THE CATALYST

 

T H E   C A T A L Y S T

 

Disturbing fiction from the near future by strzeka (11/25)

 

Chapter I: Incarceration

 

I got sixty days and a compulsory work course at Attlee Barracks for shoplifting. It was the second time I got caught nicking meat. It was too much of a temptation, really. They were stocking the shelves and the fridge doors were unlocked so I put a dozen or so chicken breasts down my MA‑1 when they weren’t looking and made my way out. I did pay for my Mars bar though. Two minutes later, security lassoed me and hauled me in to their black mariah. There was no way I could have avoided it. A bee drone had parked right above me and followed me out the supermarket.

 

So I did my time which was a bit of a laugh really. Two months of three regular meals a day and a dry warm place to sleep. Then I was transferred to Attlee with a few other long‑fingered types. It’s supposed to be vocational training but everyone knows they only teach you the sort of jobs which are too difficult for AI to do or too dangerous. They don’t want to lose an expensive robot in an accident but it’s alright if one of us low‑lifes tops himself.

 

There were about fifty in our section. Four other skins so we stuck together. Blake, Knox, Sloane, Leo and me, Grills. That’s not my real name. It’s because of my pretty smile. I lost all my teeth when I was eighteen and had dentures made with chrome teeth across the front. Top and bottom. They really look the business. Anyway, we tried to keep together because there were those present who seemed to hold a grudge against skinheads and wouldn’t think twice about spiking you with a blade if they got the chance. We needed our own guardian bee drones but I don’t think they give them out there.

 

We were assigned to the print shop. We had to make sure AI was doing its job properly. The printing side was digital and there was another gang that took care of the programming and that sort of stuff for it. We had to make sure the collation and trimming was done accurately. That meant getting the pages in the right order and cutting them to size around the edges and not through the middle of the page or wonky. After that the pages were glued together and the cover was stuck on but we didn’t do that.

 

The Attlee Press actually was a real working press. We printed books with short runs of up to a thousand. Stuff that people had written that no‑one was interested in like their memoirs or on fly‑fishing like in that famous tv advert they always show with the one for Hovis on the hill. There was a huge trimmer which could slice through a whole ream of paper in half a second before the collates went off somewhere to get their covers. It was the trimmer that gave Knox an idea which sounded absolutely mad at first but sort of made more sense when you thought about it.

 

Knox had a bit of a fetish going on and wore steel leg irons over his bleachers to make himself look lilke an old‑fashioned polio cripple or something. They clipped in to his thirty‑hole boots. He walked about with stiff legs all the time. I thought it looked pretty cool. No‑one could tell he didn’t really need them. There was nothing wrong with his legs. He usually had the braces set to stiff but he could adjust the knees so they could bend when he sat down. One morning when we’d been at the printing house for about three weeks and had learned a thing or two about the control system and the old mechanical machinery, Knox made his suggestion which threw us for six.

          – Imagine yourself, if you will, in control of the trimming process for our latest literature.

Knox was talking jorgian slang, like the nobility or whatever did a hundred years ago.

          – I propose to arrange an accident untoward in ordinary use. You see, the machine develops a fault which its control system cannot, does not or will not detect. I, a mere slave to the machine, must adjust the monstrous apparatus but in doing so, I become a maimed victim, a sacrifice to modernity.

          – Cut the shit, Knox. What are you talking about?

          – Ignoring your uncouth vernacular, Blake, I intend to lop my hand off under the monstrous blade.

          – What the fuck? What’s the point in that?

          – I believe my disablement will result in considerable remuneration in compensation.

          – And what does that mean?

          – It means they’d pay him a fuckton of money for the accident.

          – Oh. Wow. Well, I’d do it too if I knew I was gonna get paid for it.

          – And after receiving said fuckton, I should retire prematurely with every comfort while you simple clodhoppers continue to wipe sweat from your brow for what? For nothing, dear friends. For nothing.

We looked around at each other, not quite knowing what to make of Knox’s latest mad idea. You had to admit, it did sound like a good way to get an early work pension and live a life of leisure even if it had cost you a hand.

 

Chapter II: Immolation

 

We carried on with the course for another week or so. It was easy enough work after you got used to it. Sometimes the equipment really did go haywire and we’d have to call AI control to stop the press or the trimmer or binder before there were thousands of sheets of spoil everywhere. Knox was waiting for the seventy year old mechanical trimming machine to fail or need some kind of maintenance before he dared carry out his plan. His idea was to blame the machine for his accident because there was little point blaming it for causing an accident when it was working perfectly. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He had looked up the safety mechanisms which made sure the operator was standing far away enough from the blade so that there was no chance of injuring himself. With the weight of a five ream box of A3 and some deliberately clumsy action from his stiff braced legs, he intended to try clearing some kind of blockage. He would put his wrist under the blade as it sliced through several hundred pages. No‑one believed he’d actually go ahead with it. Knox didn’t only speak funny, he had some funny ideas too.

 

One afternoon we were supposed to collate two editions of a thousand each and you could see there would be problems because one of the books had a fold‑out map which had to be manually cut separate from the trimmer. AI sort of instructed us how to do it and showed a couple of video shorts so we had an idea. Knox decided now was a chance for him to lose his hand and asked us to help him shift a heavy box of paper right next to the safety pedal on the floor. I don’t think it occurred to anyone watching the security monitors to suspect that he was up to something.

 

As luck or fate would have it, the first collate had the sheet with the map sticking out right in the middle and it was already on the conveyor. Knox quickly took his foot off the dead man’s pedal and heaved the box of paper onto it. The trimmer stopped, juddered and restarted. Knox checked no‑one was looking and swung his heavy braced right leg up onto the work surface so he could reach the blade. Just as the collate arrived for its front edge to be sliced, he shoved his right arm under the blade. Half a second later there was blood everywhere and the trimmer stopped dead. It took a second or two before we looked to see why it had stopped. Knox was leaning on the work top holding his bleeding stump with a pained grin on his face. Someone hit the emergency button and suddenly the whole place was shut down, all the lights came on and two medics rushed in with a robot in tow.

 

There was nothing for it but to cart Knox off to the med centre. We were instructed to go to the break room to wait for instructions. A team of robot cleaners set about cleaning the mess and disinfecting everywhere. None of us commented on what had just happened. After all, Knox had told us what he intended to do and now he had done it. There was no reason to be surprised, except for the fact that there was more to him than we had thought. The bloke had guts.

 

Chapter III: Continuation

 

It only took half an hour or so to clear the blood up before we were instructed to return. Someone from another team was sent to take over the trimmer but he didn’t introduce himself and I never saw him after that. Attlee is a big place. I don’t know how many thousands. Most of us are in for being caught nicking stuff but some, like Knox himself, are doing time for fraud with credit cards, that sort of thing. More highbrow stuff. Really, we’re here because it’s an easy and cheap way of getting the unemployment figures down and hooligans like us skinheads off the streets. They don’t pay us anything in here but we still get fed better than we would outside and the dorms are warm and there’s hot water to shave our heads with. Most of us have someone on the outside to bring us our kit and visit every so often. It’s alright if you have a couple of mates with you, people you can trust. The government is trying out its segregation policy at Attlee, so we never see any of our mates if they have different coloured skin. But you can’t say anything against it or they take you off the production line for a talking to. Re‑education, they call it.

 

We got the first collate ready after the whole run was repeated due to spoilage. That’s what they call it when there’s blood everywhere. The second time, the print section did the fold‑out pages separately and sent them to us last of all. It was easy enough to get them in the right place after the rest of the pages were sliced clean and ready for binding.

 

I didn’t know what to think about what had happened during the day. Whether it was an example of how uncaring the system was, whether it was because we were in a punishment camp or whether this was just normal everywhere in industry after AI took over. Assuming the government knew what was going on. Knox had been cared for by medics, but no word had reached us yet of what had happened to him after that. We didn’t think that he would be back with us. We stared at him when he walked through the door, six inch high platform skinhead boots in cherry red with white lacing right up his legs, leg braces as always in glittering steel and dark red leather, bleachers shortened and rolled to just below his knees, a sharp clean head shave to show his chrome dome and his MA‑1 jacket unzipped to show his blinding white T–shirt. He looked perfect until you noticed the flabby right sleeve.

 

          – I dare say you dear clodhoppers are wondering where I have been lurking for the past weeks. Nowhere especially interesting, I can assure you. I have been in a secluded sanctuary where my wounds were tended to.

          – Cut the crap Knox and show us your stump!

          – Patience, you clod. I have been returned to you as an example of rash disregard of regulations. If, my dear friends, you play quick and fast with your safety, you may come quite a similar cropper to that which befell me. In fact, I have been instructed to show you my stump as a warning.

Knox struggled to get his arm and stump out of his MA‑1 and let his jacket drop to the floor.

          – Behold!

He lifted his stump in the air. It was covered in a flesh covered liner so we had no idea if it was scarred or whatever underneath. It just looked like a dick on his arm. Not something you’d want for yourself. We let him sit to one side. The guy who had come in to replace him was still supposed to work his station and gave him dirty looks from time to time. Knox simply looked away or readjusted the position of his stiff leg braces. He looked quite the cripple, to be honest, although there was nothing wrong with him apart from his stump. He was the brightest of all us skins, although no‑one would admit that. But you knew anyway.

 

 

Chapter IV: Duplication

 

Knox had expected to be transferred out of Attlee, probably to a more conventional prison where he would not need to work. As the days passed, he slowly came to the realisation that as soon as he was fitted with an artificial arm, he would be back at work. A simple setback like an amputation was not a reason to start taking it easy.

 

Leo found Knox to be willing to talk about his stump. Knox had originally just barely chopped his hand off but the doctors had lopped off more and made the end of the stump rounded. It looked like a big dick to be honest. Leo and Knox often sat together at mealtimes and Leo did little things for Knox who found certain things more difficult with one hand and a stump.

 

The clincher for Leo came when Knox turned up wearing his new arm. It was shiny black with a steel hook. It made Knox look really crippled. They had shown him how to use it but he wasn’t very good at it. Leo was obsessed with it. You could see the way he looked at Knox that he was jealous of it. The hook made Knox even more special in our little gang of skins. Leo began to plan a way to have his own little accident. Knox’s replacement disappeared at the end of the day never to be seen again and Knox was instructed to resume working on the trimmer alongside me.

 

It was probably for the best that Knox was forced to return to work. It certainly gave him a good reason to use his hook, to learn how to do the work without complaining about being disabled. I thought that he managed pretty well all things considered. There were one or two things which the hook simply couldn’t do and Knox stopped trying to do them. He asked me or someone else for help and so that’s what we did. I have to admit that I admired his determination to carry on without complaining. Knox and me were good on the trimmer. We got the work done and I think we respected each other.

 

Leo was hatching a scheme to lose his left hand. He was right‑handed like Knox but didn’t dare lose his right hand. The only trouble was that Leo rarely had a shift on the trimmer. His speciality, if you can call it that, was collating and checking section orders. But a few weeks later, he was instructed to change duties with Knox and Leo became my partner. For a few days.

 

Without my knowledge, Leo and Blake had researched the ancient mechanisms which kept the trimmer as safe as possible and had succeeded in disengaging the electrical circuit between the dead man’s pedals and the blade. It was the sort of thing which could quickly be spotted by any of us using the trimmer so Leo had to act fast. The next morning, just before lunch, Leo made his move. He deliberately knocked a half cut collate, dislodging the top dozen or so layers and instinctively reached in with his left hand to nudge them back into place. Being the senior and having some kind of responsibility for my co‑worker, I jumped across and reached across with both hands to pull Leo back. With neither of the dead man’s pedals depressed, it was impossible for the blade to operate. Leo struggled and fought against my efforts to pull his arm out of the machine. In the next split second, before I understood what was even happening, the blade came down. Leo lost his left hand, exactly as he had intended. I lost both of mine.

 

Chapter V: Amputation

 

It’s really strange to think back to the seconds after the accident. I don’t have any real memories. I only have my imagination. I can’t even remember if it was painful or not. I suppose the pain came later. Just like Knox, Leo and me were carted off to the medical section to be treated. The surgeons were annoyed that the same machine which had injured Knox had now caused two more inmates to lose hands. I don’t know whether they were angry at the disregard for safety or because it made more unnecessary work for them. They tidied our stumps and sewed them shut. No‑one made any suggestion about sewing our hands back on. I suppose they were thrown out with the rest of the rubbish.

 

At first, Leo and I did not miss our hands. We were together in the same room, looked after by the same staff who did everything for us—fed and watered us, helped us sit up and lie down again, wiped our arses, everything. We were being fed a selection of painkillers and medicines so everything seemed to float by us in a pleasant relaxed manner. We compared our bandaged stumps. Mine looked like they were quite long and about the same length. Leo’s single stump was much shorter. He would be lucky if he had much stump below his elbow. I was curious in an entertained sort of way to see my stumps naked. I think I knew they were going to be quite long and that they would be useful to me even without a pair of hooks although I didn’t expect to be lacing up any more thirty‑holers.

 

After the first week, the bandages were off and we were allowed a good look at our stumps for the first time. Leo was really depressed because he was left with just a round nub at his elbow and he had been told by a doctor that a conventional prosthesis or artificial arm was not on the cards for him. He would need a full‑length arm right up to his shoulder and he would be restricted in how much he could move it about. But it would have a hook at the end, so that cheered him up a bit. I was told that I would have good use of my naked stumps and might choose to wear a single or a pair of hooks in combination with a naked stump. From what I could make out, both my new hooks were going to be the same type as Knox wore and he loved his. I was over the worst, I thought. I was being trained for a profession and I was signed up for a two year course, not through my own choice, let it be said. There were twenty months left. In that time, I thought, I will learn to use my hooks and also a profession where I can actually use them. I thought being a trimmer might be a suitable job for me since I had no more arms to lose and to all intents and purposes it was all the same whether you pulled the collates about with a pair of hands or a fistful of sticks. A pair of hooks would do the job just fine.

 

 

 

Chapter VI: Rehabilitation

 

The guy whose job it was to make my artificial arms was the first bloke who really seemed to take a genuine interest in me since I had come to Attlee Barracks. His name is Trevor Clifton and he said I could call him Trevor. I said he could call me Grills. My dentures have attracted a lot of attention from the nurses who see to me. They’ve never seen a set with the front teeth chromed up like mine are.

          – Alright, Grills. Let’s get you set up with a pair of hooks to match your teeth. Take your T‑shirt off. Do you need any help?

          – No. I can do it.

He held both my stumps in his hands. I looked into his blue eyes, ringed with long dark eyelashes. He had a two day stubble, just enough to see that he could grow a decent moustache at least. He twisted my stumps around and felt the tips with his fingers.

          – Does this hurt?

He pressed with a finger and I shook my head. He looked serious and let go of my stump.

          –Alright Grills. I think we can fit you up with a pair of hooks. How are you getting on so far?

          – Not too bad so far. I’ve been practising writing again. The nurse tapes a felt tip pen to my stump and I write out the alphabet.

          – And can you read it?

          – I can. No‑one else can.

          – Ha! You should be a doctor. Alright. Here’s what I’m going to do.

Trevor described how he was going to cast my arms in plaster and use them to make moulds of my stumps. They in turn would be used to make sockets for my stumps. The hooks would fix onto the ends and bob’s your uncle.

 

Maybe it was because I was still under the care of the hospital section that I was so carefree. I regarded everything as a new stage in some kind of adventure which only half seemed to be happening to me. It was a side effect of the painkiller tablets. I wasn’t living a hallucination but the full impact of becoming seriously disabled had not dawned on me. I was still being helped with everything, my stumps looked OK and didn’t hurt unless I knocked them by accident and the immediate future looked much the same as it had done since before my accident. I was locked up as an offender and not free to go anywhere but at the same time I was being trained by the state to learn a trade so I could be of use to the community when I got out and could take care of myself. Of course, that applied more to the no‑gooders who came in with two hands and who left with two hands.

 

Chapter VII: Adaptation

 

As victims of circumstance, Knox, Leo and me formed a close clique. Leo and I had shrinkers on our fresh stumps to make them look better but otherwise we were pretty useless. Our hooks were being made but we might have to wait a few weeks for them. Knox was immediately the alpha in Attlee’s newest clique, that of men with no hands. Knox was always annoying but usually helpful and friendly in his own peculiar way.

          – How odd that serendipity should throw us together in such an unlikely fashion, dear friends. Who would suspect that such dreary environs might engender such exciting futures for us undeserving few?

Leo was not well educated. He had never read a book and his vocabulary was not up to much. I could usually get the gist of what Knox meant. He always showed off every time he opened his mouth but it was the latest style. If you can’t beat them with fists, beat them with your tongue. That was the new creed for rebellious youth and us skinheads could identify with that. We must have looked funny huddled together in a corner of the common room, arms stuffed into our MA‑1s to hide our stumps and listening to someone we could barely understand.

          – When will you be endowed with prostheses, Grills? Have you been entrusted with such enticing information?

          – No, I don’t know. They said a few weeks.

          – As may be the case. I consider myself fortunate in finding myself injured in the midst of a positive dearth, my friends. They were fighting over me for the chance to practise their prosthetery.

          – Is that a word, Knox?

          – They are all words, Grills. They become words by uttering them. If it is useful and you understand, then it is a word. Do you understand it, Grills?

          – Yeah.

          – Then it is a word. So in a month you will have your hooks. How I envy you! The first delicious confusion melding into comprehension. Then comes competence and later skill. How beautiful a sequence for young men such as us to experience it for ourselves. I have heard similar remarks from young fathers who care for their new offspring which I apply to myself. My new hook turned from something alien and unfamiliar to something pleasurable and part of myself. Just like a new baby. Yes! I feel that my hook is quite the equal of my missing hand and I anticipate that the same is in store for you. Especially you, dear Grills, with double the joy ahead.

          – Why do you say that, Knox? Joy. What joy is there is being a double amputee?

          – Don’t over‑estimate my knowledge. I cannot speak with surety but you will certainly experience joy in learning to operate your hooks. I know this.

I stared at him with my mouth open in confusion and he stared back at my chrome teeth. Perhaps he was right. I was frustrated at not being able to do anything for myself and the long wait for my first set of hooks seemed endless. It was true that it would be a relief to have something, anything, robust and useful on my stumps and on the way back to independence. Leo listened in to our conversation, his confused expression sometimes brightening with a smile when he understood something. Knox and I were both curious to see what kind of artificial arm he would get. I knew my pair would be the same as Knox’s arm. 

 

 

 

Chapter VIII: Adaptation

 

The long wait was over. I was summoned to the medical centre and fitted with my first artificial arms, the two black carbon sockets for my forearm stumps which I would wear every day for the rest of my life. They were linked to a canvas harness which stretched around my upper back. The lab assistant fiddled with the straps and loops until he was satisfied that they were as tight as they could be without cutting off my blood supply. The sockets were already tight on my stumps. With a shrinker and an extra cotton sock, my lower arms were made completely rigid and artificial. Best of all were the two steel hooks. I was told they were standard hooks and I should get familiar with using them before I could be allowed different ones. They showed me how to twist my arm with the hook against a surface to make it point in another direction. That way I could hold a glass of water first with the hook pointing up and then twist the hook around so it lay flat and could turn the page of a book. It would be no good if it was still pointing up. It was something I had never thought about before. My fingers had automatically known how to grab hold of something. Now I had to plan ahead. Hundreds of times during the first week I was frustrated by reaching out with my hook to do something only to realise that once again I had to change its position first. I discovered how to use the so‑called wrist connector for the job and after a few days, the noise of my hooks clattering against each other as I impatiently twisted one or the other into a new position became a familiar sound which was closely linked to me and my presence. Knox said he knew where I was by listening out for the music of steel on steel. I liked the sound of that. Sometimes Knox said something which actually made sense. Strangely enough, the frustration I had felt at first melted away as I remembered to adapt my hooks in advance and thought for a second about how I would need to use them. After a few weeks, I knew I was going to be a champion hook user. It would take a bit more time but I was no longer depressed by being disabled because I was not disabled as long as I had my hooks.

 

Leo was not faring so well. He was surprised to discover that his arm had no use for the nub at his elbow. Instead, the upper arm socket was long enough to cover his whole arm and stump. It was rigid from his shoulder down. The forearm was a separate piece which he could control only by moving his shoulder. If he wanted to open his hook, first he had to move his forearm socket to the right height with his shoulder, lock it in position by jerking his whole artificial arm out sideways and then moving his shoulder again to open his hook. So it was twice as much work to operate as my hooks and Leo was not happy about it. He kept saying that it was only his left arm and he would rather not use it but the medical team had given instructions to our warders to report if Leo was seen without his artificial arm. If he was caught too many times, he would be incarcerated somewhere else and forced to undergo rehabilitation there. So after his first warning, he bucked his ideas up and slowly worked out the logic he needed to work his hook. It was an impressive sight when Leo was working back on the collating team, twisting and jerking his body to lock and unlock his forearm, stretching and relaxing to open his hook. And I thought I was an impressive sight too in a white T‑shirt with a pair of shiny black carbon arms and hooks that I had never seen on anyone else. I felt special and enjoyed people’s stares in the common room and canteen. I was rubbish at using a knife and fork so I just used the hooks instead. I cleaned them after by holding them under hot running water or in the steam jet of an espresso machine.

 

Chapter IX: Exploitation

 

A new head warder arrived and set about putting his own footprint on the proceedings. The ordinary warders were miffed at not being allowed to work extra hours. They needed a bit of overtime to make up for their lousy wages. A few days after arriving, he toured the print room and was introduced to the inmates, including the three amputees who had been injured on the premises and rehabilitated so their reconditioning for the outside world could continue. The new chief was tall and swarthy. He had a five day stubble and a thick army‑style moustache. His head was shaved and he wore thin skintight gloves on his hands. He was speechless when he was introduced to us amputees. He staggered and seemed to lose his balance. It was plain to see his penis becoming erect. He had shoved it down the left trouser leg of his uniform trousers which were easily two sizes too small for him and made it obvious anyway. He regained his balance and squirmed to accommodate his growing erection. He said nothing but continued to stare back and forth between me, Leo and Knox. He had noticed me looking at his erection and finally spoke.

          – I want to speak with you after you finish your shift. Come to my office and knock.

          – Yes sir.

          – Good boy.

His eyes flashed wide when he saw my chrome teeth.

 

It was gone seven when we were told we could knock off and go for dinner. The last job had come through half an hour earlier and we were just standing around waiting to be released. The warders were usually friendlier and let us go as soon as we’d finished the last job but the new boss had given instructions that the official timetable needed to be observed. Even the canteen staff were miffed because the last people to arrive were nearly an hour later than before and they still had to hang around to clear up.

 

I was eating with Knox and Blake who cut our food into bite sized pieces so I could use my hooks to eat.

          – Do you intend to visit the superintendent looking like that, you poor clodhopper?

          – What’s the matter with me?

          – Dear boy, you have the most plebeian stain across the front of your shirt. I think you should definitely change your shirt and put on a jacket before you ruin the super’s evening with your shoddy surliness.

          – I am not surly.

          – Not yet perhaps. Ask one of the other clodhoppers to polish your boots for you, too. I know a man like our new super will thrill to see how his crippled little conquest pays attention to his appearance. It demonstrates respect, my dear man.

I stared at Knox with hatred in my eyes but despite myself, I did as he had suggested. He was right, after all. I tapped on the super’s office door half an hour later wearing a fresh white T‑shirt, my bleachers and thirty‑holers which Blake had brightened up with his cherry Kiwi. My olive green MA‑1 completed my skinhead uniform and almost hid my hooks. The super opened the door and gestured me inside.

          – Sit. Take your jacket off. I want to see your arms.

I did as he asked and watched him inspecting my artificial arms. I was used to seeing other people doing double takes and staring for a moment or two but no‑one had ever spent as long as the super going over them.

          – How long have you been an amputee, boy?

          – About four months, sir.

          – You were injured here, is that correct?

          – Yes sir. My arms were caught under the trimming machine.

          – Unfortunate for you. You will call me Sir. I will call you Boy. Do you understand?

          – Yes sir.

          – Good. What happened to your teeth?

          – I have no teeth, sir. These are dentures, sir.

          – And your dentures have chrome teeth?

          – Yes sir.

          – Hmm. Interesting. Tell me, Boy. Was your amputation an accident or did you plan for it?

          – Mine was an accident, sir.

          – Am I to deduce then that the others were not accidents?

I was not certain what I could tell the man which would not cause trouble for Leo or Knox.

          – I don’t know, sir.

          – Don’t lie to me! Of course you know. They are your friends. I think you are collaborators who wanted to skive off work and therefore became amputees by design. Is that not the case, boy?

          – Sir, mine was an accident. The safety switch was broken. I was trying to rescue Leo, sir, but the blade came down and cut my hands off.

          – How did that make you feel?

          – Do you mean losing my hands, sir?’

          – Of course I do!

          – I was sad at first, sir but then when I got my hooks I started to learn how I could be independent again, sir.

          – And you started to like your stumps and hooks, am I right?

I stared at his face, which was eager and excited. I could smell his smegma through his trousers. He had another big erection, although I could not see it.

          – Yes sir. I like them.

          – You like them now. You’ll learn to love them later. Tell me! You identify as a skinhead, is that correct?

          – Yes sir.

          – I wish you to accompany me to a meeting of leathermen next Saturday evening. You will accompany me as my boy. You will not speak to anyone unless you are spoken to first. You will wear what you are wearing now. I want you to ensure that your artificial arms and hooks are fully visible. You won’t mind if you are questioned by any other leatherman nor will you object to requests or outright demands to demonstrate your hooks. Do you understand, boy?

          – Yes sir.

I was old enough to realise what was happening. The super was a gay leatherman with an amputee fetish and I was to be his latest conquest. The fact that I had absolutely no choice in the matter seemed not to be important. But I was going out next Saturday night for the first time in nearly a year.

 

Chapter X: Acclimatisation

 

I found out later that the super worked on my behalf to allow me to spend time outside Attlee under his supervision, changing the conditions of my arrest. I would still be spending most of my time at Attlee in the print shop but quite often, I would be summoned to his office when he was ready to leave. Sometimes the call came in the middle of dinner. One of the warders would walk over and gesture at me to leave the table and go with him.

 

Sir rode a big American motorbike. I soon worked out that it was so he could wear as much black leather as possible on a daily basis. The first time I ever rode on a motorbike was the Friday evening before the leatherman meeting Sir had mentioned earlier in the week. I was still wearing my work clothes—normal jeans, normal trainers, normal T‑shirt. I tapped on Sir’s door with a hook and he opened it immediately, as if he was standing behind the door waiting for me.

          – Go get your jacket and anything you need this evening.

          – What do you mean, sir?

          – I mean medicine, skin care, stump care, whatever you need.

          – Oh. Yes, sir.

          – Go on!

I half walked half ran and shoved my hooks into my MA‑1. The big zipper was easy to close with my hooks. I loved the way the MA‑1 was so well designed that even a man with double hooks could wear it and benefit from it. I ran back and Sir gave me my motorcycle helmet.

          – This is yours, boy. Take it back to your dormitory afterwards and bring it with you always when I call for you.

          – Thank you very much, sir. Er, I’m not sure I can put it on with my hooks, sir.

          – Find a way. Do you think you are the first bilateral amputee to ride on a bike? If all else fails, ask a friend to help. Is it so difficult to ask for help?

          – No sir. My friends help me all the time.

The helmet was brand new. It was metallic dark green with orange pin stripes and the visor covered my face completely. There was a lever at the side to lower the sun visor but it was far too stiff and slippery for me to operate. The whole helmet was slippery. I had to cushion it between my hooks but in the end, I put it upside down onto a chair and knelt down to dip my head into it. Once it was halfway on, I could use my hooks to nudge it down further. Sir told me to face him and fixed the clip under my chin. I could see he was pleased with the way I looked. He gripped my helmet between his hands and stared into my eyes before closing the lever with his thumb and bringing a shiny perspex visor down to hide my face. He ordered me to follow him.

 

He walked in front of me, down to the staff car park. He got on his bike first and I had to hold onto him to squeeze in behind him. He made very sure my hooks were around his waist and that I was holding on. I was terrified. I could see nothing out the tiny square window in the visor, my face was squashed by the helmet’s padding and I missed having hands more than at any time since my accident. I felt really unsafe and then sir started his bike with a terrific roar and we chugged slowly across the car park, up the exit ramp, through the security gate where my ID pass indicated green and out onto the main road. Sir lived in a kind of Victorian house in a little village halfway between the nearest town and the motorway. It was an old vicarage which had been renovated and converted. He parked outside and I climbed off the bike, waiting for further instruction on what to do and how to behave. I had a strange feeling of giving up all responsibility for what happened. There was a kind of peace and I could feel it in my belly. I was ready for anything. I felt no fear.

 

Sir led me into his cottage. The ground floor was little more than a hallway leading to a kitchen and some stairs. We climbed up and upstairs was a big living room with another room off to the side. It was sir’s bedroom.

          – Take your jacket off and then remove your arms. I want to see your stumps. When you are with me, I want to see your stumps at all times except after I give you permission to wear your hooks. Do you understand, boy?

          –Yes sir.

I did as I was told. Sir watched me shuck my hooks. I let them drop to the floor. I removed the cotton socks and liners between my legs and let them fall too. My stumps felt the cool air in the room and the freedom from being encased in the sockets after fourteen hours. Sir came and collected my stuff and put them on his dining table.

          – Can you use your stumps for anything, boy?

          – I can hold things between them, sir. But not for much. Sir, I have been an amputee for only a short while. I don’t know everything about how to use my stumps especially now that I have my hooks, sir.

          – I know that, boy. While you are here, you will learn to use your stumps. Forget your hooks. Perhaps we shall have a new set made for you, a pair of old fashioned hooks which don’t open and close. Or perhaps a set of ball and ring extensions would suit you better. We shall see. I intend to play with your disability, boy, and I hope that you will benefit from the experience. You will never have hands again but you mustn’t think the first pair of hooks you received from the clinic is the only possible way to flaunt your stumps.

          – No sir. What sort of hooks do you mean, sir? I don’t understand.

          – I mean a large iron hook. Use your imagination, boy.

          – Yes sir.

 

Sir made me sit on a tall dining chair facing him. He sat in a leather armchair and stared at my stumps. He asked me to change their position so he could see them from different angles. I was happy they had been sewn closed in such a way that they looked more or less the same from all directions. They are padded and the tips are rounded like the end of a finger. We sat for about half an hour until sir asked if I was hungry. I said I was and he told me to follow him downstairs into his kitchen. He had some rice and chicken ready. He warmed it up in the micro and fed it to me, like I was a little baby. My stumps twitched as I tried to help but it was useless. My hands were gone. So were my hooks. I began to see what sir meant by me being allowed only my stumps while there were only the two of us.

 

There were a few hours until bedtime. Sir allowed me to sit beside him on a long leather sofa and asked me all sorts of questions about my schooldays, sports, travel, why I wanted to be a skinhead, why I wanted to be a double amputee. I told him again that it was an accident but I don’t think he believed me. He said he had known men do even worse things to themselves in an attempt to skive off doing work. He said he didn’t think having two hooks was much of a disability. I could still do some things after my own fashion, he said. He enjoyed seeing stumps, that was the attraction for him. He also said he thought I had potential to be a handsome leatherman if I wanted to make the transition from skinhead to leatherman uniform. When he said it like that, I began to understand that it was really only a fashion style. Being a skin didn’t really mean anything like it used to. He asked me what size boots I wore and was disappointed that I had such small feet. His boots were three sizes bigger. He said he would have allowed me to accompany him to the leather club wearing a pair of his boots but I would have to go wearing my trainers instead. I wished I had someone to help me put my thirty‑holers on but I didn’t believe sir would want that.

 

He asked me if I wanted to sleep in a separate bed or if I would agree to sleep with him in his. He had a big bed. He said it was called queen size and made a joke about which of us was the queen. It was the first joke he had made all evening, even though it was not funny. I smiled anyway and he stared at my chrome teeth.

 

I knew sir was gay. I was expecting him to rape me or something but he respected me. In the morning when I woke, I had moved much closer to him during the night. I could smell his old after‑shave and deodorant. My left stump was on his chest. He woke up when I moved around and cooler air touched his body.

          – Did you sleep well, boy?

          – Yes sir. Good morning, sir.

          – Good morning, boy.

 

He helped me dress and rubbed my face and stumps with a warm cloth. He felt my scalp and the prickly beginnings of hair growth. He was gentle and I was relieved he had not fucked my arse in the night. I began to trust him. I suppose it was part of his plan to dominate me so I had to rely on him. He was the top manager at Attlee. He could make my life hell on earth just by ordering the warders to make sure I obeyed every little rule and regulation. Instead he was asking me if I ate toast and if I wanted jam or marmalade. He wore only boxers and a T‑shirt. I looked at the thick mess of dark hair along his arms as far as his knuckles, mixed with grey hairs. He looked very masculine. I could see his erect nipples poking through his T‑shirt and his hefty arms. Then I saw my own hairless stumps and felt so worthless. The worst thing of all was that he thought I wanted stumps. That I had caused the accident which cut my hands off.

 

Chapter XI: Adaptation

 

We had the entire day and evening together before we had to leave for the leather club. After the breakfast things were cleared away, we went back to the seats in the other room and he began to question me. First of all he wanted to know why I had been so naïve to try to shoplift food when everywhere was covered by cctv. I said I could sell the chicken to a kebab shop for enough money for the weekend. He asked if I understood I was bound to be caught and I said I did. Would I do it again? No I would not. I rubbed the tips of my stumps together slowly. Sir stared.

          – I don’t think I could steal anything now, sir. Because everyone stares at me when they see my hooks, sir. I wouldn’t have the chance to put anything inside my jacket without someone seeing, sir.

          – Perhaps that is one good thing to come from your amputations, boy. They have made an honest man of you. Do you agree, boy?

          – Yes sir. I was never a serious thief though, sir. I only did it when I thought I could get away with it, sir.

          – Alright. I believe you have learned your lesson. Did you sever your hands as a form of atonement, do you think?

          – I’m not sure what you mean, sir. But I didn’t sever my hands on purpose, sir.

          – So you keep telling me and yet there are three amputees in your immediate group of inmates. Do you expect me to believe it is sheer coincidence, boy?

          – No sir. I don’t know, sir. I didn’t want stumps. Honest, sir.

I looked at the remains of my forearms and the pink scars across the tips. It was true that I hadn’t wanted stumps but now I had them, I sort of liked them. They looked alright and they hardly ever hurt. And when I was wearing my hooks, I could do just about everything I wanted to. I looked around for my artificial arms. I thought they had been on the dining table but it was empty.

          – Where are my arms, sir?

          – They are in a safe place, boy. Don’t fret about it. Now tell me about being a skinhead. How do you manage to shave your scalp? Does one of your friends do it for you?

          – Yes, sir. My friend Blake likes shaving other people’s heads, sir.

          – Perhaps he might enjoy shaving mine. What do you think, boy? Would Blake shave me when he shaves you?

          – I’m sure he would, sir. Shall I ask him?

          – No need, boy. I shall tell him. But how important is it to be a skinhead?

          – It’s difficult to explain, sir. I think it’s because we like the clothes and the style. There’s not much of a skinhead scene like there used to be.

          – No, it is very much a fringe scenario these days. What do you think about leather jackets and trousers, boy? Are they as tempting as your splotchy jeans and green jackets?

          – Leather looks very good, sir, but it is so expensive. There is no way me and my friends could afford to buy leather stuff, sir. But it would be nice to have a proper leather jacket with lots of zips and straps, sir.

          – I’m sure it would. Do you think you could dress yourself in a leather motorcycle jacket with your stumps, boy?

          – I’m not sure, sir. I hope so.

          – We shall see.

 

Sir walked away and disappeared into his bedroom. There was a walk‑in closet at the back. I could hear him sliding coat hangers along a steel rail, backwards and forwards. Then footsteps. He held out a black leather motorcycle jacket and nodded for me to slip my stumps into the sleeves. I was excited and surprised. The leather was cool on my stumps. It was stiff. The jacket was not fashionable in any way. It looked very basic. It had three zipper pockets on the front and the main zipper up the front was slanted to one side. Sir fiddled with the epaulets at the shoulders to make them even and straightened the collar around the back of my neck. He pulled it up so it framed my head. It felt like I was encased in some kind of container. The sleeves ended in empty black holes where a man’s wrists and hands should be.

 

          – Walk about and swing your arms. Your stumps. Swing your stumps.

I walked back and forth a few times. Sir looked on, rubbing his four day stubble with his thumb.

          – Is that comfortable to wear, boy?

          – Yes sir. I like the feel of the silk lining, sir. It feels really nice on my stumps, sir.

          – Good. You can keep that jacket on for as long as you want. Now I want to discuss your rehabilitation and what arrangements you have made.

I was not sure I had made any arrangements. I had been amputated and stitched up, then I was given my hooks and sent back to Attlee to learn how to use them on the job without anyone’s help. I explained all this to sir. He asked if I would like a second set of arms with different hooks. The second set would have shorter forearms to make it easier for me to eat or shave and hold a drink. It sounded like a good idea.

          – Yes sir! A second pair of hooks would be really useful, sir.

          – Good. Give me the name of your prosthetist. I need to have a word with him first before he gets ahead of himself.

I gave sir Trevor Clifton’s name and phone number. He was satisfied with what I had told him and shortly after, he brought me my hooks. He watched me shrug my way out of his leather jacket, shrug my way into my hooks and back into the jacket. This time my hooks poked out the sleeves and looked very smart. Sir stood close by watching me struggle with his crotch bulging.

 

Chapter XII: Induction

 

At nine o’clock, sir ordered me to put my shoes and motorcycle helmet on. It was time to leave for the leatherman club. I would be riding on sir’s motorbike again, but this time I would be better dressed for it. He let me wear the leather jacket and I must admit that I enjoyed feeling encased inside it. The stiff leather sleeves made it more difficult for me to move my hooks but it was not much of a problem. I wrapped my hooks around sir’s waist and held on as well as I could. Sir told me to relax and not to try to lean into the curves. The bike would do all the leaning for us. It was heavier and more powerful than we were and we had to adapt to it rather than the other way around. I nodded to show I understood and sir held my helmet between his gloved hands looking at my face which was almost hidden before he pushed the lever which lowered the sunvisor, hiding my face completely.

 

We drove through almost empty streets. At this time of night on a Saturday, most people were already wherever they wanted to be, maybe even finishing up their evenings. We were just starting ours. We rode around the east circular for half an hour and pulled in to a side road running parallel with an old railway viaduct. The other side had a derelict site boarded off with a fence covered in graffiti. Sir took no notice of any of that. Halfway along the street was a row of big motorbikes parked up outside what looked like the entrance to a mechanic’s workshop or something. There was a man dressed in black leather standing outside the door smoking the biggest pipe I had ever seen. Sir parked up and we walked across to the entrance.

          – Evenin’, Quentin. Good to see you. Entry for two, is it?

          – Just put me avec, Jordan. I’m not paying full entrance for the boy’s first visit.

          – Alright.

Sir turned to me and spoke sharply.

          – Remember what I told you. You don’t speak unless spoken to and you call everyone sir. Do you understand?

          – Yes sir.

          – Good.

The doorman had put his enormous pipe back into his mouth and heaved the door open after opening it with a key. I still had the sunshade visor down inside my helmet and I could hardly see anything inside. It was almost completely dark. I could make out a row of lights at the back which we walked towards. Sir kept a grip on my upper arm. I had the feeling that other people were around us, talking quietly and making comment as we passed through them. I guessed what they were talking about. Sir’s new conquest. That’s what I was. I’m guessing that everyone knew what sir’s favourite fetish was and now he had an anonymous guy in a helmet and leather jacket with hooks. Where had he succeeded in finding such a specimen? These were the sorts of questions his friends and fellow leather fetish men asked him. I discovered that his name was Quentin Weston by listening through my helmet. Sir wanted to keep my identity secret. He made no sign of removing my helmet. He had a drink he bought from the leather barman but he never asked me if I wanted a drink. I could make out other people who approached us to speak with sir. Some of them were smoking pipes or big cigars but none of them had a pipe as impressive as the doorman’s one. They mostly made sexual comments about my stumps, although I was wearing my jacket and hooks which they could barely see. Many of sir’s friends were willing to pay good money to see me fucking sir’s arsehole with a stump. Sir used language which I had not heard from him before. For a prison officer, he used very clean language, no swearing. But with his leather colleagues, he spoke more freely. It showed me a different side of his nature, although he was still the alpha. Only the older leathermen came close. They smoked the fattest cigars and the biggest pipes, the most leather with the biggest and longest beards. I thought they looked ridiculous. I was used to the sharp style of a skinhead. I thought it looked silly to have a hat like a nazi, a jacket like a motorcyclist, gauntlets like a jouster, leather trousers stuffed into tall leather boots like on a telephone line repairman. I looked around while sir was talking with the oldies. Some of the young leathermen looked much more like the sort of friend I might like to have. They had short cropped hair and leather gear which suited their style. They looked a lot better than the old guys with their smelly cigars. There were so many of them, all smoking the same brand. You could tell they had lit up after they had got to the club. They didn’t dare smoke their fat cigar in public. As a man who wore hooks which were the first thing everyone who saw me would notice, I thought their shyness about being seen smoking was very unmanly.

 

I don’t understand why sir took me to the leatherman club. Perhaps he didn’t trust me enough to leave me in his home alone. We got back after two o’clock in the morning. Sir asked if I was sleepy and I said no. I was too excited by everything I had seen and the things I had been asked by his friends at the club. He said he was very impressed by the way I had behaved. I had kept my anonymity, he said, so no‑one would actually know who I was or recognise me. I thought it would be fairly obvious if any of the leathermen saw me on the street that they would know it was me but I did not dare contradict sir. I was happy to have learned his real name but I kept it a secret like some kind of power I held over him. Quentin Weston. Once again we were sitting opposite each other in his living room in our chairs. He carefully lifted my helmet off, and told me to stand up so he could take my (or his) jacket off. He took them off to his closet and came back with a half bottle of rum. He swung it back and forth like some prize with a grin. He had two shot glasses in his other hand. He put them on the dining table and set about removing my hooks. Moments later he was offering me a shot glass of rum to grip between my stumps. I was just about able to bring the edge of the glass to my lips. Sir watched me struggling to keep the glass upright.

          – Good boy. You have been a good boy all evening. My friends are impressed with you. We’ll have a drink or two since neither of us is sleepy and we’ll see when we feel like going to bed. Tomorrow is Sunday so we can sleep in. Your health!

 

He watched me bring the tiny glass closer to my face. I really needed a bit more stump to reach my lips but sir was satisfied with my efforts and poured me another shot. He said I could drink it more slowly. He had seen what he wanted to see. I had no idea what he meant. He asked me if I wanted to spend Sunday with him or if I wanted to go back to see my friends in Attlee. When I think of how frightened I was of being taken somewhere completely unknown by someone who looked like a pervert and me being disabled, I was surprised to find myself having to think again. Now I had spent time with sir who had treated me fairly and respectfully. He had shown interest in my stumps not only because he found them sexy but because he wanted to know if a new pair of arms would be better for me. I had slept in his bed and he had not hurt me. I had no doubt at all that he was my father figure but I didn’t fear him. I had begun to respect him.

 

Chapter XIII: Reacclimatisation

 

I stayed until quite late. I did not wear my hooks until it was almost time to return to Attlee. Sir spent a lot of time studying the artificial arms before he handed them over to me. I knew they probably gave him an erection but there was something else about the way he handled them that looked like he was trying to learn how they worked. He held my stump socks for me and watched me turn from a helpless disabled cripple into an active bilateral amputee with artificial arms and hooks. He said nothing about them but I had already begun to suspect that he was planning something. He had mentioned immobile cast iron hooks like they had in the days before they invented hooks which opened, like mine.

 

He took me back to Attlee and escorted me past security, making me wait for him while he had a few serious words with security guards. Then it was my turn. He gripped my upper arm and ordered me not to talk about my weekend. I was to say it was confidential and if anyone wanted to know anything more, they should ask the superintendent himself. I was happy with that. I promised him not to blab about how he had fed me and held my mug of tea or dried me after I showered with him or how we shared a bed and slept together because he loved to touch my stumps. Or his big erections which he had all the time and his smelly trousers splattered with precum and dried spunk.

 

To make sure I didn’t chatter with my mates, they were all moved to the binding department. It was only me left with the trimmer. I had three new workmates, none of them skinheads, and they had been told that I was their foreman and they should listen to me and learn. Sir had arranged it as soon as he arrived at work on Monday morning. It was only later that I discovered that I was a foreman. It was something which I felt proud of because I was responsible for teaching the new boys the job and making sure they didn’t hurt themselves on the machinery. It was ironic in a way. I didn’t know it at the time but my every move was being studied closely.

 

But suddenly I felt more like an adult. Sir had helped show me that I could have grown‑up admirers and friends who liked me despite me being so crippled. They liked me because I was crippled. I had never thought of that before. And now I had three new workmates who looked up to me and who could ask me things if they didn’t understand and it was my responsibility to help them, although I was sometimes fairly helpless myself. It all helped me to think of myself in a different way and I was open to new changes in my life. I remembered what sir had asked about being a pretend skinhead when I wasn’t really a genuine skinhead, especially not now when I couldn’t even tie my bootlaces by myself. The leather clothes sir had showed me, his jackets and leather trousers and big heavy manly boots were more to my liking with the advantage that they suited a cripple without hands. I was quite sure I would be able to wear leather clothes with far less trouble than skinhead gear. But it was all very expensive and I had no money. I could only hope that I could earn enough after I left Attlee, maybe in a printing house if there was one in town, so I could save up for a leather jacket. I liked the one I had worn to sir’s leatherclub, although the sleeves were so stiff I could hardly move my hooks.

 

My new mates soon learned the job. It wasn’t difficult, after all, but there were things about it which you had to keep in mind. It was easy to make a mistake and then you could lose hundreds of pages of customer’s work. In fact, the last time we had lost a work run was the day I lost my hands. I think the boss was more concerned about the paper wastage than my injury. That was before sir took over.

 

I did not see sir again for over a week. I expected him to tell me to call on him again on Friday evening but I spent the weekend with my mates as usual. And the next weekend. Then sir turned up quite unexpected with a group of other greying officials who toured the printing works. Sir introduced me as the foreman, a capable young offender who was repaying his debt to society by continuing to operate the very same machine which had maimed him, meaning me. I helpfully held out my hooks at ninety degrees so everyone could see how the trimmer machine had maimed me. I caught a brief smile and a wink as sir guided his guests towards the binding department.

 

I had to wait nearly a month until the call I was expecting came. I was to report to the superintendent’s office after hours on Friday afternoon with a small bag containing everything I might need during two day’s absence. I was sure it must mean another weekend without hooks, only stumps, except for when we were at the leatherclub. I had my denture cleanser, stump socks and the like as well as clean T‑shirts and socks. I turned up soon after six, after the shop had been swept and the machinery oiled. Sir asked me for a report on how our department was doing and I tried to think of something to say. He said he wanted me to give more thought into how our department was run and to think about how to make a weekly written report. I automatically lifted my hooks as if to say “with these?” but sir just looked at me sternly.

          – You can write it or type it or dictate it to someone else, boy. Just get it done. I want to see a weekly report starting the week after next. On that Monday, I want to see a report on the previous week, which is next week.

          – I understand, sir.

          – Good. Now let’s get out of here. I have something for you at home which may interest you.

          – What is it, sir?

          – Wait and find out, boy! Don’t be so impatient.

 

My helmet had been in his office for four weeks. Now I could wear it again. Sir held it over my head until my sockets got a grip on it and I could lower it over my face. The visor was already down but the sun visor was up. I wondered if sir would close it and he did. Outside was already dark and I could hardly see anything other than streetlights. I tried to follow the route but to be honest, I had no idea where sir’s little vicarage was.

 

As before, I was ordered to remove my hooks immediately so sir could examine my stumps. This time, he seemed not to be ogling them to get an erection. I had seen a similar look in my doctor’s face when he was inspecting my fresh stumps. Sir went to his bedroom. I guessed he was going to fetch the leather jacket I had worn. Instead, he had a brown cardboard box which he put on the dining table.

          – This is for you, boy. When you are with me, you will wear these all the time except when we sleep. If you feel embarrassed about their appearance, you may leave them here.

I looked at sir to see what he could mean. I didn’t even know what could be in the box. He gestured to me to open it and stood close by, watching my expression. The lid was loose and came off in my stumps. Inside was a gleaming pair of artificial arms, very much like the pair sir had hidden away somewhere in his closet.

          – Put them on, boy. There’s a fresh pair of stump socks for you.

 

My stumps are about average, I suppose. Although the trimmer caught my arms a short way above my wrists, the doctors had to cut away more of my forearms to get some loose flesh to sew into the nice rounded shape my stumps are. So my stumps are really about half as long as my forearms used to be. When I looked closer, I saw that the sockets on the new artificial arms were also only about half as long as the others. There was a curved steel cap at the end of each arm with the same kind of half inch screw hole in it. My old hooks would screw into it with no problem. The rounded steel cap looked nicer than the flat steel plate on my first pair of arms.

          – Try them on, boy. You’ll notice they’re shorter than your present pair.

The sockets were missing their hooks. I stared in surprise at the amazing sight of the new sockets which stopped halfway down my arms. Even with the extra length from hooks, my new artificial arms would be much shorter than either my real ones or my first pair of artificial ones. I waved the short sockets about, trying to turn them this way and that to get a better look at them. The control cables swung around and nearly hit me in the eye.

          – Now you have to choose what hooks you want to wear, boy.

Sir emptied his pockets. From the left pocket, he pulled out a pair of angular twisted hooks he said were work hooks. From the right, he took a pair of symmetrical hooks. They were like my ordinary everyday hooks except they were evenly curved and obviously designed for holding a mug or a glass. I looked at the amazing variety of hooks in front of me.

          – Wear a work hook on the left and a symmetrical on the right. If you don’t like them I’ll help you change them later. Stand still and I’ll attach your hooks.

 

Shortly I was equipped with two artificial arms and two hooks, just like I had been two hours before. Sir had gripped my short sockets firmly and linked the control cables just right. But now my hooks were different shapes and they didn’t even go as far as where my wrists used to be. They were short little arms and I felt more crippled than ever before. The work hook was heavy and ugly and too close to me. I tried to stretch my arms out because I felt if I must be able to. No‑one had such short arms. There was nothing to stretch. I was an amputee.

 

Sir watched my reactions to the prostheses he had ordered to be manufactured at express speed. All my measurements were with my doctor already. He only had to make sockets half the length of the old ones. The symmetrical hook on the right looked OK though. It opened up in exactly the right way so I could lift anything like a cup or mug or glass. And I also realised that at last I had a hook which would be perfect for wanking. It was curved in just the right way and there were no sharp edges anywhere. But I would never reach my cock with it, not on these arms. I was not even able to open my flies with these hooks. Sir must have planned it. I know he enjoyed helping me in the toilet. He was gentle and careful and patient but it was obvious that he wanted to be in control even when I pissed.

 

He let me wear the hooks until bedtime at one o’clock on Saturday morning. We sat together semi‑naked on his lumpy leather sofa, me with my worker’s hook resting on sir’s thigh and his hairy right arm around my shoulder where I still had a bit of naked skin I could feel him with. My big carbon cuffs carrying the straps and cabling got in the way although I loved to see how much they hid what was left of my arms. It was almost as if all my arms were artificial instead of just the lower bits beyond my elbows. Now all I had there were two very short forearms with hooks and I was excited at how masculine and powerful they made me feel. I couldn’t understand. Sir pulled me to him that night and I had to scrabble around, tangling in his chest hair but always careful not to touch his face with my stumps.

 

It felt so strange to be allowed to wear hooks immediately after we woke up. Sir asked what hooks I wanted to use. Now I had a choice of three. I asked if I could wear my original pair because I was used to them and I had to get used to my new short arms.

          – I understand and I approve. I have been impressed with you before, boy. You seem to have a well developed sense for analytics. You have a logical mind. But that is by the bye. We will be visiting the leathermen’s club again this evening, boy. You have the choice of accompanying me wearing your short arms or staying here alone until I return if you are embarrassed to be seen as a cripple. Which would you prefer?

          – I would much rather come with you again sir. I am sorry that I don’t have leather clothes of my own, sir.

          – Don’t worry yourself with such matters, boy. You are still a young man. No‑one expects you to afford expensive clothes. I know from my research that your skinhead tribe considers it a great achievement to buy a pair of tall lace‑up boots, the more holes the better. Is that correct, boy?

          – Er, yes sir. It’s every skin’s greatest aim to get a pair of knee‑high boots, sir, even though it takes hours to lace them up.

          – I have heard that many skinheads take them off only once or twice a month. Is that true, do you know?

          – I don’t know, sir. I have heard the same. I can imagine that some skins sleep with their boots on, sir.

          – Perhaps they have hooks instead of fingers, boy. Would you take your boots off every evening, boy?

I could not help myself. I laughed at the idea. I lifted my short hooks which could hardly reach my dick into the air and spluttered my response. For the first time ever, sir laughed along with me. I felt we could be genuine mates, sleeping together, wanking together, getting horny together. Well, sir was horny. He had the erections, I had the stumps.

 

It was strange at first getting used to artificial arms all over again. The difference was this time I knew how to use them but I had to get much closer than ever before to anything I wanted to pick up or touch. The funny thing was that the arms somehow didn’t seem natural, even though they were artificial arms anyway. It’s hard to explain. Even though they were artificial arms with hooks, you would expect them to be at least the same length as the ones you had lost. But these were doubly artificial. They were not only rigid and unfeeling, they were also ridiculous because they were so short. Sir couldn’t keep his eyes off me. He had a big erection all morning and I could see precum soaking through his trouser thighs making it shiny.

 

But the strange thing was that I seemed to suddenly get the idea behind having really short hooks. I could use them more comfortably. They were easier to open with less force but closed just as tight. I also began to like the look of being so unusual. If I bent forward, I could reach as far as my fly zipper so sir didn’t have to see to me when I needed a piss. The work hook was definitely not the sort of thing to use for pissing but the symmetrical one was even better than my original ones. I thought maybe it would be better to ask sir to give me a symmetrical one before we went out.

 

Sir had a snooze in the afternoon and although I wasn’t really sleepy, I let myself nod off for a few minutes. I snapped awake as soon as I heard sir moving about. I wasn’t sure if I had his permission to sleep during the daytime. It seemed such a strange thing to do. Sir brought me my shoes and the leather motorbike jacket I had worn last month.

          – Try it on, boy. Let’s see what your hooks look like in it.

I thought it was a strange thing to say. They would definitely disappear up the sleeves somewhere. But no! Sir had had the jacket sleeves altered. They were the exact correct length to display my short hooks and the steel wrist connectors. Shortened leather sleeves to suit my short arms and my new curved hooks.

          – This is wonderful, sir. Thank you, sir. I definitely want to show the leathermen tonight, sir.

          – I thought you would. Tonight I want you to talk to some of the young members, boy. Remember to be polite and to respect them.

          – Yes sir. I will. I hope they will talk with me even though I am disabled, sir.

          – I hope so too, boy. It may interest you to know that some of the leathermen are amputees, but you are the only boy there with hooks.

          – I did not know there are other amputees, sir.

          – Of course not. It’s not the sort of thing most men want to advertise. You, boy, have no choice. Your hooks are always obvious everywhere you go. Everyone can immediately see that you are a disabled amputee.

Sir was working himself up again to another big erection. He was moving his legs slightly to get his big penis deeper along his thigh.

          – This is why I feel you should be additionally handicapped with extra short arms, boy. I want you to learn to use them well enough so that you can also use them in your job at Attlee, boy. Do you think the short arms with work hooks will be more reliable than your previous arms, boy?

          – Yes sir. I think so.

I had no idea if I could work with such short hooks.

          – Good. I want to see you working with the new arms and directing your workers with your hooks.

He staggered slightly and tilted his head back. His cock pulsed in his trousers and I could smell old smegma and fresh spunk.

 

Chapter XIV: Initiation

 

I had some trouble holding on to sir’s waist on the journey to the leatherclub under the viaduct and I was frightened enough to tell sir straight away. He said he would take corners more slowly on the return and suggested we design a special belt with steel rings on it which he could wear over his jacket. I would be able to hook on to any of the rings with my short or long arms. I said it was a very good idea and I looked forward to riding with sir and feeling safe at all speeds. Sir grunted and I knew he was secretly pleased with my reply.

 

I was still almost blind. The helmet’s sun visor had been down the entire time. It was exciting to be not only without hands and arms but also without sight. The helmet was not exactly heavy but it too was a different new sensation. Sir gripped my upper arm, as he often did, and guided me inside, past the tall pipe smoking man at the door and the entry supervisor.

          – One more visit, boy, and you’ll need a membership card.

          – Oh! How much is it, sir?

          – Don’t worry about that. Do you see those boys over in the corner? Go and stand by them. Don’t look at them, boy. Make sure they can see you are an amputee. Do you understand?

          – Yes sir.

          – Go!

Being only almost blind was the main reason I was able to approach the three twenty‑somethings with a sure step. The stiff sleeves on my altered jacket held my hooks out to the side. I walked like a western cowboy with cocked arms about to reach for his pistols. That’s what I looked like. They watched me until I suddenly stopped when I remembered that sir had told me how to behave. I could sense their presence more than see them. I moved my head trying to see through the two visors but it was really dark inside the club. It didn’t help that the walls were painted black. There was a voice outside my helmet and I sensed someone had gripped my elbow.

          – Don’t be shy. Come and join us. We hoped you’d join us last month.

          – Oh! My sir didn’t want me talking to other people. He said I might talk to you this time. I hope you don’t mind.

          – Why should we mind? Can you see anything, by the way?

          – Not a lot.

          – Lean in. Let’s open your visors. OK. Better?

I could see the leatherman’s face for the first time. He looked like a prefect from school with a moustache but it was a good moustache, much better than what a teenager could grow. He had short hair and a nice face. He was looking at me half hidden inside my helmet. He guided me to a spot where I could see and talk to the others. They introduced themselves and I said I was Grills. I lifted my head so a spot of light could fall on my chrome teeth.

 

I was waiting for someone to ask me why I had no hands. But no‑one did. They asked me how long I had been a leatherman and how I had become interested in the scene. The first leatherman hoped that I would be able to afford a pair of leather trousers before long because more than anything, expensive leather trousers signalled to everyone that the wearer was seriously interested in leather. Everyone had a leather jacket these days so that was not a sign of a leatherman any longer. I tried to answer their questions as well as I could. I was embarrassed that I had no wages at all and could not afford to buy so much as a leather belt for myself.

 

They told me about themselves. The good‑looking one who had approached me was Paul and he worked at the university in the music department. He was in charge of maintenance and restoration of musical instruments. Fred was a cobbler in the town centre and could make anything you wanted from leather if you gave him a good enough drawing first. And third was Steve who seemed shy until at last we began to talk about my hooks. Then Steve was the one who asked the most, who seemed to know the most and who said he thought my short arms with hooks were the sexiest thing he had seen all week. The others laughed and made a comment about how much Steve looked at on‑line porn.

          – It’s not porn. Photos of amputees is not porn.

I felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. Maybe Steve thought the same way as sir. That men who wore hooks were sexy and sex objects to be wanked off to. I was annoyed enough that I was about to ask Steve if my hooks made him horny but I remembered what sir had said about respecting the other club members. I lowered my eyes and hoped that they would not notice my annoyance in the general darkness. I was angry at being lumped in with a hundred other men who had lost hands and being treated as wank material. It wasn’t fair. Even with sir, he always made the sex between himself and me, the bilateral amputee from the print shop, and not between himself and some unknown hook user off the internet. We stood around looking at the new entrants as they arrived, at the other groups of leathermen of all ages in their tiny bubbles of identity, silently looking around at us, judging our appearance and in my case, trying to make out the reality of what looked like a bloke with too short artificial arms. As the evening progressed and the air became stale with the smoke from enormous fat cigars and extra big pipes, people moved around more in search of someone to talk to or to look at. Steve and Fred wandered off leaving me in the company of Paul.

          – Would you like a drink, Grills? I can help you drink if you like.

          – Thank you, Paul. But I don’t have any money with me.

          – Don’t worry about that. I’ll buy. Let’s go over to the bar. I think I can see your master there.

Sir was there, talking and gesticulating with a bearded man who was listening carefully. He was dressed completely in leather but even so, he looked different from the other leathermen, more serious, and when I had the idea in my head, I could see that sir looked much the same. More serious and more sincere, if that makes sense.

 

Paul bought a couple of bottles of fizzy water and said he would lift my helmet off my head if that was OK. It was the only way I would be able to drink from a bottle, anyway. He put the helmet on the counter top and said what a beautiful design had been painted on it. I felt proud of wearing it. Perhaps sir intended to let me have it for my own. There were already things which he obviously intended for me to own, like my new short arms and the altered jacket which would fit no‑one else.

 

Paul was a gentle man. The counter was too high to let me reach the bottle. Paul noticed me tilting my body in an effort to reach it and simply picked it up and held it at a lower level where I could grip it. I nodded my head in gratitude and Paul watched patiently until I had drunk enough. He took the bottle from my hook.

          – It’s difficult sometimes, isn’t it? I’m sorry you have to go through it.

          – What do you mean?

          – I mean losing a limb. You’ve lost your hands and have some very strange artificial arms. I’ve lost my feet and have some very ordinary prosthetic legs.

I was so shocked, my mouth fell open. Paul stared at my teeth.

          – Shocking.

He pointed a finger so I knew what he was talking about. I grinned at him.

          – So you’re wearing wooden legs, is that what you’re saying?

          – Well, they’re not wood but they are artificial legs for all that. I came off my bike when I was eighteen and a lorry ran over both my legs before it could stop. They were so mashed up they gave me a choice. Reconstruction with dozens of operations or two amputations and a pair of artificial legs. Back to normal in three months. So I had my lower legs off.

          – It’s amazing. I had no idea you were an amputee.

          – No. I’m lucky. I can hide it. You can’t. Do you mind if I ask why your arms are so short?

          – It’s an experiment to see if I can work better. I have to get used to wearing them, which is why I am not wearing my normal pair of hooks.

          – Oh. I see. But you must intend wearing those short ones quite a bit if you’ve already had your jacket sleeves altered.

          – Yeah. We’ll see.

 

Sir came between us suddenly.

          – Thank you for looking after my boy, Paul. I dare say you have been comparing amputations.

          – Not at all, Quentin. There are other topics to discuss.

          – I see. Off you go, dear boy. Look at him. Who would believe he has two artificial legs? Quite remarkable.

          – Are there other leathermen with artificial legs, sir?

          – Oh yes. It is often the case that after riding a motorcycle for many years, a rider will come a cropper. It’s not especially unusual to see a one‑legged biker, boy. Unfortunately, the gentleman I wanted you to meet this evening does not seem to be coming. I think we should leave now. We can carry on our conversation about leathermen amputees at home, if you are interested.

          – Yes sir. I am interested in knowing another amputee, sir. Apart from my skinhead friends at Attlee I mean, sir.

          – Yes. The other wannabes.

Sir waited while I fumbled with my helmet. My arms were too short to let me lift it over my head so I put it on again by balancing it upside down on a bench and leaning over to push my head into it. Sir lowered both visors and guided me out to his motorbike.

 

Chapter XV: Reconsideration

 

This time we were home well before midnight. Sir undressed me—tennis shoes, leather jacket, helmet. This time I kept my short arms. Sir brought a small bottle of vodka with a blade of grass in it and two shot glasses. Their surfaces were like frosted glass. They were a bit rough to the touch. I could not feel anything but my hooks could grip the glasses much better. It was one of the little things which amputees have to remember and plan for. It would be nice to have a certain design of glasses but if they were slippery in steel hooks, it was better to steer clear of them. I noticed at work that glossy paper was much more difficult for me to handle than ordinary matte paper because my hooks slipped on the surface. I had no way of tightening my grip.

 

But this evening, neither of us were tired. We had much to talk about, things which had changed since the last time we had sat together face to face, sir and his boy. Like father and son, almost.

          – Tell me what you thought of the young leathermen, boy.

It was an odd thing to think about. I hadn’t really thought anything about them while we were talking.

          – It’s difficult to say, sir. They were kind to invite me to talk to them and we were talking about our jobs.

          – I assume you did not tell them your are an inmate, boy.

          – No sir. I just said I worked in printing.

          – Very good. Go on.

          – And I found out that one of them admires amputees, sir.

          – Do you mean Steve?

          – Yes sir. He likes to look at photos of amputees on his computer and the others tease him, sir.

          – They have no business knowing what Steve looks at. So you found an admirer, did you, boy?

          – I’m not sure, sir. He went off with Fred and left me alone with Paul.

          – That was odd. I was sure Steve would befriend you. He seems rather to have left you on your own.

          – I was with Paul, sir. He was nice to chat with and bought me a drink when it started to get muggy.

          – Paul is their alpha. Steve worships his leg stumps and does odd things with Paul’s artificial legs. Fred is a useful companion for them. He can make prosthetic gear from leather. He charges a high price but his pieces are handmade and unique. Perhaps you might have a leather and steel hook, boy. Something theatrical which you could wear at the leather club.

          – Will I be going there again, sir? They said next time I would have to be a member.

          – Would you like to be a member, boy? To join an association of real men who love black leather, to live according to the leathermen’s rules of conduct? And of course, in your case, you may be interested in meeting other amputees.

          – Yes sir. I’d like to be a member. But I have no leather clothes. I’m not sure about the leather jacket, sir.

          – It is yours. I made it a gift for you on condition that you agree to wear the shorter arms. It is your jacket. Next you need leather trousers and some decent boots. In your case, we need to progress carefully, bearing your disability in mind.

          – Yes sir. I understand.

          – How are you managing with those hooks?

          – They’re nice to use, sir. They make it easy to hold a glass, even one as small as this.

          – Drink up, boy. Hold it out. We have much to talk about before we finish the evening. The reason I wanted you to talk with the three young leathermen tonight is simply this. I want you to decide if you would like to transition from a delinquent skinhead into a respectable leatherman, a double amputee other men can respect.

 

I was surprised. My mouth hung open which I realised only when I noticed sir looking at my chrome teeth. I wanted to gesture with my hands, to express my feelings and questions. Instead, only my elbows twitched and my hooks clicked together.

          – I don’t feel I am a skinhead any longer, sir. I have been at Attlee for so long that I don’t miss the things we used to do and where we used to go. And I like the leather jacket, sir. It would be nice to have matching trousers and boots, sir, and to make friends with other young leathermen like tonight, sir. They don’t have to be amputees, sir.

          – Indeed. But what of the future, boy? You have over a year left to work in the print shop. You are already a foreman and will soon be a supervisor if your written reports are accurate and useful. I want to know what you intend to do after your release. Will you slink off back to some decrepit estate to waste time with younger skinheads who will poke fun at your hooks? You know how cruel young thugs are. You will not be immune. What will you do for a living?

          – I don’t know, sir. I wish I could find a job working in a printing works on the outside sir, somewhere where I could do the same kind of work.

          – Do you think it likely that a prospective employer will take on a double amputee wearing a pair of hooks, boy?

          – He would be breaking the law if he turned me away because I am an amputee, sir.

          – Indeed he would. But how to prove it, boy? It is an example of a law passed in order to comply with some political pressure from some faction. It is not intended to have any practical effect. No, boy. You will not be getting a job in a commercially successful printing works. You must think of something else. Or perhaps I can guide your thoughts.

          – Yes please, sir. I need some help to let me make a good choice, sir. I know I can still do most of the jobs in the collating section, sir. I know how to do all of them. It’s just that sometimes my hooks are not flexible enough, sir.

          – Not dextrous, boy. Not dextrous enough.

          – No sir. My hooks are not dextrous enough to allow me to do everything I want to do, sir.

I could see his eyes gleaming. He moved in his chair, a sure sign that the idea of my disability was causing him to become erect. As his penis began to pump the first drops of precum again, the dried spunk inside his leather trousers began to release their smell. Sir’s penis was truly impressive for its size and for the number of times a day he could get an erection.

          – So you see, sir, if I had a good employer who gave me a chance to prove I’m as good as anyone else, I could become a leatherman. Maybe I could even learn to ride a motorbike, sir.

          – I would like to see that, boy. I know there are bilateral bikers although I have never met one. Alright. I know you are a good worker. You will prove to me how good over the next months. If I am satisfied, I may allow you permanent employment at Attlee.

          – In the print shop, sir? With a wage, sir?

          – Not exactly. I have something else in mind. But first you must become a leatherman. There is a vast pool of skill and wisdom and experience in the leather world, boy. You can access it when you demonstrate to the other leathermen that you are a trustworthy and reliable colleague. Your disability need not play a role in their estimation. As I mentioned, if you excel as a hook user, people will respect you more. That is why you now have two pairs of hooks. Soon you may have more, not only to make you less of a cripple but also to entertain my fantasies. Are you prepared to put the extra effort in to become a crippled leatherman who people look up to, boy?

 

My answer should be obvious. That was the evening when Quentin Weston turned my life around, partly for his own selfish reasons and partly because he wanted the best for the man he fetishised and loved after his own fashion. At no stage was I consulted about my future. I was simply told what was going to happen to me. I was taken in hand by a professional with a fetish for arm amputees and experience with delinquents such as myself, unfortunate young men without prospects who fell into mischief and suffered the unavoidable consequences. Perhaps I suffered more than most. Losing my hands was not only the end of one way of life. It was also the start of another, although I had no idea what lay ahead. The future after Attlee seemed like a vacuum. I remember waking next morning with an urgent erection. I was alone in sir’s bed. I sat up and leaned over to stroke the head of my penis with the soft rounded tips of my arm stumps and soon came with such force that my cum hit sir’s bedroom tv screen. Sir was amused when I recovered enough to find him making breakfast. He saw the mess and joked that my sperm was the best thing that had been on his tv all month. I felt vindicated. That was the exact moment my fear and trepidation concerning my master began to recede. But I have never lost my respect for him.

 

Chapter XVI: Education

 

Sir did not let me wear my short arms for the trip back to Attlee. Like the previous time, he saw me through the security formalities with the guards at the gate and logged me back into the building’s security system. Otherwise the alarm would have gone off as soon as my absence was noticed and there would have been hell to pay. Sir always clicked on the box which said education when asked for the reason for my absence. He was not wrong. He could have brought my short arms with him, but it would have meant bringing my leather jacket too and my friends would have become suspicious about what exactly was going on when I was away.

 

During the next week, I tried to think about what to write in my report which sir had asked for. I mentioned all the customers whose work we processed and gave their names and contact details, what sort of product they had ordered, how much paper and other material it required and how much had actually been used, including wastage. Then I wrote how much time it had taken. I couldn’t think of anything else that might help us plan any improvements. I used our old computer’s word processor with its clacky old‑fashioned beige keyboard to type out the report. I wasn’t sure if it was the best way but I knew whatever I wrote could be turned into another format if sir wanted. My hooks were good enough for typing. I could type just as fast with my hooks as I could with two fingers.

 

I no longer expected to be summoned to sir’s room on a Friday evening. The leatherclub meetings were only once a month. I began to wonder if I would even be able to remember how to use my short arms after wearing the long ones again in the print shop. Sir handed over all the new hooks he had bought for me. I found that the two work hooks were really quite well suited to my duties, as well as looking quite fierce and powerful. My amputations made me look powerful. I was careful to take note of everything that happened in the collation section and typed it up into my reports for sir every Monday. At the bottom of the page, I typed in any problems we had and what I thought we could do to solve them. It was usually something minor like pages being out of order but it wasted our time to correct it and it should have been done by the previous section.

 

The last Friday of the month arrived again. I got one of my workers to change my work hooks for one normal on the left and a symmetrical on the right before presenting myself at sir’s office door. He studied my appearance, my short hair which I now allowed to grow and the development of my moustache. I shaved the rest of my face but let the moustache grow. It looked ridiculous at first until suddenly it began to look quite good. Even I could see that it was heavy growth, thick and naturally curling. I had never had a moustache before. The idea never occurred to me. There were skinheads with beards but they have to be a certain style. My beard would not have been like that. Sir placed my helmet over my head and lowered the visors. So far, not a word had been spoken. This is to demonstrate the trust I had in him and the obedience I showed. He dressed in his elaborate thick leather jacket and added a belt harness over one shoulder. The belt held five centimetre steel rings at ten centimetre intervals. I knew exactly what the belt was for and was overcome with gratitude for my master’s unspoken consideration. I sat behind him on his motorbike and linked my hooks through the rings which were most comfortable for me. It was easier to feel safe than if I had my own hands. Soon I would be wearing my short arms and I must say that I had was looking forward to feeling more disabled again for the weekend. I knew sir preferred seeing me more disabled.

 

Chapter XVII: Experimentation

 

Sir left me to undress myself this time. I’d been wearing hooks for long enough to be able to handle dressing and undressing. I even succeeded in removing my helmet and regaining my sight without dropping it. Sir cleared my clothes away and stood holding my short artificial arms. He was waiting for me to shuck my long ones so he could help me into the short arms. It was easy enough. The short arms had no hooks on them. The control cables were taped to the sockets with black electrician’s tape. Putting the short arms on made me completely disabled again. The slippery steel tips on my half arms were useless for trying to pick anything up. I was more disabled than I would be without any artificial arms. Then sir fetched a small leather case from his closet and put it down in front of me.

          – This is for you, boy. Use them wisely.

The fasteners on the lid of the box were closed so I had to ask sir to open it for me. I used my short artificial stumps to nudge it towards me so I could see its contents. There in individual compartments were the most peculiar items all intended to be worn on the end of an artificial arm. There were two rings of different sizes, a steel ball, a rod ending in a smaller steel ball and a crocodile clip on another rod. The box was dark red leather and the inside was green velvet. All the attachments were obviously old but they had all been polished and made to look as good as new.

          – I want to see you wearing the smaller ring and the bigger ball. You can choose which arm you want to use them on.

          – I don’t know sir. Perhaps the ball on my right, sir?

          – I think so too. Hold your stump out.

Sir had no trouble fixing the steel ball on my wrist. It was about the size of a tennis ball and it must have been hollow because it wasn’t as heavy as I expected.

          – Now the other stump, boy. These two items work together. The idea is that you can pick up sheets of material and grip them between the ball and the ring.

          – Perhaps I could use them at work, sir.

          – If you think they will be useful, go ahead. I want you to wear those this evening. I want you to discover how to use them, what uses they can be put to.

I looked at my short arms, once again changed by swapping hooks. I felt fairly helpless. But I didn’t need to pick up anything right now. Sir went and sat in his armchair where he could watch my experiments. I tried closing the lid of the leather box but the edge of the ring kept slipping and the ball was too big. That evening I was returned to my disabled condition when I relied on sir to feed me and hold a glass for me and to help me in the toilet. I no longer enjoyed being helpless. It might be an interesting experiment from sir’s point of view but I had two pairs of working artificial arms and I wanted to use my hooks. But I dared not say anything. Perhaps in the morning, I might be allowed my hooks or even naked stumps. Anything was better than the useless ring and ball.

 

Sir gave me a choice in the morning. I could continue experimenting with the new attachments until we left for the leatherman’s club, when he would allow me my hooks. Or we could do it the other way around. I could have my hooks now and wear some combination of the attachments at the club. I quickly chose to have my hooks during the day. I was not happy feeling so useless. I was happy to have my short arms again after so long. I had missed the intimate feeling I had. It’s difficult to explain. I liked my longer arms just fine, the ones I used at Attlee. So far, I had not tried doing my work with the short arms. They had stayed at sir’s house for the past two months except when we visited the leatherman’s club. I remembered that I was told I would need a membership card for my third visit. Sir had said not to worry about it. Even so, I was curious to know if I was an official leatherman yet or not. What sort of attachments might a bilateral amputee leatherman display on his useless stumps? I decided I’d like to try the smaller ball on a rod and the larger ring. Maybe it would hold a glass. I couldn’t think what the small ball was used for unless it was simply to prevent the empty sleeve from flapping about. I thought it would look horny with my short arms, to have a steel ball instead of a hook. So sir removed the ball and ring from my arms, pulled the tape off the control cables and let me have a standard hook on the left and a symmetrical on the right. I think he could see how relieved I was to have my hooks back.

 

Chapter XVII: Duplication

 

Sir spent a lot of time getting ready for his visit. He changed his ordinary trousers for his leather pair which he wore without underpants. The outline of his dick was visible along his thigh. He wore high engineer’s boots up to his knees. Sometimes he wore them over his trousers, but tonight his trousers were over the boots. He had a black leather shirt and a black leather tie which he spent time tying to get it exactly right. Then there were his waistcoat and his leather jacket, the handsome former American motorcycle police jacket with its incredible black leather as smooth as butter. He had many leather hats which suited him but tonight he would wear his black visored motorbike helmet and big gauntlets.

 

          – Come to the bedroom, boy. It’s time for you to get ready for the evening.

I knew what we had agreed earlier in the day and held out my hooks in order to be crippled.

          – No, not that. Are you wearing those jeans with your jacket?

          – Yes sir. That’s alright, isn’t it, sir?

          – It is, but as a leatherman, you may find yourself wanting a pair of leather jeans in the near future.

He handed me a credit card sized membership card to the leathermen’s club. It had my name and birthday on it, date of access and it was valid for the next three years. I passed it from hook to hook trying to turn it around so I could read it on both sides. The card was black with a silver silhouette of a leatherman leaning sideways against a wall. I felt so proud. I was so happy to belong to a real group of men who accepted me for who I was. Just an amputee with no hands. Only hooks and a jacket with its sleeves cut short.

 

I had no leather clothes so I changed my T‑shirt for a clean one. Just a white shirt. My arms went over it so if I took my jacket off, anyone could see my sockets and the straps and cable which let me use my hooks. It seems funny to think of all that equipment which was necessary just so I could make one half of a hook open up. But I was a double amputee and more than willing to do almost anything to have a pair of hooks which let me do what I wanted and needed. So I was a little disappointed when sir removed my hooks and screwed both rings into my short arms. I hadn’t even asked for them.

          – Wear these tonight, boy. I want you to be especially disabled tonight. There is a man coming who wishes to speak with you, boy. You will not reveal your feelings when you see him, boy. Do you understand? He is severely disabled.

          – More than me, sir?

          – Boy! You have legs. Think yourself lucky.

I had no idea who I would be meeting or how disabled he might be. Our journey was a little slower than usual because sir had to remember that I was wearing a pair of rings on my stumps instead of hooks.

 

The pipe‑smoking bouncer was outside in the cold yet again. This time he made a number about inspecting arrivals’ membership cards. The card was in my jacket pocket but I had no way of retrieving it. Instead I tapped the relevant pocket with my smaller ring and smiled. The huge leatherman leaned closed to my face and I could feel the heat from the bowl of his enormous pipe. He found my card and glanced at it.

          – Welcome to our society, Grills. You deserved honorary membership already but your master has got you a three year membership. I hope we’ll be seeing you regularly.

It was grand to be spoken to and welcomed by the big man as an equal. He sounded genuinely pleased that I would be visiting regularly and had joined his club. He put his enormous curved pipe back into his mouth and crossed his arms looking out for the next biker to ride up the lane beside the viaduct.

 

Yet again I was almost blind inside the club. Both my visors were down. I was the only member wearing a helmet inside but there were other men wearing some kind of disguise. Some wore leather masks, either thin leather ones which just hid their features but clung tightly to their faces like a second skin or thick ones with dozens of studs and covered with belts and straps held on by zips and buckles. I didn’t know if they could see or not. I know some men enjoy being helpless in the company of like‑minded men, like being blind, for example. I think sir was trying to find out if I was such a man. He already made sure I was practically blind in the club and of course I had no way of removing my helmet or even opening the sun visor with either of the steel rings on my stumps. He left me to my own devices soon after we entered. I looked around in the darkness trying to see if I could spot any of the leathermen my age I had talked with last time. Instead, Paul had already spotted me looking around helplessly and came to my rescue.

          – Hello Grills! I’m glad you could come again tonight. Come over and tell us what you’ve been up to. There’s someone with us who you might like to meet. Oh! Stand still and I’ll take your helmet off. Why does Quentin let you walk around like that?

          – I don’t know. I think he wants to test me to see if I can function as a blind man.

          – That seems very cruel, especially for you. What are those things you have on your arms?

          – They’re an experiment sir wants me to try tonight.

          – They look like something you’d fit a drink into. Would you like a beer?

I didn’t know they even sold beer in the club.

          – Let’s go to the bar. It’s my treat, so don’t protest. Sean, my friend is a little inconvenienced this evening. Do you have any beer glasses which would fit into a holder the size of this?

Paul hooked a finger around my bigger ring and lifted it up so the bartender Sean could see it. His eyes widened and he gulped.

          – I think so. Try this.

It was a tall narrow glass intended for a Spanish lager but it dropped into my ring and stayed upright.

          – Fill this one up with—what beer do you like?

I looked at the selection and pointed at the tap with my other small hook. Sean almost collapsed when he saw it but recovered well enough to pour me a lager. Paul took it and fitted it carefully into my ring. It felt different now it was full of liquid, much heavier, but it seemed to be seated quite well. I held my stump out and followed Paul carrying my helmet into the distant corner which the youngest leathermen favoured. Steve was in deep conversation with a short leatherman, partially hidden by Fred who grinned at me.

          – Hi Grills! Come and meet Chris. I reckon you two might have a lot in common.

Chris stopped his conversation with Steve who ogled at me to see my hooks but was disappointed. The rings on my short arms looked either ridiculous or shocking. I felt I ought to extend a hand to shake hands with Chris but as I grew more accustomed to the darkness, I could see that Chris was also wearing artificial arms. More than that, he was balancing on a pair of narrow metal tubes with square feet on the end. I soon learned they were called stubbies. He was wearing a pair of black leather shorts and his tubular legs extended an extra twenty centimetres. He was missing both arms from below his shoulder and his artificial arms were also much shorter than real arms. His artificial elbows were opposite his nipples and his forearm cylinders with hooks on the end were only about half the length of normal forearms. So there were two of us with very short arms but only one with hooks. Out of instinct, I help out my right ring and Chris caught it with a huge smile. He rattled his hook against my ring for a second or two and people looked around to see what the odd noise was.

 

I found out that Chris was Steve’s boyfriend. They had both been in the army and blown up at the same time. Steve had only lost three fingers but Chris lost both legs above his knees and both arms near the shoulders. But he was a determined bastard, he said, and after he learned how to work his hooks, swinging his carbon black arms around and jerking this way and that to get the elbow angled to where it needed to be, he set about growing his legs from about fifteen centimetre stumps to thirty, fifty. Now he was teetering on seventy centimetre tall pylons, as he called them. The next stage was to get a genuine pair of legs with knees and everything.

 

But most of all, he said he was happy to see me because he’d heard so much about me from the others, especially Steve, who had told him about the new guy who had only just been injured and was still using his hooks like they might break at any moment. That meant me.

 

          – Come away for a minute, Grills. I don’t want these other buggers listening.

We found a patch of empty concrete floor we could claim as our own. Chris swung his arms to keep his balance on his tiny square feet.

          – I love your short arms, Grills. You have your elbows, don’t you? Good. You can play around with all kinds of prosthetic limb. Have you thought that you could have sockets made to hold your arms rigid and then have completely artificial forearms made?

          – So I’d have to work my arms like you do?

          – Exactly the same. One jerk for the elbow, one jerk for the hook. And he same on the other side. Back and forth we swing and rock ourselves, getting into the rhythm of amputation, grinding away on our pegs and flashing our hooks. Well, you don’t have peg legs but you get the gist.

          – You make it sound like a party.

          – The way I look at it, Grills, is this. I can let it get to me and be miserable that I lost my hands and legs. Or I can be the best hook user in the country and make other amputees with ordinary artificial legs jealous when they see me scooting along on two little steel peg legs. And you can guess if I’m a happier man now than I was before I was injured. Don’t answer! I’ll save you the bother. Of course I am. All you need is a little bit of determination and not caring about what the experts tell you you can’t do.

 

I was too impressed by the way Chris talked about his injuries to ask much about anything. I was just happy to see that a man who had even worse arm amputations than me could learn to use his prostheses as well as Chris could. His short arms were similar to mine, except that he could use his and I was stuck with two rings for the night. I was so indignant that I decided it was the last time I would allow sir to make me so disabled just to satisfy his horniness. He couldn’t even see me. Perhaps it was just as well. I was pretty sure I was not allowed to drink alcohol.

 

One of the most useful things I learned from meeting Chris that night was that I could be rougher with my hooks than I had been. Chris told me how he punished his own artificial arms and often had to have cables replaced and had even once snapped a hook in half. He said they could take much more punishment than I would believe and recommended me using my hooks with far less care than I had up until now. It was true. I was careful not to scratch and mark them at work. Chris said the sockets were almost indestructible and everything else could be replaced.

 

 Chapter XVIII: Transmutation

 

My next visit was one of the most memorable. Completely unknown to me, sir had been doing some research of his own on the sizes of my clothes and shoes. As before, he had spent almost an hour in the bedroom getting ready and looked magnificent. He called me in as I was expecting but I was shocked to see a pair of leather trousers on the bed and a pair of black motorcycle boots on the floor. They were the sort with clasps and I knew without even trying them that I would be able to get them on and close them with hooks. The trousers were fairly easy to put on by feeding my hooks through the belt loops and pulling. The leather was thick and stiff and creaked when I moved. The smell was the exact perfect smell of high quality leather. I was so grateful. The boots fit comfortably. They made my ankles and feet rigid so walking was more difficult. I could snap the clasps shut easily. I still needed a leather shirt and tie to be a full leatherman but I would always need another man’s help to close the shirt’s buttons and tie the tie properly.

 

Sir listened to my expressions of gratitude with satisfaction. He was slowly creating me in his own image. Next came the moment I was dreading.

          – Hold your stumps out, boy.

          – Sir! Please don’t give me anything I can’t control, sir. I was so embarrassed last month when I had the rings, sir. I wanted to show Chris my hooks when he asked about using them and I couldn’t.

          – True. That was a wasted opportunity. Very well, boy. You may choose the hooks you wish to wear this evening.

          – Thank you, sir.

It was much simpler than I had feared. All I had to do was ask. Maybe sir was just testing my patience to see how much unnecessary disability I would tolerate.

 

My leather friends applauded my appearance when I strolled carefully on my rigid motorbike boots across to their, or our, corner. They congratulated me on my complete leather outfit. Paul asked how the boots felt and said that in his opinion, walking in motorcycle boots like mine was just as difficult as walking on two artificial legs like his. And he had experience of both. Chris was fascinated to see the symmetrical hooks which I had chosen to wear. He had never owned such hooks. I was so happy I told sir I no longer wanted to wear sleeve fillers in the club. This time, sir found a group of his friends to talk to close to our corner so I dared not drink a beer. Instead Paul bought me a bottle of fizzy water. I could show Chris how my hook curved around the bottle and held it tight in its rubber grip. He swore a bit and said he would be on to his prosthetist immediately Monday morning to ask why he had never been offered such handy hooks and how he could get a pair.

 

I noticed that not everyone wore a leather shirt. Some of the older members had blue shirts with leather ties and a leather waistcoat. I thought a waistcoat would suit me too. I could wear it over a T‑shirt and it would let me display my artificial arms. I was so happy to be accepted without question by the young leathermen, some of them amputees like me. I appreciated not being asked about my personal life. I was not exactly ashamed of being an inmate on day release but I tried to keep it secret in case the others refused to have anything to do with me. It was no surprise that sir was on good terms with Paul and Chris, especially. I could imagine that sir had been keen at some time to strike up a relationship with Chris with his four short stumps. It was great to see how well Chris fit in with everyone else even though he was much shorter and had to peer up at everyone. His artificial arms were specially short so his hooks could not scrape along the ground when he waddled along. Chris usually held one hook in the other in front of his chest and walked that way without swinging his arms. He looked like a man who was completely content to wear and use artificial limbs and it was good to see that he was treated as an equal member of the group. I had no experience yet of being an amputee in society. I didn’t know how the public would react to seeing me. It was impossible for me to hide my disability. It was the first thing anyone would see about me. That’s why it was important that I learn to use my various hooks as well as I possibly could, if only to avoid people’s pity if they saw me failing to do something.

 

Chapter XIX: Specialisation

 

This was the routine which sir adopted for me until my release from Attlee Barracks. I served my term in its entirety, although my original mates were all allowed early releases three months before me. I believe the only reason was because sir wanted to make sure the ties we had between us were broken and unlikely to continue.

 

He described his plan for my future. Even though I would shortly be free, sir assumed that he would continue to exert major control over my life. He never asked my opinions about any of his plans. I was a little indignant but it was difficult to be angry with a stern and demanding father figure who had shown patience and respect and offered me a new lifestyle with new friends for whom my disability meant little. Many times in the months leading up to my release, we sat facing each other across his dining table scattered with a variety of prospecti and pamphlets about careers and job opportunities. Sir assured me that if all went well, if I studied seriously and took some responsibility for myself, I could turn myself into a respected figure, perhaps even admired because of my disability.

 

In short, he intended to guide me to become a prison warder with the academic qualifications for a security guard, including voluntary fields of study such as First Aid and the fireman’s course.

          – If you wish, boy, you may share my apartment on condition that you pay rent after you start earning. I see no reason why you would need your own individual apartment. You will not be able to afford one with your starting wage and I do not trust you yet not to backslide if you are exposed to external difficulties. I hope you will share my apartment, boy.

          – I would love to, sir. Thank you very much. But will I still be required to show my stumps at all times, sir?

          – No, boy. You will be your own free man with the same rights and responsibilities as I have myself. I hope you will continue to share your experiences as an amputee with me.

          – Yes sir. I know you appreciate seeing my efforts, sir.

          – I do. So that is settled. Next is your attendance at the security course and I intend to make sure you already know the course material before you even begin. I want you to pass the leaving exam with at least ninety‑five percent, boy, so there can be no reason why the prison warder’s course authorities could have reason to deny you a place. You will have already proved yourself capable, boy.

          – The courses aren’t very long, are they sir?

          – No boy. You can be a security guard in two weeks and a prison guard in three months. Most of the course is self study but you must apply yourself and actually read and learn the material. And when you have completed the warder’s course, there will be a job waiting for you at Attlee. Yes! Don’t look so surprised, boy. I can ensure that you are employed there and that you gain a foothold on the ladder to success. You know the ropes already from the inmate’s point of view. It will be invaluable knowledge when you are a guard. I suggest you have the uniform jacket altered so you can wear your short arms. It emphasises them so beautifully. No‑one who ever sees you could ever miss the fact that you use critically impractical steel hooks with style and continual success.

          – I might be the first bilateral amputee prison warder, sir.

          – I think I can assure you that you would be. It is something you can be proud of, boy, and something that fresh inmates will respect you for. Can you imagine how valuable that attitude would be at Attlee, boy, for the inmates to respect a warder?

 

Sir allowed me to wait in his office after I was freed at midday on my release day. The warders watched in amazement as I made my way back into the Barracks instead of walking out the main gate like everyone else. That evening, I wrapped my hooks around sir’s waist and for the first time ever, I felt some hope for the future. And not a little love for the leatherman who, I realise, had always loved me.

 

T H E   C A T A L Y S T