Once Miranda had stood back, fully naked, John almost couldn't believe what he saw. It was long and thin with hydraulics stemming out from a central pipe about as thick as her femur would be. At the top, the padded cradle met her thigh and waist in straps and bandages. At the bottom, the pipe burst out into a long, scooping blade like a hockey stick turned on its side. The prosthetic was significantly slimmer than her other leg. The overall effect felt exciting, but somehow unreal, as though he were suspending his disbelief for a special effect in a film, as though he were being fooled. She turned around slowly for him, looking over her shoulder at all times, her head snapping round like a dancer as she moved. Her push-up bra created wonderful cleavage. Her ass was nicely framed in the thong. Her leg ended just below her crotch. John felt his cock rise and strain against his pants.
"Would you like it on or off?" she asked.
"Off? Maybe it's best off?"
She smiled, somewhat blandly, and moved towards him, only now with a noticeable limp.
Inside his apartment building, John stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for down.
Six days later, Miranda still hadn't called. John tried her several times but only got her machine. He waited until he heard the entire message each time before hanging up. He knew she had others clients, suspected there  were probably many, that that was why she always called him to schedule. Right from the start, she was the one who set up the next date. It was a nice arrangement, at least when it worked. Usually they'd be together about once a week. Two hours, four hours, all night — it depended.
John had begun cleaning the apartment everyday, just in case she showed up unexpectedly. He kept the forgotten envelope of money beside the bed where she had left it. Sometimes he took the cash out and counted it like her, ten quick snaps. He was seriously tempted to spend the cash. In the supermarket that morning, he had come up short and was forced to write a check knowing that his account was absolutely dry. And payday wasn't until next week. He had thought of the money at home, wondered whether he should run back for it. He wrote the check quickly, signed with his left hand and sweet-talked the lady into taking it on his word.
As he was leaving the store, John felt his penis swell in his pants for no reason. Damn, a week without and he goes wild like a teenager. He stopped by a window near the exit and sat down on a thin ledge to wait the hard-on out. Women walked past pushing their carts and holding small metal baskets. His cock pressed harder against his jeans and he was forced to set his bags down and adjust. His face flushed, his muscles tingled, he could feel his breath getting quick. He was starting to panic when he realized what was causing the reaction.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a woman standing in front of her cart. He turned for a better look. She was about forty, had medium-sized breasts in a black sweater, wore her hair up in a bun, but below the waist she appeared to be all metal. The chrome grid of the shopping cart hid everything from her navel down — from this angle, it appeared as though she were a  double amputee in some cheap wheelchair. If he squinted, he could even pretend that the cart was a set of prosthetic legs that ended in wobbly wheels. He wondered what she would look like naked, removed from her lower torso, her body coming to a tapered end below her bellybutton like a balloon. John sucked in a quick breath and rubbed his forearm against his crotch. He set a couple of the plastic bags down on the floor beside him, the others on his knees to hide the erection.
Just off to the woman's left, another shopper stood examining oranges with her arm hidden behind a red I-beam pillar. John stared, amazed at how with a little imagination it looked as though the pillar were attached to her shoulder: a massive, powerful arm. He imagined her removing the prosthetic, the puckered hole it would leave in her shoulder.
Nearby, an Asian woman stood stocking shelves from a trolley. Beside her a low display frame hid her left leg. John thought of Miranda's leg — so skeletal, so permanent — of what it would look like lying in a coffin next to her bones. In a thousand years it would still gleam.
He slipped his hand over his zipper and rubbed once, hard. A tremor rocked him, and as he spilled cum into his pants, his head cracked loudly against the window. Several people nearby stopped to look at him. He lifted his bags and fled the store, an indigo stain spreading in his jeans.
That night John hit the streets like he used to. He needed someone to take his mind off Miranda. The air was cool, but not freezing and the girls were out everywhere by about eleven. John worked his way along the top of the park before eventually heading in. Two women approached him almost immediately. One was short and slightly fat, the other was tall and wiry. Too tall, perhaps. Without even thinking about what he was going to say, John spoke.
"You got everything in the right place?"
"Honey," said the tall one, "I got everything you want, plus a little something extra."
John looked her up and down. "Less is more, buddy. How much?"
"One fifty," she said, moving closer. "Maybe just a hundred for you."
"I'm really looking for something else — maybe someone without everything — you know . . . all their limbs?"
The two hookers took a step back and looked him over. "Sweetheart," said the little one, "you're in the wrong part of town. And there ain't no directions I can give to point you in the right direction."
Embarrassed, John turned and walked away. He could almost hear the trannies shaking their heads. "Freak," he heard one of them say, almost as an afterthought.
©2001
George Murray and Nerve.com
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