The funeral for my husband of five years has just ended. He was handsome and much older, two of my favorite attributes for a man to marry. He was also very rich. We were in love, gave each other what we wanted, especially in bed. Nothing denied. We even brought others into bed – a woman for him to have or to watch me with, a man for me, and a few times even another couple. There was always crazy sex for hours, days.
I stand and speak with Joanne when I notice a woman sitting alone in the last row, empty rows in front of her. She dabs her eye with a handkerchief a few times then walks away using crutches, a single right leg protruding from her knee length black dress.
“Grace, What?” Joanne asks.
“Who is that woman?” I point without being too obvious and she is already out of sight. “She’s gone.”
I become distracted and faint. She helps me to a chair and I sit for a moment, struggling to collect myself as I tremble uncontrollably. I wave off help as feelings I have repressed since before meeting Jim flood my being.
‘Who was she?’ I ask myself. ‘Did he know her? Did he like such women?’ Tears stream down my face and I wipe at them with a handkerchief. ‘Would he have minded if I had told him of my own desire to be like her?’ I cannot clear my head.
“Are you okay?” another guest asks.
“Just a little overwhelmed,” I reply without explaining myself.
The next week I go through Jim’s closets and take his clothes to thrift shops. Knowing his fragrance will be lost forever is hard on me. Between trips, I take time to greave, have a stiff drink of whiskey, and then continue.
Standing in the doorway of his home office feels overwhelming as I survey the belongings. The thought of the woman with one leg again floods my mind, something I’ve managed to avoid thus far. Leaning against the door, I pull my foot against my hip and stand on just one foot. The arousal is sudden and full, the crotch of my panties become soaked, the need to masturbate great. I stand still, resisting, but failing.
I sit on my bed and undress, the black thong the last to fall on the floor, just before I pull my foot against my hip and spread the simulated stump wide. I feel the wetness, much more than normal. I had forgotten how excited such pretending used to make me. It was something I had done since my teen years, more at times of stress than others. There were periods when I did not think about it, about the woman I had seen as a child, the one missing a leg.
The orgasm happens on first touch and grips me as I drill my fingers like a jackhammer inside me. My knee moves as I test that my leg feels it is not there. I know it is, but the sensation so real. My fingers fly, the orgasm continues unabated. Maybe it wanes and builds. It feels so good regardless. I lose track of time, having no desire to stop.
I return from the drug store with crutches and several elastic bandages. Soon I parade around the room with my folded leg stuffed inside my jeans, the empty pants leg swinging each step. After a few minutes, my gait is smoother, more even, and getting better. Though my foot is hurting, I resist removing the bandage.
In the tall mirror standing against a wall, I see a woman missing a leg and the sight thrills me. Knowing who it is excites me more. Even as I twist and turn, modeling for myself, seeing the bulge of my foot in the seat of the jeans, I think what it would be like to be the woman in the mirror. Walking about the house, stopping to do everyday things on one leg, all the while testing my feelings, the excitement remains.
Now I have the need to clean Jim’s office. Sitting in his desk chair with my leg still folded, I take the first few folders from a drawer. The very first one has a picture of the woman, the one with one leg at the funeral. Undressed, she is holding the end of a short stump and looking quite sensual for the photographer. “Fuck….” I begin aloud. There are more pictures of her in various poses, some undress, and some not, each just as exciting.
I hurry to my bed, spread the pictures across the covers and undress then unbind my leg. “Geez, did he know her?” I say aloud as I finger myself.
“Hello?” I say, answering the phone.
“Ms. Mattson, you probably don’t know me. I was at the funeral.”
I instantly know it is her. I anxiously say, “The woman with one leg?”
“I must speak with you. Would you mind?”
“Maybe it is wrong, but….” I’m on fire and I don’t want to scare her away.
“He found me sexy. Maybe you would.”
“Yes, yes, I would.” My words fly out my mouth. “More than that, I’d…. Oh, I’m rambling. Can we meet?”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I’m not concerned with what you and Jim might have done. I would love to talk to you about what it’s like. Does that make sense?”
“We never did anything. I only met him once, to give him the pictures you’ve probably found by now.”
“Yes. They were ‘most’ exciting to me. Did he like them?”
“He did. He was into female amputees, pursaklar escort I assume. Are you, or do you want to be like me?”
“How’d you know?”
“We are alike.”
She is exactly right. How does she know? “Come over now, can you?” Why aren’t you here already, this second?
I change clothes, a short skirt and loose fitting blouse, slip on some sandals, and comb my hair. The doorbell rings and I walk quickly though the house.
“Ms. Mattson? I’m Mona, we just spoke on the phone.” She extends her right hand, long slender fingers with red fingernails, except for the ring finger, missing all but a short piece.
Quickly I capture her looks – my height, similar size, a little younger, a little prettier, jeans with the left pants leg wrapped around a hip without most of a leg, sleeveless blouse tightly fitting over firm perky breasts, obviously without a bra.
“Yes, come in. Call me Grace.” I step back and let her pass. Her black pump, with a low heal and hard leather sole, clicks against the marble floor of the foyer.
“Yes, haven’t decided if I want to keep it. Kind of big for just one person.”
“Maybe you’ll find someone to share your life with, someone that ‘understands’ such odd needs as we have.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” I turn and lead her into the great room.
“Whiskey sounds perfect.”
I wonder if she can read my mind. “Have a seat.” I point to the couch then move towards the wet bar and pour two drinks.
“I understand not telling him about your leg, wanting to not have it,” she says as she lays the crutches neatly and quietly on the floor. “I don’t talk about that part of me.”
I hand her the glass, put mine on the table, and then sit turned so I can look more directly at her. “How long have you been this way?” I wave my hand towards her missing leg.
She sips and let the glass hover near her mouth as she swallows. “A few hours.” There is a soft, but slightly wicked chuckle before the takes another sip.
“Huh? I saw the pictures he had.”
“I pretend and I have a way to make it look, even feel, real. Sometimes a leg, others maybe an arm.” She extends the fingers of her right hand and wiggles them. “Even a finger.”
“I’m so confused. I thought you had found a doctor and had an amputation.”
“Could have done that, there ‘are’ such surgeons for a price.” She sits the glass on the table and opens her purse taking a blue bottle out. She slowly turns it in her hand. “Behold.” She smiles. “With this, you can have any stump you want for a while, or forever.”
“Oh, my,” I mumble. “Sounds fantastic.”
“Want to try some?”
“Yes, yes. This seems so much better than I had imagined.” I watch her fill a syringe with some of the liquid from the bottle. “Let me get my crutches. Be right back.”
She hands me the syringe as I sit. “Push the needle straight in where you want the stump to end. I put in enough for a few hours.”
I check how much she put in as I pull my skirt up high and rub a fingertip over first one place then another. “Trying to decide.” I chuckle then stick myself about a third of the way down from the top of the thigh.
“It takes a few minutes,” she whispers.
“Wow!” I rub my hands over the stump several times. “And my leg will come back?”
“Yup. You can almost set your clock by it.” She laughs. “Double the dose, double the time, never more than twelve hours. Twenty-four hours will make it never come back.”
“Sure. You can do several limbs or digits at a time. Both legs can be fun if you have a wheelchair.”
“Were do I get this?”
She hands me a business card. “Order it online.” She stands and retrieves her crutches. “Aren’t you going to walk around?” She laughs.
“I was just so overwhelmed, I forgot.” I take a few steps that are so much nicer than with a bound up leg then stand in front of her swinging my lone foot a few times between the tips of the crutches.
“I should go,” she says, extending her hand.
“You could stay, have some dinner.”
“It was so nice to meet you.” She glances down at the blue bottle on the table. “You are the only one to have used that bottle. Keep it.”
“Let me pay you.”
“No. My gift.”
With that, she is gone as quickly as she came.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I whisper, walking on my crutches into the bedroom. Standing in front of the tall mirror, I snake the hem of the skirt up and wiggle the short stump about. “Damn-n,” I drawl.
Watching myself, I consider why she stayed for such a short time when it was obvious we shared this strange desire. She had said she only met Jim one time and there was no reason to lie about that. Where does she live and who is she really?
I grab a black thong bikini from the drawer and change, then make my way to the secluded pool in the large back yard. The crutches lean against a chair as I hop five times to the edge and dive in. After a few laps, I get out, excited to try doing everything on one leg. Sitting rize escort on the edge of the pool with my only foot pulled closer to my hip and my chin resting on the knee, I consider the options that are now possible.
“Both legs,” I mutter aloud, looking down at my stump as I move it side-to-side a few times. “An arm ‘and’ a leg. Wow.”
I lie down on my stomach feeling the warm rays of the sun bathe me. Sleep overtakes me.
When I awake, my leg has returned. “No one will understand, or believe me,” I say aloud as I stand and retrieve my crutches. The sun is starting to settle below the horizon. On the way to the bedroom, I grab the bottle and syringe. “Need more of these,” I mutter. Before taking a shower, I remove most of my left arm.
The next morning after showering and having breakfast, I remove my leg for twelve hours leaving an even shorter stump than before. Though there is no need to pick a permanent length, I take a moment to consider if I like this one or the other. I honestly can’t decide.
I pull the jean pants leg around the stump and stuff it over the waistband. There is something satisfying about doing this way rather than cutting the pants leg off then sewing it shut. The sleeveless blouse over naked breasts feels good and I leave the foot bare.
This morning’s task is to go though Jim’s desk and files to locate important papers. Maybe I will even find more about his hidden side. On my way there, I walk around the house and out by the pool, mostly to savor the feelings of having one leg. I do love being this way. Of course, the time with one arm was interesting, and I haven’t even tried all the combinations.
At his desk, I go to the web page for the stuff in the blue bottle. There are other potions available as well as syringes. I place a large order then look though his browsing history and bookmarks. All seem like business kinds of things. I check his e-mail and again mostly business, no subject lines like ‘hot amputee chick wants your body’. I wiggle the short stump to remind me the leg is gone. I love the way it feels. A new e-mail from someone named Frank appears.
‘Hey Jim. Did you read that message on the group, number 12673? She’s been pretending and looking for a girlfriend. Makes me wish I were a chick that lived near her. Ha. Hope all is well. Frank.’
“What group?” I mutter aloud as I look again at the browser history. “Pretender Wannabe” I whisper as I find it. Why doesn’t she know about the blue bottle? I scan the messages. “There,” I mutter aloud. I read several of her messages and get the feeling she does want to be missing a leg. Of course, she might live halfway around the world or not even be a woman.
With a new user name, I join the group and send her a private message.
‘Just joined the Pretender Wannabe group and found your message. We think alike and have similar needs. I live in Rockland, 32, wish we could meet. It is probably too much to ask that we might live close enough to do that. Grace.’
I send the message and leave the e-mail program running then begin reading though the files in his desk. Most are business related and I stack those in boxes. I don’t know what I will do with them, probably pass on to his partner. I find the file from the estate lawyer and scan though it to find the life insurance policy. I place a few calls to let each know about his death.
‘Grace, nice to hear from you. Several Rockland’s in the world, maybe yours is the one a few miles from Ridgeville. If so, we are close and we definitely need to meet. I’m 34, financially secure, single, not bad looking, would love to be missing a leg, but enjoy pretending to not have all combinations of limbs. Bonnie.’
Several new messages appear in my inbox and I read them before replying to Bonnie. None interest me; most from people that say little about whom they are or even indicate their gender.
Ridgeville is near and we exchange a few more messages before we agree to meet for coffee, though I never tell her about the blue bottle.
Friends of Jim or mine call to inquire how I am doing and I sound appropriately sad and grieving. A few offer to come by and I tell them I would prefer to be alone now. I neglect to say I have eight more hours before my leg reappears. I have a slight moment of panic as I think about what to do if the doorbell rings. Of course, both cars are in the garage and with the house set well back from the street in a grove of trees, there is no way to tell I am home. I convince myself I will simply not answer.
I try to walk using one crutch and find it difficult at first, the steps halting, and short. I adjust my technique so my hip presses against the grip of the crutch and things are better. A bead of sweat covers my forehead before long, but I continue until I can walk the length of the hallway without stumbling or falling. I promise myself I will continue to practice.
Leaning back in the office chair, I reread some of Bonnie’s group messages and the replies to see if other women might be out there. I am not surprised to find ankara rus escort others now that I know about her and Mona. I find it disappointing that I have never thought to search for such things.
A new message arrives – ‘Just taking a chance, saw you are a new member. I live in Rockland, 40, married to someone that does not know about this part of me. I need to be missing my arm. I know there isn’t anyway to make that happen so I sneak out at night and pretend. I hope you are real. Write. Joanne.’
“Joanne?” I say aloud. It can’t be the same one from the funeral. Jim and I had a three-way with her several times. Her husband is a major jerk and I dislike him intensely. I have no idea why she stays with him, I wouldn’t, but I do enjoy her company. “God-d,” I drawl aloud.
I reply along with text of her message – ‘Joanne, it’s me, Grace. Call me.’
The phone rings about thirty seconds later and without much conversation, she says she is coming over. I hear dial tone before I can say anything. Nothing I can do now and no way to hide my missing leg.
The knock comes quickly and I hesitantly open the door still dressed in my jeans, missing a leg, standing with crutches under my arms.
“Grace?” A shocked expression covers her face.
“Come in, you’re the only one that knows.” I quickly shut the door behind her.
“You look fabulous. How?”
“We need to talk. Let’s get a drink. I know I need one.” I laugh and move into the great room towards the bar.
“Yeah, me too.”
She takes the glass and we clink them together. “To common needs,” I say raising my glass slightly before taking a sip. She does as well. “Your arm?”
“Never talked about it. Found the group a few weeks ago. I don’t why I sent the message.” She sips again and looks me over. “He doesn’t know and I don’t what he’d do if I lost it.” She walks to the couch and sits.
“Jim didn’t know either. I guess no one ever believe there can be others.”
“I didn’t know until I was looking though his stuff and found pictures of a woman missing a leg.”
“Must have been a shock.”
“It was the woman I saw at the funeral. She called the other day; we met and talked for a short time. She assured me nothing happened between them. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“But this….” She waves her hand past my missing leg.
“This is the good part.” I put the glass down and return with the blue bottle. “Makes your limb become a stump for two to twelve hours.”
“No lie. I’d let you try it, but I only have one syringe.” She nods, but I can tell she is disappointed. “I have more of this and syringes ordered, should be here tomorrow.”
“Wow! Can I see what it looks like?”
I slide my jeans off the left side and wiggle the stump a few times. “Looks real, doesn’t it?”
“Twelve hours? I don’t think that could ever be long enough.” She groans.
“You can inject again or with a large amount you can make become permanent.”
“He’s still a problem.” She rubs a hand over my stump.
“Maybe he’s like Jim and you just don’t know.” I laugh. “Stranger things happen.”
“I know he isn’t. I once made some comment about a woman missing an arm at the mall. He groaned and say he’d rather see me dead than to be like that.”
“I know, but I think a lot of folks feel that way.” She continues to rub my stump and her fingers wander up the inside of the thigh. “We had some good times.”
I look at the clock. “I believe two hours is the shortest time.”
“Is it that late? I need to get dinner started.” She frowns. “Fuck,” she whispers. “Send me the link for the place to order this stuff.”
“Order from here, that way you can have it tomorrow.”
Tonight I ready myself for bed and remove most my right ring finger, left arm, and right leg. My crutches lean against the wall near the headboard as I pull the covers up and feel myself everywhere, some longer than others. The sensations as I try to reach with the missing arm overwhelm me, almost sending me into orgasm convulsions. I fondle first the leg stump then the arm and it continues without even touching my slit.
A new injection and I shower, enjoying the way the water drains over my legless hip as I twist and turn under the waterfall cascading over me. I linger much longer than usual and eventually twist the knob until the water stops. It is not the first shower on one leg, yet I still am learning the best way to do things without falling and hurting myself.
I find a lightweight black short cotton skirt and revealing white blouse to wear. I put a thong panty back in the drawer and trade it for a black boy-cut pair. Still barefoot and with damp uncombed hair brushing along my shoulders, the doorbell rings. I hurry to see if it is the delivery of more blue bottles. I peak out the side glass beside the door and there is a man in brown shorts and shirt holding a box and something else.
“Ms. Mattson?” he asks as though finding a woman with one leg in front of him is quite normal.
He hands me the box and I see his eyes rove over me, spending an extra long moment on the lack of a leg extending from the skirt. “Noticed that return address before, kind of unique appearance. Memorable, not as much as you.” He hands me the thing to sign and I do.