The Gift

Big Dicks

Paul pulled out of his garage and waited momentarily to make sure the automatic door closed completely. He then eased his old Mercedes 350 out onto the street and headed toward the highway. He was still perplexed about the call he had received the day before from a woman named Becky at “Casablanca” antique shop. It seemed that there was something there he had to pick up this morning; something that, she said, had been left for him specifically and could not be delivered. He asked her to explain, but she had been vague, saying only it was something his late wife, Lorna, had requested. His curiosity piqued, he was now headed across town to find out what was waiting for him.

The store was upscale and tasteful. Paul entered and asked for Becky. The woman behind the counter was she, and she seemed excited that Paul had shown up so quickly. She led him to the back of the store and stopped in front of a magnificent mahogany bookcase. Paul gasped.

He recognized the bookcase immediately as his own masterpiece, one he had hand-crafted years before and lovingly finished as a gift for his wife. It was easily the best work he had ever done and his wife, Lorna, had cherished the piece. But financial times had gotten tough in the 70’s and the couple was forced to sell much of what they owned. The prized bookcase had been among the hand-made furniture sold. Paul and Lorna had both regretted the decision to let it go. But now, here it was in front of him—30 years later, and seemingly none the worse for wear.

Becky handed Paul a note and he immediately recognized the handwriting as Lorna’s. His wife had been dead now exactly one year today. He opened it with trembling hands.

My beloved Paul, this is my gift to help you remember me. I found your bookcase last June and bought it back. Becky will help you get it delivered to the home it should never have left. I thought the one year anniversary of my passing would be a good time to remind you I loved you with all my heart. Take care of my gift and never let it go again. Your loving wife,


Paul felt tears welling up and he apologized to Becky. She explained that she had worked with Lorna in the months before her death to plan the gift. Lorna’s instructions were that Paul was not to be notified until exactly one year after she died. She was also instructed to never reveal the cost of the piece to Paul.

Paul knew Lorna had paid with her own money. Lorna had inherited a large sum from her grandfather just a few years after they had sold the furniture. There had always been an understanding between them that that money was Lorna’s to spend as she pleased and that Paul would support their day-to-day lifestyle. He had provided for the two reasonably well but Lorna had often paid for lavish vacations and spectacular furnishings for their home.

As her passion, Lorna was also very involved with the local chapter of the Create-A-Dream Foundation, which granted the fantasy wishes of dying children. She had left all she had—almost a million dollars—to C-A-D when she died. By their mutual agreement, she left Paul nothing but her share of the home and their possessions. The couple had no children, and Paul was glad there were no offspring to fight for their mother’s money.

Paul arranged with Becky to have the bookcase delivered the following day and left. He found his hands shaking on the steering wheel. His wife was uniquely creative and that was clearer now than ever. He read the note again as he drove and fought hard to keep his emotions in check. Lorna, how wonderful you were to me, he thought. He lovingly reminisced about his wife and their life together. How angry he still was that cancer had stolen her from him just as they neared retirement age. He had not seriously considered dating or even trying to meet anyone else in the last year.

Paul had entered the northbound freeway heading back toward home and was picking up speed. The sky was gray and rain was predicted. Suddenly he was confronted with an astounding sight. A late-model Cadillac was parked off the highway on the shoulder. A woman of about 50 was raising the hood. She was exceptionally well-dressed, wearing a blue blouse and jacket and a matching knee-length pleated skirt. Knee-length for her right leg, he noted. That was because her left leg was significantly shorter and the left knee was not even visible.

The woman wore Victorian-style “granny” lace-ups with a modest heel on the right foot. But Paul noted a build-up of at least 3 inches on the sole of the left coupled with an elevated, wide heel. Even so, only the front edge of the lift was contacting the ground, her foot stretching downward to accomplish that. Black forearm crutches hung by their cuffs as she raised her arms with the hood. The rubber tips dangled and swayed above the pavement with her movement.

The woman was brunette, with raven-black hair, well-coiffed and shoulder-length. She was pretty, though showing her age slightly in the lines of her face. Other Betturkey than her atrophied leg her figure was nearly perfect with a thin abdomen and pert, firm breasts. Her right leg was actually rather shapely. The image Paul drew as he approached was of a monied lady who had probably had polio. As he slowed his car he could feel hormones flooding his body and the old passion for handicapped women ignited anew. He knew he had no choice but to stop and offer to help. In fact, he would have done so no matter who it was. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to help a disabled damsel-in-distress and he eagerly pulled the Mercedes over behind her car.

Paul exited his car as the brunette placed her crutches on the ground and began to maneuver herself back toward the driver’s door. She walked by first extending the crutches in tandem and leaning into them as she placed some weight on the short left leg and stepped normally with her right leg. She then leaned right and swung the crippled leg in a semi-circular motion until it reached its mate. Then straightening, she repeated the process. It was an awkward walk and did not seem to fit her elegant persona. Paul preferred a full swing-through gait in the women he had admired all his life, and he found himself vaguely wishing this woman used her crutches that way. But, catching and reviling himself for such thinking, he called to the woman.

“Can I help?” he ventured, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Damn thing died on me again,” she returned. “I’ve had this car in the shop twice for this same thing. They obviously don’t know what the problem really is, although they’re certainly charging me to get it wrong.” She was fuming now.

“Did you just now break down?” Paul asked.

“No. In fact, I’ve been sitting here for over 45 minutes hoping a policeman might come by or something. I just now decided to get out and raise the hood. I guess that was the right thing to do. Thanks for stopping.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?”

“I have one and I normally never go anywhere without it. But this day—of all days—I left it home. Not very smart of a crippled girl, now is it?”

Paul felt another surge of excitement simply at her use of the word “crippled.” It was a politically-incorrect term these days that perfectly described the women he was so attracted to. In spite of himself he began to think about how he could maximize his time with this lovely thing.

“Can I call Triple-A for you? Or, do you need a lift?” He blushed slightly as he realized the unintended double-entendre of his question. She didn’t seem to notice. “I’d be delighted to take you anywhere you need to go.”

“I was supposed to be at a luncheon with some girlfriends. I was already over 30 minutes late and I’ve been here for almost an hour. But, if you could take me to the restaurant where we were meeting I might be able to get a ride with one of them back home. I’ll call my garage to go get the car later.”

“Sure, no problem. I’d lock your car if I were you. And…I’ll put the hood back down for you.” Paul was sliding easily into the role of Sir Galahad. “I’m Paul Adams, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Andrea Mead.” And thank you so much for stopping to help. Andrea Mead was making her way slowly to Paul’s car as he pushed the Cadillac’s hood down. She was holding her keys and turned momentarily to aim the keyless remote at her car to lock it.

Paul tried not to stare as she first opened the back door of his car and placed her crutches on the floorboard. She closed the door and took two small steps to the passenger door, lurching heavily to the left without support. After opening the door she plunked herself down and sat facing outward, then turned and lifted her thin left leg into the car with both hands. Andrea then brought the other leg in and closed the door.

By this time Paul was in the driver’s seat once again and waited patiently while Andrea closed the door and put on her seatbelt.

“Quite a process, huh?” she said with a smile.

Paul took a breath and decided to be as frank as she seemed to be.

“Did you have polio?” he asked, trying to sound simply curious.

“Oh, yes. A gimpy girl since I was three. That’s the last time my legs were the same length. I used to walk without the crutches when I was in my teens and twenties, but I screwed my back up in the process and have been back on the sticks ever since.”

“You don’t like to use a wheelchair?”

“Hate ’em. Always have. I worked hard to learn to walk at all, and as long as I can, I will. Now…let me give you directions to the restaurant.” And she proceeded to guide Paul across town.

The two rode in silence for a while. Paul was fighting to keep his composure. He had never been this close to a disabled woman before and he was wildly excited. He had an erection that continued to strain every time he stole a glance at the short leg in the big shoe. He marveled at how the little leg supported Andrea Betturkey Giriş at all; it didn’t seem to be much bigger around than a normal arm. Yet she didn’t wear a brace. Amazing, he thought.

The day had started cloudy and it began to sprinkle as they drove. Then, upon approaching the restaurant it began to rain in earnest.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have an umbrella,” said Paul.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll make a run for it when you park.”

Paul stopped the car as close to the door as he could. He then went around to the passenger side of the car and retrieved Andrea’s crutches as she lifted her leg out of the car. She slipped the cuffs onto her arms and, to Paul’s astonishment and delight, broke into a full swing-through gait and made her way into the Italian eatery quite quickly to escape the rain. She put no weight on her short leg in this mode; it just seemed to be “along for the ride.” Paul hoped he could hide his reaction and jammed his hands into his pockets. This was some woman, he thought!

His thoughts shifted momentarily to Lorna and the wonderful gift she had given him this morning. He suddenly felt guilty because of his attraction to Andrea. Lorna knew of his fetish for crippled women but had not been able to discuss it openly with him. The one time he had surfaced it she seemed to be baffled by his admission and he never brought it up again. Worse, she had once admonished him for “looking perverted” when she caught him staring at a polio woman walking on crutches through a shopping mall.

That had been over 20 years ago. Since then Paul had had to satisfy himself with a collection of photos of disabled women he had started when he was a teenager and occasionally added to over the years. In the late ’90’s, the internet had introduced him to other men who shared his rare fetish and who provided their own picture collections online. Lorna knew nothing of these activities.

Paul winced at the thought of how his wife would feel about his current situation. Nonetheless he followed Andrea into the restaurant and as she looked around he heard her mutter, “Damn. They’re already gone. I’ll bet they wonder what the hell happened to me.”

“I’m sorry, Andrea. I’ll be glad to take you home,” offered Paul.

“You know, I’m hungry and frankly I could use a drink after all this. And you’ve been wonderful to help so much. Please let me treat you to lunch.”

Paul protested weakly. At least he hoped it sounded weak because he wanted nothing more than to spend time with Andrea. Fortunately for him she refused to take “no” for an answer and asked the hostess for a table. Paul watched the stolen glances as Andrea made her way across the room. He was thrilled to be with such a fabulous female and his guilty feelings were melting quickly.

At the table Andrea ordered a vodka and soda; Paul decided to have a scotch-on-the-rocks. The two toasted and drank and launched into an animated conversation about everything. Paul learned that Andrea was divorced and had no children. That she worked part-time as an art teacher at a local college. That the part-time employment was for fun because she had been provided a handsome settlement in divorce court. That she liked to drink. The two had another round, then another. Andrea ordered a fourth drink but Paul demurred out of a sense of responsibility and fear of a potential DUI. After an hour they left for Andrea’s home.

The neighborhood was beautiful and the house was palatial. Andrea poured two more drinks and invited Paul to sit on the couch next to her. She then stunned and thrilled him with her next question.

“Paul, would you massage my little leg and foot for me? It gets so strained and tired and a little massage makes all the difference.” She was already unlacing the built-up shoe and Paul reached over to help pull it off her foot. He marveled at the tiny foot that drooped so her toes reached just below the calf of her right leg. He reveled in taking this leg and foot lovingly in his hands and massaging them for her.

“What do you think of that poor little thing?” asked Andrea.

“I think it’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” The alcohol was blurring Paul’s normal lines of inhibition badly. “May I kiss it?”

“You want to kiss my leg?” asked Andrea with a giggle.

“Yes. And, if you don’t mind, I’d love to suck your toes, too.”

Andrea seemed astonished. “Go ahead. Permission granted.”

With that, Paul kissed Andrea’s atrophied leg passionately and easily got all the toes of her miniature foot in his mouth. She moaned with pleasure. I’ve never had anyone suck my toes before. And I never thought anyone would want to suck those toes! She lay back on the sofa to allow him more opportunity to explore. All the pent-up sexual energy from a year of mourning roared to life and Paul found himself caressing, kissing, and undressing Andrea.

“Let’s go to the bedroom. Now.” She commanded rather than suggested. Andrea was naked Betturkey Güncel Giriş now, except her panties. She retrieved her crutches from the floor and Paul almost gasped as he watched her swing herself to the bedroom, her short leg flopping and bouncing freely as she went. She was a vision of incredible beauty to Paul.

Paul undressed quickly. Andrea stood on her good leg and hugged him, reaching down to massage his straining manhood. The two kissed deeply and Paul took the initiative to pick her up and place her on the king-size bed.

Their lovemaking was rawer, stronger, and more spontaneous than anything Paul had ever experienced. Andrea was fundamentally a very attractive woman but it was her leg, her crutches, her crippledness, that drove Paul’s frenzy. And she seemed to know. She encouraged him to touch, caress, and kiss her little leg and foot.

After two hours of lovemaking Paul collapsed into deep sleep.

He did not awaken until after 6PM. Andrea was not in bed, nor was she to be found once he got dressed and began to search for her. There was no note, no obvious explanation for her absence. He was perplexed and he waited a half hour in the living room, hoping she would return. He left when she did not, feeling abandoned and greatly disappointed. Upon leaving the stately home he noticed to his surprise the name “Richardson” engraved in the brass door knocker. Andrea had said her surname was Mead. He shrugged to himself, thinking perhaps she had reverted to her maiden name upon her divorce.

Paul returned home and found himself hoping Andrea would somehow contact him, although he knew she didn’t know either his address or phone number. He resolved to return to her house the next day. Sleep did not come easily as he tossed and turned thinking first about Andrea, then about what Lorna would have thought. After all, Andrea was the first woman Paul had bedded other than his deceased wife in over 35 years.

Paul awoke with a start to his doorbell. He arose, put on a bathrobe, and quickly made his way to the front door. Two men and his newly-acquired bookcase were on the porch. He had them bring the piece in and place it in his den.

As they left one delivery man turned and said, “Becky Richardson said to tell you to check under the top shelf. There’s an envelope there for you.” Paul closed the door and went quickly to his hand-crafted prize to see what might be there. Sure enough, an envelope was taped under the shelf. It said simply, “Paul” on the front. Lorna’s handwriting again, he realized. He opened it and unfolded a much longer note than her first.

Dearest Darling,

If you are reading this all has gone according to plan. In addition to the bookcase, I arranged for another gift for you. Paul, I am so sorry I was never able to respond to you sexually as you needed me to. Years ago when you confided that you were attracted to disabled women I was initially revolted. That feeling mellowed over time as I occasionally witnessed you admiring women wearing braces and walking on crutches. But I had no idea how strong the attraction was until I stumbled on your most personal box of photographs. I am so sorry, darling; I did not mean to pry. And then later I became aware of some of the websites you discovered. I felt horribly guilty that I could not respond as you needed me to—with acceptance and understanding.

I met Andrea through Create-A-Dream Foundation. She was a volunteer and we worked on a couple of projects together. At first I was determined to make sure you never met her, but when I was diagnosed with terminal cancer I decided to approach her with an idea. Paul, Andrea was very understanding about your fetish and she agreed to create YOUR “dream” upon the first anniversary of my death. The whole thing was actually orchestrated by Becky at the antique shop. She’s Andrea’s sister and she started the ball rolling yesterday by notifying Andrea when you came to the shop. Please don’t be angry that the whole thing was staged…it was done out of my love for you.

I hope you had a wonderful time with Andrea…she’s a wonderful woman. But the agreement was that the decision whether to continue the relationship must be hers alone. To protect her, you spent the afternoon at Becky’s house, not Andrea’s. She left you because our agreement was she would take time after the encounter to consider all aspects of the situation. Andrea promised me that she would not “lead you on” unless she was sincerely interested in you. Likewise, I ask that you not continue the relationship with her unless you are interested in more than just the sexual aspect of it. Paul, I hope your “dream” was an incredible experience. Again, please know that I did this in love and out of a sense of wifely duty. I had to try and ensure you had a chance to find the fulfillment I could never provide. This was the best gift I could give.

All my love always, Lorna

As Paul reflected on the note the phone began ringing. He couldn’t bring himself to answer it because tears were flooding down his cheeks and he was overwhelmed with emotion. After five rings the answering machine picked up and a voice he knew instantly said plaintively, “Paul…are you there? It’s Andrea. I need to see you again soon…”

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