My name is Sharon. I am 26 years old, decent looks, blonde, blue-eyed -- and I have one leg, the left. My right leg was amputated after I was hit by a car one afternoon as I crossed the street on the way back to my office after lunch. At the time it was considered to be an enormous tragedy; a pretty young girl suddenly doomed to spend the rest of her life as a one-legged cripple -- a view shared by almost everyone... except me.
For some reason, from the very beginning I found the prospect of having just one leg to be absolutely thrilling. To this day I have no idea where that came from. I knew no one with one leg, no one-legged friends, or even acquaintances. I can't remember thinking that it was even possible to have a body part just... removed. But when I was told that my leg would be amputated, instead of tears and hysterics, I couldn't wait to get it done.
Instead of a leg I have only a stump of a leg, about two-thirds of my thigh, and from the beginning I was somehow fascinated by the idea. Even in the hospital, long before everything had healed and the bandages came off, I would look down the bed and get a little thrill to see under the blanket the outline of my normal left leg and foot on one side, and on the other side a sudden drop-off where my right leg now ended. I couldn't wait to get home so I could begin my life as a one-legged girl.
For some time now I've had a really good prosthesis, with a microprocessor-controlled knee, which enables me to walk smoothly with almost no limp, on almost any surface. And if I'm wearing the soft cosmetic covering and stockings, nobody but a hard-core dev could ever tell that I have a prosthetic leg.
But I almost never use the cover. I love to display the brightly-colored hardware and the wild silk-screened pink socket, to let there be no doubt that I am actually one-legged. In fact, the only time I wear the prosthetic at all is at work; I prefer crutches. I feel much more agile and in control, and I love the look of just a single leg showing beneath my skirt.
I love my stump. It's smooth and soft, and the scar on the end has faded to a pale light line. I like wearing a skirt long enough to cover the stump when I'm standing, and short enough to reveal the end when I sit. In warm weather I always wear the shortest shorts I can find, and slacks or jeans look stunning (in my view) with the empty leg folded neatly and tucked into the waistband.
And my stump is just as stimulating to me. From the beginning I could never keep my hands off of it, and even looking down and seeing my skirt with just the one leg beneath it, is a huge turn-on. In bed, if I'm alone, I almost always masturbate before going to sleep, sometimes generating a huge orgasm just by running my hands over the soft smooth roundness at the end of my stump.
A good percentage of my women partners have been amputees. Thinking back, most have been one-legged, two one-armed, one had both hands off at the wrists (she was great fun -- in ways you can immediately imagine!) -- and yes, one was born completely armless.
I should tell about the armless girl, since she is the inspiration for this story. Kathy does volunteer work at a local hospital, but as far as I know her ah... adventures, have had nothing to do with anything of a sexual nature. Her task in the hospital is counseling new amputees, letting them know that life without one or more of their limbs need not be the unmitigated catastrophe it first appears.
I have done some counseling myself, and that is how Kathy and I first met. When I was about nineteen, I was contacted by the volunteer coordinator, who got my name from our family doctor. She asked if I would be willing to talk to a cancer patient who needed to have her leg amputated. She was refusing the surgery, and the hospital staff thought a conversation with a successful leg amputee might bring her back to reality. I went to talk to her, bringing my current boyfriend, who happened to be a real hunk. I -- we -- assured her that life with one leg was more than worth living. I wasn't overly specific, but Danny made it clear that he had noooo problem relating to a one-legged girl -- in every possible way. She got the idea, allowed her leg to be amputated, and as far as I know, went on to live a successful one-legged life.
After that experience I signed up with the hospital volunteers, and over the years have counseled many new amputees. Kathy was on this staff as well, and I was fascinated to have lunch in the hospital cafeteria with a charming, completely together girl who ate with her feet. Of course I realized immediately that she did everything with her feet.
Kathy was married, and as far as I knew then, had never thought of other women in a sexual way. But she, like so many others, turned out to be intrigued by my stump. She had no stumps of her own; there wasn't the slightest vestige of arms on her smooth, perfectly formed, empty shoulders, so I'm assuming this may have had something to do with her curiosity.
As it turned out, it was more than just curiosity. I noticed that she always looked when my stump showed beneath my skirt -- as it often did, and not always by accident.
One day during lunch in the hospital cafeteria, she asked if I would mind if she felt my stump. I said no, of course not, and raised it slightly so she could reach it easily with her foot. But she smiled and shook her head, saying she'd rather we were in a more private space than the middle of the busy cafeteria. I laughed, agreeing that it'd look a little weird for an armless girl to be running her bare foot over a one-legged girl's stump. We finished our lunch, and took the elevator to the basement, where we knew there was a storage room with a door we could lock from the inside.
In the storage room there were, among other junk, several plastic-covered exam tables. I whisked the plastic sheet off the nearest, and we both sat on it, facing each other. I hiked my skirt up above my waist, crossed my leg in front of me, and propped my stump across my ankle.
Kathy kicked off her shoes and began gently running her toes over my stump. She poked and prodded, caressed and manipulated, using her feet just as though they were hands.
At first it felt different, strange even, to feel feet and toes on my stump instead of hands and fingers -- my own or someone else's. But soon I realized that I was becoming aroused. Kathy's feet and toes were having the same effect on me as a lover's hands and fingers -- but with much stronger result. My panties were wet. I began to wish she'd move higher.
