Equal Opportunities Page 9

  But another week passes and I have to think of another little cruelty to inflict on him. Well, I don’t, strictly speaking, have to do so. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I should hold back. Give him a break. But all I want to do is find new ways to torment him – he suffers so very beautifully. And something in the way he writhes tells me that slowing down is the last thing he wants me to do. No matter how much he might sometimes protest.

  It’s wrong, sure, on one level, but it’s so right on every other level that that isn’t worth worrying about.

  So tonight, when I tie him to the bed – which has become such a regular occurrence it is practically part of our nightly routine – I have yet another new twist waiting in the wings. I stroke his beautiful cock with my hand until he’s nearly there, then I stop and kiss him.

  ‘Uh,’ he gasps when I pull my mouth away, ‘what are you doing?’ He pulls at his wrist cuffs a bit, struggling prettily, but he knows he isn’t going to get anywhere.

  After a little more teasing and kissing, I take him back to that same point, stroking his hot velvet cock and pulling my hand away just before his big moment. David cries out when I stop this time, ‘Mary!’

  ‘Shh,’ I say, putting a finger to his big soft lips. ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. This way, when you do come, it will be amazing.’

  David seems to relax a little bit then. He trusts me. He shouldn’t.

  I spend a long time on his body, stroking his slender legs, sliding my hands underneath him to stroke his hidden arse, toying with his nipples. I caress every part of him, except one. The one part that is really trying to get my attention. David twists at the manacles making the leather creak with his desperation. I love that sound.

  Eventually, deciding that maybe David has suffered enough, I take hold of his cock again. He seems to melt the second my fist is tight around it. He’s liquid with need. Incoherent. I pump slowly and he’s desperate straight away, moaning and squirming.

  And then, again, just before he’s going to come. I stop again.

  David squirms again. ‘No,’ he says, sounding almost annoyed, on the edge of anger. ‘Please. I can’t. Can’t wait.’

  I press my mouth close to David’s ear. ‘Baby,’ I say, making my words sound like sweet nothings, ‘you’re not going to come now. In fact, oh, I’m so sorry, but you’re not going to come at all, not until this time tomorrow.’

  David shakes his head. In fact, his whole body seems to shake. But I can tell he understands.

  And I trust him. A few moments later, when I free his wrists, he doesn’t even try and reach for his cock. Despite his desperation, he doesn’t even think to.

  I kiss him and I smile.

  David

  Today is a physiotherapy day – I go on a Tuesday and a Friday. I don’t want to go, of course. In fact, what I really want to do is spend the day trying to find a way to get Mary to let me come before curfew. My cock is so not happy about what went down last night. But, as she so often points out, I’m a good boy.

  So it’s going to be a weird one. But then, physio is always sort of weird.

  When I was in hospital after the accident I always looked forward to physio, mostly because it was a distraction from my new life of misery and depression, but it wasn’t exactly fun. In fact, it was often painful, usually boring and, worst of all, seemed to revolve around me failing to do things that would hardly be thought of as achievements in the real world. Not that anyone ever mentioned that.

  Actually, there’d just be this weird optimism about it all. For example, the first time they got me to stand and take some of my own weight everyone was so excited, even I got excited. But much later that night when I was in bed, I kept thinking of my old mates, Larry and the others, and how I used to impress them by getting ten different girls’ phone numbers in one night, or dating a girl who supplemented her studies by modelling. Now that was impressive.

  And then about a week after this particular great achievement, I was talking to one of the doctors who offhandly told me that being able to stand up didn’t really mean anything, certainly didn’t mean I was going to walk again or anything like that, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  Physio was a lot like that. One person would be cheering me on, practically telling me I would be breakdancing on the moon by teatime, and then another – usually some gruff old school doc who’d seen it all – would shrug and tell me that I could probably start turning cartwheels in physio and it would be ‘no guarantee of anything because with your sort of injury healing patterns are unpredictable.’

  And now physio is going to be extra surreal because of that little trick Mary pulled last night. I feel like I’ve been semi-hard all day, my poor cock teased half to death.

  Last night, when Mary gently told me I was going to have to wait twenty-four hours before I could come, it was so sexy I thought I was going to die. I know, it’s so perverse, so bizarre, why does the idea of not being able to come get me off? It makes no sense, and yet … I knew I’d face a whole day of delicious agony. But I reckoned without physio.

  Now, I did think I might be OK, because this place doesn’t normally make me feel in the least bit sexy. But things don’t exactly work out like that.

  It surprised me at first that physio isn’t very sexy. If someone had asked me, a couple of years ago, before the accident, what I thought it might be like going to physiotherapy, I don’t really know what I would have said, but I think I might have thought that it would be a bit, sort of, sexier. OK, not girls-boarding-school-senior-dorm-after-lights-out sexy, or women’s-prison sexy, but I definitely would have thought there would be something sexy about the place, in that institutional-sexy way. You know what I mean, gymnasium equipment, uniforms, stuff.

  But some days here every woman in the place seems like she might have another job moonlighting as a body double for an Eastern European shot-putter. Some days, most days in fact, it’s as grey and depressing here as a pre-Jamie-Oliver school dinner.

  So, like I said, I thought I’d be OK – or as OK here as anywhere – but I’d reckoned without this new girl, Eleanor. She’s what they call a breath of fresh air. In this wasteland of sheer unsexiness, Eleanor is pure totty. It’s like she’s tumbled off the set of the Benny Hill show and landed on this unworthy stretch of lino. OK, that’s too much. She’s not quite Benny Hill material, but it’s all relative. And she is a trainee physiotherapist, which in anyone’s mind approximates to nurse, which, of course, when it’s a girl like Eleanor, approximates to sexilicious.

  And guess what I so don’t need right now! Yup, sexilicious.

  No matter that Eleanor is makeup-free and has her hair screwed up in an ugly purple butterfly clip. No matter that her uniform is at least two sizes too big and bags and sags around her little waist, looking as grey and greasy as old fish and chip paper. No matter that her shoes are scuffed-up cheap trainers rather than Carry On Matron-style stilettos. Today, and in my tortured state, Eleanor looks fucking hot. And, what’s more, underneath her function-over-form work togs Eleanor is totally my type, from her honey-coloured highlights to her neat, petite ankles. She even has the kind of mouth I like, a pink permanent moue.

  She has a cocksucker’s mouth. And the funny thing is, I have a cocksucker’s cock.

  Oh shit. I really wish I hadn’t just thought that.

  So, five seconds after meeting her, I fancy Eleanor. And it doesn’t take a body language expert to notice that fancying Eleanor has suddenly become a pretty popular occupation around here. Every bloke in the room is practically foaming at the mouth. Which means that I must be the only guy in here who isn’t actively trying to get themselves partnered with her. Which means the fact that I end up working with her is sure and certain proof of Sod’s Law.

  And I really don’t need this right now.

  Even under normal circumstances I can be a bit funny about being touched. Because, well, here’s the thing, if you’re a man like me, i.e. a man who knows what it is to be the filling i
n a tyre-and-tarmac sandwich, something happens to your body. Not something physical. Take all that as read, obviously. But something else. Something social.

  People touch you. People touch me in a way that they wouldn’t normally touch an adult man. People touch me like they’d touch a child or a pregnant woman.

  And even at the best of times, that pisses me off. I get all grouchy when I feel like the shot-putters are touching me too much. Of course they have to, a bit. But I don’t like it, because I know they’re touching me because of what’s happened to me. Maybe, under other circumstances, I would have made an exception for Eleanor, but not today. Not the state I’m in.

  I don’t want Eleanor to touch me right now, not for any highfalutin quasi-political reasons, but simply because I’m so fucking horny it isn’t even funny. But, for so many reasons, it’s tricky to avoid. Especially with fate feeling in a particularly cruel mood.

  So I’m doing some stuff on the bars, and Eleanor touches me, right now, right here. Just a hand on my waist to steady me, stop me from falling. But her hand is so warm I can feel it through my T-shirt. And it’s then that I really wish I hadn’t worn such comfortable, loose-fitting clothing today. Eleanor has an effect on me. And although a small, faithless part of me is glad that I am getting this opportunity to show her that my cock isn’t as useless and pointless as my currently very uncooperative legs, most of me is so mortified.

  Eleanor – the professional – ignores my humiliating case of Eiffel Tower smuggling. At least she does at first. But then, as she rights me and takes her hand away she pauses and lets her hand trail over my stomach. And when I look at her, she gives me a smile that might as well be a written invitation.

  What the fuck?

  I put it out of my mind, though. I have to. I grit my teeth and get through my session mostly without even looking at her. And then I skedaddle to the social club as fast as my wheels will carry me.

  Oh yes, the social club. This is pretty new for me: up until about a month ago not many of my activities had the word ‘social’ or, indeed, the word ‘club’ in the title. This is very much a new thing.

  But lately I have been going to this social club after physio, which is also run in the spinal injuries unit. Actually I did go to this place for a bit after I left hospital, but I drifted away as soon as I got my bungalow sorted and wasn’t living at my mum’s any more.

  Really, though, I don’t know why I was so keen to drop this place before, throwing it over in favour of jacking into the net (and jacking off on the net). It’s so much better than I remember. It’s actually pretty OK. Hanging out with other guys in chairs is not that bad. Not that depressing at all. I didn’t know. I haven’t hung out with other disabled people that much.

  I suppose that’s because I never felt that comfortable with the whole disability thing itself, despite being a member. However lame that sounds. Probably a lot of that was because of Larry.

  After my accident Larry visited me in hospital twice. I suppose I should have been surprised that he even did that. His first visit started off OK. He bounced around with a kind of hyperactive bumptiousness and made lots of comments about nurses – really, lots – like every other thing that came out of his mouth was a comment about Carry On films or bed baths or The Singing Detective. But he couldn’t keep it up. He quickly relocated to the land of downcast gazes and shuffling feet, as the conversation got inevitably more serious and the extent of my injuries became clear to him. When it came to facing the real facts, rather than just messing about with the curtains around my bed, he couldn’t deal. He found an excuse to leave as soon as it was polite. In fact, even slightly before it was polite.

  I was very surprised when he came back to the hospital a week later. Even though it was just to tell me to my face that this was ‘too heavy for me, dude.’

  I never thought I’d see him again after that. I never wanted to see him again after that. He didn’t even hang around long enough for me to tell him how I was going to get myself walking again within a year.

  So, yeah, Larry made it clear he was uncomfortable with it – my disability, the hospital, everything – and that made me decide I was going to be uncomfortable with it too. Course, buying in to Larry’s philosophy was a pretty dumb thing to do because, as Larry was uncomfortable with me along with everything else, siding with him left me completely on my own.

  So, hey, you know what? I might just be better off hanging out with people who don’t completely crap themselves at the very idea of me. Yeah, just starting to see that now.

  So I go along to the social club twice a week and get something of a self-esteem boost as a result. And it’s really all down to Mary.

  Not just that her acceptance and validation have made me happier. I mean, they have. A bit. But that’s not the main reason why being with Mary has made me want to come here. It’s a lot more mundane than that. The real reason was that I needed to get an off-the-peg social life, quickly, so Mary wouldn’t think I was an utter saddo. I couldn’t let her know that all I do for kicks is go round my mum’s and chat to other weirdos on the interweb.

  I mean, my best real-life friend is still Larry. And most of our contact is limited to his boastful emails.

  More or less. Actually things have changed a bit since Operation Track Down Mary. For the last month he has even been pestering me. He texts me a lot, about once a day, which is a big leap from not at all. Although that is mostly because of the crippled mate = girl bait thing (which was a real text he sent me, believe it or not).

  And I think he’s also keen to meet up again because, somewhere along the line (and I’m not sure exactly where or when), I gave him the impression Mary was something of a babe, something like the girls I used to date. So he might have thought the game was back on. Maybe he’s got over his cripple phobia, or maybe he’s forgotten I’m disabled.

  But it isn’t. She isn’t. She’s much more … oh god, how to put it. Mary just isn’t like the girls I used to date; she’s much more mature, in every way. Good ways and bad ways.

  She’s really not what Larry would expect of me. And, now I come to think of it, that shame goes both ways. I don’t want Mary to know what I was, just as much as I don’t want Larry to see what I’ve become.

  But whatever point on the graph my friendship with Larry might be on, I certainly don’t want to let Mary think he represents my social life.

  So the social club is my new social life. A good thing. I even come here when Mary is too busy to come with me. Like today.

  It’s basically just cripples and their hangers-on, being social, drinking tea and competing over who can tell the most gruesome injury/disease/botched-operation story, which I always give a good go, even though my story is pretty unsensational around here. So long as I can avoid getting talked into joining a basketball squad, I’m pretty happy. Although avoiding the sporting evangelists is easier said than done. Just because I’m a young guy and reasonably worked out, everyone seems to assume I am desperate for a place on their wannabe paralympic squad. Course, I don’t mind them asking. It’s flattering and it does give me a chance to explain that I am getting more than enough physical exercise these days. Heh!

  Yeah. Boasting about the fact I am getting some. Not the most honourable pursuit, but that is what I spend a lot of my time doing with my new friends when Mary’s not around. I can’t really help it; if she’s not here, all I want to do is talk about her.

  Obsessed, much? Who? Me?

  Andy’s probably my best mate here. He’s a wheelie too. (That’s what he calls being in a wheelchair: being a wheelie. I’d never heard that one before I came here.) He’s a really good guy. We get on great. He probably gets on great with everyone who comes here. He’s one of those people who just get socialising, who can just do it. In the beginning, I didn’t so much make friends with Andy as not fend off his garrulous advances. Not that I don’t like him. I do like him.

  I’m in a corner with Andy right now, huddled and tight, bumper to bumper. A
nd, yeah, I’m boasting about Mary. But I just can’t help it. She’s at the forefront of my mind even more than usual today. I even end up telling Andy about last night. About how Mary told me I couldn’t come for twenty-four hours, and how that made me get hard when Eleanor touched me.

  ‘Are you going to tell her?’ Andy says, laughing a bit. Clearly loving my confessional mood.

  ‘Tell who? Eleanor?’

  Andy laughs again. ‘No. Mary. You should tell her about your little humiliation. She’d love it, the kinky devil.’

  Oh yeah, Andy has met Mary. In fact they get on well. He knows all about her kinky predilections. Her kinks for bondage and badness, that is: I’d be very surprised if he knows about her disability fetish. She is very cagey about people knowing about that, especially other disabled people. She had a mini-crisis about coming here with me for the first time, in case they had some kind of sicko-detector switched on and decided to give her a hard time about her disgustingness – being all super kinky for men who can’t walk. But, as I pointed out to her, who’s to know?

  I think Andy is quite kinky himself, because he loves hearing all about my escapades with Mary. Every time I’m here on my own, he seems to corner me and ask questions, lots of questions. Maybe he fancies Mary or something. Well, his luck’s out. He might have the wheels but I know she’s not interested. I checked.

  After the first couple of visits to the social club with Mary I found I was getting a bit paranoid every time she looked at or spoke to another guy in a chair. Especially Andy, because she and he were particularly chummy. I ended up taking Mary to one side and making her promise me that she didn’t fancy him. She said she didn’t and then told me off for assuming she would be interested in any guy who rolls rather than strolls. It doesn’t work like that, apparently.