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Temporary Help

by M. Knight

It’s not that big, my office. I just have the two rooms: one in front with the desk and phone, fridge, and a couple of chairs; and another room to one side, with a window and the computer, file cabinet, and so forth. Up on the third floor. Mostly, I write copy for clients like ad agencies, radio stations, that sort of thing.

It was on a Tuesday, last month sometime, that this all started. Just before nine o’clock, I was making coffee when I heard a thump at my door. Not a knock. A thump. A couple of thumps.

“OK,” I yelled, “it’s open. C’mon in!”

“Uh . . . OK” came the muffled response. “Just a minute.”

Some scuffling noises, and finally the voice spoke again: “I’m having trouble with your doorknob . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“OK,” I said, starting the coffee machine, “be right there.”

‘Wonder what she wants?’ I thought to myself.

Swinging the door open, I saw a girl, maybe 22, 23 years-old, short dark hair, looking at me with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. I checked her out. First thing I noticed, besides the fact that she was really cute, was the pretty obvious fact she had no arms. Nothing. Not even anything you could really call shoulders. A large, black leather bag hung from her neck.

She spoke: “I’m sorry to bother you, but my agency sent me over to do some temporary work for the people in 304,” she nodded down the hall, “but there’s no answer. Can I make a call back to my agency?”

“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.” I pointed to the desk with the phone. “Make yourself at home.”

---------------

She moved her body, adjusting the position of the black bag, and stepped into the room. Slow, stiff steps. In her black slacks, her legs moved mechanically and clicked as she moved toward the desk.

‘Damn,’ I thought to myself, ‘artificial legs too. Damn.’

“You going to need some help?” I asked.

“Probably not,” she said. She swung the black bag onto the desk and ducked out from under the shoulder strap. It pulled her knit top to one side exposing the smooth white skin where a shoulder should have been, Without the bag to disguise her chest, even with a bulky top, it was very clear that she had what should properly be called a ‘remarkably outstanding’ figure. She shuffled behind the desk and, leaning forward onto the desk with some squirming, unlocked her knees and then fell back onto the secretary’s chair.

‘Damn!’ I thought to myself. ‘Great bod and a cute face too!’

She leaned over her bag and, with her mouth, opened the zipper and pulled out a stick about ten inches long and placed it next to the phone. Then she leaned onto the desk and wriggled forward until her chin was over the handset. She rolled the handset from its cradle. She picked up the stick in her teeth and looked around at me.

“You sure you don’t mind?” she asked around the stick.

‘She has dark blue eyes . . . almost violet,’ I noticed.

“Nope, go right ahead,” I responded.

She poked some numbers with the stick, put her head next to the handset, and listened. Her face clouded over.

“Busy,” she explained.

“No problem,” I answered. “Try again in a little bit. You want some coffee?”

She dropped the stick on the desk and plopped back into the chair again, her chest bouncing merrily as she sat.

‘No bra,’ I thought.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said. “I try to stay away from food and drink when I go out. That way I can avoid dealing with the ladies’ room. I can pretty much do for myself, but sometimes I run into problems. Don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t have hands.”

“Right,” I said. Brilliant response. She both confused and fascinated me. “You do temporary office work?” I asked.

“Right now I do . . . or at least try. Let me check my agency again.” She wriggled over the desk again, picked up her mouth stick, and repeated the phone call.

“They’re what?” she said after a bit. “And nobody said anything? Really!” She picked up the handset in her teeth, dropped it onto the cradle, and nudged it into position with her chin. She plopped back into the chair.

“Is that offer of coffee still good?” she asked. Her eyes glistened.

“Certainly. What do you want in it?” I walked over to the coffee pot.

“Nothing, just black.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The reason they didn’t answer the door was that they went out of business . . . Oh hey, do you have like a paper cup or plastic? I can manage that better.”

“And nobody told you?”

“Right. The agency just said the people at 304 were out of business and for me to go home. Crap!”

I poured the coffee into a paper cup and put it beside her.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a job when you have any kind disability? Qualified as all hell, and here I am trying to do temp work to pay the rent! Damn!” She shook her head, then leaned over and took the rim of the paper cup in her teeth and sipped the coffee.

A notion was beginning to stir my early-morning brain.

“What kind of qualifications do you have?” I asked.

“Masters in English composition, B.A. Journalism and Psychology. You’d think I could find better work than answering the phone and taking notes.”

“You know, I was just thinking that your trip down here might not be a bust after all.”

She looked up, puzzled.

“We do, well, that is . . . I do copy writing for people here. Not a big deal, mostly for ad agencies and a few other regular clients, but right now I’ve got a pretty fair backlog. I was just thinking . . . Would you like to help me out for a couple of weeks, you know, see how things go? I mean, if you’re as qualified as all that, maybe we could work something out.”

She took some time to answer. “Would it be through my temp agency, or . . . ?” She paused. “I mean I’d like to get some hands-on experience at whatever you would have for me, but . . .” She interrupted herself: “No, damn those bastards anyhow! No, the hell with them.”

I mentioned a figure as a starting wage. And that I could bring in my laptop so we’d have two workstations.

“That works,” she said. “Tell me more about the kind of writing you’d need.”

We discussed some of my clients, showed her some samples.

“Well, I guess the traditional thing would be to shake hands,” she said, after she had locked her legs and stood erect, using the desk for support, “but . . .”

“But as you said, you don’t have hands.”

“No, not really.” She looked down at her bosom, which, if I recall, moved a bit, then she looked up to me again with a smile. “Not much in the way of legs and no feet either, but I find ways to make do. What time tomorrow?”

---------------

I didn’t get much done for the rest of the day. In spite of her physical deficiencies, or maybe even partly because of them, I found this girl, Jennifer, that’s her name, strangely and distractingly attractive. I had trouble concentrating on the writing I was supposed to be doing. I kept seeing the way she moved her cute sexy body as she was making the phone call.

I got to the office early and started the coffee and set up my laptop. A little before the appointed time came that same bump at the door. I opened it for Jen, now dressed in low slung jeans that showed not only her navel, but a little bit of some belting that I supposed was for her prosthetic legs. Her top was light blue—a very short, very sleeveless blouse that showed off to advantage not only her trim little waist, but even a bit of the lower portion of her bosom. The straps of a smaller bag gave startling definition to the rest.

“Hi!” she said. “Do I get keys?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “There’s only one. Opens this door and the downstairs when it’s locked. OK?”

She stepped in, rocking back and forth, and bent over, settling her purse on the desk.

“Put the key in there, would you?” she asked. “I’ll put one of those big plastic handle things on it when I get home.”

“Good enough. I wanted to ask . . . how do you get around? I mean, do you drive?”

She giggled. “Not legally. My brother used to let me sit on his lap and steer, but no, not legally. I catch a cab most of the time.”

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Sure. Oh, about the ladies’ room. Do I need a key for that?”

I gave her a copy of the ladies’ room key and poured our coffee.

“So here’s the stuff,” I said, pulling a file folder out of the cabinet. “These folks need a radio promo for a store opening. They do the production, hire the talent, do the music drops, etc. They come to me . . . us, I should say, for the creative part of the job. They usually approve it with a few changes, and a week later you can hear it on the air.”

“So you’ve done a lot of work for them?” she asked.

“About a dozen or so. Here, let me show you the others so you can see what they’re used to and so you won’t be redundant.”

Jen settled in behind the desktop computer and, with a mouth stick, started it and began to poke at the keys. In about twenty minutes, she said, “Here, is this on the right track?”

It was. Very much on the right track.

“Excellent!” I beamed. “Hey, you’re great! It runs too long, though, I think. By the time they put in music and effects and the other things and the disclaimer . . . probably be about eight seconds over. Can you give it another shot?”

She nodded.

“You be OK if I run out and get some supplies?” I asked. “I need printer ink, some more disks, and some other stuff. It shouldn’t be long.”

“No problem,” she said cheerily. “I see a phone in here too. Do you want me to answer the phone?”

“Sure. Just use the company name, like it is on the door. People like to hear a real voice. Thanks. See you.”

I left Jen poking away with her mouth stick and headed for the store.

---------------

When I got back, I opened the door quietly and peeked into the computer room to see how she was doing. I’m not quite sure how to describe what I saw.

Oh, she was working, all right, and so thoroughly absorbed in her work that she was clearly unaware of my return. It wasn’t what she was doing that surprised me, for she was diligently typing away at the computer. It was how she was typing.

She had pulled her little blue top up and was swaying back and forth over the keyboard, pressing the computer keys with her firm pink nipples. I watched in astonishment. She continued for some time as I watched. Her large, conical breasts with their long, erect nipples pushed the mouse around, poked at the keyboard, deleting phrases, moving sentences as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Suddenly, she was aware of my presence.

“Oh my God!” she whispered aloud. She sat as if paralyzed. Her face was ashen. She struggled to cover her chest but was only partially successful.

“I’m so sorry . . . I . . . I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

She looked at me in despair.

“You weren’t supposed to see this. I guess I’m fired, right? I’ll get my things and go . . .”

“No, no, Jen, please, it’s OK!”

“No, it’s not OK! It’s stupid and sick and everything my mother said, exposing myself like that and pretending . . . Oh, never mind. I’m really so very sorry.”

“Jennifer, wait. Calm down. I think we do need to talk, but first let me assure you that you’re not fired. You have great talent for the work that needs to be done here, and I need you, OK?”

She nodded like a little girl caught stealing cookies. Her eyes were red-rimmed and moist now.

“Sure. You need me like another hole in the head. I mean what I was doing was really gross, OK? I mean how sick-o can you be?”

I wanted to hug her like a little girl, but thought better of it.

“Jennifer?”

“What?”

“Think for a minute. Everyone has his or her own way of doing things, right?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Did I have a problem with the way you use the phone?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Well then, why do you think I’d have trouble with the way you type? I mean, it’s not conventional, but . . .”

“That’s for sure,” she said quietly. “I mean I can type with the mouth stick, but I can work faster . . .”

“Jen, if you have a way to do the work that is better for you, I really have no right to complain.”

She looked up at me for a moment, then looked down at her half-exposed chest.

“You really want me to continue working here after what you’ve just seen?”

“Of course.”

“But won’t your clients complain? I mean, don’t they come in here?”

“Rarely,” I replied, “and only when I make an appointment. We can work that out.”

Jennifer nodded. “Well, OK then. I guess I have some explaining to do.”

“It might be helpful,” I admitted.

---------------

She was quiet for a moment, then began:

“When I was a little kid, I desperately wanted to be able to do all the things the other kids could do; you know, run, play, make mud pies, all that stuff. I couldn’t, of course, being born the way I was. I could roll around and learned how to do quite a lot with my mouth and tongue, but you really can’t make mud pies with your tongue.” She made a face as if tasting the mud. “Anyhow, I had this idea. I really was convinced that someday, some wonderful day, my arms and legs would grow. I know it’s a little kid’s dream, but I was so desperate for arms and legs that I never doubted it. I was totally sure it would happen.”

“You thought your arms and legs were going to grow?”

“Oh yes. I knew it would be a matter of time, but it would most certainly happen. Maybe that’s part of the reason I really hated the artificial limbs they would hang on me. I was much happier without them. The arms were totally useless, and even though I have hardly any legs, I could get around better without the heavy prostheses, and besides, I had to practice for when my legs would grow as I just knew they would.

“My folks did their best, I know. They kept having me fitted with different prostheses, and I kept rolling out of bed, bouncing down the stairs without them, or anything else on me, for that matter. They would pick me up, take me back upstairs and assemble me, dress me, and there I’d sit in a wheelchair like some kind of cripple.”

“What about school?” I asked.

“Grade school was a little like being in jail. All assembled and dressed, I was rolled around to the various classrooms with a pencil in my mouth and my other materials on the tray before me. It was pretty depressing. Uncomfortable too. By the time I was in third grade, I had figured out how to wriggle out of my restraints when I got home, but I finally decided I’d better learn how to walk using the artificial legs. I would do anything to be out of that wheelchair. Well, it wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. I mean just trying to balance on top of those two strange things was hard enough, let alone actually move. Then when I fell, which was like constantly, I couldn’t get up again, and somebody’d have to pick me up again. After a while, I learned to lean against the wall or fall on my bed, and then I could start again. Eventually, I could rock back and forth and sort of move a little. I guess that’s what my parents called ‘my first steps.’ ”

“You do pretty well on them now,” I observed.

“Not bad,” she smiled.

“Not bad at all!”

“Oh, I had a lot of spills and tumbles. Still do. That’s why I don’t wear them except on special occasions. Safer!” A laugh. “See the scars on my chin?” She jutted out her jaw for inspection.

“Anyhow, in the back of my head, I was still waiting for my arms to grow, even just a little bit. One day when I was ten . . . that’s right, I was going to be eleven the next month, I was in my room getting ready for bed. I still had my legs on, but no top, and I was looking at myself in the mirror to see if my shoulders were growing. Of course they weren’t, but what was happening was that my little-girl body was changing. My nipples were growing. Not much, but they were definitely getting sort of puffy, more, oh, pronounced, you could say. Well, that was it! That was the signal that I’d been waiting for! Oh, I was so excited!”

She squeezed her breasts together, like a little child clasping her hands.

“I beg your pardon?”

“These were going to be my fingers, my very own two little pink fingers, yes, and then as my breasts would develop, they could be the arms I just knew would grow! Oh, I was so happy!”

She saw my look of bewilderment.

“Oh, you can understand, can’t you? I just knew they were going to become the arms and fingers I had been so desperate for all this time.”

“Your dream coming true?” I suggested.

“Exactly! I remember how I rocked over to the light switch and planted my belly against the wall. I tried to flip the switch with my new little finger.”

She looked at her left nipple.

“Well, it didn’t work at first, but I kept trying, and in a little while, this little pink nip began to get hard, and began to stick out. Yes! Now it worked! On, off, on, off! The lights flashed. Ooh, and it felt good too! Kind of itchy and nice all at once. Then I tried it with the other one. It got even harder than the first and poked out even a little bit more.”

She giggled.

“What?”

“Oh, I guess it’s silly, but I had always wondered whether I was going to be right-handed or left-handed. That evening I found out. Like most people, I’m right-handed. Of course at that point I was only right nippled, since that was all I had so far. Still, I was so happy. Then my mom came up the stairs and called to me, ‘Is something wrong?’ She meant about the lights flashing on and off. I told her I was learning Morse code. I don’t think she bought it, though. Isn’t it amazing how some things stay so vividly in your mind?”

“What did your folks think of your . . . your discovery?” I asked.

“Oh, I kept it a secret at first. I mean, just little-girl nipples; it wasn’t any big deal yet. I was thrilled, though, and every night I practiced with them so that when my arms did develop, my cute little pink fingers would be ready.”

“You practiced?”

“Sure. The light switch, of course, then book pages and things like that. I liked to touch things around my room, like my dolls’ hair, the blankets, and compare temperatures and textures. Textures, especially. Fun. You can’t do that with the prostheses. Sometimes it felt really good.” She smiled to herself. “That encouraged me all the more. I would, well, you can just imagine . . . Then I decided that if these cute little guys were really my fingers, they should be able to reach out all by themselves. You know, without rubbing on something.” She illustrated, stroking the edge of the desk.

“I touched different things, like fur and silk, and dipped them in hot water and cold. The cold worked. So first chance I got, I tried some ice cubes and boy, did that work! Now all I have to do is think about those ice cubes and ‘pop-pop,’ just like that. Watch.”

She pointed her bosom at me, closed her eyes, and as if on command, both nipples became incredibly erect.

“Still works. My brother was the only one who knew. I mean at first. He thought it was great and was sworn to secrecy.”

“So did your folks ever find out?” I asked.

“Oh sure. I was just starting high school. I was wearing my legs so I’d look like the other kids. No arms, though. They’d stayed in the closet since fifth grade. I pretty much did everything with my mouth during the day, but at night, I’d close the door to my room and break out the boobies that were starting to develop. Not at all big yet, but enough that I was beginning to be able to use them on my computer. They were still tender and sort of stuck straight out like . . . Well, anyhow, here I was poking away at my homework when Mom walks in, unannounced, and really has a total meltdown. I mean she read me the riot act from top to bottom, about how a woman’s breasts are not playthings, and that I should be ashamed of myself, and that what I was doing was terribly sick. I was grounded, and it was very upsetting. I tried to explain that I could be less of a burden, but she was practically hysterical. She took me for a bra fitting and made sure that every morning I was sufficiently trussed up and told me that if she ever caught me ‘abusing’ my body, she’d schedule me with a psychiatrist.”

“So the dream was shattered?” I asked.

“Not really. Dreams like that don’t break easily. I just went undercover, so to speak. Locked the door to my room. I’d open it, of course, but it gave me time to cover up.”

She looked down and relaxed her breasts, which began to sway naturally as she spoke.

‘Beautiful,’ I thought to myself, ‘absolutely beautiful.’

“By the time I got to college, my chest was pretty well developed, and as you can see, I was really fortunate because they’re not only quite large as breasts go, but wonderfully nice and pointy. I was really lucky. Most girls get little useless things with hardly any nipples at all, or big floppy ones or, well, anyhow, Mother Nature had outdone herself for me, and I was so happy. I kept teaching myself to make use of them in all kinds of ways.”

She looked down again.

“It was disappointing, though. I couldn’t get them to do half the things I was expecting. Wouldn’t reach up, or out, or very far in. I still can’t touch my fingers together without pushing against something.” She illustrated the limits of her bosom. “I wish I could do that.”

She laughed a little quiet laugh. “Maybe someday,” she continued. “Anyway, at college I thought maybe I could be more open, but for the most part, I put on my legs and top and went to classes like everyone else. I was really itching to use my arms, now that they had developed, but around campus, I really did everything with my mouth. The other girls stared at first, but mostly they were pretty nice. Actually, I had a lot of friends there. I just made sure I’d closed the door to my room before I shook off my top to use my home-grown arms. Sometimes some of my really close friends would come in. It was sort of like a secret society. ‘The Boob Club,’ they called it. They used to sneak in beer and watch me and then try to do the things the way I could, but they hadn’t started young, and their boob muscles, pectorals and such, weren’t trained the way I had worked on mine.”

She bounced one breast. Then the other one bobbed up and down in illustration.

“Without shoulders, I had pretty weak pectoral muscles, so I had to work especially hard on them. But anyway, the other girls tried, and it was pretty funny watching them, although one of them really didn’t have the raw materials, so to speak. But we did have fun. I showed them how I could pick up pencils and things or hold a beer between them, stuff they could use to show off or get some boy’s attention. They couldn’t do all that much, but they had fun trying.”

She was suddenly quiet and looked into my eyes.

“So that’s pretty weird, isn’t it?” she asked.

I couldn’t find an answer.

“I mean pretending that these breasts are my arms? I mean, don’t you think that’s sick?”

It took me awhile to decide how to answer.

I finally said: “No, I don’t. I can understand your parents’ position, and it must be very painful for them to see you struggling to do the simplest things. Each parent expects a perfect child, and when their daughter is born a little different . . .”

“A LITTLE different?” she interrupted. “I’m a total freak! If they still had sideshows, I’d be star attraction! Look at the totally limbless girl, my friends,” she chanted in the singsong chant of a sideshow barker, “and watch her do things with her gravity-defying bosom that will astound you!”

She looked down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose my cool like that. It’s just . . . just so blessed hard to try to get along in a world that is full of arms and legs and hands with fingers, and all I have are these two things!”

She turned and the bright pink and very erect tips of her conical breasts reached out to me.

“I mean, look at them! Two, soft little nubbies that are supposed to be used to feed babies, and I’m tying to use them like fingers. I even put nail polish on them one night. I mean I wanted to look pretty and . . .”

Tears began to run down her cheeks.

“Jennifer?”

“What?” she said, looking up, her eyes red.

“We need that copy you were working on when I came back,” I said. “You can type any way you want. Just finish the copy, OK?”

Her eyes widened. “I’m not fired?”

“Not unless you keep sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. Get going, Jen, please. I really need that copy.”

I turned and left the computer room. I didn’t look back, just went to my laptop and tried to straighten out my spinning head. Shortly, I heard gentle, reassuring sounds coming from her keyboard.

A few minutes later, her voice called, “How about this?”

I walked into the computer room and looked over her shoulder.

“I think I can make this line better,” she said and thrust her right breast at the screen, the nipple pointing to a phrase of dialog.

“Try putting it the active voice,” I suggested. “Carries more punch.”

“Oh, right,” she nodded and changed the phrase. “Like that?”

“Great.” I said. “You send that over to them as an email attachment. Here’s the address . . . You OK doing that?” I jotted the address on a post-it note, and as I lifted it from the pad, she turned to me, reached out with those remarkable breasts, rounded her back squeezing her bosom together, and lifted the note from my fingers.

“Thanks,” she said, smoothing the note onto the desk next to the computer. She looked around and realized I had been staring, open-mouthed, at her accomplishment.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I stammered, “I was just surprised at . . . at how much ability you actually do have.”

She smiled and began to set up the e-mail.

“Not as much as I’d like,” she said. “What you’ve seen is pretty much it. I haven’t given up, though. I have to keep trying. Besides, if you do anything all the time, you get good at it. If I had regular arms and carried my boobies around in a bra all day, they’d be totally weak and helpless and wouldn’t do squat. In any case, they’ll probably get the droops when I get older, but for now . . . OK, is that right?”

She ‘pointed’ to the email format on the screen.

“Good to go,” I said.

She sent the document and turned to me.

“You’re still having problems with me and my arms and fingers, aren’t you?”

“Well,” I bumbled, “if they’re not a problem for you, I don’t see why they should be a problem for me.”

“If you were a woman, it would be different,” she began, “but you’re a man, and a very nice one too. By the way, are you, um, like . . . married or anything?”

“No. I came close awhile ago, but no,” I answered truthfully.

“Me neither,” she nodded. “See, if you were a woman, it would be easier. It’s like I told the Boob Club kids. Look, I said, there’s a creature that doesn’t have hands, so it does everything with its nose, picks up food to eat, washes, takes care of its young, all that with its nose.”

She looked at me with an impish grin.

“An elephant, right?”

We both laughed.

“So I’m a kind of elephant! I don’t have hands either, or feet with toes, so I’ve learned to make do with what I do have.”

She saved the document and turned back to me.

“Boys, men, just aren’t used to seeing a woman’s breasts out in the open. Except, maybe, men in some parts of Africa, or at some beaches. Even moms breast-feeding are generally discreet about how much they show. So if you really want me to stay on here, I understand that it will take you awhile to become accustomed to my . . . um . . . the way I do things. Does that help?”

“It does,” I admitted. “I mean it’s kind of unusual to see a girl flopping her chest around . . .”

“Woman,” she interrupted, “but go ahead.”

“Woman, right,” I corrected myself. “Usually, it’s in some kind of strip club or in a more private setting, with lowered lights.”

“See, that’s really the problem, isn’t it? For guys, breasts are always associated with sex, right? I mean, isn’t that the problem?”

“Problem?” I was confused.

“The problem is that my situation is different.” She rested her breasts on the desk. “These are breasts. Normally, they’re used to feed the next generation, and in many cultures, including ours, to attract the opposite sex.”

She considered her bosom.

“I guess these puppies would be OK in that category. What do you think?”

“I think they’re the most remarkable breasts I’ve ever seen,” I answered honestly.

“I asked if they were attractive,” she prompted.

“Oooh, yeah,” I answered again completely honestly.

“That’s nice,” she smiled. “Thank you. For me, however, born the way I was, I have worked my ass off to make these things do the work of my missing arms. They have to be. They’re sorry, pitiful excuses for arms, but they’re the best I have. In any case, they’re definitely not some kind of gift-wrapped sex toys. That’s even what my mother thought. Still does, for that matter. Daddy too. Maybe if I had been born with the usual number of arms, hands, fingers, feet with toes, et cetera, I might fit them into that category myself, but that never was the case. This is who I am, and these masses of fatty glandular tissue are my arms.”

She looked up at me for a reaction, then back down at her chest. She waved her ‘arms’ in an expression of helplessness.

I did my best to explain that I understood both her situation and her unique solution.

“OK,” she said, “but if you have a problem, or a question, just come out with it. It really creeps me out when people just stare.”

---------------

The next two weeks went smoothly enough. The clients liked the work, and Jen seemed happy with the situation. On a Friday afternoon while we were shutting down, she said, “Do you think it would be a real problem if I didn’t wear my legs next week?”

“Your legs?”

“Right. I’m really a lot more comfortable without them. I have some boots that I can wear to and from the office, and as I said, it’s a lot safer. If I do trip over something or take a tumble, I don’t have as far to fall.”

Monday morning came around and a familiar thump came from the door.

“Forget your key?” I shouted.

“No, I got it” came Jen’s muffled voice through the door. “It’s just I’m having trouble reaching the lock. Without my legs on, I’m in short mode.”

I opened the door and looked down. Jen’s legs were so short that the hem of her very mini miniskirt touched the floor.

“Good morning!” I said.

“Mmmpf,” she said, dropping the key into her bag. “Sorry about that. I’ll figure out something for tomorrow.”

She leaned against the doorframe and raised one little stub of a leg in its calfskin stump boot for my inspection.

“Nice boots,” I managed.

“Thanks.”

As it happened, since she clearly wore no underwear, the boot wasn’t the only thing available for inspection.

“There’s an old-fashioned shoemaker near my place who made them for me. Nice old guy.”

In her shortened state with the miniskirt and white sleeveless blouse, she presented a different, but very attractive picture.

She stepped in, swivelled in really, on these nearly nonexistent legs. She moved over to her work area, slung the bag down, and wiggled back out. “You’re sure about the legs, right? I mean it’s a lot easier for me.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Her head came approximately to . . . well, let’s say below my waist. “One thing, though, I was hoping you could help me file a stack of hard-copy backups I have. Don’t know if you’d be able to reach the upper drawers.”

“Good point,” she said, shaking her blouse to the sides so that her breasts could take on the role she demanded of them. “At h

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