Lonely People bondage story | chain, gag, slave

For a full two minutes he sat and watched as she twisted and turned, tugged and strained. Twice, about to lose her balance, she emitted an alarmed squeak as she recovered.

Then abruptly she stopped. For a brief interval she stood with downcast gaze but then, when she raised her eyes to look at him, he knew. Defeated she was, most certainly. She had submitted and was acknowledging a hopeless struggle. She knew that she was helpless and that an avenue of escape simply did not exist. But the look in those eyes said that it would take a lot more than leg-irons, a ball-gag and a massive aluminium yoke to break her spirit.

And that surprised him. After all it seemed to be a direct contradiction of her action less than thirty minutes ago. At least now she was quiet; her wild arm-flailing, kicking and verbal abuse had ceased.

The restraints and the gag had been an opportunistic urge of the moment. She could have screamed and shouted as much as she cared - there wasn't a soul to hear her for two miles. That was the reason he had bought the house - its splendid isolation. Its reputation troubled him not at all. His craving was to enjoy his own company alone. What others had done in the past, what they might be doing at any precise moment, what they might be about to do either in the immediate future or were planning for a long time hence interested him not at all. If he thought of the outside world, it was merely to wish them all to the devil.

Some unknown person must have had similar feelings in the past when the house was built. In those days they would have enjoyed even greater seclusion; neither electricity nor telephone had been available to them and the only access would have been a dirt road and a horse. It was a wonder that they ever acquired staff but perhaps jobs were precious in those days? But now, without a belief in severing the nose purely to smite the face - as they say - its isolation was the feature of his desire rather than of concern.

From the top of a low cliff he was afforded an uninterrupted view of several miles of sandy beach which stretched endlessly from left to right. For much the same distance the rolling sea stretched in emptiness away from him toward an often smoky horizon. It was not for him to object to the myriad seabirds who constantly screamed and quarreled about the place; they were in residence long before he had come along and their world offered neither spite nor deceit.

The house had been standing empty for several years since the last owner had departed and never returned. Nothing was known of him locally but his home had been on the market as an executor's sale. Perhaps the imputation of bad luck had rendered it unsaleable but a more likely explanation was the total isolation. It suited his purpose admirably and, needless to say, the price was very low. There were sufficient funds remaining to carry out necessary repairs and improvements and to dry it out.

That afternoon had started with an investigation into the contents of the huge cupboard under the imposing staircase. It seemed to have been used to dispose of items that could only be called junk but, as he neared the back of the enclosure, he had found a heavy wooden trunk. When it had been dragged out it he'd decided to take it into the lounge for a more comfortable seat while investigating the contents. Yet more junk?

First impressions were that it was a collection of iron or steel pieces but pretty soon had come a change of mind. Somebody had had a taste for bondage. The topmost item was a yoke crafted from sheets of thick aluminium. Remove a hefty pin and the centre ring opened up on a hinge. When closed around someone's neck it provided two outriders that would hold a victim's wrists about a foot away from their ears. Tied to it with a length of string were three padlocks and you did not have to be a student of Houdini to realise that two of those secured the wrists while the third and smaller was provided to lock the neck pin in place. He untied the string and tested the locks ... they were in perfect order.

At this point had arisen the feeling that a pot of tea was required. OK, your true macho-hero drinks whisky or perhaps brandy but it so happens that this one preferred tea for refreshment. As he stood to make the trip to the kitchen his eye lingered as always on the rolling surf that filled the panorama presented by the lounge window. But now it was bisected by the unmistakable form of a young girl who appeared to be moving in a direct line from the house toward the sea.

"What the hell is she doing here ...?" Speculation was cut short by the feeling that something was amiss. She was performing a zombie-like slow-march ... like a sleepwalker ... someone under hypnosis ... if she should enter that surf ... ?

She reached the water's edge while he was still floundering through dry sand and it had risen to her knees by the time he got an arm around her waist. At first she did not resist but simply stood still; then, as she was urged back to dry land, she began to fight. He abandoned all considerations of etiquette, lifted and carried her bodily to safety and then she had begun to object very seriously.

Why had he bothered? He could have let her drown and so restored the tranquil order of his life. But her resistance, her fierce opposition to his help, the obvious intention of self-destruction simply made him mad. He swept her up into his arms but she arched her back and let fly with a series of jolting kicks so that he all but dropped her. She flopped face down on to the sand, was seized in an over-the-shoulder fashion, a fireman's lift, and was borne struggling to that lonely eyrie.

In the lounge as he set her down it was difficult to decide which of them was carrying the most salt water. She had turned and, with cat-like fury, came at him with nails and feet.

Now, all this did not fit in well with his planned quiet sole existence at all well! As his anger mounted I regret to report that he moved to ungallant actions. Side-stepping her rush, he used a round-arm sweep to hasten her over an outstretched right foot and she measured her length, once more facedown, on the carpet. That was the moment of the unplanned opportunistic urge.

With her pinned under his right knee he took a hold in her hair, lifted her head and slid that great yoke around her neck; it was but the work of a moment to close it and press-in the pin. Then, one at a time, her captured hands were forced into the wrist clamps. The three padlocks came next and then her drumming feet had clamoured for attention.

Rummaging in the box he unearthed first a ball-gag and then a pair of standard handcuffs. The last of these put an end to her footwork and then, in what could only have been a gesture of spite, he strapped on the ballgag. I would like to say that he washed it first but alas he was most certainly not in a gentlemanly mood. Then she was hauled to her feet and left standing while he sat down to observe his handiwork.

Quickly came regret for the gag. Not only was there nobody to hear her cries but she had fought him in silence. She had at first made audible protest but then, once in the house, her attack had come in silence. All that the gag had achieved was to scare her unnecessarily.

For a long moment after she had stilled they looked at each other with the only sound that of the surf pounding on the beach below. Then he got to his feet and, fetching a chair, invited her to sit. With a barely noticeable hesitation she inclined her head in acknowledgement and then, carefully because of her raised hands, seated herself. From behind he unbuckled the gag and gently removed it.

"Thanks." It was all but inaudible yet, in its softness, totally convincing.

He spent a long minute scrabbling in the box only to discover that the handcuff key was clipped into the lid. Then with the padlock keys recovered from the floor she was released from the yoke. "I was about to make some tea but it might be a good idea if you got out of those wet things first?"

"We both seem to have suffered." Again the voice was low but the words, softly spoken, came slowly but calmly and with perfect clarity.

"Wait," he said. "I'll find you something to wear while we dry them." Upstairs he quickly exchanged wet jeans for a dry pair and then, armed with his wool dressing-gown, returned. She was still sitting there and was starting to shiver.

"Here. It's a bit big but it'll get you warm. Bring your wet things through to the kitchen when you're ready. There's a cooker going in there and it's always warm. Tea'll be ready when you are."

He filled the kettle and set it to heat but remained in the warm aura of that mighty stove. He was not sure why he had bothered so much. Why care? Such a deliberate act of self-destruction, apparently under autopilot, argued a desperate despair. That she was so obviously alone... maybe it meshed with his own desire for solitude? At that moment he was as confused as she must have been but, for him, the desire had always been to live. He had always prided myself on never having knowingly turned down an appeal for help and, if anybody was sending out an appeal, this young lady certainly qualified.

The kettle signalled the approach of boiling point and simultaneously there came a gentle knock on the door. "Come on in. No ceremony here." As she stood there it looked as though his dressing-gown was having difficulty in swallowing her and into his mind's eye there flashed a memory of her about to be devoured by those hungry waves.

"Choose a chair. They're all free." Only then did he realise that, apart from the kettle and some rolls heating in the oven, he had neglected to prepare the promised tea. It took but a moment to add tea to the teapot and then the water. From the cupboard he conjured mugs and plates and from the refrigerator the margarine. Then from the oven the plate of rolls. Back to the larder for strawberry jam and blackberry jam.

"You look after yourself well," she commented: "but do you have a dislike for knives?"

"I live alone for preference," he explained defensively. "The intrusion of a wet woman has upset my routine."

"Perhaps," and she got to her feet, "I should go back?"

"That smile tells me you're feeling more like your real self. That being so ... perhaps you'll exercise a woman's duty and pour the tea?"

"Duty? That's a sour word," but she offered nothing by way of explanation and he let it pass.

Hot bread rolls with strawberry jam accompanied by a hot pot of tea should satisfy anyone any day and it seem to rejuvenate his guest ... but he was wondering what was to be done with her; what came next? Would she try again? He looked up to find that, snuggled into the voluminous folds of his gown and courted by the Aga's radiated warmth, she had fallen asleep.

Regina Lorrimer leaned back against the base of the stone wall and kicked back in helpless fury at its uncaring solidness. Her eyes followed the snaking progress of the lax chain through the tall grass to where it terminated on a chunk of immovable stone some forty feet away at the end of the small garden. She had followed a dozen times its trail back to the house, across the neglected kitchen garden, through the rear door, along the short passage to the small bedroom where, midway between her bed and the small bathroom-cum-toilet, it terminated on that massive iron ring embedded in the wall?

At either end big padlocks mocked her with their demand for a double-edge key which alone could open their cylinder locks unless, of course, one possessed the skills and tools of a locksmith. Yet again her hands wandered up to investigate the steel collar that had locked around her neck with such a definitive click; that too she surmised was pick-proof even could she see it there beneath her chin.

That chain and the collar were the instruments of her torturous fury for, by its lax nature, the chain gave her freedom to wander the small property, to come and go as she willed, to retire to bed or to indulge in the pleasures of the shower. But, even as it granted those favours, it denied her true freedom because it was threaded through a steel ring that dangled from the collar. As she moved so it clattered its way through the ring and engineered a solid boundary to that freedom which it purported to offer. She had been reduced to the lot of an animal tethered outside its kennel on a running leash.

In vain had she protested, threatened, promised. After he had secured the collar he had removed the gag and then informed her that she was free to shout and scream as much as she wished; there was nobody within miles to hear her. Next he had released the cuffs on her ankles and then those that had held her hands behind her back. Then he had simply left her to follow the chain to its visible end or, as she may wish, back to her "bedroom" in the house.

She obtained little if any relief from the idea that she had brought it on herself. "You're the sort of person who will keep a promise", he'd said. "I need to fetch in some more supplies unless I put you on starvation rations. You can come with me or you could stay here. Promise that, either way, you won't try washing your feet again?"

In all probability he had not intended to be flippant ... she acknowledged that now ... but, at the time, to be so uncaring about her attempt at a deed that could only be described as horrifying seemed nothing but extreme cruelty. She had screamed at him, punched and clawed at his face and then, while he staggered from the surprise of her fury, she had turned for the door. Yes, she had intended to repeat that effort.

He'd pulled her down and once again restrained her with those irons from his box of horrors; cuffs between her feet and a second pair between her wrists, the horrid rubber ball in her mouth and he had added a chain from ankles to wrists that prevented her from stretching out her legs .

She had to own that he had a temper that matched her own; it was just as swift and as eager once aroused. From the speed with which those strong hands had subdued her she knew that the first time he had been careful. That second time the look of fury on his face had frightened her. He'd left her lying on the floor some considerable time until he had removed her to the little room - a sort of en suite bedroom complete with running leash. Then, without a word, he had left her to kick her heels and relish the helpless truth of a steel collar and chain.

But she retained an element of that fear. She had read her quota of romantic novels and adventures, of dashing heroes and swashbucklers, of maidens rendered helpless and abducted. How had he come by that box of shackles and why had they been so conveniently to hand when he'd carried her into the house? In truth he had done nothing whatever to alarm her and yet she was well aware of the possibility that she had wandered into deep trouble. One thing was certain however ... whatever he planned to do there was absolutely no way at all that she could circumvent him.

Did it matter? She'd had every intention of quitting this world. He had stopped her while trying to end it all and so ... as he was responsible for her being present why should he not decide her departure? Nobody knew where she was even if there had been anybody to miss her or to start enquiries. Whatever his intentions, no matter his plans - she was denied any input. The ease with which he had overpowered her in that last encounter was ample demonstration of her helplessness?

That feeling was amplified by the ridiculous fact of her complete freedom to move, the total lack of bodily restraint, the use of her voice should any come within range. But nobody visited a spot like this as was shown by the lack of footpaths. It was wild and woolly, windswept to the enjoyment of the wheeling gulls alone. For her there was but one choice ... to stand and wait!

As her temper cooled so that feeling of loneliness returned. She began to acknowledge that it was not the restriction imposed by the chain that irked her. What would she do with that freedom were it restored? She had nowhere to go. She lacked the means to get there even if such a place existed for her. That horrible walk to the water had been her last throw during which horror of the future had overwhelmed all horror of the moment.

No. It wasn't the lack of freedom that fretted her - it had little if any value. It was simply the fact that freedom was denied her and by one who lacked the right to deny her. If she wished to walk along that cliff edge there wasn't any reason at all why she should not. But that chain ... and its sliding link ... it was ... it was ... it just wasn't fair.

"Can you cook?"

He had approached the House unseen by her. As he rounded the corner he observed her sitting with her back to one of the great boulders that adorned the garden. Did she look dejected ... or was it forlorn? Had she struggled only to be defeated again? Escape certainly was not a possibility.

"I'll not cook for YOU. Chained like a dog I'll do nothing for you. What do you take me for?"

"As my household slave you'll do exactly what I tell you. Nothing less and nothing more."

"Slave? Think again buster. You're back in the middle ages. Just take these things off me!"

"The idea of a voluntary slave is a contradiction. Any self-respecting slave tries to abscond and so is chained as a persuasion to stay. You had a chance to be civilised and reasonable. You chose the savage's course - you stay chained. I have spoken - as it has been said."

"You arrogant ... ". Words seemed to fail her. "I am not a slave. I'm not YOUR slave. I'll not put up with it. Unlock this thing."

"If you are not my slave then pray tell me why you are still hanging around here."

"Because I can't leave ... you bloody fool."

"Then you have answered the question fully. And ... er ... that is not a proper manner in which to speak to your Master."

"MASTER!" She fairly screamed the word.

"Just so. Now, hurry. I'm hungry and you must be too. I've left the goods on the kitchen table."

"I won't."

"In that event I shall have to cook it myself. And you will lie in the middle of the table in a tight hogtie and with that impertinent mouth plugged with the rubber ball-gag. So choose. Behave or misbehave? Will you cook AND eat with me ... or eat rubber and watch me ? Entirely your choice."

"I can't even reach the kitchen." Was that a sign of imminent surrender?

"Not a problem. At least it's a problem which I can solve but which is insoluble for a water-loving and ungrateful woman on a chain."

"If I accept your offer ... give that promise ... ?"

"Do you?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Yes. I promise to behave."

"OK. BUT wait ... you'll still carry the insignia of a slave. Just a mo."

He disappeared into the House to return shortly carrying the pair of long-chain cuffs. "Hold out your hands."

Just for that moment - a mere fraction of Time - she hesitated again and then, as a smile spread over her face, she shook her head slowly from side to side and presented her wrists.

They both enjoyed that first meal together. She took enormous pains over its preparation even though that damned chain dangled in everything, rattled against everything, continually hooked around anything that protruded and either stopped her in her tracks or spun her around.

But, true to his word, he kept her as a chained slave. When occupied with duties around the House he released the collar and left her restrained only by the chain between her wrists which he never once removed. Chores finished, or when he left her alone, he replaced the collar and left her to wander up and down her running leash.

She appeared content with her new station in life if only that she never again indulged in one of those wild frenzies of screaming, scratching, kicking and punching. She ran the house for him and she cooked for him but, chained, she was not allowed out or to go shopping. She never offered an explanation of her arrival at that remote place nor of the incident that had caused her self-destructive escapade. Although he waited expectantly she never demanded to be released from captivity.

Then came the day when he returned laden with goodies to find her gone. Just outside the back door he found the chain broken; the two ends lay in the grass each terminated in a half link that seemed to have been cut? To break that chain was beyond his own strength and so, for her, it had to be an impossibility. He was left with the puzzling conclusion that she had been abducted. Even more puzzling was that some six feet of the chain seemed to have been taken with her.

How? By whom? To where had she been taken? Their escape route simply must have crossed his path as he returned. Certainly he could not claim skill as a tracker but such an act must have left some trace surely? After a thorough search he had to admit defeat and, further, there was little he could do about it. He could hardly complain to the Police that somebody had stolen his girlfriend whom he had left alone in a remote spot and chained like a pet dog?

The shopping trip, her disappearance and the search had left him hungry as well as perplexed and so food had to be the next priority. As he set it on the table there came a heavy thump on the kitchen door, it crashed open and there stood a very dishevelled Regina, still cuffed and still with the collar around her neck.

"Where the devil have you bee ... how did you break the cha ... but ... you've come ba... !" He stopped with the realisation that her customary repartee was not forthcoming. She was frightened? He put an arm around her shoulders, led her to a chair then thrust a cup of steaming coffee into her hands.

"It's OK," he said gently: "Whatever happened ... you're safe now. Just take your time ... drink that and tell me ... when you're ready."

She sipped the drink gratefully and, slowly, she calmed down. Then, watching her, he saw a frown slowly draw her brows together. "I don't really ... " She shook her head and then: "You don't practice magic, I suppose?"

"I wasn't even here."

"You see, I was standing outside the door fretting about that chain ... no, fuming might be a better word ... I was working myself into a fury ... ".

"Yes. I've seen some of those!"

"There was a funny noise ... sort of chink, as though someone had kicked the chain or trodden on it. When I looked ... to the right ... I saw the chain on the ground ... broken. But it was broken in a funny way and while I was looking at it the noise came again on the other side of me. And there ... it was broken again!

"Then there came a kind of thump ... not a noise, not something banging into me, just a ... thump ... I don't know ... then everything was dark. Pitch black. I seemed to be sitting on a bed or something. I put my hands up to the collar ... don't know why ... but it was still there and then ... light everywhere ... dazzled me. I heard a gasp, sounded like a woman, then the lights went out again and a voice, definitely a woman said: 'What the hell are you doing?'

"There was a short pause and then she said: 'Trust a man to mess it up with just one finger. Put her back ... now ... quickly.' Then I felt ... or whatever ... that thump again, it was light again and I was sitting on the ground outside the door where I started. What ... what's going on?"

"I'd say that's a good question. I saw the chain had been broken - and it's a good chain too - but there was about six-feet of it missing. That six-feet is hanging from your collar now. So it definitely happened. Looks to me like somebody stole you away then changed their mind and ... er ... chucked you back?"

"Please ... don't joke about it. I'm frightened."

"Well. It's over. You're back. We'll probably never know. Sit there and finish that coffee while I go fetch the key. We'll start by ridding you of that collar."

When he returned she was draining the cup: "Wonderful stuff, coffee," he began: "You're looking better already." But, as he reached for the collar, she stopped him.

"What kind of madness is this?" he enquired. "Have you changed your mind? Come to like being chained up like a dog?"

"You can get used to anything, they say. But ... " she trailed off in apparent embarrassment.

"Tell !"

"Ever since you told me that you bought this place because you wanted to be alone ... I've been afraid that you would throw me out. The only place left ... "; she threw a glance through the window at the rolling grey water and a shudder - a most expressive shudder he thought - ran through her body and she covered her face with hands that were shaking.

"I've been wondering," he said with unusual gentleness, "why you never asked me to let you free. Why you so willingly stayed captive when, at first, you fought me like a tigress."

"While you kept me on that chain ... I knew you were not intending to dump me out there. I have nowhere to go anyway and so being held was not important. But I did fret in that I was forbidden any choice of my own making."

"You wish me to repair the chain?"

"Might be better than being thrown out. But why have YOU kept me chained?"

"Oh. That's easy. I found that I liked having you around in chains. As my captive ... my slave ... you did as told ... no arguments ... no choice. Open your mouth and I pop in the gag. Gives a man a great feeling."

"M. C. P."

"That is just the sort of remark that could earn you the gag."

"But, as at this moment ... I'm not in chains."

"Remedial." He rose quickly to his feet but she stayed where she was and laughed up at him.

"You'll never know what I might put in your dinner!"