Date: Sun, 3 May 2015 11:24:34 +1200
From: Ben Highlander <dampies1960@gmail.com>
Subject: sheep in wolf's clothing 2

Lt. Dolf was there shortly after breakfast, endured at the unfashionably
early hour of 6h00. By this time I was used to helping myself with my
wheelchair so my upper body was strong and I could easily help myself out
of my bed or off the crapper using only my arms. I took no joy in the
newfound strength since it was a by-product of a long sequence of failures,
first to the anti-Apartheid movement, then to my lover Grant and lastly to
myself for getting my feet blown off.

 I anticipated the grim face of my therapist making his way into the ward
so I was not in a bright mood as I awaited him in the wheelchair beside my
bed. Being a Lance Corporal, I saluted the officer from my seated position
and he beckoned me crisply to follow him out to the equipment room. We
would be spending the bulk of our time from then on until I walked out of
there on my new "feet" together.

Yeah, right.

Lt. Vosloo didn't make any polite conversation as we ambled along. I could
see from his rigid posture that he wasn't looking forward to the session
and perhaps not only because he had to do therapy on a queer. Everything in
the SADF was done with reluctance. We were all there under duress, except
for the PFs (Permanent Force members) and they were all certifiable and
unemployable in normal civvie life anyway.

He led the way into the therapy room and motioned me to help myself onto
the bench in front of me. I nimbly maneuvered myself out of my chair and
perched on the side of the high bench. He handed me a pair of shorts to put
on as I was in my army browns, the legs hanging obscenely over the stumps
where my feet should have been.

"Put these on," he ordered curtly and didn't bother to turn his back as I
lay back and fumbled my pants down by lying back and pulling them off.
Remember that I had no feet to anchor myself as I lifted my ass off the
bench to free my pants, and the stumps were still very tender. I was
wearing a jock strap so my hairy cheeks and hole were exposed for quite a
while as I first pulled the cumbersome army longs off. He seemed to lose
patience and stepped forward to help me pull them off the last bit. I
couldn't help but notice the gentleness with which he avoided rubbing on
the stumps by putting his hands in the legs of the pants one by one and
making sure that my stumps were covered by his warm palm. He also pulled
the shorts over my legs and stopped just short of pulling them over my butt
as I lay there. He looked at me and realized that I would somehow have to
lift my butt off the bench to allow access so the shorts could slide over
my ass, and in order for that to happen I would somehow have to plant my
stumps on the bed. He shook his head and stuck his right arm under my knees
to give me leverage and pulled the pants over my bubble butt, even making
sure that the elasticated waist fit snugly against my skin. His fingers in
the tight-fitting elastic of the shorts rubbed against my abdomen just
above my pubes, and I was terrified to feel blood rushing into my cock to
show my appreciation at the attention of a hunky military therapist. But
thank God he was oblivious and pulled a chair closer and positioned himself
in front of me. I swung around on my butt with my legs facing him and my
crotch at his face level.

"Let's see what we have here," he murmured, now quite the professional, as
he looked at my stumps that were still in socks to protect them from the
cold Highveld winter.

"Can I touch?" he asked softly, this being the first time he wasn't just
enabling me to dress. He looked up at me under his crinkled, and yes,
handsome brow. I nodded, my heart in my mouth. Nobody but me and the doctor
and the nurse had touched my legs since the accident, and I struggled to
even look where my feet used to be. To my surprise he put his right hand on
my left thigh and slid his palm down over my knee and what remained of my
shin and just let it rest there.

"Can I take the sock off?"

I was disturbed by the gentleness of his tone as he asked the question and
just nodded again, not trusting my voice. He gently peeled the sock off,
being sure not to rub over any of the still sensitive stump. He then put
his palm under my leg just to let me rest the foreshortened limb there. To
my dismay I felt tears shoot to my eyes and literally squirt out and I
hastily tried to wipe them on my sleeve before he saw. But it was too late.
I expected a rebuff and a remark about crying queers, but I was wrong.

"It's ok, corporal," he said as he lay his left hand on the top of the
stump gently and just held my leg in his warm palms.

"This is a big deal. Just let it out."

I hated myself as I felt sob after sob push its way out of my mouth,
gathering a groan along the way and escaping with a dreadful noise that
shattered the otherwise quiet of the therapy room. I pushed his hands off
my stump roughly, hurting myself in the process and made as if to launch
myself into my chair that wasn't quite within reach. He hastily pulled it
closer, tried to help me off the bench but I shoved his hands out of the
way and clumsily got into it, almost falling in my haste. I was still
blinded by tears, but I could only think what the straight, butch officer
thought about the queer who couldn't control his emotions long enough not
to embarrass himself and everybody else.

"Corporal!" his voice cut through the frigid air in the army therapy room.

I froze in my chair, in the act of turning it around to escape to
who-knows-where.

Habit prevailed and I came to attention in my chair, tears still streaming
down my face.

*"Luitenant!"* I answered in Afrikaans.

He appeared in front of me and I could see through the haze of tears that
he was all-military now.

"You are the property of the SADF and as such it is my duty, and yours to
see to it that you are in the best possible condition to serve your country
in whatever capacity is necessary. So pull yourself together and let's get
to work!"

Then he stepped up to me and leaned down and got right in my face.

"And on a personal note, I don't care what you do in your private time you
queer freak, but if you ever do something to make me look bad again, I will
rip you a new *"poephol" *(asshole) so you can open another branch, if you
get my meaning? If I don't do my best with you it will be my ass on the
line, and unlike you, I prefer mine to stay safe and sound *in my pants*!


* "SO GET THE FUCK BACK ON THE BENCH!!" *

I was reeling with shock at his tone and words, but I shouldn't have been.
It was clear that his gentleness, when he had examined my leg was all a
professional act. It did help to ground me and with a superhuman effort I
pulled myself together. With alacrity I got myself back on the bench where
we commenced our work and all things considered--in spite of the harshness
in the Lt.'s tone--he was physically gentle and strong. All ended well. But
for the remainder of the session there was no softness, no concessions.
When I got back to the ward with the other patients, I was a wreck;
emotionally and physically exhausted.

I was determined about one thing: this jerk-off of a queer-hater was going
to eat his words. I would show him that maybe I was smaller--and gay--but I
could take whatever he could dish out. I would walk out of this hellhole on
my own two feet and with my head held high. I would show the butch fucker
what a "poephol pilot" (ass fucker) could do!

If you want to read the rest of this story, please go to
http://benhighlander.com/2014/09/23/stoned/

Please leave a comment or email me on dampies1960@gmail.com


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