God you were so sexy that night. I saw you there, in the club, and it wasn't some deep romantic wave that swept me, it was lust - I felt you in my sex. You wanted me too, I knew it as soon as our eyes met. You smiled at me, and it wasn't friendly, it was pure seduction. I had no question that I was going to end up in your bed, it was just obvious, and I wanted it.
The drinks were a mere formality - to get closer and make sure that the feelings, the desires, were really there and not just some byproduct of the thumping music and strobing lights. Our legs touched under the table and we both jumped a little from the electric charge of that momentary contact. My panties were soaked, and by the way you shifted in your chair I knew yours were too.
I had gotten to the club via the subway and you had a car in the lot. I followed you to it, drinking in the way you walked, the way your hips swayed, the way your auburn hair bounced. You opened the door for me and a giggled, I remember that - I thought it was sweet and almost out of place, we were almost feral with lust by this point.
I guess we were paying so much attention to ourselves and our lust that we weren't paying attention to how many martinis we had, or how fast you were driving. I heard crunching metal, heard grinding and screaming, I felt the car lurch and roll, I felt my back break, heard the pop, legs going dead instantly, then black...
I wheel into your room. I don't know how long it's been, don't know anything but this moment. My legs are dead, completely paralyzed, but I don't care. I need to find you, to see you, to know. You look at me as I wheel in and my questions are answered - the look is still there. The lust is still there. I feel it in my sex, even though I'll never feel my sex again, and I wheel up close. You reache out with your right arm and I can see the bandaged stump of your left, where you lost it just below her shoulder as the car rolled onto it. I see the heavy casts on both on both of your legs. I want you more than ever. You whisper to me 'soon'. I wheel back to my room.
I wheel into the club. The same club where it all started. I'm in a stunning black dress with red shoes that I know I shouldn't have forced onto my dead feet, but the effect is amazing. I wheel in and see you - right where I saw you the first time. You're sitting there wearing a blue dress with sleeves that don't cover your stump, the skirt short enough to give everyone a good look at the leather and steel braces that encase your legs. Fearless. Flawless. Your long auburn hair shimmers in the alternating lights of the dance floor. I wheel over and sit across from you. You smile, and it's still there, the desire, the lust, it burns between us like a bonfire. We both order sodas. You take my hand. We don't say anything.
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flash Fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Flash Fiction - All about the feet
It's all about the feet
I grasped the rims of my wheelchair and pushed. I felt a little lightheaded from the effort. Why was it so hard - I hadn't really anticipated that. My balance was terrible, really off, making my head swim a bit.
I was more or less naked. Well, not technically 'naked' - I wore the bare minimum my newfound condition would allow - a bulky, ill-fitting diaper and a 'gently used' rigid back brace that was tightly strapped on, covering from my tailbone to just between my shoulder blades in back, and my stomach and lower breast cups in the front. My breasts were bare and my nipples tingled excitedly as I kept pushing forward, the wheels on my e-bay special wheelchair crawling forward on the bedroom carpet.
I could feel a thin sheen of sweat starting to form on my forehead, my shoulders and upper back, felt the warm moisture of my armpits. Below my breasts I felt nothing, of course, and I expected that due to the lack of heat regulation below, my upper body might already be compensating. Or maybe pushing this wheelchair with no muscle control or sensation from just below my breasts down to my now limp toes was a lot more work than I had anticipated.
I heard Heather calling from the living room as I finally reached the hardwood floors of the hallway.
"Honey, where are you? It's been like, an hour. Are you OK?"
"I'm almost there lover. Close your eyes for me, OK?" I called out in my most sensual, sexy voice.
"Mmm, OK honey, they're closed. Don't keep me waiting too much longer!!" she said with a giggle. God she was sexy, even that silly giggle of hers just made me want to melt, made my pussy hot. Well, it had anyway, an hour ago. Now....
I ran out of hardwoods and my wheelchair wheels started to bog down in the thick living room carpet. I strained and got two feet closer, then stopped.
"OK, open your eyes baby."
Heather opened them and looked at me. I couldn't imagine what was going through her mind as she stared, eyes wide, at me in my wheelchair, wearing a diaper and a back brace, hair probably a bit disheveled thanks to the efforts of getting myself into my wheelchair and wheeling myself across the house.
"You did it?" she asked, her voice unreadable. I nodded.
"Injection, between T4 and T5 I think." I said, a quiver in my voice. What did she think?
Heather fell to her knees and crawled to me where I sat. She took one limp, paralyzed foot in her hands and started to kiss it. Lick it. Caress it. She rubbed it against her face and ran her delicate hands up and down my flaccid leg.
As I sat there in my wheelchair she began to undress, slowly, sensually, in ways I'd never seen her disrobe before. My breathing quickened as I stared at her, knowing that were I not paralyzed, my pussy would be hot, wet, ready for her touch. It somehow excited me more, thinking that parts of my body were no longer mine to control.
My flaccid feet were now between Heather's breasts, caressing her lithe, tan body. She was in ecstasy and began moaning, eyes closed. I could see the wetness between her legs, smell her sex. I wanted it. Wanted to touch it. Wanted to love it. I told Heather what I wanted. she looked up at me, her big blue eyes unfocused, her breathing heavy with passion. I nodded.
I saw, but did not feel, my right foot begin to stroke my lover's aroused sex. My left foot flopped to the side, abandoned, as Heather took my right foot in both hands and began to rub her clit, her legs spread wide. I sat and watched and felt a rush of.. what? Excitement certainly, arousal definitely, but something else, something I couldn't really put my finger on.
I rubbed my breasts and moaned with pleasure as I watched as the lower half of my body - and specifically my limp, useless feet - were made love to by the beautiful brown-haired girl before me.
Heather was lost in her passion now, I could see my foot glisten with her joy and hear her pants and feral moans as she came again and again, her orgasms crashing against her like storm-driven waves.
She collapsed, finally, cradling my foot against her cheek and crying, actually weeping, her chest heaving with sobs of expended passion and satiated desire. I sat in my wheelchair, wishing I could stroke her hair, touch her cheek, but between the paralysis and the back brace I knew that was impossible, or at the very least impractical. So I sat there, still playing with my breasts, watching my lover sensually stroke my limp feet.
I smiled.
I grasped the rims of my wheelchair and pushed. I felt a little lightheaded from the effort. Why was it so hard - I hadn't really anticipated that. My balance was terrible, really off, making my head swim a bit.
I was more or less naked. Well, not technically 'naked' - I wore the bare minimum my newfound condition would allow - a bulky, ill-fitting diaper and a 'gently used' rigid back brace that was tightly strapped on, covering from my tailbone to just between my shoulder blades in back, and my stomach and lower breast cups in the front. My breasts were bare and my nipples tingled excitedly as I kept pushing forward, the wheels on my e-bay special wheelchair crawling forward on the bedroom carpet.
I could feel a thin sheen of sweat starting to form on my forehead, my shoulders and upper back, felt the warm moisture of my armpits. Below my breasts I felt nothing, of course, and I expected that due to the lack of heat regulation below, my upper body might already be compensating. Or maybe pushing this wheelchair with no muscle control or sensation from just below my breasts down to my now limp toes was a lot more work than I had anticipated.
I heard Heather calling from the living room as I finally reached the hardwood floors of the hallway.
"Honey, where are you? It's been like, an hour. Are you OK?"
"I'm almost there lover. Close your eyes for me, OK?" I called out in my most sensual, sexy voice.
"Mmm, OK honey, they're closed. Don't keep me waiting too much longer!!" she said with a giggle. God she was sexy, even that silly giggle of hers just made me want to melt, made my pussy hot. Well, it had anyway, an hour ago. Now....
I ran out of hardwoods and my wheelchair wheels started to bog down in the thick living room carpet. I strained and got two feet closer, then stopped.
"OK, open your eyes baby."
Heather opened them and looked at me. I couldn't imagine what was going through her mind as she stared, eyes wide, at me in my wheelchair, wearing a diaper and a back brace, hair probably a bit disheveled thanks to the efforts of getting myself into my wheelchair and wheeling myself across the house.
"You did it?" she asked, her voice unreadable. I nodded.
"Injection, between T4 and T5 I think." I said, a quiver in my voice. What did she think?
Heather fell to her knees and crawled to me where I sat. She took one limp, paralyzed foot in her hands and started to kiss it. Lick it. Caress it. She rubbed it against her face and ran her delicate hands up and down my flaccid leg.
As I sat there in my wheelchair she began to undress, slowly, sensually, in ways I'd never seen her disrobe before. My breathing quickened as I stared at her, knowing that were I not paralyzed, my pussy would be hot, wet, ready for her touch. It somehow excited me more, thinking that parts of my body were no longer mine to control.
My flaccid feet were now between Heather's breasts, caressing her lithe, tan body. She was in ecstasy and began moaning, eyes closed. I could see the wetness between her legs, smell her sex. I wanted it. Wanted to touch it. Wanted to love it. I told Heather what I wanted. she looked up at me, her big blue eyes unfocused, her breathing heavy with passion. I nodded.
I saw, but did not feel, my right foot begin to stroke my lover's aroused sex. My left foot flopped to the side, abandoned, as Heather took my right foot in both hands and began to rub her clit, her legs spread wide. I sat and watched and felt a rush of.. what? Excitement certainly, arousal definitely, but something else, something I couldn't really put my finger on.
I rubbed my breasts and moaned with pleasure as I watched as the lower half of my body - and specifically my limp, useless feet - were made love to by the beautiful brown-haired girl before me.
Heather was lost in her passion now, I could see my foot glisten with her joy and hear her pants and feral moans as she came again and again, her orgasms crashing against her like storm-driven waves.
She collapsed, finally, cradling my foot against her cheek and crying, actually weeping, her chest heaving with sobs of expended passion and satiated desire. I sat in my wheelchair, wishing I could stroke her hair, touch her cheek, but between the paralysis and the back brace I knew that was impossible, or at the very least impractical. So I sat there, still playing with my breasts, watching my lover sensually stroke my limp feet.
I smiled.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
STORY - Flash Fiction - What Happened in the Dark
What Happened in the Dark By ParaGirl
Lisa didn't expect it to hurt so much. She was pretty sure they broke her arm, or maybe just dislocated her shoulder, she wasn't sure. She bit her lip and struggled not to cry out. Her attackers were clumsy, whispering to each other, seemingly unsure of what to even do with her now that they had subdued her. The excitement was there, that red-hot arousal that she always felt a this point, when she was bound, face pressed to the dirt, her panties and skimpy skirt torn from her roughly. Her sex was on fire, she could tell she was soaked, literally dripping with anticipation, waiting for one of these idiot thugs to fuck her, to penetrate her and drive it home, give her that exquisite release....
Lisa knew this was crazy, and unsafe, but she couldn't control herself. Her rape fantasies had grown into rape roleplay with her lovers, and when that didn't work any more, it turned to this. Dressed in skimpy clothes, walking around bad parts of town acting tipsy or drunk. Most of the time, she was helped home by some good samaritin, left frustrated and unable to climax. Sometimes, though - some lowlife or frat boy or thug would take advantage of her, and then...
Finally, she felt a stiff cock press into her and she moaned and shivered as she came in waves of intense pleasure. It was insane, the pleasure, the deep waves of orgasm that filled her. It was better than any drug, better than any experience she had ever had. She could die, definitely, and that was part of the thrill. the throbbing in her arm was gone, and all she was left with was the pleasure as her attacker forced his shaft in and out of her, deeply in and out.
He didn't last long - they never did, rapists. Seemed like half of them were practically eunuchs, two thrusts and they were done. Pathetic. That's why she was actually happy there were two this time. It was more dangerous, of course, but it was worth it as he slipped his cock into her and pulled her hair sharply, calling her a cunt. She came again at that - he was rough, she could tell. He was a dangerous one, and even though her mind knew that her situation had gotten a lot worse, her sex just throbbed more, her ecstasy expanded until it filled her whole body, her whole world. He thrust into her and she cried out - he assumed it was pain or fear, didn't realize it was joy, lust, pleasure the likes of which he had never known.
She could tell he was getting ready to finish, his motions becming more jerky, more erratic, and she reached slowly into her pocket for the high-end pepper spray she kept there, armed and ready. Once they had gotten what they wanted - as she had - she didn't exactly want to stick around for pillow talk. She moaned as another wave of intense pleasure overwhelmed her and her attacker arched his back and let out a muffled moan, then something unexpected happened, something she hadn't planned on.
She pulled out the pepper spray as he came, popping the safety in time with his muffled, orgasmic moan, but then his hands were on her neck, and he was twisting, and then there was blinding pain, and then she was dead.
Wait. She wasn't dead. She opened her eyes. She was still laying beside the grimy loading dock. She could smell oil and garbage and piss, and her breathing was short and sharp. Her head pounded with the rhythm of her quickened pulse, but the rest of her body was covered in a cool numbness that Lisa didn't want to think about. She tried to turn her head, and light and pain flashed sharply behind her eyes again, and she blacked out.
Lisa woke to the antiseptic smells and chaotic sounds of a hospital room. She blinked her eyes painfully at the bright light that was flooding in on her. She heard the rhythmic beeps of some monitor, felt a hose at her nose feeding her cool oxygen. She felt the solid neck brace - well, she felt part of the solid neck brace, pressed against her chin and the back of her head. The rest of her body... not much of anything. That cool numb sensation seemed to start at her neck and radiate downwards. She couldn't move her head, couldn't see her body as she stared up. She remembered it all, every moment of it. She knew. the snapping of her neck. She knew.
Incomplete quadriplegia at the fourth cervical vertebrae. Permanent paralysis. Rehab. Full time care. Words like these filled Lisa's world. This was it. Her thrill seeking had put her in a wheelchair, unable to even scratch her own nose, for the rest of her life. She didn't even cry, not once. She deserved it, in a way - certainly she asked for it. What had she been thinking? She sat limp in her shower harness watching a nurse wash her pussy, and she couldn't feel a thing. that was the worst part to her, she realized - not being in a wheelchair, not being helpless. It was the sex. The pleasure. She started thinking about how she would never feel that amazing, erotic rush again. Never.
Lisa saw him on her third day of rehab. He was in the physical therapy room, helping a middle aged woman steady herself on a leg prosthesis. Lots of cripples here, she thought to herself. He looked familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Couldn't remember where she had seen him. It wasn't until that night, after she had been put in bed by her attendant, after he crept silently into her room with that sinister, deviant grin, that she remembered. He was the one. He was the rough guy. He was the neck-breaker. He was her rapist. And he was coming towards her. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
He came to her bed. He called her a cunt in that same raspy, nicotine-scarred voice, and he pulled the sheets off her paralyzed, useless body. He tore off the bulky diaper she slept in. He unzipped his pants. He got on the bed.
Her orgasm was impossibly good, the ecstasy and depth more than she had every experienced. She smelled his sweat and heard his grunts as he raped her, and her orgasm continued, waves of pleasure filling her crippled body. And, for the first time since she woke up in the hospital, Lisa cried.
Lisa didn't expect it to hurt so much. She was pretty sure they broke her arm, or maybe just dislocated her shoulder, she wasn't sure. She bit her lip and struggled not to cry out. Her attackers were clumsy, whispering to each other, seemingly unsure of what to even do with her now that they had subdued her. The excitement was there, that red-hot arousal that she always felt a this point, when she was bound, face pressed to the dirt, her panties and skimpy skirt torn from her roughly. Her sex was on fire, she could tell she was soaked, literally dripping with anticipation, waiting for one of these idiot thugs to fuck her, to penetrate her and drive it home, give her that exquisite release....
Lisa knew this was crazy, and unsafe, but she couldn't control herself. Her rape fantasies had grown into rape roleplay with her lovers, and when that didn't work any more, it turned to this. Dressed in skimpy clothes, walking around bad parts of town acting tipsy or drunk. Most of the time, she was helped home by some good samaritin, left frustrated and unable to climax. Sometimes, though - some lowlife or frat boy or thug would take advantage of her, and then...
Finally, she felt a stiff cock press into her and she moaned and shivered as she came in waves of intense pleasure. It was insane, the pleasure, the deep waves of orgasm that filled her. It was better than any drug, better than any experience she had ever had. She could die, definitely, and that was part of the thrill. the throbbing in her arm was gone, and all she was left with was the pleasure as her attacker forced his shaft in and out of her, deeply in and out.
He didn't last long - they never did, rapists. Seemed like half of them were practically eunuchs, two thrusts and they were done. Pathetic. That's why she was actually happy there were two this time. It was more dangerous, of course, but it was worth it as he slipped his cock into her and pulled her hair sharply, calling her a cunt. She came again at that - he was rough, she could tell. He was a dangerous one, and even though her mind knew that her situation had gotten a lot worse, her sex just throbbed more, her ecstasy expanded until it filled her whole body, her whole world. He thrust into her and she cried out - he assumed it was pain or fear, didn't realize it was joy, lust, pleasure the likes of which he had never known.
She could tell he was getting ready to finish, his motions becming more jerky, more erratic, and she reached slowly into her pocket for the high-end pepper spray she kept there, armed and ready. Once they had gotten what they wanted - as she had - she didn't exactly want to stick around for pillow talk. She moaned as another wave of intense pleasure overwhelmed her and her attacker arched his back and let out a muffled moan, then something unexpected happened, something she hadn't planned on.
She pulled out the pepper spray as he came, popping the safety in time with his muffled, orgasmic moan, but then his hands were on her neck, and he was twisting, and then there was blinding pain, and then she was dead.
Wait. She wasn't dead. She opened her eyes. She was still laying beside the grimy loading dock. She could smell oil and garbage and piss, and her breathing was short and sharp. Her head pounded with the rhythm of her quickened pulse, but the rest of her body was covered in a cool numbness that Lisa didn't want to think about. She tried to turn her head, and light and pain flashed sharply behind her eyes again, and she blacked out.
Lisa woke to the antiseptic smells and chaotic sounds of a hospital room. She blinked her eyes painfully at the bright light that was flooding in on her. She heard the rhythmic beeps of some monitor, felt a hose at her nose feeding her cool oxygen. She felt the solid neck brace - well, she felt part of the solid neck brace, pressed against her chin and the back of her head. The rest of her body... not much of anything. That cool numb sensation seemed to start at her neck and radiate downwards. She couldn't move her head, couldn't see her body as she stared up. She remembered it all, every moment of it. She knew. the snapping of her neck. She knew.
Incomplete quadriplegia at the fourth cervical vertebrae. Permanent paralysis. Rehab. Full time care. Words like these filled Lisa's world. This was it. Her thrill seeking had put her in a wheelchair, unable to even scratch her own nose, for the rest of her life. She didn't even cry, not once. She deserved it, in a way - certainly she asked for it. What had she been thinking? She sat limp in her shower harness watching a nurse wash her pussy, and she couldn't feel a thing. that was the worst part to her, she realized - not being in a wheelchair, not being helpless. It was the sex. The pleasure. She started thinking about how she would never feel that amazing, erotic rush again. Never.
Lisa saw him on her third day of rehab. He was in the physical therapy room, helping a middle aged woman steady herself on a leg prosthesis. Lots of cripples here, she thought to herself. He looked familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Couldn't remember where she had seen him. It wasn't until that night, after she had been put in bed by her attendant, after he crept silently into her room with that sinister, deviant grin, that she remembered. He was the one. He was the rough guy. He was the neck-breaker. He was her rapist. And he was coming towards her. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
He came to her bed. He called her a cunt in that same raspy, nicotine-scarred voice, and he pulled the sheets off her paralyzed, useless body. He tore off the bulky diaper she slept in. He unzipped his pants. He got on the bed.
Her orgasm was impossibly good, the ecstasy and depth more than she had every experienced. She smelled his sweat and heard his grunts as he raped her, and her orgasm continued, waves of pleasure filling her crippled body. And, for the first time since she woke up in the hospital, Lisa cried.
BLOG - who wants a story
I'm trying to put together a new flash fiction story but I'm having trouble coming up with a theme/subject. Anyone out there have any suggestions?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
BLOG - Another Flash
Did a story today, another 'Flash Fiction' exercise that went a LOT differently than I had thought it would. The concept was simple - I would imagine I was newly injured, low level quadriplegic, and it was my first day back at work after the accident.
Well, it went in a much different direction that I initially thought it would - much more bitter, but much more realistic I think. I don't think I was writing from the standpoint of 'me', the wannabe and fetishist. I actually seemed to almost channel what a 'normal' woman would feel if she were in that situation.
She doesn't actually get to work in the story - it's her morning routine, mostly, and her reflections on her situation. As with the last and my 'rules' for flash fiction, I wrote it in a little over an hour, no edits or rewrites, just a standard spell check.
I'm curious to know what people think.
Well, it went in a much different direction that I initially thought it would - much more bitter, but much more realistic I think. I don't think I was writing from the standpoint of 'me', the wannabe and fetishist. I actually seemed to almost channel what a 'normal' woman would feel if she were in that situation.
She doesn't actually get to work in the story - it's her morning routine, mostly, and her reflections on her situation. As with the last and my 'rules' for flash fiction, I wrote it in a little over an hour, no edits or rewrites, just a standard spell check.
I'm curious to know what people think.
STORY - First Day Back
Flash Fiction - First Day Back by ParaCathy
Cathy used her wrists and palms to grasp the soft sheets, tossing them to the side and uncovering herself. She pushed herself up with some effort, using her forearms and elbows as she learned in rehab, until she was sitting, then pulled her limp, numb lower body a foot, so she was leaning against the oak headboard.
It was her first day back at work since the accident, and she was nervous, couldn't sleep. She woke up an hour before her alarm, which was already set an hour earlier than it had been before... before her jogging accident, before her broken back, before...
She looked to her left, to the chrome and black wheelchair that sat there, wheels locked, ready to carry her, to take her wherever she needed to go. She focused back on her normal routine, the routine that had been drilled into her over weeks and weeks of rehab.
Her braces were first, and she used her wrists and mouth to pull on the nylon and plastic splints, holding her wrists rigid, her lifeless fingers curled against her palm. She pressed the Velcro closures and then went to work on her diaper. It was a bulky overnight diaper that she hated, but also understood she needed. Changing her sheets every other day would be much more taxing - and more embarrassing, considering the reason behind it. She remembered the first time she saw the nurses change her sheets after she had wet them, and blushed a little, embarrassed at the memory.
Using her braced wrists and hands, she was able to remove the nighttime diaper and dispose if it, then took out some cleansing wipes and cleaned herself. There was no feeling, no sensation, nothing at all any more, not from her nipples down. Feet, legs, sex, stomach - it was all just numb now, useless. It was still her, of course - her body, her parts - but they were different now. She was different now.
Her panties were next. No more exotic thongs, though. She pulled open her nightstand drawer using the pull-loop that Miranda had added to it for her. Pulled out a pair of pink cotton panties and a 'protective undergarment' - a fancy way to say a small diaper, again in case she didn't cath in time, or her schedule was off a little. She struggled first to pull her limp left leg up until her knee just about hit her chest, then struggled with her mostly useless hands to get the panties on over her curled left foot. She did it, then pulled up the right leg and, after a few tries, finally got that leg into the panties too. Then it was just using her braced wrists to pull the panties up her unmoving legs, until they were up to her thighs. She slipped in the padded diaper insert and pulled them all the way up, rolling her hips side to side clumsily to get them all the way up.
Her bra was next - no more Victoria Secret for her. No way she could manage the clasps. She pulled an adapted bra over her head and pushed her arms through it, then used her braced wrists to pull and push it into place over her full - though half numb - breasts.
This process had already taken a full twenty five minutes and Cathy was feeling frustrated. She hadn't even made it into her wheelchair yet, hadn't even tried getting her stockings on. She had don it a few times in rehab, as she liked wearing stockings and pantyhose, but she knew it would be hard, that she might not even manage it.
She pulled a pair of nude pantyhose from her drawer and began the laborious process of scrunching them up onto her limp hands. First her left leg, floppy dead weight. She pulled the scrunched hose over her curled foot and began pulling it up past her ankle, to her calf, using her wrists and braced palms. Then the same process for the right leg, scrunching the hose over her crippled hands, then pulling the stretchy material over her unfeeling foot, up her leg, matching the level of the left. Then she pulled and slid and manipulated her stockings, her legs, her half-dead hands, to get the hose up her limp legs, up to her hips, tugging and pulling, rolling her hips from side to side like they showed her in rehab. Smoothing the stockings out with her braced hands, her wrists.
It took her another half hour. Thirty two minutes, to be exact - she was keeping track on the digital clock by the bedside. Thirty two minutes to put on a pair of nude colored pantyhose. And they still didn't set right on her right foot, the toe was noticeably crooked, but she didn't have the energy or the patience to fix it. She was just satisfied, even proud, that she had gotten it done all by herself. Something so simple a few months ago, barely a second thought in her daily routine, but now....
Cathy grabbed her smooth transfer board from the bedside and propped it between the bed and her wheelchair, pushing thoughts of 'before' out of her head. It would drive her to madness, thinking of 'before', because with a broken back and a diagnosis of low-level quadriplegic there was no 'before'. There was just 'here and now'. Just ugly words like 'wheelchair' and 'cripple' and 'catheter' and 'assisted devices'.
She began the slow, careful transfer into her wheelchair, first setting the transfer board firmly, moving her buttocks onto it, slipping her already atrophied legs off the bed limply, getting her balance - or what was left of it. She pushed with one braced hand, pulled with the other, slid her bottom over the smooth transfer board into the seat of her wheelchair. Seat belt first - she made that mistake already, second day home, and toppled to the floor. The Velcro belt was secured in place, then she started pulling her legs into the chair's legrests. Positioning them as best she could, though her toes always flopped and pointed in odd directions now. Not very ladylike, but then again was she even still a lady? Or just some 'thing' in a chair, numb and lifeless from her nipples down? The things that made her a woman now foreign to her, familiar yet distant, like an aunt you remember form childhood but haven't seen in decades.
She moved the transfer board back to it's spot by the bed and pushed on the knobbed rims of her manual chair, using the strength in her biceps and triceps to move herself, turning towards the door. She could have had a power chair - probably should have had a power chair. Hell, wished she had a power chair the first time she wheeled over moderate carpet, and Miranda's parent's house. She had to ask for help, she couldn't get the chair moving once it had stopped. Too much resistance from that plush carpeting. She cried that night on the way home. Miranda held her hand, but she barely felt it.
She made it to the bathroom and started that process. Pulling down her pantyhose, then her panties and diaper, took a while, but wasn't as difficult in her chair. She took out the catheter, cleaned everything as she was expected to, and then proceeded to 'do her business'. The color looked OK, no infections or other things to call the doctor about. She still had a hard time getting used to things like that, checking her pee. Just part of the deal now - lots of ways to land back in the hospital when you can't feel two thirds of your body. Infection, pressure sores, circulation problems. The doctors had gone over so many things, showed her films that were more like horror movies than medical treatments. And this was her life now.
She finished, cleaned everything, then took her 'adapted' hairbrush - that would be a regular hairbrush with a loop around the handle that cost $40 instead of the normal $8. She slowly and clumsily brushed her hair, hated the way it looked, brushed it again, made it worse, then finally got it to a point where it was at least passable. Small victories were about the best she hoped for since the accident.
Done in the bathroom she wheeled to her closet, all her clothing now hanging 'wheelchair height', and picked out a very conservative skirt and blouse. The skirt was, of course, 'adaptive clothing' - specially made for someone in a chair, someone who wouldn't be standing up in it. She pulled on the white blouse and used the 'button puller' to get it buttoned up. A simple tool, she actually thought it would have been handy even before her accident, when she could use her hands, because it made buttoning her blouse very simple. After her blouse, she took the skirt - Velcro closures and a specially cut waist helped her to get it on without too much struggle, though it still took her nearly ten minutes to get it on and fastened properly. She pushed herself to the floor length mirror and looked at herself.
She tried to see 'Cathy' - her face, the curve of her breasts, the fall of her auburn hair. Instead she saw the wheelchair. She saw her useless legs. She saw the braces on her hands. She saw her curled feet. She saw the silver SUV that had thrown her twelve feet into the air as she was jogging, shattering her spine. She saw the rest of her life in a wheelchair. She turned her eyes away.
She wheeled to the kitchen and started the coffee, then took out some bread and slid it into the toaster. Everything was 'adapted' for her, true, but it was still a pain in the ass. Just putting something within easy reach didn't really make it easier for someone who couldn't move or feel her fingers, she thought bitterly, grabbing a coffee mug between her wrists and placing it under the Keurig machine. Once it was heated up, she dropped a K-Cup into the hopper and hit the flashing button, the machine whirring to life and brewing her morning coffee.
She ate her toast and slowly drank her coffee, watching CNN, talking heads debating about something or someone she had never heard of. She used to be so interested in the news, wanting to sound 'informed' and 'worldly'. Now her world was very different, and she really didn't care about those things any more. Her world was about getting through the day without falling out of her wheelchair or spilling her drink all over herself or pissing herself. that was about the biggest deal in world events she could handle at this point.
Things would get better, that was the mantra in rehab. Not her legs, not her hands, but 'things'. They meant, of course, that with practice and rehab and exercise and adherence to a 'program', living with her disability would get better, be more managable, daily tasks would seem less daunting. But that was after years. Maybe three or four of five of them. ans some things she would never 'get used to'. Never just 'accept and move on'. That was from Mike, one of her rehab coaches, who had been a paraplegic for a decade. A decade in a chair, and the only ray of hope he could give her was 'It will get better, but it will take a few years, at least'. Awesome.
And it was her first day back at work.
She wheeled to the door and reached over to the plant stand she had converted to her 'easy-reach shoe storage'. She only had one pair of 'approved' shoes, black leather things that were 'good for her feet' and 'protective' but looked like an elderly librarian had designed them. She lifted her limp left leg first and slipped the shoe onto her curled foot, making sure her toes weren't pinched or twisted, then placed her foot back onto the foot bar. She did the Same for the right, almost dropping the shoe but catching it by pressing it between her left leg and forearm, then struggling to manipulate it back into position. She got it on and placed her foot back on her footrest, trying to position her feet 'normally', but no matter what she tried they always slid or flopped back into looking 'wrong' - curled and turned in at her ankles. She stopped fidgeting with them in annoyed defeat and wheeled to her desk, rummaging through her paperwork, making sure she had her door card, her ID badge. Work had elevators and ramps, she wasn't worried about that nearly as much as what her co-workers would do, what they would say. She was going to feel like she was in an aquarium or zoo exhibit for a few weeks, she was sure.
She told herself she was ready for it, but as the clock ticked closer and closer to the time she had to meet the car they were sending, the wheelchair accessible transport they were providing until she got her license back, she wasn't as sure. She was starting to feel nervous. Afraid.
The clock struck eight thirty and she wheeled out of her apartment, taking her keys and placing her leather bag on her lap. She wheeled down the hall, pushing against the knobs on her rims with her braced palms, and reached the front door. She pressed her door card to the panel on the wall and it swung open for her. She saw the 'car' - an adapted mini-van with the side lift already down and waiting for her - and wheeled up to it , forcing a smile at the driver, and elderly gentleman. He locked her chair to the lift and raised her up eight inches, then she wheeled into the vehicle and loced her chair by the window. The lift folded in and the doors closed, and she was suddenly on her way...
Cathy used her wrists and palms to grasp the soft sheets, tossing them to the side and uncovering herself. She pushed herself up with some effort, using her forearms and elbows as she learned in rehab, until she was sitting, then pulled her limp, numb lower body a foot, so she was leaning against the oak headboard.
It was her first day back at work since the accident, and she was nervous, couldn't sleep. She woke up an hour before her alarm, which was already set an hour earlier than it had been before... before her jogging accident, before her broken back, before...
She looked to her left, to the chrome and black wheelchair that sat there, wheels locked, ready to carry her, to take her wherever she needed to go. She focused back on her normal routine, the routine that had been drilled into her over weeks and weeks of rehab.
Her braces were first, and she used her wrists and mouth to pull on the nylon and plastic splints, holding her wrists rigid, her lifeless fingers curled against her palm. She pressed the Velcro closures and then went to work on her diaper. It was a bulky overnight diaper that she hated, but also understood she needed. Changing her sheets every other day would be much more taxing - and more embarrassing, considering the reason behind it. She remembered the first time she saw the nurses change her sheets after she had wet them, and blushed a little, embarrassed at the memory.
Using her braced wrists and hands, she was able to remove the nighttime diaper and dispose if it, then took out some cleansing wipes and cleaned herself. There was no feeling, no sensation, nothing at all any more, not from her nipples down. Feet, legs, sex, stomach - it was all just numb now, useless. It was still her, of course - her body, her parts - but they were different now. She was different now.
Her panties were next. No more exotic thongs, though. She pulled open her nightstand drawer using the pull-loop that Miranda had added to it for her. Pulled out a pair of pink cotton panties and a 'protective undergarment' - a fancy way to say a small diaper, again in case she didn't cath in time, or her schedule was off a little. She struggled first to pull her limp left leg up until her knee just about hit her chest, then struggled with her mostly useless hands to get the panties on over her curled left foot. She did it, then pulled up the right leg and, after a few tries, finally got that leg into the panties too. Then it was just using her braced wrists to pull the panties up her unmoving legs, until they were up to her thighs. She slipped in the padded diaper insert and pulled them all the way up, rolling her hips side to side clumsily to get them all the way up.
Her bra was next - no more Victoria Secret for her. No way she could manage the clasps. She pulled an adapted bra over her head and pushed her arms through it, then used her braced wrists to pull and push it into place over her full - though half numb - breasts.
This process had already taken a full twenty five minutes and Cathy was feeling frustrated. She hadn't even made it into her wheelchair yet, hadn't even tried getting her stockings on. She had don it a few times in rehab, as she liked wearing stockings and pantyhose, but she knew it would be hard, that she might not even manage it.
She pulled a pair of nude pantyhose from her drawer and began the laborious process of scrunching them up onto her limp hands. First her left leg, floppy dead weight. She pulled the scrunched hose over her curled foot and began pulling it up past her ankle, to her calf, using her wrists and braced palms. Then the same process for the right leg, scrunching the hose over her crippled hands, then pulling the stretchy material over her unfeeling foot, up her leg, matching the level of the left. Then she pulled and slid and manipulated her stockings, her legs, her half-dead hands, to get the hose up her limp legs, up to her hips, tugging and pulling, rolling her hips from side to side like they showed her in rehab. Smoothing the stockings out with her braced hands, her wrists.
It took her another half hour. Thirty two minutes, to be exact - she was keeping track on the digital clock by the bedside. Thirty two minutes to put on a pair of nude colored pantyhose. And they still didn't set right on her right foot, the toe was noticeably crooked, but she didn't have the energy or the patience to fix it. She was just satisfied, even proud, that she had gotten it done all by herself. Something so simple a few months ago, barely a second thought in her daily routine, but now....
Cathy grabbed her smooth transfer board from the bedside and propped it between the bed and her wheelchair, pushing thoughts of 'before' out of her head. It would drive her to madness, thinking of 'before', because with a broken back and a diagnosis of low-level quadriplegic there was no 'before'. There was just 'here and now'. Just ugly words like 'wheelchair' and 'cripple' and 'catheter' and 'assisted devices'.
She began the slow, careful transfer into her wheelchair, first setting the transfer board firmly, moving her buttocks onto it, slipping her already atrophied legs off the bed limply, getting her balance - or what was left of it. She pushed with one braced hand, pulled with the other, slid her bottom over the smooth transfer board into the seat of her wheelchair. Seat belt first - she made that mistake already, second day home, and toppled to the floor. The Velcro belt was secured in place, then she started pulling her legs into the chair's legrests. Positioning them as best she could, though her toes always flopped and pointed in odd directions now. Not very ladylike, but then again was she even still a lady? Or just some 'thing' in a chair, numb and lifeless from her nipples down? The things that made her a woman now foreign to her, familiar yet distant, like an aunt you remember form childhood but haven't seen in decades.
She moved the transfer board back to it's spot by the bed and pushed on the knobbed rims of her manual chair, using the strength in her biceps and triceps to move herself, turning towards the door. She could have had a power chair - probably should have had a power chair. Hell, wished she had a power chair the first time she wheeled over moderate carpet, and Miranda's parent's house. She had to ask for help, she couldn't get the chair moving once it had stopped. Too much resistance from that plush carpeting. She cried that night on the way home. Miranda held her hand, but she barely felt it.
She made it to the bathroom and started that process. Pulling down her pantyhose, then her panties and diaper, took a while, but wasn't as difficult in her chair. She took out the catheter, cleaned everything as she was expected to, and then proceeded to 'do her business'. The color looked OK, no infections or other things to call the doctor about. She still had a hard time getting used to things like that, checking her pee. Just part of the deal now - lots of ways to land back in the hospital when you can't feel two thirds of your body. Infection, pressure sores, circulation problems. The doctors had gone over so many things, showed her films that were more like horror movies than medical treatments. And this was her life now.
She finished, cleaned everything, then took her 'adapted' hairbrush - that would be a regular hairbrush with a loop around the handle that cost $40 instead of the normal $8. She slowly and clumsily brushed her hair, hated the way it looked, brushed it again, made it worse, then finally got it to a point where it was at least passable. Small victories were about the best she hoped for since the accident.
Done in the bathroom she wheeled to her closet, all her clothing now hanging 'wheelchair height', and picked out a very conservative skirt and blouse. The skirt was, of course, 'adaptive clothing' - specially made for someone in a chair, someone who wouldn't be standing up in it. She pulled on the white blouse and used the 'button puller' to get it buttoned up. A simple tool, she actually thought it would have been handy even before her accident, when she could use her hands, because it made buttoning her blouse very simple. After her blouse, she took the skirt - Velcro closures and a specially cut waist helped her to get it on without too much struggle, though it still took her nearly ten minutes to get it on and fastened properly. She pushed herself to the floor length mirror and looked at herself.
She tried to see 'Cathy' - her face, the curve of her breasts, the fall of her auburn hair. Instead she saw the wheelchair. She saw her useless legs. She saw the braces on her hands. She saw her curled feet. She saw the silver SUV that had thrown her twelve feet into the air as she was jogging, shattering her spine. She saw the rest of her life in a wheelchair. She turned her eyes away.
She wheeled to the kitchen and started the coffee, then took out some bread and slid it into the toaster. Everything was 'adapted' for her, true, but it was still a pain in the ass. Just putting something within easy reach didn't really make it easier for someone who couldn't move or feel her fingers, she thought bitterly, grabbing a coffee mug between her wrists and placing it under the Keurig machine. Once it was heated up, she dropped a K-Cup into the hopper and hit the flashing button, the machine whirring to life and brewing her morning coffee.
She ate her toast and slowly drank her coffee, watching CNN, talking heads debating about something or someone she had never heard of. She used to be so interested in the news, wanting to sound 'informed' and 'worldly'. Now her world was very different, and she really didn't care about those things any more. Her world was about getting through the day without falling out of her wheelchair or spilling her drink all over herself or pissing herself. that was about the biggest deal in world events she could handle at this point.
Things would get better, that was the mantra in rehab. Not her legs, not her hands, but 'things'. They meant, of course, that with practice and rehab and exercise and adherence to a 'program', living with her disability would get better, be more managable, daily tasks would seem less daunting. But that was after years. Maybe three or four of five of them. ans some things she would never 'get used to'. Never just 'accept and move on'. That was from Mike, one of her rehab coaches, who had been a paraplegic for a decade. A decade in a chair, and the only ray of hope he could give her was 'It will get better, but it will take a few years, at least'. Awesome.
And it was her first day back at work.
She wheeled to the door and reached over to the plant stand she had converted to her 'easy-reach shoe storage'. She only had one pair of 'approved' shoes, black leather things that were 'good for her feet' and 'protective' but looked like an elderly librarian had designed them. She lifted her limp left leg first and slipped the shoe onto her curled foot, making sure her toes weren't pinched or twisted, then placed her foot back onto the foot bar. She did the Same for the right, almost dropping the shoe but catching it by pressing it between her left leg and forearm, then struggling to manipulate it back into position. She got it on and placed her foot back on her footrest, trying to position her feet 'normally', but no matter what she tried they always slid or flopped back into looking 'wrong' - curled and turned in at her ankles. She stopped fidgeting with them in annoyed defeat and wheeled to her desk, rummaging through her paperwork, making sure she had her door card, her ID badge. Work had elevators and ramps, she wasn't worried about that nearly as much as what her co-workers would do, what they would say. She was going to feel like she was in an aquarium or zoo exhibit for a few weeks, she was sure.
She told herself she was ready for it, but as the clock ticked closer and closer to the time she had to meet the car they were sending, the wheelchair accessible transport they were providing until she got her license back, she wasn't as sure. She was starting to feel nervous. Afraid.
The clock struck eight thirty and she wheeled out of her apartment, taking her keys and placing her leather bag on her lap. She wheeled down the hall, pushing against the knobs on her rims with her braced palms, and reached the front door. She pressed her door card to the panel on the wall and it swung open for her. She saw the 'car' - an adapted mini-van with the side lift already down and waiting for her - and wheeled up to it , forcing a smile at the driver, and elderly gentleman. He locked her chair to the lift and raised her up eight inches, then she wheeled into the vehicle and loced her chair by the window. The lift folded in and the doors closed, and she was suddenly on her way...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
BLOG - Flash Fiction
I've started trying a new idea for my writing. The concept is to just take an idea and create a really short story around it, just write it out in one sitting, no edits or rewrites or rethinks, nothing more than spelling or minor grammar corrections, and then publish it.
I tried it today and I like the result - it's posted in the previous entry. It's called 'Tit for Tat' and I wrote it in about 45 minutes, one sitting, no edits, I just did a spell check at the end and published it. It's extreme and kind of crazy and lacks a lot of detail, but what's there is the pure, raw concept of my idea brought into focus. Two women with a disability fetish and a mean streak, having at one another. Who will win? Well - we all do, I guess :)
I tried it today and I like the result - it's posted in the previous entry. It's called 'Tit for Tat' and I wrote it in about 45 minutes, one sitting, no edits, I just did a spell check at the end and published it. It's extreme and kind of crazy and lacks a lot of detail, but what's there is the pure, raw concept of my idea brought into focus. Two women with a disability fetish and a mean streak, having at one another. Who will win? Well - we all do, I guess :)
STORY - Tit for Tat
Tit for Tat - By Paragirl
I feel my way to the bed, crawling slowly across the floor. My legs are dead - they have been for a week, at least. The eyes are new, though, and I know this blindness is permanent, just like the legs.
I know she's watching me, on the bed trying trying not to make a sound. Her arms - rather her stumps, that was my doing - wiggling and trying to reach her pussy as she watches me struggle. I'm sure she's turned on by it, by my new found helplessness. The legs were one thing - it was pretty kinky actually, waking up numb from my hips down, seeing her fucking my numb pussy with that silver dildo. Fucking my unfeeling ass over and over again while I watched. I could have been OK like that, with my dead limp legs, needing a wheelchair to get around. It still pissed me off, though - that was why I did her arms.
She wasn't as excited or understanding, waking up from her drug-induced slumber to find herself looking at perfectly round arm stumps that wiggled just beneath her shoulders. I fed her and played with her pussy, rubbing her wet clit with my floppy crippled toes, and she started getting into it, but I knew... I could see it in her eyes. I should have been more careful, I guess...
We made love often for a few days, and she really seemed to be enjoying her armless condition. She loved being fed, loved being dressed by me. She said she felt like a doll. I paid lots of attention to her pussy, too - she could feel it at least, so I took good care of her that way. My pussy was dead, numb, like it didn't even exist. I couldn't even control my pee, so I wore bulky diapers. She loved that. She'd use her feet to play with my diaper, pull it off roughly, play with my dead sex and tell me how sexy it felt. How sexy my floppy useless legs looked.
I crawled now, across the plush rug of the bedroom, - I could feel it against my naked breasts as I dragged myself, though my body 'ended' conspicuously at my navel. I haven't really gotten used to that yet, and now that I was blind, it seemed to heighten my awareness even more - my awareness of my lack of awareness, my lack of feeling, sensation, movement. How my body was just dead weight, dragging behind me, soft and heavy and useless.
I found the bed and I heard the soft sound of a spring changing shape subtly as she shifted her weight in anticipation. I could imagine how hot she was now, seeing me drag myself blindly across the room, seeing my milky white eyes and limp lifeless legs. I assumed they were milky white - that seemed like something she would do, make it more obvious, more pronounced. It was eye drops, I'm pretty sure. Something simple, and she trained herself to use her toes to pull my eyes open while I was unconscious, to drip whatever toxin she had found into both eyes. I was kind of proud, really - she had learned to do so much with her feet and toes in a very short time. That's why they were next.
I reached the bed and slowly, laboriously dragged my dead lower half up. I heard her this time. A small moan and a giggle. I imaged how my legs wiggled and flopped as I struggled up the bed. I reached out and found her foot there, warm and seductive. I used her leg as purchase to pull myself up fully onto the bed, and then crawled towards her. Kissed her legs, her thighs. I moved slowly, sensually. Kissing and licking. Feeling her all over, my fingers replacing my blind eyes. Felt the soft fur of her muff, felt a smooth dimple in her left ass cheek, felt her breathing start to get deeper, heavier.
My fingers found her stumps and I caressed and rubbed them sensually, making her moan even more. I felt her legs shifting under my body and, even though I couldn't feel a thing, couldn't see it, I knew she was playing with my clit. I kissed and caressed her stumps and her breasts and snuck one hand down to her pussy, rubbing it gently, feeling how wet and aroused she was. She was playing with my pussy with her toes and I was sucking her arm stump and fingering her. She was almost ready to cum, I could feel her heartbeat racing, feel her muscles tensing. She was completely mine now, and she let her guard down completely, as I expected.
she didn't suspect anything because I was naked, and I was crippled, and I was blind. She didn't think I was a threat. Didn't see me move my hand around to my back. Didn't see me slip the capped syringe out of my numb ass. Didn't realize what I was doing as I was feeling her ass. Didn't feel the needle slip in during her orgasm. Then she was out cold.
The operation would be more difficult without eyesight, but bilateral amputation of the feet and lower legs wasn't a very tricky procedure. Doing it by feel wouldn't be all that difficult. and the results would be so very, very satisfying...
I smiled and began.
I feel my way to the bed, crawling slowly across the floor. My legs are dead - they have been for a week, at least. The eyes are new, though, and I know this blindness is permanent, just like the legs.
I know she's watching me, on the bed trying trying not to make a sound. Her arms - rather her stumps, that was my doing - wiggling and trying to reach her pussy as she watches me struggle. I'm sure she's turned on by it, by my new found helplessness. The legs were one thing - it was pretty kinky actually, waking up numb from my hips down, seeing her fucking my numb pussy with that silver dildo. Fucking my unfeeling ass over and over again while I watched. I could have been OK like that, with my dead limp legs, needing a wheelchair to get around. It still pissed me off, though - that was why I did her arms.
She wasn't as excited or understanding, waking up from her drug-induced slumber to find herself looking at perfectly round arm stumps that wiggled just beneath her shoulders. I fed her and played with her pussy, rubbing her wet clit with my floppy crippled toes, and she started getting into it, but I knew... I could see it in her eyes. I should have been more careful, I guess...
We made love often for a few days, and she really seemed to be enjoying her armless condition. She loved being fed, loved being dressed by me. She said she felt like a doll. I paid lots of attention to her pussy, too - she could feel it at least, so I took good care of her that way. My pussy was dead, numb, like it didn't even exist. I couldn't even control my pee, so I wore bulky diapers. She loved that. She'd use her feet to play with my diaper, pull it off roughly, play with my dead sex and tell me how sexy it felt. How sexy my floppy useless legs looked.
I crawled now, across the plush rug of the bedroom, - I could feel it against my naked breasts as I dragged myself, though my body 'ended' conspicuously at my navel. I haven't really gotten used to that yet, and now that I was blind, it seemed to heighten my awareness even more - my awareness of my lack of awareness, my lack of feeling, sensation, movement. How my body was just dead weight, dragging behind me, soft and heavy and useless.
I found the bed and I heard the soft sound of a spring changing shape subtly as she shifted her weight in anticipation. I could imagine how hot she was now, seeing me drag myself blindly across the room, seeing my milky white eyes and limp lifeless legs. I assumed they were milky white - that seemed like something she would do, make it more obvious, more pronounced. It was eye drops, I'm pretty sure. Something simple, and she trained herself to use her toes to pull my eyes open while I was unconscious, to drip whatever toxin she had found into both eyes. I was kind of proud, really - she had learned to do so much with her feet and toes in a very short time. That's why they were next.
I reached the bed and slowly, laboriously dragged my dead lower half up. I heard her this time. A small moan and a giggle. I imaged how my legs wiggled and flopped as I struggled up the bed. I reached out and found her foot there, warm and seductive. I used her leg as purchase to pull myself up fully onto the bed, and then crawled towards her. Kissed her legs, her thighs. I moved slowly, sensually. Kissing and licking. Feeling her all over, my fingers replacing my blind eyes. Felt the soft fur of her muff, felt a smooth dimple in her left ass cheek, felt her breathing start to get deeper, heavier.
My fingers found her stumps and I caressed and rubbed them sensually, making her moan even more. I felt her legs shifting under my body and, even though I couldn't feel a thing, couldn't see it, I knew she was playing with my clit. I kissed and caressed her stumps and her breasts and snuck one hand down to her pussy, rubbing it gently, feeling how wet and aroused she was. She was playing with my pussy with her toes and I was sucking her arm stump and fingering her. She was almost ready to cum, I could feel her heartbeat racing, feel her muscles tensing. She was completely mine now, and she let her guard down completely, as I expected.
she didn't suspect anything because I was naked, and I was crippled, and I was blind. She didn't think I was a threat. Didn't see me move my hand around to my back. Didn't see me slip the capped syringe out of my numb ass. Didn't realize what I was doing as I was feeling her ass. Didn't feel the needle slip in during her orgasm. Then she was out cold.
The operation would be more difficult without eyesight, but bilateral amputation of the feet and lower legs wasn't a very tricky procedure. Doing it by feel wouldn't be all that difficult. and the results would be so very, very satisfying...
I smiled and began.
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