Rehabilitation

Rehabilitation: A narrative from Ms. Gimply's collection.

We were on our way to our first party since I was injured. It was only an informal afternoon gathering at my cousin Mary's place. Tad, my husband, had helped me into the car and stashed my wheelchair in the trunk. I was looking forward to getting out. But I was nervous about showing my newly acquired disability to so many old friends and acquaintances not to mention all the strangers who would be there. I reminisced as Tad drove.

It would be a cliche to say that I never knew what hit me. And it would not be exactly true. The accident was patiently and slowly explained to me when I began to emerge from the coma three months later. I gradually realized that a slate shingle had blown off an old building and struck a glancing blow to the right side of my head as I innocently walked along a city sidewalk.

I received a large monetary settlement to cover my rehabilitation and the adjustments to disability that were expected to be required for the rest of my life. The negotiations were helped along by the convenient fact that Tad is a personal injury lawyer of some renown. He actually got a cash settlement, himself, for lost companionship! The process was also helped along by the fact that the building owners had a history of citations for unsafe conditions.

The money was more than enough to pay for a top flight rehabilitation center where I spend my weekdays. A van comes every day to pick me up and then delivers me at home in the late afternoon. They had helped me to learn to dress myself and to take care of my personal needs. I could even put on my own makeup if I clasped both hands together and held my elbows in close. Then the trick was to move my face instead of my hands. It seems wierd but it works.

In spite of the size of the settlement, it couldn't really make up for the consequences of a brain injury. After all the speech therapy, I still speak as if I am fighting to talk around a three-inch wad of chewing gum. It gets worse if I try to raise my voice to be heard over any noise. If I am laughing (or crying)I can barely make myself understood.

I have little control of the left side of my body. I can feel firm pressure on that side but have no sensation of light touches. My left arm and hand work a little bit for grasping and holding things but is useless for any kind of delicate task. Moreover, when I make no conscious effort to control it, my arm folds up like a chicken wing - the kind you see in plastic wrapping at the supermarket.

My left leg was similarly out of control. My foot arches down all the time. When I sit in my wheelchair, the leg tends to wander until it is pointing straight in front of me. Doctors suggest inserting a steel plate to stabilize the foot and to give me a slim hope of walking again. I am skeptical. My right side is wobbly but much more predictable.

When I am likely to be seen, I use Velcro bands to anchor my left arm and leg to the chair. I hate the feeling of being pinned down but it is better that making a spectacle of myself. I planned to use the straps at the party.

In spite of the physical difficulties, I grieved more about the mental challenges that I face. I cried for days when I finally realized that I could not help our children with their math homework. That part of my brain was just gone. My short term memory was erratic, too. The rehab people taught me to deal with that by keeping calendars and lists.

I am thankful that I can still write coherently. I taught myself some new tricks for doing that. I always make a tight outline of paragraphs so that my silly memory doesn't let me forget what I am doing. When I am done, I simply erase the outline topics. I think that now I write better than I did before. I hope that I can teach that trick to my kids.

I will probably never work as a regular teacher again. I have volunteered to be a writing tutor at our local high school. In spite of all their policies about accommodating the disabled, I think they tend to see the spasms and hear the chewing gum voice before they see our abilities. I am going to push them hard until I am accepted.

By now, my reader may be disappointed because I promised a narrative about sex. Please forgive me, but I felt a need to tell about all the circumstances surrounding my sex life before I actually got to writing about it. Perhaps, I had put those topics in my outline and felt a compulsion to follow through. The reader can judge. I will turn to the sex part now.

A big regret, I thought as we drove, is that our sex life had not recovered. Of course we had resumed making love once or twice a week, but it was not like the old days. I felt like Tad was reserved and holding back as if he thought that I would break. I worried that I was not attractive anymore. I also realized that I was holding back and maybe worrying that my body wouldn't tolerate the raucous abandon of our youth. I was determined to do something about it but I still had no clear idea of what needed to be done.

Then my thoughts went to my clothes. I had paid a lot of attention to how I dressed for the party. To begin with, my underwear was new. Shopping for it had been some of the best fun I've had since the accident. I went to the mall with a group from the rehab center. It was intended as part of our reentry to everyday living. The attendant assigned to me was a very handsome young college boy. I had come to know him well enough that we could flirt with each other. It felt good. Of course the flirtation was harmless. I knew he had a girlfriend whom he cared for and, of course, I was married. Nonetheless, I liked it and I think that he enjoyed it, too.

As soon as the others dispersed, I directed him to push me to Victoria's Secret. He complied, but was reluctant to enter when we arrived at the door. I told him that I really couldn't handle my shopping by myself and, besides, I needed his opinion. The biggest problem with using a wheelchair is that you can't see the person pushing you from behind. But, I sensed, he was blushing as we went in.

I knew my sizes very well, so I didn't try anything on. I imagined asking him to take me to the fitting room. I savored the thought but didn't act on it. I selected some fairly scanty panties and a matching push-up bra. I knew that the bra would give the illusion of cleavage that I didn't usually display. I paid the cashier with my credit card.

Then, on a whim, I told him that he should get a gift for his girlfriend. He blushed some more when I said that I would pay. He blushed even deeper when I asked if he knew her sizes. He admitted that he didn't. I asked him to compare her size to mine. He looked me over closely and eventually came to the conclusion that she was a little smaller all round and I was able to recommend sizes.

We shopped for panties and bra similar to mine. I insisted that we also buy her a teddy to complete the outfit. I paid cash and gave him the receipt so that he could exchange it if he needed to. Playfully, I challenged him to tell her about me. Of course he didn't need to, but I wondered what other excuse he would make for spontaneously shopping for sexy negligee that was of approximately the correct size. We stopped at another store to get a bag that did not carry the VS logo and put his purchases in it. We didn't want to arouse the suspicions of the officials of the rehab center. I remember the afternoon as the most sexually arousing since my accident.

Now I was wearing the bra that pushed my breasts up as well as the skimpy panties. They felt good against my body - at least on the right side. I completed the outfit with black slacks and sandals with just a suggestion of heel - as much as I could manage - and enough straps to hold them on my wayward feet. On top I wore a pastel colored woven pull-on. It had a deep scoop-necked front that showed off my assisted cleavage. I admit that I felt sexy. I vaguely wondered how my attendant's girlfriend felt with her new things.

Tad helped me from the car and into my chair. He tied down my left arm and leg with the dreaded Velcro. The restraint was better than having limbs flailing about, I thought. We wheeled to the porch and he pulled my chair and me backwards up the three steps. Soon we were inside. Mary was gracious and seemed genuinely glad to see me. As for the others, friends, acquaintances and strangers, there was the usual variety of reactions to a disabled person. There were long looks of pity from some. Others refused to meet my eyes. I caught a few actually staring. I pretended that they were eyeing my breasts and perhaps they were. The view must have been good from a standing position while I sat below them in my wheelchair. Mary sat beside me and chatted for a bit but had to leave to attend to her guests.

Only one other person sat down beside me so that our faces were at the same level. I really appreciated his effort. But, the poor man was a really boring conversationalist. When I tried to laugh at his attempts at humor, my speech became unintelligible. He moved on after a few minutes.

A few more people exchanged pleasantries with my and then wandered off. I consoled myself with the wine. It was an acceptable Merlot. Of course, it was a bit of a spectacle that I drank it from a flexible straw stuck in my glass. Tad had retrieved the straw from the purse that hung from the arm of my chair. It was my first alcohol since the accident. I had recently stopped the anti-spastic medications that were labeled with warnings about avoiding alcohol. I felt like I was liberated. I asked Tad for another drink and savored the second as well.

After the second drink, I bldder began to demand attention. I looked around for Tad. He was having a lively conversation with a large woman in a flowered dress. I didn't know her. She had an enormous bosom that her low cut dress only minimally covered. Tad was staring. I think that others were staring as well.

I stared, too. My first reaction was anger and jealous. Then I remembered that I had been flirting outrageously with my college boy attendant and that it had made me feel good. I guess that Tad should have the same privilege. I stared some more.

Amusement quickly took over. She was clearly more of a freaky spectacle than a sex object. In spite of that I sensed that Tad was aroused by the display. I must admit that I was a bit stimulated myself.

Then things turned even funnier. One of the canapes - a cracker covered with liver paste and chopped parsley - shattered as she bit into it. The debris fell on her breasts, covering them with crumbs and paste and little green dots of parsley. She didn't seem to be particularly embarrassed. Calmly, she began to brush the detritus away with a paper napkin as she continued to talk. Some fell to the floor while more lodged on the front of her dress. Inevitably, some disappeared into the deep crevice between her breasts. Some of the little flakes of parsley stubbornly clung to their places. They looked like grotesque little beauty spots. Tad was transfixed. Others were, as well. I couldn't take my eyes away. I wondered about applying a beauty mark on one of my breasts. I wasn't sure about which one. I was sure that it would not be green.

Eventually, things moved on and I got Tad's attention. Mary directed us to the bathroom in the master suite, explaining that it was the biggest in the house and would be easier to maneuver. We entered the bedroom and Tad closed the door behind us.

As he pushed me, I said, "I saw you staring at the overgrown tits on that cow of a woman."

He only murmured.

I continued, "Why in hell should you be doing that when your own wife has a perfectly respectable rack to look at."

"Perhaps 'respectable' is not exactly the right word," he intoned dryly.

Then I remembered that from where he was pushing he had a perfect view over my shoulder and directly down to my breasts. I thrilled to the thought and the whole thing became a game.

"Respectable or not," I grumbled, "Keep your roving eyes on me where they belong."

The bathroom was large and easy to get around in. I undid the strap holding my arm, which immediately went to its chicken wing position. He undid the restraint on my left leg that gradually started to do its own thing.

Getting on the toilet could have been a problem. At home, we had installed bars to help me transfer from the chair by myself. With no discussion, Tad solved it. He locked my wheels and lifted me to my feet (at least to my better right foot). He slipped my useless left arm behind his back and it clutched him to me without any intention. I intentionally put my good right arm around his neck and held him even closer and to support myself. He positioned me with a pivot. I liked the way that he took charge.

I held him close as he slipped his hands inside the elastic band of my slacks and moved them down over my hips and let them drop to my knees. His touch was firm and I felt the pressure on my left side. On the right side there were lovely, silky sensations. I anticipated the next step when he would slide down my panties.

He took his time. Then I sensed his hand sliding into the left side of my panties. I say that I sensed it because his touch was so light that I felt nothing. He was teasing me! I couldn't decide if I liked it or resented it. In any case, I noticed and my body noticed too. At last, he gently slipped his fingers into the right side of my panties and slowly, softly, gently slipped them down to join my slacks at my knees.

Then he sat me down. My arms disengaged and I was on my own again. My left arm folded as I relished my overdue relief. I watched him pull tissue from the roll and bundle it into a wad. I expected him to hand it to me. The months of rehab had made me perfectly capable of tending to myself.

Instead, the paper and his hand disappeared between my legs and stroked gently. I reveled in the sensation. I vaguely wondered if the right side of my crotch was more sensitive than the left. I dismissed the question as I realized that however my body was responding, it felt good.

He dropped the paper but his hand remained. He came close and, again, slipped my unruly arm behind his back. He kissed me on the lips and I pulled him even closer with my right arm. His hand continued to work between my legs, exploring the sweet places that we had learned when we were young. My left arm clutched him even closer and its companion leg was stiffly extended straight ahead.

We both knew that my arousal was at the verge of climax. We had practiced this for years before my mishap. Now he lowered his lips from my mouth to my breast - the left one! I watched as he stroked gently, so gently, with his lips and his tongue over the exposed skin. I felt absolutely nothing. He was teasing me again!

My excitement heightened as I watched but I still couldn't feel. I concentrated myself and tried to speak through the now enormous wad of imaginary bubble gum. I still don't know if he understood me as I forced out, "You, dufus! You're kissing the wrong boob!"

In any case, he kept on without responding. My arousal heightened just from watching and imagining how he would feel on the other breast. I was close to climax.

Suddenly, I felt his lips on my right breast. His breath and tongue were there, too. My whole body seemed to explode into the toilet. My arms held him tight to my breast where his lips and tongue played roughly. I convulsed again and again it seemed that it would last forever. Eventually, his hand slowed and my climaxes slowed as well. Of all the orgasms I ever had with Tad, I could not remember another on the john. Not only was our sex life back, but we had surpassed ourselves.

He managed to get some more tissue while we still embraced. He dried me slowly as I pondered again the possible differences of the right and left sides of my crotch. The questions faded into meaninglessness as he stroked me and then dried the exposed skin of my breasts.

He raised my slacks and panties above my knees, still teasing. He lifted me to my feet and slid them over my hips and into place. My arms relinquished him again as he settled me into my chair.

I retrieved my lipstick from the purse as he took his turn for relief. As I corrected my makeup, I giggled when I saw that he was as long and hard as I had ever seen him. Of course, urinating in his condition was difficult. He forced it out in little spurts and was left with little drops of pee and thicker stuff on the tip of his penis.

I asked him for more tissue to blot my lipstick and he complied. Instead I used the paper to dry him. Then I took the end of his cock between my lips and blotted them there. I blotted some more on the tissue as I giggled at the sight of his red tipped organ.

"Put that thing in your pants for now," I told him, "We need to get back to the party."

He did as I said. Then he fastened my arm and leg into place. I was completely taken by surprise at the wave of excitement I felt as he confined my wayward limbs. I had a quick and vivid image of straps on my right side as well. Were we about to go in a direction that I had never even imagined before? The reaction passed in a moment, but I mentally filed away the thought of new possibilities.

Zipped and strapped, we headed back through the master bedroom. I eyed their large bed and was tempted. I think that he was, too. We did not succumb.

Instead, I told him, "No more trips to the bar for you. You have to drive. I'll have another glass of wine. If I get a little drunk nobody will know the difference, anyway. Then, when we get home, I'm going to get crazy and have my way with you."

He only murmured.

As an afterthought, I added, "But I'll need your help to do that. Maybe you'll end up having your way with me. We'll see...." My voice trailed off.

He was silent behind me as we returned to the others, I added, "And no more staring at that freaky cow. Look straight down at me, instead. If you're lucky, I might show you some more later."

He murmured again.

I couldn't resist adding, "And if you're really an honest lawyer, you should return all that money you got for loss of companionship."

He laughed.