Steffie... 2.0

 Steffie...2.0

Chapter 1

Hello, my name is Stephanie, though most people call me Steffie. It feels softer, less formal, almost intimate like if you knew me from my writing and blog posts. In a way it's a perfect fit for someone like me, who's spent most of her life hiding something so deeply personal.

My need for physical pain, casts and crutches, has always been my quiet companion, a whisper that lingered in the back of my mind since I was a teenager.

Over the years, I threw myself into gymnastics, a sport that seemed to embody the perfect balance between strength and vulnerability. Even if I was quickly too tall to be a great gymnast, I loved the adrenaline, the precision, and the inevitable risks. The injuries became a natural part of that world, and with each accident, each injury, each broken bone, a secret part of me felt... satisfied mentally, physically and sexually.

The first time I broke my ankle in a routine gone wrong, I remember first staring my broken ankle in disbelief and later at the cast with a mix of fascination and something I didn't yet have a name for at the time.

There were many other breaks, too, my arm, my leg, and once, a terrible motorcycle accident fractured my leg in 3 places that required months of crutches and various leg casts. Each time, I told myself it was just part of being an athlete, but deep down, I knew it was more than that since I was just too happy to be broken. Those moments of physical vulnerability gave me something I couldn't find anywhere else: a connection to a part of myself I couldn't ignore. Often more satisfying sexually than my boyfriends or girlfriends at the time.

Even after I left gymnastics, the need lingered, growing louder over time. Occasionally, when in a relationship, I tried to suppress it, folding it neatly into the fabric of my daily life, but it refused to stay hidden, not even from my ex-husband or my ex-wife. My love for sexy stiletto heels, the way they made me feel both beautiful and vulnerable, only added to my look.

A wrong step, a misplaced move in those delicate heels, and my ankle would roll, snapping under the weight of my own desires. The consequence? Six more weeks in a cast and crutches and an unspoken, undeniable pleasure that coursed through me with every moment of restriction.

And then we get to Ethan. Handsome, charming, beautiful young man, way too young and utterly conventional. We've been on and off for nearly a year, and on the surface, it's everything I should want. But lately, that quiet whisper inside me has turned into a roar, clawing at the edges.

The moment I knew I couldn't ignore it anymore came on an otherwise mundane Tuesday. Tuesday January 7, 2025 to be exact. I was in my office, perched on the edge of my sleek glass desk, wearing a black pencil skirt that hugged my hips and thighs, paired with a silk ivory blouse tucked in just so. My heels, an Italian four-inch stilettos in black completed the look, clicking softly as I paced between meetings with my employees.

And then she walked in.

It was Amelia, one of my junior employees about the age of my boyfriend. She moved slowly, deliberately, leaning heavily on a new pair of crutches. Her right leg was in a black cast that reached from thigh to toes, her foot resting slightly pointed down (I knew her Achilles was involved), her toes protected by a pink sock.

She was dressed simply in an oversized knit sweater in deep forest green and fitted black leggings that highlighted her toned frame, but it was her long leg cast, the elegance of her restriction, that caught me off guard.

Something inside me stirred, a deep, unrelenting pull. It wasn't just sexual attraction; it was recognition, a sharp reminder of the thing I had tried so hard to bury. I smiled warmly, exchanging a few words with her, but my pulse was racing. The black cast, her graceful yet restrained movements, it was as though she had stepped out of a long-forgotten dream.

"Hell Miss Robinson," she said with a soft smile, adjusting on her crutches slightly. "Sorry to interrupt, but I needed to drop off these insurance forms."

I smiled warmly, hoping she wouldn't notice the faint tremor in my hands as I accepted the documents. "No problem, Amelia. How are you managing with... everything?" My voice was steady, but inside, my pulse raced.

She glanced at her broken leg and gave a light laugh. "Oh, you know, one day at a time. The hardest part is carrying anything and getting up the stairs." She gestured to the crutches.

"These make you appreciate every little thing."

I nodded, my gaze flicking briefly to her beautiful cast before returning to her face. "I can imagine. It looks like you're handling it great."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she shrugged. "Thanks, but it's not always pretty. I'm just doing my best."

I offered a reassuring smile, but my thoughts were elsewhere, spiralling into a mix of fascination and longing. The cast, her crutches, the restrained movements, her nonchalant acceptance, it was as though she had stepped out of the sexual desires I had buried deep within.

As she turned to leave, I caught myself wishing, just for a moment, that my ex-wife had worn a cast like hers, that she could have shared this secret part of me. The thought was intoxicating, and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to refocus while crossing my long legs tight.

Even after she left the office, I couldn't stop thinking about her, about her cast and crutches.

When I finally got home, I slipped out of my work clothes without ceremony, leaving a trail from the doorway to the bedroom (I don't normally do that). The soft black camisole I changed into clung to my bare breasts with its delicate, almost sheer fabric against my nipples.

Paired with it, my yoga pants hugged my hips, thighs, their snug fit accentuating every line of my body. Barefoot, I moved across the cool hardwood floors, the sensation grounding me as the quiet of the empty house settled around me. Ethan wasn't home yet, and I took a deep breath, savoring the comfort of my body's freedom in the soft, form-fitting fabric.

In the back of the closet, behind a row of carefully hung dresses, I reached for my crutches. They felt cold against my palms as I adjusted their height since I wasn't wearing high heels at the moment, the rubber pads a reassuring firmness. I closed my eyes, imagining the weight of a cast on my leg, the restriction of movement, the balancing act between beauty and vulnerability.

I moved hesitant at first like Amelia did, wobbling slightly as she got used to the rhythm. Step, swing. Step, swing. The faint creak of the crutches filled the room as I practiced, my movements becoming smoother with each pass. My heart raced, not from exertion, but from the pure exhilaration of embracing something I had denied myself for too long.

When Ethan came home later, he...

Steffie... 2.0
Chapter 2 to come
Steffie