THE TRAIN NOW ARRIVING

 

THE TRAIN NOW ARRIVING

Fiction by strzeka (10/25)

 

DIARY

 

Yesterday was my twenty‑first birthday. It was also my tenth ampuversary. That’s the name they call the anniversary of your amputation. If you have more than one done at different times, you could have two or three ampuversaries. But you can’t have more than one birthday. Anyway, it’s time for me to move out of the orphanage and into my new flat which actually is new. It’s on the fourteenth floor of a block twenty‑two stories high. It has a bedroom, a living room and kitchen combo and a big bathroom specially outfitted for a guy like me with only one leg. I’m just waiting for the superintendent to bring the van around. I don’t have a lot of stuff to move,

 

And now I have my independence, I’m going to act on my desires and try for my second amputation. The way I think of it, I’ve had my tin leg for ten years and can walk on it as well as if it was flesh and blood. So if the other one came off, I could carry on using the tin leg with crutches and everyone would still think I’m just one‑legged, which is all they’ve known me as anyway.

 

You might think it’s crazy to want to be legless. Au contraire, mon frère. I really love having a stump. All my friends like seeing it and they enjoy watching me putting my tin leg on too. And on the occasions I’ve fucked, my stump is usually the main thing my boyfriend wants to play with. I enjoy it too. It feels really nice when someone plays with it. It makes me horny. Hornier. If I had two stumps, I could either have another tin leg to match the old one or some kind of peg leg. I’ve had peg legs before, when I was still just a kid. Just after my parents died. Just after the accident, I mean. It’s really great walking on a peg leg. It’s so light and no effort at all, not like most tin legs. The only thing is that they don’t bend so when you sit down, it sticks out in front of you.

 

I don’t really remember the accident. Only what other people have told me and I don’t think they tell me the whole story. I suppose if a kid loses a leg and his parents all in a split second, you wouldn’t go into all the gory details. I used to miss my mum and dad but I was distracted by my new stump and my first peg leg. They gave it to me as my first artificial leg on a temporary basis but I liked it so much that I never gave it back. It’s packed up with my stuff right now. One of the few things I still have from those days that I can call my own. But best of all is knowing that I have an appointment with a prosthetist next week, a new guy, and someone said he’s much younger than the bloke I used to see. He was alright though. He let me order my tin leg. It’s not really tin. It’s aluminium. All legs used to be made of it at one time but then they started making them of separate components so the knowledge of how to turn a metal cylinder into something like a teenage boy’s leg was lost. Only a few people know how to do it now. I really appreciate it. It looks and sounds different from all my other fake legs. And I know other amputee kids are jealous.  Anyway, that’s why having two stumps and two tin legs would be just about the best thing I can think of.

 

The other leg I use most often is my newest peg leg. They know at the clinic that I know how to walk on one. Like I said, it was my first artificial leg after the accident and in a way it came to be a kind of link to my old self, to the boy who had two legs and two parents. The matron at the orphanage was very concerned about me appearing so crippled but I didn’t mind. I’ve never been self‑conscious about being an amputee. What’s the point? You can’t hide away somewhere and never go out to meet people, even if you’re just a kid and only have one leg. My friends at the orphanage used to stare at first because they’d never seen someone like me before but they soon got used to seeing me and never stared after that. It was only when we started to get a bit older, when we started having to shave, that a couple of my mates began to show an interest in my peg and stump again but this time, they wanted me to let them feel my stump. It’s funny how some people really love it. I don’t mind. Like I said, it feels really good when someone else strokes it or just holds it between their hands.

 

I use the peg leg at weekends these days, at least, I have done at the orphanage. I don’t know what I’m going to do in my own flat. I suppose I can do whatever I want. Use my peg or my tin leg or go without and just use crutches. None of them make any noise so I don’t need to worry about the downstairs neighbour banging on the ceiling. The super and I have been shopping this week for some furniture for me. We got special permission for access to the flat. We bought some stuff from Ikea and the super helped me put them up with his electric drill thing. So I have a bed, a table with matching chairs and a low table for a tv with shelves under for game cartridges. And some cutlery and mugs and a saucepan and frying pan. I only had a two hundred quid allowance for furniture so that’s what I got. Now I’m twenty‑one, I’ll get a disability pension on top of my other allowance so I’ll easily be able to afford more stuff. Getting it home is the problem, though. I don’t know if they deliver. The super has just pulled up so I’ll continue this later.

 

­ ­ * * *

 

Oops! I forgot about this. Now it’s already three days later and I’ve officially moved in. My clothes are hanging up in the walk‑in closet and my artificial legs are all standing up against the wall in my bedroom. They look really funny in a row like that. I don’t know if there’s any point in hanging on to the old ones, really. I’m not going to ever wear them again. Maybe I could donate them. I’ll have to ask at the clinic when I go for my appointment tomorrow. I’ve been to the supermarket this morning. There’s a big one about a kilometre away. The tram pulls up next to the entrance which is really handy. I just bought some stuff for sandwiches really. I’m not sure about cooking. I’ll have to look at a couple of videos about how to cook before I dare to start trying myself. It can’t be that hard. It’s only chemistry, after all.

 

Jimmy texted me to ask if I was settled in already. He wants to come round and I said come tomorrow after I get back from the clinic. I gave him the entry code. Jim only has a few months left at the orphanage before they kick him out too. Maybe he’ll be given a flat here. There are lots of empty flats still. It would be nice if we lived in the same building. I bet he wants to stay the night. If he does, I’m going to let him.

 

So anyway, the new guy at the clinic introduced himself and asked me about my tin leg and if I had other prostheses so I told him about my peg leg and he was interested to hear that. I found out that I can leave my old legs at the clinic and they can recycle the bits which still work so that’s what I’m going to do. Then I asked if they still made tin legs now that the other doctor had left and Andrew, that’s the new guy’s name, said it should be possible as long as the outside facility still produced them to order. He said most of the tin legs they made these days were for theatrical and cinematic purposes and were used worldwide. I feel very honoured to be among such important people. I took my leg off and he checked my stump and the tin leg for wear and tear but there wasn’t anything he could see and I have nothing to complain about. I came away with two new liners and some fresh stump socks. I think the first thing I need to buy is a washing machine. I can’t stand the idea of washing my stump socks in a bucket every night. There’s a tap and thing on the wall in my bathroom for a washing machine because there’s no space in the kitchen.

 

If they can still make tin legs, that means I could have a matching one made if I get a second stump. I wonder what it would feel like to have no legs. Of course, I’d still have my stumps. They’re as good as legs. All you need is a bit of technology and off you go. It’s only when you really lose your legs right up to your arse that you should be called legless. That’s what I think, anyway. I wouldn’t like to be legless but it would be fun to have short stumps. Two the same as the one I have now and waddle around on stubbies. I reckon that would be as horny as wearing a peg leg.

 

Jimmy sat opposite me at my kitchen table and asked me lots of questions about what it felts like to be independent and if I had started cooking yet and what they said at the clinic. Anyone would think that we hadn’t seen each other for months instead of just five days. But it’s nice we’re together alone. No‑one else will butt in if we kiss or if Jim is fondling my stump. He brought a box of red wine, some Hungarian plonk, and we were both a bit sozzled after a couple of hours. For some reason, we got to talking about my collection of ancient fake legs which you could sort of see if you leaned back on your chair and peered into my bedroom. They were lined up along the wall. I said I’d like a pair of tin legs because having one was so cool and Jimmy agreed, of course. But before I could have another tin leg, I would have to have my other leg off and did he have any ideas about how to go about such a thing. All we could think of was sneaking off down to the station and dropping down onto the track in front of a train. It would have to be one that was stopping otherwise you could be caught up in the air turbulence as it whooshed past and end up in very little pieces indeed. You needed a train which was almost stopped and then you would stick your leg out and crunch! The wheels would crush it so they would have to cut it off properly in the hospital. Tidy it all up and everything. It all sounded very easy and Jimmy said he was fairly sure that the local station had exactly the sort of platform where you could lie against it out of view of anyone until the train came. And then he asked if I was going to cut my leg off and I said I might if I could find someone who would help me do it and afterwards when I was legless and he said he would help because he loved me and had loved me since he saw me for the first time. Wine sometimes has that effect, I have heard.

 

So next morning after sandwiches for breakfast, we caught the tram from the end of the road into town and used our travel passes to get onto the platforms. It was true what Jimmy had said. There was a kind of inset space under the lip of the platforms where a person could hide amongst all the chocolate wrappers and coke cans until a train arrived. It seemed the best way of going about having some kind of accident. Jimmy came back to my flat with me and we began to plan what exactly I would have to do before putting my leg under the train wheels. Neither of us doubted that I would not do it. I took my tin leg off and put my peg on. Jimmy preferred seeing the peg. He liked the way it jutted out. He said I could have two peg legs which was an idea which I had not dared to think about. Imagine walking around on two peg legs! How would you balance? It seems impossible. Jim said he had seen photos. I said I’d like to see those photos too before I believe him, although I have to say it sounds like a horny idea. So he dug around on the net for a couple of minutes and showed me a video of some French guys walking on two peg legs after the war when they couldn’t afford anything better and I had to believe him. I tried to imagine what life would be like with two stumps. Just two tin legs to rely on and maybe a pair of walking sticks. I could be dressed up to the nines for some function with my tin legs hidden but still marked out as disabled by my trusty walking sticks. Everywhere I went I would be admired for my ability and skill for walking about on tin legs like men after the war which invented tin legs for everyone. Lurching around, clutching a friend’s arm or pieces of furniture. I would make do with my sticks and grow a collection of them to match the collection of artificial legs which I was sure to have a load of.

 

Jimmy came back again and stayed overnight again. He ran out to get us breakfast stuff the next morning and while I waited for him to come back, I sat on my Ikea chair wearing my peg leg and a T‑shirt and thought how very disabled I would be after the train arrived. Jimmy was more than a friend. He was like an alter ego, another version of yourself. Except in Jimmy’s case, he had legs and let me fuck him.

 

­ ­ * * *

 

The accident was easy enough to arrange. I wore camo gear from the thrift shop, the cheaper the better. Jimmy came to the station with me and went to the opposite platform where he could see me until the train came. It was just one of the local electrics, nothing special. All over the station there were the same announcements ‘The train now arriving on platform nine is the six fifteen service to Wilsholm via Stambridge’ or whatever. Brilford via Epsnade Junction stopping at Wilpool. I didn’t know where the trains went. I didn’t care. I was listening for the one which said ‘The train now arriving at platform three’. That was the train I was waiting for. It was only four carriages so it was fairly nippy. I had taken up a position where I could hold onto a bit of concrete so I could get some leverage to swing my leg out sharpish. Whatever kind of amputation I was going to get, it would be at some kind of slant. The train would run over my leg at an angle.

 

“The train now arriving at platform three is the seventeen forty‑nine to Welford.” I could feel the rail vibrating and waited for the first wheels to pass. The train was obviously slowing so in the second and a half between the front and rear wheels of the second carriage, I stretched my leg across the rail and gritted my teeth. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected. No‑one seemed to have noticed and I was reluctant to shout and make a scene before the train had left. I knew Jimmy was looking out for me and had probably already called for an ambulance. It didn’t take long before I could hear sirens and I thought they must be coming for me. Suddenly there were dozens of people on the platform above me and opposite. I was rescued from my hidey‑hole, slid into the ambulance and left with two confused medics who found themselves with a man wearing a tin leg and a traumatic amputation of the other. Fortunately I was pumped full of saline and painkiller. I had lost a good amount of blood and my adrenaline rush was wearing off. Now the pain began in earnest, as the saying goes. But the painkiller had a calming effect and distorted time. Before I even realised, I was being stripped naked and washed with disinfectant by a nurse. A doctor, my surgeon I suppose, took a look at the squashed and torn remnant of my thigh and muttered something to his colleague. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up.

 

It was already the next day. I tried to feel how long my new stump was but it was heavily bandaged. I found out later that the police were waiting to interview me. The railway authorities too were curious to know how the incident happened. I had already planned ahead of time. I was going to say that I had no memory of how I came to fall from the platform. The first thing I remember is waking up legless. I thought even the hardest copper might not press me too hard, an unfortunate youngster with life‑changing injuries. I was waiting to hear from Jimmy. I have my phone with me somewhere, maybe a nurse has put it in a cupboard drawer or something. I don’t have my charger with me though. I wonder if the police already suspect Jimmy of being in cahoots with me. I hope not. Although I don’t know what crime he could be accused of. 

 

The surgeon doctor dropped by to see how I was doing. He described my injuries and said I was lucky to be alive. They always say that, regardless of what condition they have left you in. He regretted that there was so much potentially dangerous filth embedded along my thigh bone that he was compelled to amputate quite high leaving six centimetres of humerus thigh bone and a generous cushion of flesh.

 

So under all these bandages, I don’t even have a proper stump. Just a bit of bone left, the length of a half smoked cigarette. All covered by a ball of flabby muscle. I will never walk on stubbies or peg legs. I’ll always have to rely on my first stump. That is now my “good” leg. I will have to wear my tin leg with a pair of crutches. I really hate crutches. Or even better, I could wear my peg leg with crutches. That would look really something. And maybe they can fit me with some kind of artificial limb hanging from a belt or something. I don’t know how they fit you up if you’re legless. I am legless. I never thought I would experience what it actually means to be legless but it’s what I have in store. I have a lot of alternatives, though. I can try to learn to walk on tin legs. I can sit in a wheelchair wearing shorts to cover my stumps or have a pair of cosmetic legs made which just look like legs. They’re only to fool the public. Or I could scoot around on a skateboard wearing boxing gloves to protect my hands or make a platform on casters and pull myself along with a pair of hefty old fashioned irons. That would make me look really disabled. I have all these choices available to me now. I’ll definitely be the centre of attention wherever I go. It would be great if Jimmy is with me too. There are things which are difficult without legs. It’s good to have an assistant. I wonder what fucking him will be like now? I can’t imagine not being able to get some purchase with my knee to get some force into my strokes. I guess it’s just something else which lies ahead to discover. I know one thing. It’s good I’ve only just started furnishing my new flat because everything I buy now will have to be suitable for a legless man. So many changes and so many new things. Most of all I am longing to know what sort of artificial leg they are going to give me. I think a normal one is out of the question. There’s hardly any stump to attach it to. Maybe I’ll have a belt and braces sort of thing with my stump covered up completely and an entire leg attached on a hinge right at the top. I bet that will be a lark, trying to walk on something like that with my tin leg on the other stump.

 

My nurse heard my phone pinging and took it out to look at. There was hardly any charge so she charged it up and then brought it to me with the charger. It was a message from Jimmy asking if I was ok and what they had done. And he said he had heard from the housing people and gave me his new address. I think it’s the same building as my flat. I was going to type back a long message but I asked the nurse when I would be allowed visitors. She wasn’t sure and went off to ask. It’s alright if Jimmy wants to visit, she said. Forty minutes tops, at six o’clock. So I told Jimmy to come round tonight.

 

The police have been talking to him, asking questions about what he saw at the station. He says he has no idea how I came to fall under the train. He said he knew me from the orphanage but that I had moved out. He said I had called out and that’s how he knew someone was under the train. And that’s why he called an ambulance. It sounds a bit peculiar but he said he told them he was in shock and couldn’t really remember. I’m going to tell them that I think my tin leg must have collapsed under me and that’s why I fell. It’s quite possible except that I can control it a lot better than that. I haven’t fallen wearing my tin leg for years. The hospital hasn’t let the police in yet to interview me.

 

I let Jimmy see my new stump all bandaged up. It’s easy to tell that it’s really short. Jimmy said he remembered me talking about being a one‑legged man on crutches and it seemed it would be true after all. He said he had seen videos of amputees in rehab trying to balance on artificial legs after they’d had their legs completely dislocated. He didn’t think I would want to rely on something like that, not for everyday use. Maybe on special occasions when I needed to just stand somewhere for any length of time. Otherwise he said it would be cool if I walked on tall armpit crutches and my tin leg. I had already come to the same conclusion. But like I said, there are other ways for a legless man to get around. Best of all though is the fact that Jimmy is moving into the same building as me but he doesn’t know what floor his flat is on. It doesn’t really matter as long as the lift works.

 

­ ­ * * *

 

I’m home again. Twenty‑five days after the train adventure. The police came and chatted with me and I explained how my leg gave way when I was too close to the edge of the platform, where I shouldn’t have been anyway. They thought I had lost both my legs under the train and I had to explain that I was already an amputee before and had a tin leg. One of the policemen said it was a pity that the train didn’t crush that one instead. I don’t agree. If he knew how difficult is to have a tin leg made these days he wouldn’t see anything good about having it crushed to bits. They went away satisfied. What they wanted to know was if I wanted to sue the railway company. I asked if they thought I could get compensation and they said they doubted it because it was pretty much my own fault as far as they could see. If only they knew. And I still have all the money from my first amputation in the bank, plus my disabled pension.

 

The hospital let me go early because I told them I did not want a prosthesis for my new residual limb. That’s how they talk about artificial legs for your stumps. The rehab doctor told me about the sort of bucket system they have for men with really short stumps or no stumps at all and I said I wasn’t interested. So they let me borrow a wheelchair with no footplate and brought me home. Jimmy said he could call round if I needed some shopping and that’s what we did. I went out shopping in a wheelchair for the first time ever. Everything looks so different when you’re just sitting down but it was handy to pile the bags onto the front of the seat instead of carrying them. My new stump is so short it looks like there’s no stump there at all. My old one is long enough to be visible. I should get a short stubby or peg leg for it when I’m in the wheelchair. That way I can slip out of the chair and stand on it for a bit. I should get some short crutches too. I’m going to ask the rehab clinic.

 

Jimmy said I should start a channel on the internet, on 4Pay or one of the porn channels. That way, people could pay to look at photos of my stumps and so on. We already have a load of photos. Jimmy really loves my new stump because it looks so useless. I can make it wiggle and you can see the bone moving about under the flesh. Jimmy said I am the first amp he’s ever seen with a dick longer than his leg stump. We could even make our own porn with me on Jimmy’s back shafting him. We haven’t had sex yet. I’m not supposed to do anything stressful which might injure my stump. I am going to be so horny soon that anything could set me off. I have had a wank but it’s not the same. And I want to find out how it feels to fuck without legs. One thing I do know. It’s possible for me to spread my stumps out to the side much wider than I could before when there were tendons and muscles attached to my knee. It will be fun to try holding on to Jimmy legs with my stumps to get some purchase for drilling his arse.

 

Jimmy has moved in. His flat is three floors above mine. He’s not twenty‑one yet but he has to take up living in his flat within six weeks of notice otherwise he loses the flat. So the orphanage had to let him go. He hasn’t got any furniture at all but I’ll give him some of mine. He can have my bed (too high for me) and my kitchen table and chairs (same). I need lower stuff, custom made. My bed is just the mattress on the floor. I have to sit in the wheelchair at home, otherwise I can’t really do anything. I’d like to have a light sports wheelchair. This hospital one is a bit old and clunky. I don’t want to rely on a wheelchair but I think I should probably have one. There will be times when my stump is sore or my tin leg is in for repairs when I’ll need one. Jimmy spends most of his time in my flat. It would be good if we had a bigger living room. We could share the same flat if there was a bit more room. We don’t need a bigger bedroom because we both fit into the same bed and the bathroom is already big enough to take my wheelchair. Jimmy’s bathroom is just normal. Toilet, shower and space for a washing machine.

 

I’ve been back to the hospital to talk with the rehab people about buying a proper wheelchair and having a peg leg or something made for my old stump. And short crutches. The rehab guy was a bit unsure if I really meant a peg leg. Most men like me have a big thick stubbie which is much better for standing on and easier to walk on. I said I could have a stubbie too, go ahead and make one. He laughed and said he would measure me up for a stubbie leg which would make me as tall as I was before when I knelt. So knee length. And I would have a pair of elbow crutches to let me lift myself around on it. He was not sure that I would be allowed to have a peg leg but I told him I already had one and could even adapt it myself if I had a saw. I wouldn’t like to cut my long peg leg. I’m sure I’ll be able to wear it again somehow instead of my tin leg. The rehab guy asked how I was getting on in general at home as an independent amputee and I said everything was going fine but I was always having to be careful not to knock my stumps. I didn’t have anything to wear on my new stump to protect it. He said he had an idea which might help. It would be a plaster of Paris shell around my belly and covering my stumps. It would let me rock myself around on my hands without having to watch out all the time. He called it a monocoque. It’s like the things ice hockey amputees use, he said, but I didn’t know what he meant. I looked it up on the net later on when I remembered and it looks really horny to sit in a monocoque. There were even photos of guys sitting in plaster ones looking very horny without legs and just a long plaster bucket to balance in. They all had big grins so they couldn’t have been all that unhappy. I came away from rehab with orders for one thick carbon stubbie, one short peg leg which can be attached to my old peg leg’s socket so I can swap them over with a screwdriver, one pair of shortened elbow crutches and one aluminium sports wheelchair with no footplate but silicon wheels and a genuine leather seat. I have to go to the factory to be measured for it but the rehab guy reckons the hospital will organise it for me. Otherwise, I have to go to the clinic for all the various fittings. I don’t mind. Everything is getting me closer to the ideal way I want to live my life, as a legless man. Not in exactly the way I hoped because I wanted two stumps and I really only have one but that’s better than having legs or a leg.

 

I never knew that not having legs would make me feel so free. When I feel horny, everything seems to be concentrated into my dick and stumps. I can wank by just playing with my stumps, although it’s better if Jimmy does it for me. My new stump is especially horny. I’m beginning to think they made it so short just so I could feel how sexy it is to have a stump right next to my cock and balls. No, I don’t suppose they did but I bet the surgeon knew. I bet he thought ‘this young man is going to have some fun with this bit of stump’. He was right. I think he made the right decision to leave me some stump when he could easily have thought ‘fuck it’ and given me a dislocation. Then I would just have a pelvis bone with no stump whatsoever. I don’t think that would be very horny.

 

My new furniture is arriving in dribs and drabs. Instead of my mattress, now I have what they call a futon which is meant to be a bed right on the floor. It had a very low bamboo frame and thin mattresses you can pile up on top of each other. Anyway, there’s lots of room for me and Jimmy to share it. I don’t need a lot of room. I can sleep sideways in a big armchair if I take my peg leg off. I have some thick mats with cushions in the living room instead of chairs. I don’t have many visitors but they will just have to sit on the floor with me. It’s not uncomfortable. Jimmy loves it and is doing the same thing in his flat. He still sleeps with me most nights now that my stump is completely healed and completely horny all the time. We have been videoing our fucks which look totally amazing from the side. It’s amazing to see how I have to squirm my body without legs to enter his arsehole and fuck him. It doesn’t look as if it could be possible but my dick can stay hard for ages and being legless doesn’t stop it getting what it needs. Sometimes you can catch a silhouette of my dick and see that it really is longer than my new stump.

 

At last the rehab people got their act together and delivered everything in one fell swoop. Everything was in one big cardboard box in their own boxes. I had to find a knife to get them open and to do that, I had to get in my wheelchair so I could reach the kitchen drawer with the knives and things. It’s not easy being legless. Everything takes longer than you think. I’m only joking. Who cares. The main thing is you have stumps. Whatever else happens, you will always have them and no‑one can take them away from you. Anyway, first out of the box was the monocoque which was not only plaster, it had a layer of plastic all over it to keep it waterproof. So it was black instead of white like I thought it would be. There was a load of READ ME instructions with it so I knocked it away to one side and went back to emptying the box. Next was my pair of short crutches all wrapped in bubble wrap. I unwrapped them as carefully as I could so as not to mess up the bubble wrap because I love popping the bubbles afterwards. The crutches were silver with big black rubber tips like anchors or foundations. I’ve never seen such big crutch tips. They look well horny. Then I tipped the box over so I could look inside better. My new peg leg fell into my lap and it looked so amazing all wrapped up to protect it. I would put it on my old socket. I could see why my crutch tips were so enormous. It was to match the tip of the short peg leg. All the tips were enormous, bigger than any rubber tip I’d seen before. They were like black flowerpots turned upside down. They were the horniest thing I could ever imagine having at the end of my peg leg until I gave the box a shake and my first ever stubbie dropped out.

 

It was still wrapped up but I could see it was the most perfect thing I could ever have. It didn’t weigh hardly anything and it reached from my cock and balls to where I had a knee before. It was just black carbon, shiny as anything and really smart. There was a load of cushioning stuff inside the socket and I tore the bubble wrap off and pulled the stump socks out from inside my new stubbie. I was so excited I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tilted over backwards and came in my underpants. I hadn’t had a fuck for months so I was full of spunk and it went everywhere.

 

I tried to see where I had cum so I could clean it up later on but I pushed my new short crutches across the room followed by the stubbie and a couple of packs of stump socks. I handwalked across the room and leant against the wall. I took all the wrapping off everything, tried the stubbie on and then put some socks on before I squashed my old stump into the brand new stubbie. It was so long. I had never seen anything so horny and my slimy dick rose up once again. I pulled the stubbie carefully onto my stump and when it felt like it would go no further, I sat back and looked down at what I had become. The stubbie was the most comfortable thing I had ever worn. It looked like half an elephant’s leg, completely inhuman and just about the horniest thing I had ever seen in my life. I leaned back against the wall and lifted my stump. The stubbie rose and seemed to promise to be ready for me wherever I went. I could see it was perfect. I scrabbled for the short crutches which would let me actually walk on the stubbie. They were also covered in warnings and READ MEs like no‑one had ever used crutches before. They should have come with instructions on how to use crutches with such enormous flowerpot rubber tips. I guestimated the proper number of holes to extend the poles and tried pushing myself up onto my stubbie. I felt myself drop slightly deeper into it due to the force of gravity and my liner tightened against my stump. Waving my arms around for balance on the base of this new stump, I quickly grabbed the crutches and tested them for length. They seemed right so I slotted my arms into the crutches and leaned on them to test for balance. I looked down to see my fists gripping new crutches and the shiny black stubbie. It was all to much and I fell back against the wall again and came all over the floor for the second time. The way I think of it is, my body was reacting to what my brain thought about its new body. It could go on in a circulation of horn, being turned on by your own stumps and artificial limbs until you were wanked dry.

 

The doorbell rang. It was the worst time in my entire life to answer the door. I had a cylinder on my stump which I had never tried before and crutches which felt very strange. I was scrabbling about trying to position my stubbie while making sure my crutches would hold me when I heard to door open. It could only be Jimmy. No‑one else had a key. He came into the living room and stopped when he saw me half naked. I have to admit my long black stubbie looked horny but Jimmy cried out and staggered towards the kitchen wall holding his crotch. He was coming in his pants. It was the best compliment I’ve ever had and it took only ten seconds. It gave me a lot of confidence that when I show myself in public, half the men are nursing erections after they see me and the rest are trying to disguise their ejaculations. Of course, these days I have a longer stubbie designed by experts to be more attractive and my clothes are coutured for an amputee. But I am getting ahead of myself. As it was, this was the first time anyone had ever seen me using or wearing a stubbie and I was uncertain about my appearance. Especially with the short crutches which always look a bit odd and hopeless. They make me look especially disabled so I use them when I can. Which is most of the time. Then I remembered, seeing Jimmy emptying his balls.

 

I wanted to try out my short peg leg, seeing as how the stubbie had such a grand effect. I told Jimmy to fetch my peg and my tool pack, always a necessary item for an amputee. Mine was a big bright pink bag with screws and bolts and the tools to screw them. I found the proper hex keys and undid the long pylon of my favourite peg leg. I inserted the brand new peg leg into the same place and reinserted the screws. I asked Jimmy to pull my stubbie off. I could see how difficult it was for him by his expression. Then I pulled the socket of my new short peg leg over my longer stump and fumbled for my crutches. I asked Jimmy to help me to my foot, my rubber ferrule, the flowerpot. I leaned forward on the enormous crutch tips while I felt the balance which the peg leg gave me. Jimmy was groaning again and withdrawing away curled up. The sight of me on a short peg leg and two crutches was too much for him. He came in his trousers and when he thought he had stopped, he looked back at me and came again.

 

Many men have reacted the same way over the years since and neither me or Jimmy are surprised. We both know that stump worship is a real phenomenon and many men are up for the pleasure of watching a pair of genuine amputees practising what they do best. Fucking. That’s what our 4Pay channel turned into after the first thirty or so videos of me using various combinations of stubbies and other gear. The most popular videos, the ones which bring in the most revenue, are the ones where I shaft Jimmy wearing one of my peg legs. Then I swap out the rubber tip for a silicon dildo and fuck him again with the peg leg. It’s amazing to watch close ups of my short stump squirming around trying to maintain my balance I’m fucking Jimmy.

 

There are the other channel members too, the ones who are only interested in seeing my stumps and the others who are more interested in seeing my peg legs. I used to use my stubbie leg most often because it was a bit more stable and I liked the way it resembled a thigh. It was more like half a leg and I could relate to that. But after a year or two, I began to miss walking on my old peg leg, the one I had when I had a full leg on the other side instead of my short stump. It still fit onto my stump with no problem but I was too unsure on it to use it regularly, especially outside. Jimmy suggested I start out with a new socket specially designed for a whole range of different length peg legs which I could change according to my mood. I could have several pairs of crutches to suit the pegs and gradually I would become used to walking on a single peg leg. And that is what I did. My new prosthetist guy is very open to new ideas and we worked together on a ratchet system to fix various lengths pylon to my new socket. The new socket is as long as my thigh. Sometimes I wear it when I am in my chair. It helps me balance better and it looks stunning poking out of my shorts.

 

So as time went on, I regained some of my height. My shortest and second shortest peg legs are great for wearing in my wheelchair or on the skateboard. They protect my stump and look cool. I have two middle length pegs before arriving back at my first long peg. And I am using it again almost every time Jimmy and me go out anywhere. I get round the problem of its length by simply pulling the socket off my stump. It’s not in the way any more than my crutches. I rely on Jimmy to lift me up when I want to stand. There is no way I can stand up by myself on the long peg leg. If I fall, I can’t get up again without someone’s help. Luckily it doesn’t happen often.

 

I have begun to wear the monocoque again. It looks fine and feels fine. It makes me completely disabled. I can’t really move my stump inside it. All I can do is sit. So it’s great for handwalking. It feels very safe and secure to know that my stumps are safe and I whatever I choose to do, handwalk or chair it, I don’t need to be so careful. The base of the coque is not flat which makes it easier to rock myself around in it. I usually wear ordinary workmen’s gloves when I handwalk. They don’t cost much and are strong enough to last a couple of outings.

 

People often ask me what it feels like to have no legs. But sometimes I still feel my left leg. My right stump has always just been itself. I lost my leg so young that my body adapted, I suppose. It’s like a leg of sorts. I can’t walk on it. I need some kind of socket on it, something hard and protective. Then I can have a tin leg or a short peg leg fitted to it, whatever I want. And that is how tall I will be. But however tall I am, I can only feel as far as my stump. I have to concentrate on balancing and if I am wearing my artificial leg, I have to pay attention to the knee mechanism. It’s reliable enough but it’s not difficult to make too short a step so the knee gives way and I fall. Then I need help to get up again. Someone must lift me. That is why I prefer to use one of my medium peg legs with short crutches. I feel much more secure and it’s easier to kick my stump around when there’s only a rubber ferrule at the end of my pylon instead of a mechanical knee and a foot beyond that. I like it when I know I will be safe on my tin leg. Jimmy is always by me to pull me up but otherwise I rely on my crutches. They are like my legs now. I have so many pairs.

 

Otherwise, I can only talk about my stumps. The short one is like a sex toy. I can always attract Jimmy’s attention by rotating the very short stub of thigh bone I have left. It has a much bigger effect on the loose muscle flesh around it and Jimmy takes it as a signal to start our regular stump play. My old stump is much less sensitive. It’s more like a tool to attach a peg leg to, nothing more. Even when I had a left leg, I never thought that my stump was sexy in any way. Not for other people, I mean. I found it to be a completely new kind of limb which made me horny by rubbing or tickling it. But my younger stump, which has never had an artificial leg attached to it, is much more sensitive and reacts to stimulation by jerking it about. Sometime it wakes me up when I am having a wet dream or something and suddenly my stump is kicking as if it was the stump of a penis ejaculating. Best of all is when I try rubbing it against my erection. My dick is longer than my short stump but sometimes it feels like my dick is trying to fuck the flabby muscle around the stump and that makes me cum.

 

­ ­ * * *

 

After many years of living as an apparently one‑legged cripple, assisted by my willing assistant and lover, I determined to relearn to walk to the best of my ability on a pair of tin legs. I made it quite clear to Andrew, with whom I have developed a personal relationship far beyond his professional position. He has acted as my advisor and mentor over the years and gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that my unusual requirements are fulfilled. I now own a pair of full‑length tin legs painstakingly fitted to my minimal stumps, sculpted to resemble healthy muscular natural legs and balanced to perfection providing me the maximum degree of security. I am told that I am one of only three amputees in the entire country to receive aluminium prostheses of this design and the only bilateral. I am therefore something of a star among the prosthetists and technicians who played a part in their manufacture, my progress followed keenly and featured in several professional theses.

 

That being said, my gait is far from natural or fluid. The left leg is attached to a solid socket, also aluminium, in which I half sit. It is similar in design to my monocoque which allows me perfect leglessness in motion. The leg is suspended, or joined, to it by a single hinge. It allows the thigh a natural range of motion in the forward direction, meaning that it folds when I sit. The knee is jointed with an ultra secure artificial knee mechanism which guarantees almost complete security when I twist the leg forward. I feel my heel strike the ground in the sensitive flesh surrounding my microstump. The knee becomes rigid allowing me to swing my original half thigh forward with its tin leg. Both my ankles are rigid, against the unswaying advice of my prosthetists who insist I would walk more naturally with articulated ankle joints. I am not, nor have I ever been, interested in providing onlookers with an impression of prosthetic naturalness. I wish to create the impression of a legless man, a severely disabled cripple, using obsolete technology to ambulate on those occasions where an erect stance is preferable to any of my other configurations.

 

Jimmy accompanies me everywhere. We are a married couple. I believe our wedding was a memorable event for all present. We chose steampunk as our theme and spent many weeks purchasing suitable clothes from welfare stores. We escorted each other to the registrar’s podium. I wore my newest peg leg, a long slender tapering cone which looked stunning when paired with old‑fashioned full‑length axillary crutches. Needless to say, I stood for many hours that day, watched closely whenever I circulated among our friends and invités. Latterly, I rely on the right tin leg almost exclusively. My trousers have been altered to emphasize the lack of a left stump and the right leg is shortened sufficiently to guarantee a peek of bare aluminium at my ankle. I do not wear socks.

 

We are frequently asked by forum members whether we intend progressing further with our adventures in disability. Jimmy has never envisaged himself as a cripple but I suspect that if he were to become disabled accidentally, he would not find it a completely negative experience. On my part, I have occasionally entertained the fantasy of losing a hand in favour of a mechanical hook or even a passive hook. However, I am too reliant on crutches and the frequent pair of walking sticks to lose my hands without some assurance that an artificial replacement is as secure.

 

­ ­* * *

 

This will be the last diary entry I make in the traditional manner. Regardless of my previous protestations, I have been persuaded to undergo two more minor amputations for my lover. I should explain. Jimmy passed away three years ago, a victim of an aggressive brain cancer. Completely inoperable. I do not believe he suffered physical pain. His anguish was evident soon after the initial symptoms began, when he realised he was literally losing his mind. However, Andrew stepped in with moral and physical support during Jimmy’s demise, always present when needed, always of assistance with his friendly advice. Last year he joined me and we have been living as a couple ever since.

 

Andrew has revealed more about himself that his average client suspects. He is an unusually knowledgeable prosthetist with a broad imagination regarding the myriad ways an amputee might overcome various obstacles. This partly explains his willingness to encourage his patients to create outlandish solutions to their predicaments. In my case, he has a personal interest in seeing that his lover is equipped as well as can be expected within the limits I impose on my artificial limbs. They must be distinctive, functional and body‑operated. I will never succumb to electronic assistance.

 

To clarify my statement above, Andrew has retrained as an upper limb prosthetist at the ripe old age of forty‑five. He is three years my junior. Twenty years experience as a leg man have been rewarding for him, bringing him some degree of fame and fortune. We discussed our future before we made our relationship official. Without going so far as to swear to stand by each other in sickness and in health etc, me on tin legs manufactured by Andrew, I agreed to act as a living model in order to help Andrew progress in his new endeavour. Andrew has promised to manufacture a most excellent pair of bilateral arm prostheses for me after convincing me to succumb to my desires to feel ever more disabled. It is one thing to be a legless man walking on tin legs, quite another to be that same man additionally encumbered by artificial arms extending to his shoulders. Tomorrow I set out on the road to become that man. My arms are to be amputated by one of Andrew’s most entrusted colleagues who knows me from several meetings at our apartment. My amputations will see the removal of my elbows and a couple of centimetres of bone above that. I shall sport long humeral stumps. And Andrew will make me a selection of prostheses to satisfy my needs and his curiosity. The days of gripping a pair of trusty rustic walking sticks to aid with walking are over, as are all opportunities of using my favoured wooden crutches. Instead, I shall have aluminium crutches with sockets into which I insert my stumps. They will provide the necessary support. I shall be ambulatory but so severely disabled that almost everything I need to do while standing will become impossible. I shall be completely reliant on Andrew, which is the main reason for my imminent transformation. I know in myself that forgoing my hands and forearms will be a fascinating challenge to be overcome with the same sense of adventure and expectancy I felt as a headstrong teenager about to become legless under a suburban train.

 

 

THE TRAIN NOW ARRIVING

THE AMPUTEE WITHIN

 

THE AMPUTEE WITHIN

A tale of perseverance by strzeka (10/25)

from an idea suggested by footlesskrukenberg

 

I found the following transcript during my research into apotemnophilia for a documentary. It was written by a surgeon, the late Dr Herman Spender, who treated and apparently advised his patient, who is still living and will therefore be referred to here by the pseudonym Wilf Krukenberger. I was uncertain about the veracity of the original story but I have been assured by WK himself that it is all true.

 

Excerpts from the transcripts by Dr H. Spender concerning the W. Krukenberger case (August 2017-May 2029).

 

I have concluded the preliminary series of interviews and examinations of Wilf Krukenberger, a white male of twenty‑six, independently wealthy thanks to a trust fund. He lives independently in a New York pencil tower. He occupies his time by reviewing current affairs and creates video sequences of his opinions for a video channel which generates additional income. WK has been known to me since 2008 when his case was first referred to me by his family MD.

 

WK sought advice for a problem which aggravated him and disturbed his parents who had discovered Wilf’s deviant behaviour and finally succeeded in breaking the boy’s spirit to such a degree that he eventually revealed his intentions behind his actions. Wilf was an obvious victim of BIID and believed his right arm was superfluous and wished it to be amputated. I reassured his parents that no such elective surgery would be forthcoming and recommended that they allow their son to continue with the odd habit of binding his arm. Wilf could purge some of his compulsion in this manner. My initial physical examination demonstrated no external cause for Wilf’s behaviour. He appeared to be an otherwise pleasant young man, with promising features becoming apparent. He was slender, as were his parents. They could obviously afford healthy diets. We agreed that I would make myself available for the family at short notice should the situation somehow deteriorate.

 

I assume I was originally recommended for the Krukenberger case due to my previous experience with elective amputees. I have studied the phenomenon and produced a thesis on the subject. As a result, I am rather more willing to entertain consideration of amputation, providing the patient can guarantee that his disability will not lead to inconvenience for others. I formed a similar opinion about Wilf Krukenberger in the early stages of our acquaintance. He wished to lose his right arm completely. I reassured him that a disarticulation was physically possible and a comparatively straightforward procedure. The shoulder would be merely smooth flesh. However, it was a rare procedure as most surgeons preferred to leave the patient with some degree of residual limb in order to enable use of a prosthesis. WK indicated that he understood. I satisfied my personal concern for the boy by issuing him with a set of instructions on the correct methods for arm binding and a list of the prospective physical dangers.

 

Wilf revealed that he had been binding his right arm to his shoulder and chest in order to pretend that his arm was absent, as indeed it was under such circumstances. It was difficult to maintain the binding for more than a couple of hours while he lived at home with his parents but he became skilful enough with the procedure that he could free himself quickly when necessary. He had been discovered by his father several times who disapproved of the dangerous game his son was playing, although he had no inkling of the boy’s apotemnophilia. WK himself never mentioned amputation to his family or friends, understanding that the subject was taboo and would merely lead to undesirable social restrictions. On rare occasions, Wilf was able to spend an entire weekend on a supposed sleep‑over but actually alone in a hotel room with his bent arm bound tightly, his almost bloodless hand resting hidden on his shoulder. Under a bulky jacket, his disguise was perfect and Wilf flirted with older men who showed concern for the young one‑armed boy’s physical well‑being. He was as careful to conceal his homosexuality from his parents as his determination to lose an arm. I found myself sympathising with the double dose of taboo characteristics nature had bequeathed him. To a man with an understanding of both, I saw beyond his quirks. I could appreciate his intelligence, his charm and not least, his physical beauty. He was a clean‑shaven teenager but his generous blond beard growth was readily apparent. He might become a handsome and hirsute young man, drawing attention to his physical attributes, including the shocking absence of an arm.

 

Three years passed before WK contacted me again. He greeted me politely, respectfully, and I enquired how I might be of assistance. WK complained of pain in his palm and wrist. He reported that he now lived independent of his parents who he had not seen in over a year and had now progressed to semi‑permanently binding his arm with plaster bandage. He changed the plaster at two month intervals. The arm had atrophied considerably and the hand itself was stiff and weak. His elbow was also next to useless and painful to extend. I invited WK for an interview with the preliminary intention of discovering how amenable WK would be to an earlier than expected disarticulation at either his elbow or his shoulder.

 

Excerpts from the interview with W. Krukenberger (January 2021).

          

          – Good morning, Dr Spender. Thank you for seeing me at this short notice.

          – Not at all. I’m delighted to see you again. [Small‑talk redacted]. What brings you to seek out professional advice?

          – I’ve been using fibreglass casts more or less permanently since I moved from New Jersey. I can bind my arm tighter and mould its shape better than I can with the elastic bandages I used before.

          – Ah! Hearing that, I can imagine the problems you are encountering before you even tell me. But do continue.

          – Well, I used to bind my arm for a weekend and it would pretty soon return to normal after I took the bandage off again for school. I mean, I could sense that there were changes taking place. My arm was much weaker than the other one. My hand lost its grip and my fingers lost their range of motion, I think they call it.

          – They do. But you continued to bind your arm whenever possible, is that right?

          – Yes, of course. Doctor, we have talked about my compulsion before and I can assure you that it has not diminished in any way, on the contrary. It had become more emphatic now I can benefit from casting my arm into oblivion.

          – You have a way with words, Wilf. I understand. I do not approve, but I understand. Go on. What about your elbow?

          – I was coming to that. I can’t get it straight. It gets sort of stuck at about sixty degrees. And also, the muscles have finally started to disappear. My bent arm now takes up about the same amount of space as a muscular man’s arm.

          – That must be something you have been anticipating, am I right?

          – Yes. I am concerned only with the pain and discomfort which I never had before. It’s worst in my hand. My fingers are fine when they’re flat but trying to bend them is agony. Same with my wrist.

          – OK. I want to examine your arm. Take your top clothes off and undo the bandage.

 

WK stood before me watching my expression as I appraised his body. One half of his body was perfect, the other looked diseased, atrophied and deformed. His right arm formed a V and his hand hung like a colourless paddle from his wrist. It was exactly the gesture associated with effeminate homosexuality. It was immediately obvious that WK would never socialise or appear in public with his right arm bent into such a provocative position. His forearm especially was atrophied and his hand seemed to belong to another species of primate. It appeared flattened, almost convex. I knew without being told that it was painful to move and useless in action.

 

          – Can you straighten your arm, Wilf?

          – No, not without considerable pain.

          – I understand. How long did you wear your latest cast?

          – Seven weeks, until yesterday afternoon.

          – And did you notice a change in your range of motion yesterday compared with previous times when you changed casts?

          – Yeah. This time things seem much stiffer and awkward.

 

I considered the alternatives for a minute or so. WK was a young adult responsible for his own body. He suffered from a compulsion for a right arm amputation of some description and had remained remarkably determined during the years of our acquaintance. I saw a virile handsome man whose mental troubles I empathised with and decided then to offer him the amputation of his choice. The spastic right arm frozen in its ridiculous gesture had to go in order to improve Wilf’s quality of life.

 

          – Very good. Thank you, Wilf. Put your top back on.

He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two rolls of sturdy bandage. He wrapped the crippled limb against his chest and deftly dressed in his outer clothes. The outline of the withered arm was invisible. To all intents and purposes, Wilf already had the right shoulder disarticulation I was intending to offer him. [Redacted discussion of alternate amputation levels]

          – How long after the operation before I can get back home and back into the swing of things?

          – It depends on the patient but I would suggest, Wilf, that a healthy young man such as yourself could recover from a shoulder disarticulation well enough to return to life after three weeks and heal completely in three months. Heal physically, that is. There is a much longer period of time associated with psychological recovery from such a major amputation.

          – But that applies to men who lose their arms when they never intended to.

          .. Indeed, although I could cite you examples of young men who lose both arms and rebound into life grateful for the new lifestyle which a pair of hooks bring with them. You may not have thought about it but deviant hands are always noticed by everyone, whether you deal with them or not. Even passers-by on the street will notice immediately.

          – I know. I have been one‑handed for five years!

          – Then I suggest that you are ready. I need you to sign some legal papers before I operate and then we need to work out a timetable.

 

Wilf Krukenberg became an amputee on the last day of October, 2017. After recovering from the initial surgical procedures, he had a right shoulder devoid of any trace of an arm. The amputation was performed by Dr Spender, and unknown to the patient, the deformed arm was preserved in alcohol for possible educational purposes. It was an unpleasant atrophied limb terminating in an obviously deformed hand and whoever had previously owned it would have been pleased to be rid of it.

 

Wilf Krukenberger discovered new vigour in his new body image. He played a larger rôle in New York night life, flaunting his lack of an arm which he never attempted to disguise. He was known in all the city’s gay dives where his defiant Nordic appearance was worshipped by both sexes of every race. His deficiency, for which points could be deducted but never compensated, was the scintillating absent arm. No way was it possible for such a beautiful man to make himself fully perfect. But for two or three seasons, his glistening armless stump was the Number One fascination on dance floors across NY. His thick blond beard defied any nay‑sayers to silence. He looked magnificent and his ultra‑amputation was fêted as the height of martial masculinity. Wilf naturally basked in the attention he received, especially from other similar bearded muscle‑bound admirers, some of whom he took home to his apartment half way up the pencil tower whose hundred square meter apartment had been bought and left empty by his father for tax purposes a decade previously. On naked marble flooring tiles, Wilf allowed himself to be raped by peers who found his disability to be the height of eroticism. During these sessions, Wilf realised that he would both give and receive more erotic pleasure if he had some kind of stump and it was to this end that he turned again to me for advice on prosthetic services. It was a short conversation. I was gratified to know that my surgery had been successful and the patient was content with the outcome. I gave him the contact details of one or two prosthetists in town who had my personal recommendation and wished him well. It was the last I heard of Wilf for a couple of years.

 

During this time, WK adopted both a live‑in lover and a passive arm to please him. The device was glossy white carbon fibre, a yoke with an attached arm. It had no motion. It was merely a rigid facsimile of an adult male arm with a hand in a loose fist. The lover enjoyed seeing WK wearing it in public and both men were excited by the simple fact that it was merely decorative. Its only practical use was to fill a sleeve. Inspired by his lover, WK also ordered a similar device comprising an eight inch long arm stump.

 

He continued binding. For this he needed the services of his companion who took great pleasure in rendering his lover helpless and assisting him with everything. WK found it disconcerting to have his left arm bound, having been used to the sensation on his missing right arm. Gradually he became accustomed to his severe disability and the lover dared to suggest a time when WK might undergo further surgery. He promised to remain with WK if he so desired. He promised to worship his armless lover regardless of how disabled he became. It was to this end that WK contacted me once again, initially asking my advice about a series of developments which both men had designed and hoped for.

 

Excerpts from the interview with W. Krukenberger (February 2024).

          

          – Good to see you again, Wilf. Take a seat. I see you are wearing your stump.

          – Yes. I usually wear it when I go out. It helps my clothes lay across my shoulders better and I like the bulk.

          – You still insist on managing without a myoelectric prosthesis.

          – I do. I see no point in removing an arm only to replace it with another, far inferior version.

          – Indeed. You find a cosmetic stump more appropriate.

          – I do. But I have not come to talk about my artificial stumps. I want to ask you about the Krukenberg procedure and if you might be willing to perform such surgery on my left arm.

          – Well, this comes as a surprise. I must admit I have always suspected that you would prefer to lose both arms but I could never have imagined a request for a Krukenberg. Are you quite sure, Wilf? It is one of the most disfiguring amputations and one of the most visually disturbing. It is also inconvenient to use, since the patient’s reach is diminished.

          – I know all the disadvantages. I’m going to have to have all my jackets and shirts altered with shorter sleeves to allow the prongs to poke out.

          – What sort of length are you thinking of? You could have long slender prongs, which have a very limited torque or more robust but shorter prongs with a good range of force for various applications. I would recommend a Krukenberg procedure resulting in prongs half the present length of your forearm to the wrist.

          – I agree. I want to experience this amputation for a year or two before I progress further.

          – Ah! Wilf, I must curb your enthusiasm. I have to tell you that my experience with Krukenberg patients is quite simply that they enjoy their mutilation so much that they always refuse any and all offers of remedial amputation. It is possible to use body‑powered prostheses with a Krukenberg amputation but the sockets can be the very devil to fit properly and are frequently uncomfortable.

          – I have no intention of wearing an artificial arm over my prongs. I have discussed this with my companion and we both want me to experience this particular disability before we progress to some further amputation.

          – Very well. Let me arrange for a time—I assume you are free to undergo surgery at any time?

          – Yes. Whenever it suits you.

          – I want to review the procedure first, Wilf. It is many decades since I last did a Krukenberg. If I remember correctly, the patient received bilateral Krukenbergs.

          – I’d like to meet him.

          – I’m sure you would and I’m sure you know I cannot possibly share his identity with you.

 

I performed a disarticulation of WK’s left hand a month later. I was still researching the latest data on the Krukenberg procedure, much of it from India and conveniently in English. I allowed WK to return home two days after surgery with a heavily bandaged stump. The time between losing his remaining hand and gaining two prongs was an unexpected bonus for a man who wished to explore the experiences of limblessness. For several weeks, he enjoyed his long handless forearm stump and his lover proved his worth by taking care of WK better than he might have done himself. But the stump was not to their liking, representing too minor a disability. At the end of June, I performed the Krukenberg surgery and produced a pair of pincers four inches long. The “fingers” were tightly bound and the mid‑length stump resembled any typical below‑elbow amputation. WK was impatient to see his new mutilation, as was I. It is almost impossible to predict exactly how the resulting Krukenberg will look. In this case, the result was much to our mutual satisfaction and WK inured himself for a gruelling series of rehabilitation sessions with a specialist flown in from Hyderabad. It was the gentleman’s first experience of foreign travel and I am afraid New York may have traumatised the man for life. He gave daily reports on WK’s progress in glowing language, full of pride on behalf of the handsome blond patient, the likes of whom the visitor had never imagined before. WK himself was almost orgasmic at finding himself with such an alien manipulator in addition to his empty shoulder. He was handicapped almost beyond bearing but pumped his ecstasy at limblessness into every fibre of his body and exuded power and positivity. I was certain that WK had finally reached his ultimate configuration. The Krukenberg was everything he anticipated, and more. It attracted horrified attention to itself, and WK continued with his rehab exercises until his prongs were equal to any body‑powered hook with the added benefit that they retained some degree of tactile sensation.

 

I was preparing to retire when WK approached me again. I watched him deftly manipulate a large encyclopaedia which he had brought in his backpack. His prongs looked healthy with minimal scarring and I felt a flush of pride for creating such a superior pair of prehensile manipulators. WK tapped at a photograph with his stump.

          – Look at this! One of the first artificial arms after the first world war. I want one of those or one very much like it.

          – But I don’t understand. I thought you were satisfied with the Krukenberg.

          – Oh, I am. But I know what it feels like now. I shan’t ever forget it. Don’t be fooled, doctor. It is a worthy replacement for a missing hand when certain conditions are met, but now I want to learn how to use a steel hook at the end of a heavy artificial arm all operated by a shrug or two.

          – It demands much more than a shrug or two, let me assure you. Depending on the length of the upper arm stump, you need to control the angle of the arm, the operation of the elbow and finally opening the hook. An above‑elbow prosthesis is a demanding piece of equipment. And many amputees prefer to go without rather than face the frustrations involved in using one.

          – Precisely. Why do you think I want one? I would like a stump to match the artificial one on my right. And then a rig designed for me with a yoke and a stump and a long black arm terminating in a worker’s hook.

          – Why a worker’s hook?

          – Because they are so very ugly and impractical.

          – Very well. I am very disappointed, Wilf. I had hoped you would benefit from the Krukenberg for the rest of your life. It doesn’t pain you, does it?

          – No no. Nothing like that. It’s just time to progress to the next stage. I want to know the trials which ordinary arm amputees experience. Don’t forget, I’ve never had a prosthesis on a stump. Just cut my humerus in half and I’ll be happy.

          – Well, you may be happy, Wilf. What do your friends and family say about your disablement?

          – I don’t ask and they don’t tell me. I know what my friends think of my prongs. You know what else they look like, don’t you?

          – Of course. It’s the main reason people find them so repulsive.

          – Hmm. My friends don’t think that way. But they’ll have a taste of steel hook soon enough.

          – You will be pleased to know that I have a postponed amputation surgery in two days. The patient is being moved to a hospital closer to home. So I’ll see you in two days. You’ll be here at least five days, Wilf. And your stump will be ready for a prosthesis in a month to six weeks. I assume you want a basic body‑powered limb with a hook?

          – What other kind is there? I may require a second passive arm, maybe with a hook attachment.

          – That is something to discuss with the prosthetist. I’m sure you will reach a suitable accommodation. Will this be the last amputation, Wilf? Surely you will not begin to pine for a second disarticulation. Whatever the case, this is the last time we shall meet in a professional capacity. I intend to retire in the near future.

          – In that case, doctor, I wish you well. Thank you for your understanding and willingness to help me. I would shake your hand but circumstances prevent me.

 

 Wilf was vaguely discontented with his body symmetry. He continued to derive physical and erotic pleasure from the absence of his right arm and loved to admire the expanse of flesh at his shoulder without a vestige of the once healthy arm. The mental confusion between his brain sending commands to use his right hand and the inability to do so remained a source of deviant pleasure. In tandem with his recovery, he found himself preferring to present himself as a bilateral amputee with two above‑elbow stumps, one natural, the other a prosthesis. The natural stump was of little use to him. For the first time in many years, he found it unnecessary to bind an arm. The stump was not intrusive and his body symmetry was balanced by his artificial stump. Once again, his lover suggested various types of passive arm, including a pair of cylindrical arms with adjustable elbows which terminated in golden globes the size of golf balls. The arms held his sleeves in the desired position and for many months, he wore his spherical replacements for hands everywhere in public. Unlike almost all other imaginable replacements, the globes were completely impractical for everything, which brought great satisfaction to both men.

 

WK learned of the death of Dr Herman Spender by drowning off the coast of Florida from his prosthetist. WK had been persuaded to acquire a lightweight full‑length prosthetic arm with a hook in order to alleviate the work burden on his eternally attentive lover. He also found his everyday routine increasingly tedious and believed that the challenges associated with learning to operate the demanding prosthesis might bring him some sense of achievement, which he privately admitted to missing. He concentrated on designing the bilateral prosthesis which would feature the artificial right humeral stump, all the while fretting about the probable future outcome for himself following the death. He would almost certainly never achieve perfect symmetry. He would be stuck with the upper left arm stump and his empty right shoulder. It was not what he had envisioned for himself when he began binding. If only he had not thrown himself on the mercies of his companion! He might have progressed much sooner through the phases of amputation. He had wasted years with his Krukenberg arm. But they had been good years and he had found renewed self‑confidence in the simple ability to manipulate everyday items with fleshy prongs. Perhaps he had been wrong to progress. He knew his restricted physical prowess was not sufficient to make a success of wearing the new left prosthesis. He determined then and there, in the prosthetist’s workshop, that his amputations could continue with artificial legs. He had never been curious about leglessness but had met many leg amputees over the years, unavoidably, and believed that he could easily equal their skills of balance and power. He might forgo his legs, both of them, and progress to walking on two stubbies. It would be an even greater achievement considering he no longer had arms to help with balance. He imagined himself tottering on two short peg legs with some kind of shortened hook prosthesis on his arm stump. He needed only to find an accommodating surgeon, the equal of Dr Spender.

 

Thus it was that at the age of thirty‑two, disabled almost beyond prosthetic salvation, Wilf Krukenberger allowed his companion to begin a regime of binding his legs tightly for long periods of time with the eventual result of bilateral amputation. WK insisted on retaining enough stump for prosthetic use. He imagined himself teetering about the apartment on two stubbies barely longer than his stumps. He had seen men fitted with stubbies comprising nothing more than rubber blocks attached to stump sockets. The lovers discussed how best to go about the binding process. They wished to avoid complications due to cardiovascular problems caused by lack of blood flow while simultaneously generating enough tissue damage to require amputation. A chance meeting with a legless amputee in a coffee bar gave them additional inspiration.

 

WK was quite open about his disability and brazenly approached other amputees to shoot the breeze. This time proved to be decisive. For the first time, they had met an amputee who had achieved for himself the degree of leglessness he had yearned for by the simple and accidental method of kneeling with his weight on his legs for sixteen hours, thanks to the effects of a slightly heavier than usual dose of fentanyl. Oblivious to the world and ignored by passers‑by, the man was allowed to remain stationary from early morning until midnight, when he returned to consciousness and discovered that not only could he not feel his legs, he could not move them either. He called for help and soon discovered that his legs were bloated and black with the skin cracking and leaking fluid in several places. He was rushed to hospital where both legs were amputated mid‑thigh after the most cursory of examinations.

          – So you recommend a dose of fentanyl, do you?

          – It worked for me, man. I’ve not used it since I got my stumps. I reckon if you sit still for sixteen hours without fentanyl, you’d get the same results.

WK stared at the short stumps almost hidden by a pair of denim briefs and looked questioningly at his lover. WK tapped the leg amputee’s shoulder with a golden globe and the men returned home to begin planning. WK was excited at the prospect of new challenges and his lover was intrigued to see what kind of stumps WK would be left with after such an inexact procedure.

 

Planning was one thing, realisation quite another. WK learned to operate his artificial arm well enough for it to be of genuine use to him and his outlook on life became more spontaneous and adventurous. All through this time, his right shoulder remained empty, uniquely personable and WK’s defining characteristic. He became familiar as the one‑armed man whose single arm was artificial. He used a worker’s hook by choice for its deviant appearance and impracticality for delicate applications. It was a fearsome attachment which could do genuine damage. Despite his severe disability, WK remained a man who commanded respect.

 

His leg binding continued regularly and with increasing duration. It involved a superhuman degree of tolerance. WK was immobile in one position for an increasing number of hours during each session. WK found the pain of recovery to be increasingly demanding until one Friday evening when his lover was preparing him for a shower before bedtime, he announced that they would begin the sixteen hour session the next morning at six. By midnight, WK expected to be in surgery. His legs were bound more tightly than ever before by his obedient lover and WK was left on the bedroom floor in front of the tv with a six hour long video of an aquarium on repeat to watch. As the hours passed, his mind calmed and overcame the initial discomfort as his leg muscles protested against the cessation of oxygen supply. Far more quickly than might be expected, his system tried its best to maintain the entire organism but shifted to damage control halfway through the process. The tissue below WK’s knees was abandoned and allowed to die. It changed colour from pink to red, through purple to near black. The lover called for an ambulance soon after midnight and gave a convincing explanation that an erotic game featuring sado‑masochism had gone horribly wrong. WK was transferred by the medics still in a kneeling position. WK’s expectation of midnight surgery was only four hours premature. Ultrasound video indicated an amputation level of ten centimetres below his hips and by seven in the morning, his lower body was encased in bandaging again, this time without his legs.

 

The lover was aghast at the brevity of the new stumps. They were nowhere near the muscular residual limbs they had discussed and planned for. But WK was content with his lot. He intended to undergo an osseointegration procedure and then to affix rubber ferrules directly to his short stumps. He would learn to totter on tiny stumps, held erect and prevented from falling thanks to a custom‑made leather harness which enveloped his torso, and whose reins were held by his lover. His torso would be bound and held at all times when he attempted to walk again under his own power. After much practice, he would discover his new equilibrium and venture out into public once again, taking ten centimetre steps, waddling his torso with its single glistening artificial arm and viewing the world with eyes almost hidden behind his magnificent blond beard which rose high on his cheeks and extended to his chest. WK’s transformation into a quadruple amputee was as complete as it would ever be and he savoured every moment of his extreme limblessness, indulging his severe disabilities and delighting in his truncated body.

 

 

THE AMPUTEE WITHIN

STUMPSPOTTING

 

S T U M P S P O T T I N G

A tale of exploration by strzeka (09/25)

 

I suppose it was inevitable that my stump would not be everything I hoped for. The main disappointment is its length. Its shortness. The surgeon was pleased with himself and assured me that he had crafted a residual limb most suitable for prosthetic use. I expected something longer, though. Not surprisingly, I regard myself as quite an expert on stumps. Regardless of the surgeon’s self‑congratulation, longer stumps are even better suited for prosthetic use and I think they look better. Better proportions. The other thing is my stump looks too bulky but that could be due to swelling.

 

The accident went exactly as planned and our mechanism worked to perfection. Jack and I had practised our rôles many times and we had a verbal explanation ready for any outsiders who might happen to see us. Basically, we had made a device which was guaranteed to sever a leg after it was triggered by a minor collision between the pick‑up truck and its victim. It damaged the severed limb further and lowered it to the ground to make it thoroughly unsuitable for replanting. After all that effort and pain, it would be awful to wake up only to find yourself still with two legs. Jack drove back home after making certain that an ambulance was on its way and receiving a thumbs up from me. The police were later informed of the accident but took no practical action beyond adding me to their data list of accident victims.

 

Jack and I run a web forum for fans of male amputation, Elevate. We have a large collection of images collated in accordance with the type of amputation. Members can post messages about anything they deem relevant. We have a few genuine amputees including some whose injury was unplanned and accidental. They are among the few who find the experience of owning a healthy stump to be well worth the occasional inconvenience. Most other members are either admirers or wannabes. Recreational stumpspotters. We keep an eye out for stalkers and fantasists who are enamoured of fictional disabled cartoon characters who have gained an unrealistic magical prosthesis. The obsession with amputation is more common than many believe and is still widely disapproved of. We sufferers are called mad and worse. For myself, it is part of psychological make up. I cannot imagine seeing or meeting an amputee without being transported into flights of imagination about what the stump might look like, how it might feel, what the artificial limb was like to use and so on.

 

Both Jack and I intend exploring amputation as a life choice and I drew the short straw to undergo the process first. As mentioned, I wanted a long thigh stump. I had a handsome pair of legs, honed by hiking and cycling. I intend to rehabilitate my new stump well enough to cope with the demands of an artificial leg. I am just as enthusiastic to get a prosthesis as I am about my stump. I know some amputees lean heavily towards one or the other, either not wishing to bother with a prosthesis at all in order to make their stump the star of the show or suffering the surgical process of becoming an amputee solely in order to acquire an artificial limb.

 

It would seem that our limb shredder works as intended. The only disadvantage is that it possibly sliced my thigh higher above my knee than I wanted. I am going to be additionally hindered by my short stump. I will probably have a noticeable limp. But there is nothing for it. It is too early to start thinking about a second amputation but maybe a longer stump could be arranged for my remaining leg in the not too distant future. It would be cool to end up getting around on one single artificial leg with the other short stump tucked away inside a folded trouser leg.

 

Jack assures me that no‑one has made any enquiries about his whereabouts. The limb shredder has been returned to its apparent purpose as a log splitter and would not give reason to doubt its purpose. When he has arranged his affairs, I will return the favour and ensure that Jack loses a limb. We will have to invent a slightly difference circumstance in a different location. It would not do to repeat the same method in the same place. Someone might ask questions.

 

It really is fairly amazing that our lifelong desire for our own stumps has stayed a secret for so long. When we were still at school, we facetiously called ourselves Stumpspotters because we used to seek them out and make note of them like other kids collect locomotive numbers or plane registrations. We never actually stalked amputees but we both paid close attention to mens’ gaits looking for the tell‑tale sign of an artificial leg. Ours is a military town due to the army barracks nearby and fresh amputees made an appearance from time to time. I liked seeing guys swinging themselves along on crutches. Jack’s favourites were arm amputees. He was really into catching sight of a hook, still is. I think his first amputation might be his left hand. His time is approaching now I have my first stump.

 

After a few days, I was able to take a few photos of my stump to post on Elevate. The stitches are ugly but the stump is not as swollen as it was last week and I think that is due to the tight bandaging. The nurse reckons that I will have a shrinker sock very soon and that will help to shape my stump. If it turns into a rounded shape, I will be satisfied. No‑one has said anything about it being too short for an artificial leg so I am guessing that mine actually is the usual type of stump. I intend folding the empty trouser leg in half and pinning it into my waistband. It looks much neater that way and you can never be entirely sure about exactly how long the stump actually is. It will give other Stumpspotters something to wonder about. I love the idea of being the target of someone else’s lust for a leg stump.

 

I got my shrinker and have been wearing it religiously for a week. My rehab has also started. It seems ridiculous to spin my stump in all directions, or try to move it while the rehab guy pushes against it. I wonder if he gets his kicks from seeing stumps. It would drive me insane. He reckons it will be about eight weeks before my stump is healthy enough for my first fitting for an artificial leg. Until then, I will be on crutches, which is ok. I know how to use them, of course. I already have a pair of elbow crutches and long ones at home. I can choose whichever ones I want to use. I am being discharged in a couple of days and the rehab guy is concerned that I might not be able to manage on crutches. I told him not to worry. He asked me if I have a reliable friend who I can turn to if I need help. I suppose he means Jack. Jack is a very reliable friend. After all, it is thanks to Jack that I have a leg stump.

 

I have arranged to resume working in two weeks which gives me time to get to know the new me and to introduce myself to friends and neighbours in my new guise. People are mostly sympathetic, one or two are clearly more interested than is considered polite and I enjoy explaining my situation to them in more detail. I have pinned up all the empty trouser legs on my clothes so I can easily get ready when I want to go out. I prefer using the long aluminium crutches. They are more supportive and do not make my hands and wrists as sore as the elbow crutches. Also, they are silent. Most of the time, I resort to hopping. My leg is muscular and I have a good sense of balance. I think it is good to know I can trust my sound leg in an emergency. And I like the way my half trouser leg flaps about when I hop. I have begun to plan various ways to play with my stump after it has healed enough. Obviously the main thing is to have an artificial leg but there are many ways to adapt the mechanical joints to make walking look more natural or less natural. I want to advertise my amputee status. I see no point in becoming an amputee and then trying to disguise the fact.

 

Jack reckons he has created his own limb shredder in his workshop from a disused lathe. He wants to lose his left hand and says the lathe can generate enough torque to slice through a man’s arm, in this case, Jack’s left arm. He wants me present when he has his accident and I agreed. Of course I did. One good turn deserves another. We decided to wait until I have my artificial leg for the simple reason that it would look too strange to the rescue team if they burst into Jack’s workshop to find one very recent amputee being tended by another one. If I was still present but wearing a pair of trousers in the usual way, it would look much more credible. I am going to have to get a prosthesis even though I do not really want one. I suppose being disabled I am entitled to one or two artificial limbs but no‑one can actually force me to use them. Jack demonstrated the converted lathe and it snapped a broom handle in two. It looks like it could do some serious damage if someone was not careful.

 

I have found a video channel dedicated to one‑leggers on crutches. I think it is such a graceful way to walk. The huge advantage is, of course, that there is no second leg to get in the way like there is if someone has a broken leg or other injury. With a bit of practice, you can move smoothly and equally as fast as anyone with two legs while advertising the fact that you are an amputee, disabled but still mobile. I am going to ask Jack to video me crutching along and upload it to the site. I feel like I can handle my long crutches as well as most of the guys in the videos although there are one or two who make it look as if they are floating on air.

 

I have been booked into a three month course of rehabilitation with prosthetic leg, as the appointment listing describes it. First of all I am going to have a temporary socket made for my stump and I need to become used to wearing it. Then they are going to attach the actual artificial leg component to it and teach me how to move my stump to operate the leg. The idea is to let me have the artificial leg as soon as possible and I must practise the movements I have just been taught at home. I am not supposed to wear the limb all day, which suits me fine. Then a few days later, I go back to learn some new technique. It seems a long‑winded way of going about things but it is not inconvenient.

 

My stump was scanned as I expected. It is normal size and does not require casting as used to be the preferred method. It would have been a short session but the prosthetist guy sat with me for an hour or so and we discussed at length exactly what I expect from my prosthesis. He took it very seriously although I have not given it any great deal of thought. He showed me several different kinds of knee and ankle joint. He showed me samples of the kinds of textile coverings I could have on the leg. The greatest surprise was right at the end when he mentioned that the first prosthesis was going to be a simple rigid pylon attached to the socket I had just been measured for. It would be a plain aluminium pole with a rubber tip and it was to allow me to accustom myself to bearing weight on my stump for the first time without having to manipulate a standard artificial leg. There was no illustration for me to study my all‑time favourite ideal artificial leg. I was going to have my own peg leg!

 

Five days later I returned for the first fitting of the new socket. It was some kind of thick translucent nylon material with a square steel connector attached to the bottom. There was a little give across its width but not its length. I was given a selection of stump socks to test and shown how to vary combinations of socks throughout the day as my stump swelled or contracted. The socket had to fit firmly, which was apparently of paramount importance. I nodded sagely and promised my prosthetist that I understood and would obey. Then he brought out the pylon and I nearly fainted.

 

When I was very young, my father rented a garage in a row of them about two hundred metres from our home. He used to tinker with his third or fourth‑hand car on Saturday mornings and I used to go with him to watch. The next garage along was rented by some other neighbour and there was a sticker on the back of his car which I had seen parked and wondered about. It read no hand signals and I wondered how someone could drive a car if he could not signal. One day my father was busy and I was sitting on one of our car’s front seats which dad had lifted out onto the pavement. A man was walking along the row of garages towards us carrying a bucket of soapy water which splashed his trousers a little as he walked. I could see he had only one leg. His other leg was a long straight peg leg. I had never seen anything like it before and was immediately fascinated. The man spotted me staring at him and put his bucket down quite close by. He greeted me as adults do small boys and fumbled with his keys to open the garage doors. I got up to see his car, which I learned was a Mini, a red one, and there on the back window was the odd white sticker I had seen before. He settled into his car and moments later reversed it out carefully, stopping it just far enough away to be able to close the garage doors. He remained sitting in the car for a moment or two although he had opened the door again. I was curious to see what he was doing. He kept glancing at me and I thought he wanted to tell me something. I went and stood by his door and saw his wooden leg folded zigzag across his lap. The thick black rubber ferrule pointed at me.

          – Are you going to help me wash my car? he asked. I giggled and looked at his peg leg. He twisted around in his seat and poked his peg out the door. He straightened the part with the ferrule until it locked with the middle section. Then he held onto the door frame and climbed out to let his peg leg lock into place. He kicked with it to make sure it was locked and not caught up in his blue jeans. I spent the rest of the morning helping him He let me wash all the shiny chrome bits. My father finished his job and called me back.

          – Don’t annoy the man, son. Come on. Let’s get some dinner.

 

I saw the peg legged man once or twice after that during the following years and I like to think he remembered me too. I realise now that his odd folding peg leg was custom made for a young man, in his early twenties, who drove a Mini. It folded into three sections and rested on his lap, as I mentioned. I fell in love with the idea of being able to fold up a wooden leg like that so it was out of the way. It seemed a wonderful way to walk and I loved to watch the way he swung his peg leg out to one side before it gracefully came to rest on the ground in front of him. He seemed to be floating on air. For me, he was the height of perfection. My first peg was one piece but I began to imagine all kinds of alternatives.

 

My prosthetist screwed the peg into the bottom of my socket and helped me rise from my chair. I was to stand and try putting my weight on my stump and my peg leg. It was an exercise to demonstrate that I could trust the peg leg not to collapse under me. It felt so odd to be held upright by a leg I could not feel. I had no sense of its rigidity or its lack of a foot and how that would impact the way I walked on it. He gripped my upper arm and guided me slowly a few steps to the room’s parallel bars. I practised swinging my peg leg. The prosthetist gradually adjusted it until it was the perfect length. I was limping heavily but even then I could sense that I would never need anything more complex than a peg. I had already been disappointed by my stump, shorter than I expected. The peg leg fit perfectly and transformed my stump into a functioning leg again but this time with the enviable elegance which only a peg leg can bring. I lurched slowly up and down between the bars and saw myself in a variety of public situations where I was the centre of attention. I was allowed to leave rehab wearing the peg leg under my jeans. I wanted to get home quickly to experiment with wearing various pairs of trousers and shorts to show off my new peg. I had to stand on the train although I was offered a seat. I had to decline. There was no room for my peg leg on a rush hour commuter train.

 

I tried wearing different boots and shoes. I liked the look of a thick‑soled hiking boot paired with the peg. The contrast in weight was impressive too. For everyday use, I chose a white trainer which offered some bounce to my step. Half the time I wore my peg leg and the rest of the time I let my stump get some air and I used crutches. I soon discovered the disadvantages of the rigid peg leg. It more or less forced me to remain standing because the peg leg poked forward when I sat. I had no way to make room for passers‑by. I could understand why my old neighbour had invented his remarkable folding peg so he could squeeze into his driving seat. Six weeks after receiving it, I had the first of many altercations with my prosthetist. He was satisfied with my progress with the peg leg and announced that it was time for my first artificial leg. I announced back that I was not interested in one and that I would prefer a second peg leg with a lockable knee joint to enable me to sit. Its shaft could be heftier than the aluminium pylon I was using and I would like a fatter ferrule more in keeping with a prosthetic leg. My request was apparently most irregular and I should understand that devices of the type I had described were not readily available from the health service.

          – I don’t mind waiting for it, I said. I’m perfectly satisfied to use my existing peg.

          – I really would recommend you to progress to a normal prosthesis, he said. This is the stage of your rehabilitation when you should consider the future.

          – Oh but I have considered the future, I said. I’m going to use a peg leg for the rest of my life. There’s no need for anything more complicated or expensive. Anyway, my stump is too short to wear an artificial leg to its best effect. I know. I’ve been reading up on it.

My prosthetist gave me a dirty look as if I was somehow cheating him out of something. But I knew I was right. He said he needed to discuss my wishes with his colleagues before continuing. I left soon after, watched closely and I gave them a demonstration of a perfectly smooth gait only a dedicated peg leg wearer can achieve with such a short bulky stump as mine. I could only imagine my lurching uneven gait with a standard artificial leg. No. It was not going to happen.

 

I had a couple of hundred images of my stump for possible upload to Elevate. I wanted a second opinion so I summoned Jack with the promise of beers and the intention of getting him to reveal his plans or finally decide on a date for his deed. I also wanted his opinion about my chosen course of using a peg leg as my permanent prosthesis. Jack was the only friend I had who would understand my excitement about my amputation and the future prospect of going further still and gaining a second leg stump. I ordered enough beer to make quite sure that we would not run out and changed into my newly customised Levi’s while I waited for the beer delivery. I had chosen boot‑cut jeans and asked the shopkeeper for the left leg to be cut halfway down the thigh and a new seam sewn around it. My peg would be completely exposed. The black carbon socket looked fine. I wore a white trainer on the other foot and a white T-shirt. It would be difficult to conjure up another outfit which could emphasize my peg leg better. The delivery guy was startled by my appearance but I pretended not to notice his open mouth or his staring eyes.

 

Jack had a surprise of his own. I had just downed my first beer of the afternoon when there was a sharp rap on the door. I knew who it was and opened it to see Jack leaning against the doorframe with his right arm which was wearing a socket and hook attachment. He laughed at my expression, similar to what I had seen on the delivery guy’s face, and slipped inside.

          – Where did you get that? I asked.

          – Aren’t you going to ask how I lost my hand?

          – Of course not. Do you want a beer?

He nodded and I brought two. Neither of us had mentioned my peg leg. In the interim, Jack slipped his MA-1 off to reveal his artificial arm.

          – Where did you get that? It looks good on you.

          – It was on eBuy for two thousand so I snapped it up. It’s just a little tight but I don’t care if my fingers get a bit squished. They’re not going to be there for long.

          – I don’t understand you. You splurged out buying that even though you’re going to amp your arm.

          – I reckon I can sell it for more than two grand, unless you want to buy it.

          – Would it fit me?

          – Only one way to find out.

 

Jack squirmed around until his control straps loosened and he was able to shake the socket off his forearm. I took it in my left hand and tried the socket for size. It was a perfect fit. I had to ball my hand but it fit snugly. I was excited to see a hook in place of my hand for the first time in my life. I felt genuinely disabled by the sudden loss of my hand. It was not a scenario I had thought about in any great detail. I had always been far more keen on leg stumps.

          – Is this what you want?

          – It is.

          –And on your right arm? Isn’t that a bit over the top, Jack, you being right‑handed and everything?

          – I’d hardly be disabled if I lost my left hand, would I? Anyway, I don’t want to be right‑handed. I want to be right‑hooked. I want to be known as the guy with the hook and there’s not much chance of that if I lose my left hand and keep the hook hidden away where no‑one will ever see it. If I lose my right, I’ll still carry on trying to do everything with my right hand except now it will be a hook.

          – How long have you been wearing this one?

          – I’ve had it three weeks. I don’t wear it for work but I’ve been out evenings and to the shops wearing it. Some people notice. Let them stare. I don’t care.

 

Jack advised me how to don the arm properly and I wore it for an hour until I became frustrated. It was an interesting experience but not one that I would wish on myself each and every day. We had another couple of beers and discussed my peg leg.

          – I always thought you’d end up with a peg leg, mate. I remember you talking about the peg‑legged guy with the Mini. It sounded like you were in love with him.

          – I don’t remember telling you that! But yeah. I think I was. He was nice to me.

          – So where are these photos you want me to look at? Let’s have a look while I can still focus my eyes.

We chose twenty‑odd of the best shots which showed how my fresh stump gradually shrank and turned into the masterpiece it is today. Jack wanted to see it in the flesh but I did not wish to remove my peg for him. That is what the photos were for. Sitting with Jack, sipping beer, looking at photos of stumps and talking about stumps was like being ten years younger in our bedrooms at home when our main interest was stumpspotting. Back then we never dared imagine that we would be amputees ourselves, even less amputees by choice, crafting our limbs into stumps so they could wear the artificial limbs we always thought about while wanking. Now my first stump was reaching its final size, shorter than expected but more than adequate for the incredible peg leg. I was a little disappointed by Jack’s lack of interest in it but he had always preferred arm amputations so I suppose it was understandable.

 

He had put the artificial arm back on and spent the rest of the evening using the hook like an old pro. He had obviously been using it at home and I thought he was fairly handy with it. His long term plan became clear after four or five beers.

          – I’m going to learn how to use this hook for everything, see? I’m gonna have a sheath made for my other hand so it just looks like a stump and I’m gonna use this for everything.

          – You mean your proper hook.

          – Yeah. Then when I can do everything with it, I’m gonna chop this hand off and have a pair of hooks.

          – Just like you always liked. Remember that bloke in the bank that time?

          – Yeah. He was fantastic, slapping his hooks around, signing this and that, handling all the papers.

          – And that’s what you want still, even after you know how difficult life would be without your own hands? What will you do when you wake in the night for a glass of water or a pee? You won’t be able to reach your dick. How are you going to wank?

          – Don’t worry about that, mate. I’ve already wanked with this.

          – Ugh! Thanks for telling me.

 

We were both twenty‑seven. We both suffered from the same desire to lose limbs and we both knew how to go about it so we would keep the health service on our side. Our amputations would be free as would our artificial limbs. I had already started the process. Jack was about to commence his change and on that drunken evening when we fell asleep with pictures of our future selves flashing in our imaginations, I agreed to assist him in his rental garage at the end of the month.

 

I have discovered a ninety second film clip from just after the second world war showing an American rehab centre for legless veterans. I have no idea how I have never seen it before. Maybe it was classed as secret and only recently released. Most of the material is cringe‑worthy interviews with overhyped youngsters who think having a wooden leg or two will be swell “cos they can go dancing again with their dames”. The most interesting inserts are demonstrations of the boys trying out their primitive artificial legs for the first time. After more narration, a shot of the same guys a few weeks later being discharged, lurching out the gate with a raised hand of farewell, capsack on shoulders and Lucky Strikes dangling from their lips. The bloke whose image will stick with me forever had lost both legs high up. His left leg was a mass of gnarly flesh curled up by his ballsac, useless for anything except to repel dames, and the other was a roughly sewn stump the same length as mine. He was first shown sitting in a rattan wheelchair receiving a short peg leg about two feet long and handed a pair of shortened armpit crutches. The second part of his segment followed him for seven seconds walking towards the camera on his single short peg leg with a shit‑eating grin on his face. He swung his peg between his crutches like he was born to it. The narrator explained he would soon be fitted with an ordinary artificial leg and might be mistaken for any of the hundreds of one‑legged veterans the facility produced every week. I cannot get his image out of my mind. I could lose my other leg above the knee and be fitted with a single short peg leg just like the old vet. His peg was a temporary thing he could wear for a month or two before he was kitted out with a full length wooden leg. I intend making my short peg my permanent artificial limb for the rest of my life. I will be about five feet tall, if that. I have had a semi‑permanent erection ever since I first saw the film. I must have watched it at least fifty times by now.

 

But there is no time now for daydreaming. Jack has just messaged me that he is at his workshop and everything is ready. He wants me there by seven, so we can go through the final arrangements and get everything ready including having two emergency numbers on two phones all ready and waiting. I changed out of a pair of shorts, put my peg on with an unaltered pair of 501s.

 

Jack was obviously nervous as hell. He had taken some painkillers and was set to take some more but was waiting for my arrival. We ran through the plan one last time. He intended to grasp the lathe’s chuck which had been adapted to slash his forearm. It was my job to make sure he did not fall onto the spinning machinery after the accident. I had ropes and ties to use as tourniquets. At a quarter to eight, Jack started the lathe and took a sturdy stance in front of the machine. I could not see his movements exactly from the rear. I heard the crack of bone and his cry of surprised pain and then, quite unexpectedly, he reached his left hand forward with the same result. He turned to me with wild eyes and held his handless bleeding stumps up in a plain call for help.

 

There was blood everywhere. I tried wrapping nylon cord around his upper arms in a pathetic effort to slow the bleeding. I called for an ambulance urgently and one arrived three minutes later. It must have been on the road already for some reason. The medics saw to Jack and bundled him quickly into the ambulance. One asked if I was going to be OK and I nodded yes. They left. I cleared up the worst of the mess, turned off the lights and went home where I drank myself to sleep.

 

Jack insists that he intended losing only his right hand. The fact that he lost both was due to some kind of instinctual reaction, to reach out in an attempt to somehow rescue the injured limb. I am not sure I believe him. I know his ambition was to eventually use dual hooks so I am not too concerned about his mental well‑being. He is only as disabled as he intended to become, just a few years early. I visited him in hospital one time. He seemed embarrassed by my presence. I suppose he does not want to discuss what happened where other people can hear us. His stumps are shorter than I expected. I have no idea whether Jack intended to lose most of his forearms.

 

I did some research into bilateral upper limb amputation while Jack was recovering. Apparently it is one of the most successful types of amputation, leading only rarely to unpleasant phantom pain. The stumps are usually sturdy enough to use without prosthetic devices if the amputee so wishes. There followed illustrations of above‑elbow amputees drinking from coke cans gripped between their stumps (although I doubt that they had removed the tabs themselves) and a below‑elbow amputee washing his car with a sponge gripped between his long pincer‑like stumps. Jack will not be doing much gripping. His stumps are only two inches of radius bone, if that, covered in flesh for cushioning. Perfectly fine for artificial arms, on the sole condition that they are fitted with mechanical elbows, which I suspect he had not even thought about. He will have no strength or leverage in his tiny forearm stumps to control his sockets with their heavy steel hooks. Jack is not only going to be doubly disabled by having lost both hands, he is going to be additionally disabled by not having use of his elbows either. To all intents and purposes, he might as well have lost both arms above the elbow. His artificial arms would be fairly similar. Jack is not discouraged. He likes seeing his stumps and swears he will master his complicated artificial arms. I have to admit I find it extra horny to see Jack wearing not just one hook like before with his pretender arm but two genuine hooks. Somehow he looks more handsome with his slick black carbon arms which he allows to hang motionless at his side when he walks.

 

But there is no escaping the fact that Jack is severely disabled. He had outside help during his recovery at home as well as regular visits from nurses and physical trainers. He has renewed everything designed for two healthy hands. He eats his meals with naked hooks after smearing them clean. It is far easier for him and I see no reason why he should complicate his life by using cutlery for the sake of appearances.

 

Once again, my need for disability grew in tandem with my expertise in walking on my various peg legs. I still preferred the completely rigid original, my first peg, and wore it most weekends at home. I had another one, totally black and a lot thicker with a hefty rubber tip which looked superb with my cut‑off 501s. It had a knee mechanism so it folded down when I sat, if I so chose. There are plenty of times when I chose not to and the peg leg makes an unmistakable statement about my presence. I am still enamoured of the legless vet in the rehab film from nearly a century ago. I am quite the expert with armpit crutches and a cut down pair should not present any great problem. If I were to lose my other leg and gain a second matching stump, I would be in the prime position of walking on two stubbies, two artificial legs, sitting in a wheelchair and a whole sleuth of other combinations. But my ideal is going to be a single mid‑length peg leg with the other stump concealed by a tucked up trouser leg. I will swing myself about between two crutches, work permanently from home, travel abroad widely and allow myself to be photographed and videoed for social media. I could even become famous for my single peg leg and my sartorial style.

 

Jack seems to have withdrawn into some kind of hermitage. I need someone’s help to get the limbshredder back onto the front of the pick‑up. Jack is no use. His hooks can handle weights up to about five kilos but he would never be able to manhandle the heavy crusher into position, let alone fix it with it myriad bolts and screws. It does not worry Jack that he is so disabled. He often mentions the joy he feels at the end of the day when he shucks his hooks and allows himself to savour the absence of forearms, natural or otherwise, to wallow in his permanent helplessness. His exceedingly short stumps allow him to experience the same as a man with above elbow amputations, something he admits having thought about for the distant future but which manifested themselves much sooner. Jack knows he has missed out on the adventures associated with having a long pair of phallic forearm stumps, using them at night to grip his tool without it slipping out of reach from between stumps covered in precum. He has not told me how he wanks these days. I suspect the hooks on his full‑length carbon arms are nowhere near good enough to manipulate his cock, especially as he has to control them with his shoulders.

 

I know I could advertise on the forum for a willing assistant but as it happens, two matters which had occupied too much of my thinking time resolved themselves the same week. Jack announced he had a solution for the limbshredder and wanted to introduce a friend of his who had sworn to secrecy. I suggested another beery evening, always a sure way to entice Jack, and the following Friday evening, I took delivery of thirty cans of lager and changed into a light khaki ensemble with my long rigid peg leg.

 

As is his wont, Jack rapped on my door instead of sounding the bell. He had an unusually smug grin on his face, and wordlessly pointed a hook at his companion who seemed far more enthusiastic to see me.

          – My name is Nelson. Very pleased to meet you.

          – Likewise. Come in.

Jack led the way into the lounge and took up his usual place.

          – How do you like the look of my new hooks?

From a slightly greater distance, I could see that Jack’s sleeves had been cut short or tailored to accommodate a pair of arms which had no elbows or lower section. His short stumps were bent in each socket at about eighty degrees and his hooks were attached to the base of the sockets. He would be able to drink from a half litre can after his hooks had crushed it a little to improve his grip. I had never seen such disabling artificial arms before. His hooks were slightly below where his elbows had once been and he had no reach. Even the motion of his upper arms was restricted by the way his sockets were moulded onto his shoulders.

 

We drank beer and exchanged news and opinions. Nelson revealed his artificial legs unexpectedly and also the fact that he had arranged the accident which cost him his feet. He had long below‑knee stumps and prostheses extended by six inches. He stood tall which suited his bulk, generated in gyms over a period of years. Only his lower legs showed signs of atrophy, inevitable in his case. Jack returned the convoluted conversation to the original point of the entire exercise. Nelson was available to undertake the conversion work to turn the truck into what I needed to achieve my second stump. Jack insisted on driving, assuring me that his skill with his hooks was at least the equal to his natural hands. The pick‑up was fitted with several adaptations which Jack was familiar with. We drank more and planned the accident, where it might logically take place, how readily ambulances could access the accident site and so on. It was all blindingly obvious, with the sole difference this time that I would have to be hit from behind. Otherwise the truck would hit my peg leg instead and I would not like that to be damaged. Poor evening light could play its part in the cause of the accident.

 

Jack insisted that he was perfectly capable of driving and had all the official papers and insurance deeds to prove his new status as a bilateral upper limb amputee driver. Currently he looked utterly disabled with two sockets and hooks poking out of his shoulders. Somehow he lifted a can to his mouth and tilted back to drink. I checked my calendar and found a three week gap with little work booked. Nelson promised to set to work immediately converting the log cutter back into my limbshredder and fitting it to front of the truck.

 

Almost as if to cock a snook at the medical profession, we chose a blind corner near Richmond Park within a stone’s throw of London’s specialist hospital for amputees. We anticipated quick service and would love to see the rescuers’ faces so we bought new dashcams and set them all to record from a single button on the dash. They would be answering a seemingly minor incident involving two disabled thirty‑something males, one of whom had tragically lost his sole remaining leg. It had been additionally pulped and damaged by being dragged before the truck stopped and was unfortunately quite unsuitable for replanting. The victim was going to be a bilateral above‑knee amputee and reliant on a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

 

Ha! My peg leg survived the ordeal with nary a scratch. The claws of the limbshredder caught my leg at the same height as the tip of my stump with the result that the new healing stump is a lot shorter but a comfortable bulk nonetheless. As I had hoped, it is not really suitable for prosthetic use. It is too short and the wrong shape. I love its perfect curves. I want it to stay as wholesome and muscular as it is right now but I know it will atrophy, fairly soon. It really is too bad.

 

My surgeon tells me that I may go home at any time between now and Sunday evening. My rehab specialist tells me that he can lend me a pair of axillary crutches if I promise to return them within the fortnight. I insisted to everyone who fussed over me that I am perfectly capable on a peg leg so I left Roehampton balancing onto a new set of aluminium axillaries. My rubber ferrule pointed the way delicately along the pathway to where Nelson stood waiting beside the truck, watching my three point approach. He drove me home and made sure I had everything I needed close by. 

 

Life on a single peg leg is not practical or easy. It is however erotic and fascinating. I am proud of my skill in directing the tip of my peg in the direction I wish to go, knowing my crutch tips will follow. I am having all my trousers adapted for use by a one‑legged man. The other trouser leg is removed and sewn closed to emphasise the dome of flesh which remains of my leg. Some of my jeans have the other leg sliced off at or above the knee to display my peg leg, some of them have kept the trouser leg intact.

 

To some extent I have adapted my home to suit my new legless configuration. I admit that quite often it is easier for me to get around on my backside, swinging along on my hands. I can imagine visiting a beach or a park without my peg or wheelchair, relying solely on my arms. It should be possible for me to use some kind of monocoque shaped with a curved base to contain and protect my stumps. I intend looking into their cost.

 

Nelson tells me that Jack is writing a book about his lifelong admiration of amputees and his compulsion to convert his strong healthy hands into a pair of steel hooks. He knows he literally bit off more than he could chew and it took a long time before he fully accepted his situation. Nelson assures me that my friend can manage his daily routine without complaint and is proud of the way he has adapted. Jack still toys with increased helplessness, as he demonstrates with his one‑piece hooks at elbow height fixed directly to his upper arm sockets. He even wears them in public, according to Nelson. There may be more to Jack than I knew. I hope his book is more credible than the other attempt from the other bilateral guy. Jack probably got inspiration from it but wants to reveal what the unbelievable craving to become an amputee is genuinely like. Nelson says Jack is actually typing his book on a laptop with his hooks, relying on AI to correct punctuation and spelling errors.

 

I wonder if I should write my own story. I too chose to lose two handsome athletic limbs in favour of my stumps. One short, the other even shorter. I can choose my height by wearing either my original long peg which shows no sign of wearing out, or the short thick peg on which I love to clump around on in public because it allows me the erotic pleasure of sitting on my stumps with a single primitive peg leg poking out in front of me.

 

S T U M P S P O T T I N G