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Whiplash

By Jack Greene



Description

When lawyer Jeff Richmond is rear-ended by a soccer mom in a minivan, he can't believe it when the diagnosis is whiplash.

The prescription is physical therapy, but when he meets the therapist, adorably geeky Martin, he suddenly has other things on his mind.


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Excerpt

As a lawyer, I’ve always been of the firm opinion that whiplash injuries are money-grubbing bullshit. That is, until I got rear-ended by a suburban soccer mom in a minivan.

She’d been so distracted by yelling at her kids in the back that she’d completely missed the fact that I’d stopped before turning right to let the oncoming traffic clear. I’d been looking to the left when she hit me, and my neck was badly wrenched. I figured it would clear up on its own, but a week later it hurt even worse than right after the accident. I went to the doctor, who informed me I had whiplash. He said it, then laughed.

“A lawyer with whiplash!”

I didn’t find it particularly amusing.

After I professed disbelief, the doctor informed me that whiplash, a soft tissue injury that was impossible to verify via x-rays, did indeed exist. I wanted to object, but the pain in my neck was undeniable. Even worse was the treatment he prescribed: physical therapy. A waste of time, so I thought, but the doctor said it would do some good. I refused to wear the neck collar, though.

So I had to carve an hour three times a week out of my already overcrowded schedule. My secretary was not amused. But, as I’d whined to her for the past week about my neck, she conceded something had to be done.

My first appointment began by filling out endless forms until I wondered if that would be all that would happen that session. Then I was shown to a room where a petite blonde lady made me turn my neck this way and that. She explained she was measuring my range of movement so a treatment plan could be worked up, and my progress could be evaluated. That made sense to me, so I cooperated as much as possible.

It turned out that I could turn my head much farther to the left than I could to the right, and certain angles caused intense pain. I tried not to whimper too loudly.

“I thought this was supposed to make me feel better, not worse,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Oh no, we’re here to make you better, Mr. Richmond,” a new, male voice said. “Unfortunately, that can involve a bit more pain along the way.”

I swiveled to look at the newcomer. He was small for a man, maybe five-foot-eight, and slender. He had a mess of shaggy brown hair that seemed to go in every direction, yet still managed to look good. His big black glasses gave him an air of adorable nerdiness that I found irresistible. If that wasn’t enough, he wore a brown cardigan that I wanted to rip off him.

I’ve always had a thing for geeky guys. I’m not sure why, but it probably had something to do with my science teacher in eighth grade. At any rate, this guy was perfect. I may have been staring.

“Hi, I’m Martin. I’ll be your physical therapist.” He held out his hand and I shook it.

“Hi.” I watched as he took the chart from the girl as she left. He looked it over critically.

“Looks like your neck is going to take a lot of work, Mr. Richmond. Car accident?”

I nodded, and winced. “Yeah, she hit me from behind when my head was turned.”

“And it hurts worse now than after the accident,” Martin finished for me.

“Yep.”

“It would have been better to start the therapy sooner,” Martin advised in a mildly disapproving tone.

“Well, it wasn’t that bad then.”

“Of course.” Martin sighed.

“So what can you do for me?” I had to ask. Well, I knew what I wanted him to do for me…

Martin looked up from his notes and finally met my eyes a little shyly. “We’ll start with cold and ultrasound therapy to loosen up the muscles and tissues. Then move to warm when we begin to see some results.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do we start now or next time?”

Martin glanced at his watch. “I think we have time for a quick massage. I assume you’re in a lot of pain?”

“Yes,” I agreed. Of course, I would have agreed to anything to get his hands on me.

“Okay. Why don’t you lie down on the table, face down, please?”

I did as he asked, and a moment later I felt his hands on my neck.

“Just relax,” Martin suggested as he, gently at first, began to work on my neck.

It wasn’t easy to relax—my neck hurt like a son of a bitch. The massage wasn’t at all soothing; it made my pain worse. I must have whimpered because Martin said, “It will feel worse before it gets better, I’m afraid.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Martin laughed. “It will get better, I promise. You’ll just have to be patient. Something you’re probably not familiar with.”

“Hey!” I complained. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re a lawyer. Plus, you have years of tension built up in these muscles.”

I tried to shrug but in that position it was impossible. “Occupational hazard.”

“Hmph.”

I could imagine Martin’s disapproving expression. As if I would choose to have so much stress. It just came with the territory. It wasn’t as if I enjoyed it. Well, not that much.

As Martin worked on my neck, I let my mind wander to what he looked like naked. Or maybe just his lab coat… Martin leaned closer, applying more pressure, and I could feel the warmth of his body. My cock began to swell. I resisted the urge to shift my hips, though the way I was laying was not comfortable with a hard-on.

“You just tensed up again.” Martin’s voice cut into my musings.

“Hmm?”

“You were relaxing, then all of a sudden you got stiff again,” Martin complained.

I tried not to snicker, I really did. “Sorry.”

“Did I hit a sore spot?”

“No, not at all,” I assured him. “It feels better.” And it really did, I realized. The pain had lessened.

I glanced up at Martin, in time to catch a smile on his face. He looked heartbreakingly adorable. “I think you’re going to see results soon, Mr. Richmond.”

“Call me Jeff,” I said automatically. “I mean, since you’re going to have your hands all over me.”

I was pretty sure that was a blush spreading over Martin’s face. “Jeff is a nice name,” he said softly.

“Thanks.” I closed my eyes again. Staring at cute Martin was not helping my problem and I was going to have to stand up some time. “You’re very good.” I risked a peek and saw that Martin’s face was bright red now. I hid a grin.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands.

Far too soon, Martin announced that our time was up. “See you next time, Jeff,” he said, and fled the room before I could say anything in response.

Our next appointment wasn’t until Monday, and I found myself looking forward to it.

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