s on the cheek, and then got out of your Audi and your life and ran up the steps of my building to get inside as fast as I could, utterly distraught. arting to move down my body inside the tracksuit top, "Ohh, thank you," I breathed, "thank you for my wonderful present. I feel so alive. I feel... electrified." I moaned again as your fingers forced their way under the elastic waistband of the tracksuit bottoms and reached the top of my pubis. Suddenly you moved to straddle my waist, pulling the tracksuit top open to bare my tanned breasts fully. You gently lifted my head and pulled the top away, exposing my arm stumps. You pounced, kissing me on the lips, the neck, the breasts, my two perfect stumps. I could feel your cock, stiff against my groin. In my excitement, I came, in a wave down my reduced body. You felt it too and sat back on your heels to tear the tracksuit bottoms away, revealing my moist cunt and smooth, sweaty leg stumps. I lay, naked, limbless, skin slick with perspiration, at your mercy on the bed before you. I locked contact with your grey-green eyes and you smiled down at me. My new life as your quad lover began. --- That night at the convention, we ended up talking and drinking and smoking into the small hours in the hotel bar. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'm sure I kept trying to steer the What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail ?....... As we sat in the Eagle on that first Sunday together, we started to unravel and compare our respective interests. It was a process that would ultimately go on for some time, but right away I was keen to know exactly what you were into and it seemed that you wanted to know the same about me.m ----------------------- "You go first, Amber," you said, "after all you've been in this game longer than me." "Well....." I started, "I suppose it began when I was twelve or thirteen, you know that age when girls start seeing boys as something desirable, rather than dirty, teasing pests? And when you start to explore your own sexuality. I dunno, I think I found it hard to become excited about anyone - male or female - and I wasn't really sure what to do, until I saw a woman, well a girl really, she could have been more than about eighteen, in a wheelchair. She had no legs and," I looked round the bar, but it was half-empty and there was no-one within earshot of us, "I felt... excited, for the first time really. "I was with a load of girlfriends, in a shopping mall somewhere, so of course I couldn't really act on that impulse, but that night I started thinking about her and her legs, and I started playing with myself under the covers. At first I was scared by the feelings that that created, but when I came, when I had my first orgasm, it was just... electric..." I suddenly realised I'd been rambling on about one of the most intimate experiences of my life to a virtual stranger, and clammed up. I'd explained this before, of course, to friends online, but there was something a lot different about saying it to the face of real person rather than talking to a message window. "And did you think about the girl in the wheelchair, or did you imagine yourself in her position?" you asked, fascinated. "About her, to begin with," I said, "but one night I had a dream, where I was the girl in the wheelchair, and the challenges that losing your legs would present, and while the dream became a bit of a nightmare, when I woke I was sweating and my pulse was racing, and the sheet between my legs was wet. I think that was when I knew, subconciously, that there was something profound going on..." I stopped talking again, took a gulp of lager and lit up a cigarette, hands shaking. I knew I could tell you anything and it would be okay, but it seemed deeply strange to finally air my dirty laundry in public after years of clandestine online converstations. "That was as far as it went for a few years. I started dating, got into some pretty serious relationships and started having regular sex with this guy a few years older than me when I was sixteen. He was into S+M, you know, domination and all that, and asked me if he could tie me up one time. I let him, and he bound my legs up with a skipping rope, with my heels tucked up under my arse. Inadvertantly, he'd 'amputated' my legs and all those memories of the girl in the wheelchair came flooding back. It was the most amazing sex I'd ever had, and I was on the verge of telling him so, only I found out two days later he'd been fucking my best friend as well and I finished with him." I looked up at you, and realised my cigarette had burned down to a fag-end while I was talking. But that was it, that was the crux of my obsession explained. I felt a great sense of relief, at having poured my heart out to someone else who understood, and at the same time I felt scared and jittery. Who knew where all this might lead? "It couldn't have been more different for me," you said, reaching across the table to hold my shaking hands in yours, "I was writing my second novel, Utopia Point, and I'd written Saskia into a situation where she woke up alone on a collapsing starship in zero-gravity, in the aftermath of an alien attack. I decided that, as a full-body cyborg, she would be able to withstand serious damage and still function, so I decided to have her wake with her arms and legs torn off." I nodded. I remembered the scene and the following passages clearly; it was some of the most amazingly descriptive, flowing, lyrical prose you'd written. "She had to get to a life-raft with the ship breaking up around her," you continued, "and her neural implants that could control the ship's systems and open emergency bulkhead doors and so on weren't working properly, so it became a really tense race against time as she couldn't use physical force to escape and instead had to rely on her ability to move in zero-g and squeeze her damaged body into small spaces to get there instead." "I wrote that whole segment of the book, about five thousand words or something, in two hours, and it went into to the hardback edition almost unchanged. After I stepped away from the computer that night I was exhuasted, but also excited. So excited I had to go and crack one out, pardon the expression, and at the time I thought it was just exhilaration from finishing my 'Oscar scene' as it were. But unconciously I started to slip similar situations into later books, sometimes without even noticing until re-reads. Like you said on the way back from the convention, at the time I didn't understand it but now I can see that it was because some base part of my mind found amputees fucking horny." I was rapt, and I told you that I knew some of the key amputee passages from your books almost off by heart. You smiled your wry smile, and excused yourself to go to the toilet. I sat there, curled up on the worn-out leather sofa in the window of The Eagle, watching traffic go past on the Farringdon Road, and thought about what to ask and what to tell you next. Not only was the food and atmosphere perfect there, but the music they were playing was from all my favourite acts. FSOL, __ziq, Massive Attack, Orbital, Aphex Twin, all the old standards... I could tell some serious drinking time would be spent here. You returned with fresh pints. "So," I said, suggestively wiping a finger round the rim of my glass, "what kind do you like? What kind of amputations, I mean?" You took a long draught from your lager as you gave this some thought, "If you look at the novels, I suppose the majority in there are quite extreme. You know, what's it called when a limb comes off at the shoulder or hip?" "Disarticulation," I prompted, "Yeah. In Utopia Lost, Saskia has all four limbs disarticulated over the course of the climatic sequence. Ripped from their sockets by the Parenthar. Going back and reading all the books, I was really turned on by that, more than any of the others. So I suppose I like quadruple amputees, people who have totally lost the ability to fend for themselves." The scenes you'd mentioned were some of the ones I'd read over and over, one hand between my legs and the other gripping the pages of the book in ecstasy. "Oh Richard, that's my favourite too!" I exclaimed, suddenly, then remembered where we were and quietened down again. "I'm the same." Without even thinking, I launched into another intimate memoir, "Quads are something special to me. It's not just the restriction of movement, but the body image of someone with no limbs is... like... it feels 'right' when I see it. When I'm really into it, when I'm fantasising, these things..." I waved my hands as illustration, "seem like an emcumberance. Like they're not supposed to exist, you know? "In my last year before coming to London, to university, I hooked up with another lad who was into bondage. I was his willing accomplice, because he'd tie me up and restrict my movement. One night he bound my arms and legs at the same time, so I became a pretend quad for a few hours. The sex was awesome, of course, and I begged him to leave me like that for a whole weekend, but he untied me when he said my hands and feet were going blue. The feeling of... bliss... I felt when I was tied up like that was fantastic, but I knew it was always going to be temporary and that depressed me. Then I discovered your books, and it set me off again because I could imagine that I was in the place of your heroines, floating through derelict space ships, guiding my way by pushing against blown out instrument panels with my sparking, short circuiting, cyborg stumps." At that point you leant across the table and kissed me, more passionately than you'd done even in the throes of our love making. "Amber," you breathed, "you are my muse. You understand me totallly, like you said you did on that night in Manchester. I feel complete when you're with me. Come and live with me, please?" I pulled away from you, "Richard," I replied, "that's I lot to ask. Let me think about it." I pushed my chair back and hurried to the toilet. Inside a cubicle I leant back heavily on the door and sighed, loudly. I knew I would say yes. You made me feel at ease, for almost the first time in my life. How could I not want to be with you? I just had to think of a cool reason for agreeing so fast... ---- It was dusk by the time you slotted the S4 into a cobbled parking bay outside our building. You leapt out and ran round to the passenger side, opening the door and unbelting me. You lifted me out and, fumbling with the remote central locking controls, carried me awkwardly to the front door. I felt myself slipping through your arms, but you realised in time and adjusted your grip. "Wouldn't it be easier in with a wheelchair?" I asked, face pressed against your shoulder. "Remember our agreement?" you replied, "no wheelchair, no protheses?" "Yeah, but that was when I thought just my legs were coming off!" "Hmph", you muttered, stuggling to support me with one arm as you tapped the entry code into the lock panel. The door buzzed and you grabbed the handle to open it, kicking it further out with one foot. For my grand entrance, this wasn't going to well. You called the lift, and we waited in the lobby. I shifted my position and stared into your eyes, "Well?" I demanded. "Don't worry," you said, cryptically, "don't forget there's a surprise or two waiting upstairs." I rested my head back on your shoulder, tired after our long journey. The lift came clanking down its shaft. It was an old-fashioned goods elevator, with sliding grille doors on the car and each floor, dating from the early part of the century according to the brass manufacturer's plate instead. It was a complete con-job of course, restored and installed five years ago when the building was refurbished into apartments. You had to put me down to wrestle the sliding doors open. The terrazo tiles of the lobby floor felt freezing cold through the fabric of my dress-pouch. We ascended five floors in the rattling lift. I hated the thing, and always used to run up and down the stairs when I didn't have anything to carry, but now of course I didn't really have any choice. We reached our floor with a jolt, and you put me down again to open the doors. Sitting in the corner of the lift car, I could look through the mesh sides, down over the edge, down the shaft that plunged ground-wards inside the stairwell to the murky basement below. Then you snatched me up again and we walked down the corridor to your apartment. Balancing my body on your knee, you unlocked the door and pushed it open. We entered and...my god, the place had been transformed! What had been a cavernous space filled with builders' junk just a few weeks ago had been totally refurbished. The floor had been stripped and polished, and an expanse of gleaming wood, ten feet wide at least, stretched away from the front door down the entire length of the apartment. To our right, a stone fireplace was surrounded by a semi-circle of enormous couches and low beech tables, sitting on a magnificent, creamy coloured, shag pile carpet. This space was seperated from the next 'room' by a ceiling height, corrugated translucent screen, and I could see floor runners between the edge of the carpet and the wooden hallway, suggesting this cosy nook could be completely walled off into an Alpine-style love nest. Moving through the apartment, the adjacent area had been turned into a gym. Some of the equipment was familiar, some less so, and it all rested on a high-impact, soft rubber floor. A small shower area was enclosed in glass bricks, in the style of the main bathroom upstairs. To the left, five of the large industrial windows that let so much light into your apartment had been extended down into full height glass doors that now led out to a sun deck, cantilevered out over the roof of the next building. You tapped a code into a security panel on the wall and then waved a hand through sensors at waist height in front of the first door. The massive glass panels hissed open, effortlessly, and you stepped outside. The view from the roof over the City of London as the sun set was incredible, and yet secluded as this was the tallest building in the street. I dreaded to think how much the thirty foot long deck had cost, and the planning wrangles you must have gone through to even get it allowed. Expensive looking aluminum furniture and tall potted shrubs were carefully arranged, and one corner of the deck was home to a covered hot tub. Neither of us had said a word since we entered the apartment. I was over-awed by the sophistication of it all, and I could see you were happy to let me drink it in. But a thought occurred to me as we looked out over London, and you pressed my body close to yours. I realised as you turned to take us back inside, that everything was designed and laid out for my benefit. No steps, low couches and tables, motion sensors on the patio doors. You couldn't have planned and implemented all this since we decided to go through with my changes, and there was something not quite right about the convenience of it all. Back inside, you showed me what had become of the large hole in the floor between the upper and lower floors. Rather than stairs, you'd had a ramp installed, a perforated metal deck wide enough to take a wheelchair turned on itself inside an stunning enclosure of glass and painted steel beams. We ascended, and emerged on the middle level of the apartment facing the previous living area, which appeared unchanged. Briefly, you showed me the compact lifting platform that could then left someone bereft of mobility further up, the mezzanine level, before laying me down on one of the soft, black leather couches in the casual seating area. You slumped down beside me, sending me bouncing as the shockwave rippled through the seat's suspension. "Well?", you asked, stroking one of my leg stumps through the black fabric of my dress-pouch, "What do you think?" "It's amazing," I replied, genuinely impressed, "but how did you have all this done while we were away?" "Aha, that can be my little secret for now," you grinned, "but I'm sure you've noticed that all the new features have been designed with a certain fortunate amputee in mind. There's more I haven't shown you yet, that ought to give you a lot of independence here, but I'll save that for when you need it." "You're so thoughtful, Richard," I purred, digging my arm stumps into the soft cushions of the couch to shift myself closer to you and forgetting, temporarily, how suspiciously well quad-adapted the new areas of the apartment were. I rubbed my face against your stomach as you casually laid an arm round my neck to hold me. Sleepily, I shifted my head into your lap, looking outwards, and rested my tiny arm stumps on your thigh. You ruffled my hair, "It's been a long journey," you said, "get some rest now, yeah?" I murmured a quiet reply as I drifted off to sleep in your arms. --- After our intense heart-to-heart to lager accompaniment in The Eagle ran out of steam, we staggered back through the streets of Clerkenwell to your apartment where I attempted to make us some food. I'd evaded answering you on the moving in thing, even though I'd already made up my mind. Cooking under the influence is never advisable, but it didn't help that you insisted on pulling off my clothes as I worked, until I was cooking omelettes in my thong panties and a ludicrously tall chef's hat you'd found lying about. Once I was disrobed, you started flinging your own clothes off, and running around the apartment pulling badly co-ordinated body builder poses. I was in hysterics, and it was a miracle you got anything to eat at all. In the end, we sat curled up on the thick carpet of your living area, feeding each other what may have once been eggs and bacon until you had the brilliant idea of fetching vodka, ice-cream and chocolate sauce from the freezer for desert. When the first scoop of freezing cold ice-cream plopped between my naked breasts and I looked up to see you swigging from the vodka bottle and aiming to squirt chocolate sauce in my eyes, I knew we were in for another drunken, messy night. The stream of brown glop missed its target, hitting my chest to run down and mingle with the melting ice-cream. I leapt up and grabbed the ice-cream bowl, scooping out a generous serving and slapping it on your balls. You recoiled with shock, spitting vodka into my hair. I stood and pressed myself against you, transferring ice-cream and sauce onto your lightly haired chest. We kissed, pausing only for lengthy shots of vodka, and it all went downhill from there until we were rolling about on the now ruined carpet, covered in an unsavoury mixture of melted ice-cream, chocolate sauce, sweat and semen. "Hold on," you said, stoppingly suddenly, face smeared with what I hoped was still mostly chocolate, "I've got an idea!" You dragged yourself upright and wobbled off unsteadily in search of something. I took this as a cue to go and clean up, and upped and sprinted into the bathroom to rinse off under the shower. Cleansed, I wrapped myself in one of your towels and wandered back into the apartment. You were nowhere to be seen. "Richard?" I called, looking about nervously. "Where are you?" "Up here darling," you called, and I flipped my gaze upward to see you leaning over the edge of the mezzazine, holding something triumphantly. I bounced up the spiral staircase to see what you'd found, wet hair flopping in my eyes, but before I could get my bearings you grabbed my roughly and rushed me onto the bed. I tried to cry out, but you clamped a hand over my mouth until I stopped struggling. You produced two belts, the fashionable kind made from old car seatbelts. I had an inkling of what you were going to do. Rolling me onto my front you took my left leg and bent it up behind me until my heel was touching my arse. You strapped the belt round where my thigh and ankle touched and pulled it tight. You repeated the process on the right side, so my both my legs were bound and immobile. I felt a massive rush of adrenaline, and tried to reach a hand down to rub my pussy. "Ah-ah," you tutted, wrenching my hand away, "let's have a look at you first." You rolled me back over and help me get up onto my knees, pulling the towel away at the same time. It felt uncomfortable to put all my weight on them, at first, but the thrill of pretending to be a double amputee more than compensated for that. You helped me shuffle round on the bed to face the free-standing mirror positioned nearby. I looked great, with a cheeky bush of pubic hair nestling between my shortened legs. You could barely see my feet tied up behind in this position unless you looked carefully. I stuck my arms out to help myself balance, "Now, don't go anywhere," you warned, "I'm just going to wash up." And with that you disappeared back down the stairs. Immediately, I started to play with myself, rubbing my moist cunt and fondling and kissing my own breasts. I fell over quite soon, on my face, but this was all the better as I could grind my groin into the bed as I masturbated. You returned just as I was climaxing, "Hey," you shouted, "no cheating!" You flipped me over and entered me roughly, your cock already fully erect. I cried out with pleasure as I orgasmed almost immediately, and this spurred you on to thrust even harder, spreading my bound legs apart until it hurt. With my legs bent double, and the motion of you fucking me, the tendons on the insides of my thighs were burning with pain. You came, after what seemed like an eternity of simultaneous pleasure and agony, and withdrew, breathing heavily. "That was fucking awesome, Amber," you sighed. "That's the first time I've ever done someone tied up like that." "It was amazing for me too," I whispered, "running my hands along my aching inner thighs, "but it's bloody paintful." "You loooove it though, don't you?" you teased. I nodded, rolling over to straddle you with my 'amputations'. "Oh god," I said, grinning like an idiot as I lay on top of you, naked and sweaty, staring into your eyes with my wet hair hanging down in front of my face and my bound-up legs gently stroking you, "we are really fucked up, aren't we?" This brief moment of self-analysis didn't last, though, since I could feeling your cock swelling again between my legs. Eager to keep you happy, I wriggled myself into position and you entered me smoothly. I rode on top, gripping your hips with my thighs, my knees pressed into the bed covers and my feet resting on the tops of your legs. From your point of view, I must have looked like a perfect double above knee amp, crying with pleasure as I squirmed on top of you and cupped my own breasts, back arched, head back, eyes closed, lost in the ecstasy of it. After we came, together, I dropped back to lie on your legs, my own pointing up towards your head. The belts you'd tied my up with were starting to chafe into my groin, and I adjusted them quickly before using my free arms to push myself forward until my still-dribbling cunt was inches away from your head and my bound legs rested on either side of your head. You raised your head to give me an exploratory lick, and I pounced and gripped it with my 'stumps'. You wrapped your arms round my waist to give yourself some leverage and then lifted your head fully to bury it between my legs. You licked and sucked me to orgasm, one of the best tongue jobs I'd ever had, and then I carefully turned over to suck you off in return, as you teased at my pussy and stroked my bound legs with your twat-juice soaked fingers. Finally, we'd exhuasted each other, and I maneoveured myself round with my arms to curl up beside you. This had been the first time I'd been tied up in this way since those wild nights before university the year before, and all those memories were flooding back and filling my head with pleasure once more I as slowly fell asleep. --- part three end The first time I woke after my changes, I knew something was wrong. Groggy after weeks unconscious in Accelerated Healing Therapy, I couldn't place exactly what it was. Maybe there'd been a mistake, or you'd been stringing me along just to play a horrible joke. The gorgeous Russian nurse who came to attend to me confirmed it. She held up a mirror and pulled back the covers on my bed. I nearly passed out again. I was a quadruple amputee. My legs were gone above the knees, with maybe twenty centimetre long stumps left. My arms were even shorter, down to just ten or fifteen centimetres. There was no scarring on my stumps at all, the expert surgery and carefully controlled healing process had seen to that. That was little consolation, really. Alright, the legs I was expecting. That's what we agreed, that's why we'd come to Russia. But my arms too... I had a sudden, horrible vision of you abandoning me and flying home, laughing as you left me helpless. The nurse went away, leaving me lying nude on the bed. I was in a private hospital room, sparsely but expensively furnished and painted plain white. A blind was drawn tightly at the one small window and there was a faint smell of ozone from the air conditioning. I was still woozy, so maybe I was hallucinating, imagining it. But I tried to move, and I could only wriggle around, stumps flailing. I started to cry in despair, when there came a soft knock on the door. You walked in! As soon as I saw you were carrying an enormous spray of flowers, and the biggest teddy bear I'd ever seen, I realised that maybe everything would be alright after all. You had a massive grin on your face. "Hi gorgeous," you said, "welcome back." You laid the presents on the end of the bed and sat down at my feet... er... stumps. You stroked my truncated right thigh and my whole body tingled. "You look beautiful". Although I now knew you hadn't left me, I was still groggy and confused. "What happened?" I asked. "I though we were just going to do my legs?" "I know. But I thought that passing this kind of thing off as an accident would only work once, so I asked the surgical team to do your arms as well. Don't worry - you know I'll take complete care of you. Oh, and happy birthday!" While amputation of all four limbs is a kind of extreme birthday present, I'd always dreamed of being a quad, and you knew it. While the shock of my changes was still sinking in, I was quietly ecstatic that we'd gone the whole way first time. "Thank you," I said, composing myself. "I'm so happy. I wish I still had arms to hug you with. Well, I don't. You know what I mean." "Perfectly," you said, leaning forward so that I could reach out and touch your face with my tiny arm stumps. Your stubble felt sharp against the tender, healing skin. You stood up. "It's time to go, darling. You're well enough to be moved now, and these private rooms aren't cheap." --- Maybe a quick recap is in order. Ever since puberty I'd been interested, and then obsessed, with amputation. I've never know why, but the image of a person with shortened or completely removed limbs seemed... right, somehow. I used to imagine what it would be like to live as a quad - unable to do anything for myself and totally dependent on others. Or sometimes I imagined I had a quad lover, and had to use all my energy to take care of him. As I passed through school and started to experiment with boys and sex, I found myself getting into S+M. I liked to be tied so I was restrained and completely unable to move, but even that wasn't enough. Then I found you. Looking around on the internet I discovered that others shared my kink, and there were plenty of places to find pictures of, and stories about, amputees - both real and imagined. My obsession grew. I would spend hours doctoring photos and writing terrible erotic stories and sharing my efforts with like-minded souls. Interesting references to your writing popped up here and there, and I got hold of some of your books to see what the fuss was about. Your work was unique. Under the pretext of being a science fiction author, you'd manage to sneak references to severe amputation into almost all of your novels. But your heroes and heroines were powerful, sensual, advanced cyborgs and androids who looked like flesh and blood humans but had detachable limbs, or frequently got blown up, or used customised, reduced bodies to carry out a critical mission. Although anyone could take this as innocuous action sci-fi, my own feelings while reading meant I was convinced there was something below the surface. I read your books obsessively during my first year at university, and vowed to track you down. Sci-fi wasn't really my thing, but this was something I had to do. Soon afterwards, a small convention at a crummy hotel huddling in the shadow of Manchester Airport set me on a path that would totally change my life. Nervous as hell, I hung around in the hotel bar after the panel discussion you were taking part in. I wore a tight-fitting t-shirt printed with a striking fan-drawn image of one of your cyborg characters floating, almost limbless, almost naked, in zero gravity. You emerged from the conference suite with a small gaggle of fans trailing after you. 'No chance', I thought, turning back to the bar to surreptitiously sip at my Diet Coke. I could hear snatches of conversation and laughter all around as the bar filled with convention geeks. Above it all I caught your voice, explaining to the crowd that you needed a moment's rest, but might be signing books later on. God knows where I found the courage, but I took this as my cue. You'd gone to sit down in a far corner of the bar area, and were talking quietly to a couple of semi-famous illustrators who had also been on the panel. As nonchalantly as possible, I sat at the adjacent table with my drink and lit up a cigarette. "Wow, that's a fantastic shirt", I heard you say. Actually I didn't even register what the words were the first time, but looking back this must have been the moment my life lurched down the track labelled 'quad'. "Excuse me?" you spoke again. I turned and, by chance of course, locked eye contact with you. My god but you were beautiful. At 27 you were less than ten years older than I, and with six best-sellers under your belt you'd been hailed as some kind of literary prodigy. With close cropped hair and electrifying grey-green eyes you radiated the kind of quiet, chiselled confidence I hadn't expected from, let's face it, a sci-fi geek-magnet. And yet there you were, in your Evisu jeans and zip-front shirt, smiling and telling me you liked the t-shirt I'd hastily had printed the previous day. "I said, that's a brilliant shirt. Where'd you get it?" All moisture had evaporated from my throat, but I attempted speech regardless. "Oh, a... er friend made it for me," I croaked. "Well, kudos to your friend," you replied, "she's always been one of my favourite characters to write for, and that artwork is just amazing!" I sipped from my Coke, "Thanks... I'll tell... her", I stuttered, trying to stay composed. You started to turn back to your colleagues. I had to keep this going. "Er, Mr. Roth..." You turned back to me, and our eyes locked on again, "...er, I know you said at the bar that you wanted to rest, but I'm a big fan of yours and... oh god, this sounds so bad... would you have a minute to talk through a couple of your ideas from The Last Million?" It was going to end here, I could feel it. "Of course," you smiled again, showing your immaculate teeth, "but only 'cos it's you." I think I may have giggled, girlishly, at this point. I noticed your glass was empty, and mine close to it. "Would you, er, like a drink Mr. Roth?" "That would be lovely, er, sorry... I didn't catch your name?" "Amber," I half lied. If the t-shirt was your first clue, this was the second. Amber was the name I'd chosen to be known as online. If you'd read any of the newsgroups I posted on, there was a chance you'd recognise it. "Amber. Call me Richard, please. And an Export would be grand. Thank you." The two artists were watching this exchange, amused. I caught their attention as I stood to go to the bar, and, very generously I thought, offered to get drinks for them too. The old guy conferred briefly with his female partner, and then they both stood, "Actually we're going to call it a night, but thank you for the offer young lady." I nodded, or mumbled, or something, and headed to the bar. On impulse, I detoured to the ladies and locked myself in a cubicle. Oh. My. God. I simply couldn't believe I'd reached this point without some major fuck-up. Playing out possible scenarios in my head earlier, I'd entertained all possibilities from blurting out "I like amputation too!" to falling flat on my face at your feet. Somehow, the option of everything going quite well hadn't even occurred. Calming down slightly, I peed, washed up, checked my make-up and then elbowed my way through the crowds of power-drinking geeks at the bar. Drinks in hand, I was crestfallen to return to your table to see you discussing something with a pair of mouldy looking Goths. Then you saw me coming, and stood immediately, "Ah, there you are," you exclaimed, which the mouldy Goths perfectly interpreted as their cue to fuck off. They did, and I perked right up again. I sat down heavily, managing to slop Export from your pint onto the low wooden table. "Oh god, I'm sorry." I said, mortally embarrassed. "Don't worry about that, Amber," you replied, scooting a napkin over the spillage, "I'll forgive you since your return was impeccably timed." You took a long gulp from your pint and sat back on the cheap, modular hotel sofa. "Now, what did you want to talk about?" --- You gathered the flowers and the enormous teddy (with limbs now longer than my own) from the bed as the nurse returned with a decrepit looking wheelchair. The facilities at the St. Petersburg Advanced Prothesis Research Unit were first-class - not surprising with the rates they charged - but they carefully maintained a less shiny image in public to ward off any unwanted attention. As you looked on she dressed me in a baggy brown tracksuit, modified with shortened and sewn up arms and legs, without any underwear, then lifted me into the wheelchair where she strapped me in and covered what remained of my body with a thick grey blanket. You followed as she wheeled me out of the room, and down a pristine beech-panelled, concrete-floored corridor to a large goods lift. We descended several floors, to an oily smelling underground garage where an unmarked Lada people carrier was waiting. Ramps were unloaded, and my wheelchair was pushed into the back where the seats had been removed to make room. I was locked down, and you climbed into the front passenger seat next to a swarthy looking driver. You leant round the back of the seat and grinned at me. Strapped into the wheelchair, I was virtually unable to move. Still weak from all the drugs that had been flowing through my body over the last few weeks I was barely able to wiggle my stumps. I was finally, totally helpless. As I realised this I was so happy I started to cry again. But you'd turned away and didn't see the tears of joy rolling down my cheeks. The Lada pulled out of the garage under the APRU and we drove for some time through the dimly lit streets of St. Petersburg. I didn't remember it taking this long to get to the Unit from our hotel on the way in. Those horrible feelings of betrayal from when I first woke came flooding back. "Where are we going?" I asked, nervously. "Oh, I booked us into a new hotel," you replied, "the first one wasn't really up to scratch. Don't worry, we're almost there." The Lada turned down an unlit back street and crunched to a stop on loose gravel outside a shabby looking building. Despite your reassurances, I really was quite worried now. Then a smartly dressed concierge emerged from the building and helped our driver unload me. As I was wheeled into the service entrance of the St. Petersburg Hilton, I remembered how clever you are. You'd arranged for us to come in through the back entrance to avoid unwanted attention in the public lobby. And from then on, any doubts in my mind about whether you would be true to your word and care for me forever were banished. We rode the service lift to the twelfth floor, where the concierge wheeled me into one of the luxurious penthouse suites. He parked me next to the bed, and you slipped him a little hard currency as he left. You slipped off your jacket and threw it on the bed. The heating was on full blast in the suite, and I was already beginning to sweat. "Make yourself comfortable, darling," you quipped, as you disappeared into the bathroom. I was finally getting full control of my muscles back, and my four stumps were tingling under the heavy blanket. It felt like my limbs were being stretched, as if every tendon in my body was pulled taut. It was a feeling not dissimilar to being fully tied up in an S + M session - the sensation that had been so unsatisfactory when I was experimenting as a kid. But at the same time I could sense my stumps rubbing against the fabric of the tracksuit in a constant reminder of my changes, and all was well. In fact, I was feeling rather horny, stretched out and sweating under my wraps. I wished you'd hurry up in the bathroom. But you seemed to take ages and ages, and when you finally emerged, wearing nothing but a pair of tight-fitting running shorts and casually brushing your teeth, I could feel the tracksuit clinging to my sweaty body. I remembered reading during our research that amputees sweat a lot - something to do with reduced skin area versus body mass or something. "Sorry, I think I left the heating on, are you okay?" you asked with mock-genuine concern. I moaned and wriggled. "Mmmmm," you mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste, "'old on a min't." You returned to the bathroom, I'm sure you wiggled your arse at me on purpose, as I continued to sweat under my blanket. Five more minutes passed. Ten. I was dripping sweat by now; it was running down into my eyes and mixing with other fluids in my crotch. I heard a toilet flush. This was it, surely? You emerged, and walked slowly across the suite to my wheelchair. "You look a bit hot," you said, stating the obvious, "Let's get you out of those dirty clothes." You leant close to me, almost close enough to kiss. I tried to, bouncing in my chair, my leg stumps knocking together and my tiny arm stumps jerking, but I couldn't reach you. "One step at a time, honey," you teased, pulling away the blanket. The tracksuit had developed large wet patches, down my back and under my arms and tits, and round my crotch. You put a hand on my left breast and kissed me gently on the mouth. "Looks like you started without me," you murmured, as I searched for your tongue with mine. You pulled away suddenly and released the strap on my wheelchair, lifting me onto the vast king-sized bed. You laid me on my front, then sat beside me so I had to rest my head on one side to see you. Even then, I could only see your muscular thigh, as you were sitting so close. I moaned, again. "Did I tell you you were beautiful, earlier?" you asked, tracing a finger over the sweaty patches on my back. "Mmmm," I purred. You placed a hand on one of my firm buttocks, "Yeah, so beautiful." You started to play with my shoulder length, bleached blonde and highlighted hair. With the combination of the heat, my excitement at my changes, and now your attention, I was really becoming aroused. I could feel my nipples pressing into the bed cover like pebbles, and my cunt was gaping and beginning to dribble juices that mingled with the sweat from my legs and tummy. You rolled me onto my back, and ran two fingers over my lips on the way to grasp the zip at the neck of the tracksuit. I tried to bring my arm stumps together to touch your hand, but you were too quick, and unzipped the top in one motion. I felt cooler air on my breasts and tummy, and then I felt a probing hand reach in and fondle my right breast. You tweaked the nipple between two fingers and I shuddered all over. "How do you feel?" you breathed in my ear, as you brushed your lips over my face to kiss me on the mouth again. "Ohhhhh," I sighed, "I've never felt like this in all my life." We kissed, as you carried on massaging my breast, your hand starting to move down my body inside the tracksuit top, "Ohh, thank you," I breathed, "thank you for my wonderful present. I feel so alive. I feel... electrified." I moaned again as your fingers forced their way under the elastic waistband of the tracksuit bottoms and reached the top of my pubis. Suddenly you moved to straddle my waist, pulling the tracksuit top open to bare my tanned breasts fully. You gently lifted my head and pulled the top away, exposing my arm stumps. You pounced, kissing me on the lips, the neck, the breasts, my two perfect stumps. I could feel your cock, stiff against my groin. In my excitement, I came, in a wave down my reduced body. You felt it too and sat back on your heels to tear the tracksuit bottoms away, revealing my moist cunt and smooth, sweaty leg stumps. I lay, naked, limbless, skin slick with perspiration, at your mercy on the bed before you. I locked contact with your grey-green eyes and you smiled down at me. My new life as your quad lover began. --- That night at the convention, we ended up talking and drinking and smoking into the small hours in the hotel bar. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'm sure I kept trying to steer the conversion towards your use and portrayal of amputees. I couldn't summon up the courage to ask you straight out why they were a recurring theme and if you were attracted to them, even though by the end of it we were both pretty pissed and it would probably not have raised even an eyebrow. You'd gone off on a tangent, going on about how lonely you were, and how no-one understood you. I was being consolatory-drunk to your depressed-drunk, and muttered something to the effect that I understood you, while actually thinking we'd reached the end of the conversation and I wasn't going to get my answer. Then you made a clumsy, fumbling lunge for my lips and before I knew quite what was going on we were kissing. I heard faint cat-calls from the few geeks still in the bar as we embraced and swapped alcohol-tinged saliva. You were a fantastic kisser, even when hammered, and I quickly moved closer to cup the back of your head in my hands. We broke off briefly, and hugged tightly, "I knew it," you slurred, "I knew from the second I first saw you that you understood me." Was this my clue? Was my theory about you correct? Once again I bottled it, answering you with another kiss. I felt you groping for my arse as we kissed, and I unconsciously lowered a hand to help guide you. "Oh Richard," I breathed, "I understand you perfectly." Still holding and kissing me, you rose to your feet, dragging me with you. "Would you like to come back to my room?" you whispered. I nodded, demurely, and we left the bar hand-in-hand to the stares of a handful of geeks, no doubt already in the throes of phoning in reports to rumour websites. Upstairs, we started pulling at each others' clothes the second we were inside your room. You pushed me roughly against the wall as you fumbled for the light switch, and I kissed you and pulled at the zip of your shirt. Even in my drunken stupor, even in the half-light of your room, I still remember clearly the first time I saw your well-toned chest. I ran my hands over your smooth skin and pushed your shirt off your shoulders. You abandoned the light and instead made a grab for my t-shirt, pulling it up over head. It was tight, and caught on my chin and nose as you tried to tear it off me and kiss me at the same time. We'd reached the bed now, collapsing in a heap as you fumbled for my bra strap. I responded by rubbing a hand over your groin. I could feel your cock, straining to get out. I unzipped your fly and let it. You'd succeeded in detaching my bra, and I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed as you licked and fondled my pert breasts. I unbuttoned your jeans and tried in vain to pull them off as I watched you kiss my nicely-rounded belly. We finally undressed each other, somehow, and I felt my clit gape as you energetically rubbed the tip of your erect cock into my groin. We were both hopelessly drunk, but I'd managed to at least retain enough presence of mind to retrieve a condom from my jeans pocket before we stripped. I caught your attention long enough to slip it over your dick, and then lay back as you attempted to penetrate me. I think you did, in the end, but that first fuck wasn't going to feature on my all-time high score table. Spent, you collapsed alongside me. I curled my long, thin arms and legs around you and whispered again that I understood you perfectly, planting kisses on your face and neck as you exercised your post-coital prerogative as a bloke to immediately fall asleep. I grabbed a tab from the crumpled pack on your bedside table and smoked it slowly, savouring the taste of the smoke in my lungs, before drifting off into a drunken slumber myself. We woke the next morning in each other's arms. I had a splitting headache and hangover, and from the look on your face I guessed you had too. For a minute you looked puzzled, trying to work out who I was, I guess. "Hey... Amber..." you said, slowly. "What the hell did we get up to last night?" "Nothing incriminating, I hope," I said, coyly. You moved a hand down under the covers to stroke my back. I kissed you lightly on the mouth. You glanced at your watch as you moved your hand further, down between my legs. "Shit, it's almost ten," you exclaimed. "I've got a lunch meeting in London at two." You sat upright, looking around the room at the clothes we'd scattered the night before. "You need to get back too, right? I'll drive you. Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes." You leapt out of bed, gathering underwear and heading for the bathroom. "Mmm," I murmured, pulling back the covers to show you my slender, naked body. I rubbed at my clit, casually. "Maybe later, hon," you said. "Sorry, I've really gotta get a shift on. You too if you want a lift, yeah?" Resigned to the fact that another shag was out of the question, I rolled out of bed and started to grope on the floor for my clothes. My hungover head throbbed like there were roadworks going on inside. I dressed, carefully, and left your room to run barefoot down the corridor to my own, where I showered and changed. Eighteen minutes and fourty-five seconds later we met and kissed quickly in the lobby and ran out to your car. You had generously picked up my meagre hotel bill, as well as your own. I guessed you could afford it, looking at your car - an immaculate pearlescent blue Audi S4. We piled in, and you effected a rapid getaway. The hotel was virtually under a motorway junction, and we were soon speeding south at well over the legal limit. Eleven AM flashed up on the dashboard clock. "Reckon you'll make it?" I asked. "'Course," you smiled that intoxicating smile at me, as we drifted into the fast lane to effortlessly overtake slower traffic. As the Midlands flashed by, I tried to recall exactly what we'd talked about the previous night. I knew I'd gotten close to the root of your apparent obsession, but I hadn't dared challenge you outright. Now time was ticking away, as we sped toward London. Would you consider seeing me again, so I could carry on not asking you, or was this my last chance? "Why do your characters lose their limbs so often?" I finally asked somewhere near Birmingham. "I don't know," you said, tenth smoke of the journey resting between two fingers of your left hand. "I've never really thought about it." "It's in almost every book..." I continued. "I hadn't really noticed. I guess you're right. That's weird, really." You took a long, thoughtful drag on your cigarette. "Not entirely," I said, committed now. "I think about it a lot. Amputation, I mean. Do you find it attractive?" I swear you nearly lost control of the car as I dropped my bombshell. "What the hell are you talking about?" You seemed genuinely surprised at my accusation. Not angry, yet, but riled at least. Perhaps foolishly, I pressed the matter. "I... I find amputees exciting... sexually," I could hardly believe that the words were coming from my mouth, here in front of you. "I think that maybe you do to too, on some level, and that's why it pops up all the time in your writing," I blurted out that last sentence as fast I could to prevent you from interrupting. "You..." you were lost for words, temporarily. "You think I'm that... perverted?!" you shouted. "Shit, Amber, it's a fucking plot device!" "I'm sorry Richard, I..." I started, but you cut in, waving your cigarette toward my face. I flinched. "No. That's just out of order, Amber. I thought you were okay, you know, but... fuck... that's too much. You're no better than the geeks that follow me round at those fucking conventions. No, you're worse. At least they don't accuse me of fucking... fucking horrible things like that." You were really upset now, and had slowed the car right down into the left lane to calm down. I felt tears coming on, and my shoulders shook as I started to cry. I had been so sure of it, as well, but now my fantasies were crashing down around me. We sat in near silence for a few minutes, with my quiet sobs barely audible over the noise of the road. "Oh look," you said, quieter now, "I'm sorry too, for losing it. But that's a really, really bad thing to be thinking about, okay?" I sniffled and nodded. We drove the rest of the way without speaking. Just before half past one, you pulled up outside my flat in Parliament Hill. As I gathered my bags from the back seat, I decided to have my parting shot. "You do find them attractive, Richard," I said, "but you're like I was a few years ago. You just don't understand it yet." You stared straight ahead, out of the windscreen at the view of central London. "Get out of my car, Amber," you said, flatly, without looking round. "And please don't bother me again." I leant over and to deposit a quick and badly-aimed kiss on the cheek, and then got out of your Audi and your life and ran up the steps of my building to get inside as fast as I could, utterly distraught. --- part one end My first fuck as a quadruple amputee was one of the most intense and exhilarating sexual experiences of my life. After our sweaty foreplay, you rolled over to lie back on the bed and pulled me round and on top of you by my arm stumps. I sat astride your pelvis and gripped your sides as hard as I could with my shortened legs. Holding on to my waist with both hands to keep me upright, you entered me roughly and I felt a wave of pleasure shoot through my body and limbs, making all four stumps tingle. I gasped with lust as you began to thrust, bouncing me on your groin. My pert breasts bobbed in time to your thrusts, and my arm stumps wiggled as I tried not to think about where to put the hands I didn't have. I closed my eyes as I had my first orgasm, screaming as my whole body was filled with nervous energy. I came again, and again, as you thrusted your cock into my perfect, quad body and as I felt your release I orgasmed again, simultaneously. This was the most powerful one yet, and I almost passed out from the overwhelming strength of it. And then it was over, and you lifted me off your cock and lowered me down to lie half on, half off your sweat-sticky chest. I stroked your pecs with my arm stumps, "Oh Richard," I breathed, "that was incredible. I love you so much." I kissed and licked and stroked your chest. You reached out and ran a hand through my hair, "I love you too, Amber. You're so beautiful now." I looked up, into your eyes, "I feel beautiful too," I confessed, "but I wish you'd had my limbs totally disarticulated. I can't imagine anything sexier than being totally limbless and completely helpless in your arms." "I love your stumps though," you smiled. "They're so kissable, and they feel great against my skin when you stroke me." "Like this, you mean?" I asked as I put my weight on your chest with my arm stumps to pull myself forward so I could stroke your face with them. "Exactly like that," you said, grabbing my left arm and kissing the end of it. "Mmmm," I murmured, pulling forwards again to kiss you on the mouth, and to rub my arm stumps on the sides of your head. I was lying fully on top of you now, so I could move my leg stumps about and let you feel them on your legs. I could feel you getting hard again, too. The second time, you were on top. You spread my thighs, and pinned my arm stumps up beside my head so I couldn't move at all. I came in waves, as you roughly boned me. It felt like the sexual energy I was generating was being amplified by my changes, and I almost exploded with pleasure as you ejaculated inside me again. We kissed passionately as you withdrew, and then you rolled over to lie beside me. I touched your nearest upper arm with a stump. You turned your head to look into my eyes. "I need a cigarette," I said. Without breaking your loving gaze, you reached over to the bedside cabinet and grabbed a half-empty pack of fairly unpleasant Russian-made Malboros. You offered me the packet. "Don't be silly," I laughed, "don't forget I don't have any limbs. You'll have to help." "I'm going to enjoy watching you learn how to do trivial things for yourself," you said, "you might as well start now." To your credit, you did give me some help. You gathered me up and sat me upright against the bed's headboard before offering the cigarette packet again. Every time I tried to grab the one extended cigarette with my mouth you pulled it away, laughing, until I worked out you wanted to me to hold the pack with my arm stumps. They were just long enough to touch together in front of me, so by pressing hard I could grip things with them too. I took the packet, straining to keep hold of it, and bent my head forwards to take a smoke between my lips. I dropped the pack on the bed, and you produced a Zippo. I sparked up and took a deep drag on the cigarette. The hot smoke swirling into my lungs felt wonderful. I took another drag, then realised I would have to tap the ash off quite soon. I raised my arm stumps again, then thought better of it. The only way I could grip the fag with them would be at the burning tip. I looked up at you as you knelt there in front of me, your cock resting on your legs, semi-erect again already. You looked amused. "It's not funny," I muttered, my lips gripping the cigarette hard so I wouldn't drop it on my naked body. You took something else from the bedside table, half-concealing it behind your back, and then plucked the cigarette from my mouth and did the same. You fiddled, and then revealed... a six-inch long cigarette holder loaded with my slowly burning cancer stick. You pushed the ensemble carefully back between my lips. It was long enough for me to grip with my arm stumps and not burn myself, meaning I could now smoke on my own. You were so thoughtful! I felt nothing but love for you as the first lesson of my new life was successfully completed. ---- For a few weeks after the convention I remained insular and depressed, missing lectures and hardly ever leaving the flat. Not only had you totally denied any kind of interest in amputees, you'd also called into question my own feelings. Was it, actually, a horrible thing to think about? Was I wrong, perverted, to feel the way I did? In my confusion, I deleted most of the amp pictures and stories I'd collected, then searched them out again online a few days later, only to bin them the next day and then repeat the cycle as my mood changed. Then, early one Saturday evening, I was sitting at my computer in my room. It had been a hot day and I was wearing just panties and that home made Richard Roth t-shirt, smoking a generous spliff and half-heartedly playing with myself as I browsed a new collection of Japanese quad fakes. An instant message popped up on my screen, from an unknown user, <> I was shocked. I sat there, staring at those six words for ten, fifteen minutes before doing anything. At first I didn't believe it was you. I'd told my online friends, before the convention, that I was going to try and track you down, and of course we'd been seen together in the hotel - resulting in your fan sites going into rumour overdrive. "Cutting-edge sci-fi author seen seducing mystery girl". I wasn't any internet expert, so I didn't know if it would have taken much online searching to assemble enough clues to work out who I was, and then pretend to be you. But that would be crazy, wouldn't it? Would it even be possible? After chain-smoking for an agonising twenty minutes, I hit reply and sent out a terse message, <> Another message popped up within seconds, <> Obviously my conversant was being as careful as me, such was the peril of online communication, <> I replied. Again, a message was returned almost instantly, <> That was virtually the clincher. But I couldn't work out why you wanted to talk, especially after telling me never to bother you again. <> <> I thought about this for a few minutes, and then decided to do it. The pub would be busy and attracted a mostly student clientele, so even if my mystery messenger wasn't really you I ought to be okay. I opened a new message window, <> <> That puzzled me, as I dressed in basic jeans and a sweater, made myself up and left the flat. I replayed the events of the evening at the convention. The only time I'd taken one of your fags without asking was.... My god! In the bedroom! It was you, it really was. No-one else could have known that. But what did you want? With my mind racing ahead, I hurried down the road after it to the tube station. As advertised, you were waiting for me, at the bar, in the Olde Surgeon. The irony of the name was not lost on me as I gave you a timid 'hello'. The pub was dark inside, and decorated with surgical tools and other medical paraphernalia, as well as crude Victorian cartoons of operations on the walls. You bought me a drink and we headed for a quiet table at the back of the pub. I offered you a smoke immediately, and you smiled that smile. You were still awesomely beautiful. "Thanks for coming," you started, "it's..." You broke off, and smoked in silence for a minute before trying again. "I've..." No good either. You composed yourself for a third attempt as I sipped my drink, "I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last few weeks," you managed, "as I'm sure you have too..." I nodded. "...and I've come to a conclusion," you continued. I raised a questioning eyebrow. You leant across the small, scarred, wooden table and whispered in my ear, "I find amputees exciting...sexually." I suddenly felt a hot flush, as your revelation hit me. "It was shocking for a while," you carried on, speaking quietly, "and I was deeply uncomfortable with myself for several days. But the thoughts wouldn't go away, and I think I'm okay with them now, but as you can imagine it's been... traumatic." "Oh Richard," I sighed, "that's..." I was going to say wonderful but I wasn't sure if it was entirely appropriate. "I think it's good that you've thought this through." You fixed your gaze on your half empty pint, "Truth is, looking back my work, I think it's always been this way and I just didn't understand it. You were right, Amber, and I'm so, so sorry that I lost my temper with you last time." You raised your eyes to stare straight into mine. "Richard, I... I don't know what to say." I stammered. "If you want me to be happy, then I'm ecstatic. If you want me to be disgusted then I am, at both of us at that...." You cut in, "I want you to be with me, Amber." I choked on my vodka and cranberry, "I mean it. We understand each other. We can take care of each others... er... needs. Oh, and as a bonus I think you're incredibly sexy, and smart too. What do you say?" I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. Without even thinking what I was doing, I leant over the table and kissed you full on the lips. I could taste Guinness on your breath as I scooted round the table to embrace you. We kissed and touched each other, and that first passionate moment in our resumed relationship seemed to go on for hours. After many drinks, a couple of packets of Malboros and much hushed discussion of our mutual perversion, you hailed a cab outside the pub and took me back to your place in Clerkenwell. It was a massive, three level loft apartment hacked out of the top floors of an old bonded warehouse, which you claimed to have bought outright with the advance for your-last but-one novel. You took a bottle of Moet and two glasses from the enormous fridge in your pristine industrial-strength kitchen, and we climbed the spiral stairs to the mezzanine floor. We drank champagne as we undressed each other to the Spooks' Karma Hotel, which was playing almost inaudibly on your impossibly cool looking hi-fi. Drunken fucking seemed to be becoming our motif, and you soon had your stiff cock in the general region of my expectant clit. We slept until midday after a marathon bedroom session, waking to mutual sore heads once again. We showered together, and I dressed in some of your clothes and looked around your amazing apartment as you made a quick business call. It was so big you barely inhabited half of it. The entire bottom floor was still a cavernous shell, with mountain bikes and an Kawasaki GSR 600 leaning against the massive metal columns that supported the ceiling. Builder's materiel and other random junk was scattered over the floor. Access to the upper floors was currently effected by a rickety, wooden, near vertical staircase through a loft hatch in one corner, although a large hole had been cut in the ceiling elsewhere to install a more impressive stairway. Steel and glass parts for it were lying about. Upstairs was more civilised, with a sanded and varnished floor, that amazing kitchen installed along a blank brick wall at one end and an ultra-contemporary living area stretching across the whole width of the space. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows and highlighted the dust motes hanging in the air. The third, mezzanine, floor was a sturdy metal deck that had been installed over roughly a third of the upper floor, about nine feet up, where you had your bed and work spaces. The area where the stairs were going to go in was still completely empty, with just stolen roadworks barriers in place to prevent anyone falling through the hole. Under the mezzanine was the bathroom, tiled in cool-blue and sea-green and walled in with glass-bricks on the inside and windows looking out over the rooftops of EC1 on the outside. As I schlepped round the place in ludicrously flaired and baggy skaters' jeans and an Orbital Altogether tee, sipping on a pint of orange juice, I felt a sensation of belonging. I loved your apartment and I think I already loved you, too. You'd finished your phone call, and you found me sitting upstairs on the bed, gazing out of a fully opened window with the soft breeze ruffling my hair and clearing my head. "Come on gorgeous," said from the top of the stairs, "time for breakfast." We left your building and walked through near-deserted Sunday streets to a posh gastro-pub nearby, The Eagle, where I ordered the most fantastic fry up I've ever eaten. As we ate and you browsed through The Observer, I asked you to tell me exactly what you liked about amputees. --- The morning after that amazing night of sexual ecstasy and chain smoking in the St. Petersburg Hilton, you seemed keen for us to get back to London straight away. You said you had another surprise for me there. I wasn't really in any position to protest. You carried me into the bathroom and helped me on the toilet, then ran a bath to clean my sweat and cum-stained body. I hadn't had a chance to examine myself carefully since we left the hospital, so I asked you to hold me in front of the full length bathroom mirror while the massive marble tub slowly filled with water and foam. You lifted me from the toilet and wiped me off, then 'stood' me on my leg stumps before the mirror. The tiles felt freezing cold on my amputations. You laid your hands on my shoulders to keep me upright. Measuring myself roughly against you, I estimated that my twenty-one year old body was now just three feet tall. Feeling your cock pressing against the back of my head, I noted that standing I was at the perfect height to suck you off. My twenty centimetre leg stumps had been thinned down as well as shortened. I'd never had any extra weight on my thighs, but they were even slimmer now and were cut off fairly squarely to help me 'stand'. My cunt was still decorated with a thin vertical strip of pubic hair, as I liked it, and above this was my flat, toned belly and small-ish, but very definitely pert breasts. I wondered if I'd keep my figure, won back from adolescent puppy fat with a strict regime of workouts and tae kwon do, now I was effectively immobile. My arm stumps were shorter than my legs, at around fifteen centimetres, and since my arms had always been rake thin, they tapered off to smooth, rounded points. On top, as ever, were my familiar blue eyes, fashionably fully lips and small, pointed nose. My hair had been cut and styled while I was healing - it now hung down either side of my face in slight waves, and had been bleached blonde and then given darker highlights. I pushed my breasts together with my arm stumps and puckered my lips at myself. Ever since I'd first realised my feelings about amputees I'd fantasised about becoming a quad, and now that I was I saw my perfect body image staring at me in the mirror. I was still feeling horny from the satisfaction of it - since meeting you and now since my changes I'd become much more of a sexual creature and from now on it seemed like it was only going to get more intense. I hoped you had the stamina for it, as I looked up into your grey-green eyes. You were longingly staring into the mirror too, "You're perfect, Amber. I can't believe how much I'm attracted to you looking like this." "I wish I could fuck myself too," I replied, suddenly downbeat, "but I can't even reach to masturbate any more." "Don't worry," you said, kneeling behind me to cup my breasts and kiss my neck and lower a hand to finger my clit, "I'll make sure you don't go without." I sighed with pleasure, and looked in the mirror at you playing with me. I noticed something out of the corner of my eye, "Ah, Richard, the bath's overflowing!" You leapt away to attend to it, and I wobbled on my leg stumps but somehow managed to remain upright. I instinctively stuck out my arms for balance, but at fifteen centimetres long they didn't help much. Still, I could stand on my own two stumps, and if I could stand then maybe I could... You turned at the sound of a thud, as I fell to the bathroom floor on my arse. I had tried to turn around and walk to you, but my balance was all wrong and I tumbled straight over. I started to cry, from the shock of the impact and the cold floor as much as anything else. You hurried back and picked me up in your arms, stroking my face and kissing my hair, "It'll be okay," you soothed, "I'm here to take care of you. Don't rush into this." I nodded, sniffling. The bath was ready, and you climbed in with me still in your arms, then lowered me into the hot water between your legs. You gripped me with your thighs to keep my head above the water line and I could feel your dick stiffening in the small of my back. "Hey," I said, "wash first, fuck later, okay? I stink of you." You complied, soaping my body and shampooing my hair. You took special care to stroke my cunt clean with your soapy fingers, and we were soon making love again, you lying in the bottom of the bath and me bouncing and moaning on top of you, splashing water and soap suds all over the floor. After our bath you mummified my body, stumps and all, in a wonderfully soft and fluffy white hotel towel, wrapped another round my hair and then you pottered about the room, gathering up and packing our stuff as you dripped dry. The towel was tight and warm, and I felt completely content watching you work. Finally, you dressed in a super-sharp grey business suit before turning your attention to me. You'd had clothes specially tailored or customised for me, you said, and taken the opportunity to spice and spruce up my wardrobe at the same time. I was an impoverished student, I reminded you, looking flash had not been at the top of my agenda for the last few years. After drying me off and dressing me in black slik panties and bra, you produced the first of my new clothes. A skirt, made from some advanced, stretchy, matt black fabric, and customised so it was sealed at the bottom - more like a pouch in fact. It fitted the length of my leg stumps perfectly and while it held them quite close together at rest I could move and spread my legs without difficulty. A cream t-shirt, plain round neck, with sleeves tailored and sewn closed so they formed perfect pockets for my arm stumps. Finally, a high-collared black jacket in similar material to the skirt, with an asymmetric zip on the front, detail lines sewn in across my chest and down my sides, an elasticated waist to keep it tight to my body when fastened up and the same exactly tailored arm pockets. You tied my hair back and 'stood' me on the bed so I could see myself in the mirror on the dresser. I looked like... I dunno what I was supposed to be, but I cut a cool image in my expensive-looking stealthwear. You said so, too. The fabric of the skirt was soft on my skin, and in the tight-fitting jacket I felt protected and supported. You put a small, silver-grey neoprene shoulder bag around my neck, saying it contained my passport and visa and so on, then lifted me into the decrepit wheelchair, hefted a bulky sports bag onto your shoulder and wheeled me out. The same Lada people carrier took us to St. Petersburg airport, where our cover story started to kick in. I had been injured in a serious climbing accident, it went, and following my surgery and a period of recuperation you were flying me back to England to recover mentally. Although, for someone reduced to a near-limbless state, I was remarkably chipper as we were whisked through check-in, I was transferred to a much posher airport wheelchair and then we were ushered to a secluded corner of the Virgin Upper Class lounge. You fed me crisps and Coke as we waited for our departure. I realised I hadn't eaten since waking up in hospital the day before, but I didn't have much of an appetite either. "There was a fair bit of press attention when your 'accident' was announced," you mentioned, "'British Author's Mountain Tragedy', sort of thing, so you might have to look upset when we get into Heathrow." "I'm going to tell them I've never felt sexier, and thank the Russian authorities for fucking me up!" I grinned. "Please don't," you looked pained, "god knows how many laws we've broken doing this." "Well none, actually," I countered. "we're just moral outcasts, remember our research?" You conceded I was right, "Okay, but don't draw attention to us, yeah? We'll just do 'upset' for now." You seemed genuinely tense. I wondered if you were starting to have doubts about what we'd done. I didn't wonder for long, as our flight was called seconds later. We were first on the plane, and a gaggle of stewardesses clucked and cosseted me into a reclined Upper Class seat. You sat beside me and gripped my thigh throughout take-off. Ironically it was you who hated flying - I used to do the same for you. The flight to Heathrow was uneventful. You and the steward team tended to my every need, and fed me the actually-not-bad plane food even though I still wasn't that hungry. I asked to listen to some music, and you slipped slim Sony headphones over my ears as I closed my eyes to doze off to the jazz programme on the plane's entertainment network. I woke as we landed with a bump, and struggled to get upright and look out the window until I remember who I was. You saw me moving, and lifted me into a sitting position. It was raining steadily in London, typically, but as I watched the ranks of waiting planes pass by as we taxied to the gate I felt a great relief at being back on home soil. Soon we'd be back in your apartment and I'd be able to stop pretending to be some injured freak and start living my new life to the full. As you'd predicted, there was small press gathering after passport control. You wheeled me through the crowd, face set in a grimace, and refused to answer their questions. I played my part by pretending to be out cold in my chair. I'd been covered in a blanket again, so the reporters couldn't see the extent of my amputations, but it was clear for anyone to see that all four limbs were gone, at least as high as the knees and elbows. The sympathetic female Virgin rep with us ushered into a private room near the entrance as we waited for your car to be brought round. You fed me a cigarette, helping me smoke it so as not to show our company my new skill. The rep looked heart-broken as she watched you fuss over me. I wished I could tell her the truth, just to see how her expression changed. Finally we were away from the airport. I was strapped into the leather passenger seat of your S4, and you'd thrown our bags on the back seat to speed our departure. I assumed there would be a wheelchair in the boot, as you'd left the courtesy one at the terminal. We joined the late afternoon traffic crawling down the M4 into London. I remembered the first time I'd been a passenger in your car, "Why do your characters lose their limbs so often?" I asked. "I don't know," you said, a lit cigarette resting between two fingers of your left hand. "I've never really thought about it." "It's in almost every book..." I continued. "I hadn't really noticed. I guess you're right. That's weird, really." You took a long, thoughtful drag on your cigarette. "Not entirely," I continued, "I think about it a lot. Amputation, I mean. Do you find it attractive?" You turned to look at me, waving your ciggy in my face, "You know," you said, playing along perfectly but struggling to keep a straight face, "now that you mention it, I think I do. Do you know where I could meet.... OH!" You leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I wriggled my stumps, "There, that went a lot better!" I smiled, "I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Amber," you replied in a mock-penitent voice, "but you have to admit that was a weird thing to spring on me that first time." "S'pose", I shrugged. My arm stumps wobbled delightfully, "but I was convinced at the time." "And are you now?" "Oh no, you'd never go for anything like that!". You kissed me again and I felt your love for me radiating through the car. --- part two end Message 1352 of 1375 | Previous | Next [ Up Thread ] Message Index score table. Spent, you collapsed alongside me. I curled my long, thin arms and legs around you and whispered again that I understood you perfectly, planting kisses on your face and neck as you exercised your post-coital prerogative as a bloke to immediately fall asleep. I grabbed a tab from the crumpled pack on your bedside table and smoked it slowly, savouring the taste of the smoke in my lungs, before drifting off into a drunken slumber myself. We woke the next morning in each other's arms. I had a splitting headache and hangover, and from the look on your face I guessed you had too. For a minute you looked puzzled, trying to work out who I was, I guess. "Hey... Amber..." said, slowly­ Reply | Forward | View Source | Unwrap Lines . "I've got a lunch meeting in London at two." You sat upright, looking around the room at the clothes we'd scattered the night before. "You need to get back too, right? I'll drive you. Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes." You leapt out of bed, gathering underwear and heading for the bathroom. "Mmm," I murmured, pulling back the covers to show you my slender, naked body. I rubbed at my clit, casually. "Maybe later, hon," you said. "Sorry, I've really gotta get a shift on. You too if you want a lift, yeah?" Resigned to the fact that another shag was out of the question, I rolled out of bed and started to grope on the floor for my clothes. My hungover head throbbed like there were roadworks going on inside. I dressed, carefully, and left your room to run barefoot down the corridor to my own, where I showered and changed. Eighteen minutes and fourty-five seconds later we met and kissed quickly in the lobby and ran out to your car. You had generously picked up my meagre hotel bill, as well as your own. I guessed you could afford it, looking at your car - an immaculate pearlescent blue Audi S4. We piled in, and you effected a rapid getaway. The hotel was virtually under a motorway jun ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright (c) 2001 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy - Terms of Service - Guidelines - Help