The Unusual Request

by Cynthia Trusscot

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© Copyright 2014 - Cynthia Trusscot - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF; M/f; funeral home; outfit; corset; boots; bond; cuffs; chain; casket; encase; display; cons; X

“You must think this is a very... unusual request.”

“No. Of course not,” Rachel replied in her professionally sympathetic voice. “We here at Gentle Rest Funeral chapel always try to accommodate the wishes of the family.” She did not mention any of the really bizarre requests that had crossed her desk since she had begun working for the family company. Things like... er, no.

The well-spoken man in the client chair smiled slightly. “Actually, our lifestyle was not all that rare. There are many people in this area who share... our interests. My dear wife and I enjoyed our little play games so very much. She was the one who told me, when we got the final diagnosis from the doctors and knew how much time we had left together, how she wanted to spend eternity.”

“I sympathize entirely,” said Rachel. “Unfortunately, what I do not understand is, er, how the ...objects you have here work. How they should be placed on the deceased.”

“Oh. Of course. No one here has had any experience with bondage and discipline, I take it?”

“I wouldn't even know how to ask. But it seems unlikely in any event.”

“Would you like me to show you, then?”

“That would probably be best. If I knew how to go about it, I would be happy to ...dress your wife myself.”

“That would be kind. Here – this is the outfit she selected. Would it be possible for you to wear her clothes?”

The idea gave Rachel pause, but she had swapped outfits with friends before. The client was just a friend she had never had the chance to meet. And it wasn't like she was taking them off her body and putting them on, quite the opposite. Taking the shopping bag, she headed back to the employee locker room, fortunately deserted. She and the client were roughly the same size, so the corset and long gloves fit pretty well. The boots were too small, but she was already wearing black patent high heeled pumps with her business suit.

When she walked back into her office, the client's husband turned. Then he sat up, and his mouth fell open. He stared for a moment, then broke down in tears. Rachel quickly came to him and offered him a tissue from the always-ready box on her desk.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man said, wiping his eyes. “For just a moment, seeing you, I remembered...”

“No, I'm sorry,” she said, “I should have thought of that myself. Am I wearing this correctly?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “If you don't mind my saying so, you look beautiful, almost as beautiful as my sweetheart did, when we first started playing our games. Would you mind – just walk around a little?”

Rachel strolled across her office, turned, struck a pose, then walked a bit more. She felt naughty and wicked in the black leather corset and stockings. “What shall I do with the whip?” she asked, holding up the riding crop that had been in the bag.

A series of expressions flicked across the man's face, ending with chagrin. “Oh,” he said with a chuckle, “For a moment there I thought you were asking how I wanted to be punished. We aren't playing, are we? That should just go in next to her.”

“She would hit you with this?”

“Sometimes,” he said, a wistful, far-away look in his eyes. “She was a great dominatrix. Other times, She would attempt to use it on me—but I would order her to drop it, and she would become my captive.”

“What would you say?”

“Simply, 'Drop the whip, Bitch!'” At the words, Rachel let the crop slip from her fingers to land on the carpet next to her high heels. Smiling slightly, she raised her hands, then sauntered slowly over to the man.

“My dear Miss Rogers,” he said with a catch in his voice, “You shouldn't do things like that to a person in a vulnerable emotional state.”

“Of course, I'm sorry. I just couldn't resist.” She lowered her hands. “Now, could you show me how these other things are supposed to be put on?”

“Eh? Yes.” He removed a set of leather cuffs and some chain from another shopping bag. “Hold out your hands,” he said. She did, and he began buckling on the cuffs. “These can be used behind your back or in front of you,” he said. “I thought my dear should wear them in front. A waist chain pins the hands to the body, thus.” He wrapped the chain around Rachel's corseted waist. “This chain runs down to the ankle cuffs.”

“Wait – I have an idea.” interrupted Rachel. “Come with me.” She headed off into the depths of the funeral home, high heels clicking on the concrete, her hands locked into restraints. They ended up in the casket display room.

“Help me up into this one,” she told him. He took the simple approach, lifting the scantily clad, bound woman in his arms and placing her gently into the casket. “Now show me what you want.” The man took the cuffs and buckled them around Rachel's ankles, then padlocked them and the chain together. Then he buckled another strap around her legs, above her knees.

“I understand,” she said, moving her legs slightly. “I will personally and privately apply these to your wife before the viewing.”

“About that,” the man said, “Not everyone attending knew of our little games. Could we--”

“After I put these on your wife,” replied Rachel, “We will put on a burial shroud that will cover her body. I'll arrange a spray of flowers over her hands so the wristcuffs don't show. Just before we close the coffin for the last time, we'll take it all off so that she looks like this.”

So saying, she lay back in the casket and closed her eyes. She lay there for a moment, playing dead. Then a shadow crossed her eyelids and she heard a thump. Opening her eyes, she discovered herself in total darkness. The man had closed the casket lid on her!

She did not panic. She lay still, taking a moment to savor the sensations: The smell of oak wood, the feel of satin against her bare skin, the constriction of the corset, the arch of high heels on her feet, the bindings at wrists and ankles, the sound of the chain slipping over her body. The idea of lying in one of these for all eternity, surrounded by earth, life going on six feet above her.

She suddenly had enough. “Please, open the lid... Sir?” There was a short pause, then the top swung blissfully open.

“I thought you might like... the whole experience,” he said apologetically.

“I did, actually. Thank you. Now I think I should be unlocked.” He quickly undid the padlocks holding the restraints, and she gracefully stepped out of the casket.

“What do you want to do with the keys?”

“I'll keep them,” he replied. “When I ...go on, I'll have them in hand. Then, when I catch up to her, I'll be ready to release her.”

* * * * * *

Two days later, at the viewing, Rachel was her professional self. Visitors came and looked at the client, resting in her casket, a spray of flowers in her hands, a organza skirt over her body. Some of the visitors did the usual “she looks so lifelike” routine, which pleased her. Others, after a whispered conversation with the client's husband, they would look more appreciative—a smile, a small chuckle. One remarkably handsome specimen even bowed to her.

After the service, as the casket was trundled back towards the waiting hearse, Rachel sent the pallbearers ahead. She quickly pulled the organza and satin away, revealing the client: She wore a collar, her leather corset, nylons, thigh-high boots with wicked spike heels; her wrists and ankles cuffed and chained.

Rachel placed the whip at her side, then whispered, “Go on in peace, dear. Wherever you are, I hope there are games to be played and fun to be had, until you are reunited with your love.” Then she closed the lid and called for the pallbearers.

The End.

Copyright 2014 Cynthia Trusscot

Inspired by Mikel in thread, “Premise for a new bondage story”, July 2014



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