Date: Fri, 18 Oct 2002 09:05:46 -0700
From: auto240353@hushmail.com
Subject: para boxers episode 2

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para boxers

episode 2

please email the author at auto240353@hushmail.com and
visit the website for this story at http://paraboxers.i8.com

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After he finished breakfast Scott stuck his dishes in the
dishwasher. He walked into the living room and paused over
the coffee table, looking at Steve's DVDs scattered among
his own. The move-in last Saturday had been a little
stressful, he thought. Steve's brother Mike had arrived in a
Toyota 4Runner full of Steve's stuff. Steve followed in his
own car. Mike had been polite, but a little cold. He kept
asking Steve, "Are you sure you'll be okay?" Steve got tired
of this after a while and snapped, "Look, I can take care of
myself!" There was an uncomfortable silence, then Mike
turned back to Scott and they started hauling Steve's bed
inside.

Steve was moving boxes on his lap. He didn't really have
that much stuff. Other than his computer desk, bed, and
dresser, he could move almost everything else by himself,
although it took several trips. He had to lean around the
bigger boxes to see in front of him, and he was careful
going over bumps to make sure his cargo didn't fall off his
lap.

Scott wondered whether Mike thought his brother was moving
in with a boyfriend, but he didn't seem to suspect anything.
Either he doesn't know whether Steve is gay, or he thinks
Steve can't have a normal relationship, Scott thought. He
hadn't seen anything in Steve's stuff that would indicate
beyond a doubt that he was gay. Steve seemed to like
alternative rock, and he had a lot of CD's. It took them
about two hours to finish everything, then Mike leaned over
and hugged his brother. Steve seemed to be a bit
embarrassed. Scott wanted to hug him too. Maybe from his
lap.

Mike shook hands with Scott and said, "Take good care of
him."

"I think Steve is a little stronger than you think," Steve
said. Mike shrugged and left.

All week Scott and Steve had worked out every day at the
gym. Steve usually swam laps for about half an hour. It was
Scott's favorite part of the day. Steve still hadn't noticed
Scott's huge hardons, which was a good thing. But he
massaged his legs and moved them through their exercises by
himself. It was enjoyable just to watch, but Scott hadn't
worked up the courage to ask him again whether he could
help.

He also hadn't entered Steve's room since he helped move his
things. It was probably an invasion of privacy, but now that
Steve was out shopping at the mall, it was the perfect
opportunity to take a look. He was more curious than ever
whether there would be anything to suggest that Steve was
gay, and there had been a lot of stuff in his boxes that he
hadn't seen. Scott walked slowly over to Steve's door and
hesitated. Did he really want to do this? He pushed open the
door and stepped inside. There was Steve's computer desk,
with his keyboard, mouse, and monitor on top, and a bunch of
CD's lying on the surface. Mostly games, Scott thought,
picking up a CD labeled "Master of Orion 2". Naturally there
was no chair at the desk. There were wheelchair tracks all
over the carpet, snaking around and over each other. Scott
stepped over to the bed and stood there for a moment,
resting his hand on the rumpled sheets, imagining lying in
bed with Steve. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes and
tilting his head back, taking in Steve's scent. When he
opened his eyes, Kyle and Lane Carlson stared at him. Scott
stumbled backwards and nearly fell over.

What are those two gorgeous dudes doing here?

Steve's gay!

How did Steve get the poster up there?!

This changed everything. But actually, it didn't change
anything. He hadn't been flaunting his sexuality, but that
was partly because his last roommate had been straight, and
didn't know that Scott was gay, so there was nothing like
Steve's poster in his apartment. Now he could tell Steve he
was gay, and Steve would immediately fall for him, and he
would ride off into the sunset on his lap. As if! Scott
burst out laughing.

Steve hadn't said he was gay, and there must have been some
reason why. He decided he had better make absolutely sure,
so he looked around for more evidence. He opened the
dresser, but it was filled with ordinary clothes. There were
more than a few tank tops and muscle shirts, but even a
straight guy would love to show off arms and shoulders like
Steve's. He picked up a pair of short, sexy boxers, and
thought about how Steve didn't mind exposing his paralyzed
legs. The better for me, he thought.

As he placed the boxers back in the drawer, he noticed the
corner of something sticking out from the stack of
underwear. He pulled it out. It was a photograph. Steve's
body filled the frame. He was rock climbing, hanging on to
the side of a cliff. His chalked fingers grasped protrusions
in the rock, and his light blue Y-back tank top showed off
his well-formed shoulders and arms. The toes of his climbing
shoes were jammed firmly onto small ledges, and his black
spandex shorts hugged his lean, muscular thighs and calves.
They bulged as they held him against the cliff. Steve's legs
were so different now, wasted sticks unable to move at all,
that Scott felt tears well up in his eyes. Would he be
willing to give up the sexiest body on earth if it meant
that Steve could walk again?

Scott rubbed his eyes and carefully replaced the picture in
the drawer. Then he remembered Steve's bathroom; he never
went in there either. Scott dropped Steve's boxers back in
the dresser and walked quickly across the hall to the
bathroom. He glanced at the toilet and remembered how Mike
had installed the raised seat there with handles so Steve
could transfer onto it. Scott walked over to the shower and
looked inside. It was still damp inside from Steve's shower
that morning. Steve's shampoo was sitting next to the shower
bench and there was a tube of body lotion as well as soap.
There was something familiar about that body lotion. Scott
looked closer and realized it was lubricant!

He was so excited he nearly slipped on the damp tile. That
confirmed it! But wait, why would Steve need lube? He wasn't
planning on, um, doing that with anyone anytime soon, was
he? He picked up the tube and for the first time looked at
the fine print on the back. "Uses: Lubricates condoms,
provides personal lubrication, and eases insertion of rectal
thermometers, enemas, and tampons." Scott gagged and felt a
bit ill as he realized what else lube could be used for. He
held the tube far from his body and replaced it quickly,
almost dropping it, then hurriedly left the bathroom. So it
wasn't a sure thing, then. Scott sighed and went into his
own room. He began picking up the dirty clothes, magazines,
and CD's scattered about the floor. If he was going to
seduce Steve, he'd better make sure his bedroom was
wheelchair accessible.















Steve wheeled into the elevator. Their apartment was on the
third and highest floor, which was fine with him because it
was quieter. If there was an emergency, he supposed Scott
would carry him down the stairs. For some reason, that
thought excited him. Steve couldn't get an erection, and he
felt nothing down there, but there was a warm feeling in his
chest that spread through his arms. He suddenly remembered a
similar feeling when he was sexually aroused, before the
accident. Was this some kind of orgasm? No way, he thought
with a sigh, turning his chair around so it faced the door.
He hit the button for the ground floor.

He wheeled out of the elevator and towards the exit. When he
was learning how to use a wheelchair, one of the tricky
parts was doors with spring hinges. The exit door to the
parking lot swung outward to the right, away from him, which
was a bit easier than a door that swung towards him. He
leaned forward and pushed the horizontal bar with his right
hand, opening the door, while pushing forward on his left
wheel with his left hand. The three-inch rollerblade wheels
at the front of his wheelchair bumped over the threshhold.
As the pushrim near the bottom of his right wheel touched
the door, which was now open ninety degrees, Steve reached
back with his right hand and pushed forward on his right
wheel. His right pushrim now held the door open while he
wheeled through it. Outside, the sidewalk was concrete, and
it was easier to wheel on than the carpet in the apartment.

He had parallel-parked his car, and it was thirty yards from
the nearest curb cut at the corner. Rather than wheel there
and back, Steve just jumped the curb like he usually did. He
wheeled to the edge of the curb where there was a space
between cars big enough for his wheelchair to get through.
His front wheels were just a few inches from the curb. He
did a wheelie, pushing back a bit on the wheels and then
suddenly pushing forward. His front wheels rose a few inches
into the air and his chair tilted backwards, balancing on
the large rear wheels. He pushed forward carefully in the
wheelie position until his rear wheels went over the curb,
dropping with a jolt to the street. He let his front wheels
fall to the ground. Steve looked down and saw that the jolt
had knocked his right foot off the footrest, so he put his
right hand under his right thigh and lifted his foot back
into place. Then he wheeled around to the driver's door of
his car.

He opened the driver's door and transferred in, lifting his
right foot into the footwell, shifting his butt across to
the driver's seat, leaving his left foot on the ground
outside for balance. He leaned out and pulled one wheel and
then the other off his chair, stowing them in the rear
footwell, then folded the back and picked up his wheelchair,
moving it easily across his body and onto the passenger
seat. Steve picked up his left leg and moved it into the
car, being careful not to scratch his bare calf as he lifted
it past the edge of the doorway. He shut the door and
brought his seatback up to a normal position. He fastened
his seatbelt and started the car, gripping the motorcycle-
style throttle handle and handbrake with his left hand and
steering with his right. He pulled out of the parking space
and headed for the mall.

It was just a few miles, but he took the long way through
the hills so he could have some fun. He drove into the
multilevel parking garage, its compact spaces almost
completely filled with weekend shoppers' vehicles. Even the
handicapped spaces were mostly occupied, but Steve found one
on the first floor between a large white Ford van and a red
Buick sedan. On the ground to the left of his space diagonal
white stripes marked off a wide path for his wheelchair. He
reclined his seatback, opened the door, and lifted his
wheelchair out. He attached the wheels, then transferred
into the chair and closed the car door, making sure it was
locked. He wheeled towards the two-lane road which separated
the garage from the mall, pausing at the crosswalk while a
few cars drove slowly past.

As he wheeled across, he felt a cool wind on his bare arms
and shoulders. It rustled his hair a little, and he looked
down at his bare calves, where he couldn't feel the wind.
His hips were wider than his knees, so from a top view his
thighs slanted inwards from back to front along the seat,
the insides almost touching, and they were mostly covered by
his jean shorts. His bare knees and calves nearly touched
each other on the inside, and his calves were so narrow that
there was plenty of space between the outside of his calves
and the frame of his wheelchair. Two vertical aluminum bars,
painted red like the rest of his chair, connected the front
crossbar of his footrest with the front of his seat. From a
side view, they were just in front of his calves. From a
front view, they slanted slightly inwards from top to
bottom, because his seat was fourteen inches wide, and his
footrest was narrower at about ten inches. Steve remembered
an ad for his wheelchair that said the frame "positions and
protects your legs". Those two bars had certainly saved his
legs from injury many times; he could see the nicks and
scratches on them. He wouldn't even know if his legs got
hurt until he looked down and saw them bruised and bleeding.

He snapped back to reality as he reached the far side of the
crosswalk. There was a curb cut there, but also a deep
groove between it and the road. His three-inch front wheels
would get caught in the groove, plastering him all over the
sidewalk and scratching up his bare legs. It had happened
before. To avoid this he did a small wheelie as he reached
the groove, lifting his front wheels briefly so they passed
over it. His rear wheels traversed the groove easily, and he
gave them a shove to get up the curb cut. Then he continued
towards the glass doors of the mall.

Ahead of him walked a young couple, a guy and girl, dressed
in casual summer clothes. As they reached the door, the guy
opened the door for the girl, who walked through, then he
turned and noticed Steve. He glanced at Steve's beautiful
upper body, then looked down and saw his shrunken legs,
tucked neatly into his wheelchair. He stiffened slightly,
but said nothing. Steve wheeled past with a "Thanks," doing
a small wheelie and bumping his rear wheels over the
threshold. The girl was waiting inside and stared briefly at
Steve, then looked away.

Steve continued wheeling himself deeper into the mall,
keeping an easy pace, about the same speed as a carefree
walk. The stroke of his arms was automatic and effortless.
He bent his elbows to place his hands on the pushrims just
behind his body, pushed firmly until his arms straightened,
then he let go of the pushrims at the last possible moment.
He allowed his straight arms to swing backwards naturally,
bending his elbows as his hands moved past his body so he
could grasp the pushrims again for another stroke. His hands
traced a flattened circle with each stroke, the curve of the
wheels forming the top of the circle, the backswing of his
arms forming the bottom.

Most people he passed just glanced at him and then ignored
him. He wheeled towards a young guy, about six feet, maybe
17, who did a double take at the contrast between his
muscular upper body and his atrophied legs. He felt the guy
staring at his legs as he wheeled by. He looked to his left
at the reflection in a shop window and saw the guy stop,
turn around, and keep staring at him. Steve felt a flush
creep up his neck, but he ignored the guy. This was one of
the times he wished he could jump out of his wheelchair and
kick some butt.

Part of the problem was that he had the height of a five-
year-old. The mall was crowded, and as he wheeled behind
couples who cleared a path for him like blockers in
football, his eyes were about at their belt level. He dealt
with it, just like he dealt with everything else about being
paralyzed and in a wheelchair. Everything? Suddenly he
thought of the small matter of sex. Scott was really sexy,
but what did he really think? Was he letting Steve live with
him out of... pity?

He stopped wheeling, feeling a bit shaken, and pulled over
to the middle of the walkway, near some benches, so people
could get by. He rested his chin on his right palm, leaning
his elbow forward onto his right thigh, experiencing the
familiar sensation/no-sensation interaction that occurred
whenever he touched his legs. He decided it was better not
to think about Scott that way. There were two guys sitting
on a bench nearby, about 14 or 15, both slender and good-
looking. A couple? Steve suddenly realized they were
stealing glances at his shoulders and grinning at each
other. They were sitting closer together than straight guys
usually sit, and their hands just might have been touching,
hidden between them on the bench. Steve grinned too and
pushed off, doing a big-air wheelie as he passed in front of
them, his front wheels flying off the ground. He heard an
admiring whistle behind him, and he grinned wider. There
were some cool guys here.

He wheeled over to the elevator and hit the button. After a
few moments the door opened and two women pushed baby
carriages out, glancing briefly at Steve. He wheeled into
the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. He
rolled over to the glass wall in back and watched the
milling crowds as he rose slowly about twenty feet to the
second floor of the mall. It wasn't really a floor, but a
wide raised walkway in front of the shops, with bridges
connecting each side of the mall. Steve wheeled out of the
elevator and turned right towards the Abercrombie and Fitch.
As he approached, the good-looking employee standing outside
the store greeted him politely. He was a teenage guy with
short brown hair wearing a typical Abercrombie outfit. Steve
always wondered how they found such cute guys to work there.
He wheeled in, appreciating the wide aisles between display
racks. Alternative rock played medium-loud on the audio
system. On the wall was a giant black-and-white photograph
of Kyle (or was that Lane?) wearing a white tank top. That
was something like what he wanted. He wheeled over to that
section and looked around, stopping to pick up a pair of
dark green baggy shorts off a display table, then zigzagging
through the more cramped aisles. His wheelchair was narrow
enough to fit, even though he was still wider than a typical
stander by a few inches. He reached a rack with sleeveless
tees and picked up a grey one in medium. "Abercrombie and
Fitch" was written across the front, along with the number
39, about an inch high. The cotton felt thick and soft.

He dropped it into his lap on top of the shorts and wheeled
towards the dressing room. As he turned past the cashier,
the clerk asked, "Do you need any help with that?" Steve
smiled and said, "No thanks, I've got it," feeling the
clerk's eyes following him as he rolled by. He wheeled into
the dressing room marked with the handicapped symbol. It was
larger than a usual room, with no bench inside, and the door
opened outward. He pulled off his tank top first, hanging it
on the wall hook, and put on the sleeveless tee. It fit
well, hugging his tight abs, and his shoulders were shown
off nicely. He hung the new shorts on the hook as well, then
leaned over and grabbed his right ankle with his right hand,
lifting it up and laying it on his left knee. He unlaced his
immaculate blue running shoe and pulled it off his foot,
tossing it into the corner of the room next to some
discarded clothes hangers. He grabbed his ankle and lowered
his right foot back onto the footrest, then picked up his
left ankle and pulled his left shoe off as well. Steve
unbuttoned and unzipped his jean shorts, then did a pushup
and used his thumbs to pull down his shorts. He lifted his
butt forward to the edge of the cushion and pushed his
shorts down to his ankles, then pulled one foot at a time
out of his shorts. He grabbed the Abercrombie shorts off the
hook and hung his jean shorts up, picked up his right foot
and stuck it into the right leg of the shorts. He picked up
his left foot and stuck it in the other leg, then pulled the
shorts up to his knees and as far up his thighs as they
could go. He did a pushup again to lift his butt off the
cushion, grabbed the waistband of the shorts and pulled them
up over his butt. Steve zipped and buttoned the shorts and
slid his butt back into place, adjusting his socked feet on
the footrest.

He pushed open the door and wheeled out of the dressing room
to check himself out in the full-length mirror. The clerk
was standing outside. He was another uncommonly cute guy,
dressed in an orange tee and long shorts not unlike the ones
Steve had just put on, along with skate shoes. Steve looked
up and saw him staring at his thighs. His new shorts were
very baggy with large pockets on the sides. Steve's jean
shorts had fit loosely around his narrow thighs, and these
shorts were even looser, creases showing all along their
length. His knees were almost touching, as were his bare,
tanned calves.

The clerk noticed Steve had stopped wheeling, waiting for
him to get out of the way, and stepped back quickly,
stammering, "Uh, you look, good in that... sir," unable to
take his eyes off Steve's sticklike calves.

"Thanks," Steve said, and wheeled a little closer to the
mirror. The tee looked great, showing off his arms with that
Abercrombie style. His calves looked the same as they always
did from the front, but the shorts fit fine, almost covering
the tops of his bony knees. His knees hadn't shrunk any --
there really wasn't any muscle to shrink -- while his thighs
and calves had, so his knees seemed to bulge a bit in
comparison. He turned his chair to the right, checking out
the side view. As usual, his thighs looked very flat, but
the shorts were stylish. He could put his wallet and keys in
the cargo pockets so they would be easier to pull out. When
he wore jean shorts, to get his keys from the front pocket
he had to shift his butt forward and lean back to expose the
mouth of the pocket. To get to his wallet from the back
pocket he had to shift his butt forward and bend over,
otherwise his back pocket was stuck between the cushion and
the back of the wheelchair. Steve turned his chair all the
way around so his back was to the mirror and looked over his
shoulder at his reflection. The low back of his wheelchair,
just two or three inches higher than his waistband, was just
wide enough for his hips. He turned away from the mirror and
saw the clerk watching him.

Steve grinned and said, "Is it okay if I wear these out of
the store? It's easier than changing back."

"Sure!" The clerk nodded too many times.

Steve wheeled back into the dressing room and over to the
corner, leaning over to grab his shoes, then turned his
chair back away from the wall to give himself more room. He
could feel the clerk staring as he picked up his feet one by
one with his hands, stuffed them into his running shoes, and
dropped them casually back onto the footrest. Steve turned
his wheelchair around to the other side of the dressing room
and grabbed his tank top and jean shorts off the hook,
setting them on his lap. He reached under the wheelchair
seat and unfastened the nylon bag that held his cathing kit.
He managed to stuff his clothes in. It was too early for him
to cath for the second time today; his bladder probably
wasn't full yet. He put the bag back under the seat and
wheeled out of the dressing room. The clerk followed him to
the cashier and rang him up, scanning the tags that were
still attached to Steve's new clothes and then cutting them
off. Steve grabbed a credit card from his wallet, then put
his wallet in a cargo pocket on the front of his shorts.

He signed the receipt and left, wheeling past the cute
greeter at the entrance who politely avoided staring at him.
Steve stopped suddenly, admiring his biceps, and asked,
"What time is it?" He looked at his watch and said, "Half
past eleven." He probably wasn't gay, Steve thought. He said
"Thanks" and wheeled towards the elevator. It was later than
he had thought. He wanted to visit the record store as well,
so he started wheeling faster, passing the standers, pushing
with stronger and more frequent strokes. His front wheels,
three-inch hard plastic Rollerblade wheels, clicked rapidly
across the tiled floor. There was a line of women with baby
carriages and small children waiting for the elevator, so he
decided to take the escalator instead. At the top of the
escalator, he did a wheelie, lifting his front wheels high
off the ground and tilting his thighs back about 30 degrees,
then wheeled onto one of the moving steps. He grabbed onto
the moving handrails on the sides of the escalator with both
hands, holding his chair in place. As the escalator
descended, his rear wheels soon became wedged between the
step they were on and the step behind him. He kept holding
on as he went down the escalator, smiling inwardly as he
noticed people below staring at him. Bet they didn't know he
could do this. As he reached the bottom and the steps
flattened out, he let his front wheels fall to the ground
and he wheeled forward off the escalator.

Steve turned left and wheeled toward the record store,
weaving around groups of shoppers and avoiding armfuls of
bags swinging perilously at their sides. He wheeled through
the narrow security sensor at the entrance and over to the
pop/rock section. The store was crowded with young people
who generally ignored him. One guy looked at him with what
seemed to be admiration in his eyes, then looked away. Even
when people didn't look directly at him, they still moved
carefully to let him through. He found the M section and
spotted the Matchbox-20 CD he was looking for, but it was in
the display at the top of the rack, out of his reach. He
turned his chair around, looking for a clerk. Standing
behind him was the guy who had admired him earlier.

Steve said, "Uh, excuse me? Can you help me get that CD?"

"Sure... this one?" He pointed at a CD.

"No, the one on the left. Yeah, that one." Steve looked more
closely at him. He was almost as tall as Scott, twentyish
and Asian with short spiky hair and small oval-rimmed
glasses. He reached over and grabbed the disc, handing it to
Steve. Then he crouched down, squatting on his heels so his
face was at Steve's level.

"It's cool to see someone as independent as you," he said.
"I saw you going down the escalator. You look like you don't
need anyone's help, so I think it's even cooler that you
aren't so proud that you won't ask for help when you need
it."

"Uh, thanks," Steve said. He wasn't sure what to say. "It's
cool of you to speak to me eye-to-eye. Most people don't."

"I learned to do this during a disabled awareness day on
campus," he said. "Well, take care." He offered his hand,
and Steve shook it.

How cool was that? Steve thought. Scott didn't even crouch
down when they spoke. He'd mention it to him sometime. Steve
wheeled to the cashier and paid for the CD. The clerk, a
teenage guy with small diamond stud earrings in both ears,
looked down at him curiously but didn't ask any questions.
He reached over the counter to hand Steve the CD in a small
plastic bag. Steve placed the bag on his lap and wheeled out
of the store toward the mall exit. He hurried because it was
getting late, pushing faster than before, but not quite
sprinting. The mall was too crowded. When he played
wheelchair basketball, he had to sprint a lot, throwing his
entire upper body forward to create a long, powerful stroke.
Steve pushed the heavy glass outer doors open and wheeled
through, then crossed the street to his car. He noticed how
the other cars in handicapped spaces carried "temporarily
disabled" placards on their rearview mirrors. Only his car
displayed "permanently disabled" license plates, which never
needed renewing, the handicapped symbol printed right on
them. Being in a wheelchair did have its perks. He tossed
the CD into the backseat, dragged his legs into the driver's
seat and headed home.

"Hey, I'm back," Steve called as he wheeled in, reaching
behind his chair to close the door. Scott walked around the
corner and spotted Steve in his new clothes.

"Nice shorts! Are you wearing those to the beach?"

"Nah, I think I'll just wear my trunks and this top."

"All right. Well, let me get changed and we'll get going."
Scott was about to go back to his room when he caught sight
of the CD on Steve's lap. "What did you get?"

"It's the new Matchbox-20 disc. You want to borrow it?"

"Sure, maybe later," Scott said, walking back down the hall.

"Okay, anytime," Steve said, wheeling to his room. He closed
the door behind him, then wheeled to his desk, dropping the
CD next to his keyboard. He wheeled to his dresser and
grabbed his second pair of swim trunks, which were the same
model but royal blue instead of purple. The purple ones were
ready for a wash. He had bought these short trunks because
they wouldn't chafe much against the inside of his thighs.
He knew they totally exposed his atrophied legs, but it
certainly didn't upset him to look at them. As for other
people... he was getting the impression that Scott liked to
look at his legs, because he'd caught Scott staring even
more than most people did. He wasn't sure what to make of
it. He dropped the blue trunks on his bed and began to take
off his new shorts. He shifted his butt forward in his chair
and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, then
pushed up with his palms on both wheels of his chair. His
boxers slid down along with his shorts. As his dick came
into view, Steve suddenly remembered that he'd better cath
before going to the beach. It would be more convenient to do
it at home. He grabbed his boxers and shorts together and
slid them back up again, dropped his butt back onto the
seat, and put his blue swim trunks in his lap. He wheeled
into the hallway and across to his bathroom.

"Scott, is it okay if I go to the bathroom first? That way I
won't have to worry about it at the beach." He normally
cathed after lunch, but it would be okay to do it a little
early.

"Sure, no problem," Scott called from his room. He was
already done changing into a loose light blue Nike tank top,
baggy orange Sideout trunks, and his black Adidas soccer
sandals, so he lay back on his bed and waited. He heard
Steve wheel into his bathroom and shut the door.

Steve pulled off his new green Abercrombie shorts and his
boxers together, lifting his legs out of them one by one so
he was naked below the waist. He washed his hands and
sprayed disinfectant on the tip of his dick. Then he grabbed
a catheter, broke off the cap on the sterile tip and
inserted it an inch into his dick with his right hand while
holding the shaft of his dick with his left hand. He
continued to hold his dick with his left hand while his
right hand pushed the long catheter tube, still inside the
plastic catheter bag, through the sterile tip and into his
dick. He pushed until the end of the tube reached his
bladder and urine started to flow into the bag. After it
stopped flowing, Steve pulled the tip and the eight inches
of tube out of his dick, then held the bag over the toilet
and emptied it by opening the drainage valve. He cleaned the
end of his dick with sterile gauze and washed his hands
again, then he picked up the blue swim trunks from the
counter. Holding them with his right hand, he bent over and
picked up his left ankle with his left hand, lifting his
left foot into the left hole of his swim trunks and then
dropping it onto the footrest. Then he held the trunks with
his left hand and used his right hand to lift his right foot
through the right hole, dropping his right foot onto the
footrest as well. He pulled the trunks up over his knees,
then pushed down on both wheels, lifting his butt into the
air and moving it forward, dropping it back down on the
front edge of the seat cushion. He pulled the trunks up his
thighs as far as they would go, then he lifted his butt
again and slid it back. He pushed off the cushion again and
held his butt in the air while he used his fingers to pull
the trunks all the way up. He dropped his butt back onto the
cushion and adjusted his thighs so they lay neatly next to
each other, then grabbed his new shorts and boxers and put
them in his lap. He opened the door and wheeled back across
the corridor into his room, dropped his clothes on the bed,
then wheeled over to his dresser and grabbed a couple of
large towels. He wheeled out of his room and turned left,
stopping just outside Scott's room.

"Okay, I'm ready. Do you have something to put the towels
in?"

Scott sat up quickly, then stood and walked over to the
corner of his room and picked up his old gym bag, which
already had his beach gear inside.

"Sure, you can use this," he said, walking over and grabbing
the towels from Steve.

"Let's go then," Steve said, turning his chair around and
heading for the door. "Is it okay if I drive?"

"No problem," Scott said, grinning, "Better parking!" He
followed Steve out the door and locked it behind them. They
took the elevator down. Scott held the front door for Steve,
then admired how Steve jumped the curb next to his car.

"Help me put my wheelchair in the trunk, so you can sit in
front," Steve called, wheeling around the car to the
driver's seat. Scott followed and stood behind Steve's chair
as he lifted his right leg into the car, shifted his butt
onto the driver's seat, and pulled his left leg in. Steve's
feet were bare, and they dangled limply from his calves as
he picked up his thighs with his hands. Scott rolled the
wheelchair to the rear of the car and detached the wheels,
stacking them and putting them on the floor of the trunk.
Then he lifted the red wheelchair frame and placed it on the
floor next to them. The chair fit much more easily here than
in the small trunk of his sports car. There was easily
enough room for his gym bag as well. He shut the trunk and
walked around to the front seat. Steve had already fastened
his seatbelt, and he started the car as Scott got in.

The beach was about twenty minutes' drive from their
apartment. It was a warm, sunny day, and normally the beach
was a popular one, but there were few cars in the parking
lot today.

"I guess everyone's at the football game," Steve said,
pulling into the first handicapped space. There were plenty
of regular spaces nearby as well, but the handicapped spot
had a wide path next to it for his chair. Steve opened the
driver's door and waited while Scott grabbed his chair from
the trunk. Scott attached the wheels and rolled the chair
over to the driver's seat, then stepped back and watched as
Steve transferred into it.

"Don't forget the towels," Steve said. Scott smacked his
forehead and went back to the trunk, waiting for Steve to
open it again using his key remote and then picking up his
gym bag. He closed the trunk and Steve locked the car. Then
Steve led the way toward the boardwalk, wheeling lazily. A
stiff breeze from the ocean blew through his sleeveless top,
cooling off his arms. The wind hit his legs, too, but Steve
didn't feel anything.

"It's been so long since I was last here... more than two
years," Steve said, a bit of wonder in his voice. He wheeled
ahead of Scott along the various shops lining the boardwalk,
a concrete path about ten feet wide set back about a hundred
feet from the water's edge. Scott felt a hard-on growing as
he watched Steve's bare arms and shoulders flexing as he
reached back to grab his wheels with each push.

"You want to get burgers for lunch?" Steve asked, pointing
ahead to the burger stand.

"Yeah," Scott said, snapping back to reality. Steve reached
the stand first and ordered a double cheeseburger, fries and
a chocolate shake. Scott ordered a hot dog and a vanilla
shake. There were a few plastic picnic tables near the
stand. Steve just stopped his chair next to one, not
bothering to transfer onto the bench. Scott sat down and
started to eat. They looked out across the sand, watching
the small waves chasing a few kids and a dog or two. Scott
was starting to drool, thinking about carrying Steve across
the sand, when Steve suddenly gasped.

"Hey, look at that! That ramp must be new, I don't remember
seeing it here before." He pointed at a wooden ramp, made of
large planks buried in the sand, which extended from the
boardwalk almost all the way to the water. Scott hadn't
noticed the ramp because it was further down the boardwalk
from where they were.

"At high tide, I bet the water reaches the ramp," Steve
continued, grinning. He looked at Scott and noticed that he
seemed to be upset. "What's up? If the ramp weren't there,
then you'd have to carry me across the sand!"

"Uh... yeah... imagine that," Scott said, grinning
awkwardly. Steve looked at him a little funny, then went
back to his burger. After they finished eating, they headed
for the ramp. Scott walked next to Steve's wheelchair as he
turned onto the ramp and wheeled towards the water. The wood
was very smooth, almost brand new. It looked like someone
swept it every day to keep the sand off.

"This is great," Steve said. "I guess our tax dollars are
worth something." They reached the end of the ramp, and
Steve stopped, noticing that near the water the ramp was
discolored and worn, as if that part were indeed submerged
every day. They were only about five feet from the wet sand.

"I don't want to get sand in the front casters, so I'd
better leave my chair on the ramp," Steve said. "Is this an
okay spot?"

"Yeah, it's great," Scott said. The other beachgoers were
far in the distance. He started spreading the towels on the
sand a few feet from the ramp. "You need any help getting
down here?"

"Nope, no problem," Steve said. He lifted his butt and slid
it forward to the edge of the cushion, then picked up his
legs one by one and lifted his feet off the footrest,
placing them on the ramp. He bent over and placed his left
hand on the ramp. With his right hand on the cushion of his
wheelchair, he lifted his butt off the cushion and down to
the ramp. His left knee flopped over onto the ground, while
his right knee leaned against the frame of his wheelchair.
Steve put both palms on the ramp behind his body and to the
left and lifted his butt into the air, shifting it to the
left about six inches. His right knee no longer had the
support of the wheelchair, so it flopped over to the right.
Steve reached back again, this time putting his hands onto
the sand, and lifted his butt into the air, shifting it back
about six inches. His knees started to straighten
automatically. Steve kept shifting his butt back until his
heels were dragged off the ramp and into the sand, then he
kept going, dragging his legs across the sand, his heels
leaving shallow grooves. Steve soon reached the towel Scott
had spread for him, and he used his hands to lift his legs
onto it, positioning them so they lay straight along the
towel. Steve pulled off his shirt and lay back on the towel,
folding his hands behind his head, enjoying the sun as it
warmed his bare chest and stomach. Scott was digging in his
gym bag and paused to look at Steve, admiring the bulging
biceps and shoulders of his folded arms, the well-defined
muscles of his upper body, and most of all his motionless
legs, the narrow thighs poking out of his short trunks and
extending to his bony knees, the sticklike calves attached
to limp feet that flopped to either side.

Scott found his suntan lotion, his secret weapon, and said
casually, "Hey, I've got some suntan lotion. Do you want to
use some?"

Steve turned his head to look at him.

"You don't have to get up, I'll put it on you," Scott
continued, a little nervousness appearing in his voice, "If
you don't use it, you might get a sunburn."

Steve's heart started to pound slightly. Scott was offering
to rub him with suntan lotion? That was practically an
invitation to bed. His brain was about to scream no when he
heard himself say, "Sure!"

Scott leaped over before Steve could change his mind and
opened the lotion tube. He looked down at Steve, then
kneeled next to his legs. This was the moment he had been
waiting for, when he would finally get to touch Steve's
legs. He squeezed out some lotion into his hand and reached
out slowly for Steve's left foot. Steve looked down at his
feet, wondering whether he was okay with this. He wasn't
sure -- no one had ever touched his legs before, except for
his physical therapists and his brother -- but surely this
was okay with him... Then Scott touched his left foot and
started rubbing suntan lotion on it, and it was too late. Of
course he didn't feel anything. He just watched, wondering
what Scott was feeling.

Scott felt the bones in Steve's feet, just below the skin,
with no muscle in between. He rubbed the lotion in, then
continued with Steve's right foot, then his right calf. The
front of his calves felt the same, just bone with no muscle.
The most amazing thing about touching Steve's legs was that
they didn't respond to his touch. They felt slightly cold,
and they didn't move at all. Scott thought he could put his
hand around Steve's calf as he rubbed the lotion along its
length, although he would need to lift Steve's leg to find
out for sure. Scott already had a huge hard-on and he tried
to hide it between his thighs as he leaned over Steve's
legs. He finished rubbing lotion on Steve's left calf and
went on to his left thigh. His thigh felt different, very
soft, but still a little cold. Again there was no muscle,
but there was more fat here. The flesh wiggled slightly from
side to side as he rubbed it with lotion. Scott reached the
edge of Steve's swim trunks, and he was tempted to reach
under there and grab Steve's dick, but he couldn't, because
Steve was watching him. The expression on Steve's face was
strange. It was as if he were torn between wanting something
and not wanting it. He rubbed lotion into Steve's right
thigh as well. Scott grabbed his tube of lotion and squeezed
some more onto his hand, then started on Steve's stomach.

Steve watched as Scott finished with his legs and grabbed
some more lotion. As Scott reached for his stomach, Steve
tensed slightly, his stomach muscles becoming more defined.
Then Scott touched his stomach. He felt the warmth of
Scott's hand mixed with the coolness of the lotion, and he
jumped a little, then relaxed as Scott firmly spread the
lotion over his stomach and started to rub it in. Steve
looked up at Scott, smelling the fresh scent of clean skin
mixed with his fragrance, the essence of roses brushing his
consciousness. Scott's pecs bulged above his six-pack, even
better defined than Steve's own, smooth, hairless, and
nicely tanned. Scott started to rub lotion into his pecs,
and Steve felt it then, a warmth spreading in his chest that
came from within. He had felt this before... when was it?
When he embraced his boyfriend, pulling his body close, the
invitation to a kiss? Steve looked up into Scott's eyes, and
Scott paused.

Scott looked down into Steve's eyes, the darkness infinitely
deep holding secrets yet to be revealed. He placed his right
hand down next to Steve's head, and leaned down.

Their lips met, and Steve's eyes widened as he tasted a
dream. His hands found the back of Scott's head and pulled
him closer, his tongue wrestling with Scott's. Scott fell
onto Steve's body, his left hand running down the side of
Steve's torso, his right hand grabbing Steve's shoulder.
Steve felt his chest against Scott's, and the warmth in his
chest grew even stronger. He couldn't feel Scott's dick
pressing insistently against his thigh, but he felt a great
passion, tears coming to his eyes as he realized how much he
had missed this.

"FAGGOT!"

The voice came from above them. Scott scrambled off Steve
and rolled over. Three burly guys stood a couple of yards
away, looking down at them with nasty sneers on their faces.
They were about twenty and wore running shoes and sweatsuits
bearing the logo of the state college located nearby. The
one who had spoken now stared at Steve's stick legs, then
saw the wheelchair sitting on the ramp a few feet away.

"You're raping a gimp, faggot? A gimp who can't even get it
up? The poster boy for Viagra?" The three of them laughed.

Scott leaped to his feet. "Take it back!" He was furious,
not because they were calling him a faggot, but because they
were taunting Steve. He started walking towards them, but
felt Steve grab his ankle.

"It's not worth it," Steve said.

"Listen to your gimp, faggot. Otherwise you might end up in
a wheelchair for life!" They jogged away, hooting with
laughter.

Scott was shaking with anger. He looked at Steve, and saw...
tears? "Steve, are you okay?"

"I -- don't feel so good. I guess it was lunch. Is it okay
if we go home now?"

"No problem," Scott said, concerned. "Can I help you get
back to your chair?"

"No," Steve said, a little more forcefully than he needed
to. "I mean, I'm fine." He dragged himself over to the
wheelchair and lifted his butt up to the cushion, then
picked up his legs one by one and moved his feet into the
footrest. He shifted his butt back into place and then
folded his hands in his lap. He looked over at Scott, who
stuffed the towels into his gym bag and then walked over.
Steve started wheeling back towards the boardwalk and Scott
followed, trying to catch up.

"Steve, are you okay?" Scott called after him. They reached
the car and Steve transferred in, but instead of letting
Scott put his chair in the trunk, he started detaching the
wheels himself.

"Is it okay if you ride in back, Scott?" he asked.

"Um, sure," Scott said, getting in the backseat as Steve put
the wheels in the right rear footwell and pulled the frame
of the wheelchair into the front seat. Steve started the car
and headed home.

"Steve... what they said, don't let it bother you," Scott
said. "I mean... you can get it up, can't you?"

Steve didn't say a word.

Scott could have smacked himself. He tried to think of
something to say, but nothing came to mind, and then they
were home. Steve pulled up in front of the entrance but
didn't turn off the engine.

"I think I'll go work out a little, to clear my head," Steve
said.

"I'll go with you--" Scott began, but Steve finished,
"Alone. If that's okay."

"Okay," Scott said, flustered. He got out of the car. "See
you later, then."

"See you," Steve said. The car pulled away.

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please email the author at auto240353@hushmail.com and
visit the website for this story at http://paraboxers.i8.com

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