Ever since my last daring session with the osteopath, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The subtle tension, the unspoken thrill, it replayed in my mind over and over again, each memory more electrifying than the last. I didn’t need another appointment. My back was perfectly fine. But I booked one anyway, unable to resist the urge to relive that feeling.

Of course, I prepared meticulously. Before the appointment, I went to the esthetician to ensure every inch of my skin was perfectly smooth. If I was going to play my little game, I wanted to feel flawless, completely ready for whatever subtle provocations might unfold.

As always, my boyfriend drove me. Since I don’t have a driver’s license, he’s used to taking me everywhere. He waited in the clinic’s modest waiting area, scrolling on his phone, completely unaware of what was going through my mind.

This wasn’t just any osteopath. He was our osteopath, the one we always went to whenever something felt off. He knew us both well by now, and after my behavior during the last session, I couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered. Something told me he did, and that only added to the excitement.

That morning, I chose my outfit carefully. Beneath my gray cardigan and snug black jeans, I wore matching black lace lingerie. The bra was practically useless as an actual undergarment, with lace so sheer my nipples were clearly visible. The thong was almost nonexistent, more of a whisper of fabric than real underwear.

When I stepped into the clinic, he greeted me with his usual polite smile. But this time, I noticed his gaze linger a second longer than usual, traveling down my body before returning to my face.

“How are we feeling today?” he asked, his voice calm but deliberate.

“Still a little tight,” I replied casually, trying not to let my racing heart show.

He motioned for me to follow him into the treatment room. “You know the routine. Undress to your comfort level,” he said once we were inside.

Behind the screen, I slipped off my jeans and cardigan. I caught my reflection in the mirror and adjusted my bra slightly, making sure everything sat perfectly. My nipples were already hard, clearly visible through the lace, and the thong did absolutely nothing to cover me. My heart raced as I thought about stepping out like this, but I couldn’t back down now.

When I stepped out, his eyes swept over me, slower than last time. There was no mistaking it, he wasn’t just looking, he was drinking me in. He didn’t look surprised or awkward; instead, he seemed completely composed, as though he had been expecting this.

I lay face down on the table, hyper-aware of his gaze as he began working on my back. His hands were firm and practiced, but I couldn’t ignore the way he seemed to take his time adjusting my body.

But then, I started to notice something. His routine felt different, like he wasn’t even pretending this was a normal session. For starters, he didn’t do any of the usual manipulations or cracking techniques. Instead, he guided me into positions that felt less like treatment and more like a deliberate attempt to admire my body.

At one point, I felt his hands on my lower back, moving downward. Then, without hesitation, he spread my cheeks with both hands. The motion was firm but slow, as though he was taking his time to look. My breath caught in my throat, my heart racing. There was no reason for him to do that as part of the session, it was purely for him.

It was then that I realized there was nothing normal about what he was doing. This wasn’t an osteopathy session anymore, it was something else entirely. And in that moment, I couldn’t even be surprised. I’ve been asking for this, I thought to myself. I knew exactly what I was doing when I walked in here, and I’m getting exactly what I imagined.

“Relax,” he said, his tone calm but noticeably softer. I tried to stay composed, but my pulse was pounding, and I could feel heat flooding my body.

“Flip onto your back,” he instructed, his voice still professional but the atmosphere undeniably charged.

I turned over slowly, making sure my movements were deliberate. My bra stretched taut over my chest, and I noticed his eyes flick briefly down before returning to my face. He asked me to raise my arms above my head, which caused my bra to shift slightly, exposing even more skin.

Then came the moment that left me breathless. He guided me into a pose with one leg bent and the other extended outward. The thong, already minimal, left me feeling completely exposed. It was impossible to ignore how deliberate this positioning felt, as though it was more for his eyes than for any real treatment.

Throughout the session, I couldn’t shake the feeling of his gaze. It wasn’t just clinical, it was hungry. And yet, he remained completely calm, his professionalism a mere mask for the clear tension in the room.

By the end of the session, I was flushed, not from the treatment, but from the mix of arousal and tension coursing through me.

“All set,” he said, stepping back with a polite smile. But his eyes lingered once more, scanning me from head to toe. I could feel his gaze like a physical touch.

I stepped behind the screen to get dressed. As I pulled on my jeans and cardigan, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and paused. My cheeks were flushed, a deep pink that betrayed my excitement, and my eyes were bright and alive with a mix of satisfaction and disbelief.

Then I felt it. The dampness in my thong was unmistakable. I froze for a moment, the realization washing over me. I had gotten so worked up during the session that my thong was completely soaked. My face burned with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration, and I couldn’t help the sly smile that crept across my lips.

As he escorted me back to the waiting area, he turned to my boyfriend with a professional smile and said, “Her back is improving, but she really needs to come back for a few more sessions so we can get everything properly aligned.”

My boyfriend nodded absentmindedly, completely unaware of the double meaning those words carried.

“Thank you,” I said quickly, feeling the warmth creep up my neck.

As we drove home, my boyfriend chatted about his day, oblivious to the secret game I had just played, or how much I enjoyed it. Meanwhile, I sat quietly, a single thought lingering in my mind:

I just paid 70 euros to be ogled like a prostitute..