I squeezed quickly, both clamps at once and they came off, falling into my fingers. Almost immediately Gavin screamed, bucking forward, coming close to overturning the chair, pulling his unrestrained legs up, knees bending into his chest for comfort as best they could.
I waited a couple of seconds, then reached forward and removed his blindfold. He looked up, biting his lip, but timidly triumphant.
I smiled right back. ‘You said you’d do anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ I held up the clamps, letting them dangle in front of Gavin’s face for a moment. ‘I want you to beg me to put these back on.’
Gavin looked at me, and it was like watching all the air rush out of a balloon as he said, ‘Aw, god, no.’ And I knew then. I knew what was coming next. His whole demeanour had suddenly changed. The dynamic I had built just drained away. ‘I can’t, Mary. No, I really can’t. Fuck, shit, fuck, strawberry, fuck, sorry, fuck.’
Strawberry. His safe word.
I was so disappointed. It was awful to have to stop when I was so proud of what I’d created and so unbelievably turned on. I put the clamps down and waited. Waited to hear if it was a stop-altogether strawberry, or a stop-for-a-moment strawberry. Even though I kind of knew.
‘Shit, sorry, that was so … but, no way,’ Gavin said, which made a strange sense.
‘Do you want to stop?’
‘No, god, no, it’s great. But look. I can’t do any more of this. I know.’ He looked up at me. ‘Why don’t you fuck me? I’d really like that. I really want you to fuck me.’
He meant could I fuck him up the arse with my strap on, of course. That was always his dream destination. And my Gavin, well, he wasn’t afraid to ask for what he wanted.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I began, ‘you’re not really in the right position.’ And, although I stayed quite calm outside, inside my brain was going, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ and ‘abort, abort, abort’ because the moment was suddenly so gone. Gavin was getting all pushy. And although there was this big part of me that adored his great suffocating sexual need, the flip side of that was his tendency to be too pushy and needy, which just ruined everything. Even when it was supposed to be all about me and my kinks, it still seemed to end up being all about him. I was pissed off about that.
I suddenly felt that this whole special night with the wheelchair had been ruined. The wheelchair, for Gavin, was just a means to an end, not the selfless gesture I’d taken it for. The plan all along was to give me a few wheelchair-centred thrills and then say the safe word and bring on one of his favourite kinks. Bastard. So much for my birthday present. Even if it wasn’t actually my birthday.
The evening just went downhill from there. A little later, in bed, after some scene-finishing standard-missionary-position sex, which was probably not quite what either of us wanted (and I didn’t fuck him up the arse, because, much as I do enjoy that when the time is right, the time when they’ve asked for it is never right), Gavin sealed his fate when he leant over me to grab a cigarette and said, ‘I bet you’re glad I’m not a real cripple, though. You wouldn’t want to miss out.’
‘Miss out on what?’
‘What do you think?’ he said, lighting up (even though I hate smoking in the bedroom, and had told him so several times). ‘Fuckity-fuck.’ He pumped his hips to make his point perfectly clear (and also to make it clear what a wanker he was.)
I played dumb, though, even though I knew what he was getting at. I wanted him to say it. To spell it out for me. ‘Huh?’
‘Well, you know, some poor crippled boy might turn you on with his helplessness, but you’d miss out when he couldn’t give you a good seeing-to at the end, wouldn’t you?’
‘Would I really?’
‘Yeah. Obviously. Well, stands to reason: if he can’t work his legs he isn’t going to be able to work his dick, is he? I mean, it’s like the same muscles and shit.’
‘Oh god, Gavin. It so isn’t,’ I said, unable to remain aloof any longer. ‘Do you have to be such an idiot? It’s not like that.’
‘Well, course, I haven’t done extensive research like some people.’ Gavin said, still joky when he shouldn’t have been joky. Making me shudder.
I sighed hard enough to let him know I was pissed off. I didn’t reply, though. I couldn’t bear to. I just rolled over and went to sleep.
I think that was what killed it with Gavin and me. The wheelchair thing was the last straw. I had known for ages that Gavin was all wrong for me, but somehow he always seemed to sucker me back in with some kind of kinky, sexy idea for fun playtime. The wheelchair turning up in the living room was probably just another attempt to stop me realising that I didn’t really like him all that much.
But it had totally backfired this time, because the games with the chair – or, at least, the way it ended up – just made me realise how much I wanted the real thing. A guy who was really disabled. And preferably not as much of an idiot as Gavin.
David
The internet – a good thing.
No matter how many ‘The Internet Ate My Hamster’-style stories appear in the media, no one can honestly say that we aren’t better off now we are all connected to each other via millions and millions of miles of cable and wi-fi and cascading stylesheets. And I can talk authoritatively like that because I, like so many others of my age and technical abilities, am a web designer.
So yes, I am a little biased about the wonders of the web, because it does provide me with my bread and butter (albeit quite thinly sliced bread with just a smear of butter). But – speaking objectively, honest – the internet is wonderful. For a start it is open all hours. It’s not called the World Wide Web for nothing (although it isn’t called the World Wide Web that much any more, for some reason). This means that it might be eight in the morning in the arse-end-of-nowhere town where I live, but it’s just struck 1 a.m. on the west coast of America, which is where I’m heading right now, hitching a ride on the back of a mouse. Surfing URL.
I’m checking in with the girlfriend. I suppose I shouldn’t call her my girlfriend, mainly because she isn’t my girlfriend. But last night with Mary-the-weird-student was the first time I was unfaithful to her. Not that I ever got the chance to be unfaithful to her before. I could call her my cybergirlfriend, but she isn’t even that. She’s more of a work-avoidance tactic, if I’m honest.
DragonSlayer666:
Yeah, that’s my username. Crappy isn’t it? I know, but it’s tough shit. I can’t be bothered to go through the irritating signing-up process all over again, which is what it would take to change it to something less sad.
It’s actually a hangover from when I was a teenager and utterly crazy-mad for fantasy role-playing games. Which isn’t to say that I don’t play them any more, because I do. Just not as much as I used to. Yeah, I stop to eat and sleep now. And to talk to…
Slutbox04:
Yeah. I know. And, no, I haven’t asked what a nice girl like her is doing with a username like that. Not that she is a nice girl – far from it. And yeah, I know exactly what else you’re thinking about her too.
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
You’re thinking: that’s not a real woman. You are, aren’t you? There’s no way that that’s a woman with a username like that. Don’t bother denying it. I know. In fact, I actually agree with you. I’ve seen Closer, I know Slutbox04 could easily be some creepy guy pretending to be a woman for some kind of bizarre psychosexual kick.
DragonSlayer666:
Well, how about I tell you something right now. Something most people would never ever guess about me. Something that will kill stone-dead all those stereotypical opinions that you are forming of me, right now. I don’t care if it is a man. I really don’t. I fact I think that is kind of hot in a weird and fucked-up way.
Surprised?
I read in a magazine the other day that th
is is called being heteroflexible: essentially straight but not likely to run screaming from the room at the merest suggestion of gay sex. Don’t go getting any ideas now. I’m not saying I’m desperate for a cock up my arse. Not at all. But with the right guy at the right time … maybe it could happen. Not that it’s likely to, these days. Mary the student notwithstanding, when it comes to rampant bisexuality, I’ve probably missed my window.
But, anyway, back to Slutbox04. Can’t keep the nice lady waiting, can I?
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
I don’t actually have an erection. That’s just a bit of sexy talk for her benefit. I am wearing white underpants, though. And my cock does feel tingly and nice. But I’m not really there yet – which isn’t all that surprising after last night. But there’s no harm in letting her think that the very act of typing messages to her gets me standing to attention, all manly and virile. See, that’s the whole point of my relationship with Slutbox04: I can tell her whatever I want. Whatever I want about my body.
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
Oh yeah. She has this picture I sent her. It’s of me. But it’s a couple of years old. Taken before the accident. It’s actually of me on my bike. The bike that everyone assumes is the cause of my being in a wheelchair.
It isn’t, actually. People always seem to think: he’s in a wheelchair, he used to ride a motorbike, cause = effect. But that’s not the case. I’m not saying that a motorbike on a wet night isn’t a fast track to Casualty – I know the stats. But that wasn’t the case with me. It happened while I was walking, and – to keep it brief – some twat came speeding along while I was crossing the road.
In some ways it’s actually lucky for me that it did happen that way, rather than in some stupid motorbike deathwish scenario, because with this accident (a) he was insured and (b) it was all his fault. Which are both big factors when it comes to getting a nice adapted bungalow, a nice adapted car, a nice adapted life.
But anyway, yes, back to Slutbox04 and her picture of me on the motorbike that did not cause my life-changing accident. I used to take a very good photograph, and it’s one of my better ones, so it’s a very sexy picture, even if I do say so myself.
And dear Slutbox04 is right now pleasuring him/herself with some kind of freaked-out geek-girl hardware while she flicks between assorted hardcore images on the net and a picture of photogenic old me, in my leathers, back when my legs still worked.
This can only end well.
Oh yeah, and before you ask, no, she doesn’t know about the distinct difference between the me in her picture and the me of today. As far as she’s concerned the person she is talking to across the electro-ether is the same fully functional human being that is straddling the silver cream machine in her picture.
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
God, she is so good at this. She likes me to be quite domineering, dominant, all that. And I quite like that too. But it’s not really my thing, so normally it would be hard for me to know where to start. But not with her. She tells me right where to push.
All the more reason why it’s better that she doesn’t know I’m not the owner of a fully functioning body.
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Ah, yes, a slight cop-out by me, but the thing is, I can just about get away with it with her, and it makes sense, because she is so much more experienced at this sort of thing than me. I’ve learnt so much from her about this kinky-assed stuff.
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
And I have to ask, because the truth is, even though I have the full resources of Google at my disposal and it’s the work of a few clicks to discover what a buttplug is and what one looks like, I really have no idea whether it would feel pleasant or not. It doesn’t sound very pleasant, but with this girl you really never can tell.
I suppose I could order one and try it out myself, just so I know for future reference, you understand. I open another window on my browser, and start inputting my credit card details into a sex toy site, trying not to question my actions too much.
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
Slutbox04:
DragonSlayer666:
See, like I say, I’m new, but I’m learning.
Mary
The basement of the university library is vast. A huge echoey dungeon, full of ominous bolted-together metal apparatus, although sadly the metalware here is just the Meccanoesque nuts and bolts of the bookshelves.
I sidle along the racks, occasionally wiping dust away with my fingers like a disapproving mother-in-law. I should be looking for obscure texts about Victorian literature (after the public library in town proved, unsurprisingly, worse than useless) but my mind is still throbbing from my night with David. And I just can’t stop dwelling on the past.
David isn’t the first disabled guy I’ve ever been with. After Gavin and the wheelchair episode that made me decide I wanted the real deal, I went out and found myself an actual, full-blown disabled boyfriend. It wasn�
��t even that difficult. I had just what I’d always wanted. I couldn’t understand why it had taken me so long to get with the programme.
I met Rich in a supermarket, in a scenario rather similar to my David pick up, except that the actual sex, when we got into the bedroom, might have been rather more A-to-B straightforward – but I’ll get to that later. This was back when I lived in Bristol, and I was a career bitch then, so I was rather more cashed-up than I am now. Also, my flatmate had moved out somewhere in the middle of the Gavin-dumping farrago, which wasn’t pretty. So, after I’d shagged dear little Rich into oblivion, he just never went home. He still lived with his mum when I met him – he was twenty, or something insanely young like that – and my flat was on the ground floor and just accessible enough to be viable for him. So he was a live-in sexy twenty-year-old in a wheelchair, less than a week after I’d sidled up to him next to the frozen peas.
Then – this was a quick-and-dirty rebound-from-Gavin relationship, remember – the whole thing started to splinter and crack before my eyes in the same breathless fast-forward way it had begun.
Right from the start, I’d tried to be upfront with Rich about what I saw in him. Well, maybe I didn’t say, ‘I am attracted to you because you’re in a wheelchair,’ or talk about ‘licking the footplate’ as I did with David, but I didn’t hide it. I certainly didn’t pretend to be anything other than Little Miss Kinky. But Rich soon made it clear that while he liked the sex – though he didn’t get as much as he would have liked (what twenty-year-old does!) – he wasn’t too keen on all that kinky stuff I considered an essential part of a fun night in.
Yes. Call me a fool, but in my brain I had automatically equated disabled/in-a-wheelchair with kinky-as-all-hell. And Rich just wasn’t into all that stuff, which in my book is a fundamental incompatibility.
But I didn’t give up straight away. How could I? Rich was so perfect in so many other ways. I tried everything to get him to come round to my kinky way of thinking, believing, a little desperately, that he’d like it if he would only give it a chance. Eager to convert him sooner rather than later, I rattled my chains and manacles in Rich’s face and, each and every time, he screwed up his nose and suggested some rather more vanilla diversions instead.
Equal Opportunities Page 4
