College Sports Clinic Encounter

Anya looked at her phone, relieved to see that it was twenty minutes to five o'clock. It was too late for a walk-in, and with no appointments the university's Sports Rehabilitation and Conditioning Clinic would be closing so she could still get in a workout before buying some fresh ingredients and cooking dinner for Brian, her new fiancé.

Fiancé. She smiled because she liked the sound of that. Brian, her boyfriend since her first semester of college... for a year-and-a-half, now... had just proposed last weekend. Anya was totally in love with him and had said "yes" immediately. She couldn't believe this brilliant graduate student wanted her; she was only a nineteen-year-old sophomore.

She put her course work aside and stood up from the chair in her examination room. Her fellowship in sports medicine was paying for the first two years of her education, but she still had to put in twelve hours a week at the rehab clinic working with injured athletes and other patients.

Anya could hear her supervisor, Lorraine, typing across the hall. Their part of the clinic was only three small examination rooms, Lorraine's office, plus the lobby and shower area. Anya walked into the hall and turned into the shower and bathroom area where the lockers were.

Anya opened her locker and unbuttoned her white collared clinic shirt and hung it carefully on its hanger. Her full-armor bra, as she called it, secured her C cups. She arched her back to reach around and get the clasp, dropping her arms forward to slide off the padded bra. She reached into her locker for her sport top, her perfect breasts tracking the momentum of her movements.

She pulled on the white sport top, tight-fitting for support, stopping an inch below her breasts. She adjusted and pulled and gathered until her girls were ensconced front-and-center and her arms moved freely. She reached down to the zipper of the khaki shorts she had to wear for work. These knee-length pleated-fronts were professional and functional, but standing at only 5'4" Anya worried that they made her look short and frumpy, and she was always glad to get out of them.

She dropped the stiff fabric of the shorts to the floor, and stepped out, keeping her socks and clunky high-tops, but wearing only the sport top and her panties, a fancy pair of light mocha-colored lace with a satin band at the waist. Like her bra, the panties were just slightly overpowered by the roundness of the flesh they contained.

She looked in the mirror and smiled. She had raided the panties from a lingerie set this morning for lack of laundry. They were certainly made for seduction, she thought. She put her hands on her hips and turned, admiring the shadows across her taut, flat stomach. Her short blonde hair bobbed a bit as she turned. She was vain, but she could laugh about it... it was hard not to enjoy having a body like hers. The boys certainly seemed to enjoy watching her.

In the last year, she had become a beautifully proportioned woman, if in miniature. Because she was shorter, her breasts, even pushed down by the sport top, seemed large and noticeable, though they were quite matched by the shelf-like ledge at the top of her hips leading to her nineteen-year-old gravity-defying ass. Her yoga-trained legs were strong and defined, though still with just a hint of softness.

She snapped to, remembering that she needed to hurry. She rummaged around in her bag looking for her tights before remembering that she had found no clean tights that morning. Normally it was tights under boxing shorts, but the laundry crisis was requiring some innovation, and that morning she had grabbed a pair of running shorts, forgetting about the panties and no-tights situation.

She pulled on the baby-blue silk running shorts with the university's logo emblazoned on the seat. They slid freely over the satin and lace of her panties but barely covered the bottom of her ass. Oh well, she thought, that will have to do. Then she remembered that she also did not have a sweatshirt to go over her top.

The sport top covered her, but the natural movement of her firm breasts was still pretty obvious, and a breeze or just pumping a set of free weights meant that her nipples could be discerned through the fabric as well, so she always wore something on top. She grabbed her white clinic shirt off its hanger and threw it on, leaving the top unbuttoned and the tails loose. Problem solved.

By ten to five Anya was heading back down the hall with her gym bag and books, calling out her usual goodbye to Lorraine. She was across the lobby and almost out the front door when she heard Lorraine, call out, "Hold on, Anya, I need you."

Lorraine emerged from her office and walked out to the front desk in the lobby. She was wearing the same khaki shorts and white collared clinic shirt, with the Sports Rehab Department logo over the right breast, but her shirt also had "Lorraine" stitched above the other breast. She was 27 years old, a little taller, slender and less curvy than Anya. She was already a licensed physical therapist and a doctoral candidate. She managed the clinic for the big cheeses.

"Coach Weston just called," she said. "He's sending over a player who apparently fell-out during practice with cramps. He was probably dehydrated. He's fine now, but he's going to need a basic assessment, counseling, and some manipulation and massage."

"Shouldn't you do that?" asked Anya hopefully.

"I have my dissertation proposal review in twenty minutes, remember?" answered Lorraine. "I put it on the schedule, but I didn't know I would need you to cover until now, and everybody else is gone."

Well, there goes the workout, thought Anya, as she took her hand off the front door, and turned around. "That's OK," she said, smiling. "I can do it, but what about locking up? We're still closing, right?"

"I'll just lock you in when I leave, and then when you leave it will lock behind you," said Lorraine.

Just then, the front door swung open, and the two women looked up to see a tall young black man step into the room. He was at least 6'3" and had skin the color of strong coffee with milk. He was still wearing his big black silk soccer shorts and jersey and cleats. He had a school windbreaker in his hand, and little pieces of grass still stuck to the dark skin of his calf muscles above his socks. He moved smoothly, with confidence, a slight swing in his long and muscular arms.

Both women just stared for a half a beat, and he noted their reactions.

He hit them with his patented knockout smile, leaned forward in almost a bow and said, "Hello, I'm Mari-AL Nu-KEEmi. Coach Wess-ton sent me." As he reached out his hand, Marial played up his African accent through the low tones of his voice. He knew the ladies liked the accent.

Lorraine recovered her professional demeanor first and firmly shook Marial's hand. "Yes, Marial, Coach Weston explained your situation on the phone, and Ms. Napoli will write-up the clinical assessment," Lorrain said, gesturing to Anya but shooting Anya a look of disapproval.

Anya stood there with her gym bag over her small shoulder and her white collared clinic shirt half open over her tight gym clothes... hardly the professional look the clinic wanted... but she reached up to shake Marial's hand and said, "Nice to meet you." His hand closed completely around hers, as she said, with her best professional smile, "please go to room two and we'll start with some questions."

"Nice to meet you, Anya, thank you," he smiled slowly, as Anya gestured with her arm to the examination rooms and he stepped past her.

She turned to follow the young giant, but Lorraine detained her as he strode away. "You can't wear that shirt like that," Lorraine said, looking over Anya's shoulder to watch Marial's large figure disappear down the hall. "It's the clinic uniform, and it should be worn correctly." Lorraine was always concerned about how the clinic looked.

"You want me to change again?" asked Anya, with some protest. She had thought her day was over.

"No, it's alright," answered Lorraine, "the clinic is closed now, technically, so it's OK, but just don't wear that shirt like that while you're here."

"But I don't have anything else here right now," said Anya.

"Just work something out," Lorraine said as she turned to gather up her keys, "I've got to go. Thanks for covering this, and just make sure the door is pulled-to when you leave."

"OK. Good luck on your review," Anya smiled, as Lorraine turned to lock the glass door of the clinic and leave.

Anya sighed and walked back down the hall toward the lockers. She could see past the door that Marial was sitting on the side of the massage table, looking down and massaging his right quadriceps. "I'll be there in one moment," Anya said as he looked up to watch her pass.

She dropped off her gym bag in the locker, put the clinic shirt back on the hanger, and then turned to look in the mirror and think. Although she was completely covered, she was only wearing about three ounces of clothing, not counting her high-tops and socks. The silky running shorts clung to her ass and stopped right at the top of her bare legs, and she could already see her nipples poking through the sport top, which noted every curve of her breasts like a second skin. It was too much for the gym, much less the office.

Without tights, there was nothing that she could do about the running shorts. She didn't want to put the dumpy khaki shorts back on because they covered too much and made her look short. She thought about the large young black man looking at her legs. She had never dated or even hung around with guys like that. He was so big. She cleared her thoughts. She could skip the gym but still make the store and dinner for her fiancé.

Anya grabbed one of the folded clinic towels and draped it over her shoulders. Each end of the towel lay upon the top of either breast. In truth the towel seemed to accent the extraordinary lift of her rack. The towel came a little short, barely reaching to her nipples, but it did provide more cover. It will have to do for now, thought Anya, as she turned and walked back toward the room where Marial was waiting, gathering up her professional confidence and lifting her head.

"Hi, I'm Anya," she chimed, as she walked in, feeling instantly stupid because they had just been introduced. He was still seated on the massage table rubbing his right quadriceps. He looked up from his leg, dragging his eyes up her body, and noting the white shirt was gone. He looked directly into her eyes with a big smile framed by dark, pillow lips.

"Well, helloooo Miss Anya," he said, as his eyes quickly traveled back down her body, angling from her bare arms to the curve of her lower breasts holding up the towel ends, down the slight ripples of her stomach muscles to the swing of her high, round hips, past the gap at the top of her thighs, down her smooth legs to her little high-tops.

Again he played up his accent, "I'm Marial, from Sudan." Even though he was seated and Anya was standing, his eyes were about level with hers. His low but gentle tones sounded friendly and self-effacing, like somehow he already knew the joke was on him.

Anya relaxed, realizing that this was going to be easy. She started into the standard explanation of their procedures but deliberately slowed her speech down. In the introductory sessions at the university Anya had learned to be sensitive to non-native speakers. There were a lot of foreigners on campus.

Anya sat at the small writing desk next to the wall while she recorded the information on the forms attached to a clipboard. Marial was 21, on a soccer scholarship, lives in the athletic dorm, cramping and suspected muscle-pull in the right quad and upper left pectoralis.

As she finished reading each question from the form Anya would look at Marial for his answer, and then look back to the form to write. He was still seated on the edge of the massage table, facing her across the room, which felt smaller with him in it. His knees pointed to somewhere on either side of her. She couldn't help noticing how his muscular thighs rose up from the table, like fat bundles of cable reaching up from his knees to push out the silk of his black shorts. Soccer players have great quads, she thought.

Marial sat palms down on the edge of table, his arms locked straight, holding up his raised shoulders. His arms too, looked like cables or machine parts, strong and defined and... large.

As she went through the allergies with him, Marial would look down when he answered, and Anya's eyes would stray past a little bit more of his body as she listened. As her eyes flitted back and forth, Anya would linger for a second on Marial's large arms, twisting down to the strong knees just inside his hands. She traced the muscles that flowed up his thighs. They looked hard and sinewed. He seemed like an over-sized anatomical model you might use for teaching.

Anya felt her nipples rubbing against the fabric of her sport top. Her large puffy areolae and nipples got sensitive sometimes, but she was covered by the towel. She shifted how she was sitting a bit to maintain her modesty.

She asked him about past injuries and he looked down again, as if to concentrate on his English, and started explaining various insults his body had endured. Anya watched him as he spoke, sneaking a look at his legs again, the muscles of his thighs, when she suddenly felt a little zing shoot straight through her, like an electric shock. Anya was looking at his left quad muscles when she realized that part of what she was looking at was not his leg muscle and must have been, could only have been, a ridiculously large penis. It was the size that shocked her; it looked like two soda cans lined up in his shorts and running down his leg.

Anya quickly snapped her eyes back to the paper in front of her and started writing. Oh... my... God, she thought. Her pulse quickened and her mind raced. I have never seen anything like THAT, she thought.

She had actually only seen two real ones in her whole life. Once was her last boyfriend's in high school, and then, of course, there was her fiancé's. They, however, were nowhere near this... no way. The rumors about black guys are true sometimes, she thought to herself. It was actually hard for her to believe that it WAS really what she saw.

Anya stumbled through the next question and stole another passing glance at Marial's manhood as he answered, snapping her eyes back to the paper. Yep, she thought to herself, that really is, really there. Damn.

She couldn't help herself but to look. The next few questions were like a cat-and-mouse dance of Anya stealing glances when Marial would look down to answer. She would nod her head and say "yes" to seem as if she was listening to his every word, but she couldn't believe what she was looking at. At one point, she would almost swear, it looked as if his penis jumped a bit, growing longer down his shorts. Each look made her want to look again. She smiled to herself, thinking, Geez, that's like the elephant in the room.

Coming to the end of the questions, Anya was nodding as Marial answered but she was staring at his crotch, her lower lip starting to curl slightly beneath her upper teeth, when she realized that Marial had left his head down but had cast his eyes up. He had stopped talking and he was smiling a little as he stared at her. There was lightening in his eyes.

Anya's eyes snapped back to the desk, her hand writing furiously. Had he caught her staring at his penis? Oh my God, she thought again, embarrassed. Marial said nothing, however, so she just acted normal and asked another question and finished the interview like nothing happened. She froze out the image from her mind (at least almost) and kept her eyes on the paper.

The final information included body weight, so Anya asked Marial to please stand on the scale. She stood up and stepped next to the device as Marial rose from the massage table slowly until he towered over her. Anya cast her eyes down as he walked over to her. His hand went back to his right quadriceps injury, holding the muscle through the silk, which only made his huge cock more obvious as it tried to rise forward and upward down the left leg of his large silk shorts.

"Stand right here, please," Anya almost whispered as she kept her eyes down, but sort of stared sideways at the can of hair spray in between this guy's legs. Her lips parted a tiny bit when he put his left hand on her bare shoulder to steady himself as he stepped up onto the scale. His fingers closed on her back as his thumb came down to the rise of her right breast, just barely under the edge of the towel. Anya felt her nipples press into the sports top. He released her shoulder to stand on the scale, putting the object of Anya's fascination in profile, just inches in front of her.

When she raised her hands to adjust the scale, she actually had to pull them back to avoid touching the large, silk-covered lever sticking down his left leg. As she reached forward, over the fat tent in the front of his shorts, to move the weights, her hand trembled. She still just could not believe what she was seeing. It was thick and masculine and just intoxicating. She couldn't help but imagine what it would look like, what it must feel like, the weight of it.

Suddenly, with his massive cock moving right in front of her, within easy reach, and with the wall next to her and with him facing the wall, and with her fantasies quickening her breath, knowing they were alone, she suddenly felt like she was doing something wrong. She quickly finished.

"OK, step down please," she said as she stepped back. She sat back down at the little writing desk to record the information, her eyes busy with the form. "You may sit down," she said as cooly as possible, without looking up.

He stood there for a second, large but lean, young and cocky. With a grin down at the top of her blonde head, Marial stepped back to the massage table and sat back down.

Anya ran through the standard pre-sports-massage speech, keeping her eyes on the form on the clipboard on the desk. She came to the end of the speech, explaining that "I will leave the room for a moment. You may disrobe as much as you feel comfortable and lie face down and cover yourself with a towel. I will knock when I return." Anya quickly stood up and raised her eyes to look at her student-athlete patient. She was all business.

His eyes were following her up and stopped at her breasts. The flash returned to his eyes. Anya realized her nipples were poking right through her sport top just under the ends of the towel around her neck. Standing up they must have been about as obvious has Marial's huge organ, which still pushed up the black silk fabric of his shorts.

She felt herself flush as she realized where her own eyes were looking, and Anya snatched the clipboard up from the writing desk and folded it in her arms in front of her boobs. "I'll knock in just two or three minutes," she said as she spun on her heel and strode out of the room with all the professionalism and nonchalance she could muster.

Anya went straight back to the women's locker area and opened her locker and blew out a full breath. "Whoa," she thought, "that was too much." She had a picture in her locker of herself and Brian at the beach at sunset. "Just get a grip and be a professional and do the sports massage and file the assessment and go to the market and go home," she chided herself.

She picked up her phone and dialed her fiancé. "Hi Honey," she sang when he answered. He was driving home, so they kept it short. "I'm held up with one late case at the clinic, but I can still cook you dinner," she chimed. They quickly determined for him to stop at the market so that she could come straight home and they could cook together. "I love you, Mr. Fiancé... goodbye." She finished. She remembered how in love she was and how happy she was to be getting married.