The Collection
“So, this is my collection.” I waved an arm around the room. Pegboards lined every wall. Hanging on hooks were the results of a lifetime’s obsession with my peculiar hobby.
My guest didn’t reply to the introduction. Instead, she slowly made her way around the room, taking the full tour of everything on display. When she returned to the door, she looked up at me with a question.
“These are all real? No fakes, no movie props, no gaffed magician’s tricks?”
I shook my head. “Not a one. A few of the rare and very expensive antiques are replicas, but all work as they were intended. As you can see, every single one is in excellent condition. I’m not concerned about their historical value, if any. There’s no rust or worn patina. If the original finish was in bad shape, I had it replated. Even the internals, the pawls and springs, were replaced if there was any sign of excessive wear.”
She went back to the exhibits. “I bet collectors hate you for ruining the original condition.”
I laughed. “So they do, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’m destroying priceless museum pieces. What matters to me is form as well as function. I prefer that ‘like new’ appearance, fresh from the factory, even if the company disappeared a century ago.”
She started to reach up for one of the items on display. “May I?” she asked.
“Sure,” I told her. “They aren’t fragile, so don’t worry about breaking anything. Look around all you want.”
She lifted the object off the hooks and held it in one hand. “It feels heavy. Why is that?”
I took it from her hand and held it up. “This is a replica of a 19th century design. Unlike the original, made from rust-prone, low-grade steel, this is a brass casting, plated in nickel. Brass is about ten percent heavier for the same volume of metal. The locking mechanism, the interior spring and plunger, are still made from steel for durability.”
Her selection was a rigid Darby style handcuff, the infamous “Irish 8” supposedly used by the British in Ireland during the uprising. Essentially it was composed of two Darby style wrist cuffs, with the spring locks at each end, except the cuffs were connected with a solid piece in the center, replacing the traditional swivel and chain. Although a reproduction of Asian origin, it was well-made and worked flawlessly. A single key was attached to it with a simple wire twist tie, the kind used on bags for bread.
I handed it back to her. “Just one key?” she asked. “What if you lose it?”
I shrugged. “I have at least two keys to everything. One is attached, as you see. The other is in a safe in another room.”
She returned the handcuffs to their position on the wall. I heard her take a deep breath before she backed away a few steps into the center of the room, and then turned to confront me. “This is fantastic! I feel like a kid in a candy store who’s just been told to help herself to whatever she wants.”
I was aware of the reason she was here. We had been discussing this evening for several weeks in private social media chats. Once I passed her test for being trustworthy, whatever that was, she had asked to see my collection.
“I’m no novice at this,” she declared. “I want to try out as much of your, umm, hardware, as I can. I’m convinced I can trust you not to take undue advantage of me.”
I smiled. “That depends on your definition of ‘undue advantage.’ I’m sure you appreciate that all these restraints,” I swept an arm around again, “are expressly designed to impose your ‘undue advantage’ with or without consent. The intent is to severely hinder your freedom, leaving me in virtually unrestricted physical control.”
I saw the gleam in her eyes. That’s why she’s here, I understood as soon as she spoke.
“I’m prepared for that,” she stated, laying to rest any misconceptions as to what was going on. “The ‘undue’ part is forcing yourself on me.” We had agreed on this. Sex was off the table, at least for now.
“Not an issue. All things are possible in time, but that time is not tonight. Where would you like to start?” She was wary; I had to be careful about not scaring her. For now, I’d give her the option of where we would begin.
She stood very still, arms at her side, feet together. “The prisoner isn’t the one to pick and choose. You are my jailer, my captor. It’s up to you to select the most suitable tools needed to subdue me.”
That was music to my ears. I freely admit I am an unrepentant control freak. The prospect of satisfying my urge to dominate by placing the woman in front of me in inescapable bondage was the equivalent of a drug addict being handed a bag full of his favorite pills. The prospect of an attractive female being the object of my attentions added that extra sexually tinged excitement.
The first few moments were critical. I had to establish my authority, which she had just passed on to me, in a way that was unambiguous but not overbearing. I laid my hands on her shoulders.
“Listen carefully,” I instructed her, keep a level tone but with a hint of command in it. “This is how we will proceed.” I had her full attention, as I anticipated. “You will stand in this spot, facing forward. Do not turn around or look away. Focus on one spot; keep your eyes on it. You are to remain quiet, no sound, no talk. Concentrate on my words.”
I was quite pleased when she complied. Remember, I told myself, she’s enjoying this every bit as much as you. I walked around her, slowly, in a full circle. It was an inspection, but more importantly a chance for her to show off her obedience. “Excellent,” I announced, “this is exactly what I want to see.” Naturally she didn’t reply, but I was sure she stood a bit straighter.
Her gaze never wavered from the wall before her. I suspected her focal point was the Irish 8 cuffs she had handled moments ago. I planned on something similar, since the cuffs on the wall were too big for her smaller wrists. But first there was one detail that needed to be addressed.
I went over to the cupboard underneath the pegboard. Inside was a prisoner waist transport belt, a wide leather affair with a padlock buckle and a large, sturdy D-ring sewn into the back. I held it up so she could see. “This is going around your waist. It requires a key to open, so you won’t be able to remove it. Hold your arms out to the side.”
It didn’t take long to slip it around her body and tighten it in front. It separated her white sleeveless blouse from the tapered, light-brown leather skirt of a conservative length ending slightly above her knee. Fashionable calf-high boots with a moderate heel left a small gap of uncovered leg. The transport belt nestled at the narrowest part of her torso, above her hips. It was snug but not too tight. I snapped shut the lock on the buckle. A few tugs in front verified it wasn’t coming off.
“You can lower your arms. Keep them at your side.” Every command reinforced my power over her. My tone was even but firm, as if I were stating an obvious fact. From now on there would be no requests, no asking for permission. I was positive anything less would be a disappointment for her.
I walked over to the rear wall. Out of her sight I took down two pairs of modern, swing-through handcuffs. These were the smaller variety, British Hiatts from the 1970s, sized for a woman’s wrist. The second pair I slipped into a pocket. I came up behind her, the soles of my shoes on the concrete floor announcing my approach.
“We’ll begin with your hands.” I reached around so she could see one of the handcuffs in my left hand. The cuff was one of the hinged variety, with bicycle chain type links instead of the more common short length of chain. “These are modern cuffs that were once used in Britain. I’m going to fasten your wrists together, behind your back. You will not be able to free yourself.”
The D-ring from the transport belt was centered in the small of her back. It would serve as the anchor for her hands, holding them in place. I took hold of her right wrist and brought her arm behind her back. She didn’t resist. Slowly I closed the cuff, mentally counting off the clicks of the ratchet, until I was satisfied she couldn’t slip out of their insistent embrace. Her left arm followed, but this time I threaded the open cuff through the large opening of the D-ring before closing it on her wrist. Again, she made no move to stop me.
I ran my fingers along the cuffs, checking to make sure they weren’t too tight. Then I used the tip of the key to engage the double lock, so they wouldn’t tighten further. The keyholes faced away from her hands, making it difficult for her to unlock the cuffs even if she had the key.
“I’m not done yet,” I warned her. Taking the second pair of cuffs out of my pocket, I opened both sides, slipped one end through the D-ring, and closed them around her wrists, on top of the first pair. I carefully aligned the bows to line up with the first set before double locking them as well.
I felt a sudden start from her when the second pair went on. She hadn’t anticipated being cuffed twice. There was one crucial difference between the first and second pair, which she likely hadn’t noticed. Holding on to one arm I came around to face her.
“The hinged cuffs are back-to-back, meaning the keyholes for both pairs are facing each other. I can hold them apart to insert the key. You, on the other hand, would find it next to impossible to accomplish the same feat on your own.” I let her think about that for a minute.
“You have permission to speak. Feel free,” that was a joke, “to explore the range of your bound wrists.”
I watched while she struggled, twisting around, trying to extend her hands, constantly jerking against the waist belt when it brought her up short. I wasn’t too concerned about her somehow escaping. The belt and cuffs were designed to control uncooperative prisoners twice her size.
When she stopped, she looked up at me. Turning to one side she held out her restricted hands and wiggled her fingers. “A thorough job; I doubt I can overpower you, snatch the keys and make my getaway.”
“If you manage that, no one will be more impressed than me. I trust you’re not hiding a secret hobby as an expert on Houdini and his escape artist tricks. Be sure to tell me if the cuffs are painful, or you feel numbness.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. I can’t say these things are the latest in comfortable leisure wear, but I’m not in any kind of distress.”
My goal is always to control, not injure. I deliberately left out anything about asking to be released. That was strictly up to me. I suspected she would agree if I put the question to her. Though if I did give her that option it would spoil the ambiance I was trying to build.
No Running Away
“Speaking of getaways, we need to do something about that.” I wrapped my hands around her upper arms. “Feet slightly apart. A little more, that’s good. Don’t move, eyes forward, keep that back straight. I must ask for you to be silent once again.”
I returned to the wall behind her, where the newer restraints were displayed. In bondage there are two instincts to overcome: fight and flight. I had removed the fight option; now it was necessary to prevent flight. Reaching up I took down two sets of leg irons, essentially handcuffs enlarged to fit around ankles, with a longer chain to permit a small degree of mobility by reducing the distance covered in a single footstep.
I knelt down behind her. “I’m going to fasten cuffs around your boots. You will still be able to stand, but walking will be difficult and slow. Don’t try to move around on your own; one stumble and you will hit the floor. After I finish, I’ll hold onto your arm to prevent an accident.” Up to now she had been calm and cooperative. I hoped by preparing her for each stage in advance she might remain in a cooperative frame of mind.
Like the handcuffs I had two identical sets of leg irons. Holding them together, keyhole to keyhole, I added a twist to the connecting chain. This helped to keep them together and reduced the rattle of the links. I fastened the first two leg cuffs, facing each other like the handcuffs, around her right ankle. I followed up quickly with her left ankle. Once in place I slowly closed the left and then the right sides until they were a snug but not overly tight fit. Her boots would provide some padding to prevent bruising.
American regulations required that leg irons be 14 inches apart, or about 35cm. Not being a government agency, I wasn’t bound by those rules. The shackles I selected were modified with a shortened chain, closer to 4 inches, or about 10cm. It was still possible to walk within the reduced limits, but the short length prevented anything more than a “baby step”, one foot slightly ahead of the other. Kicking or running was impossible, discouraging any idea of fleeing from my control.
“That should do it. Take a look to get a better idea,” I warned her. “Widen your stance to pull the chain taut; that’s your maximum stride. You have permission to speak.” I noticed she was very conscientious in following my orders. I’d have to be careful about instructing her to keep quiet.
She slid one foot to the side until the connecting chain took hold and brought her to an abrupt halt. She leaned forward and looked down, studying the restraints. Relying on me to keep her steady she stood on one leg, swinging her other leg around to test how much freedom of movement was left to her.
“This can’t be police issue; it’s way too short. Did you cut down the length of chain?”
I nodded in agreement. “My own idea, cut off ten inches from one end and weld it back together. You’re right, these are far from standard issue. A police department could be sued if caught using them. However, since you’re not under arrest this doesn’t qualify as cruel or unusual.”
She looked up at me with a frown. “There is false imprisonment.”
I gestured toward the door. “You may walk away whenever you like. I won’t stop you.”
One more she fought with the handcuffs behind her back. “And how am I expected to leave, like this?”
I did my best to put on a show of indifference. “Seems to me that’s your problem, not mine. I’m patient; I’ll wait while you figure it out.” Of course, we were only playing a game. Bound in those chains she wasn’t going anywhere until I released her.
She quickly gave up her bid to free herself. “Okay, you win. What’s next?”
“There is just one more thing…” That was Steve Jobs’ famous line from his product presentations, where he saved the best for last. “I’m concerned you might become hostile and abusive. Naturally, I’ll have to take steps to protect you from being accidentally injured if you resort to violence and must be brought under control by force. It’s purely for your own safety; I’m sure you understand.”
She looked at me askance, as if I were some kind of idiot. Trussed up hand and foot she was thoroughly restrained and entirely incapable of offering up any sort of physical threat.
I went to one of the drawers, opened it, and took out the molded, fiberglass mask. I held it up for her to get a good look. “I recognize that! It’s from a movie,” she exclaimed.
“A similar mask was used in the movie, yes, but there are a variety of designs. Let’s see how well this one fits.” I slipped on the muzzle, which covered her mouth and the lower portion of her face. It rose on either side of her nose, covering her cheeks and extending back to the ears. Reaching under her hair I fastened the two retaining straps in the back and pulled them tight.
It wasn’t intended to obstruct breathing or talking. The oval hole in front of her lips sported stout vertical aluminum bars, embedded in the fiberglass. Behind the bars, on the inside there was a fine wire mesh to prevent spitting. I checked to verify it was properly centered.
“There we go. It’s only used as a precaution to prevent biting. You can breathe without any difficulty?”
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the muzzle. The straps did their work, holding it in place. “Ugh, I could easily learn to despise this thing. Still, I have to admit it’s better than a gag, although it doesn’t prevent me from screaming for help.”
“The nearest neighbor is about a ten-minute drive from here, plus we’re in the basement. If you feel the urge, go ahead and make some noise. If it helps, I can provide you with an incentive.”
I reached into my pants pocket and withdrew what looked like handcuffs for a doll. Stepping around her I snapped on the rigid bar of the thumb cuffs around her fingers. They were a nasty invention, designed to keep the hands together, reducing manual dexterity.
“Ouch,” she exclaimed from behind the mask. “Those are a tight fit.” She tested the new limits of her grasp once again. This time it was reduced to almost nothing.
“Would you like to see yourself, with your new jewelry? There’s a full-length mirror in the next room.” Vanity, thy name is human, according to Shakespeare. She immediately agreed.
“It’s a long walk, for you. I’ll keep you steady while you set the pace. Don’t try to hurry. Remember, it’s slow motion, no matter what you want. I’m in no hurry, so don’t be concerned about me either.”
The Treasure Room
We set off on what would be a long journey for her, though I could make the trip in a few seconds. At a snail’s pace we passed through the exhibit room door into the rest of the basement. The closed door to the adjacent room was nearby. Not for her though. The tiny, shuffling steps rendered it a lengthy, time-consuming journey.
I stopped her halfway with pressure on her arm. “Take a minute to rest,” I told her. “The body wasn’t meant to walk like this. It puts a lot of stress on the leg muscles. The heels on your boots don’t help either. I don’t want you to get a leg cramp.”
Next door, I opened the entrance and led her inside. It was a small anteroom. Set in a reinforced frame was another door at the far end, covered in a sheet of steel with a locking bar across the center, and a substantial lock. She paused to stare at it, before turning her head to look up at me.
The mask covering much of her face hid the outward expression, but I was sure it was curiosity. She didn’t ask, a display of self-control which impressed me. “I’ll show you in a few minutes,” I explained. “I call it my Treasure Room.” That wasn’t an exaggeration. I hoped one day in the future to store my most valuable possession in there.
There was a wooden wardrobe set against one wall. I led her over to it and opened the long closet door on the right side. On the interior of the closet door was a full-length mirror. I maneuvered her so she could take in a full view of her reflection.
There was a long pause where she didn’t react. “I can barely recognize myself,” she finally spoke. There was another pause. “Darn, I can’t even stick out my tongue. This mask, what did you call it, a muzzle? I hate and love it at the same time. Those bars across my mouth are so intimidating, yet I’m fascinated by how it both controls and dehumanizes me, as if I were a wild animal. What’s your impression?”
I stood behind her, my hands gripping her upper arms. Even in the boot heels she was still considerably shorter than me, so I had an unobstructed view over the top of her head. She studied me in the mirror, looking for all those subtle hints women are so talented at picking up.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I admonished her, “but I think the mask is very attractive. You’re right, it is muzzling the savage beast. Maybe not really savage or bestial, more on the order of taming a wild spirit, taking away even the simple act of defiance that comes with sticking out your tongue.”
Awkwardly she turned to one side, in a three-quarters profile so she could examine the handcuffs from the rear. “Those thumb cuffs, for something so small they seem to create a massive amount of frustration. I’m torn between which is worse, the leg chains or that thing clamped on my thumbs.”
She extended her hands backward until they were brought up short by the transport belt. “My hands are useless. I was just imagining what it would be like, somehow escaping from a prison van, without these doubly cursed leg chains, fleeing through a forest while hooked up like this. Maybe without the thumb cuffs too.”
“You’d have a hard time of it. There’s little you can do without the use of your hands.”
I could see the fascinated twinkle in her eyes. “The panic, the helplessness, nowhere to turn, no way out. What if someone found me like that, a hunter, or a hiker? Would he turn me in, or keep me for his own use? How could I possibly resist?”
I could see she was getting lost in one of her own fantasies, just from the softening tone in her voice. When she closed her eyes, I let her have her space to enjoy the moment. Besides, I wasn’t exactly suffering from the sight of her so closely wrapped up in my chains.
When she came back to reality, she gave me a piercing glance before asking, “So, what is this Treasure Room? I apologize if I’ve intruded on your privacy, but you did bring it up. You piqued my curiosity. It almost looks like a bank vault. What lies behind door number one?”
“A date with destiny,” I offered, doing my best to sound both profound and mysterious. This was a judgement call on my part. I was about to go beyond what we had previously discussed online. Based on the results standing in front of me I decided to take the risk.
“Right this way. I guarantee all your questions will be answered in full.” Guiding her with a hand on one arm we crossed the room to the imposing door. I made a production out of sliding out the bar across the front before inserting the key in the lock.
“Why the bar?” she asked. “It seems to me the only purpose is to prevent the door opening from the other side.”
“You’re right. The reason will be obvious in just a moment.”
When I swung it open the sight of the room on the other side must have come as a surprise to her. “This wasn’t what I expected,” she said. “I figured there’d be chests full of silver dollars.”
Inside was a narrow corridor along one wall. The rest of the room was taken up with my version of a prison cell. There was the traditional crosshatch of steel bars, set into concrete, with a cell door sporting my pride and joy, an authentic, fully restored 1930s style Adams detention door lock, lovingly restored to like-new condition. The bars and lock were painted in the traditional drab prison gray.
“I don’t get it,” she confessed. “Where’s the ‘treasure’ that requires all this security?”
Instead of answering I took the keyring holding the large, bulky key off the hook on the wall. I opened the cell door and stepped back. “Come inside and all will be revealed.”
She didn’t move. Instead, she alternated between glances at the cell and at me, with what could be a frown, though the mask made it difficult to recognize any expression on her face. At her show of cautious hesitation, I walked around behind her and took hold of her upper arms in a firm grip.
“It’s this way.” Insistent pressure worked to get her moving. For a brief moment I felt resistance, and then it passed. I led her into the cell, to the far wall where there was a bench. I turned her around and held on while she sat down.
Interesting, I thought. She was reluctant to enter, but there was no verbal protest. Had that unwillingness been a twinge of wary uncertainty, or some kind of test of my strength of will? Once she realized I wasn’t going to back off she immediately acquiesced.
I locked the cell door when I exited. She sat on the bench, watching every move, but said nothing. “Now my Treasure Room is complete. Inside is a fortune more valuable than a pirate chest full of gold, silver and jewels.”
I took a step back, in order to cherish my new, cherished possession. She had her fantasies; I had mine. “If I had my way, I’d be tempted to never let you out. Don’t worry, the accommodations are only temporary, even though I’m tempted to keep you here, entirely for safekeeping purposes of course, for an indefinite period.”
Suddenly she sat up very straight, head high, shoulders back, knees pressed together. “I can’t prevent you from confining me here for as long as you wish.” Her voice was very low, almost a whisper.
Ahh, the temptation. Satan, get thee behind me. Her enigmatic words raised more questions than answers. I confess I wasn’t sure how she would take to being caged, especially in a tiny jail cell. My conclusion was that being incarcerated was feeding some previously unmentioned desire she had neglected to bring up in our conversations.
The tables had turned on me. I had planned to surprise her with my miniature prison, fully expecting her to decline its dubious pleasures. Instead, it was very possible I’d awakened ever more, deeper yearnings on her part. Now what? I had outrun my plans for the evening.
Less Walk, More Talk
No dating advice website ever covered a first date quite like this one. Show an interest in what she has to say. That did apply, so I scrambled with a new plan.
“Would you like to talk for a while, get to know each other a little better?” What I really wanted was to contemplate my newly acquired work of art, even if it was temporary. Like a fine painting in an art museum, I could study her for hours and not become bored.
“Yes, I would. Given my current…” she paused, raising up her legs to pull the chain tight between her ankles, “situation, I’m all in favor of less walking and more talking.”
That suited me. For one thing, it gave me some time to figure out what should come next. I could simply ask for her opinion on the events so far, but a voice in my head warned me not to go down that path. The theme for the evening was definitely pointing at me to lead the way.
“Okay, you stay there while I go find a chair. Promise me you won’t sneak out while I’m gone?”
She swiveled her head back and forth, taking in the cell bars. “I can assure you I’m not going anywhere. The evening has been, umm, captivating. I would hate to end it prematurely. Besides, I’m not the type of girl who slips out the back door in the middle of a date, be it good or bad.”
I didn’t feel the need to mention there was no back door to the jail cell. That kind of addition tends to defeat the whole purpose of a cage. In the anteroom I pushed the armored door to my makeshift cell block closed, finishing with a very noisy slamming home of the locking bar. Since I wasn’t in a hurry I stood there, trying to imagine what she must be thinking at that moment, hearing me slam shut the outer door with that sound of finality. Will he be coming back? How soon? What will I do if he doesn’t return?
Or she might be the passive type who wasn’t concerned at all, unconcerned as to her fate because she trusted me. That, of course, was my downfall. Much as I’d like to keep her in there for the purest of selfish reasons, I was as bound up by my own moral code as she was by the chains. I headed for the folding chair in the far corner of the basement.
I repeated the loud act of unbolting the cell block door, swung it open and walked in, chair in hand. Before unfolding it, I scrutinized her through the bars, looking for any sign of discomfort on her part. “Tell me if you’re having any kind of issue with the restraints. Be honest, don’t hold back on my account.” I delivered that as an order, in a stern tone of voice.
She blinked once, apparently surprised at my insistent attitude. “The thumb cuffs, they are very…distracting,” she replied immediately. She didn’t actually ask me to remove them, which I took to be a good sign.
I unlocked the cell door and went inside. “Lean forward,” I told her. Again, she didn’t hesitate. I reached down, behind her back, and unfastened the thumb cuffs with a key. The moment I finished she sat up straight again.
“Thank you, that little device is truly a work of the devil.” I could see from the movement of her arms she was twisting her hands around, relishing the tiny bit of additional freedom regained. “Much better! I have fingers again.” She looked up at me, but I couldn’t read her expression. That muzzle was too darn effective at concealing her reactions. I was almost tempted to take it off too, but decided against it. Best not get carried away in some altruistic moment.
I locked the cell door, hung the door key and ring on the hook behind me, unfolded the chair and sat down across from her. There we were, her on the bench, and me on the other side of the bars. The difference in viewpoints might make for an interesting exchange between us.
By now I was ready to start. “You and I are very different. If I were in your place, I’d be going crazy. Yet you seem to take all this,” I waved a hand at the cell, “in stride, almost as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence. Uhh, I trust that’s not the case? You aren’t out on some kind of prison parole program, where this really is a normal day?”
She laughed at the implication she might be a convict. “No, no long police file full of sordid crimes, trials and convictions. I’ve always wondered what it would be like, arrested, put in cuffs, paraded in public with a perp walk, and finally hauled off to some hellhole of a maximum-security prison. I’m not so driven by curiosity as to go out and rob a bank though. I’d rather not have to accept room and board in state-provided accommodations for the next ten to twenty years.”
I nodded. “It is a high price to pay merely to conduct some research.”
She laughed again. “Research? Yes, I like that. Something is bothering me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to explain.”
“Sure, go ahead.” I had no idea what she was going to say.
“Earlier tonight, when we started, I told you I’m no novice regarding a bondage lifestyle. I lied. This is the very first time in my life I’ve ever been handcuffed, much less placed in a cage. I was afraid you’d hold back if you knew I was inexperienced. I feel guilty about misleading you, even though I believe I was right in what I did.” She lowered her head, staring at the floor. “I deliberately deceived you. What I did was wrong. You may punish me in whatever manner you see fit.” I could barely make out her voice.
If I were a cartoon that would be the moment my jaw hit the floor. Punish her? In terms of the unexpected, the train hadn’t just jumped the tracks; it had plunged into the ravine pulling all the freight cars with it. It was clear to me what had just happened. She was all but demanding an accounting for her supposed bad behavior. I couldn’t ignore it or simply laugh her feelings off either. Somehow, and I was furiously trying to come up with some idea, I had to mitigate her self-imposed guilt in a significant way.
I stood up. This called for a towering, domineering pronouncement from on high. “Look at me!” I snapped, letting some irritation creep into my tone. In a flash she was back to sitting up straight, head up. “This is how it will be.” I liked that, the fait accompli, established fact, an appropriate introduction to my decree. Now for the hard part, feigning dissatisfaction on my part.
“You have disappointed me by betraying my trust. You are correct; this cannot go unchecked, without a proper reprimand. My decision is that you will be required to remain where you are, as you are, for a period of time commensurate with your offense. During your punishment I will not free you no matter how forcefully you beg to be released. Do not ask, your pleas will fall on deaf ears. In the future I will not tolerate a repeat of what has occurred. We will not speak of it again. Do you understand?”
“How long…” and then she halted. I deliberately left out how long that “period of time” would last. The real punishment was not knowing how long it would last. She was quick-witted to figure out that part so promptly.
“I understand,” she answered in a very formal manner.
A Frank Exchange
“I’d like to find out more of what goes on in your head,” I headed the conversation back to where I began. “I can’t comprehend how it is you sit there so calmly, when I have total and unrestricted physical control over you. In the movies someone like me is eventually revealed to be a crazed serial killer, either luring or kidnapping women so I can indulge in my sadistic slasher pleasures. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Not so much. Sure, it’s a risk, but I’m betting a real psycho wouldn’t have the patience or skill to talk to me online for so long, without revealing some hint of your true intentions. Calm? Yes, I suppose that’s true. I would use a different term, liberating. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m free of all responsibility. This is a first date for us. Do you know how stressful it can be, that initial meeting face to face? What should I wear? What do I talk about? You mentioned your collection. Should I let you use a pair of handcuffs on me? I felt overwhelmed.”
I held up a hand. “One,” I began, ticking off points on my fingers. “Yes, we all have those first-time jitters. I have enough self-confidence to brush them aside. Since I’m in charge you don’t need to worry about that initial impression. Just follow my lead.”
“Two, what should you wear? In that respect your fashion sense was perfect. Not too dressy, not too casual, it matched what I envisaged as the format for the evening. By the way, that combination is very attractive, especially with the waist belt added. You did well.”
It wasn’t a casual complement. Somehow, she had picked exactly what would draw my attention. It emphasized all her feminine attributes, from the small, bare shoulders of the sleeveless blouse, her ideally sized breasts underneath, the wide hips outlined by her skirt, the smooth skin of her knees, down to the sexy boots.
“Third, what to talk about? That’s also my job. Naturally I want to hear whatever you have to contribute, but I am the one who leads the conversation. There will be no awkward lulls.”
Now comes the last, and crucial point. “Fourth, we are here together in large part because you are fascinated by the collection displayed on the walls of the next room over. Will you let me? Of course you will. As you said, we all must take risks at some point in our lives. You have to trust that I’m no psychotic monster; I face the peril of you turning out to be some kind of obsessed mental patient turned stalker. But the worst case isn’t every case. We’re both normal. Well, mostly; perhaps not entirely. You find your liberation; I am handed my heart’s desire to dominate and control. Seems like a good combination to me, what’s called a synergy, the whole exceeds the parts.”
She cocked her head to one side, evaluating me in a new light. “You make it all sound so simple. If I were sitting on your side of the bars, I wouldn’t have a clue as to what I should do. I’d go back and forth, unsure of every move. You take seconds where I’d be lost for hours on end. You’re not the only one having trouble with comprehension. How is it you always know exactly what’s needed, what to say and do? Whatever it is, your ability resonates with something within me. I probably shouldn’t reveal this, but I can’t seem to say no to you.”
This was progressing too quickly. I had to slow it down, without ruining the mood. “Originally, I had planned to let you go right about now. Unfortunately, your punishment isn’t over. You will have to remain shackled and caged. I’ll stay with you to help pass the time.”
She didn’t argue. “That’s very kind of you,” was all she had to say. I suspected she was not in the least disappointed at being forced to remain in the restraints. A better man might have given in and released her; I was not gifted with such high moral values.
Winding Down
We spent the rest of the evening discussing a wide variety of topics, not all limited to our surroundings. I mentioned my engineering background. She admitted she was in Human Resources.
“I was reluctant to tell you where I worked,” she disclosed. “I know all about the run-ins between technical people and H.R. They mix like gasoline and a lit match. A meritocracy versus progressive diversity and equity.”
She was right about the stereotypes. In civil engineering there is no award for participation. Fail to deliver on the project and the bridge collapses or the plane falls out of the sky. Every time H.R. sent us a new engineer the competency, or lack thereof, was obvious to everyone in the department within a few weeks. I said as much.
“You have to see it from our side,” she defended her job. “Government contracts force us to fill quotas. Management won’t back us up; too much money on the table. We don’t have the training to filter out the good from the bad, but we have to prove we’re needed by supposedly saving you guys from all the tedious interviews. The applicant who checks the boxes gets the position, even if I know it’s a bad choice. You can see why I’ve developed this desire to be free from responsibility.”
I scratched my chin, thinking over what she said. “Ever consider a change of career? I can suggest being a professional jailbird. You have some experience already.”
She sighed and shook her head. “If only, but no, the drawback of a life behind bars is the extremely low pay, despite the benefits package. Maybe I need more practice to become proficient, so I can qualify for a higher job title, trustee or something like that.”
I didn’t miss the implication behind that last line. It was a not too subtle hint she would be open to a return invitation. I was looking forward to demonstrating the use of plenty of other items in the collection.
But back to the immediate. Standing up I reached for the keyring on the wall. After opening the cell, I went to her, wrapped a hand around her arm and helped her rise. “The keys to your…” I added with a slight pause, “impediments are in the collections room. We’ll have to make the trip back there before I can help you off with your accessories.”
It took just as long to shuffle back as it did to get to the cell block. There was something in the way she strolled along at a crawl, carefully measuring each step in a tightly restricted fashion, that I found very stimulating.
Back in the collections room I began by removing the leg irons, followed by the handcuffs and finally the transport belt. I watched with interest while she stretched out her arms. “Oh, that feels wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t realize how stiff my shoulders were until I was able to use my arms again.”
What I had neglected to unfasten was the muzzle, which still covered her lower face. She made no move to undo the straps holding it in place. Instead, she came close and raised her head to meet my hungry eyes.
Bowing to the inevitable I reached behind the back of her head to loosen the straps. Off came the mask, to my disappointment.
She laid a hand on my arm. “Tonight, you made a dream come true for me. Even that disgusting muzzle, which I have already learned to detest, played a crucial part. It transformed me into some kind of an object, in a psychological sense. It wasn’t me, that image in the mirror.”
If I got started on that road, we’d be here all night long. There can be too much of a good thing. “It’s time I take you home.”