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By Connie D.
I'm Janet, the girl who opened your new bank account last month. I hope you don't mind my writing to you. I know it's a violation of bank protocol to use your address from the bank records, but I just had to write to you, even though I'm risking my job.
You mentioned how great my legs looked, and I couldn't help but notice you looking at my legs and chest today. I know it looks like my breasts have been enhanced, but I assure you they are very real. They just look large because my waist is small. And I've been wearing very high heels hoping you would notice my legs.
I've been wondering why you haven't talked to me more since I practically trip you every time you come in the bank. I guess we both know why. It's because you're crippled, isn't it? Believe me, that is not a problem. I get hot just watching you walk across the bank lobby with your braces and crutches clicking. I almost fainted the one time you walked in without your crutches.
It gets worse. I even fantasize about what your legs look like, and how far up your braces go. I fantasize about us going away for the weekend. You pick me up in your convertible with the top down. I come out to the car wearing a tight halter sundress and very high heeled strappy sandals in white patent. You are also wearing a sundress, white with spaghetti straps, a flared knee-length skirt, and shiny braces with white leather work. Your braces clamp onto white patent mary-janes. I enjoy watching you drive the car with hand controls.
At the hotel, the bellman's eyes are riveted to your legs as you swing them out of the car one at a time with your hands. Then he does a double take as I come around the car and he gets a look at my body in the tight fabric of my dress and the six inch spike heeled sandals on my feet.
Once in our room, I help you out of your braces, and we curl up for a nap before dinner. I awaken to hear running water. You are in the bathtub. I sit up in the bed, and listen as you apparently drain the tub and dry off. I am shocked to see you drag yourself back into the room with your lifeless legs trailing behind you. You explain that this is the best way to get around without your braces or a wheelchair.
You begin to dress, and I help you put on your pantyhose and braces. You watch me and smile as I secure the kneecaps and thigh straps of your braces, and my face flushes.
For dinner, we both wear black to the formal dining room of the hotel. I wear a clingy knee-length silk, and black patent platform pumps with one-inch platforms and six-inch heels. You wear a tea-length linen with a tight bodice and a straight skirt with a very high slit up your left thigh. Your braces are polished to a mirror shine, and your shoes are black patent t-strap pumps with two-inch platforms and two-inch square heels. As you crutch through the lobby, the shiny steel uprights of your braces are plainly seen below the hem, and all the way up the slit of your skirt.
After dinner, you suggest a walk on the long concrete sidewalk that divides the hotel property from the public beach. As we walk, we create an interesting rhythm between the unmistakable sound of my high heels and the metallic double click of your braces as your heels strike the pavement.
As we walk you ask me why I have never asked about your handicap. I tell you that there was no reason for me to ask, because I have known from the first time I saw you that you don't really need the braces and crutches to walk. You flash me that winning smile of yours, then ask what I want to do with the rest of the long weekend. I suggest that tomorrow we travel to another hotel, and when we arrive, I'll be wearing the braces.
You laugh and throw your hair back, then look me in the eye and say, "Whatever, sweetie. I've been dying to wear your shoes, anyway."
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