STRAP

 

STRAP

 

An active young life is transformed into something involving equal dedication and effort

Fiction by strzeka (04/24)

 

            – You can kick as much as you like. I can’t feel it.

            – So how do you know I’m kicking you?

            – I can feel the vibration in my chest.

            – Really? How’s that possible?

            – My leg braces are attached to a sort of corset around my middle that reaches up to my chest. So I can feel you knocking against my leg braces, just not where you seem to expect.

            – Wow! I didn’t know you were covered in bracing.

            – Well, now you know.

            – Does it bother you, Jamie? It doesn’t hurt, does it?

            – No, it doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel it, anyway, can I? That’s why I wear it. ’Cos I’m paralysed.

            – Yeah, I suppose. Can I get you another drink?

            – No thanks, Connor. I have to watch myself. I’d like to have a couple more but I have to be careful when I’m out. Actually, I ought to be going.

            – Oh! I hope I haven’t offended you.

            .. No, nothing like that, don’t worry. I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s been fun meeting you.

            – It’s been great meeting you too, Jamie. I’d like to meet you again if you don’t mind.

 

Jamie looked at his companion. Connor Williams had introduced himself honestly as an admirer of disabled men and claimed to have a lifelong urge to experience some kind of mild disability himself. He had behaved thoughtfully the whole evening, which was unusual. He was also fairly good looking, a blond buzzcut, moustache and soulpatch to frame his lips, always on the verge of breaking into a friendly smile. He was also irrepressibly working class.

 

            – Let’s keep in touch. I can usually find time for an evening off most weekends.

            – Great! I’ll message you next week. Is that alright?

            – It’s fine.

            – Do you need any help now, Jamie?

            – I don’t think so but hang around. You never know.

 

Connor smiled and watched Jamie reach for his long wooden crutches. He eased his buttocks slowly off the bar stool and teetered for a moment until his knee locks and then his hip locks fell into place and held him rigidly erect. He twisted himself around to face the door, wished the bartender a good night and the two men left together with Connor holding the door open. Jamie swung through it and turned to face the Underground station. They walked together and took a lift down to the platforms, where Jamie turned onto the northbound platform and Connor continued down an escalator to the southbound trains. He turned to watch his new friend swing himself forward and out of sight.

 

Jamie reached his home, a beautifully restored Georgian mansion in the centre of Belgravia. Its main entrance was fronted by a handsome marble staircase. Seven steps led up from the street to an electronically activated door. Jamie ignored it and crutched carefully down a gently sloping ramp from a side street which led into their underground car park. It was simple to heave himself into the lift and exit on the fourth floor directly opposite his apartment.

 

Oliver, his valet, started at the sound of a key in the lock so early. He was watching a rerun of Gladiators, now in its fifteenth season, and remembered who was going to win. He jumped to his feet and walked quickly to the hallway to assist Jamie with anything he might need.

            – I didn’t expect you back so soon, sir.

            – What have I interrupted, Oli? What have you been up to?

            – Ha! I was watching the Gladiators. Just a rerun. You remember the one when almost everyone fell in the water?

            – Oh yeah. That was funny.

            – Was your meeting not to your satisfaction, sir?

            – It was very much to my satisfaction and it’s none of your business, Oliver. He was immediately very concerned and accommodating and we had an interesting evening. I told him I’d like to see him again so can you make sure we have some lagers in the fridge and a couple of bottles of booze next week?

            – I’ll do that, sir.

            – Good show. Come on. Let’s watch the rest of your programme together.

 

Jamie stood in front of the sofa and released his hip locks. He allowed himself to fall backwards, arms spread ready to take his weight. His legs jerked into the air and remained pointing horizontally into the room. He let them. He scrabbled to place a cushion behind his back and concentrated on the physical tribulations onscreen. Oliver glanced at him to check he was comfortable and returned to watching the competition whose result he already knew. It was good Jamie was back. Oliver worried. Jamie insisted on being independent and he was, to a certain extent. He was mobile after a fashion, with his corset and leg braces, the hkafo as it was called. He had his own car, a tiny electric monocoque which he could sit in with his rigid legs sprawled out each side of the central steering wheel. He could cook and shower and put himself to bed and assemble himself again in the morning but it was so much quicker if Oliver helped. He had been with Jamie for four years and their relationship was more like that between friends than employer and employee. Oliver was grateful for the opportunity to share Jamie’s opulent home with his own room when so many of his friends had nothing.

 

The show ended and Jamie briefly changed channels to watch the first few minutes of a news broadcast. He asked Oli if he wanted to watch further and switched the screen off.

            – Would you like assistance, sir?

            – I think I would, Oli. I’m really bushed. Let me brush my teeth first and come into my bedroom.

            – Yes sir.

Oli knew the night time routine by heart. Jamie stood while Oli undressed him and folded his clothes. Hiplocks raised, Jamie leaned back against his raised mattress and lifted himself further onto it. Oli started at his feet, opening the buckles on Jamie’s orthopaedic boots which held his ankles and feet rigid. The calf cuff was next, followed by the restraining cuff around his knees. The six opened buckles along the thigh cuffs released Jamie’s legs from the grip of his leg braces. Oli removed Jamie’s feet from his boots and turned his attention to the thick leather corset which Jamie insisted he merely preferred to wear rather than actually needing lumbar support. Jamie struggled to release his body from the corset and his legs from the braces. Oli carried the entire leather and steel contraption to rest in a chair. Jamie made himself comfortable on his bed and Oli returned with a divan, kept out of sight in the closet during daylight hours.

            – Would you like anything else, sir?

            – No, I don’t think so. Thank you, Oliver. Good night.

            – Good night, sir.

 

Jamie lay awake, thinking about his evening with Connor. It was a rare occasion to meet a stranger and spend time in new company. Connor had been nervous and over-solicitous at the beginning but soon calmed his nerves. He was genuinely interested to hear about Jamie’s teaching work and his advice on restoration of antiques. Jamie gave only the most basic outline, knowing that the subject was fairly niche and most people’s interest waned after a couple of minutes. It was long enough to assure a listener than Jamie was independent, intelligent and active despite his disability and the cumbersome apparatus he wore allowing him to walk after his own fashion.

 

Jamie had been recommended to join a gay lonely hearts group by an older colleague, himself a happily married man with a handsome husband discovered online.

            – There are as many different kinds of gays as there are straights, Jamie. You might find someone who fits your personality perfectly. I think you should give it a try, anyway.

Jamie had uploaded a few photographs and a general description of his lifestyle including his disability. He occasionally reviewed the number of visits to his page and compared it to other members. He was getting a similar number of visits but no‑one had made an effort to contact him. Until Connor texted him suggesting a meeting. Months had passed since Jamie last spent an evening on the town and agreed to meet Connor in a reputable bar with reliable access. It had been an enjoyable time after they had got the compulsory preliminaries out of the way. Jamie replayed snatches of their conversation and drifted into sleep with a smile on his face.

 

He awoke as the first cracks of light split the darkness around his window blinds. He lay still for a moment, straining to hear if Oli was already up and about. Everything was still. Jamie worked his way to the end of his bed and allowed his feet to drop to the floor. He reached for his crutches and hung from their crossbars as he swung his backside off his bed and lowered himself to the floor. He pulled himself backwards to the chair where his braces still sat and lifted them onto the floor beside him. There was a gentle tap on his bedroom door and Oli opened it slowly.

            – I thought I could hear you. Would you like some help, sir?

            – Oh, you’re up. You were very quiet. I thought I was up first.

It would have been unusual for Jamie to be awake before Oli.

            – No, I’ve been awake for an hour or so.

            – Ah well. I can manage this, thanks Oli.

Oli nodded and left Jamie alone to put his leg braces and corset on. It would take him about a quarter of an hour. Oli prepared a fresh pot of coffee and laid the table with marmalade and honey which Jamie liked on his toast. In his bedroom, Jamie forced his unfeeling feet into his orthoboots and began the process of clamping his callipers onto his legs and midriff. Once again set for a new day, he leant his crutches against his bed and dragged himself backward to raise his motionless lower limbs using the chair, his bed and finally his crutches. Otherwise naked, he crutched to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face and hands. He wrapped a bath towel around his waist and crutched to the kitchen for breakfast.

            – Do you want to sit, sir?

            – Yeah. Hold the chair.

Oli stood behind Jamie’s seat while he released his knee locks and lowered himself. Oli had already eaten his own breakfast but sat down opposite Jamie. It was the best time to review the day, to inform each other of anything unusual or plans for the day.

            – I’ll be grocery shopping later this morning and be back around twelve.

            – Oh, OK. Fine.

Jamie browsed through headlines while eating. He caught Oli’s eye and nodded, the signal for Oli to help Jamie to his feet. Oli fetched Jamie’s lightweight aluminium wheelchair and with Jamie safely seated, lifted the immobile legs with the ugly black boots onto the footrests. Jamie had fought against relying on a wheelchair for his mobility but at home, it was far easier to work seated. If Oli was going out for a couple of hours, the wheelchair was the safer alternative.

 

Jamie settled in front of his computer and reviewed his most recent writing for a few minutes before continuing. He was halfway through a magazine article describing the distinctions between various traditional furniture styles. The most difficult aspect was to restrict himself to the designated word count. There was so much to describe and so much which he had to omit. He enjoyed writing such pieces. It was a pleasure to know that old furniture—the genuine thing—was still appreciated.

 

Midday approached. Jamie added his contact details to the bottom of his completed article and saved it as a pdf file to review later on his tablet. Somehow it was easier to spot misspellings and cracked grammar when the text was properly formatted, much as it would appear in print. His phone rang.

            – Jamie Crosswell?

            – Yes. Who am I talking to, please?

            – This is detective superintendent Smithson from the Metropolitan Police, sir. I’m afraid I have some distressing news.

            – What’s happened?

            – I understand that you had in your employ a gentleman by the name Oliver Matthews.

            – Yes, that’s right.

            – I’m afraid I have to tell you sir, that he was attacked and stabbed in the chest outside a shopping centre in West London. Tragically he passed away en route to the hospital in an ambulance.

Jamie was silent, shocked.

            – Are you there, sir?

            – Yes. Yes, I am. How did you know to call me?

            – Mr Matthews had a card in his wallet with his personal details and contacts including your name, sir, included as a contact in case of emergency.

            – I see. I’m not sure what I should do. Do I need to do anything? Oli was my personal assistant—I’m disabled, you see—but he was no relation.

            – I understand, sir. At this stage in our enquiries, there is nothing further you need concern yourself with. We may need to contact you again if we need further information. I’m very sorry to be the bringer of such news, sir.

            – Well, thank you for letting me know, superintendent. Goodbye.

Jamie sat staring into space for many minutes, shocked and confused. His mind slowly returned to the present. Oli’s absence meant having to be self‑sufficient until he found a new assistant. Oli had mentioned buying groceries. Jamie wheeled to the kitchen and checked the contents of the refrigerator. There was enough frozen food to last a few days. There was a litre of milk and half a lasagne. Jamie’s appetite had left him. He had lost his train of thought concerning his article and closed the screen. He returned to sitting staring vacantly into space. At four o’clock he made himself a couple of sandwiches. At seven o’clock, his phone beeped with an incoming message.

 

            – hiya jamie!! howya doin? any chance of a meet up this wknd? miss ya

Jamie had forgotten Connor and his semi‑promise of another meeting. He was in no mood for partying out on the town but it felt inconsiderate to disappoint Connor due to something he had no rôle in.

            – come round to my flat on saturday any time. i need to talk.

 

Anxious to make an impression but not seem over‑enthusiastic, Connor estimated ten thirty to be a suitable time to arrive. Connor had been in his wheelchair for the past two days. He had not even bothered to remove his hkafo and boots last night. Connor’s optimistic grin turned to concern when he noticed Jamie’s depressed expression.

            – I hope I’m not too early. Thanks for letting me come round. Er, what’s the matter, mate? You look really off‑colour. Are you feeling alright?

            – I’m fine. Thanks for coming, Connor. I know I’m a mess. I had some bad news and it’s taking its toll.

            – Why? What’s happened?

Jamie explained briefly how Oli had nipped out to buy food, had been stabbed and died in the ambulance.

            – That’s terrible. Was he your boyfriend too?

            – No. Nothing like that. He was my personal assistant and I paid him a wage. He lived here, though. Slept in the spare room. I have to admit I relied on him more than I ought to. It was just easier to ask him to do something for me. I’ve grown too used to it and I feel a bit lost and helpless without him around.

Connor was genuinely concerned for Jamie’s mental health. There were already signs that the flat had not been cleaned and tidied for a few days—empty jars and food packets in the kitchen, the bed unmade.

            – Is there anything I can do to help, Jamie? I don’t like to think of you struggling on your own. Would you like me to stay over this weekend to help out? I dare say you still need to get some shopping done, right?

            – Yeah, I do.

            – That’s settled, then. Let’s make a list of what you need and I’ll fetch it. Where’s your supermarket?

            – Well, the closest one’s three streets away but it’s only a little one. Oli always went to the big one in Westfield.

            – Let’s get the essentials now and we can go to Westfield tomorrow if you feel up to a trip out. I’m guessing you haven’t been outside all week.

            – You’re right. I haven’t. It’s good of you to help me, Connor. You don’t have to.

            – I know. I want to. Shall we do that? Go out tomorrow. We could have a meal out too. That would be nice. No washing up afterwards.

            – Ha! Right enough. OK. Let’s do that.

 

The list of essentials was simple enough but suspiciously long. Connor suspected that Jamie had skipped more than one or two meals since Oli departed. Bread, ham, cheese, tea, coffee, toilet paper. Connor intended buying a few frozen pizzas as emergency snacks. He was already planning what to buy the next day, ingredients which he intended using to make a week’s worth of food for Jamie. The menu might be a little monotonous but his friend would be assured of something tasty to eat. Before he left the flat, he checked the kitchen cupboards. There was oil and salt and a few spices. It was enough.

            – I’ll see you in a bit. If you want something to do, make a list of what you’d like to have for lunch next week.

Jamie looked at Connor, confused by how his admirer guest had suddenly taken over Oli’s rôle. He felt some embarrassment at not having taken better care of himself during the previous days, discounting the universal effects of shock and depression. Connor found a sturdy bag which advertised TopMan and left without another word. Jamie stared at the closed door to his flat and put his face in his hands. Connor’s visit had allowed Jamie to discuss Oli for the first time and the relief was overwhelming.

 

Connor kept his eyes peeled, on the look‑out for a supermarket on the unfamiliar streets. He was shocked by Oli’s death, although he had never met the man. Jamie had obviously been deeply affected. He could have called Connor at any time but had preferred to suffer alone in silence. Despite the horror, a situation had arisen where it might be possible for Connor to spend much more time in Jamie’s company, watching how his disabled friend negotiated life encased in black carbon fibre, steel and leather. Even seated in a wheelchair, Jamie looked magnificent. His crippled legs were perfect and his upright, alert posture was as much due to his rigid corset as to any mental outlook. Connor was also fascinated by the orthopaedic boots which held the braces onto Jamie’s legs. They looked so impossibly unfashionable and unrelenting. With a pair of boots like those, there was no chance of walking normally. They would hold everything completely rigid from the knees down. It would be like wearing a pair of plaster casts, the kind with rubber heels to walk on. Connor had worn two long leg casts a couple of years ago in the company of some like‑minded friends somewhere in Essex and the three of them had gone out for the evening, peacocking their immobile limbs. It would be great to try on Jamie’s hkafo to re‑experience the sensation. Perhaps if he played his cards right, Connor might let him wear the boots just to see what they felt like. He crossed the road to the minimarket and went about the business at hand.

 

Jamie was illogically relieved to see Connor return. He carried the shopping to the kitchen and set to lining up his purchases on the table.

            – You’ll have to tell me where you keep things, mate. And I bought some pizzas in case you get the munchies. They’re three for two, so I got half a dozen.

            – Thanks, Connor. That’s a big help. You can put all the stuff in those cupboards, but not too high up.

            – No, of course not. Did you think of anything you’d like us to get tomorrow? I thought maybe I could rustle up something filling which keeps like a lasagne or shepherd’s pie. Something which doesn’t need more than reheating.

            – Are you going to make them? Is that what you’re saying?

            – Yeah. You don’t mind, do you? I don’t know if I told you or not but I dropped out of chef’s school a year early so I don’t have any papers but I’m pretty good in the kitchen, even if I say so myself. It’ll only take an hour to make and a couple of hours in the oven so don’t worry about it.

            – Thanks Connor. It’ll be a big help to be able to just grab a meal straight from the fridge. I haven’t been up to cooking this week.

            – I know. You have to take care of yourself, my friend. Right! Shall we have some coffee?

 

Both men found it difficult to express what they wanted of the other. Jamie would have dearly liked to invite Connor to share his flat, to take over Oli’s duties and to pay him for his efforts. But realistically, he hardly knew the man. They had spent an unaccustomed pleasant evening together and now Connor had rushed to his assistance and demonstrated good‑natured willingness to help. Jamie could think of nothing which might act as a lead to inviting Connor to share his life. Connor was trying to think of a way to suggest he take over from Oli. He was comfortable in Jamie’s company, which was rarely the case with such a broad gap between social classes and appreciated the gratitude which Jamie expressed for every minor assistance. But his overwhelming desire was to take inspiration from Jamie and begin to use orthotic devices like leg braces and the crippling footwear in order to experience similar sensations. Although Jamie probably could not feel anything.

 

            – Jamie, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why are you wearing such big tall boots if your legs are paralysed? Wouldn’t it be easier to wear sneakers or something?

            – They hold my feet firm. I get the tremors from time to time. It’s something which a lot of paralysed people get. I think it’s because the muscles get tired of waiting for instructions from the brain and automatically go into spastic action to ward off atrophy, if that makes sense. So the tall boots keep my legs still when my muscles are firing.

            – I get it. I was wondering what it was like to wear boots like that.

            – You want to try them on, is that it?

            – Er, yeah. It would be cool to try them out.

            – Guessed as much. Look, there’s an old pair, bigger than these, at the back of my closet. If you can find them, you can see if they fit.

            – In your bedroom?

            – Yup. Go on!

Connor grinned and jumped up. He opened the closet door and the light came on automatically. Standing at the rear was a pair of hkafos, Jamie’s previous pair, which he had worn until his muscle atrophy made them too loose. A pair of orthopaedic boots of thick rigid leather stood at the back. Connor reached for them, surprised by their weight. They looked a little bigger than his own footwear but that need not be a problem. He went back to join Jamie.

            – You don’t mind if I try them on?

            – No, why should I mind? Go ahead.

 

Connor removed his soft sneakers and undid the lacing on the front of the boots. The interior was well padded. The boots seemed a little narrow but there was enough give in the lacing to allow him to shove a foot into the boot. It felt like a perfect fit. He adjusted his leg and tightened the lacing over his instep and fed the remaining lengths up the boot. The thick rounded base felt completely unforgiving. It would be difficult to stay upright on these boots without continual adjustment, tiny movements to maintain balance. He shoved his left leg into the other boot. Jamie watched Connor cripple himself, to all intents and purposes. The boots were not designed for walking in. Their thick rounded rubber soles were intended to allow him to swing his rigid braced legs without the risk of the toes catching on the ground, decreasing the risk of tripping. There was no ankle movement, no foot movement and pushing off with toes was futile. The entire foot from instep to sole was a solid mass. Connor was now wearing both boots and admiring how his legs were transformed into an orthopaedic nightmare.

            – Come on, then. Let’s see you walking!

 

Connor stood and almost tipped forward. He quickly corrected himself and spread his arms, teetering on the curved soles, lifting his knees to do so because his feet were useless.

            – This is exactly like having plaster casts. You know, those walking casts they give you sometimes?

            – Have you ever broken your foot?

            – No, but I wore two long leg casts for a weekend once.

            – They must have been even more difficult to control. It’s not unlike what I have to use every day.

Connor tottered around Jamie’s bedroom, becoming used to the sensation of losing the use of his feet. His motion was severely restricted. Standing was difficult without a flat base to rest on. A stick would be handy.

            – You don’t happen to have a walking stick, do you, Jamie?

            – No, sorry. Crutches only. I don’t have enough movement in my hips to be able to use a walking stick.

            – I understand. You don’t mind me wanting to try out your boots, do you?

            – No. Of course not. It’s good if you can get a sense of my disability so you can understand better. In fact, if you want, you can try the braces on too. I think they might just about fit. The kafos will, I’m pretty sure. We could take the corset off if it’s too small.

            – That would be great. Thanks Jamie. I think I’ll just keep these boots on for the time being, if that’s alright. I like the feel of them.

            – You look quite disabled wearing them. I think you should look around for a walking stick when we’re out tomorrow. Or maybe two. Get a pair of cheap sticks and you can look like a real cripple. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Connor glanced at Jamie and saw his expression and the twinkle in his eye.

            – Yes, I would. Can I tell you truth, Jamie? I’m not sure if I’d enjoy being genuinely disabled but I’d like to be seen as a disabled man. You know, maybe use leg braces permanently the same way you do, even though my legs still work. It would be like being disabled.

            – Well, not really, because you’ll still be able to sense your body and your legs. I don’t have any sensation below my chest, see?

            – Nothing?

            – Nope.

Connor considered the information. It was obviously the reason Jamie wore the carbon fibre shell around his torso—to keep him upright and balanced on his braced legs and feet.

 

Connor wore Jamie’s old boots for the rest of the day. He liked the immobility and his awkward lurching gait. Jamie watched him and considered what life might be like if Connor moved in to replace Oli. He could have Oli’s room, no problem. They would have to clear Oli’s things first, take them to the dump or put them into storage. And Connor could wear Jamie’s old leg braces and boots as much as he wanted. He needed to make a decision soon. Perhaps when they returned from their shopping trip tomorrow they could sit down and discuss the situation in depth. The simple truth of the matter was that Jamie needed an assistant in short order and was fairly certain that Connor would accept.

 

Connor slept on the sofa after removing Jamie’s orthotic equipment. He arranged Jamie’s legs as Jamie requested and said that if there was any need for assistance during the night, Jamie should call out. Jamie thanked him and promised he would. It was exactly the sort of thing Jamie wanted to hear.

 

They rose together. Connor was a light sleeper and the sofa was not the most comfortable. He heard the clinking of metal and guessed that Jamie was awake and donning his gear. Dressed only in his underwear, Connor knocked on Jamie’s bedroom door and was invited inside. Jamie was on the floor wearing the corset and persuading his insensate limbs into the leg braces and boots.

            – Good morning! Would you like some help?

            – Yes please. Can you feed my feet into my boots? It’s the one thing I always struggle with.

            – Sure thing. Do you always dress yourself on the floor, Jamie?

            – Yeah. I learned from experience that it’s the safest place because it’s not so far to fall.

            – Oh! Have you fallen off your bed?

            – More than once. But don’t worry. I can’t feel anything.

They grinned at each other. The leg braces were shortly buckled up, the boot laces tied in a double knot. To Jamie’s surprise, Connor kneeled and put his right arm under Jamie’s knees and his left around his chest. He found his balance and lifted Jamie back onto his bed and helped his friend sit up. Jamie was impressed. Oli had never lifted him. It was not strictly necessary. Jamie had learned to cope with his disability years earlier but the gesture was a signal which indicated that a

closer, more intimate relationship with Connor might be possible.

 

            – Do you want your crutches or the wheelchair, Jamie?

            – Hmm. Now let me think. I think crutches for the bathroom, don’t you?

            – I can understand the logic. Let me lift you and let’s hope your knee locks work.

            – They will. They’re just drop locks. My old pair had what they call bow locks and they were next to useless. So unreliable.

            – Hold on.

Jamie put his arms around Connor’s neck and heard his knee locks fall into place as he stood erect. Connor made certain that the hip locks were similarly engaged and held the crutches for Jamie to grasp. Jamie leaned forward and swung his useless legs, the first step of the day. Connor followed. They both used the bathroom and splashed water on their faces. Jamie rested on his crutches while Connor ran a towel over his face.

            – Ready for some breakfast?

            – You bet.

Jamie showed Connor where things were and what he liked for breakfast. Connor tried honey on toast for the first time in his life and swore he would never eat anything else.

 

Both men dressed for a trip outside. Connor had brought a fresh T-shirt rolled up in his bag. They returned to Jamie’s bedroom. Jamie sat on his bed while Connor slid his roomy chinos up and over his leg braces, the many pockets and darts disguising the rigidity of his legs. Ten minutes after the shops opened, the pair descended to the basement. Jamie heaved himself towards his tiny metallic red car.

            – You can either try to squeeze into the back or go by tube. I can’t use the tube because of all the steps at the other end.

            – Oh! I didn’t know you had this. Do you need help getting in?

            – No thanks, Connor. I more or less release my knee and hip locks and drop into it. Done it hundreds of times. Wait for me at the south entrance near the tube station exit and I’ll see you in about twenty minutes, OK?

            – See you there.

Connor was a little surprised by the turn of events. He had had no idea that Jamie had his own means of transport, although on second thought, it was hardly surprising. Public transport was almost completely impractical for him. Few stations were completely accessible for a paralysed man in an hkafo. Connor entered the tube station and regretted not asking Jamie if he could wear the tall rigid boots again.

 

They did a thorough shop in a ground floor supermarket and Connor carried the purchases to Jamie’s car. Jamie stayed behind, looking at shop windows, keeping an eye out for Connor.

            – I need to get some new sheets and that sort of thing. Let’s go upstairs. There’s a shop up there that does that sort of thing.

Jamie swung himself towards the lift and Connor summoned it. They walked together along a seemingly endless corridor to the shop Jamie had in mind. Connor altered his gait to suit Jamie’s regular if slow rhythm. It was obvious now to Connor why Jamie’s boots had rounded soles. They made walking much easier for him. He lifted himself on his crutches and allowed both legs to swing forward simultaneously. The shape of the soles let him roll forward. Connor again wished he had asked to wear Jamie’s old pair. He loved the sensation of restriction.

 

They browsed bed linen and, following a comment from Connor, Jamie bought a blue undersheet, a red quilt cover and a yellow pillowcase. They also picked up two bath towels and four hand towels. Connor carried them downstairs and stashed them in the back of Jamie’s car.

            – Connor, do you want a brunch somewhere or shall we wait until lunchtime?

            – I could wait til lunch. Not hungry now.

            – In that case, I have an idea. There’s a specialist shop on New Oxford Street which sells walking sticks. If we went there now, we could find somewhere in Soho for lunch. A Chinese or something.

            – That’s a plan. Where shall we meet?

            – Come out of Holborn station and walk back towards Centre Point. There’s a triangular traffic island on the way where I intend parking. Wait for me there.

            – OK.

 

Jamie slapped a disabled sticker on the inside of his windscreen and pulled himself out of the car.

            – Which way do we go?

            – Back towards Tottenham Court Road. The shop’s on the next corner, I think. They sell things like umbrellas and shooting sticks and walking sticks. Everything long and poky. You might find a nice pair of matching walking sticks in there.

            – Do you think I’ll need two, Jamie?

            – Oh yes. Trust me. Get two. You’ll be glad you did.

Connor wondered why Jamie thought he might need two but was quite prepared to buy them. After steadying Jamie and assisting him up two steps into the shop—specialising in goods for the disabled but inaccessible—Connor found two rustic walking canes of identical length, slightly long but comfortable to hold and sturdy.

            – They look very smart. You look good holding two sticks, Connor. Sort of disabled but mobile. You don’t often see a guy our age with two sticks. I reckon you should get them.

No greater recommendation was necessary. The salesman enquired whether the sticks were a suitable length and suggested purchasing more ferrules. Connor was reluctant until the salesman offered a bag of ten at half price and he succumbed. They left the shop and Connor strolled back to Jamie’s car with a four point gait. Oncomers glanced at his legs. Jamie kept pace alongside.

            – Why don’t you put one of them in my car and use just one on the way back?

            – Alright. Let’s do that.

 

Jamie lowered himself onto his driving seat and centred it. His crutches joined Connor’s new walking stick and their purchases on the floor of the cabin. Connor waited until the car moved onto the roadway and practised strutting with a cane as far as the tube station. It felt more natural in his right hand. There was a natural groove in the gnarly handle which suited his grip very well. The cane itself was distinctive enough to look like something someone would use by choice rather than something issued by a hospital for a sprain. Connor considered becoming a cane user. It would accompany him everywhere. People would see the cane and wonder if there was something wrong with his legs until they realised that there was not. He would be the guy with a cane.

 

Jamie left everything in the car for Connor to carry upstairs. They had somehow avoided visiting Soho for a meal so, in the interval before Connor returned, Jamie ordered a large double take‑out of Szechuan beef, bean sprouts and rice. They could eat at home, have a snooze and go out in the evening for a drink. Connor might like to wear his new boots and could try his walking sticks together.

 

The food arrived twenty minutes later wih Connor. He entered the lift in the basement car park. It stopped again at ground level and a courier with a big bag of something which smelled very good entered. They rode up together, politely ignoring the other, until it became obvious that they were both heading for the same apartment. Jamie paid the courier and within minutes, they were tucking in to a sizeable meal. Jamie demonstrated considerable skill with chopsticks.

            – This is good, isn’t it? Listen, Connor, you’ve been a lot of help today. Thanks a lot.

            – Don’t mention it. I’ve enjoyed it.

            – Good. I want to talk to you about something quite serious, so I want you to think about it before you decide. You see, the thing is that I’m disabled. I can do most things for myself but it takes time and, to tell the truth, I get tired of wasting time. So I appreciate having a helping hand, someone I can rely on like Oli, who was always here when I needed him. Now, you’ve only been here overnight but you’ve seen what it’s like for me to get out of my braces every evening and put them on again as soon as I wake up. It’s all easier when someone else helps. So I was wondering if you’d like to stay here with me and take over Oli’s place. I already know you enjoy seeing my gear and how much you like those boots. Would you like to move in and we can help each other? You can act out your need to be disabled. I won’t mind. Like I said, it’s good for you to have experience of the disadvantages which people like me face every day. You could live here in Oli’s old room, rent free. That’s the best I can do. What do you think?

            – You mean move in? You know I have to go out to work every day, don’t you?

            – Yeah of course. But we’d have a couple of hours in the morning and the evenings. Don’t forget I work too. I just don’t go out to do it.

            – Well, in that case, I’d love to help.

 

Twenty minutes later, it was settled. Jamie and Connor would clear Oli’s room of his possessions and Connor could bring his clothes and other stuff from his Hackney houseshare. His commute would take fifteen minutes longer but that was hardly significant. Connor was so grateful that he sat much closer to Jamie that evening and they put arms around each other’s shoulders. Jamie was unused to physical contact and found it both endearing and reassuring.

 

three months later

 

Connor changed jobs. He became the head chef in a dark kitchen in Clapham, responsible for the reliable and financially frugal output of hundreds of food orders every day, delivered all over the area by cycle couriers. He wore every chef’s traditional garb at work—white jacket, striped trousers, clogs but when he changed back into street clothes at the end of his shift, he looked like a city dandy in a flamboyant black velvet suit with loosely fitted trousers and thick‑soled correspondent shoes. He wore a fedora and carried his walking stick. Settling in Belgravia after Shoreditch had been the major inspiration behind changing his style but he considered that his new style better suited his ambition of being the man with the cane than his old garb of jeans and hoodies.

 

Jamie’s mood improved considerably after Connor joined him. Connor’s shifts were such that he was always present in the morning or in the evening, frequently at both times. He took over running the household and the men employed a cleaning service once a week to keep the place tidy. Jamie also spent more time outside and actively sought out auctions, exhibitions and other venues in order to hone his knowledge and exposure to ever‑changing trends. He accepted the offer of a weekly column in a webzine on antique furniture, another rung up on the way to recognition and renown.

 

Connor freely made use of the orthopaedic devices which Jamie had given him.

            – They’re of no use to me, my friend. If they bring you pleasure, wear them as much as you want.

Connor removed the kafos from the corset, which was unfortunately both too small for him and also the wrong shape. But the kafos were fine and best of all, they were custom made to fit with the rigid boots Connor had worn at every available opportunity since his first evening. It was not unusual for Connor to arrive home after an eight hour shift and change his shoes for the rigid boots. They looked extraordinary paired with his elegant trousers and thanks to the support of his walking stick, Connor was gradually becoming used to wearing a kafo on one of his legs when he went out locally on one of his errands. People in the building and immediate neighbourhood already knew him from day one as the man with a cane and if he occasionally limped on a leg encased in leather and steel, so be it.

 

            – You’re getting quite proficient with one kafo, Connor. Are you going to graduate to wearing the pair?

            – I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve worn both of them often enough here at home but I’m not sure how realistic it is to walk around wearing two.

            – I shouldn’t worry about that, if you’re wondering what people might think. The general public understands nothing about disability, other than that it’s something they would prefer to avoid. If you feel up to having both legs disabled, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t wear both kafos if you feel like it.

            – The other reason is that I don’t want to get so used to being disabled that I feel like I’m missing something when I don’t wear them, if you see what I mean. Having the walking stick with me is a great pleasure because I can put on a bit of a swagger and show it off but if I’m obviously disabled, the cane loses some of its magic.

            – What a very perceptive idea! Yes, you’re quite right. I understand. Have you ever thought about bracing an arm?

            – No. That’s sounds like fun. Why?

            – It just so happens that I was talking about leather with a man at the auction last week and mentioned how sorry I was to see the old art of moulding leather had been lost. He claimed to know someone who was active in that very business, specialising in making leather masks and things like hands and legs for the film business. Apparently, he said, he can make a copy of any body part.

            – Wow! That sounds amazing.

            – And so I got in touch with this man—he lives in St Albans—and asked him if he could make an arm brace which you could fit on your arm to make it rigid. Your hand would go into a kind of mitten. I was wondering if you’d be interested in trying out something like that.

            – A long arm brace like a kafo for a leg?

            – Yes, something very similar, I imagine.

            – I’d love that! And my hand would be inside a stiff leather mitten.

            – As far as I know, it would.

            – I’d love to have an arm brace like that. Just imagine what it would look like with a kafo.

            – That’s what I was thinking. Shall we ask the guy if he’s interested in making you an arm brace?

            – Yeah! Let’s ask him.

 

After several enquiries and an agreement on price, Connor was fitted with two full arm braces from his shoulders to his hands. The apparatus consisted of a lower arm socket and mitten neatly sewn at the back held to a cylindrical upper arm socket, linked by hinged steel struts, both lockable. The upper socket was locked in place by three clamps familiar from ski boots, ensuring an especially tight grip and the complete immobility of the lower arm. Connor was overjoyed at being so utterly disabled and paid the three thousand pound fee with pleasure.

 

He rarely ventured out wearing a braced arm. The enclosed black leather mitten looked suspiciously like a small boxing glove and rendered his hand useless. Bearing in mind that his relationship with Jamie required him to be able bodied for most of the time, he relegated the disabling arm braces to bedroom play only. The money he paid seemed a large sum for a few moments erotic enjoyment but Connor was always overjoyed to see black leather moulds replacing his hands and began to imagine how life might be without the use of his hands. It would be difficult for him to don his leg braces, that much was certain. He had overcome his reluctance to wear both in public and frequently ran his chores to the local supermarket and back with two rigid legs on his curved sole boots, supported by his cane. Without a hand, he would be next to helpless. Jamie watched Connor’s gradual transformation with interest, encouragement and a good deal of amusement. Quite frequently, when the two men were relaxing after a demanding day’s work, Connor joined Jamie on the sofa wearing both kafos and both arm braces, which Jamie had to clamp onto to his friend’s upper arms. Connor often wanted his elbows locked at about thirty degrees. His useless leather mittens rested alongside his braced thighs. Connor was in nirvana, disabled more severely than Jamie, yet always able to have his orthotic gear removed to resume normal life. Assuming that Jamie would remove it for him. His rigid bulbous leather mittens were incapable.

 

Connor began to wear his rigid orthoboots under his velvet suit. His walking stick became less an object for peacocking and more an assistive device without which Connor found it precarious to stand. One afternoon as his shift ended, an observant colleague in the changing room noticed the oddly designed boots and asked about them.

            – I like your boots. Where did you get them?

            – They’re a gift from a friend.

            – Is he disabled, by any chance? Reason I ask is I’ve been looking for a pair of similar boots.

            – For yourself?

            – Yup.

            – Are you into that sort of thing?

            – I guess so. I’m a caster, if you know what that is.

            – Sure I know. I’ve done it myself.

            – Really? Well, it’s a small world. Are you a member of Strap?

            – No. Never heard of it. What is it?

            – It’s a club for people who are into deviant fetish gear. Not just the usual rubber gas mask stuff. I mean wheelchairs and leg braces and pretender hook arms and that sort of thing. We meet on the last Saturday of every month.

            – Wow! That sounds like the sort of place I’d enjoy. Where do you meet?

            – Under the viaduct at London Bridge station. There’s a bar in there and smoking’s allowed so if you’re into enormous cigars, you can light up in there. And people are a lot more friendly than they are in a gay bar, for example.

            – So it’s not just for gays, then?

            – No no. Everyone is welcome but there’s a strict dress code. Leather or rubber and you have use some kind of gear for the disabled.

            – Ah, right. Where do I sign up?

            – Ha! You need a referee on your first visit. Where do you live? Maybe I can pick you up and we could go together.

            – That would be cool. My friend is disabled and uses leg braces for real. If he’d be interested, then count me in.

            – Alright bro. Let me know. Next meeting’s in two weeks.

Jamie was clearly amused by the idea of spending an evening with dozens of men like Connor, apparently disabled men who sought relief from incomprehensible urges to transform themselves into cripples. Living with Connor had opened his horizons to the idea and he had seen how willingly Connor outwardly adopted a lifestyle which Jamie was condemned to living with no choice.

            – The thing is, Jamie, if you come along too, you can blend in with everyone else and no‑one need ever know that you’re genuinely disabled. You could even take on another persona altogether and tell people that you’re able‑bodied. They wouldn’t know the difference.

            – I don’t think I want to start pretending to be someone else but I see your point. For once in my life, I wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb and people might get a kick seeing a guy like me in an hkafo. Alright, I’ll come with you this once and then I’ll think about whether I want to join you again. Two questions. How are we going to get there and is there a dress code?

            – My mate said he’d come and collect us. I assume that means he has a car big enough for three. And there is a dress code. You have to wear rubber or leather with your equipment.

            – Guessed as much. I only have my leather jacket.

            – That would do fine, I’m sure. What about a pair of leather shorts over your hkafo? Just be naked otherwise.

            – I hope the joint is heated, Connor.

            – Shall we get two pairs of leather shorts? I can wear both kafos and my arm braces.

            – Maybe wear only one, my friend. You’re too helpless when you wear both of them. Wear two later on if it looks like it’s possible to ask for assistance.

            – Yeah, you’re right. I’ll wear the left one. I like it when I feel like I’m one‑armed.

            – I know.

 

Connor began to wear both kafos more often in preparation for the big night. He was excited by the idea of seeing and being with men like himself, men who replaced their sexuality with invalidity. Both Connor and Jamie were to all practical purposes asexual. They both enjoyed physical contact, skin to skin, sometimes naked in bed but more often when both men’s bodies and legs were encased in leather and steel. Jamie loved the cool smoothness of Connor’s fingerless fists on his chest, touching and teasing his nipples. Connor had denied his own homosexual urges out of respect for Jamie’s inability to reciprocate in any way. His friend could never feel anything below his waist and it seemed immoral to take advantage of the immobile warm body for his own selfish reasons. Connor began to subconsciously transfer his sexual interest from genital manipulation to bilateral limb disablement and the equipment which provided new sensations of restriction. On several evenings before the first session at Strap, Connor strolled Belgravia on two rigid kafos wearing the left arm brace locked at a ninety degree angle. The diminutive black leather boxing glove extended rigidly ahead of him and attracted confused looks from passers‑by.

 

Jamie ordered two pairs of leather shorts and two leather waistcoats. They arrived several days later and the two men spent an evening at home wearing them. Connor was proud of displaying his kafos and boots alongside Jamie. He hoped Jamie would enjoy the outing enough to want to repeat it. The two of them looked almost identical with the exception of Connor’s rigid leather‑covered arm. He was going to be additionally disabled by having to carry his cane at all times in his other hand.

 

Connor’s friend drove his three‑wheeler car down into the underground car park half an hour before Strap opened. He had dressed carefully, hoping to make a good impression on Connor’s companion, about whom he had formed an impression of a competent and dominant bilateral leg brace user. He studied his face and attire in the lift’s mirror on the way up to the flat. Connor let him in and he introduced himself to Jamie.

            – Good evening, sir. My name is Sam Hughes, assistant chef at Domingo’s with Connor.

            – Pleased to meet you, Sam. I’m Jamie Crosswell. Thank you for coming to pick us up.

Jamie took in the leatherman standing before him. Glossy black engineer boots worn over leather jeans, a rubber T-shirt, leather jacket, a black leather eyepatch over his left eye and a tall officer’s cap trimmed with chrome. Two prosthetic hooks extended from the man’s sleeves. Connor knew how Sam would arrive in advance but was fascinated to see his colleague’s transformation into an imposing leather cripple. Sam in turn was intrigued by Connor’s leather fist and intended discovering where such an item might be found.

            – If you have everything, shall we go? I think you will both be able to get in the car. I’m assuming your knees can bend.

Jamie assured him that they could. He checked he had keys and wallet and the trio descended to Sam’s electric trike. The rear seats faced slightly different directions to provide better leg room. Sam opened the canopy to allow his passengers to settle themselves. Jamie seemed to have more trouble than Connor, probably because of the leather corset he was wearing. It looked hot. Connor favoured his leather fist and tried not to allow it to touch anything. Sam settled himself in the central driver’s seat, enveloped by four braced legs and orthopaedic boots and shrugged to arrange his pretender bilateral hooks ready for operating the trike. The controls were equally suitable for use with hands or hooks. Sam activated the motor and they emerged silently into the sunshine of a late summer London evening.

 

Sam pulled into a parking area reserved for Strap clientele to one side of the viaduct. There were several one‑ and two‑seater electric cars as well as a collection of ebikes. Sam’s tiny car was the biggest so far. He released the canopy and helped Connor to his feet. The pair of them then lifted Jamie and handed him his crutches. Connor leaned on his stick and looked around. Early Saturday evening below one of London’s busiest railway stations. Two leathermen on crutches, one smoking a large cigar, made their way from the bridge towards Strap, advertised only by a postcard‑sized plaque on the glossy black door. It in turn was set into a pair of garage doors which could open wide enough to admit a vehicle—possibly a reminder of what the premises had been used for in decades past. The great advantage for a venue like Strap was the step‑free access. Sam rapped on the door with a hook and showed his membership card to a bouncer hidden in darkness. They exchanged words and moments later, one of the garage doors opened sufficiently to allow Jamie and Connor to enter. The bouncer took their names and contact details and issued a white on black sticker reading guest to each of them. They were informed of membership fees and general regulations and expectations. The bouncer was impressed by both newcomers and watched the trio make their way further into the cavernous space, already demarcated by amputees, brace wearers and hook users. All of them appeared to be leathermen, most of them sported officious headwear, the low visors concealing their eyes until they raised their heads. It was an apt disguise for insecure and nervous pretenders. The cap gave the appearance of superiority while providing a degree of anonymity. The wearer could choose not to see himself being stared at or appraised. Sam had chosen to half‑blind himself with his eyepatch and excused himself to join three leathermen in the far corner, one of whom had gestured with a raised hook.

            – Sam seems to have found his friends. Shall we have a drink?

            – Might as well. See what’s going on.

 

The barkeep greeted them and explained that there was a choice of coke, weak lager or gin and tonic all in cans. They bought a couple of g&t’s, served in plastic tumblers, and stayed by the bar facing into the room. Connor hooked his walking stick over his arm brace, conveniently locked at a suitable angle. Ten minutes later, one of the leathermen from the leg brace division broke away from the group of five like‑minded men and made his way on a single kafo and crutches to where they stood.

            – Hi! I guess you’re new. I’m Jake and we were wondering if you’d like to join us.

            – That’s very kind of you, Jake. I’m Fred and this is my mate Jock. We’ll be over in just a minute when we finish our drinks.

Connor glanced at Jamie, surprised by the false names.

            – No rush. I love your heavy leg braces, both of you. You don’t often get to see the genuine thing.

He altered his position slightly in order to balance better on his single foot.

            – I’m one of the few amputees, in case you were wondering. I’ve not tied my leg up like some of the guys do.

            – Really? People actually do that?

            – Oh, for sure. Wait a bit and there will probably be a few blokes on stubbies with their legs tied up behind them. They pretty much have their own group.

            – Do people stick to their own groups?

            – No, not necessarily, but it’s good to find people with similar interests you can swap ideas with. You never know when you’ll hear something new or find out about a new supplier. That sort of thing. Are you ready? Shall we go over?

 

Jake swung himself around on his single rigid leg and ‘Fred’ and ‘Jock’ followed. Jake introduced them to the other four brace users, one of whom stood on twenty centimetre high built‑up boots attached to kafos. He was scarcely taller than the other members. His fetish allowed him to stand eye‑to‑eye at least once a month with other members. He shook hands with Fred and Jock and they both noticed that his fingers and thumb were amputated to the first joint. They discretely checked a little later to see that the other hand was similarly affected. Connor was very interested and determined to discover what had happened to produce such a distinctive and attractive pair of hands. The man walked on his enormous boots with stiff braced legs but used no crutches or other support.

 

Two of the others professed to being old friends from university who had discovered their shared interest when one had inadvertently entered the other’s room after a drunken evening in town. For whatever reason, the door was unlocked and the drunkard saw his fellow student stark naked except for a pair of kafos and matching arm braces. He was too excited by the sight to even apologise but threw himself onto the quasi‑cripple and toppled him onto his bed. After a few minutes, he had locked the door, stripped naked and made love to the cripple, paying more attention to leather fittings along the four braces than to the skin underneath. He had not thought to bring his own equipment with him to university but at the start of the next term, he arrived hauling an extra suitcase which contained a bewildering variety of orthotic equipment which the pair of them experimented with for the next two years until they graduated. Now they were married sharing a flat in Croydon and spent as much time as possible as quadriplegics assisted by leg and arm braces, with the occasional detour into blindness with opaque contact lenses. They both walked on crutches, wearing converted engineer boots fitted with calliper plates to attach onto their leg braces. The steel cleats on the heels of their boots sounded somehow officious in keeping with their mirrored aviator sunglasses and officer caps. They were both almost blind in Strap’s dank dim atmosphere and both found it erotic to be so visually impaired yet safe.

 

Other members arrived, among them the first leatherman wearing stubbies. His feet were clearly visible, tied tightly and strapped to his lower back. He stumped across the dungeon to the bar and bought himself a beer and waddled across to join the hook users. Sam shortly detached himself from the group and sauntered over to speak to Connor.

            – There are a couple of guys who want to see your arm brace. I told them about the enclosed fist and they want to see it. Sorry to interrupt, guys. You ok, Jake? Good to see you.

 

‘Jock’ was immediately accepted into the hook users group. In their eyes, he had gone one step further than they had themselves. Instead of replacing a hand with a functioning hook, he had replaced his hand with a rounded covering of pristine black leather, a stiff globe negating all tactile sense.

            – I have two of these, actually, but it’s impossible to wear both unless someone else helps out. And the other thing is, I need a hand free for my walking stick otherwise I’ll topple over. My kafos need extra support, like right now.

            – Where did you get them? How much did you pay? Any chance the guy would make another pair?

The discussion continued for twenty minutes with names and contact details exchanged, suppliers mentioned and noted. One of the group was keen to see Jock wearing a pair of hooks and suggested he try out a spare pair which had been gathering dust in his garage for three years, perfectly decent otherwise. Connor tried to imagine himself outfitted with a pair of kafos and a pair of hooks. He looked around at his present company, all of them wearing at least one hook and released a gush of pent‑up sperm into his shorts which then dripped to the concrete floor.

            – I think I might like that, Chas. Will you bring them to the next meet?

            – I’ll do that. If they fit, you can have them but we’ll have to decide on the price first.

            – Fair enough.

 

Jamie received compliments about his gear, especially his leather corset. It was much admired by kafos wearers, several of whom claimed that the hkafo set‑up was simply too disabling. Jamie’s secret, that he was genuinely paralysed, remained intact on his first visit. He was interested to see other men equipped with similar devices immobilising their lower bodies and the matter‑of‑fact way they accepted each other’s temporary disablement. There were exceptions, like Jake, who was a genuine amputee but who voluntarily wore a heavy kafo and always used long wooden crutches. The set he walked on this evening were painted a glossy black and looked as fetishistic as his vintage kafo.

 

Late in the evening, a couple arrived who attracted a good deal of attention. The leatherman seemed to be an established member of Strap and he was fussed over by many of the men balancing on stubbies. He wore the ubiquitous officer’s cap and an enormous bushy black beard. The rest of his body was encased in a black leather straitjacket with the sleeves tied around his back and his legs somehow folded up behind him. On closer inspection, as his rubber‑clad blind assistant pushed him past in a wheelchair, Jamie realised that the man was a mere torso. He had no vestige of legs whatsoever and the leather sleeves strapped tightly around his body were both empty except for short stumps at his shoulders. The blind rubberboy took directions from his limbless master and they soon disappeared from view into a crowd of pretender amputees.

 

At five to midnight, a klaxon sounded. Jamie asked if it meant closing time but learned that it signalled fifteen minutes until the departure of the last fast train to Brighton. Many of the members lived along the Brighton line or in Brighton itself. Trains would continue running after twelve ten but they would be slow trains, stopping at every station. Within a few minutes, Strap had half emptied. The remaining members slowly congregated, forming new groups. The torso man spoke to Jamie.

            – I’ve not seen you here before, son. First timer?

            – Yes sir. I came on the recommendation of my friend’s work colleague.

            – Ah. And do you think you might come for a second visit? You should apply for membership. Ask the doorman for the password to the website and you can do it online.

            – Thanks. I will. Have you been a member for long, sir?

            – I’m one of the founding members, son. Started Strap twenty years ago with three others. Only two of us left now, sad to say. I still had limbs then. Happy days. Not that I’d want them back. Perfectly happy with my stumps. I was paralysed, see? Used kit pretty much the same as yours, torso corset and hkafos. Talked one of the medical men here into a couple of disart jobbies. Made life easier not having to drag a pair of useless legs around.

 

Jamie was intrigued. The torso man had voluntarily shed both legs and now relied on a rigid socket to maintain posture. He had never considered having his own paralysed legs removed but could appreciate the logic.

            – It’s been interesting talking with you, sir. Thank you for the insight.

The limbless leatherman spoke sharply to his assistant and they moved away. The assistant’s head was completely covered in a rubber hood. Two short rubber tubes extended from its nasal area.

 

Sam and Connor said their goodbyes to the pretend amputee group. Sam shook hooks with the other hook wearers. Connor promised to wear both arm braces next time.

            – Be disabled, mate. You have the gear—use it.

Connor promised he would, hoping that for at least some of the time he would be wearing his new‑found friend’s pretender hooks.

            – Are you ready to leave, Jamie?

            – Yup. It’s been interesting. I’m glad you brought us, Sam. Did you know the legless guy in the straitjacket is one of the founders?

            – Yeah, sure.

            – He said he used to be like me. Quite the transformation, isn’t it?

            – I suppose so but there are other members who’ve used their gear for so long that their limbs have atrophied. They genuinely need their devices now. One of the guys over there in kafos wore long leg casts continually for four years until his knees and foot bones fused. He’s put his name down for knee disarticulations so he can wear stubbies but until the health service gets around to it, he’s happy enough with his rigid legs and leg braces. Come on. Let’s go.

            – I have to ask the bouncer for the password to the club’s website.

            – Are you going to become a member?

            – I think so. How about you, Connor? Interested?

            – You bet.

 

The visit acted as a catalyst for Connor. He became much more nonchalant about being seen in public using bilateral kafos and toyed with the idea of buying himself a leather eyepatch. Most of all, he was looking forward to disabling his arms with two pretender prostheses. He had been startled by Sam’s initial appearance but had studied his colleague driving his car, manipulating everything proficiently. He had obviously had a lot of practice. Connor fantasised about living with steel claws instead of hands. Then he remembered his raison d’être in Jamie’s home was specifically to assist his crippled friend and his daydreams about artificial arms faded into the background.

 

Jamie also noticed a change in Connor’s behaviour. Connor arrived home from day shifts and immediately showered and changed into his kafos, leather shorts and waistcoat. He began to use both his walking sticks both inside the flat and in public.

            – Connor, I want to talk about your pretending. You’re taking it very seriously, aren’t you? I know I said I thought it would be useful if you had some experience of disability but don’t you think you’re taking it a bit too far? I mean, you have to be able‑bodied at work, don’t you? What does it look like when you rock up for a shift wearing your kafos and have to change?

            – I suppose I have let it become a big part of my life. Jamie, it’s like I am discovering myself for the first time. It’s like I was meant to be a disabled man. I know it can be inconvenient to disable my legs but it’s how I see myself. I’d rather wear them than not. I think of the time I spend at work as hours when I can’t be disabled. I can’t tell you what it feels like at the end of the day to get my legs into my kafos and rock out with my sticks. I feel exactly the way I think I should be, if you see what I mean.

            – Yes, I know what you mean. So you don’t think it’s getting out of hand? You already have your boxing glove braces. Are they not enough? Why do you want a pair of hooks too?

            – I want to know what it’s like to use hooks. And besides, it looks really cool.

Jamie laughed and Connor looked at him in bewilderment. What was he really thinking?

            – True enough. It does. I’ve always liked seeing someone wearing a hook. It’s one of the few disabilities you can’t hide. Do you think you’d let them take over your life? Would you wear them to work?

            – I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not at the start anyway. Have to learn to control them first.

            – In other words, you would. Alright. I don’t mind if you wear hooks at home as long as you can still help me. That was the deal, remember? I really do need someone I can rely on to help when I need it.

            – I know. I’ll never let you down, Jamie. You can trust me on that.

            – I believe you. Thanks, Connor.

 

Two separate identical envelopes arrived. They contained annual membership cards to Strap and had cost a hundred and thirty pounds each for twelve months. It was cheaper than the fifteen pound door price. Sam had promised Connor that he could easily pick the guys up as he had done on their initial visit and bring them back around midnight. They were both grateful for his generosity and Jamie began to plan an evening at home, some kind of impressive meal, in order to demonstrate their appreciation for his efforts. Jamie entertained rarely and had not done so since Oli’s death. It was time to revive the habit. Perhaps they could invite a couple of other favourite club member’s whose acquaintance they wished to deepen. They had been a sociable crowd, willing to share stories and experiences.

 

Connor had something on his mind and seemed preoccupied the closer their second visit to Strap approached.

            – Er, Jamie, do you think you could lend me some money if I can’t afford the price of the hooks?

            – I suppose I could. How much do you think whatshisname wants for them?

            – I don’t know. I’ve only got a couple of hundred and that won’t be enough.

            – Why don’t you ask him if you can pay in instalments? As far as I can make out, he’s not earning any income from the hooks at the moment so I don’t see why he should want the entire sum up front.

            – No, I suppose not. But you could help out if that’s what he demands?

            – Yes. Stop worrying. I want to see you with hooks as much as you do. I think you’ve got your heart set on them, haven’t you?

            – I have, a bit. Thanks, Jamie.

Connor hauled himself to the kitchen on his walking sticks and set to making supper.

 

The two new cripples had made an impression on several members at Strap and they carefully selected alternative orthotic devices from their collection with which to demonstrate their prowess at the next meeting. The short man, whose legs had stopped growing prematurely and who had worn two tall built‑up boots, decided to disable himself further for the next meeting with a pair of patten‑based kafos fitted with beefy ischial rings. His legs were held suspended, tethered to the kafos by leather straps and he walked on rubber pads attached to the base of his kafos, twenty centimetres below his dangling feet. He had bought the kafos many years previously and had them adapted but rarely wore them now. He preferred increasing his height with a pair of boots with tall cork insoles, the boots themselves covered in black leather polished to a high sheen. Two days before the meeting, he donned his patten kafos and adjusted a pair of wooden crutches to let him balance on their precarious narrow rubber tips. This was how he had travelled to Paris with a like‑minded friend, years ago, both of them severely restricted in mobility but neither wishing to cheat. They toured the sights on crutches, desperately battling the unforgiving cobbled streets and pavements on rigid kafos. Those were the days! For one evening though, it might be amusing to strut along to Strap on the equivalent of two peg legs to show young Jock.

 

Andrew Hathaway, who had the spare pair of pretender arms in his garage, brought them inside his home and ensured they were functional and clean. They had been made in the early Sixties for a man who had worn them intermittently for nearly twenty years. The thick calfskin sockets had acquired a dark patina which Hathaway had nourished and maintained over the decades he had owned them. The harness had been renewed several times, as had the control cables. The undetachable hooks were original and showed some signs of wear. They were the same shape as standard issue hooks but without the rubberised coating. Instead, the inner surfaces were serrated and interlocked. As a result, the hooks were prone to scratching almost any soft object they gripped which was the main reason why Hathaway had bought a second pair of pretender arms with better fitting sockets and removable hooks. He had begun to wear them permanently, everywhere, fifteen years previously and everyone who knew him now believed him to be genuinely disabled. His clothes were adapted to account for the subtle extra length of the sockets. Hathaway’s hands were almost useless after being balled inside the arms and he could no longer open them far nor spread his fingers. He finalised a price he believed the young wannabe might agree to pay and wrapped the arms neatly in a sheet of tissue paper. He dropped them into his backpack and returned to his evening routine.

 

Sam and Connor left their workplace together late on Friday evening. Sam was excited to have the next three days off work and fully intended to spend the entire time wearing hooks.

            – Promise you’ll wear both your arm braces tomorrow night! I want to see you really disabled.

            – In kafos and arm braces. Alright, I will. I just hope that bloke remembers to bring his hooks for me to try on.

            – I do, too. I reckon once you get them on, you won’t want to take them off. God knows, I don’t.

            – Sam, if you had the chance, would you wear hooks permanently?

            – You mean the pretender hooks or have my hands off and get stumps?

            – Get stumps, I suppose.

            – I’ve thought about it but it would make working life difficult. I think I’ll stick with the pretender hooks for the time being.

 

Connor’s thoughts ran the gamut from being genuinely disabled to his promise to Jamie. He heaved his heavy leg braces forward, alternating his weight on his walking sticks, until they reached the tube station. Sam said goodnight and promised to call around six the following evening. He hurried down the steps and was lost from sight. Connor placed both walking sticks over his crooked left arm and began the laborious task of descending three flights of steps to the ticket office level on his rigid legs. From there, escalators would ease his progress. He felt secure on the stairway. He had done it so many times before that he could now savour the sensation of relying on his upper body strength to compensate for his metal‑clad legs, which gradually increased their influence on his body image. He had begun to imagine that he and Jamie were equally disabled. Neither could walk without support. Jamie relied on his crutches when he was out of his wheelchair and Connor had his rustic walking sticks. No‑one else noticed nor cared.

 

The Brighton train pulled in to Platform Eleven at London Bridge station and the last carriage emptied of the majority of Strap members who lived along the line. There was a strong contingent from Brighton itself, several from Crawley and a final large group boarded in Croydon. All of them crippled leathermen, men whose self‑images were not satisfied by the masterful look of leather. They craved extra attention, more exclusivity. There were those who wore leather leggings under steel leg braces, some with specially adapted boots forcing their feet into various aspects of crippledom. There were amputees, some satisfied to display their everyday prostheses with a pair of leather shorts, others who wore a leg brace on their sole lower limb. The leathermen ogled each other’s disabilities and orthotic devices, taking mental notes. They heaved themselves along the platform to the escalators which would point them in the direction of Strap, two hundred metres away under the viaduct. They passed the parking area into which Sam was guiding his electric trike with its cargo of invalids. Once again, Connor and Sam helped Jamie to his feet, neither of them with hands, and ensured that he was secure on his crutches before making their way across to the club’s entrance, whose large doors stood ajar. The bouncer grinned at seeing Connor and Jamie again and checked their new membership cards. He thumbed towards their entry access and turned his attention to a couple of rubbermen on crutches.

 

The interior was more dank than they remembered and distinctly cooler. Possibly due to the recent rain. Sam excused himself and joined his fellow hook users. Once again, ‘Fred’ and ‘Jock’ ordered a g&t from the barman and leaned against the counter-top waiting for a gestured invitation to join one of the fledgling groups. Jamie opened Connor’s can and smirked as Connor tried to grasp the can between his stiff globular mittens.

            – Do you want me to hold that for you?

            – Let me try first. I bet this is what it feels like when you lose your hands and have to use your stumps.

            – I wouldn’t be surprised. Just don’t drop it. We can’t afford to spill any at these prices.

 

The bar was near the entrance and the two cripples watched new arrivals. There were many whom they had not seen or noticed at the previous meeting. Connor’s attention was piqued by a handsomely bearded bald man who wore daringly brief leather shorts with a codpiece and whose legs were encased. One braced leg looked normal but the other bore a tall built‑up boot, the bracing extending to its heel, clasping a steel calliper plate embedded in the heel. He stared at Jamie and raised his eyebrows as he heaved his enormous booted leg past them, walking towards a couple of senior leathermen who extended their arms in welcome. Neither showed any sign of orthotic equipment. They both stood on full‑length artificial legs.

 

The first member of the group which had paid attention to Connor on their first visit arrived and crutched over to say hello. Connor introduced Jamie by his pseudonym and the trio spent several animated minutes describing various experiences and encounters since their last meeting. Jamie thought it was slightly ridiculous—invalids did actually go outside in real life and it was perfectly normal to see someone swinging themselves on crutches down the street. For this member, such things were extraordinary sightings well worthy of mention. He left before long. He seemed to be wearing a pair of afos under leather trousers and used an elbow crutch. They were not impressed.

 

Connor nudged Jamie and nodded toward the door. Silhouetted against the bright evening outside stood a figure leaning on long wooden crutches. His legs extended halfway down his kafos where two small feet pointed at odd angles. His black leather shorts revealed the empty framework of his kafos. They seemed to terminate in rectangular blocks. The man squinted, trying to peer into the darkness. He spotted Jock and his mate, lifted his empty leg braces and crutched over to join them.

            – Hello!  So good to see you again. I was hoping you might be here. Have you decided to become members?

            – Yes, they accepted both of us.

            – And why would they not accept you? You both look superb. I do love your leather corset, Fred. You must let me know who made it for you. I’d love to have a pair of hkafos like yours. But what do you think of my patten braces, Jock?

            – They look stunning. Can you walk on them without crutches?

            – No, not really. I can stand on them if I hold on to the back of a chair, for example, but otherwise I need crutches. Which is perfectly fine, of course.

Connor looked at the empty space where shins should be. The dangling feet laced in leather bootees looked especially pathetic and useless. The man stood with one leg brace in front of him, the other just behind.

            – I can walk on them if I have a pair of sticks, though. One leg at a time, baby steps. Otherwise I just swing them along between my crutches. Did you not have sticks with you last time, Jock? How come you left them behind?

            – This is why.

Connor pulled his shoulders back to expose more of his leather mitts. He raised and lowered his forearms, the full extent of his available range of movement.

            – Good lord! They look stunning. So disabling. How wonderful! Can you use your, er, leather stumps for anything?

            – No, not yet anyway. I love being so restricted though. I can hardly move my arms and it’s also possible to lock the elbows to stop them from moving too.

            – That’s wonderful. It must be exactly like having a pair of artificial arms but without hooks. I do so love to see men using hooks although it’s not something I envisage for myself. And of course I need hands for my crutches otherwise I would be in a very sorry state. Rather disabled, in fact.

            He chuckled at his own joke and waited for one of the others to say something. He misinterpreted their bemusement as offence and looked around quickly for a credible escape.

            – Ah! I see someone I need to have a word with. I’ll talk to you later, I hope.

He rocked slightly and his empty leg braces turned to face a small group at the far end of the cavern. They watched him depart, his expertly fluid movement belying the extremity of his self‑imposed disability.

 

            – It’s hard to say whether he looks more crippled with those kafos or with his built‑up boots, isn’t it? Either way he has to rely on his crutches. How do you suppose he walks in real life?

            – I’ve no idea. We’ll have to ask. Do you wish you could experience a set of leg braces like that? It might be possible to have extensions fitted to the base of your kafos to keep your feet suspended. Perthes braces they’re called.

            – You mean they actually make such things?

            – Oh yeah. Sure. But usually you need only one to keep an injured leg off the ground. You wear a built‑up boot on the other foot to keep you even.

            – I see. I’d like to try that.

            – Connor, hold your horses! You can’t try everything all at one. Since we met, you’ve already crippled yourself and now you’ve lost the use of your hands.

            – I know. Great, isn’t it?

            – Ha! I guess it is. Oh look! Is that your guy with the hooks?

Andrew Hathaway strode in and exchanged a few words with the bouncer, who checked the contents of Hathaway’s backpack. He looked around briefly and spotted Fred and Jock leaning against the nearby bar counter. He lifted his right hook in greeting.

            – Good evening, both of you. I’ll be with you presently. May I leave this in your care for a few moments?

He hooked the backpack onto the counter top and walked over to the growing crowd of voluntary hook users standing in their customary spot. He shook hooks with each member, a ritual ignored in other groups but which served to reaffirm hook users’ personal mechanical nirvanas.

            – We may have a new addition in a few minutes. I just brought my original pair of arms for that young gentleman standing by the bar. I think he’ll be a permanent user.

            – It would be nice to think so. Bring him over when he’s kitted out and we’ll give him a talk.

            – Will do.

Hathaway approached the bar and extracted the tissue‑wrapped prostheses from his bag.

            – Well, here they are, Jock.

Connor touched the tissue paper with a leather mitten. Never had he felt so utterly disabled.

            – Can you get my arm braces off, please?

Jamie released the six clamps holding the braces to Connor’s arms. Connor pulled his hands from the leather mitts and spread his fingers. He placed the braces on the counter and greedily unwrapped the artificial arms. He was astounded by what he saw.

            – I thought they would be black carbon. These are beautiful!

            – Yes. They were made before carbon fibre was invented. The original owner had them made to his specifications and measurements and fortunately, my arms also fit well. Let us hope you find them as comfortable.

He arranged the arms on the counter top and ensured that the straps were untangled. He demonstrated how to don the arms. Connor removed his leather waistcoat and squeezed his hands into the leather sockets which narrowed slightly towards the end. With a determined push, Connor’s left hand entered the tip of the socket and he balled his hand in order to push deeper. His hand and wrist were held firmly. He lifted his transformed forearm and stared at it before setting to donning the right socket. He pushed into it using his thigh for purchase.

            – Now you need a willing assistant to buckle the triceps cuffs to your upper arms. It’s not strictly necessary but it makes the prostheses more secure and responsive.

            – That’s something I can do for him.

            – Very good. Now let’s see about the harness. You need to get the straps behind your shoulders and across your back.

Connor lifted his arms and ducked his head, as directed. The harness was taut and Connor felt resistance.

            – Is that too tight? It’s difficult to find the optimum adjustment. In fact, it may take a couple of weeks. Now, try to open the hooks. Push forward with your right arm.

Connor stretched his right arm and saw the hook open. He relaxed his arm and stretched again. The hooked closed and opened.

            – Try the other arm and then both together.

Connor was in such mental frenzy of erotic excitement that his breath was audible. Hathaway noticed and took it as a sign that Jock would indeed devote time and effort to becoming a hook user like himself. His own hands were deformed and quite numb. The young man deserved the hooks. He would be their third owner.

            – How do you like that, Jock? Ready to take them off?

            – No! This is incredible. I never want to take them off! They feel fantastic.

            – Fred, you have fingers. See if you can tighten the straps around Jock’s arms.

Jamie leaned against the counter for support and inspected the two thick calfskin straps on each cuff. There were well worn grooves on them where years of use had moulded the leather. The broad cuffs enveloped and concealed Connor’s upper arms. Two braces on each socket, hinged at the elbows, ensured that the arms articulated up and down but rotational motion was severely restricted. Moments later, Jamie helped Connor back into his waistcoat and studied his friend’s expressions as he experienced the first minutes as a bilateral hook user.

 

Hathaway explained how the hooks could be angled individually to enable them to grasp differently shaped objects. He warned that they would damage delicate surfaces and suggested placing rubber tubing onto the hooks if necessary. He indicated the rubber bands holding the hooks closed and suggested Connor buy a few dozen new ones with an applicator.

            – Assuming of course that you’ll be using the arms, Jock. You might as well optimise them for your own personal needs.

            – Oh, I will. Thank you for these.

            – You’re most welcome. Now we have to decide on a price. I will admit to being a little reluctant to let this pair of hooks go. They were my first pair which I used for several years until I had a carbon set made with interchangeable hooks. Those are permanently attached, you see. But I can see that they are going to a deserving home. I am prepared to part with them for a thousand six hundred, the reason being that I have my eye on a pair of wooden hands which I have been hankering after for some time.

Connor was horrified at the price. It was far more than he could afford. He had two hundred in his account. Jamie saw the dejection on his face and mentally reviewed his own finances.

            – Don’t worry, Jock. I’ll pay Mr Hathaway and you can settle with me later.

            – Thanks, er.. Fred.

            – Do you want the money this evening, sir, or perhaps it would be more convenient if I paid directly into your bank account?

            – Yes. I have an invoice with me.

Hathaway reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and after several attempts, hooked onto a folded sheet of paper which held a description of the goods, their price and his bank account number. Jamie read it in the reflected light from the bar, nodded and put it in his shorts pocket.

 

His business settled, Hathaway hooked up his empty backpack and wished Fred and Jock a pleasant evening. He strolled across to the group of hook users which had been watching Connor with some interest.

            – One more in the bag. I’m certain of it.

 

Connor found himself considerably handicapped by not having brought his walking sticks. He found balancing on his rigid boots tiring and used the bar counter for support. He loved the taut pressure of his new artificial arms but was uncertain how to position them. It felt odd to let them hang down and equally strange to hold them at a ninety degree angle, the hooks pointing forwards. That was almost their entire range of motion. He tried twisting his arms to reposition the hooks but the tight sockets and buckled cuffs prevented additional movement. Sam wandered back from the amputee group when he noticed that the seller had left.

            – Wow! They look great. Are they comfortable?

            – They are quite tight. But my hands have a little space to move.

            – OK. That’s good. Can you lift the hooks so I can see them?

Sam was surprised to see how the hooks connected to the metal plate at the wrist. They seemed to be permanent. He had not previously seen a pair of the standard design without a rubberised lining. They had to be fairly ancient.

            – Now all you need to do is learn to use them. Why don’t you come over and show them off?

            – Maybe a bit later, Sam.

 

Connor was feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of his new disability. Unlike his arm braces with their enclosed leather fists, the artificial arms were designed and intended for permanent use. They fitted better. The thick antique leather was unforgiving in its rigidity and the steel bracing prevented his elbows from moving in all but one direction, ensuring additional restriction of movement. To all intents and purposes, he had lost his hands and worse still, he was incapable of removing the artificial arms himself. He savoured his stunning loss, far more comprehensive than he had imagined. Wearing hooks, he was in the same situation as a bilateral amputee. He admired his hooks repeatedly, surprised every time by their metallic artificiality. This was a more severe change than wearing leg braces. They just altered the way he walked. The hooks could alter his entire life.

 

Connor spent an hour in the company of other hook users, almost all of them pretenders. He was congratulated on his transformation and welcomed to their exclusive club. The vintage arms were much admired for their excellent condition. The hooks would be difficult to master, being attached solidly to the sockets. Connor was taught a few simple tricks involving twisting them beforehand to accommodate the task at hand, so to speak, and watched how other users raised their prostheses from the shoulder to better position the hooks.

            – It may look complicated, Jock, but the more you use your hooks, the easier it becomes until one day, hey presto! You simply find yourself using the hooks without needing to plan ahead. That’s when life becomes a lot easier. It takes practice but you’ll get there. The most important thing is to use your hooks as much as possible. Learn at home before you feel confident enough to wear them in public. And get yourself some shirts or hoodies with longer than average sleeves. Those arms are a little longer than proper ones, you see, and long sleeves help to disguise it.

            – I see. Thank you for the advice.

Another pretender asked about the odd arm brace he had worn the previous month.

            – Oh! I have both of them here right now. My friend Fred is keeping an eye on them.

            – I’d be really interested to have a look at them, if you don’t mind. I was admiring it last time and meant to ask where I might buy something similar.

            – Shall we go and have a look at them? Come on.

Connor and the other pretender crossed the cavern to where Jamie stood chatting to another man. The arm braces were still on the counter where Connor had left them.

            – There they are. Help yourself.

The pretender separated them and turned one to inspect it. The leather was still spotless, scratchless and the globular fists were similarly pristine.

            – I wonder if I might try one on? You don’t mind, do you?

            – No, of course not.

            – Would you help me get my jacket off?

A simple request and Connor automatically raised his arms towards the man’s lapels. His hooks glinted, a sudden reminder that he was newly disabled. For the first time ever, Connor used his hooks for something practical. He opened first one hook, then the other, allowing them to grip the lapels. He pulled his arms apart to allow the man to pull his prostheses free from the sleeves. Connor was left holding the jacket. The man quickly doffed his pretender arms and tightened the stump socks concealing his hands. He carefully inserted his left hand into the brace’s socket and used his inner thigh to push against.

            – Oh dear. I think my hand is a little too large.

With a little extra effort, his hand suddenly slid past the constriction at the wrist and his hand entered the closed fist. He balled his hand and stared at what his forearm had become—the equivalent of a leather‑covered stump.

            – Oh! It fits after all. I say, it is rather a nice sensation, isn’t it? I do like it.

The cuff still hung empty and the man inspected it quickly, confirming that it was a suitable length and width to accommodate his upper arm.

            – Where does one purchase braces like these? I’m quite sure I would buy one before long.

Connor thought quickly. The man might be persuaded to buy the arm braces. It would be a shame to let them go but he already knew his new hooks represented the future. He would not wear the arm braces again.

            – If you’re interested, I could let you have these but I’m afraid I must ask the full sum I paid. You can see they have not really been worn for any length of time.

            – Really? You’d let me have these? Are you quite sure?

            – Quite sure. The price is three thousand for the pair.

            – Ah! I was expecting to pay rather more. Three thousand you say? Very well. That seems very reasonable. How would you like the money paid?

            – Bank transfer would be easiest, if you don’t mind.

            – Not at all. Let me pay you now.

The man placed the socket under his opposing arm and removed his hand after a little effort. The braces might be a little tight but any discomfort would evaporate after a couple of hours as numbness set in. He removed his stump socks, retrieved his jacket from Connor’s hooks and pulled out his phone.

            – Let me have your account number.

            – Yes, just a moment. Fred, can you get my phone out, please?

Jamie reached for Connor’s phone, tightly jammed into his waistcoat’s inner pocket. He placed it on the counter and expected to use it himself to reach Connor’s bank account. Instead, Connor himself tapped the screen with a hook to awaken the phone and carefully tapped the icons until he reached a page on his bank’s website stating his account number. Jamie and the man watched Connor operating the phone with his new hooks in admiration. He was certainly a fast learner.

            – Thank you so much. Let me copy that number… And if I might have your name too, please? Three zero zero zero… Confirm… There! It should be in your account in the morning.

            – Thank you so much.

            – No, thank you.

The man replaced his stump socks, fed his hands into his pretender arms and ducked his head to force the harness over his shoulders. He tested each hook, took his jacket from Jamie and put it on. He grasped the arm braces, one in each hook, wished Connor and Jamie a good evening and returned to the pretender group with his black leather arm braces whose sole purpose was to render the wearer’s arms useless.

 

            – That went well. I didn’t expect you to sell your arm braces so soon. You’ve only had them a few weeks.

            – I know but I like these hooks better and now I can pay you back.

            – With some left over. You did very well using your phone.

            – Nothing to it. Can you put it back in my pocket? I don’t think I can do it.

 

Sam was intrigued by Connor’s desire to become additionally disabled with the loss of his hands. Connor spread his arms for balance as they returned to Sam’s electric trike around midnight, swinging his braced legs on the precarious rounded soles of his rigid boots. He had gone about as far as was possible for an able‑bodied man to disable himself. Maybe if he could tie his legs up, he might one day walk on a pair of stubbies but his kafos did a good enough job of crippling his for the time being. Sam had been discussing Connor with the other pretender‑amputees and was also of the opinion that Connor would gradually become psychologically dependent on his hooks, preferring to accept the daily challenges of voluntary disablement rather than regarding the hooks as something extraordinary to be worn for a few hours only at weekends. Sam himself used his hands only at work and his neighbours knew him as the young man who had lost his hands.

 

Jamie was in two minds about Connor’s hooks at home. As had been recommended to him, Connor donned his hooks as soon as he returned from work and wore them until bedtime. He donned them immediately each morning if he had a day off or at the weekend, often ignoring his leg braces and boots. He ordered spare rubber bands and narrow rubber tubes to cover the serrated surfaces on the hooks which had already left ugly scratches around the apartment. Jamie said nothing. They were inconsequential compared to the damage his wheelchair had wrought on door frames and furniture. Their relationship evolved in parallel with Connor’s new rôle as a bilateral hand amputee. Connor was proficient enough after three months to venture out in public wearing hooks but was reluctant to expose them to local people who knew him. After coming out as an apparent amputee, it would seem odd if he was later seen using his natural hands again. He discussed the dilemma with Jamie, who had anticipated the ultimate phase of Connor’s bravado.

            – It’s a big step to take, Connor. You must realise that yourself. For all intents and purposes, you’ll have to wear the hooks every time you go out the door. Are you ready for that? You’ll have to wear them to work, too. How’s that going to look?

            – I know. I was going to ask Sam about that. I’m pretty certain he wears his hooks when he leaves home and takes them off in his car before he comes into the kitchen.

            – Does he? Ask him. I suppose the next step will be to get you a car, too. There’s room downstairs on my parking space for a pod car if you wanted one.

            – Yeah, that would be handy, wouldn’t it?

            – Is that some kind of pun?

            – You know what I mean. I want to have hooks when I’m not at work. It’s difficult to explain but I like having to use them to do everything. It makes me feel accomplished, if that’s the right word.

            – I suppose it is. You’ve learned to do something few men ever do. I know you enjoy wearing the hooks and I enjoy seeing you using them. It looks very impressive when you’re doing stuff in the kitchen. You use your hooks pretty naturally these days. It’s a pity you don’t wear your kafos so often.

            – I know. But the kafos are difficult to put on with hooks and I feel unstable without my walking sticks.

            – Yeah. It’s a shame you’ve stopped using your sticks. I thought you looked very vulnerable with your legs in braces with two walking sticks. Now you have your hooks, you look far more assertive, anything but vulnerable. Maybe if you had a pair of normal boots you like fitted with heel plates, you could wear kafos again. You’d be able to balance a lot better. I don’t mind helping you with the buckles, Connor. You should know by now that we’re here to help each other.

Connor nodded. He understood well enough. It was just a little demeaning to be dressed by his paralysed companion but it was one of the compromises he needed to come to terms with if he genuinely adopted the life of a man without hands.

 

Connor began preparing their meals from scratch wearing his hooks. He had talked with Sam about his routine and, as Jamie had surmised, discovered that Sam did indeed wear hooks whenever he left home, including for the short walk to his trike every morning. He drove using hooks and took them off only after arriving at work. He stashed them in the space under one of the back seats. Sam was fully supportive of Connor adopting hook use permanently.

            – If anyone ever asks, you can say your hands are paralysed. That usually shuts most people up. It takes a determined mind to criticise someone for using prosthetic limbs. I think you’re familiar enough with them by now to make the jump. Use them for everything, Connor. Do you cook at home wearing them?

            – No, I take them off for that.

            – Well, don’t! Amputees certainly don’t. If you want the lifestyle, you have to live with the inconvenient bits too.

At the back of Sam’s mind was a growing desire to start his own business with Connor, another dark kitchen in a better part of town, where both he and Connor could work full‑time wearing hooks. Perhaps they could employ genuinely disabled staff and make a name for themselves that way. It all depended on how well Connor mastered his trade as a bilateral.

 

Connor was impatient for the weekend. The monthly meeting at Strap had rolled around again and he wanted to discuss boots with some of the other kafo wearers. For the first time and after weighing up the risk, Connor wore both his kafos with the unstable rigid boots and both hooks. He walked around the apartment for the entire afternoon teetering on the curved soles, waving his prosthetic arms for better balance. It was next to impossible for him to stand still without leaning on something. He wished there was a way to use his walking sticks with his hooks but there was no way to achieve a secure grip. Sam called to collect them just before six and was surprised to see Connor in kafos. Jamie stood beside him, erect and secure on his glossy black crutches. The trio went down to the car park with Connor holding onto Sam’s shoulders.

 

Summer was almost over and the weather cooler. There were already more members in Strap than there had been on either of the previous occasions. Sam and Connor made their way through the crowd to where the pretender arm amputees stood and Jamie crutched over to join the much larger group of leathermen standing on a variety of leg braces, many of them leaning on crutches, several with walking sticks hanging from an arm. Jamie was again complimented on his expert crutch use and his hkafo was admired. He was beginning to find the pretenders tedious. They were an impressive crowd visually but they had little to say for themselves. For many of them, it was enough to meet once a month with like‑minded men and peacock a little demonstrating some newly discovered technique.

 

Connor was temporarily the centre of attention. His leather sockets were admired both for their age and design. He was asked about his progress with the hooks and described both his achievements and his difficulties. He was told how to place strips of duct tape on glass bottles and the like to improve grip. Gradually the questioning became more serious. Had he thought about becoming a permanent hook user? Had he considered a second set of more modern arms with exchangeable hooks? Surrounded by sympathetic and enthusiastic men, all boasting at least one hook, he felt more assured about what he was doing. The satisfaction he gained from successfully completing some task which had previously seemed too difficult was something which improved his mood and self‑assurance, just as he had been told it would. After seemingly exhausting the subject for the time being, Connor crossed the cavern to where he saw Jamie in conversation with someone whose head looked metallic. He wanted some advice on a new pair of boots from other pretenders. What might they recommend?

 

            – This is my assistant and companion Jock. Jock, I’d like you to meet Mike. We have a lot in common.

Mike took hold of the proffered hook and gripped it firmly without shaking. He was resting on a pair of long wooden crutches, similar to Jamie’s, but unpainted. His legs were almost completely invisible under the black leather of two sturdy kafos despite his daringly brief leather shorts. His upper body was held rigid in a torso socket under his motorcyclist’s leather jacket, from which extended a chrome‑plated minerva brace holding his neck immobile. A matching skull plate enveloped the back of his head, which Connor had spotted from across the room. His head was shaved and he sported a broad walrus moustache long enough to hide his mouth.

            – Pleased to meet you.

            – Mike was telling me about his injury and recovery. He came off his motorbike and was in traction for almost a year and when he was able to get around again, he exaggerated his disability and managed to be fitted with an hkafo and had it modified with the minerva.

            – I’m not as disabled as I look, you see. I wear my gear as much as I can. I enjoy the feeling.

            – I’ve not seen you here before. Although this is only our third visit.

            – I’ve just got back to town from our country place. I live fairly close by, you see. I was intrigued by the number of disabled men I saw occasionally from my balcony and discovered Strap that way.

            – Ah. We were introduced by one of my colleagues who also uses artificial arms.

            – You have a very handsome pair yourself.

            – Thanks. Yes, they attract a lot of attention.

            – Are you sure it’s due to your arms and not you yourself? You look spectacular with your long leg braces. So extremely disabled.

Connor heard the admiration in the man’s tone. Mike adjusted his crutches and lifted himself slightly to turn to face Jamie again.

            – You are a very lucky man to have such a determined assistant. I should also find a sweet young helper to let me spend more time in my equipment.

            – Are you looking for a pretender? Do you hope to find a companion at Strap?

            – Stranger things have happened, Fred. It would be a fine thing to have a companion to rely on when I am disabled.

            – Yes, I know. It used to be like that at home. Nowadays I have to help my assistant with his artificial arms.

Connor glanced at Jamie to see if he was joking. Jamie smirked. Maybe it was merely a joke but it held more than a grain of truth. Jamie actually did tighten the triceps cuffs which held his arms tightly before Connor helped him don his hkafo in the mornings. Their rôles were not exactly reversed but things were no longer as they had been. Connor excused himself and rocked back to the arm amputee pretenders’ group.

 

Jamie brought the subject up again during the week. He was due to participate in a video conference at nine and wanted to have enough time to prepare everything he might need. Connor had already donned his hooks and was taking his time making breakfast. Jamie called for help getting out of bed.

            – I don’t want to rush you but if you could use your hands, we’d save some time. There’s stuff I need to do.

            – What’s wrong with my hooks? Can you do the cuffs up for me?

            – No! Come on, Connor. Stop messing around. I wish you’d wait until after breakfast before you put the hooks on, if you absolutely must. I don’t understand why you bother. You have to take them off before you go to work anyway.

 

It was the first time Jamie had criticised Connor and Connor took it badly. As he saw it, his voluntary disablement was a sign of solidarity with his paralysed friend who had no choice but to wear his leather corset and hkafos. Connor’s own kafos were restrictive but he still had a healthy pair of legs inside to power them. He had assumed Jamie supported his desire to become a successful hook user.

            – I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t mind.

            – Look, Connor. You’re supposed to be my helper. I think I’ve been pretty patient with you so far but I think it’s gone far enough. Shall we come to an arrangement where you don’t turn yourself into some kind of dalek before the morning stuff is done and dusted?

 

Connor reluctantly agreed. The morning routine reverted to what it had been before Connor acquired his hooks. But the atmosphere changed. Connor disliked having to wait until Jamie was settled in his wheelchair in front of his computer before donning his hooks, assuming he had not already left for an early morning shift. He felt thwarted and stopped asking Jamie to tighten the buckles on his arms. At the same time, his desire to cripple himself strengthened. He considered ways to ensure that no‑one could deny him the opportunity to wear artificial arms and go about his life to all intents and purposes as a bilateral amputee.

 

Sam noticed that Connor seemed dejected. He was still planning to start his own kitchen somewhere and hoped Connor would join him, at least as a member of the workforce if not as a partner.

            – You’re very quiet just lately, mate. Everything all right?

            – I suppose so. Jamie put his foot down and more or less forbid me from using my hooks until I’ve seen to his needs first. So by the time I get round to putting my hooks on, it feels more like I’m playing some kind of game rather than being a genuine hook user, if you see what I mean.

            – Yeah, I’d feel the same. Still, Jamie has a point, doesn’t he? He needs someone to take care of him, at least some of the time. You can’t blame him for getting niggly if you’re as disabled as he is.

            – I know. That’s what makes it difficult.

            – I don’t think you’re gonna be happy with the situation until you move out and get your own place somewhere where you can do what you like or go the full nine yards.

            – What do you mean?

            – Have your hands off. Lose your hands. Then you’d have a proper pair of hooks which don’t stick out halfway across the room and every reason to put them on the minute you get up. And don’t say you haven’t thought about it!

            – I know. I have thought about it. Having stumps instead of hands. It would be perfect. The only problem is how to do it. I mean, I could stick my hands in the fat fryer but there must be a better way.

            – You could freeze ‘em off but you’d need an assistant and I don’t think Jamie’s your guy. Maybe there’s a crooked doctor who would do it for some filthy moulah.

            – I don’t have much cash for paying for that sort of thing.

            – You never know. Why don’t you ask someone at Strap where they had their hands off?

            – What? Are there real amputees in the hooks group? I thought everyone was a pretender.

            – No, no. There are two guys who might be able to help. The thing is, people rarely admit to paying for their own amputations. They prefer to come up with some kind of cover story.

            – Alright, I’ll ask around. Put it out that I want to have my hands off. Just have to hope Jamie doesn’t catch wind of it.

            – Yeah. The other bloke who might help is the torso man, you know, the founder. It’s an open secret he paid to have his limbs off. He might put you in touch with a surgeon. So cheer up, for heaven’s sake. Stick with what Jamie wants until you can find some way to get what you need.

 

It was good advice and Connor knew it was right. He reverted to using his kafos and unstable boots with his pair of rustic walking sticks and felt as accomplished as he had previously. But the seed of discontent had been planted and Connor no longer regarded his association with Jamie as close as he had believed it to be. They rarely sat together in the evenings and there was no physical contact. Connor’s artificial arms hung unused from a hook in his closet.

 

Jamie had a tiring week leading up to the next Strap meeting. He had travelled twice to Surrey in his pod car, long slow journeys, in order to participate in a symposium on antiques but came away with disappointingly little new knowledge. On Saturday afternoon, with Sam’s arrival imminent, he announced that he was too beat to stand around at Strap for the whole evening and suggested Connor should go alone if he wanted.

            – Are you sure, Jamie? Will you be OK while I’m gone? I’ll try and get back early.

            – I’ll be fine. No need to rush back.

Sam was a little surprised by Jamie’s reluctance but understood and promised to return Connor in good time. Connor looked enviously at Sam’s hooks. He used his walking sticks to twist himself towards the door and heaved his rigid legs forward. Jamie was left in peace while Sam interrogated Connor about life with Jamie under the new regime.

            – It’s OK but the fun has gone out of it. He doesn’t like me wearing my hooks.

            – Is that why you’re not wearing them now?

            – More or less. I can’t put them on as they’re supposed to be worn by myself. I can’t manage the buckles on the upper arm cuffs, see? I can’t even reach them.

            – I could have helped.

            – No. I’ve made a sort of pact with myself. I’m not going to use hooks until I absolutely have to.

            – What does that mean? When will you have to?

            – When I have proper stumps.

Sam took his eyes off the road to see if Connor was serious. He certainly looked it.

            – So it’s actually good that Jamie stayed home. I can ask around like you suggested without having to worry about him overhearing.

            – You don’t need to ask around. I know two wannabes who had their arms amputated. You can ask them about it first, assuming they come tonight, of course. You are serious about it, aren’t you? You really want hooks, don’t you?

            – Yeah, I do. I feel sort of naked without them. I want to have hooks instead of hands. It’s the way I was meant to be. I’m sure of it.

            – Wow! You’ve got it bad, mate.

 

Sam and Connor said their hellos to the leg brace enthusiasts. Connor’s precarious gait on his curved soles and two walking sticks attracted several complimentary comments. He apologised for Jamie’s absence, explaining only that he had had a demanding week and wanted a break. Sam coaxed him away and they headed for the group of pretender arm amputees for what might be a significant turning point. Sam spoke quietly to three amputees, one of whom preferred not to disclose his voluntary amputations to an outsider. He returned to Connor and pointed out the two bilateral hook users who had just agreed to share their knowledge. Connor nodded and thanked him and lurched through the group to introduce himself.

            – I think we’d better find a quiet corner somewhere, young man.

            – Yes sir.

 

Connor could plainly see that the two men were genuine amputees. Their artificial arms were considerably shorter than those worn by pretenders and they gestured in a manner which spoke of years of experience with hooks.

            – OK. This will do. I don’t think we’ll be overheard. Now then, what’s on your mind?

            – I’ve been wearing hooks for three months or so as often as I can and I know now that it’s what I want for myself. I want to be a bilateral amputee with body‑powered arms and hooks.

            – Are you already disabled, Connor? Or are you pretending with those leg braces?

            – Pretending but my leg muscles have atrophied a bit since I’ve been wearing them.

            – I see. Why aren’t you wearing your pretender hooks now?

            – My companion at home is disabled. He usually comes here but stayed home tonight. And he doesn’t want me wearing hooks because I’m supposed to help him and he feels I was neglecting him. Something like that.

            – And what would he think if you lost your hands?

            – It’s none of his business. We’re not really that close. I share his flat so I can help him when he needs it. He used to have a personal assistant but he was stabbed and died.

            – Good lord! Well, I would advise you to arrange your own affairs such that you too have someone close by who can help you in the period after your amputations before you’re fitted with new hooks. If your current partner is already disabled and unwilling to see you disabled, there would seem to be no alternative.

            – Yes. I understand that.

            – So what was it you wanted to ask?

            – I was wondering if you might know how I could have my hands amputated. I don’t have a whole lot of money to pay a surgeon to have it done professionally somewhere, though. I’ve thought about freezing them but I’d need someone to help.

            – I see. There is always self‑mutilation, assuming you have the guts to shove your hands into machinery or have them crushed somehow. That is extremely dangerous and I would not recommend it. Freezing is painful and requires determination and an assistant, as you rightly surmise. Otherwise, you may be forwarded to a willing surgeon on someone’s recommendation.

            – Like a sponsor, you mean?

            – Something like that. I’m thinking of George Johns, of course—the founder of Strap, if you know who I mean.

            – The torso in the wheelchair with the rubber slave?

            – The very same. He might be willing to call in a favour or two from someone who might be able to help.

            – So I should have a word with him, then.

            – Leave it to me. I’ve known George for quite a few years and I’ll put a word in for you.

            – Thank you, sir.

            – There is one other little matter. Have you thought about how you’re going to get prostheses after the deed is done? Do you know a prosthetist who won’t ask questions?

            – No, I don’t. I thought maybe I could use my pretender arms.

            – They might do in a pinch but you’ll need a professionally made set which fits your stumps. Believe me, you won’t want your stumps flailing around inside oversized sockets. And you will definitely have to pay for them and they don’t run cheap. You can expect to pay at least five or six thousand for the pair.

 

Connor was left confused and down at heart despite the promise of assistance. The bilateral had promised to talk to the torso George Johns. Until he heard the results of that consultation, he was left up in the air without a clear direction. He thanked the two amputees and made his way back to the leg brace pretenders group, where Mike stood erect and stiff, facing away and unable to see Connor’s approach. He moved slowly into Mike’s line of sight, admiring the face clamped by chrome.

            – Oh! Jock, you’re here already. Is Fred not with you? I was so looking forward to seeing him.

            – No, sorry Mike. Fred had to stay home this time. He’s been working hard and didn’t feel up to it.

            – What a pity. But it’s super to see you again. Aren’t you wearing your hooks? I must say, you look very vulnerable with your walking sticks.

            – Fred doesn’t like me wearing my hooks any more. He says I’m not helping him properly so I’ve not worn them at all for a few weeks.

            – That’s terrible. I think you should be allowed to wear what you want.

            – Mike, you do know that Fred is genuinely disabled, don’t you?

            – Oh! No, I didn’t know. How odd. I thought his hkafo and corset was just a costume.

            – No. He’s paralysed. He needs it and his crutches. He sits in a wheelchair at home.

            – In that case, I can see his point. If I had an assistant, I’d allow him to be the man he wanted to be all the time. Living the dream! That’s what I do as often as I can. It’s the greatest pleasure to become a fully braced man reliant on crutches. It would be wonderful to have a companion who shared the same desires. I don’t suppose you would like to join with me in a joint adventure deep into disablement, would you? I’d love to see you wearing a rigid body socket and an hkafo, lifting yourself about on crutches.

Connor was enticed by the idea of trying out an hkafo, with or without a corset. The idea of the two of them kitted out, severely disabled, experiencing the physical restriction which both found intensely erotic was overwhelmingly tempting.

            – Do you know, Mike, I think I would. It would be great if we could both be braced together.

            – Then there’s no time like the present. Are you prepared to come to my place for an hour or so? You come with your friend with the hooks, don’t you? You can be back before he leaves. Why don’t you let him know you’re going out for a while?

            – Alright, I will.

Mike lifted himself slightly, turning to face the hook users on the other side of the cavern. Connor spoke with two or three members and then rocked back leaning heavily on his walking sticks.

            – All set. My friend said he will be outside at eleven and will wait for ten minutes if I want a lift home.

            – Super! That gives us three hours. Let’s go. I live nearby. You are OK with walking, I hope?

            – Yes, of course. I love walking with my sticks.

            – So do I, Jock.

 

It was already dark outside. Dark, cold and windy. The two cripples forced their useless legs away from the viaduct, crutches swinging, walking sticks beating a regular rhythm. Their leg braces threw reflections and became displays of light. Mike’s chrome minerva emphasised the effect.

            – Not far now. Second building.

They crossed a road, watched closely by passengers on two buses. Connor watched Mike to see which direction to take. They continued toward the river but stopped suddenly at the opulent entrance to a glass skyscraper. Mike entered a code and the doors slid aside to allow them entrance. The concierge was startled to see two so similarly disabled patrons enter but wished them a good evening and watched on his monitor as they entered a lift.

 

Mike’s apartment was sumptuous. Much of the space was devoted to a wide living area which Mike had furnished sparsely with imported pieces. Connor wondered how he was able to afford such opulence in such a building. Probably an inheritance, he thought.

            – Would you like a drink? Whiskey? I wish they served alcohol at Strap. Don’t have a licence, I suppose.

            – I’d like that. Thank you, Mike.

            – Oh, let’s cut the pretence. Mike is just how I’m known at Strap. My real name, for better or worse, is Marion.

            – That’s very unusual. I’m not Jock, either.

            – No, I already guessed that.

            – My name’s Connor.

            – How do you do, Connor. Here’s your drink. Welcome and good health. Would you like to see my collection?

            – Mmm, I’d love to.

 

Marion crutched to his bedroom and indicated a tall glass‑fronted cabinet stretching along one wall. It contained several pairs of kafos, and two additional pairs of hkafos equipped with torso sockets. There were crutches and walking sticks artfully displayed at one end.

            – I do hope you’re able to wear my gear, Connor. I very rarely have guests and it’s even more unusual for them to try something on.

            – I’d love to try on that hkafo.

            – The one with the waistband? Yes, I think that might fit you. Pull the glass door open and take it out. We could go into the living room and you’ll have room to change.

 

Connor lowered himself to the spotless parquet floor and removed his kafos. The hkafo was next to him. Connor puzzled over the logistics of donning it and started by placing the corset around his waist and his legs into the kafos before slotting their steel tabs into the heels of his boots. The thigh cuffs extended almost into his crotch, much higher than Jamie’s borrowed pair. They immediately felt more restrictive and with trembling fingers, he set to closing the rows of buckles on the calf and thigh cuffs. With his legs confined, he lay on his back and pulled the corset closed, buckling it tight around his midriff.

            – Wait just a moment, Connor. You’re going to need crutches. I don’t understand how you can stand on those boots although it looks like they would be perfect for crutch users.

            – Yeah. They’re Jamie’s old pair. The sole is rounded like that for that exact reason.

Marion went again to his bedroom and took a pair of crutches from the cabinet. He let them drop to the floor and pushed them slowly into the living room with the tips of his crutches.

            – See if you can get up. The locks will engage as soon as you’re up so be ready for that.

 

Holding onto the seat of a chair and the crossbars of both crutches, Connor forced himself erect and quickly positioned the crutches into his armpits. They were possibly a little long but serviceable. The four droplocks at his hips and knees clunked into place, locking his entire body into rigidity. Marion heaved himself closer until the two men’s faces almost touched. Connor stretched his neck forward and kissed Marion, who struggled to reciprocate while his head was held immobile by his chrome head bracing. Unable to tolerate the pain of his trapped erection any longer, he opened the fly of his leather shorts and allowed his penis its freedom. Not to be outdone, Connor leaned on his crutches and scrabbled to release his own erection. They moved closer and their penises touched. High above the London streets in front of the wide expanse of window glass, the two rigid men manipulated their crutches in an attempt to copulate with the other’s crotch. Connor’s unaccustomed corset restricted his breathing, causing him to pant audibly. The sound excited Marion even more and he made every effort to swing his hips and copulate. It was a futile effort and the erotic immobility drove him to desperation in his confinement. He ejaculated onto Connor and relaxed his muscles completely. He would have collapsed to the floor but his bracing held him solidly facing Connor whose erection was left twitching in urgent frustration. He felt unstable and quickly rearranged his crutches to catch himself. His rigid boots rotated slightly. He tried moving his leg braces to correct his position but his legs were held rigid by the hip locks. Unused to feeling quite so restricted, he made futile efforts to adjust his position and drove himself to orgasm. His semen spattered onto the floor. Marion heard it.

            – Well done, Connor. I hoped you would enjoy wearing the hkafo.

            – It feels incredible. I never want to take it off.

            – If you want, you can leave your kafos here and collect them next time.

            – You mean I can keep the hkafo on?

            – If you want to, Connor. You know how to operate the locks, don’t you?

            – Yeah, I think so. Thanks Marion. It means a lot to me.

            – Will you be able to manage without your kafos?

            – We’ll see. If the hkafo is too much, I’ll just wear my boots. It wouldn’t be the first time. I like walking in just the boots because I can use my walking sticks.

            – Good. Let’s have another drink and then we should get back to Strap.

 

Their brief encounter as two immobile men had confirmed what Marion had hoped. As far as sex was concerned, they saw eye to eye. They would make perfect partners. Perhaps after two or three further visits, Marion might invite Connor to share his living space and lifestyle. He could afford to fit Connor with any equipment either of them might desire. Marion was keen to see Connor disabled yet further with the man’s artificial arms and hooks. As they re‑entered Strap, Marion was sure that of all the brace wearers present, Connor was the man for him.

 

Sam noticed their return. He was discussing Connor’s prospective amputations with one of the genuine amputees, a leatherman since the Seventies who had contrived to halve the length of his forearms in an arranged industrial accident which had resulted in record compensation. The man had lived with a one‑legged partner until his death five years previously, after which the bilateral hook user cruised gay bars and comparable venues searching for a younger partner prepared to care for an amputee daddy. He had seen several young men realign their futures by voluntary amputation and had followed their progress whenever possible. He had a practical arrangement in mind for Connor.

            – If all Jock wants is a pair of hooks, he might as well go for disarts at the wrist. It’s a quick procedure because there’s no bone to sever and the wound heals as fast as any gash. He might be fitted with his first proper pair of hooks in a month.

            – That’s interesting. I don’t know whether he’s considered that sort of amputation. He’d have all his arms, wouldn’t he?

            – He would. His wrists would be rounded nubs. No hands. It sounds to me like the sort of thing he might enjoy. Of course, if he wants stumps like mine, halfway down, there’s always the opportunity to have another slice off the stump later.

 

George Johns appeared late in the evening, limbless in his wheelchair. His carer was drenched in rubber, blind and with only two breathing tubes in his rubber hood. The two elder arm amputees went to greet him and spent several minutes explaining that one of the young members, a pretender arm amputee, wished to forgo his hands. Disarticulations would be suitable—easy to perform, quick to heal.

            – Is the boy here tonight?

            – Yes, he’s facing the guy in the leg brace section with the chrome‑plated minerva.

            – Oh yes. I’ve seen him wearing his hooks before. And you say he wants a genuine pair?

            – He does. Would you like a word with him?

            – No no, not yet. I wonder if Charles would take him on? He might do me a favour if I asked him nicely. Leave it with me and I’ll let you know. It would be a fine thing to have more amputee members, don’t you think?

 

The image of two young masculine arms covered in dark hair and missing both hands played in his mind. As always, the mere idea of amputation awoke the torso’s libido. The broad erogenous zone across his stump where there had once been an athlete’s powerful legs encouraged him to spread his non‑existent thigh stumps to make room for his erection. His leather stump sock was already soaked with precum. The surgeon he had in mind, Charles, had been struck off years ago for amputating the wrong limb of an elderly woman. He still did the odd job for old friends who had defended his reputation and stood by him through the difficult following years. A couple of wrist disarts could be done and dusted between breakfast and lunch, if he wished.

 

Sam delivered Connor to his home via the underground car park and watched his slow progress towards the lift. The man he had met earlier strode confidently with the aid of two walking sticks. This figure was rigid and lifted himself carefully on crutches before allowing his body to swing forward a little. Sam suspected that Connor’s rôle play on crutches would end abruptly if and when his amputations were approved. Connor entered the lift and was lost from view. Sam fed his hooks into the adaptors on his steering wheel and drove his trike home. He would hear on Monday what Jamie thought of Connor’s new hkafo and crutches.

 

Jamie was naturally intrigued to see Connor so thoroughly disabled. Connor explained that Mike had loaned him the new braces and crutches and that Jamie’s pair of kafos was safe. Jamie intuited that there was more to the story but let it ride.

            – Are you going to wear that to work?

            – No, I don’t think so. I can’t even wear my boots without my walking sticks.

            – How do you like the additional restriction?

            – I love it. I’d always wear an hkafo if I could. I love my legs being completely useless. Sorry if that sounds flippant. I know it’s not something you’d have chosen for yourself.

            – But I did. Instead of years of physical therapy, I opted for the hkafo instead. Was Mike wearing his minerva again?

            – Yeah. I think he always wears it. He has other sets of hkafos without the head brace and pairs of ordinary kafos.

            – It’s very convenient for you that you can wear his equipment. How did Mike bring that hkafo to Strap?

            – Oh, we went to his flat and I tried it on there. He lives right next to the station almost. Then we went back to Strap, both of us on crutches this time. The leg brace guys were pretty impressed. They wondered where you were, by the way. They send their best wishes.

            – Thank you. OK, Connor. I’m going to bed. I won’t need help.

Jamie wheeled himself to the bathroom and shortly shut his bedroom door behind him. Connor, still standing and leaning lightly on his crutches, mentally compared the cynical reception from Jamie with the erotic playfulness with Marion earlier in the evening and wished there was a way out of the confusion. He was torn between a sense of duty to Jamie and his infatuation for Marion and a lifestyle of voluntary severe disablement. At Strap, three voluntary amputees discussed his fate. George Johns and the voluntary bilateral chatted with George’s surgical friend, who found it amusing that George had found yet another candidate for him.

            – Tell him I want two thousand for two disarts. Let me get the surgery ready. I’m going to need some more anaesthetic, so it’ll probably be a week or two. I’ll let you know when I’m ready and you can tell the boy, if that’s agreeable to you.

Connor’s maiming was imminent and inevitable.

 

Instead of working, Jamie spent Monday morning considering his options. He deduced that Connor intended leaving Belgravia in favour of Southwark. He could hear from Connor’s tone how enthusiastic he was about meeting Mike and assumed there was a sexual aspect. His and Connor’s relationship was strictly asexual and although Connor had never complained, it was unnatural to adopt a life of abstinence in order to wear a pair of leg braces. Jamie was fairly certain that he could arrange for biweekly assistance—someone to see to the domestic tasks he found difficult. If Connor decided to leave, Jamie could manage well enough until he found a new companion. Having thought things through and reached a conclusion, he felt confident that whatever happened, he would be prepared. He ate a light brunch and wheeled across to his work desk to continue writing an article for Homes & Gardens.

 

Sam kept a discrete eye on Connor at work. He was not party to the machinations started by George Johns but knew enough to expect a visible difference in Connor in the near future when he heard about his amputations. He was already in a better mood, thanks to his tryst with Marion. Sam assumed they had fucked during their absence from Strap. He wondered if Mike was also interested in using hooks. He had shown interest when both he and Connor wore pretender amputee arms. Sam returned his attention to the job at hand and imagined himself slicing tomatoes with a pair of hooks in his own dark kitchen.

 

The struck‑off surgeon called in a favour from a lab assistant at the local hospital. Ten cc’s of local anaesthetic were needed urgently, deliverable by courier. The surgeon reasoned that local anaesthetic would be quite sufficient for a hand disarticulation, a simple enough procedure. He would wait until the package arrived before arranging a date for the amputations. The patient would require feeding for a few days before his stumps were stable, after which he could be discharged into the care of a friend or family. It was no business of his.

 

Marion waited until mid‑week before contacting Connor, innocently asking when Connor might call round to collect his kafos and sticks. Connor reckoned he could come after work but was unsure what time he might arrive. But they would be together that evening.

 

Connor turned up at half past six. He was wearing his pretender hooks which he stashed in his backpack at work. He and Sam found it amusing to change out of their kitchen uniforms, shower and then dress in their street clothes and artificial arms. Sam’s army surplus combat jacket with its long loose sleeves disguised his overlong prostheses perfectly. Connor’s leather jacket revealed more of his leather sockets. Marion spotted them immediately and his mental evaluation of Connor rose another notch.

            – It’s wonderful to see you. Thank you for coming.

            – It’s great to see you, too. Marion, I can’t stop. I should be back with Jamie already. We ran late this afternoon. It was busier than usual, see? I only came to collect my kafos and sticks really.

            – Alright. I was hoping we could spend the evening together.

            – I’m sorry to disappoint you. Some other time, Marion. We will be together, won’t we?

            – I hope so. Have you spoken with your friend?

            – No, not really. I don’t know how much he knows. I think he guessed we were together on Saturday but he hasn’t really said anything.

            – I wish you would join me. I would love to have you here, wearing your leg braces and hooks. They really suit you. I love the leather sockets. They look so sexy.

            – I like them too. I love wearing hooks. I hope it won’t be long before I can have a real pair, even though they might cost quite a bit.

            – Connor, I promise you this—don’t worry about the cost. I don’t want to discuss my finances but anything you need, whether your own hkafo or new hooks, anything like that, I promise to lend you the money. So don’t worry about that. I want you here with me as disabled as you want to be. I wish you would leave Jamie and come here to stay.

            – That’s kind of you. I have to settle it with Jamie first. I don’t want to leave him in the lurch when he sort of relies on me.

            – No, of course not. Don’t forget though, will you?

            – How could I forget?

 

Connor strapped his legs into his kafos and tottered over to where Marion stood peering out at early evening river traffic. He leant on one walking stick and placed his other arm around Marion’s waist where he could feel the rigid carbon corset holding his friend and potential lover erect. Marion could not feel the hand. Within days, Connor would lose the ability to hug his friend. It was the only time they ever stood together gazing over the city as two pretenders falling in love.

 

The following evening, Connor received a text message from George Johns and read it with bated breath.

            – you have an appointment on monday 7 december at noon for bilateral wrist disarticulations. price two thousand pounds, payment negotiable. call me for details.

Connor glanced at Jamie to see if he was paying any particular attention. He needed to get out of the flat for a few minutes, somewhere private. He thought of taking the kitchen refuse to the recycling. He went to the kitchen and fussed about for a few moments and called out to Jamie.

            – Just taking the rubbish out. Shan’t be long.

            – OK.

Downstairs, Connor called Johns and thanked him for his message.

            – I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon but next Monday is fine and I can get the money too.

            – You won’t need to pay the whole sum immediately. Discuss it with the surgeon. Now, you will have to make your own way to the surgery in Sevenoaks yourself. You won’t be met. And of course, you will have to make your way back after discharge and I strongly advise you to have a companion meet you. You will be next to helpless with two fresh stumps.

            – I understand. I’m sure I can arrange for a friend to meet me.

            – I leave it to you. So shall I confirm your attendance with the surgeon?

            – Yes please. Thank you, sir. It means a lot to me.

            – You are most welcome, young man. Another genuine bilateral at Strap is most welcome.

 

Connor was intrigued at the prospect of disarticulations. He had assumed his amputations would be through the forearms. Instead, his hands would be removed from the wrists. He would still have his long hairy arms. They would simply end in handless nubs. He would be able to use his arms as pincers. He had a powerful erection at the image of himself dressed in kafos and leather with apparently empty sleeves. He would be forever rid of his hands and would have a vast choice of artificial hands and various hooks and claws to choose from. He thought about donning his kafos with hooks, proper ones which gripped his stumps tightly, and suddenly released another flood of sperm. He held onto the recycling shed’s wall until his thigh was thoroughly drenched.

 

How was he going to tell Jamie? Quite apart from being absent for a week from next Monday, it would be a while before he had a new set of hooks—and where was he going to get them? He would have to ask the surgeon. He must surely know someone who could make a pair privately. Or maybe the guy who made him his black leather boxing glove arm braces might be able to make prostheses too. He would get in contact in the morning. It would be great if he could have black leather sockets. He decided there was no time like the present. He carried the emptied plastic bucket back to the lift, his cum cooling against his leg in the outside air.

 

            – Jamie, I have something to tell you. Are you busy?

            – No, I’m not busy. What is it?

            – You know how I want a pair of hooks, proper ones I mean. Well, I’ve been booked in to have my hands amputated on Monday.

            – What?! Are you serious? Connor, how do you expect me to look after a double amputee? Who’s going to get the food in? Do you expect me to wash you and feed you? You’re not going to be able to do anything for weeks afterwards! How can you be so irresponsible?

            – It’ll be alright. I’ll manage.

            – No you won’t. Look, I can’t deal with this. I knew you were up to something. It’s this Mike guy, isn’t it? I bet he’s behind it.

            – He has nothing to do with it! It’s my own decision, my body, my hands. It’s my life. I want hooks. I’ve always wanted hooks and now I have the chance to have the amputations with no questions asked and without having to hurt myself first. I can’t let a chance like that pass.

            – You’re mad. I don’t want you around any more. You can clear out as soon as you can get your stuff together. Go to a hotel or anywhere.

            – Do you want your kafos back?

            – Yes, of course I want them back. You can keep the boots. They’re no good to me.

            – Thanks.

Jamie stared angrily at Connor. He did not look at all happy. He meant what he said about clearing out. Connor got up and went to the bedroom to change. He took his pretender hooks off and filled his backpack with a few shirts and underwear. He ought to wash himself and change what he was wearing, too. Forty minutes later, he pulled the orthopaedic boots onto his feet, swung his backpack on and grabbed his walking sticks.

            – I’ll have to come back to collect the rest, Jamie. Jamie, I’m sorry. But I have to do this.

            – Just go.

 

Connor knew exactly where to go. He stopped on the corner of the street to call Marion.

            – Hi, it’s me. Listen. I have a bit of a problem. I told Jamie about wanting my hands off and he was livid. He’s thrown me out and I don’t have a place to go.

            – That’s awful. On second thoughts, no it’s not. It’s wonderful! Come here! Call me when you’re downstairs and I’ll come down to let you in.

            – Thanks, Marion. See you soon.

Connor realised that Marion had not yet learned of his impending amputations either. How would he react to the news that Connor would be a helpless invalid until he had new prostheses? He would soon find out. A bus heading to London Bridge Station appeared and Connor hailed it with a raised walking stick.

 

Marion was visible through the plate glass entrance, chatting to the concierge. He had his crutches but was not wearing the chrome minerva. Connor stepped inside and advanced in his semi‑crippled fashion towards Marion, walking sticks flailing in his hurry to greet his friend.

 

Connor wasted no time in explaining the situation regarding his amputations. Marion was surprised and delighted that Connor would soon be forever disabled with two handless arms. He promised to care for Connor while his stumps healed and restated his commitment to fitting his friend with as much orthopaedic and prosthetic equipment as he wanted.

            – Shall I put my kafos on now?

            – I’d like that. Put your hooks on too.

            – I need my walking sticks when I’m wearing kafos, Marion. I can’t hold them properly with my hooks.

            – Is it because of the rounded soles? Why don’t you try a different pair with flat soles and then you can walk in kafos and wear the hooks.

            – Have you got a pair which might fit?

            – I’m sure I have. What size are your feet?

            – Ten.

            – And mine are eleven so my boots will fit you.

Marion lifted himself and gradually turned himself with his crutches to face his bedroom.

            – Come on! Let’s get you kitted out.

 

Connor took his boots off and looked at the wide variety of adapted footwear in Marion’s closet. He picked out a heavy pair of Underground boots with external steel toecaps and triple soles eight centimetres thick. They were completely rigid. He attached them to his kafos and donned the equipment. He heaved himself to his feet, feeling taller and oddly stable. He walked stiff‑legged to fetch his backpack and took out his pretender arms. Standing in his underwear, he transformed himself from a capable young man into a hobbled invalid in minutes. Marion rested on his crutches, his penis tenting in his leather shorts, sizing Connor up and imagining even more severe disability. He would look even better if all his equipment matched. The patina on Connor’s old leather sockets was beautiful but his kafos had black leather, like Marion’s own, and Marion hoped to persuade Connor to choose colour‑coordinated prostheses. He believed it signified a thoughtful and orderly mind.

 

            – I take it that your hkafo is still at your friend’s home. I hope you didn’t burn your bridges before you left.

            – Yes, it’s quite safe and so are the crutches. I have some more clothes I have to collect too. Jamie was very angry but he’s not an unreasonable person. I think it would be best if I waited a couple of days before I go and collect my stuff. It’ll probably take two journeys. One to bring my clothes and the second to wear the hkafo. I’d better do all that at the weekend, hadn’t I?

            – Would you like me to help you?

            – No thanks. I don’t think Jamie would approve.

            – Even so, I could give you a lift.

            – Oh, do you have a car?

            – I do indeed. You’ll see it soon enough. I had it converted to suit an invalid driver like myself without use of my legs.

            – It sounds wonderful. I’d love it if you could drive me there and back. The buses are a nightmare with kafos.

            – Of course they are. And of course I’ll take you.

 

Connor looked around his new home. He had sat on a white leather cube with a low back and armrest at the same height. It was perfect for a man wearing leg braces. A similar chair faced it from across the room. A wide white neon light sculpture illuminated one side of the room. A zebra hide decorated the floor and Connor had no doubt that it was genuine. Best of all was the window wall, a floor‑to‑ceiling view from the eighth floor of the whole area around London Bridge station and down the river towards Tower Bridge. Marion swung himself to the window and looked out.

            – It’s a fascinating view, isn’t it? I used to stand here on Saturday evenings watching out for disabled men who seemed all to be going in the same direction. I guessed they were not going to the station so one day I went across to explore the area and came across Strap. I had no idea what it was, of course, but the next time I saw some men on crutches coming over the bridge, I went downstairs and followed them. You can guess where they were going and I joined up as a member. You can’t imagine what it was like to find the entire space under the viaduct full of men wearing leg braces and artificial limbs. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. And I go to every meeting in the hope of finding a nice man who understands me.

He looked back at Connor, taking in the intelligent features and the eyes watching him.

            – Are you that man? I hope so, Connor. Are you prepared to share my life as a cripple? It would be so wonderful to be disabled together, helping each other and wearing wonderful braces and you’ll soon have your own stumps too. I hope you’ll stay.

            – I don’t know what to say. You’ve already invited me into your home and we’ve already proved that we are a good match—do you remember?

Marion threw his head back and laughed.

            – How could I forget? Do you remember how powerful we felt? Both of us straining and willing it and being prevented from doing what we were straining to do. I want us to have more times together like that. Will you stay with me, Connor? Please say yes.

 

How could he refuse?

 

There was no question of sleeping separately. The men took off their equipment just after midnight and settled into Marion’s wide bed. They held each other’s shoulders and explored the other’s chests and bellies with their hands. Their genitals loosely touched each other’s, two erections gratifyingly feeling warm skin, held in check by the mere fact of nakedness. Marion could only ever achieve orgasm as a disabled man wearing leg braces. Their first night together, naked and tender, was far from the artificiality which both craved. They slept in each other’s warmth and woke to the pleasure of another day together encased in braces.

 

Connor left for work at his usual time, relieved to find that a familiar bus route terminating at London Bridge took him to the end of the street in Clapham where the dark kitchen was situated. He pulled himself aboard with a hook and settled in a seat upstairs, catching up on the local and foreign news on his phone. Sam had already arrived and was prepping veg. One of the newer cooks watched in wonder as Connor shucked his artificial arms, revealing two normal hands. Connor noticed, winked at the novice and started his daily routine.

 

Marion was overjoyed at having landed the man he had lusted over the first time he had met him at Strap. He recognised that circumstances had helped. He was dubious about whether Connor’s arrival would have happened quite so soon without his partner’s ire but he was certain that they were a perfect pairing. Their mutual orgasmic encounter on the first evening was proof enough. He found it tedious to spend his days alone when he could support Connor financially for the rest of his life. But Connor seemed to find his work fulfilling and Marion doubted that premature interference would be appreciated. Anyway, the man was about to become a bilateral amputee, something which Marion himself admired along with the prosthetic limbs, rigid and unfeeling, exactly the way he transformed his entire body whenever he had the chance. The height of eroticism. He should let Connor know on his return from his surgical procedures that there was no need to return to his chef’s job. Perhaps it would be best to wait until Connor returned with two fresh stumps before proposing a change in his routine. Rigid in his hkafos, Marion took his phone out and ordered his midday meal.

 

Saturday was a disappointment. Marion had expected Connor to remain at home but Connor assured him that Saturday was one of their best times and he wanted to be there as early as possible. Marion had planned a day of voluntary disablement together, steel on steel, exploring their capabilities as lovers while restricted in their respective equipment. Instead, Marion spent much of the day renewing relationships with individuals and small companies who had served him well in the past. He found that a small company in Norfolk from which he had purchased rigid leather boots could also manufacture prosthetic arms with leather sockets and was highly regarded in the area among farmers who had lost an arm to farming machinery. It was owned by two brothers who were themselves double amputees. He spoke with the chief technician at length about an hkafo with a high leather corset to which a pair of full‑length artificial arms could be attached. He envisaged orthopaedic boots designed for a man with drop foot. Marion wanted Connor to appear crippled and the best way was to make him so. He agreed to bring the patient to be fitted after the fresh stumps had healed well enough to operate prostheses.

 

Connor was in an extraordinary mood. It was next to impossible for him to concentrate on any menial task for more than a couple of minutes. Sam, who had done the lion’s share of the morning’s prep, was acutely aware of Connor’s behaviour and pulled him into the cold storage for privacy.

            – You’re very jumpy this morning. What’s going on?

            – I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on all of a sudden and for a change, none of it’s bad. Jamie threw me out and I’ve moved in with Mike. That’s not his real name, by the way.

            – I know who you mean. Something happened when you went round his flat, didn’t it?

            – Yeah. Will you be satisfied if I just say I’ve met my soulmate.

            – Thought so. But that’s not all, is it?

            – No. I wasn’t going to tell you. It’s supposed to be an accident tomorrow but actually—can you keep a secret? You promise never to tell anyone, Sam?

            – I promise. There’s no‑one to tell, anyway. So what is it?

            – I’m having my hands off on Monday. I’m gonna be a genuine amputee and have stumps and genuine artificial arms and hooks.

            – Wow! On Monday? Where? How?

            – In Kent somewhere. Mike’s taking me. He knows where it is. It’s a small surgery run by a proper surgeon who was struck off.

            – Christ! And you’re gonna let him amputate your arms?

            – He accidentally amputated some old girl’s left leg when it should have been the right. She was in a wheelchair anyway so it didn’t make much difference but he was struck off.

 

Sam was bemused. And envious. He knew he would hate the fact that he had to wear pretender arms to satisfy his need to wear hooks. If Connor came back boasting a pair of genuine prostheses, it was going to be impossible to work alongside him. Sam knew himself well enough to realise that. There was only one way out of the conundrum—to lose his own hands. That way, there was a far greater chance that Connor would join him in starting a new kitchen if they were equally disabled. Sam did not dare press the matter any further. He had already heard too much info for one morning.

 

Connor pulled himself together and concentrated on his work. He imagined himself using hooks for everything instead of two healthy hands and willed the hours to pass. On his return to his new home, Marion showed him some sketches he had drawn of a comprehensive full‑body brace with attachments at the rear of the torso socket for his arm prostheses. Marion explained that he wanted Connor fitted with a special pair of boots which would make him taller and force his feet into a position something like that of a ballerina on tiptoe. He would learn to balance on the minimum possible soles, and his tall black leather orthopaedic boots would amaze any onlooker. Connor imagined his legs and feet in the boots without protruding feet and how it would feel to totter around on tiny soles. He tilted his head back and ejaculated into his underwear.

            – I see you approve of the idea, Connor. The best thing of all is that your feet will adjust to your boots and after a while, you’ll have to wear them always. Your feet will no longer point forward, only down. Would you like to be crippled like that?

            – If you want me to be crippled, Marion, I will learn to be a permanent cripple. I already know something about what that means.

            – Good. I’m so happy for you. Only another day until you get your own stumps. I’m so jealous.

            – Nothing’s stopping you from doing the same, Marion, is there? You know the surgeon and I think you can afford anything you want. When we’re together, we can both be much more disabled than we are as pretenders, right?

            – I hope so, Connor. Nothing would bring me more pleasure than to be a cyborg forcing my stumps to make artificial limbs obey me.

            – It would make life difficult, wouldn’t it?

            – It would make life a joy, a never‑ending triumph of erotic limblessness. If you stay with me, if you become my assistant and I become yours, we’ll spend our lives encased in prostheses and experiencing life as only the limbless ever can. Will you be with me for an adventure like that?

Connor pictured himself in new crippling boots with handless arms encased in leather braces.

            – I’ll always be with you, Marion. Let’s make ourselves as disabled as we dare.

            – We shall!

 

Marion was content to continue pretending with his hkafos and minerva neck brace. But he wanted to have a companion reduced to extreme disability, completely reliant on artificial limbs which could further be crippled by bracing on arms and legs. The idea of a pair of prosthetic legs encased in leather and steel kafos was the ultimate expression of eroticism and he hoped that during the years ahead, he could persuade Connor to sculpt his body into a totem, limbless and rigid, mobile only by extreme effort on hobbled prosthetic limbs. The man could be extracted from his limbs for erotic sessions, when his own rigid body could be tantalised by the vestiges of his lover’s limbs. He was a generous man and would finance each and every alteration and improvement to Connor’s handsome hirsute body.

 

Connor was trembling with excitement on Monday morning. He dressed in casual street clothes and wore trainers. He took a change of clothes and checked and rechecked that he had everything he might need for a week long trip. At nine thirty, Marion swung himself into action and Connor followed him to the building’s subterranean car park. Marion owned an electric mini‑Jeep, whose great advantage was that its seats were at waist height, making access a breeze. The floor was clear of pedals. Marion pulled his heavy braced legs inside. Connor could see that the car had been reconfigured for a legless driver.

 

They made Sevenoaks in good time. Marion made no effort to leave his vehicle. He wished Connor good luck and watched his new friend enter the private house which concealed a small operating theatre. The surgeon, a white bearded man in his late sixties, discussed the upcoming procedures and witnessed Connor transferring the first instalment of the cost to his bank account. By one o’clock, Connor was relaxing in something like a dentist’s chair, waiting for the local anaesthetic injections to numb his right wrist. He could watch the amputation or lay back and stare at the ceiling. The surgeon worked quickly and perfected the future nub by shaving the bony protrusions of the ulna. He sewed two flaps of skin together and bandaged the stump. An hour later, Connor had a matching pair. His severed hands were dissected, liquefied in a blender and flushed down the toilet.

 

Connor had prepared himself mentally for being helpless but the physical reality was something else. It was a shock to see his arms terminating in bulbous bandages without hands. He was reliant on a male nurse, an Anglo‑Indian, who assisted him but who made no attempt to befriend him or make small talk. He was unable to use his phone, unable to do so much as to scratch an itch. The long hours between meals dragged by, interrupted occasionally to have his bandages changed. His stumps were red and swollen and the black stitches were ugly. One by one, days passed. Marion sent a long text message every day, wishing him a quick recovery and assuring him that he was missed. The nurse replied on Connor’s behalf, usually with a single smilie. The gashes across Connor’s nubs itched as his flesh knitted.

 

The surgeon was satisfied.

            – I’m willing to release you on condition that you maintain the routine with pressure bandages. Your stumps will pain you for another three or four weeks, which is only natural but once they stabilise, you should be able to put pressure on them.

Connor’s nurse changed his bandages once again and gave him three week’s worth of supplies. The surgeon notified Marion that the patient was fit for discharge and Connor left the private clinic holding his stumps bent in front of him in the inevitable manner of fresh arm amputees. Marion was wearing a high rigid corset, unable to assist Connor with his seat belt. They travelled back to Southwark with the seat belt warning signal pinging all the way.

 

Connor had a wonderful surprise waiting for him. Word had spread throughout the arm amputee pretenders’ group about Connor’s amputations, each man swearing the next to secrecy. The man known as Chas, who had exchanged a pair of hooks for Connor’s pair of arm braces, reasoned that the rigid leather braces might be of service to a man without hands. They would certainly protect his stumps while they healed. He contacted George Johns, who in turn contacted Marion and the next evening, Chas delivered Jock’s old pair of arm braces to Mike. Connor spotted them almost as soon as he walked into the living room.

            – Chas said he thought you might like wearing these while your stumps heal. They’ll protect them and you’ll still have the sensation of not having hands.

            – That was very thoughtful of him, but how did he know?

            – I rather think, Connor, that everyone at Strap knows by now what you’ve been through. There are some things you simply can’t keep secret.

            – Oh god! So everyone knows!

            – I don’t think you need worry about our friends at Strap knowing. It’s only if word gets out that you might get some flak. See if you can get your arms into the braces.

Connor’s bandages were too bulky to allow him to push his arms in all the way.

            – I reckon that the braces would do the same job as my compression bandages. If you changed my bandages and made my stumps less bulky, I’m sure I could get them in.

 

He could. Marion cinched the buckles tight and locked the elbows at sixty degrees. Connor sat in the living room for most of the time he was recovering, useless stumps concealed inside the black leather sheathes terminating in bulbous globes.

 

Marion allowed Connor to recover without making demands of him. He always donned an hkafo every morning and spent most of the day standing, moving around on crutches and making no effort to cheat. He was a disabled man to all intents and purposes, and it was his greatest ambition to craft his new companion into a showcase of orthotic rigidity and prosthetic limbs. Thanks to his ownership of a chain of gyms in Kent and Essex, any body modification desired was financially possible and any disability could be compensated by the domestic employment of a personal assistant, of whom he already employed many dozens. Marion found it ironic that his livelihood should come from such a source when he himself wished to become ever more physically disabled.

 

            – It’s Strap night tomorrow, Connor. Are you ready to meet the hook users? I’m sure Chas would be happy to see you there wearing the arm braces. And your old boyfriend, what was his name? Fred. Fred might be there too.

            – His name’s Jamie. I don’t think he’d come. He’s a very independent man and can afford to live independently. He’ll hardly be on the lookout for a new boyfriend. He might already have one. I don’t know.

            – We shall see. So I take it that if I help you into your kafos and arm braces, you’ll join me in an evening under the railway line.

Connor lifted his arms, held rigidly at an angle, and tried to imagine himself as others might see him. A helpless invalid unable to do anything for himself, a mere spectacle for others to ogle and speculate about. He eyed the perfect smoothness of the sockets enveloping his handless forearms.

            – I forgot it was tomorrow. Of course I’ll come! I’ll need the triple thick Underground boots, though. I don’t dare wear the rounded soles yet.

 

It was one of the most significant meets they would ever attend. Chas was indeed present, gesturing wildly with his pretender hooks in conversation with one of the genuine amputees about an altercation with a road rager who had cut him up the previous week. The police were called and took the side of the double hook user after his accuser claimed he had made manoeuvres which he was physically unable to perform with his adapted controls. He was prepared to go to court and was sure to win a handsome compensation. The two men were both delighted to see Connor, closely followed by his new lover, handsome in his complete rigidity and chrome head bracing. Connor walked stiff‑legged on his old kafos, now equipped with bulky heavy boots, enough to hobble anyone. Marion had set his elbow locks to ninety degrees and Connor looked like he was reaching out with his stumps, ready to hug someone. He was acutely conscious of his helplessness and the tightness of the leather around his upper arms and near his stumps. The older men appraised him in silence, glancing at Marion who stood by as if exhibiting a prize bull. Marion was close enough to see only their eyes. He knew they were judging Connor’s wisdom in encasing his stumps on Strap night, when everyone was interested to see his stumps.

            – How long are your stumps, Jock? Did you get what you wanted?

            – I had disarts. I still have half my wrists. The doctor rounded them off for me so they ought to be fairly presentable when they’re ready.

            – Is that enough, Connor? Are you going to be happy having your own arms still? I don’t meant to suggest there’s anything wrong with what you’ve had done.

 

But he had suggested it. Marion was not satisfied with the long arms. Connor had really lost nothing more than his hands, easily replaceable with hooks or whatever contrivances he preferred. The elderly amputee believed he knew a dedicated wannabe when he saw one and predicted that Connor would be sporting two above elbow stumps and full‑length body operated artificial arms within five years. The urge for disablement was powerful and he regretted leaving it too late, due to familial circumstances, to continue on his intended path to end up with ten centimetre stumps at his shoulders by the time he retired. Just enough stump to swing a pair of above‑elbow prostheses around. Now, at almost seventy, he was consigned to his bilateral below elbow stumps, which he accepted were the ultimate in amputee aesthetics. He had loved his hooks since he crushed his hands at twenty‑eight and now, at sixty‑eight, nothing gave him more pleasure than meeting young amputees who had dared from the outset to destroy their limbs and open the way to a life struggling to operate a pair of artificial arms. There was no greater pleasure in life than overcoming the disadvantages served daily by a pair of hooks controlled by shrugging an almost stumpless shoulder. He would never experience it himself but he held out hope for the new amputee before him, his stumps hidden inside leather and steel braces.

 

Marion judged that Connor was safe with the crowd of hook users. He twisted himself around slowly and lifted himself across to where the kafos wearers had congregated, several of them moving awkwardly aside to welcome the most extravagantly disabled member of their group. There were members who deeply wished to appear as rigidly incapable as Marion, his handsome features held immobile front and back by unforgiving metal bracing. His skill on crutches was second to none and his selection of orthopaedic boots, never less than attention‑grabbing, were greatly admired. Marion himself admired the man born with short legs, who was tonight outfitted with empty Perthes braces, his natural feet dangling useless where a normal man’s shins would be. What would it be like to wear his braces with nothing below his knees? Maybe Connor would demonstrate it for him.

 

Connor received many recommendations for prosthetists who had been known to detour the usual procedures and produce a pair of basic hooks for a deserving customer, which they all assured him, he was. Amputees advised him to accept a basic pair of hooks as his starter kit, progressing later to systems with articulating wrists and the like. They told him that if he lived with a partner, there would be no problem learning to use a basic pair of hooks. He would have time to work out what he needed from a pair of artificial arms and his next pair could be better suited to his needs.

 

It was good advice, but Marion would not consider allowing Connor to achieve prosthetic normality. As he described to his leg‑braced audience, Connor had only begun his journey into disablement. His disabled colleagues, many of whom would return to the life of a normal London commuter on Monday, assured him that a man such as Connor, who had voluntarily just discarded his hands, would be an ideal partner to see reduced to a rigid torso. Several of the men masturbated on the spot, over‑excited by Marion’s vision of a handsome partner encumbered by four artificial limbs hobbled by external braces.

 

Sam was nowhere to be seen. He had not made contact for several days and Connor assumed that whatever was too confidential to write would be sorted when they met. Sam was dejected by the simple fact that his favourite colleague was absent from work, and along with the increased work load, the dark kitchen seemed empty and futile. His ambition to found his own company was interrupted too. Sam decided not to attend the meeting at Strap in case it became confrontational.

 

Marion and Connor returned home after midnight with new contacts, new advice and new confirmation that Connor would be back in the game as soon as he was fitted with a new pair of hooks. He had yet to have his stumps evaluated by his surgeon who would give the go‑ahead for a fitting appointment. Marion arranged a tentative date for his first fitting with the Norfolk prosthetist three weeks hence. In the meantime, Marion continued to tend to Connor’s every need. The stumps shrank and healed further. Connor was able to use his naked stumps to feed himself with a spoon and enjoyed the sensation of cool air on them when they ventured outside.

 

Marion drove Connor both to receive his surgeon’s approval and to Norfolk. They broke the trip with an overnight stay in Cambridge where they encountered a double above elbow amputee in the hotel bar. The man’s face bore a prominent scar over one eye and he spoke at length of his amputations and the advantages of short arm stumps compared with Connor’s wrist disarticulations. He proclaimed himself to finally leading a fulfilling life thanks to his disability, which had required perseverance and initial reliance on others but he would not wish to have his natural arms back. Connor and Marion thanked him for his interesting company and retired to their rooms to prepare for the following day’s fitting.

 

A month later, two days before the next Strap meeting, Connor received his prosthetic arms by courier. Marion sliced the package open, revealing two facsimiles of a man’s arms in black leather attached in all readiness to a canvas harness. Connor was overjoyed to have hooks again after three torturous months. Marion helped him don his new arms. They covered the skin of his arms almost entirely, far more than was necessary but were a stunning display of prosthetic beauty. The leather sockets were firm and sensual to touch. The steel fittings were polished to a high shine and the flat steel wrists emphasised the artificiality of the arms. Connor’s hooks would forever be on display.

 

Marion was pleased for his friend. He would encourage Connor to readopt his old lifestyle including cooking, washing, dressing. He wanted Connor operating as a double amputee in leg braces before he transitioned to the next stage. Marion had spoken with the short‑legged man at Strap often enough to know that Connor’s next amputations would be the removal of half his shins, which would allow him to wear empty Perthes kafos. Connor would learn to totter on footless legs, his stumps held firm inside crippling kafos with ischial rings bearing his weight in his groin. If he needed crutches to walk on his stumped legs, Marion proposed suggesting peg arms, long crutches with sockets to accept Connor’s arm stumps. His lover would be handless and footless and afterwards, Marion had no doubt he would invent new disabilities and felt joy in knowing that Connor would submit.

 

STRAP