more active. She has you on all fours, arching and rounding your back like a cat. She kneels beside you, one hand on your lower back, the other guiding your head.
“Breathe into it,” she murmurs. “Let your spine soften.”
You breathe. Her hand is a steady weight. You’re acutely aware of the thin layer of fabric between her palm and your skin. Aware of the way the briefs cling to you, leaving nothing to the imagination.
You’re also aware, with a low hum of embarrassment, that you’re half-hard.
It’s just the proximity. The intimacy of her touch. The vulnerability of the position. It doesn’t mean anything.
She doesn’t mention it. But as she moves to your other side, her eyes flick down. Just for a moment. A note taken.
“Your body is holding a lot of tension in your pelvic floor,” she observes, her voice clinical. “That’s connected to the back pain. We need to release that, too.”
She has you lie on your back, knees bent, feet flat on the mat. “Now, let your knees fall open. Relax everything. Imagine your pelvis is a bowl of water, and you’re pouring it out.”
You let your knees fall open. The position is profoundly exposing. The smooth front of the briefs is stretched taut.
Her hands come to your inner thighs. She presses gently, encouraging them wider. “More. Let go.”
Her thumbs are inches from your cock. You can feel the heat of her hands. You’re fully hard now, a distinct bulge forming in the microfiber.
She sees it. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. Her expression doesn’t change. She simply continues, her hands moving to your abdomen, pressing down as you exhale.
“Good,” she says. “You’re responding. That’s a good sign. It means your nervous system is engaged. Arousal is just another form of energy. We can work with it.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that your own embarrassment feels foolish. She’s not shocked. She’s not offended. She’s noting a physiological response, the way she’d note a tight muscle.
“Now, for your homework,” she says, helping you sit up. “I want you to do these stretches in your briefs. Every morning, before you put anything else on. Let your body get used to the freedom. Let it breathe.”
“And don't fight the responses?” Her hand rests on your shoulder. “The blushing. The… excitement. It’s all just information. Your body telling us what it needs.”
She smiles. “See you next week.”
Week Three: Accidental Contact
The briefs have become normal. You do your stretches in them every morning. You’ve bought three more pairs, as she suggested. You’re more flexible already. The back pain is less constant.
But something else is growing. An anticipation before each session. A hyper-awareness of your own body in her presence.
Today, she’s working on your hip flexors. You’re on your back, one knee drawn to your chest. She’s leaning over you, her body close, her arm hooked under your knee to deepen the stretch.
“Relax into it,” she whispers. “You’re almost there.”
You breathe out. Let the tension go. The stretch is intense, a bright line of sensation along the front of your thigh.
She shifts her weight. Her forearm, the one hooked under your knee, brushes against the inside of your other thigh.
It brushes against your cock.
It’s fleeting. An accident. But the contact is electric. Your whole body jolts. A soft sound escapes you.
She doesn’t pull away. She holds the stretch, her forearm resting there now, a warm, firm pressure against your erection through the briefs.
“There,” she says softly, as if she’s just found the right spot. “That’s the adhesion. Do you feel it?”
You feel everything. The stretch. The heat of her. The undeniable, throbbing hardness under her arm.
“Breathe.” She increases the pressure, both on your thigh and, unmistakably now, against your cock. It’s not a stroke. It’s a presence. A claiming. “Your body is so responsive, sweetie. It’s beautiful to watch.”
She holds you there for a full minute, your cock trapped and pulsing against her arm, while she talks you through the breath. Her voice is calm, instructional, warm.
When she finally releases you, you’re trembling. Your briefs are damp at the tip.
She helps you sit up. Her eyes drop to the wet spot. A small, pleased smile touches her lips.
“See?” she says. “Energy release. It’s all connected. The tension in your hip, the holding in your pelvis… when it lets go, everything lets go.”
She hands you a towel. “Clean up. Then we’ll do the other side.”
Session Four: The Promise of Flexibility
“Your progress is remarkable,” she says, watching you touch your toes for the first time in years. “But we have a new goal.”
You’re panting slightly, hands on your knees. “What goal?”
“Total spinal decompression. There’s a pose—it’s called halasana. Plow pose. It’s where you lie on your back and bring your legs up and over until your toes touch the floor behind your head.”
You stare at her. “I could never do that.”
“You will,” she says, with utter certainty. “It’s the ultimate release for the lower back. It opens everything. And…” she tilts her head, “…it has other benefits. For circulation. For the nervous system. For… letting go.”
The way she says ‘letting go’ makes your stomach flip.
She has you start with supported poses. Legs up the wall. Shoulder stands with a stack of blankets under your hips. Each session, she guides you deeper.
Her hands are always on you—correcting your alignment, supporting your weight, touching you with a proprietary ease that feels more natural with every visit.
The accidental contacts are less accidental now. Her hand grazes you as she adjusts your hips. Her thigh presses against you as she stabilizes you in a balance. Each touch makes you harder. Each touch is noted with a soft, approving hum.
“You’re so eager,” she murmurs one day, her palm resting flat on your lower abdomen as you hold a bridge pose. “Your whole body is singing. I love that.”
You love it too. You’ve stopped pretending you don’t. Your arousal is part of the therapy now. A sign of engagement. A symptom she’s treating.
She begins edging you. Not just with her hands, but with her words. With the promise.
“When you can finally reach,” she says, her voice a low whisper in your ear as you strain in a forward fold, “when you’re flexible enough to take yourself all the way… it will be the most profound release of your life. All that tension, all that need, finally going exactly where it’s supposed to go.”
You don’t ask what she means. You know. The image is in your head now, fed by her quiet words over weeks: you, folded in half, your own cock in your face, her hand guiding you.
You want it. Your cock wants it. You get hard during your home stretches just thinking about it.
Week Eight: The Final Adjustment
Months of work. Your body is pliant, obedient. The back pain is a memory. The briefs are your second skin.
Today, the session is quiet. Serious. She doesn’t give you new exercises. She just has you warm up, then guides you onto your back.
“Trust me,” she says. Her voice is soft, but it holds the weight of all the weeks of certainty. “I’ve got you.”
She lifts your legs, supporting your hips with her hands. She guides you up and over. Your spine curls. Your feet travel toward the floor behind your head.
You’ve been close before. But today, something is different. A final surrender. A letting go.
Your toes touch the floor.
You’re in halasana. Fully folded. Your chest is compressed. Your knees are by your ears. The world is inverted.
“Beautiful,” she breathes.
Her hands are on your hips, holding you in place. Then one hand slides away. You feel her move. Feel her settle somewhere near your head.
You feel fingers at the waistband of your briefs. They hook into the fabric. She pulls them down, just enough. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed, bobbing against your own lower belly.
“Shh,” she soothes, though you haven’t made a sound. “This is the release. This is what we’ve been working toward.”
Her hand wraps around you. A firm, knowing grip.
“You’ve been so good,” she murmurs. Her other hand comes to the back of your head, gently guiding it forward. “So patient. So willing. Now take what you need.”
She strokes you. Slow, at first. Then faster. Your cock is right there, in front of your face. You can smell your own pre-cum. See the sheen on the head.
Her strokes become urgent, perfect. She’s studied your responses for months. She knows exactly how you like it. Knows exactly when you’re about to—
“Nice and wide, sweetie,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “Time to swallow your first load.”
A hot, violent rush that arcs through the air and lands on your tongue, your lips, your cheeks. You spurt again and again, swallowing instinctively, your body convulsing in the tight fold while she milks every drop from your cock onto your waiting face.
It’s the most intense orgasm of your life. A total surrender. A complete release.
She strokes you through the aftershocks, gentle now. Then she uses the her fingers to clean you up, wiping your face with the hand and dipping her finger into your mouth. You lick every drop.
Slowly, she helps you unwind. Brings your legs down. Guides you onto your side. You’re spent. Your face is sticky. Your mouth tastes of salt.
She kneels beside you, brushing the hair from your forehead. Her expression is one of deep, maternal satisfaction.
“Good boy,” she murmurs. “See? Your little guy knew what it needed. It just needed someone to show it the way.”
You look up at her. At the woman who took your sore back and turned it into this.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
She smiles. That warm, certain, unembarrassed smile.
“You’re welcome, sweetie.” She stands. “Same time next week? We should maintain this range of motion.”
She pauses, her eyes drifting down your body with clinical appreciation. “With a bit more work, I think we can get you flexible enough to lick that eager little guy of yours. Wouldn’t that be something?”
This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his physical therapist, and the flexibility regimen that let him taste himself.
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