Yellow Plastic
Minisinoo

Summary:   Being disabled presents challenges, not impossibilities. Six ways to make love for a man in a wheelchair. (semi-humor)
Warnings:  Real-life sex between spouses. Graphic sexual description but not a PWP.

Notes:   Uses background from Finding Himself ... because I'm lazy and it's easier. Please assume three things: 1) Cedric survived the maze, but 2) didn't emerge unscathed, and 3) he and Hermione eventually developed a romantic relationship.

Cedric Diggory had a good imagination.

This was advantageous, as being in a wheelchair presented certain obstacles to effortless shagging with his wife.  It wasn't that he felt nothing below the waist.  The problem was that he felt everything -- including the dull throbbing pain that had been his constant companion since 24th June ten years before -- the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.  This chronic ache required dependence on Abdoleo, a potion that dulled all sensation.

So he could feel, and could (usually) get an erection.  But not eighteen anymore, he sometimes had problems with secondary impotence and took a while to reach orgasm (if he managed at all).  It wasn't something they found easy to discuss, but it was a constant in their lives, so they'd learned to deal with it.

His favorite way to make love put Hermione on top.  There were all kinds of advantages, most obviously that he didn't exhaust himself if it took time, and left both his hands free to roam her body.

He loved her breasts.  They were well-formed, and neither too small nor overlarge, the areolas a deep rose rather than brown or pink, and the nipples small -- dainty still, even after breastfeeding their son.  He'd made a study of those breasts.  The nipple sides were more sensitive than the tops, and she liked to have them tugged, but not pinched.  If he circled his fingers around and round, spiraling in slowly, he could make her shudder when he finally reached the center.  Even more interesting, the left was more responsive than the right -- but if he were rubbing inside on her sweet spot, the right brought her off faster.  He noticed such small things.  And she often needed one or the other (or both) to be handled during intercourse in order to come.  He was happy to oblige.  They were, after all, his personal toys.

So having her on top let him play with them, using fingers and lips and tongue . . . and teeth, very gently.  It never took her long that way.  At the end, she would often pound down on him, her hands braced on his shoulders, his hands on her hips urging her faster.  She was wild, like a raptor diving.  And he could be lazy and watch her, watch the sex flush spread over her cheeks and her chest.  When she came, he sometimes managed to come with her.  Timing was easiest that way.

Other positions required more creativity.

Her favorite position put him on top.  She said she liked the feel of his weight on her, although he tended to worry (perhaps more than he should) that he was crushing her.  At six feet one inch, thirteen stone, he was a lot for her to bear.  She swore she could manage.  And she was strong, his Granger; she probably could.  She enveloped him with thighs and arms and cunt.

But it was more difficult.  He needed leverage, and if he could feel below the waist, his muscles didn't obey him well.  His thighs and knees weren't strong enough to bear his weight; it all had to rest on arms and shoulders.  They were used to it.  If the wheelchair and crutches had given him anything, they'd given him a powerful chest and back.  But it still resulted in smaller movements.  Undulation more than in-and-out fucking.  And he couldn't get to her breasts.  So it took longer.  Sometimes, by the end, he'd be drenched in sweat.  He'd timed them once at twenty-two minutes.  She almost always came first -- sometimes came twice, and he wondered if that's why she liked that position -- well, that and the fact she could drag her short nails over his back muscles and down his arse.  (A little biting and scratching excited him, he'd found.)

The easiest method was probably having her give him a blow job, but he rarely came that way.  Her mouth simply wasn't quite . . . rough enough.  One of the side effects of Abdoleo was a need for strong stimulation and she usually had to pull back to mount him or wank him off, fist tight around him.  Still, her mouth felt nice.  And she'd made a study of his cock like he'd made one of her breasts.  She knew exactly how he liked to be stroked, and how fast.  Massaging his bollocks was pleasant, but fondling them inside the sack simply felt weird, and he liked to have her swallow the cock head and massage the root at once -- sent him right round the bend, especially if she tickled the frenulum with her tongue.  But most often, all that simply raised him to a plateau.  Pushing him over into orgasm was harder.  So while fellatio put little strain on his legs, it also wasn't enough in itself.  It worked best as a prelude -- quite a nice one.

Using his mouth on her presented problems, and not because he was unwilling.  It was a pragmatic matter of position.  Kneeling on the floor against the bed, or between her legs, simply wasn't an option.  It had taken him a while to entice her past her middle-class prudery in order to straddle his face, her hands braced on their headboard.  That position also freed his hands (again) and if she sometimes forgot and came down too hard on him (breathing was one of those necessities of life), he mostly liked it.  The taste was sharp, and a bit salty, but worth it for her reactions.  Unlike men, women were small and delicate, folded and hidden like flowers, and using his mouth on her clit, two fingers inside her and a hand on her breast brought her off faster than anything else -- often with raw-throated screaming.

Screaming did nice things for his ego.

They didn't talk a lot in sex, even naughty talk -- which excited neither of them.  Over the years they'd educated each other by the language of indrawn breath and quiet gasps, interspersed with an occasional, "That's good."  Sometimes he'd guide her hand.  Sometimes she'd guide his.  When she asked him, 'What do you like?' he invariably answered, 'Everything you do feels nice' -- which was true, just not very helpful and he knew it.  But embarrassment sealed his lips; she was no better.  They'd given up on questions sometime between their second and third year of sleeping together and let the nonverbal substitute.  He couldn't tell her, but he could show her in subtle ways.  She paid attention.  And for all their verbal reticence, neither of them was exactly prudish.  He liked to experiment.  So did she.  They were adventurous in bed, just not vocal about it.  Making love was about sighs and gasps and moans and even giggles.  He liked making her laugh almost as much as he liked making her scream.

Sometimes, she wanted to make love to him in his wheelchair.  At first, he'd resisted that.  It had felt too much like a fetish, or pity.  He didn't want to be the sexy man in the chair.  He just wanted to be sexy despite the chair.  (Well, sexy to her.)

Getting past the wheelchair had been one of the few times they'd talked about sex.  She'd been on his lap, her damp, hot crotch atop his erection and he'd been both aroused and put off.  The wheelchair didn't make things easy.  A sports chair, it had sloped wheels, a low back and no arms.  She'd had trouble straddling it.  "Let's just go to bed," he'd said, the same thing he'd told her the last time she'd tried to mount him in the chair.  Usually, she got off and they moved to their bed.

That day, she didn't.   "No," she said quietly.

"Why not?   This is awkward."

"No," she said again, rubbing her slickness against him until his breath caught.   "This is you," she added.

He felt himself begin to deflate under the anger that brought.   "What?   The Cripple?"

"No -- my Cedric.   Who's in a wheelchair.   Because he was brave."

"It doesn't define me."

She bent forward, her breasts right in his face -- rather distracting -- and whispered in his ear, "Then don't let it.  It defines you by getting out of it -- every time -- as much as by making love in it.  Don't let it define you anymore."

So he let her mount him in the chair.  And it had been awkward and difficult because her legs weren't quite long enough to reach the ground for leverage.  But they managed because it was important.  Every now and then, they made love in the chair.  The advantage, as far as he was concerned, was putting her chest at mouth-level.  But then, he got the same effect if she straddled him on their sofa, and that was a lot easier.  Shagging in the chair was all about symbol.

The last way he liked to make love was the one that took the most creativity -- entering her from behind.  There was something simple and primal about it -- perhaps a bit (or more than a bit) possessive -- but he avoided thinking about how much of the lizard brain went into shagging that way.

The problem was that fucking her from behind (and that's really what it was -- fucking, not making love) required leverage from his lower body.  And he didn't have any.  So he had to invent it.  With a plastic Muggle children's slide.

The idea came to him on the spur one summer afternoon, watching their son play in the backyard at her parents' house.  That evening after Gwynn was in bed -- and Hermione's parents as well -- he proposed his idea.  Intrigued, she went out into the dark yard to haul the yellow slide into the covered porch on the back of her parents semi-detached.  Low enough, the slide ended at mid-thigh for him, affording a perfect angle into her when she knelt on the slide part and he leaned up against the steps, gripping the handholds for leverage like crutches.

It wasn't very sexy or romantic, but it worked.  They had mind-blowing sex with that children's slide for a prop -- raw and rapid, the plastic squeaking on the floor tiles with each quick thrust.  Squeak, squeak, squeak . . . Even the squeaking started to arouse him after a bit as he plunged into her from behind, dripping sweat on the pale, freckled skin over the arch of her spine.  She panted and moaned, rubbing at her clit until she finally hit her peak, pumping back onto him hard and squeezing her eyes shut, trying not to bellow like a branded calf.  Instead he bellowed when he came a minute later -- and was glad he'd set a Muffliato Charm on the porch door.

After, he fell across her back, almost knocking her over, gripping her and stroking the hot skin of her shoulders.  "So good," he said.

"Yeah," she replied, wriggling a little under him.   "But all my blood is now in my head.   Let me up?"

He did and they disentangled from each other.   She ran a hand through her cropped hair.   "I think we'd better clean it up."

"I think we had."  He glanced at her where she stood beside him, looking a bit shaky and very flushed.  He still gripped the handholds of the slide top to keep from falling over.

Abruptly, they both burst out in embarrassed laughter.  "I don't know if I can ever watch him use this again -- not with a straight face," he confessed.

"Me, either."   Then she eyed him with a twinkle.   "Think I should ask mum and dad if we can have it?"

He shook his head.   "Let's just buy our own."

Cedric Diggory had a good imagination -- one that sometimes yielded a whole new meaning to "sex toys."