Sarah 35

Sarah was an office romance, something I'd always avoided. Too many complications, too much drama, too much... well you get the idea. But with Sarah there were a couple of other things; first, we didn't work anywhere near each other. She was in Statistics on the 12th floor; I was with Contracts on the 7th. I'd see her in the lobby occasionally, and in the cafeteria now and then, lunching with girlfriends. And sometimes, when a new contract came up, she'd sit in on some of the drafting meetings, where she always seemed well-prepared and on top of things.

Under normal circumstances it would never have occurred to me to try to hit on her or even get better acquainted. She was a blue-eyed blonde but had none of the pizzaz usually implied by that description. Her face was ordinary, she was pretty much flat-chested, with a body best described as frumpy, no waist, and big legs.

But there was one characteristic that superseded all others: Sarah has only one arm.

Her right arm was amputated at the shoulder. There is no real stump, just a bit of a bulge where the arm was attached, with a little smiley-faced stitch track; it appeared that the surgeon had used the upper part of the arm to cover the empty space, giving her shoulders a more symmetrical appearance. Word was that a motorcycle wreck had done the deed, back when she was in college.

Best I could tell from our minimal interface, she wasn't the least bit sensitive about it and always wore what can only be described as normal business attire. At meetings we'd both attended she usually wore a pantsuit, with the armless sleeve of the jacket just emptily flopping around. Sometimes, I guess if it got too bothersome, she'd tuck the end of it into a pocket. Other times I'd seen her -- in the elevator, in the cafeteria -- she was always neatly dressed in a skirt, hose and heels, and blouses of various sleeve lengths, empty on the right side, of course, and sometimes even sleeveless, completely exposing the armless shoulder.

I never saw her with a prosthetic arm, or any type of concealment. Her appearance was always (that I saw, anyway) of a typical downtown businesswoman, with no allowance for her special feature -- a feature which for me was a huge turn-on.

Finally, I could put it off no longer; I had to try for a date, or at least an acquaintance. Some time went by with no real opportunity, but then, a break: one day I found myself behind her in the cafeteria line, and she was alone!

We greeted and chatted amiably as we collected our respective lunches. At the checkout I saw my chance, and asked if I could carry her tray. Now it was obvious that she was perfectly capable of carrying her own tray, but she smiled and said, "Sure, that'd be nice." I found an empty table, set both trays down and arranged the dishes.

She proved to be a perfectly charming lunch companion. We talked, laughed, discussed our respective work situations -- an ordinary meeting of office workers having lunch together. We explored our respective backgrounds -- she was from Midland, her dad was in the "awl bidness," she had a younger brother and an older sister, and she'd gone to the University of Texas in Austin, graduating with a degree in math. She'd had a relationship with a guy at UT, but it was over... There was no discussion of her one-armed condition; she had no apparent difficulty with anything related to eating lunch, and she asked for no help.

By the time we finished I'd asked her to have a drink with me after work, and she'd accepted. We agreed to meet in the bar in the lobby of the building. It was a Thursday, so we figured it wouldn't be too mobbed by the normal after-work happy-hour crowd. I got there first, hoping my anxiousness wouldn't be too obvious, and she appeared just at the agreed time.

After we'd ordered and settled in to a table toward the back, we continued with our lunchtime chat. But then after a brief silence she said, "You haven't asked me about my arm."

Well.

I didn't know quite how to respond; finally, I said, "No, I figured if you wanted me to know anything about it you'd tell me, but..."

She laughed, and said, "Okay, usually when I meet a new guy there is usually one of two responses. First, he wants to know all about it. What happened to you, how old were you, why don't you use an artificial arm, and so on. And the other is, just ignoring it. Both are kind of uncomfortable, and I've found that just charging headlong into it and getting it out of the way is usually the better approach."

I nodded, saying nothing, letting her continue.

"And sometimes," she went on, "there is a different response. I discovered early on that some guys are really turned on by the idea of a one-armed girl, and the missing arm is a big fucking deal for them. Sometimes I don't find out about that until later -- until it becomes a problem."

Now I really didn't know how to proceed. But she went on, "Of course I'm not going to be able to change any of that. I'm not going to grow a new arm, and the guy isn't going to lose any of his attitude, so the simple answer is just to find out which one of these situations I'm dealing with. So, getting it out in the open, which one are you?"

I was beginning to get a red face, but I wanted to hear her out. With a bit of a grin she continued, "Just a guess here, but I think you are option number three. You think a one-armed girl is especially attractive -- and sexy."

At this point I had to laugh. "Geez," I said, "Is it that obvious?"

Fortunately, and to my great relief, she laughed too. "No, I've met far worse! But just to be clear, I don't think it's bad. In fact, I've always thought it was a fair trade-off. A one-armed girl isn't exactly prime dating stock, and I'm not exactly Marilyn Monroe, so if having one arm is a plus for somebody, believe me, I'll take it!" Another laugh.

Well, that was the ice-breaker, and there was no further awkwardness. I readily admitted that I thought a one-armed girl was a particularly sexy creature, and she agreed that she'd have me explain it -- to the extent I could -- when the opportunity arose. I suggested dinner the following evening, and she agreed.

We had another drink, walked arm-in-arm (!) to our cars, and with a little peck on the cheek, parted for the evening. I drove home whistling a happy tune, planning tomorrow's date.

That date led to another date, which led to a third date. We were becoming accustomed to each other, and I could sense that it wouldn't be long before 'accustomed' became 'intimate'.

It turned out to be the third date. We had an evening in the Romper Room (No of course it isn't called that, but I can't remember the actual name!) at the Post Oak Hotel on the West Loop. We had drinks, a nice dinner, plenty of wine, then danced a bit to the club orchestra. All in all, a pleasant evening. When we arrived back at her apartment, she invited me in, and of course in I went. After I closed the front door, I took her in my arms and kissed her -- not for the first time -- which she enthusiastically reciprocated. It was gentle at first but quickly became more intense. My dick was hard as a steel bar, and there was no way she could miss feeling it pressed against her.

Finally, I backed away, gently stroking the armless shoulder with one hand, while with the other I reached around and felt for the zipper on the back of her dress. Looking into her eyes I said, "Sarah, I want you naked. I'm going to fuck you."

She just smiled as I slowly pulled the zipper down. When it reached almost to her ass, she stepped back slightly, shrugged a bit and the dress slithered down and pooled around her ankles. I wasn't surprised to see that she wasn't wearing a bra -- she really didn't need it -- but what I thought were pantyhose turned out to be thigh-high elastic top nylons. The white silk panties were clearly quite damp in the crotch. She kicked off her shoes, stepped out of the dress, picked it up and tossed it onto the sofa.

"If you don't mind," she said, "I'd like to leave the nylons on. My legs aren't my most attractive feature, and maybe...."

I told her I hadn't the least objection to her legs, and that the idea of fucking her while wearing nylons sounded interesting.

It was true. Her legs weren't very attractive, at least in the usual sense. They could only be described as large, and out of proportion to the rest of her. The thighs would each make two of mine, and the calves descended straight from the knees to the ankles like posts, without the slightest semblance of curves. I can't account for it, but for some reason they turned me on, and I couldn't wait to get my hands on them.

Come to think of it, I can't account for why her lack of an arm turns me on either, but between that and the legs she was dynamite.

She took me by the hand and led me back to the bedroom, turned to me and said, "Now it's your turn," and deftly unbuttoned my shirt, one-handedly, without any fumbling. Interesting. Next she unzipped my fly, undid the belt and button, and my pants dropped obligingly to my ankles. Next, that single hand pulled down my jocks, and my cock popped out and stood stiff as a flagpole. That got a big smile.

I kicked off my shoes as she laid back on the bed and spread her legs, gently pulling me over on top of her. Apparently between the drinks and the undressing routine she'd had enough foreplay. Somewhere the panties had disappeared, and I lay down between those solid nylon-clad legs. Wasting no time, she guided my painfully hard dick into her warm, slick love nest. I pushed gently in, all the way, until our pubes met, stroking gently at first, then with increasing urgency.

She was very responsive, and very skilled. For a not-that-attractive girl, she certainly knew her stuff. We fucked at least three times before falling asleep, cuddled together, one of my hands on her minimal chest and the other extended under her, holding her empty, armless shoulder.

Sometime during the night I woke up, slid in and fucked her again. She moaned and smiled, but didn't wake up, and I went back to sleep with my dick still inside her.

In the morning, she suggested we have a shower. As you might expect, she washed me, I washed her, and we fucked in the shower.

She made breakfast, we got dressed, I kissed her tenderly, telling her what a wonderful evening -- and night -- it had been, and left. This was definitely going to be interesting.

After a few weeks of this I asked her to move in with me, as my townhouse was larger than her apartment, and closer to work. She demurred, saying, "Not yet, maybe later. There are some things I have to tell you about me first."

At the time were relaxing in bed after a particularly enjoyable fuck. That didn't sound good, and I said so, but she replied, "Hey, it's not bad, but it's something about me that you need to know."

I couldn't imagine what she was going to tell me -- she had a secret boyfriend -- or husband... she was a CIA spook, or she was wanted by the police. I couldn't even guess, and if I had tried, I'd have never got it.

"So," she continued, "this really turns you on, doesn't it," stroking her empty shoulder with her single surviving left hand. I nodded. "Well," she continued, "actually it turns me on too. I love having one arm, I love having people look because of it, and I love having the empty place stroked and played with. You must've noticed that I never try to hide it. If I'm wearing a long-sleeved blouse, I usually let the sleeve just dangle and flop around. And I love wearing sleeveless tops so the armless shoulder isn't covered. I enjoy watching the way people look. Some turn away pretending they didn't see, but some stare at my empty shoulder with pity, with shock... and some, clearly, with lust. I especially enjoy that. It's like I'm exposing my tits, which probably nobody would notice." She giggled at that.

I said, "I don't understand it, but..."

"Neither do I," she said, but it's been true since I was a little kid."

"But I thought the accident happened when you were... older."

"Yeah, that's the secret. It wasn't an accident. The motorcycle story isn't true. It's just a bullshit cover story." She paused, took a deep breath. "Here goes: Nothing happened to my arm -- no accident, anyway. I went to a clinic in Mexico and had my arm amputated because I didn't want it. I wanted to have one arm. I wanted to be a one-armed girl."

Okay, that stopped me. I just sat there with my mouth flapping, not knowing what to say, how to respond. Finally I said, "But how... what... when.... oh shit, just tell me the story!"

"Hush," she responded. "I am telling you. Let me get on with it."

I hushed.

"When I was in the 5th grade -- I guess I must have been about ten or eleven, one of the girls I knew, did have an accident. She was hit by a car, and they had to amputate her arm, her right arm. She returned to school with just one arm, and a dangling empty sleeve. And for some reason I didn't understand, and still don't, I guess, that just blew me away. Her arm was off at the shoulder, and with no stump to hang it on she never wore a prosthetic, if she ever had one. I was fascinated to watch that empty sleeve flap around and watch her do things with just her one arm and hand. It never seemed to bother her that she only had one arm, and all-in-all, she was just one of the girls.

She and her family moved away after just that one year and I never saw her again, but I never got over the idea that someone could just have a body part removed and still live their life. I would put on a shirt without my arm in the sleeve -- always the right sleeve -- and look at myself in the mirror, appearing to have just one arm. I never got over the weird sensation it gave me to do that."

"Of course, nothing really came of it. I'd play my secret game in the privacy of my bedroom, and nobody ever knew. It was my secret, and that was it."

"But then, in my second year at UT, I met a guy. We really hit it off, and began a, well, intimate relationship. I mean, we fucked. Did we ever. We fucked regularly, all through that year. There actually wasn't much more to it. We weren't all that in love or anything, but there seemed to be some kind of chemistry, I guess. We couldn't break up, we just fucked. My folks found out, but instead of getting all mad they figured it'd pass, and my mother took me to the family doctor for a prescription for birth control pills. I think they thought it'd all be over eventually, and my 'youthful lust' didn't need to leave me a single mother.

"Besides, since I wasn't the most attractive girl on the block, they (and I!) thought it was just as well that I had a boyfriend who would squire me around to the various school activities, and I wouldn't be a wallflower. I guess they thought it was a small price to pay. To me, paying a price' was the furthest thing from my mind.

"So, we finished sophomore year, still fucking away at every opportunity. When we returned for our junior year, we rented an apartment together, and pretty much continued as always. I figured we'd finish school, graduate, and then just go on with our lives."

"But then things took a sort of weird turn. Danny, my boyfriend, or whatever he was, met a guy in one of his classes who wore a prosthesis, an artificial leg. And through him he learned that there was a group on campus, an amputee support group. Now how that worked I never knew exactly, but in getting to know the guy, Danny also found out that there was a more or less tacit part of the group who weren't amputees at all, but were something called 'wannabees', otherwise normal people who wanted to become amputees. Well, I'd never heard of such a thing, but it turned out that something clicked with Danny, and he realized that he actually fit into that group."

"He told me about it, and the old desire awoke in me. Long story short, if it's not too late, we both became pretenders. I pretended to have one arm, and Danny pretended to have one leg. I know it sounds weird, but the greatest sex we ever had after all that time in the sack, was when I'd wear a t-shirt with my arm tucked inside, and he'd have his leg bound up with an ace bandage. He'd spend a day, usually Saturday, on crutches, and I'd fix dinner with one arm, leaving the other inside whatever top I was wearing.

"Of course we kept it a secret, except for some other members of the group. There were two other couples -- that we knew about, anyway -- that had similar arrangements, and we began to get together for... I don't know what to call it, except group sex, I guess. We'd spend the weekend in wild orgies with one or the other of these couples -- sometimes both -- then on Monday morning we'd get dressed and go back to our normal school lives.

"Then school was out for the summer, and we all went our separate ways -- except for Danny and I, who stayed in our apartment through the summer and continued as we always had.

"But when we all returned to school for the fall semester, lo and behold, one of the couples came back on crutches, and they weren't pretending! Each was now actually one-legged. Somehow, over the summer, they had managed to fulfill their wannabee fantasy. Needless to say, they were instantly the most popular pair in the uh, community, and their story was immediately in demand.

"Turns out, the amputee support group had known all along about a clinic in the suburbs of Monterrey which, for a price, would do any kind of surgery anyone wanted, no questions asked. We had no idea at the time but found out that several of the actual amputees in the support group had made the trip in the past, and had achieved their wannabee desires. The couple was quite proud of their achievements, and we resumed our group sex activities. I had my first sex experience with a real one-legged guy, and Danny, of course, with the girl. Naturally, we quizzed them in great detail about 'having it done,' and the details were openly discussed among the four of us.

"By then it was becoming clear that Danny and I were not going to last much longer as a couple. There was really nothing to our relationship by then beyond the weird sexual arrangements, but I was determined to stick it out until I could get rid of my arm. Danny agreed and was pretty much okay with going our separate ways. He, of course, felt the same way about being one-legged, so we continued as always.

"The final arrangement worked out after the end of our junior year. Instead of going home for the summer, we drove down to Mexico and checked into the clinic. The next morning, we each had an appointment with the surgeon.

"I explained why I was there; I wanted my arm amputated, not because there was anything wrong with it, but just because I didn't want it anymore. I wanted it off so I could be one-armed. He nodded, asked a few more questions (in perfect English), and gave me a brief physical exam. Then we got into details; where should he do the amputation, what the stump should look like, how long, and so on.

I explained that I wanted no stump at all, I wanted the amputation to be right at the shoulder. I asked him to leave just a slight bulge, enough to keep my shoulders more or less symmetrical. He said he understood, and that he could sculpt my shoulder so that it would look like I'd never had an arm there.

The next morning as the nurses were prepping me, someone from the business office came by with some papers to sign; a release, a hold-harmless, that kind of thing. Of course, I readily agreed, but then I had an interesting thought. I told the lady that I'd sign the release in the operating room just before the anesthesiologist put me under. The very last thing I would do with my right hand would be to sign a document with it giving my permission for it to be amputated. She smiled and agreed. The prep continued; I was moved onto a gurney and rolled down the hall to the operating room. After I was on the table, gowned, an IV started (in my left arm, of course), she held up the paper on a clipboard. I signed, and they put me to sleep.