Wheels on Fire

I first noticed her in the library. I noticed the way sunlight from a high dusty window bounced off her hair. I noticed the dress she wore: a tight, fitted white cotton dress with a print of red cherries on it. She was a little prim looking, like a school teacher; just a nice looking woman standing next to me, as I reached for a book on a high shelf, stretching in my wheelchair.

The book I wanted was almost out of reach, but I got a fumbling grip on the spine and pulled, and at that same moment she leaned over quickly and whisked it from my tentative grip. No doubt in an attempt to help me out.

That annoyed me. “I can manage,” I growled through my teeth.

She ignored my complaint and turned the book over in her hands. “Jackie Collins,” she noted in a stage whisper.

I realised I was staring at her lips; they were the same colour as the cherries on her dress.

“It’s for my mum, okay.” I kept my voice low, suddenly feeling guiltily conscious of the desk staff.

“Well of course it is. A beautiful man like you wouldn’t need to read about it.” Her tongue flicked over her lips, turning the matt to gloss. She bent down slowly, so her eyes were level with mine and I could see straight down the top of her dress. Her voice dropped even lower. “You’d be surprised though, just how dirty these books can be. I think it’s quite amazing that you can find the filthiest things right here in the public library.”

I felt my face redden as she suddenly dropped the book into my lap and walked away without another word.

I sat there for several moments, my heart beating fast and my mouth dry, but I didn’t move. Six months ago I wouldn’t have even questioned such a blatant come on. I would have followed her and given as good as I had got, shown her just where such deliberate prick teasing could lead. But not now. After all, I was in a wheelchair these days. Pretty girls like her didn’t come on to pathetic cripples like me.

So it couldn’t have been a come on, I must have been mistaken, no doubt she just felt sorry for me and thought she’d talk to me for a few moments. Brighten up the day of the poor boy whose legs didn’t work anymore.

Pushing the girl out of my mind, I leisurely found the other books I wanted and checked them out. Then, balancing them in my lap, I wheeled my way carefully down to street level, by way of the sub standard ramp outside, a new addition to this ancient building.

As I zig zagged I saw her again. On the low wall at the bottom of the steps, sat the girl in the cherry print dress. She was eating an ice cream, a 99, and didn’t seem to have noticed me. I was planning to wheel straight past her, but as I did so she said: “Hey.” So, not wanting to be rude, I stopped my chair right in front of her.

“Oh, hi.”

“Come to the park with me.” She winked and jerked her head towards the iron gates over the road.

“I can’t,” I muttered, turning my head to look at her. “I’m in a hurry.”

She stretched her leg out and stuck the chunky high heel of her brown shoe into the spokes of my wheel. “Go on,” she said, pulling the ice cream smeared chocolate bar slowly out of her 99. “I’ll let you have my flake.”

I didn’t reply. I looked down at the chunky heel jammed in my spokes, trapping me. What could I do? I looked at her cherry print dress and her cherry red lips. I met her eyes and something in her expression seemed to captivate me. Silently I nodded my head.

As she leant forward and slid the chocolate bar into my mouth I felt as if I was falling under her spell. I had no choice but to obey when she whispered hoarsely: “Don’t bite it now.”

I watched her expression as she inched almost the entire thing into my mouth, a fraction at a time, and then slowly began to pull it out again. Then in it went again, then out, gradually picking up speed. My breathing quickened. I hadn’t had so much as a chaste kiss from a girl in months and now, suddenly, I was fellating a chocolate bar for this one, outside the public library.

And I couldn’t remember the last time I was this turned on.

All the time we stared at each other. I was trying to will her on with my gaze, begging for more. Wanting nothing in the world, except to let her fuck my mouth, to her satisfaction, with this make shift phallus.

But then she sighed and must have shifted position, because I heard her heel click against my spokes and the sound broke the spell. I remembered in a rush why things like this didn’t happen to me anymore. I remembered that I was sitting outside a library in a wheelchair. I remembered what was wrong with this picture. I bit down through the flake and pulled my head away.

I chewed the chocolate, licking more of it from my lips and wiping spills away with the back of my hand.

“Thank you,” I said coldly, when my mouth was almost empty.

She seemed unconcerned by my sudden change of heart, just smiled seductively at me. “Well, that’s my part of the bargain over with, now it’s your turn.”


“The deal was, I’d give you my flake if you come to the park with me, so, off we go.”

She hopped down from the wall and, making no attempt to push me, I noted, started across the road.

I followed her through the Victorian wrought iron gates, my wheels crunching on the gravel as I trailed her around the rose garden.

She didn’t say much as we followed path after path, just paused to point out the certain blooms or once, a squirrel. Most of the time she just let her eyes slide over me, looking down as if she couldn’t bear to tear herself away. I felt self conscious under her gaze, finding myself bowing my head and hunching my shoulders. But deep down inside me, I liked that feeling. There was something between us, something in the air and it scared me, but I knew I couldn’t resist it. Maybe that was what scared me the most of all.

At one point she leaned over a plucked the petal from a very dark red rose.

“Look at this one,” she said, her eyes glowing, “it’s exactly the colour of blood, but it feels so soft.” She rubbed the petal briefly on her cheek, before leaning forward and trailing it slowly across mine. Her face was inches away from mine, and I felt sure she was about to kiss me, but she didn’t, she just said:

“Let’s go to the pavilion and get some tea.”

And we did, settling ourselves at a sticky table and making perfunctory conversation about nothing. She picked up my library books from the table and looked through them.

“So,” she said, “are all these books for your mother?”

“No, just the Jackie Collins, like I told you.”

“You need to drop it off today?”

“No, I’ll do it tomorrow, on my way back from physio.”

“Right.” She put drained her teacup and placed it carefully in the saucer. “Let’s go to your place.”

“Why?” I used the last part of my resolve to try and resist her, reminding myself that whatever she said it was just pity. Just an offer of a pity fuck for a poor cripple. And, I didn’t need her pity.

She looked hard at me, her face completely matter of fact. “Because every time I look at you, I want to get on my knees and run my tongue along your footplate, until you’re desperate for me, rock hard and writhing in that chair like an animal in heat.”

I stared, thoughts of refusing her ‘pity fuck’ suddenly draining away. I couldn’t speak.

She smiled. “And I’d rather not do that right here.”

I don’t remember how we got there, but it hardly took any time at all.

I hurriedly showed her around my flat, which she surveyed with a polite lack of interest, until we reached the bedroom.

We both stared at my unmade bed. For minutes.

“You can get into bed without any help, right?” she whispered eventually, as if not wanting to disturb the charged atmosphere our mutual heavy breathing had cast in the small room.


“Well, go on then.”

And within moments, we were in the bed, both naked, and her mouth was clamped on mine. She was rough, driving her way inside and sucking brutally on my lower lip.

Her skin against mine felt so good. It was all I could do not to come just from the sound of her rapid heartbeat and the feel of her heat.

She moved from my mouth, nipping her way across my cheek until she reached my ear. “I want to fuck you with my mouth,” she hissed.

I laughed. “Don’t you mean you want me to fuck your mouth?”


She rolled me onto my stomach, with an impassioned sigh. Once I was positioned the way she wanted she straddled my legs and bent down to flicker her tongue across my exposed buttocks.

I flinched, uneasy, not sure if this was something I wanted, but somehow, I couldn’t find the words to tell her to stop. So I quivered there beneath her, as she let her tongue dart everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

I gasped when she nudged at my hidden little hole, at the same time splaying me, with one hand, so open and wanton for her. And then I found myself moaning as she teasingly let her tongue lap over it that hot little mouth, again and again, until it was so hungry, so wanting that I was thrusting my hips up to meet her every caress. Aching. Aching for something. Anything. More.

Responding to my desperate thrusting she pushed the very tip of her tongue gently inside me. I was so needy and desperate for her by that point that I bucked like an animal, half begging and half sobbing, my face buried in the pillows, while my desperate erection ground against the mattress.

Thankfully my frustration didn’t last long. One of her hands snaked underneath me, forming a lubricated fist around my aching cock. I thrust into the warm soft well gratefully. Seconds later her tongue, which was starting to feel hopelessly small inside me, was replaced by a finger, then two, and the most amazing sensation, as she stroked her way inside me with her other handb, fucking decisively and causing the most amazing sensations. I’d never felt anything like it.

And in moments, with her hands manipulating me from every direction, I was spasming for her, soaking the sheets beneath me, half screaming, half blacking out.

She held me for a long while after that, brushing my hair away from my face, waiting until I had recovered. Eventually I found I could speak again: “If that was a pity fuck,” I breathed, “then I think I do need your pity.”

She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at me. “It’s only a pity if we don’t do that again,” she said, emphasising her point with a brief kiss, before clambering from the bed and walking naked into the kitchen of my tiny, specially adapted, flat. I heard the ancient pipes squeal and then she returned with a glass of water. Slipping back into the bed so we could share sips in silence.

“I need to go to the loo.” I said, when the glass was drained.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I can manage.”

I manovered myself from the bed to the chair and wheeled myself into my bathroom. When I returned she was sitting up in bed, grinning. “Stay in the chair,” she said distantly, as I parked up next to the bed.


“You look so beautiful, naked in your chair, please, I want to see you come in your wheelchair.” She flipped back the bed clothes and crawled across the bed in a couple of quick movements, stopping to kneel up right next to me.

“Are you going to make me come again?” I asked in disbelief.

“More than that.” She licked her lips. “I will suck your cock every time I see you naked in that chair and that’s a fucking promise.” My sudden erection twitched.

And then with one final hungry look she buried her head in my lap, sucking greedily, almost before I had time to engage the break.

Her tongue swirled around the head of my cock, coaxing and teasing me to my second orgasm.

I barely had time to question whether I would be able to climax again so soon, before I exploded in her mouth. I felt my fingers tightening against the rubber tread of the tyres, nails digging in so hard I was surprised I didn’t end up with a puncture.

She lifted her head, wiping the spills from her chin and smearing them down my chest. As I went to wipe them away she snapped, “Don’t move.” I froze obediently, again feeling I had no choice but obey.

She flopped down on her back, watching me through lust lidded eyes. Hitching up her knees, she let them fall apart, exposing herself blatantly to me. I felt my breath catch as I saw how pink and wet and ripe she was. She held my gaze, as she let one of her hands trail between her legs.

She smelt so delicious, I could almost taste her, but I understood her game by now. I knew she wanted to direct the action.

“I bet you’d like to fuck me,” she murmured as she let her hand glide over her dark, shiny pubic hair.

“Yes,” I moaned, helplessly, “Oh God, yes.”

“Mmm,” she cooed, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you right now. I’m torn but, if you come and fuck me, I won’t be able to look at you. And you look so beautiful, naked in your chair, sated, with your come smeared over you. Tell me you don’t mind waiting.”

There was that hypnotic tone to her voice again. I could hardly bear it. But I swallowed hard, trying not to shake with frustration. “I don’t…I don’t mind.”

I could scarcely believe it was possible after coming twice in quick succession, but my cock stirred as I watched her movements become more vigorous.

“Have you ever come in your chair before?”

“No, never.”

“Really?” She was panting so hard now she could barely get the words out.

“Really, I’ve never. I haven’t done anything like this since, since I’ve been like this.”

“You never…you never even made yourself come, though? You never played with yourself while you were sitting in the chair.”

I shook my head. “No. I only do that in bed.”

“You should.” She was bucking against her hand now, squirming hard on the bed. “I’d like to see that. I’d like to see you touch yourself. Do it now, just so I can see what you do.”

“I can’t.” I hated to deny her, but there was no way I was going to get anything further out of my cock at this moment.

She smiled. “Just touch it. Play act for me.”

I reached down and took my very tender cock in my hand, stroking it lightly, doing what I hoped would put on a good show for her.

I’d never thought of myself as an exhibitionist before, but soon I was throwing my head back, moaning and biting my lip, acting the slut, just because I wanted to make her come harder.

And she did, as I writhed and moaned for her, she did the same for real, arching up into her own hand, and screaming something about me being the most beautiful thing she had even seen.

Much later, in the middle of the night, I woke to find her rubbing herself against my leg, sliding, wet and needy, against my unfeeling thigh. When she realised I was awake she began kissing me roughly, and, every time her mouth was free, asking me to tell her, again and again, that I couldn’t move, that I couldn’t feel her wetness coating my useless, broken legs, that I couldn’t walk.


“I can’t walk.”


“I can’t walk.”


“ I. Can’t. Walk.”

And she came, screaming, twisting both my nipples hard, so I screamed too.

I don’t know what kind of effect she had had on me, but the very next day at my physio session the therapist asked me if something had happened to change the way I felt about myself. I couldn’t help it. I ended up telling him all about her.

Well, not all about her. In fact not even half of it. I simply told him I had met the most wonderful girl and was happier than I had ever been. He suggested I ask her if she wanted to come to some of my sessions, see how I was getting on.

But she never did. We had other things to do.

Like find new ways for her to play with me in my chair. One evening she wheeled me into the kitchen and stripped me, then painted my body with warm, shiny chocolate. She wrote the word “slut” and “cripple” across my chest while I moaned for her, writhing when hot splatters dripped from her fingers and landed on my stomach.

Painfully aroused, I pleaded and begged, but there was nothing I could do to relieve my frustration. She had ordered me to keep my hands on my tyres and I did so. I was always powerless to disobey her orders. So I kept my hands in position, even when she leant forward to lick me clean and drew one nipple, hard, into her mouth, nibbling and teasing until I was a frantic squirming mess.

And she was licking me clean of come as well as chocolate.

She did indeed, one night, get on her knees and lick my footplate. And it was one of the most erotic things I had ever seen. She moaned softly as she ran her tongue along the bright metal and caressed the tread of my tyres with her hands.

I was frantic for that mouth to be on my cock, long before she had done all she wanted.

She asked me things no one else had ever asked. Breathless, late night conversations that scared me and made me want her even more: “If you weren’t in your chair, how would you move?”

“What do you mean?” I rolled over so I could rub against her, pressing close in the dark.

“I mean, well, would you crawl around? What could you do?”

“I couldn’t really crawl, I could pull myself along. My arms are pretty strong.” I felt her shiver against me.

She swallowed slowly, then said, “So, sort of on your belly?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“I’d like to see you doing that.”

“Why?” I said with a teasing smile.

“I just would. Show me.”

So I did. Suddenly the lights were on and I was in my chair, wheeling myself into the living room where there was most floor space. I let her gently tip me on to the carpet and watch me drag myself across the floor on my stomach, the best I could, naked and utterly vulnerable.

“Tell me why you’re doing that,” she said, her voice so ragged it was barely recognisable.

“For you.”

“No, no, tell me why you have to move like that.”

I changed my path and started to drag myself towards her, meeting her eyes from way down on the floor. “Because I can’t get up.”

I could tell how much this was turning her on and it aroused me to see her almost frozen to the spot with desire. My cock was painfully hard against the carpet as I continued towards her.

She stared at me in silence after that, until I reached her and ran a desperate, wanting hand up her bare leg, trying desperately to reach her cunt. As my hand grazed her upper thigh she took half a step backwards, pulling deliciously just my out of reach. And I whimpered. Begging. Helpless. Everything she loved.

Then she growled and flipped me over roughly, and we fucked until I felt sure she had worn away the carpet beneath me.

So I never actually asked her to come to my physio sessions, and she never showed any interest anyway. When the taxi came to pick me up she would just snuggle down deeper in the sex stained sheets and I would drag myself away, reluctant to miss even a second of her beautiful half hidden curves.

It was two weeks after we had first met that we had our first and only conversation about my physiotherapy. That night she straddled my already bucking, wanting body and tied my wrists to the bed frame. I struggled a little, gazing up at her handiwork. “Is that really necessary,” I said, laughing, “I’m not going to run away you know.”

“I know.” She grazed the pad of the thumb down the sensitive side of my forearm. “But the less you can move, the more I like it.”

“Would you like it if I couldn’t move my arms at all? If they were like my legs?”

“Yes,” she said huskily, rocking her hips against my erection.

Encouraged and relishing the pressure I went on. “What about if I couldn’t move any part of my body. If all I could do was blink?”

She leant forward and licked my temple. “If all you could do was blink, I’d blindfold you and then fuck you through the mattress with an enormous strap on.”

I moaned greedily as she kissed me on the lips. “But I wouldn’t be able to feel it,” I muttered into her mouth, as she pulled away.

“Well I’d have to describe it to you, wouldn’t I?” She scooted back down my bound body as she spoke, dropping kisses onto my chest between words. “Blow by blow.” And her lips closed languorously around my cock.

“So when I can walk again, is this what you’ll do to me? Tie me down every night?”

She slid her lips from my cock with a pop and sat back on her heels, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I mean to keep me helpless. The way you like it”

She frowned at me “No, no,” she said slowly, shaking her head, “what do you mean: ‘when you can walk again’?”

I stared at her and she stared right back, her mouth open.

There was a moment’s pause before I spoke. All I could say was: “Oh my God.”

“I thought you knew,” she said quietly.

But I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known until that moment. I spoke slowly, “I thought you liked to make me helpless. I thought you liked having power over me. I thought that was your thing. But that’s not it is it? It’s all about the chair. It’s all about the fact I can’t walk. That’s it isn’t it?”

“Did your physio say you’d get better?”

“He said I might. Actually I’ve been improving since…” My voice trailed off, strangely soft. “I even thought you’d be pleased.”

But now I realised that that wouldn’t please her at all.

I realised, with a sickening creeping dread, that the thing I wanted most in the world was the one

single thing she didn’t want. And she didn’t care about me. Hadn’t chosen me for her power games because of who I was. Just what I was.

It was as if a strange sexual spell had suddenly broken; as if suddenly, after almost two weeks of continuous fucking, I felt ashamed to be naked in front of her.

I didn’t need to say it out loud. Without speaking she slipped off the bed and picked her dress up from the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fastening the buttons so fast she fumbled over most of them and ended up taking twice as long. “I should go.”

“Yes,” I said, glancing up at my still bound wrists. “Would you mind untying me first?”

In reply she picked her way across the room and set me free with a few deft moves. I pulled myself upright.

“I’d better go,” she said again.

“Yes,” I said, “I think you’d better.”

And she left. It was the first time I’d slept alone in two weeks. My erection wouldn’t go down all night. But I couldn’t bear to touch it in case I thought of her.

The next morning I found a note had been slipped under my door, asking me to meet her back at the park, in the tearoom.

When I arrived she was sitting there, sipping her tea. She was wearing a blue dress. It was the first time I’d seen her in a different outfit. That cherry print dress seemed to have been crumpled on my bedroom floor for the whole two weeks we were together. A black coffee, the drink I had ordered in this same tearoom with her two weeks ago, sat across from her on the table.

I wheeled myself over.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It was just such a shock. I’d assumed it was permanent.”

“Really. Well they don’t really know.” I took the dripping filter contraption off the top of the cup, placing it messily on the table, and took a sip of the too hot liquid underneath.

“Yes, of course. I mean they don’t know for sure if you’re going to get better or not do they? And even if you do, well, I’m sure it could be okay.”

“Could it?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

I fixed her with a stare. “Well forgive me if I don’t see how, because it’s not me is it, with you. It’s just the chair.”

“No. It’s not that simple.” She ran her tongue over her lips. Suddenly my mouth felt very dry, but I knew the coffee would still be too hot. “The chair is part of you. I want every part of you.”

“Yes, especially the parts that don’t work.” I saw her swallow hard, but ignored it and went on. “Admit it, that was what attracted you wasn’t it? If I could walk you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Well, so what? You can’t. So what does it matter?”

“So what! So what if you’re not interested in me for me, just because of some sick fetish.”

“Why is it sick? We have a good time, don’t we? I have a fetish for wheelchairs, you’re in a wheelchair. What’s the problem?”

“I want you to want me for me. That’s the fucking problem.”

“I do. And that includes all the things about you that make you different from other people, including the fact you can’t walk. So can’t you want me for all the things that are different about me, including the fact that you not being able to walk turns me on?”

I looked at my lap for a long time. “No,” I said eventually, not looking up, “no, I can’t.”

I kept my head bowed and heard her chair scrape against the tiled floor. I listened to her chunky heeled footsteps walk away, before I looked up. So I don’t know if she cried. And I don’t think she knows I did.

Sometimes, when I go to the library I see her there. Standing in shafts of dirty sunlight, running her finger along a high shelf, clunky brown shoes clip clopping on the old parquet flooring. We never speak. I wouldn’t know what to say.

But if I do see her, I always end up touching myself when I get home. There’s no point in resisting her if I want to sleep at all. It’s the only way to get her out of my head.

And I do it naked, in the chair.

wicked 10From The Best of Wicked Words
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