My name is Trey. I am nineteen years old and currently a freshman at my local community college. I am half Black, half white, and proud of both sides of my heritage. I am majoring in English and plan to become a high school teacher someday. Books have always been a passion of mine, a place to escape and imagine something bigger for my future.
I also happen to be a starter for the college basketball team. I am good enough that I had offers from larger schools, but when it came down to it, I was not ready to leave home. I chose to stay local, to be close to my family and everything familiar. Basketball has been a huge part of my life, but it is not my whole life. Staying grounded mattered more to me than chasing a bigger spotlight.
Unfortunately, neither one could help me after what happened last weekend. During a great game, we were down by one point with about a minute left on the clock. I took the ball and drove hard toward the basket. I rose up for the layup, feeling that perfect moment when everything slows down and you know it is going in.
Then two defenders blindsided me midair. They crashed into me deliberately, trying to knock me out of the play. I had no way to protect myself. I fell hard, landing awkwardly on my wrists and twisting my legs beneath me. I felt something tear deep inside my thighs the moment I hit the ground.
Both of the defenders were immediately ejected from the game, but the damage was done. Now, I looked like a ninety-year-old man shuffling across campus, my hands wrapped in thick white bandages, my steps slow and painful.
Luckily, my best friend Avery's mom was a licensed physical therapist. She had her own studio at their house, fully equipped. Trusting her was an easy decision. Mrs. T had always been kind to me, almost like a second mother. Of course, it did not hurt that she was absolutely stunning.
When I pulled up to their house, Mr. T met me at the door and helped me carry my gym bag. We walked straight through the house to the studio in the back.
Mrs. T was already inside, standing by the wide leather massage table, tapping a pen lightly against a clipboard while she waited for me. I swallowed hard.
She was dressed sexy black yoga pants that hugged her hips, showing off her sexy figure and ass. A snug white tshirt clung to her body, the thin fabric outlining a black lacy bra beneath. Her hair was dark-auburn and was so sexy as it hung down over her shoulders.
She smiled at me, and I felt a twitch of heat in my shorts. I shifted awkwardly. Right now, all I could wear were loose basketball shorts. No underwear. The swelling made it impossible.
And to be completely honest, I am very well-endowed. Soft, I measure around six inches. Hard, I am thick, heavy, and a full ten.
Wearing nothing under these shorts around Mrs. T was beginning to feel like a very bad idea. Or maybe a very good one.
"Okay, Trey," she said warmly, "we are going to start with some light stretches to loosen up your legs and hips. Then I will work on those poor wrists." She patted the table and gave me another smile. "Hop up here, hun."
Mr. T left the room and said goodbye.
I climbed up awkwardly onto the wide, padded table and lay back flat. The leather was cool against my skin. Mrs. T positioned herself at my left side and, wrapping one hand around my calf, began massaging gently, slowly working her way up toward my thigh.
"So tell me what happened, Trey," Mrs. T said, her warm smile already making me feel better.
"I have had this injury for five days now," I explained. " They took me out of the game in an ambulance. The first night, I was in the ER for X-rays. The next day, I mostly slept, and they cleared me to go home. They kept me overnight because they thought I had a bad concussion. Days three and four were miserable. Yesterday was the worst, pain-wise, and all they would give me was Tylenol. And now here I am."
She was gently massaging my thigh now, lifting and lowering my leg slightly as she worked.
"That was a good call. Pain meds can do more harm than good," she said, nodding thoughtfully.
As she moved, I could not help but notice her body. I had been best friends with her son for the past eleven years, spending countless hours in this house, and somehow I had never gotten used to how incredibly attractive Mrs. T was. She always dressed sexy without even trying. Tight yoga pants that hugged her curves, snug tops that showed just enough, jeans that made her ass impossible to ignore. She always looked amazing.
Her breasts jiggled subtly with each movement, drawing my eyes without permission.
This was a dangerous situation. I had not cum in five days. I could not even jerk off because my wrists hurt too badly. My balls felt so full it was almost painful.
Getting dressed was barely manageable. Right now, all I was wearing was a loose red T-shirt and baggy red basketball shorts. No underwear. It hurt too much to pull anything tighter over my thighs.
If she lifted my leg high enough, the loose fabric would slip, and my cock would fall out.
And there was no way to hide what I was packing. At six inches soft, ten inches hard, thick and veiny, it seemed to be always bulging out of my pants.
I decided to warn her up front.
"Mrs. T, I need to warn you," I said, clearing my throat. "I have nothing on under these shorts, and if you lift my legs high enough, you might... you know... see my stuff."
Mrs. T laughed softly, her smile warm and unbothered.
"Do not worry, hun," she said, her tone soothing. "In this business, you see a lot of things, if you know what I mean."
I chuckled, feeling some of my tension ease. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
"If it flops out, it will be okay," she added with a wink.
She continued massaging my leg, working her way slowly up toward my hip.
"Even brushing my teeth hurts," I said, my voice low. "My wrists are that sore. My legs too."
"Oh, you poor thing," she replied, her tone full of sympathy.
Mrs. T moved closer to my waist, her body just inches from mine. She slipped her left arm carefully under my thigh and lifted gently, guiding my knee upward.
"Go ahead and plant your foot flat on the bench," she said, her voice calm and professional.
As I followed her instructions, the loose leg of my shorts slid down my thigh. There was nothing to stop it.
My cock, thick and heavy even when soft, flopped forward onto my stomach with a dull thud.
It was impossible to miss. Six thick inches, resting against the fabric of my shirt, looking every bit as heavy as it felt.
Mrs. T did not say a word. She simply shifted her focus to massaging my inner thigh, her hands warm and sure as they worked along the sore, tender muscles.
The silence between us grew thick, almost charged. The only sounds were the faint squeak of the leather table and the slow, slick motion of her hands against my skin.
