Lora’s Worries
by Heel
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Drama Sex Story: In the face of pain, anxiety, and life’s unexpected challenges, Lora must find her courage—and the quiet strength within herself—to face the world again.
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual Heterosexual Fiction BDSM Foot Fetish Leg Fetish .
I have to go to university because of an exam. The exam is important, and I cannot miss it. Yes, I’m on sick leave and hard to move around, but I have to drag myself there. The good thing is, I’m well-prepared—because of my health problem, I had plenty of time to study. I tell myself it’s silly to worry, maybe for the hundredth time. I feel miserable. I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to see people, I don’t want anyone to see me like this. But if I don’t take the exam, I’ll get into a heap of trouble. Oh, how nice it would be to just lie in bed and think about nothing! I’m so tense that my mind spins terrifying scenarios, imagining everyone laughing at me, mocking me, pointing fingers.
I know most of my worries are baseless, yet ... I’m on edge and miserable. I think I’ve already said I feel miserable. Anyway.
I haven’t left home for two weeks. Ever since I got injured, I’ve been resting at home. A neighbor does my shopping and helps with chores, for which I’m endlessly grateful. I manage, in other words, but now I have to go to the university and face thousands of eyes ... Maybe I’ll gradually relax, maybe everything will go smoothly, maybe the pain won’t be unbearable ... My head is like a hive buzzing with anxious thoughts. I tell myself I’m too sensitive, that I’ve softened mentally. I feel like crying, which isn’t a good sign. No, there’s no turning back! I go, and that’s it! Whatever will be, will be!
I get dressed, sling my backpack over my shoulder, call a taxi, and leave the apartment. Somehow, I manage to get into the elevator without help. Not that anyone could help me anyway.
I plant myself at the entrance and wait for the taxi.
The car arrives, and seeing my condition, the driver comes out to help. I lean on the open front door, and he takes my backpack and puts it in the trunk, then does the same with my crutches. I sit sideways on the seat and try to maneuver my plastered left leg inside. It’s difficult since my leg sticks out, immobilized with the knee straight. The driver pulls the seat back, but I still can’t manage it. I sweat from embarrassment and anxiety.
The man says:
“Look, miss, it’s not going to work like that. I suggest you sit sideways in the back seat.”
I agree. I stand and, with small hops, make it to the rear door. I feel awkward being so clumsy and causing trouble. Once I sit, the driver kindly lifts my leg so I don’t drag it on the upholstery.
I lie on the back seat, head resting on the armrest, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of building facades through the windows, but I can’t tell where we are. I feel less like a person and more like luggage.
“Comfortable, miss?” asks the driver, glancing back.
“Yes, comfortable,” I answer.
“You broke your leg, I guess?”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to talk about it at all. And anyway, isn’t it obvious something’s wrong with my leg, for heaven’s sake?
But the driver seems talkative, not realizing I’m not in the mood.
“Ten years ago I had a skiing accident. I was bedridden for two weeks, but the doctors fixed me. Then rehab ... a big hassle. How did you get hurt?”
I can’t just keep silent; that would be rude. I say:
“I fell in the bathroom.” — a lie, but I’m not ashamed to lie right now.
“Oh! It happens. Does it hurt a lot?”
“Yes, I can’t even think straight, and I feel nauseous.” — another lie, to scare him. It works. He falls silent and drives, looking worried I might vomit in the car.
Finally, we reach the university. I pay the driver, and he immediately jumps out to get my backpack and crutches, helping me down, and I lean on him. He’s probably a good person.
I stand, looking at the crowds in front of the entrance. I’m scared and don’t want to go in. I long to be home in bed. The taxi drives away, and then I notice that the sock covering my toes has disappeared—probably slipped when I got out. Now my toes stick out of the cast, exposed to the cold. I don’t want anyone to see them. I sigh and head toward the entrance, staring at the cracked tiles. I feel hundreds of eyes on me. I have to hold my injured leg slightly forward so it doesn’t hit the tiles, which is exhausting. Walking is agony.
I reach the entrance and turn sideways to manage the few steps. People offer help, but I decline with a smile. Because I don’t want anyone touching me.
They make way for me to enter the elevator. I can’t complain about lack of attention, but right now I want to be invisible. Upstairs, I see familiar faces. Some students know about my accident, so they shouldn’t be surprised I’m on crutches, but still, they stare as if I’m dying. A girl I know vaguely runs up and exclaims:
“Oh, Lora, what happened?”
“Well ... I broke my leg.”
“How, dear?”
I look at the ceiling and groan with annoyance. I’m tired of explaining. Why, for heaven’s sake, is everyone interested in someone else’s misfortune? Isn’t this a form of sadism?
“I was riding my scooter, a child ran out in front of me, and to avoid hitting them, I swerved and fell.”
“Your leg ... it looks pretty bad...”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
I have to answer a few more questions, but fortunately, soon everyone starts treating me as relatively normal. Feeling calmer, I sit on a chair and wait for the exam.
It’s time to enter the hall. Of course, I sit in the front row so I can stretch my damn broken leg. I feel everyone thinks I’m flaunting my health issues to gain the professor’s sympathy. Well, yes, how can you fail a student who’s seriously injured? Not that I fear I won’t manage. I’m well-prepared, for reasons I mentioned.
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