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Denise and the Banker Ch. 01

By: Marty Eagan



Denise LeBlanc wondered if she was being unduly disingenuous. She was using a ploy once again which she had perfected in her effort to meet men. It was such a thrill to be flirted with, romanced, and just treated normally by men who typically would not even think of trying to pick up a disabled woman. Oh, Denise always insisted on paying for her own drinks and meals here at the Garden Patch Restaurant; she would not disappoint anyone AND make them buy! But, thrills and excitement aside, Denise somehow felt less and less comfortable doing what she was up to again tonight. But...just once more, she decided...strictly for fun.

The bar area in the Garden Patch was not too crowded yet. Friday traffic would pick up shortly. Denise was situated in her favorite spot, in a corner booth close to the bar. Floor-length white linen covered the tables and Denise knew that, in the eye of a casual visitor, she looked like a very pretty unaccompanied blonde. She winked at Betty, her accomplice, behind the bar. Betty thought the whole scheme was hilarious because she was gay and pretty much hated men all around. Betty was a good ally who made strong drinks and kept Denise's crutches out of sight by the ice machine.

Denise fiddled with her Palm Pilot while she waited for the waitress to bring her first vodka soda. She had several appointments with sales people the following week and she had not prepared for any of them yet. Oh well...another early Monday morning on the horizon! Several of the salesmen who called on Denise were single and attractive, but her status as head of merchandising for a large furniture chain and her crutches had dissuaded all of them from asking her out. The Garden Patch was not frequented by anyone Denise worked with and she hoped it stayed that way.

Denise's mind kept wandering back to Bart. Bart: the postman, and Denise's sometimes-lover in the afternoon at her apartment. Bart, who was the first "devotee" Denise had ever bedded, and who was really quite a good lover. But Denise knew that Bart made love to her so passionately largely because she was disabled, and he was pretty shallow as well. He filled a need, though, and Denise distinctly enjoyed his attentions.

Just as she let her mind begin to be swept away by Bart's lovemaking Denise was shocked back to reality by the entrance of a very unusual couple. A man around 50 or so walked into the bar accompanied by a sensational-looking redhead. The woman was at least 10 years his junior and wore a low-cut black cocktail dress. On her right leg was a full-length metal brace. Not a sports medicine-type brace, Denise noted. This was a steel-and-leather othotic brace with white leather and with inserts fitted into the heel of an old-fashioned-looking orthopedic shoe. Yes, Denise thought, this brace was a throwback to the polio era. 

Denise watched the couple as they surveyed the room and then made their way to a table several feet away. The woman with the brace walked awkwardly, taking small steps and leaning slightly left with each step to move her right leg forward. Denise looked closely at the woman's braced leg. The calf muscle was well-developed and firm and her ankle was well-defined and pretty. The realization hit Denise quickly: this woman was a pretender! From her investigation of "devotee" sites on the internet Denise knew that there were people who pretended to be disabled, either to please their lovers or because they were, themselves, "wannabes." Wannabes were people who had a compelling desire to actually be handicapped, and used disability paraphernalia and appliances to accomplish their fantasies. 

Denise's first reaction was revulsion. Who was this broad to pretend to be the disabled woman that Denise actually was? Did she not understand the life-long difficulty of not being able to walk? Of being stared at or pitied? How did she dare impersonate a handicapped woman?

The redhead unlocked her brace and sat down. Denise noted that she was easily able to raise her braced leg on its own power to get into the booth—another giveaway! Just then Sandi, the waitress brought Denise's drink. Denise looked at Betty behind the bar, who had a quizzical look on her face, nodding to the man and the redhead now comfortably in their booth. Denise rolled her eyes and subtly shook her head. Betty didn't understand this, but was quickly distracted by another server who needed drinks for the restaurant. She turned to the task at hand.

It was obvious to Denise that the man was infatuated with his pretender. His attentiveness and her response were reminiscent of teenagers on a first date. Her emotions upon seeing the leg brace were still swirling. Denise thought about Bart again. Maybe she should take him more seriously. Maybe a man who appreciated a great crippled leg was not such a problem after all.

Thinking of Bart again, Denise was distracted by a tall, athletic-looking man who entered the bar. He had graying temples and languid green eyes, and Denise caught her breath. She waited for the beautiful woman she knew must be just behind him, but that woman did not appear. Instead, the man proceeded to the bar and took a seat on one of the empty stools. Betty came over to her new patron and took his order. She glanced at Denise, who was riveted by this unaccompanied hunk as she fixed and served what appeared to be a scotch rocks to the man.

As Denise watched, the man at the bar began to survey the room. She was to his right, within easy view, and soon enough he turned to her. There was not a doubt that his eyes registered interest when he saw Denise. She made eye contact with him just briefly, then went back to surveying her Palm Pilot as nonchalantly as possible. It didn't take long; within five minutes the man slid off the barstool and made his way to Denise's table.

"Hi," said the green-eyed man with the scotch in his hand.

"Hi, yourself," returned Denise.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"No...would you like to join me?" Denise tried to be matter-of-fact, but she knew her voice betrayed her excitement.

The man moved into the booth across from Denise and placed his glass on the table. "So, why are you here by yourself?" he asked.

"I was supposed to meet a girlfriend, but she just called and said she can't make it," Denise lied smoothly. "I was just about to leave."

"Don't do that," the man said, with a victorious tone. "My name's Dan. Dan Farber."

"Denise LeBlanc," returned Denise. 

The two made small talk for several minutes, exchanging information on jobs, and leisure activities. Dan was 32, a year younger than Denise, and worked in computer software. He feigned interest in her furniture career, but it was obvious to Denise that he was impatient to move in for the kill. Just at that moment the restaurant hostess came to the table of the man and the pretender. The hostess had menus, said a few words to the couple, and they began to exit the booth. Dan and Denise watched as the couple arose. The redhead made a show of locking her brace and shuffling out of the room.

"Oh, look at that," said Dan. "What a shame."

"What do you mean?" asked Denise, sounding as emotionless as possible.

"Just that she's a nice-looking lady and she's crippled," Dan answered.

"Do you think the fact she's disabled detracts from her beauty?" probed Denise. "How do you see her...as an attractive woman, or as a handicapped woman?"

Dan was becoming uncomfortable with this line of conversation. "Why, are you like, an activist or something?" he gulped. "Why do you want to know what I think about another woman at all? I think our conversation should be about you and me."

"OK, I agree," said Denise. "Would you like to go someplace else to get a bite...I'm really not in the mood for Garden Patch food tonight."

"Sure," said Dan, taking this as a pick up line. 

"Why don't you go give your parking ticket to the valet. I'll go to the lady's room and meet you outside."

"Deal," said Dan, who eagerly got up and proceeded to the front door.

"Perfect," thought Denise. She motioned to Betty, who picked up Denise's slate-gray forearm crutches and gave them to Sandi, who delivered them in turn to Denise. Denise left $10 on the table...a generous tip for Sandi...and scooted herself out of the booth. Tonight Denise was wearing her "business shoes," with a gray low-heeled pump on her left foot. Denise's right foot was in a massively built-up version of the business pump, with six extra inches of cork and leather on the sole and with a thick eight-inch-high heel. Denise reached behind her right knee and lifted her congenitally short leg onto the floor of the bar, then stood on her good leg and accepted her crutches from Sandi.

"Good luck," said Sandi, smiling knowingly at Denise.

"It's always interesting," returned Denise, grinning. With that she began a vigorous exit from the bar, using all her energy to lift her hips and swing through her crutches so her right shoe didn't drag the floor. It was important to Denise to appear to crutch herself along as smoothly as possible, although it was not always easy to keep the massive shoe from dragging a little since she could only use her abdomen muscles to propel herself.

Denise entered the restaurant on her way to the front door and noted the man with the faux-crippled redhead at a table just ahead. The man's head snapped around as he heard the clicking of Denise's crutches. He was clearly mesmerized by her gait. Denise couldn't resist...she stopped in front of the couple momentarily and said to the mortified woman, "I wish I could walk like you. You make it look so easy!" Without waiting for a response Denise swung herself off to the front door just as Dan Farber walked back in. His face fell instantly.

"Now I understand why you wanted to know about my thoughts on that other woman," said Dan. 

"Disappointed?" queried Denise nervously. 

Dan began to fumble for words. "Uh, oh no...of course not!" he blustered awkwardly. "I guess I'm just surprised. Well...I was coming back to find the men's room. I'll be right back."

Denise waited for less than a minute before Dan came back, clutching his cell phone to his ear and making a show of his "conversation." "Uh huh, right...OK. I understand. I'll get there as quick as I can." He flipped the phone closed and walked quickly toward Denise with a tense look on his face.

"I'm so sorry. I just got a call from my sister. Her husband is out of town and she just went into labor. I've got to take her to the hospital. I enjoyed meeting you...hope to see you again!" With that, Dan was out the door...almost running away. Denise chuckled at his creativity.

"Shit," she muttered quietly as she crutched out the door to have her prized BMW Z-4 retrieved by the valet. Dan was long gone as Fred, the valet, pulled up and hopped out of the baby blue sports car. Denise handed Fred a couple of singles as he held the door for her. Denise methodically put her crutches in the well of the passenger compartment and pivoted on her good leg to sit facing outward on the driver's side. She then turned, picked her short right leg up behind the knee and plopped it unceremoniously into the little car. Her left leg followed and Fred closed the door. 

"It's good to see you again, ma'am. But I still can't get used to that accelerator pedal on the left," said Fred with a smile.

"Easy for me," returned Denise quietly. "It's the only way I've ever driven." She waved to Fred and drove off, tears streaming down her face.

To be continued...

Denise and the Banker Ch. 02



Chapter 2: The Next Day

Sleeping in on Saturday morning was interrupted sooner than Denise would have preferred. At around 8:30 the phone woke her from a weary slumber and she groaned upon checking the clock. Rolling over, she grabbed the wireless phone from its cradle.

"Hullo?" she croaked.

The caller was Betty, the bartender from the Garden Patch restaurant. She reported in a concerned tone that after Denise had left the previous night the man with the leg-braced date had been asking about her.

"He wanted to know who you are and if I knew how to contact you. I told him 'no,' but that if you came back I'd pass on his phone number. Denise, this guy was just totally whipped up about getting in touch with you. And, here's the kicker...Sandi said she knows this guy...he's the president of her bank over in Halldale!"

"Oh, great...another devotee wants me," thought Denise. At least this one had a better job than Bart, the postman. She took the phone number, thanked Betty, and hung up. Sitting up in bed, Denise considered the graying middle-aged man and his pretender date or wife. What was it with these guys! Nonetheless, part of Denise was excited by the fact that there were men out there who were extremely attracted to her.

Deciding it was time for a strong cup of coffee, Denise threw back the covers, grabbed her crutches from the floor and stood next to the bed. She looked down at the reason the man in the restaurant wanted to contact her: the five-inches-shorter right leg that flopped uselessly next to its normal and shapely mate. This was her little leg that had been stunted and paralyzed from birth. The little leg with its working knee and flaccid muscles. The little leg that had caused Denise a lifetime of frustration because of her inability to use it. The one that was the subject of stares and muted comment when she was in public. And yes...the little leg that was the center of attraction for the devotee men she seemed to encounter more and more often. She had more than once considered having it amputated but felt that, in spite of it all, it was somehow an integral part of her that she didn't want to lose. 

It was chilly in the house. Denise swung herself to the closet and put on a terrycloth bathrobe. She looked for a moment at the neatly arranged wardrobe within her large walk-in closet. Her clothing was arranged from casual-casual on the left through business-casual, business, and most formal attire on the right. 

On the floor of the closet was an assortment of shoes that would stun a casual observer. On the left were about a dozen pair of her orthotically-modified footwear, with a normal size-eight left and a massively built-up size-four right. All her build ups towered over their counterparts with eight inches of lift. The shoes gave her tiny foot three inches of berth inside to keep them on and stable as she walked. This depth was offset by the fact that her foot dropped as she swung through on her crutches, and the net effect when walking was contact with the floor just at the front edge of the shoe. Denise leaned just slightly right when standing still in order to place the back of the shoe on the floor as well.

Denise had quite a variety of modified shoes. Most were more formal ones for business wear, and those had separated platform and heel build-ups. But there were also two pair of white athletic shoes with a simple block lift on the bottoms. The edges of the soles of all her lifts were somewhat scarred from dragging on pavement and concrete. This was something Denise tried to prevent as she walked on her crutches, but not always successfully, particularly when she was tired.

On the floor closest to the closet door was a few pair of non-built-up shoes. This array of footwear was matched in style but not in size. Denise special-ordered her regular shoes two pair at a time: one pair of size eights and one pair of size fours in the same style. She then donated the large right and small left shoes to an organization that specialized in helping amputees. Denise knew that in most cases the diminutive rights were destined for the foot of a child.

In a custom-built rack on the back wall was her assortment of crutches. Denise had six different pair—five forearm type, in different colors to match her dress and her mood. She was using the gray ones she usually used for work now, but thought she might switch to the metallic blues later. She noted with pride her latest addition, a pair of pastel pink sticks for casual spring and summer wear. Next to these was one pair of polished, dark rosewood underarm crutches that she used on rare occasion when she needed to stand and have full use of her arms. The last instance was a merchandising presentation she had made to a large group, narrating a slide show and using a pointer. 

That day she had also worn her one brace, which now stood in the closet's corner. It was a patten-type extension brace with two leather enclosures at the top to encase her leg. A crossbar five inches from the bottom was designed to support her foot and keep it stationary. At its base was a sturdy block of rubber surrounding the U-shaped bottom. Denise did not like the brace because it tended to pinch her leg uncomfortably. She did wear it occasionally for business because it allowed her to wear loose-fitting pants without modifying the garment's leg to accommodate her lifts. In these instances Denise simply left her right foot bare inside the pants-leg to look as natural as possible.

Denise virtually never wore a lift around the house and she selected a pair of fuzzy bedroom shoes. Noting that she needed to touch up her pedicure, she pushed up on her crutches and stepped into the left shoe. Then, leaning against the closet doorjamb, slipped the right shoe on her little foot. As usual, Denise's atrophied right leg began to bounce and sway as she released the shoe. She steadied it with one hand and then swung off to the kitchen to make coffee.

Sitting at her kitchen table, Denise looked at the scrap of paper she had kept in her hand. The devotee's number started with an exchange she knew was reserved for cell phones. On a whim, Denise picked up her kitchen phone, punched in the code for caller-ID block, and dialed the number. After two rings a baritone male voice answered impatiently.

"Hello? Who's calling?"

"Your girlfriend isn't really crippled, is she?" cooed Denise into the phone. 

After a very long pause he responded cautiously, "who wants to know?"

"The other cripple—the real one—from last night." Denise hated the word 'cripple' as a personal description, but she knew from talking to Bart it was the word of choice for devotees.

"I'm glad you called. Can we meet someplace?" asked the deep-voiced gray-haired man, now with an obvious tinge of excitement.

"I need to know something first," countered Denise. "The redhead with you last night—was the brace her idea or yours?"

"Mine. I like to pretend. She doesn't mind. We don't have a serious relationship...just friends. We don't have sex. Now...can I meet you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Denise was playing with him now, ambivalent about even talking to someone who would ask a woman to pretend disability in public. But in her mind a plan began to form. She smiled broadly at her idea then turned back to the conversation.

To Be Continued...



Denise and the Banker Ch. 03



Denise had spent less than five minutes on the phone with the man from the restaurant, who had called himself Robert. He was vague about what he did for a living. Denise assumed that he was, in fact, the head of the bank in Halldale, just as Sandi, the waitress, had reported. But he was above all else a devotee. He wanted to know all about Denise's disability and pressed for detail that she was not about to provide. He asked if she would let him come over and take pictures of her, and suggested that he could make money with them on a website, which he offered to split with Denise. 

"I'm sure you probably could use some extra cash," he said smugly into the phone.

She was disgusted with his lack of class and his pompous attitude. He would probably be courting her as a depositor for his bank if he knew that Denise had investments worth nearly a million dollars. This guy was obviously spoiled by women posing as pretenders for his gratification: all paid for their acting, Denise assumed. She grimaced at the realization that the redhead wearing the leg brace perhaps had also had sex with him for money.

Denise was now resolved to carry through her plan. It could be risky, but it would be fun to hurt this jerk a little. She picked up the phone again and called Carolyn, her best friend from childhood. Carolyn was the one person who had always taken Denise's side when mean-spirited kids had teased her about her deformed leg and her crutches. Carolyn was now a divorce lawyer and had become quite wealthy working no-contest cases. In spite of Carolyn's hectic schedule they often got together for lunch, and the two frequently did volunteer work together at a local homeless shelter and food bank. 

" Hello?" came the voice Denise knew well, enthusiastic and full of energy, as always.

"Hey, it's Denise," got a few minutes? Denise spent quite a bit of time explaining to an amazed and increasingly disgusted Carolyn about the devotee phenomenon and about Robert. Denise explained her plan and Carolyn giggled with excitement. She told Denise she would play along and they made plans to meet the following Thursday in Denise's office.

When Carolyn arrived Denise was finishing up some paperwork. Carolyn was a tiny woman, a mere 4 feet 10 inches tall. With brunette page-boy-style hair, she had a pretty face and aqua-blue eyes. She was quite petite, with a large bust, making her a hit with most men. Carolyn's torso was long and she had very short, rather un-muscular-looking legs. Perfect for the part, thought Denise.

The two women hugged and Denise motioned for Carolyn to close the door. When they were alone Denise invited Carolyn to stretch out on the plush sofa decorating the office. Without waiting for direction, Carolyn pulled her dress up over her waist, exposing her legs. "Telephone pole legs," as Carolyn referred to them...straight up-and-down, with little visible tone at the calf. The one characteristic she hated about herself.

Denise produced a measuring tape and proceeded to measure Carolyn's left leg from hip to heel and then the circumference of her thigh, calf, and ankle. Denise wrote the measurements on a notepad then picked up the phone to call Ron, her orthotist.

Ron, who had custom-made Denise's patten brace chatted briefly with her on the phone. She had called earlier to explain that she needed a brace made for a friend. Denise said that Carolyn was appearing in a stage play featuring a polio-disabled supporting actress. She had described Carolyn and Ron said he thought he had a knee-ankle-foot-othosis in his shop that might fit her. He explained that he had several braces on hand, which, for whatever reason, had never been picked up. Now, with the measurements provided by Denise, Ron confirmed that, yes, the appliance he was thinking of should work. He would be happy to let Carolyn have it at no charge as a courtesy to Denise.

The two women left for lunch and the orthotics shop. In anticipation of visiting Ron's shop, Denise was wearing her patten brace inside navy pinstriped trousers. The pants matched her tailored suit jacket, and to her mind she looked like a banker. Most appropriate, she mused to herself. One of the advantages of the brace was that it afforded her a much faster swing-through gait on her forearm crutches than when she wore a built-up shoe. Denise had selected her black crutches this morning to complement her suit. She liked color-coordinating her clothing and her sticks; she felt that, if crutches were necessarily part of her every ensemble, she should be able to vary them just as any other professional woman would vary her accessories.

Carolyn noted the reactions Denise evoked from people as they walked together down the street. Some looked at Denise briefly with curiosity, particularly at the bracket of rubber-coated steel protruding from her right pant-leg. The end of the patten brace hit the pavement with a muted clunk as Denise propelled herself along. It was no wonder that people would take a second look at this oddity. 

Some people looked at Denise and turned away, pity on their faces. Other people outright stared. While Denise didn't seem to pay any attention to this, Carolyn was angry at this impolite reaction. She could forgive children, but virtually everyone on the street downtown today was adult. And then there was one man that had first passed the two women, going in the opposite direction without taking his eyes off Denise. But he had somehow wound up behind them now as they waited at a pedestrian crossing. Was this one of the "devotee" men Denise had described? 

With the white "walk" sign, Denise reached slightly backward with her crutches, lifted her hips, and thrust her legs forward off the curb and onto the street. Catching her balance on her strong left leg, she began a series of long, energetic swings to get across the street quickly. At that moment Carolyn turned to look at the man who had reversed direction. He was on the corner behind them and was pointing a cell phone in Denise's direction. Carolyn realized in shock that he was taking pictures of her friend. She quickly made an effort to get behind Denise to block his view. Carolyn swiveled her head and saw the man retreating into the crowd.

"Pervert!" thought Carolyn. He would probably go home and post who-knows-how-many pictures of Denise on a website somewhere. 

The two arrived at their lunch destination, an Italian place specializing in calzones, which Carolyn loved. They enjoyed the food and each other's company. Carolyn shared with Denise how she had observed the man taking her picture.

Denise responded, "Not surprised. That apparently happens all the time. You should see the websites out there, Carolyn...I'm probably featured on more than one of the sites focused on people with one leg shorter than the other. There are also dedicated sites for men who like women wearing braces and others for chicks in wheelchairs. As a matter of fact, we're going to access some of those once you get fitted with your brace. If you're going to act the role of a polio victim you need to be credible. The best place to find videos of handicapped women and study the way they move is on the devotee websites. It's really the truth."

"But doesn't that make you mad...that people are taking your picture for their own sexual....thing?" asked Carolyn.

"Well...it bothers me when I'm ambushed like that without knowing it. But, you know something...I've learned from Bart, my "postal-hunk," that these guys are really not out to harm me or anybody else. Devotees are attracted to people like me, but don't know how to initiate a relationship. Bart is sweet and gentle, and I know that he cares about me as a person. Now, granted, he is ferociously turned on by my little leg....you wouldn't believe that reaction! But, I don't look at that as all bad. It's kind of like the way a normal guy would react if a woman with big boobs was walking down the street topless."

"But it's different with this banker asshole, right?"

"Yeah, because he's a user. He's obnoxious and selfish and doesn't care about anything except his own gratification. Bart loves and reveres disabled women; this clown demeans them. He just made me mad and I want to give him a wake up call that I think he deserves."

The two finished a delicious lunch and left the restaurant, now headed for the orthotics shop. Carolyn was vigilant in watching the people around her friend, but found nobody else unduly interested in Denise. For her part, Denise crutched along with her characteristic energy and optimistic expression. Carolyn was always impressed with her positive disposition and attitude about her disability.

Upon arriving at Daniels Orthotics Denise and Carolyn were greeted by Ron Daniels, the brace maker. He was in his mid-40's and in great physical shape. Carolyn was impressed with this good-looking man with barely-turning hair and smoky gray eyes. He seemed to be interested in her as well, but concentrated his attention on her friend.

"Denise...great to see you," said Ron. "Hey...before we do anything else I want to check the knee-locks on that masterpiece you're wearing. Sit down here and let me have a look."

Denise grinned and sat down on a chair in front of Ron. She pulled up the pant-leg covering her brace for him, exposing the appliance she only occasionally wore. Her tiny right foot was bare, resting on the support bar five inches from the bottom. Carolyn noted that Denise sported a perfect glossy red pedicure on her tiny crippled foot. Denise had shared with Carolyn that Bart, Denise's sometime-lover, was not only a devotee, but also a foot nut who asked that she keep her toes maintained for him. Denise was obviously ready for whatever Bart wanted to do with her feet. 

Ron examined, then engaged and released the knee locks of the brace. He then lifted it from the bottom to check the condition of the rubber footing at the base. "It looks fine, Denise," said Ron with satisfaction. "If the leather and bindings feel fine I think you're good for another year."

"Well, I hardly wear it, Ron," said Denise. "I usually wear my build-ups. But, thanks for checking. Now...can you fit Carolyn, please?"

Ron agreed and retrieved a steel-and-leather KAFO brace from the back of the shop. He asked Carolyn to take off her left shoe and when she did he strapped the brace on her leg. 

"It fits," said Ron, with satisfaction. "Did you plan to use crutches? Denise, I think those custom-made jobs you have will be too long for Carolyn." Denise agreed. She had all her crutches built-to-order for her 5' 5" height and they were not adjustable down to Carolyn's tiny size. "Do you have anything she could use?" she asked Ron.

"Actually I do. The guy I bought this place from used to sell crutches and apparently took some in on trade. Let me show you one pair that's been collecting dust that I think will be great." With that, Ron went to the back of his shop once more and returned holding a pair of short aluminum Kenny-style crutches with a padded metal armband ring at the top. The crutches were somewhat worn from use, but were in good shape overall. "Here you go, Carolyn. Slip into something a little less comfortable," grinned Ron.

Carolyn took the crutches and posed with them. The height was right; the armbands surrounded her forearms just below the elbow. Because she was still wearing a 3-inch heel on her right foot, only the ball of Carolyn's bare left foot was touching the floor. Denise chuckled out loud at this incongruous sight.

"Hey...I beat up anybody that laughed at you...you're not allowed to laugh at me!" joked Carolyn. With that she pushed down on the hand grips and did an awkward swing-through of her legs, losing her balance slightly but then recovering. "I think this is going to be harder than I thought. My respect for you just went up another notch, Denise."

"I think it works," said Ron. "Those crutches are old and it kind of adds to the authenticity for your show. Now all we need is shoes that complete the "polio look" for you, Carolyn. You need a clunky-looking pair that I can modify so the brace locks into the heel. And I won't charge you for that, either."

Carolyn removed the brace and left it and the crutches in Ron's care. She and Denise departed, promising Carolyn would come back within a day or two with appropriate shoes. The two returned to Denise's office and continued to plot their strategy excitedly. Carolyn told Denise she would go back to Ron's shop by herself with the shoes needed to complete her brace. 

***

Later that week Carolyn went shopping and picked out a pair of old-fashioned-looking, Victorian style lace-up shoes. The pair looked like diminutive boots with laces, and had thick 2-inch heels. Carolyn was amazed that these were considered stylish; they looked like something her great-grandmother would have worn at the turn of the century! Ah, what will be next from the style-mavens on Madison Avenue, she thought to herself.

She left the shoe store and proceeded to Daniels Orthotics, where Ron greeted her warmly. Ron and Carolyn had both felt a bit of chemistry on her first visit, and he was clearly flirting with her now. He took the shoes from her, commenting on how well they should work with her brace. He told Carolyn the othotic ensemble would be ready in a couple of days, and asked if she would like to take the crutches with her now. Carolyn agreed and left Ron's shop with the old Kinney crutches he had offered on the first visit, which she loaded in the trunk of her car.

That evening at home Carolyn took the crutches into her house and, on impulse, began to practice using them. She was resolved to help Denise make her plan successful, and she knew that she needed to appear to be a credible polio victim. Denise had shown Carolyn how to access some of the "devotee" websites and Carolyn now logged on, downloading several video clips of polio women using crutches with a single leg brace. She closely studied how they moved and for the next two days Carolyn spent nearly all her time at home on the crutches, swinging herself around the kitchen and from room to room. She became more adept and rhythmic in her gait all the time.

Denise had already confirmed to Carolyn that the man who had leeringly offered her money to take her picture was in fact the president of a small bank in Halldale. She had accomplished this by simply checking out the bank on the internet. The guy's picture graced the home page. Ronald Cruikshank was his name. His professional pose belied the alter-ego he had revealed to Denise. 

As an attorney specializing in divorce, Carolyn often required the services of very good private detectives to document the philandering of wayward spouses. Bob Franks was the best in the business and had worked on a contract basis for Carolyn many times over the years. Carolyn called Bob from her office the next day to call in a favor. 

"Bob, I need you to check out the president of First Security Bank in Halldale for me. It's personal...I'm helping a friend out a little. This'll be worth a really nice dinner for you and Lois on me." Lois was Bob's wife and they both loved gourmet dining. He readily accepted Carolyn's offer. 

"You got it, Carolyn. What do you need?"

"Bob, this guy is a creep. He likes his women disabled and I think he hires hookers to wear leg braces for him. My friend and I are going to set him up and I need you to be available to shoot some nice film of our friend, Mr. Cruikshank, the banker."

"No sweat, babe. I thought you wanted something tough."

"Well, the tough part may be keeping a straight face when you see yours truly acting my part in this. But...this whole thing is our secret, OK? Nobody in the business is ever going to hear about this little escapade. Deal?"

"Deal."

Upon her third visit to Daniels Orthotics Ron asked Carolyn if she would like to have dinner with him sometime. She readily agreed and gave him her home number. A tingle of excitement ran through her at the thought of being in the company of this man with the great body and intelligent eyes. Ron produced Carolyn's shoes and brace from the back and helped her get the appliance on her leg. Ron held her left foot gently and almost seemed to caress it as he positioned her leg in the brace. Carolyn wondered if Ron was a foot-lover like Denise's friend Bart. She promised herself a pedicure if Ron did call for a date-just in case. 

The brace fit snugly when Ron snapped the ends into the modified heel of her shoe. Carolyn walked around the shop awkwardly, swinging her braced left leg in a slow arc as she moved. After a few minutes of practice she removed the brace and shoes and left with them, promising to look forward to Ron's call. 

The next day was Saturday and Carolyn drove to Denise's apartment complex wearing her brace. The crutches were on the seat next to her and she was excited about moving forward with their adventure. She parked next to Denise's Z-4 and exited her car by lifting her left leg out with her hands as she knew Denise did with her right leg. She retrieved the crutches and stood with them, securing the knee lock on the brace. She noticed a woman at the complex's mailboxes surreptitiously watching her. 

"Showtime," thought Carolyn, as she swung herself up the walkway to Denise's door. She had now practiced her gait at home with the brace on, and she felt that to an untrained observer she looked like a bona fide cripple. She stole a glance over her shoulder at her observer, who was still unabashedly watching her progress. The woman quickly looked away. Carolyn was now truly immersed in Denise's world, and realized she would experience the gawks and stares first-hand.

When Denise opened the door she let out a gasp at the sight of her friend, now transformed into a fellow disabled woman. Denise stood on her own crutches, barefoot as usual. Her paralyzed right leg dangled above the floor and was moving slightly from the momentum of her advance to the door. Carolyn entered the apartment giggling at Denise's reaction to first seeing her. She moved herself in a series of broad swings across the room, then reached backward with the crutches to abruptly turn and face Denise. 

Denise watched with amazement as the tiny woman she knew so well moved with such agility. Carolyn's ample bust was even more pronounced as she leaned forward into the little crutches with their closed armbands. She was wearing a tight knit top tucked into slacks that covered the brace except at the heel. Denise thought the lace-up boots looked quite chic, despite the steel emerging from the right heel. The fact that the crutches were used and scuffed made Carolyn look quite authentic.

"What do you think? asked Carolyn. Do I look the part?"

"Ohmigosh...do you ever! I'm impressed. You walk like you've been using all that hardware for years. I'm just jealous that you can put it all aside and walk on your own when you want to!"

Denise poured a glass of wine for the two of them and they sat and excitedly went over their plans once again. When both women felt they were ready to move ahead Denise picked up the phone. She dialed the number of the devotee man she had encountered at the Garden Patch restaurant. After a couple of rings a gruff voice answered. Denise identified herself.

"I thought you blew me off, said Ronald Cruikshank in a hushed voice. Let me call you back in a minute." He was obviously not in a position to talk.

"No...I'll call you back in ten minutes," said Denise, knowing full well her number was not displayed on his cell phone. She did not want him to have it. He agreed.

With the second call the banker was back to his full bluster. He was interested to know why Denise had called him, and excitement was apparent in his voice.

"I've been thinking about your offer, said Denise. I think I might want to take you up on it if the pay is good. I do need the money. What do you want me to do, and what's it worth?"




Denise and the Banker Ch. 03



Cruikshank took the bait. He told Denise that he wanted her to let him take still photographs and video of her in his studio. If she agreed to do it clothed he would pay her $200. If she did it nude the price was $1,000. He was clear that she would have to sign a release agreeing to allow the material to be used on the internet.

Denise felt her blood beginning to boil, but she kept calm. "I want $600 minimum to do it with my clothes on, and you don't show my face...just my body. Forget naked...no way." 

"$500 and you've got a deal," said the banker.

"OK. But one more thing...I want to check you out, just to be sure it's safe. I want the phone number of the chick you were with the night you saw me at the restaurant. The redhead wearing the brace. "

"No way, said Cruikshank. That's private between her and me."

"Bullshit. You already told me she was acting. If I don't talk to her first I won't do it." Denise tried to make her voice sound as adamant as she could. This would make or break their plan.

After a pause Cruikshank agreed. He gave Denise a phone number and told her to ask for Donna Steel and say that Ronnie said to call. "Donna Steel" was his code name for the woman and nobody but Cruikshank knew it. She promised to call him back after talking to Donna Steel.

Carolyn quickly called Bob Franks, the P.I., and gave him the phone number. "Find out where this is as quick as you can," asked Carolyn.

She hung up and handed the phone back to Denise, who then called the number. A female answered in a groggy voice.

"Donna Steel, please," said Denise crisply. 

After a long pause the woman responded suspiciously, "There's no one here by that name."

"Ronnie says there is," replied Denise.

"Oh, yeah...OK, said the woman. What does he want now?"

Denise explained why she was calling. "Donna Steel" explained that yes, she had spent many hours with Ronnie, all in braces, and sometimes on crutches or in a wheelchair. His tastes in disabled women were across the board. He particularly enjoyed taking video of her walking in a pair of special shoes, she said. When Denise asked about the shoes Donna explained that one was built up about four inches because Ronnie liked her to pretend to have one leg shorter than the other.

No surprise at this revelation, thought Denise, reflexively touching her own deformed leg. "Do you know where he puts all your pictures?" she asked.

"Yeah...you can check me out. Ha! It's chicks-on-sticks-dot-com." Denise grimaced at the smarmy allusion to crutch-walkers like herself.

Donna Steel acknowledged that Ronnie paid her well and paid in cash every time. He was weird, she said, but not dangerous, and always treated her well. She was emphatic that, while she collected money to pose as disabled, she did not allow him to pay for sex. She was not a prostitute, she insisted. Denise thought this was great irony, but said nothing. Denise thanked her and the two hung up.

She and Carolyn got up and both crutched over to Denise's computer. Carolyn was not breaking character, Denise noted. With her friend propped up behind her, Denise booted up her computer and typed in the internet address Donna Steel had given her. 

Both women sucked in their breath at the provocative thumbnail photos on the homepage. There were several different women in braces and Denise picked out "Donna" for Carolyn right away. The website solicited memberships for $29.95 and claimed a member count of 392. Quick math revealed-if it was accurate-nearly $12,000 in revenue to "Ronnie," the banker, who probably didn't need the money. Denise's resolve to see her plan through was stronger than ever.

To be Continued...



Denise and the Banker Ch. 04



Carolyn drove Bob's old Honda to his house to exchange it for her own car. She noted gratefully upon arriving that Bob's wife wasn't home. Bob invited her in and she used a spare bedroom to remove the leg brace and the hidden radio transmitter and microphone. She had carried in a spare pair of flip-flops which replaced her "orthopedic" shoes. Then she and Bob talked a few minutes about getting the audio from his bank surveillance on a CD for her use and Bob's next assignment.

"OK, what's next...you want me to shake down this Donna Steele chick?" asked Bob. He was referring to the hooker that Ronald Cruikshank, the bank president, hired to be his occasional handicapped escort. Bob had traced her phone number and cross-referenced it to find her residence.

"I need you to play bad cop. Get her nervous enough to tell you when she's meeting Cruikshank again. Make her think you're after him, but that you'll bust her for hooking if she doesn't cooperate. Then, I want pictures of the two of them together. Nothing fancy...just a few for the record. I don't need any bedroom photos or anything like that. Can you get it done this week?"

Bob agreed, and Carolyn slipped him two $100 bills with a wink. 

"Maybe a little more when you're done. And...you still get dinner for two," laughed Carolyn.

Their understanding was that this escapade was off the record and never to be discussed. Bob wasn't sure what all this business was about, but was too loyal to Carolyn to ask too many questions. Carolyn was a tough lawyer who was very private about the details of assignments she gave him. She paid him well and it was not his concern what she was up to. He had to admit to himself, though, that his employer was quite the actress. If he didn't know Carolyn and had simply seen her in the bank he would certainly have taken her for a bona-fide polio victim.

Carolyn hugged him, thanked him for being a great friend. She stowed the brace and shoes, along with the crutches she had used, in the trunk of her Lexus and left. She called Denise from her cell phone and reported that the first phase of their plan had gone quite well. Denise was thrilled and invited Carolyn over for a drink. Carolyn happily agreed.

Upon arrival at Denise's complex Carolyn saw the same woman at the mailbox who had been getting her mail the last time Carolyn came over. That time she had been wearing the leg brace and was practicing her polio role on crutches. Chuckling to herself, Carolyn parked and got out of the car. She turned to see the woman looking at her oddly, and then watched her jaw drop as Carolyn simply walked up the entryway to Denise's apartment. The situation reminded Carolyn of neighbor Gladys Kravitz's reactions on the old "Bewitched" TV show when she witnessed some of Samantha's magic.

Carolyn knocked on the door and it was opened by a nice-looking man. She was momentarily startled, but recovered and introduced herself.

"I'm Bart, Denise's friend. Come on in. Denise is in the bedroom." 

Carolyn entered the apartment and sat on Denise's couch. Bart offered her a glass of the chardonnay he and Denise were sharing. She happily accepted his offer. As he brought her glass Carolyn saw Bart's gaze unmistakably drift to her feet, fully exposed in the cheap flip flops she was now wearing. She remembered that Denise had told her Bart loved feet and she found herself oddly glad that her pedicure was just a couple of days old.

The two made small talk for a few minutes. Bart seemed to Carolyn to be a genuinely nice guy, to her relief. He had none of the smirky, condescending attitude of Ronald Cruikshank, the banker, and the only other "devotee" Carolyn knew. Soon, Denise appeared. She was walking on her rosewood underarm crutches, which Carolyn knew was unusual. Denise preferred forearm crutches and used the several pair that she owned almost exclusively. Denise was dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans and was barefoot. The right leg of her denims was rolled up to accommodate the shortness of her paralyzed leg and her tiny foot swung freely above the floor. Carolyn noted with amusement that Denise now sported a silver ring on the middle toe of her crippled foot—an adornment for Bart's benefit, she was sure.

She swung across the room and flopped down in the recliner next to where Carolyn sat on the couch, placing her crutches neatly beside the chair. Bart took a seat at the opposite end of the couch. Denise took her wine glass and held it up to Carolyn.

"To our success," she toasted. Carolyn reached over and clinked glassware with her friend and they all drank.

Denise began the conversation. "I told Bart what we're up to, Carolyn...I hope you don't mind. He's sworn to secrecy. Right, Bart?"

Bart nodded in agreement. He looked slightly uncomfortable.

Carolyn decided to be her brash self. "So, Bart, I understand that you're in the 'devotee' camp with this clown Cruikshank. But Denise has assured me that you're a good guy."

Bart almost choked on his wine. Flushed, he stumbled for words momentarily, but then replied. "I hope I'm a good guy. Look, here's the deal, Carolyn. Yes, there is a small universe of people—mostly men—who are very attracted to disabled people. I could not believe my good fortune when I first met Denise because, frankly, I was wildly attracted to her."

"Because of her leg?" interrupted Carolyn, a slight annoyance in her voice.

"No," responded Bart patiently, looking to Denise for support. 

"Bart, you don't have to..." said Denise, shooting a frown at Carolyn. Denise knew that Carolyn instinctively felt the need to defend her, just like she always did in school when kids teased her and ostracized her.

Bart pushed on. "This is very personal, but since you two are close friends, I don't mind the question. No...it's not just her leg. I have always been attracted to women who walk on crutches. The specific reason for the disability isn't the issue. I can't explain it very well, but I can tell you that it's documented thing and there are many men like me. I have always been excited by the sight of a woman on crutches, be it because of anything from a sprained ankle to polio. But I do have to admit that I have always been very partial to those with one leg shorter than the other, and, yes, meeting Denise was an incredible experience for me."

Carolyn persisted, "Aren't you concerned that you're just 'objectifying' people. I mean, OK, I have a big chest, right? I've met lots of men who seemed to only see my boobs. I felt like I was just a set of tits to them...not a woman they wanted to love for my sparkling wit and personality."

They all laughed at this.

Bart replied with determination. "I understand your point. And, yes, there are men who have a hard time seeing past whatever it is about a woman that attracts them...the great boobs, the great legs..."

"The great feet?" interjected Carolyn with a grin.

"OK, now don't beat up on me too much," laughed Bart. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh, girls do talk. We doooo, Bart," cooed Carolyn. The wine was beginning to loosen her up. "Plus, I saw you check these out when you thought I wasn't looking." She pulled her feet out of the flip-flops and wiggled them on extended legs. She looked at Denise, who was obviously not pleased with this violation of their confidence.

"Busted," said Bart, looking guiltily at Denise. "But, can I finish?"

"Go on," encouraged Carolyn.

"Well, I just meant that everybody has a turn-on. It's the guys that can't get past that initial turn-on that you need to be concerned about. I would never pursue a relationship with a woman just because she's disabled. Frankly, Carolyn, most men would not stay with a big-breasted woman that they couldn't develop a real relationship with. Are there some shallow people out there? Sure. But, I am just in awe of Denise now, as a woman. The more I get to know her the more I respect her. She knows that now, I think. And right now, I want our relationship to continue to grow. Am I turned on by her little leg and her crutches? You bet. And it's nice to be able to admit that for what it is. But, I'm way past that being the chief motivator in this relationship. Frankly I'm crazy about Denise, period."

Denise smiled. Bart had been eloquent in his explanation of their relationship, making Denise feel a little guilty. Ironically, it was she that had treated Bart more as a plaything than someone to build a long-term relationship with. She loved his attentions and his great body. And, the guy was really great in bed! Increasingly she liked to do things to turn Bart on, and it was from that motivation Denise had impulsively switched to her underarm crutches. She simply wanted to see if Bart responded to them any differently than he did to her forearms. She had also recently ordered a new set of "hot pink" forearm crutches just to wear for Bart's benefit. She realized with some shame she would have to address this emotional gap soon before he fell in love. It was clear he was well on his way to that now.

Bart poured another round of wine for the three and they embarked on a discussion of Ronald Cruikshank and how best to conclude the business at hand. Denise suggested a plan that they all agreed would work well.

Bart fetched both of Denise's cordless phones and handed one of them to her. She made sure to disable the caller ID feature before dialing Cruikshank's cell number. Bart and Carolyn then listened in on the other phone as the connection was made. It was after 4 and First Security Bank should be closed. Denise wanted to reach him in his car. After two rings the bank president answered. 

"Hi, it's the me, the girl from the Garden Patch restaurant. Can you talk?"

Carolyn and Bart silently listened as Cruikshank answered. "Yes. I can talk," he said. "What do you want to talk about?" Lasciviousness dripped from his voice. Bart subconsciously cringed. 

"I talked to Donna Steele. She says you're OK. I want to do the video thing. But, remember...I keep my clothes on and you don't show my face."

"Oh, I remember the deal. It's OK...I'm sure that great big boot of yours will be enough for most guys to not care whether they see your face or not. Do you always use crutches or can you walk without them? I'd like to do a 'with and without,' if you can."

Bart's blood began to rise. He wanted to reach into the phone and strangle Cruikshank for treating Denise like a piece of meat for his sex machine. 

Denise was undeterred, bolstered both by the knowledge that Cruikshank would be brought down soon, and by the wine. "I have to use crutches; my right leg is completely paralyzed." But I do have a patten brace I can wear as well as the build-up. Do you know what that is?"

Cruikshank's excitement was unmistakable. "Oh, baby! Do I know! I love those things. Bring it on!" 

"That will cost you $300 extra," said Denise boldly. Bart and Carolyn looked at her with amazement.

"Fine. That's worth it. Do you have more than one pair of crutches?"

"Yes. I'll bring a couple of different types. What do you think about a short dress and a pair of metallic pink forearm crutches?" Denise was warming to her role more than Bart was ready to accept.

"Fabulous, baby. If this works out, I think you have what it takes to make us both a lot of money." Cruikshank's voice was positively drooling with excitement now. "When can we do this?"

Carolyn looked at Denise and urgently mouthed the words, "next weekend." She knew that Bob had to have time to do his part with "Donna Steele." Denise nodded.

"I can't do it until next weekend. I'm going out of town until then," she lied. After a pause, Cruikshank agreed. 

"Call me next Saturday early...maybe around 9 in the morning," he said. "I'll give you directions to where we're going to do the videos. How about giving me a phone number so I can get in touch with you in the meantime if I need to."

"Nice try. No. I'll call you next Saturday. Have the cash ready...I want to see it before I do anything. $900. Bye."

Denise hung up and the three laughed at her very persuasive part in the conversation. They began planning details for the final phase of their plan. 

To be continued...



Denise and the Banker Ch. 05



Bob Franks rang the bell of Apartment A-13 and waited a moment. The door soon opened and a buxom 40-ish redhead stood before him, a quizzical look in her green eyes. She was dressed in a tight tank top and ragged denim shorts cut off to show maximum thigh. Her feet were in pink wedges at least 5" high. Bob nearly gulped in spite of himself. She was a little on the cheap side but she was a hottie.

"Yes? What is it?" asked "Donna Steele."

Bob reached in his jacket pocket and quickly flashed a phony gold shield before the woman's face, putting it away before she could look closely.

"Sheila Jackson?" queried Bob, using the real name he had uncovered.

This rattled the woman. "Yes? She asked guardedly."

"Jones. Vice Squad. I need to talk to you inside. Now." Bob had been a cop for years and was used to acting the tough guy role.

The woman winced but backed into the apartment and allowed Bob in. He noted that the place was clean and exceptionally neat. A basset hound lounged on the floor, barely looking at Bob as he entered.

"What's this all about?" asked the redhead impatiently. 

"This is all about you and 'Ronnie,' the guy who likes crippled girls," said Bob. "I understand you have a nice income stream from his little fantasies. A very illegal stream."

"No…I don't screw him. I really don't"

"What do you do, then, 'Donna'? You are 'Donna Steele' to him, right?"

"Yeah. Steele for the braces. I just play like I'm crippled for him. He gets himself off." 

]"He pays you, right?"

"Right. But, I swear I don't do him."

"Doesn't matter. If he comes and you get paid, it's sex. Sex for money is sex for money. Hooking is hooking, and I can arrest you and send you up tonight. Bob's deceit was smooth but he was surprised at Sheila Jackson's naiveté.  But, I need your help. If I get it, you might find yourself 'off the hook,' uh, so to speak."  Bob rolled his eyes at his own terrible pun. "Want to talk?"

Jackson agreed.  She spent quite a bit of time describing the variety of roles she had played for Ronald Cruickshank. She showed Bob the myriad crutches, braces, and built-up shoes she kept in a closet, all for her very kinky client. He was secretly amazed at the obvious investment Cruikshank had made in orthotic equipment for her. He also noted an extended selection of studded and revealing leather outfits hanging up and a pair of black leather boots with towering stiletto heels. A whip was neatly curled on the shelf. She had other clients, too, he guessed.

"And, I have video." Jackson made this last statement nervously.

"Show me," commanded Bob.

Sheila Jackson opened the entertainment center in her living room and pulled out a built-in drawer filled with video tapes. She selected one marked "crip" and put it in her VCR, sighing as she pressed the "play" button. The TV screen was suddenly filled with the image of her bedroom. Ronald Cruikshank was lying naked on the bed, masturbating, as "Donna Steele" walked back and forth in front of him. She was on forearm crutches wearing a calf-length leg brace. Snow filled the screen momentarily and then a similar image replaced it, this time with Donna limping around the bedroom wearing a pair of shoes with dramatically different-height heels. Then another break and an image of Cruikshank sitting in a chair in front of Donna. She was now totally naked except for full-length leg braces and high heels. 

"I made these with a camera hidden in my ceiling. I thought if he ever stiffed me for the money I would have these to hurt him. I guess you want them?"

"I'll take them all," said Bob. And, I want you to be available if I need you for anything else. If everything goes according to plan he'll be busted and we'll forget you and I ever met." 

Bob decided to use information he had uncovered with some good sleuthing before his visit. "By the way, I know you have a prior for crack.  So… 'Donna,'… don't go tell Cruickshank what's going down to try to protect him. If you do, you're toast. I'm watching you. Got it?"

Donna/Sheila agreed. Bob Franks left and called Carolyn on his cell to report progress. Carolyn was ecstatic and the two agreed that it was time to wind things up. After hanging up with Bob she made a call to a former client of hers who specialized in web design. Pornographic web design, Carolyn recalled with amusement. That activity was what precipitated the divorce she had helped broker. At the conclusion of the case she had just laughed when he told her to call if he could ever do anything for her.

***

Denise was a little edgy as she parked her Z-4 in front of the brick-front warehouse building. It was a run-down part of town and two street toughs just a few blocks down were eying her expensive roadster as she drove by. She took comfort in the plain white van parked across the street and knew that Bob Franks would come to her rescue if anything happened.

It was exactly 10AM, the appointed time. Sure enough, at that moment Ronald Cruikshank pulled into the space next to hers in a Cadillac Deville and smiled at Denise leeringly. He got out of his car, looked into the Z's passenger-side window, and grinned. He opened the door and removed Denise's pink forearm crutches. Bringing them around to the driver's side, Cruickshank opened Denise's door and feigned a gentlemanly bow as he proffered the crutches to her. Denise got out of the car and hopped momentarily on her good leg as she took them from the banker and slid them onto her arms. He made a show of gawking at her dangling right foot, its tiny brown loafer pointing toward the pavement.

"Nice to see you, again," said Cruikshank. "I hope you brought your build ups and brace. You know, I don't even know your name. I only know you are one of the finest-looking gimps I have ever met. What should I call you?"

Just then a beat-up Honda with two people in it pulled up and parked next to Cruikshank's car. "The bitch from hell," said Denise. 

The banker watched uncertainly as Carolyn exited the car deliberately. She was "Delilah Heath" once again, wearing her leg brace and heaving herself up on the crutches Cruikshank had seen her on just days ago.  The banker was clearly confused and nervously watched Carolyn make her way toward him and Denise. A short balding man got out of the passenger side of the Honda, carrying a laptop computer in a black bag. Simultaneously, Bob Franks exited the van and walked across the street.

Cruikshank was becoming agitated. "What the…"

"Let's step inside, Mr. Cruikshank," said Bob, authoritatively flashing his fake shield and opening his jacket to reveal a holstered pistol. "I don't think you want to conduct business with us on the street."

In a daze Cruikshank pulled out a key and opened the door of his cavernous video studio. He entered and meekly invited the others to follow. He fumbled for the light switch before the door shut behind Bob, the last to enter.

Once inside, Cruikshank turned hostile. "What do you people want from me? You have no right to be here. Do you have a search warrant for something?"

Bob, Denise and Carolyn didn't answer right away as they looked around the long, rectangular, windowless room. The walls were covered by enlarged photographs, drawings, and caricatures of disabled women. The back wall was dominated by a huge framed portrait of an elegant redheaded woman in an evening gown. Her hair was beautifully coiffed and she wore a tiara. She stood on Warm Springs crutches and wore braces on both legs. Her shoes were silver mary janes and the left was massively built up to compensate for a very short leg. Denise and Bob recognized the woman as Sheila Jackson. In one corner of the room was a life-size department store manikin, well dressed in a stylish blouse and short skirt. Full-length braces adorned both plastic legs and she leaned into a pair of black forearm crutches. 

The group also noted three expensive cameras on tripods, one apparently digital, one 35MM, one VHS video. In front of the cameras was a large open area, 20' square, estimated Bob.  Against one wall was a twin size bed, made up with just sheets. A projection screen hung from one wall, its projector attached to the ceiling over their heads. Two desktop computers and monitors were on a large wooden table at the front of the room.

Carolyn handed the banker a sheaf of legal size paper. "Mr. Ronald Cruikshank, I am serving papers advising of a lawsuit being brought against First Security Bank by me, Delilah Heath."

"On what basis?" demanded a flustered Cruikshank. He flipped briefly through the pages prepared the day before in Carolyn's law office on her letterhead. "You and I have only met once, I believe. What in the world could you sue me for?"

"Sexual harassment in workplace recruitment. I was offered a job at your bank, clearly contingent on my providing you with sexual favors outside the office. We are well aware of your fetish for disabled women. At this, Carolyn removed her hand from one crutch and gestured around the room. And I have the audio of our interview. A jury will not be sympathetic to you, sir, I'm quite sure."

The small man with the computer bag had been setting up his laptop while Carolyn was talking. He now motioned to her that the machine was ready.

"Come over here, Mr. Cruikshank," commanded Bob. The group made its way toward the laptop.

On cue from Carolyn, her former client, who had asked to remain anonymous to everyone else, double-clicked to open an MP3 file. Windows Media Player launched and suddenly the screen was filled with the images Sheila Jackson had provided Bob. Cruikshank gazed at the screen in disbelief and tiny beads of sweat began popping out at his temples.

"I've seen enough. What do you people want from me?" asked the banker, his voice now quiet.

"Oh, there's one more thing we have to show you before we're done," said the computer man. He had wiggled the mouse of one of Cruikshank's desk top machines and when the monitor came to life he opened Windows Explorer. Carolyn's former client quickly typed a lengthy series of commands into the address bar and hit the "enter" key. And as the group watched, the website for First Security Bank came up on the screen.

Cruikshank gasped as he moved closer to the monitor and saw the altered content on his company's site. His picture was still there, professional and smiling. But, he was surrounded by pictures of "Donna Steele," Carolyn, and Denise. The text under his picture provided a new bio, describing his specific tastes in crutches, braces, short legs, and the like. It referenced his "chicksonsticks" fetish website and provided a "hot link" to the site's address. 

"Oh my God," muttered the defeated banker repeatedly. 

Carolyn spoke up. "Before you go out and shoot yourself, you should know that this revision to the bank's site isn't live…yet. My associate here has obviously hacked into the site, though, and can make this special version available online anytime we choose. We will choose not to if you agree to our terms."

"What are your terms?"

"Simply these. One, you take down chicksonsticks-dot-com for good. And two, you provide a personal check for the sum total of your historical membership revenue from the site. We estimate that to be around $12,500. That is the minimum amount we expect."

"Made out to who? Why don't you want cash?"

Carolyn looked at Denise and smiled. "The check should be made out to Memorial Hospital. It should be designated specifically for the new children's orthopedic wing now being built. We think it's only right that your illicit revenue should help fund correction of birth defects and problems that cripple young women."

"I don't have that money anymore. It's spent. Come on! This is blackmail!" Cruikshank was becoming angry at the full realization of his situation.

"No, Mr. Cruikshank, it's justice. And, you need to find that money. Get your board to approve a loan to you or something. If we don't have a check within 48 hours what you see on that computer will be available to the world. Just think about all your customers tapping in to check their balances…won't that be a nice little surprise! Think you'll be working there long, Mr. Cruikshank? Think you'll be able to explain it to your golfing buddies at the club, or your wife?"

"OK, I get it. I get it. I'll write the check."

***

Epilogue

Carolyn steered her Lexus into a vacant parking space outside the Daniels Orthotics shop. She got out into very warm and humid weather. She was dressed in a thin pastel blue sundress which made the most of her ample bust. On her feet were expensive sandals, each featuring a brass ring for the big toe and two very thin straps to hold the shoe on her foot. She had just invested in a paraffin-dip manicure and pedicure and sported bright red polish on her fingers and toes. 

Carolyn opened the trunk. Inside were two Kinney-style armband crutches and a leg brace, all of which she removed and carried into the shop. Ron Daniels, the owner, greeted her warmly.

"I'm bringing all the hardware back, as promised," said Carolyn with a broad grin. She liked Ron and his expression reconfirmed for her that he liked her too. 

"How was the play?" asked the brace maker. He was alluding to the story Carolyn and Denise had used about a local stage production starring Carolyn as a handicapped woman. "Is your run over and done with?"

"Uh, well…in all honesty there wasn't a production, Ron," confessed Denise. I did play the role of a polio girl, but it wasn't quite how we served it up to you. And I'm sorry for the deception. If you've got a minute I'll explain."

Ron readily agreed and for the next several minutes Carolyn had his rapt attention as she explained the whole affair with the banker, the website, the ruse, and the money. She did not mention First Security Bank or Ronald Cruikshank by name, but otherwise provided Ron with all the details.

"Wow…that's an amazing story," volunteered Ron. I do know about the devotee phenomenon, and I don't think most fall into that guy's class. He was way out there. Nasty…and he got what he deserved."

Something about the way Ron said this made Carolyn sense he knew more about devotees than he was letting on. Throwing caution to the wind she decided to pursue this head on. "Are you a devotee, Ron?"

Ron looked intently at Carolyn. He saw no disgust or malice in her eyes or her expression. He had never been confronted so bluntly by a woman. Nonetheless, somehow he felt it was safe to answer truthfully.

"Yes," he confessed. "I'm afraid I am. My attraction to disabled women was what originally led me to study Orthotics and eventually get into this business. That, and a desire on my part to compensate for what I thought was a terrible deviancy…by actually helping disabled people keep their mobility. Over the years the latter motivation has been very much gratified. And, quite honestly, I rarely think of orthotics in sexual terms any more. Most of my business caters to the needs of 75-year-old stroke victims these days."

"Two questions, then," responded Carolyn.

"Shoot."

"One: Do you still think you have a 'terrible deviancy?' and two: What did you think of me wearing these?" Denise pointed to the crutches and brace leaning against a counter.

"Wow…you're a tough questioner!" exclaimed Ron nervously.

"I ain't a top divorce lawyer for nothing," returned Carolyn mischievously. 

"OK. To your first question…yes, I do think the deviancy is a problem. I've battled guilt and shame all my life. And, as a Christian, I believe that there is definitely a conflict between my desires and the 'sexual purity' the Bible says we are to pursue. That said, I also know I'm not alone. But, I believe that most devs—like me, and unlike the banker jerk—would go out of their way to protect the feelings and sensitivities of the disabled. We're basically admirers and admirers don't hurt those they admire."

"And to my second question," taunted Carolyn.

Ron drew a deep breath. "I thought you were fabulously exciting and attractive." He paused. And, as Carolyn smiled he continued, "and then when you put on the brace I could barely contain myself."

Carolyn was caught off guard by this. "What did you just say?"

"I said I thought you were absolutely incredible the second you walked in my shop. The rest was icing on the cake."

With that, Ron pulled Carolyn to him and kissed her passionately. She in turn responded like she had not responded to a man in years. She knew she wanted to pursue this relationship more than anything. They agreed to have dinner the next night.

**One Week Later**

It was a busy night at the Garden Patch Restaurant. At a large table in the dining room sat Denise, Bart, Carolyn and Ron. They had just ordered a bottle of good chardonnay and raised their glasses in toast to the success of what had become known simply as "The Sting."

With a flourish, Denise produced a check, drawn on First Security Bank, in the amount of $13,250, signed by one Ronald Cruikshank, and made out to Memorial Hospital. 

"Chicksonsticks.com is now just an error page on the worldwide web, she intoned. Ms. Sheila Jackson donated all of her orthotic equipment to the Rotary Club for their polio programs in India and is now focused exclusively on whips and chains."

The group laughed at this.

"Mr. Cruikshank has agreed not to operate any website, for profit or otherwise. He believes we are monitoring him somehow, which we're not, but that's OK. The poor man is still shaking in his boots at the prospect of being outed to his family and peers."

At that moment a man with graying hair and green eyes walked by the table. It was the guy who Denise had met at the restaurant two weeks before. Their eyes met and recognition registered in his. This was the man who had shown interest in Denise until he realized she was disabled. He had then feigned an emergency to get away.

"How's your sister's baby?" asked Denise. "Was it a boy or a girl?"

He nearly choked. "Uh…it was a girl. Beautiful little girl."

"Everything OK…healthy baby, healthy mom?"

"Oh, yeah…everything's great. Everything's normal," responded the man, obviously very uncomfortable and eager to get away again.

"Good…good, said Denise with a slight smirk. Glad the baby's normal. I'll bet you breathed a sigh of relief that that was the case….you know, no birth defects or anything." 

At that the man nodded weakly with embarrassment and strode rapidly toward the door.

"What was that all about?" asked Carolyn.

"Oh, just a little 'in your face' to a guy who, unlike the fabulous men at this table, doesn't seem to appreciate the finer, intrinsic qualities of smart, gimpy girls." We'll leave it at that. 

Denise raised her glass once again. "To gimps everywhere. God bless us all." 

The group clinked glasses to this odd toast and then settled down to a nice dinner.

The End