After Sales bondage story | steel cuffs, prisoner, chain

As she lay there in the silent darkness she tried to review the steps that had led to this. It had started on the Saturday morning. She had been wandering around. It had been an aimless wandering because there had been nowhere in particular that she had wanted to visit. In particular there had not been anyone with whom she had not wished to go to that place.

As slowly she had wended her way along... where had she been? ... the Sun had broken out from behind a cloud and shot a bright ray across the road and struck a silvery gleam from something in the corner of a shop window. For no reason at all ... and it had been a day without purpose... she had checked and then back-pedalled three paces. Yes, she had literally walked backward three paces until she could look again into that window. And there, tucked away almost out of sight, they had gleamed.

A pair of handcuffs; bright silver circlets of steel; with saw-toothed edges; linked by a short chain; a very short chain in fact no more than two small links and a swivel arrangement.

And she had felt that strange stirring. On pure impulse - it WAS that kind of a day - she entered and enquired about the handcuffs.

"Yes," the young man had replied without turning a hair; "What kind were you considering?"

That brought up the necessity to think and, with that, came a realisation of what she had sought. She knew that the crimson flood was rising and with it came an almost irresistible instinct to flee from the shop. Yet she couldn't just run with her tail between her legs like some street-abandoned cur.

For the first time she actually looked at the shop assistant. And indeed he wasn't at all bad. He was taking off those owl-like specs and regarding her without any outward show of emotion; he simply polished his lenses and awaited her answer. He aroused in her a spirit of defiance; she could be equally cool. And anyway ... what was so odd about wishing to buy a pair of handcuffs?

At that point came the real difficulty. "Well, that perhaps is where you could help me. Exactly how many different kinds are there?"

"I suppose basically there are two main things to consider; size and purpose. Now, the sort that would hold a full he-man size would simply slip off wrists like your own." Like a conjuror he whipped a pair of large manacles on to the counter but managed to put them down with scarcely any noise. "These would be more useful if you were to be the captive," and he placed beside them a pair of silver shinies that, in fact, looked quite dinky, she thought.

"Let me show you," and with the words he reached for her hand and, with scarcely a movement, he conjured the larger pair on to her right wrist. Hardly had the clicking stopped than, in almost the same movement, he dispelled her instant panic by slipping the steel circle over her hand and the cuffs re-appeared on the counter.

"You're pretty good at that," she ventured wanting only to cover her momentary scare. "You must get a lot of practice working in here?"

With the words she looked up to find that the disinterested professional look had been replaced by a broad grin. "Yeah," he said, "both on and off the job."

"You mean...?"

"You're obviously a newbie. I've been getting a lot of fun out of bondage for a long time now."

She picked up the smaller pair to give herself something to do while she tried to hide her confusion. She was just a bit surprised to discover that the hole in the middle where the wrist would go was not circular! "Try them on," he said. "I promise they don't bite."

Just to show that she was not disconcerted by his instant diagnosis she held up her left hand and wrapped one of the cuffs around the wrist - and she fluffed it. Swiftly he leaned forward to assist: "Now be careful not to close them too tightly," he instructed; "Cut off the blood supply and you can soon be in real trouble."

For a moment she admired the bright ring that clung around her wrist and then she tried to slip it off. "Those," he offered, " are your size and they are inescapable without these." Across the counter he pushed a pair of small keys joined by an open-wire ring. "There is just one more point. This end sets the double lock; with that engaged the cuffs can't be closed any further either by accident or design. A good safety point. Like this," and, holding her hand, he demonstrated.

For a few moments she had savoured both the feel and the sight of her manacled wrist but hadn't realised that she was standing there apparently mesmerised.

He grew bold: "You need to do the job properly to get the total feeling." Lacking a reply, or any sort of response, he leaned over and expertly slipped the other cuff around her upraised right hand. He was about to set the double lock when her reflexes kicked in and she involuntarily snatched away her hand.

"Sorry," he apologised, "I didn't mean to scare you. Just finishing the job, that's all."

"No. No. That wasn't me really. Just didn't think."

"Not to worry. Lot's do exactly the same thing. I can see you've never been arrested."

She felt foolish. Was it because of that minor panic? Was it just the fact of being handcuffed? Was it because she actually liked the feeling of being locked up? Had she not responded to the touch of his hand?

"Well," he continued: "Are you going to buy them and wear them home, take them home in your pocket or do I put them back in the drawer?"

She had to make amends. After all there was nothing to be afraid of? She stretched out her right hand and was surprised to find that her left was obliged to follow it. "You haven't finished putting them on, yet."

His lips curved into a smile, which she felt sure he was trying to suppress. Without a word he took gentle hold of her hand and set the lock. Then he laid the two keys on the counter: "Consider," he said in a perfectly flat tone, "that, unless you can catch-up those keys before I can get them, you are now almost mine."

"Almost?"

"I have never understood the logic of cuffing the hands in front like that. If a prisoner uses a two-fisted punch the cuffs become quite a formidable weapon..." and, clasping his hands, he had demonstrated a downward punch at the counter.

"Then...?"

"Put 'em behind. Show you?"

In for a penny... and so she nodded but hardly expected what followed. He seized her right hand once again, she saw him present with the key but, almost at once, he dropped the cuff, spun her around, drew her hands behind her and there arose a series of clicks. She felt her hands being lifted which forced her to bend forward: "Like this," he said, "you can't stop me from setting the double lock?"

Since he had used it her mind had been centered on that word 'prisoner' and she wanted to sit down. She should have asked him to remove them but that thought never entered her head at all. She wanted to enjoy this new experience and tugged heartily on her arms. They were firmly anchored behind her. She twisted around to get a look at the bright steel rings that held her hands trapped. Yes! Trapped, that was the word. She was trapped.

"Is it possible to escape from these things?"

"Well, stage magicians use specially modified ones which can be opened, if you know how, but those on you now are for real and there is no way out at all except with the keys."

"But with my hands behind how would I use the keys even if I had them?"

"That's a good question and it marks the point where I wring my hands... like this... and say... in an evil voice... 'now I haf you entirely vithin my power'."

She tried to conquer the little voice that was starting to murmur in her head: "I can see that you live for your work."

"It certainly has its compensations when pretty girls come in here." He picked up the keys and released her. "Be advised and don't try cuffing yourself behind until you've had considerable practice at escaping with someone standing by. Except with one of these," and he waved a key, "escape is not possible from these things." He bent to look up into her face: "You have the look ... you buy?"

"How on earth could I practice? I live alone and I couldn't possibly... " She stopped, appalled to realise that it was her voice saying those words.

"My. You are excited. But, truth to tell, I would be delighted to offer after-sales service."

"After...?" He was laughing at her. No. No, he wasn't. He appeared to be a nice guy in fact. But she didn't know him from Adam and if he thought she was going to let... but she just had! Barely a minute ago she had stood in this same spot with her hands trapped behind... he had been her only way out?

She had felt the crimson tides flowing up her face in rapid succession and had turned and fled from the place. That had all been several weeks ago. It seemed she had not stopped running until she was safe home in her apartment. She had even got up and gone back to the door to make sure the chain was on. But, throughout the rest of that day and well into the night, she had not been able to shake from her memory the feel of those handcuffs. The feel of them gripping her wrists, such an implacable grip, and the way they had tugged back when she attempted to pull her hands free.

She had stood in that shop utterly... no, that was not true... helpless, yes, but not absolutely helpless. Something had started to grow in her crotch and she had wanted more, she had wanted it to grow... but then he had released her with the same swift skill with which he had captured her. CAPTURED! What a word that was. The shop had been empty and, on that side street, there had been few people about. Literally he could have done anything with her that he had chosen and she had been nearly powerless to defend herself. She was aware of her vulnerability against any normal man but, with her hands and arms trapped like that behind ... she shuddered. It was a truly delightful feeling, that fantasy of being taken, captured, held against her will in steel restraints such as those which made escape impossible.

She wanted more. Her teenage fantasy had come alive and was tormenting her to the point where...

"Good morning, Madam."

Her mind had been deep in her thoughts right down there in her crotch. To her blushing confusion she surfaced to the reality that she was standing in the shop again. The assistant, with urbane professionalism, greeted her as though they had not met:

"I've decided to buy," she blurted.

"Of course," and he laid the handcuffs on the counter in front of her. A moment's thought and he added the ring with its two small keys. She just looked at them as all the feelings returned in spades.

"Have you made any decision about the after-sales service?"

"It's difficult. I'm going to need help if I'm to get any fun out of them but..." She floundered to a stop.

"There isn't any difficulty, madam. I own the shop and so can offer any service you may require with an assurance of complete confidentiality."

"You do that for all your customers?"

"Most of them are Tops - they're the ones that do the bondage and they seldom need help. The ones they put into bondage are known in the lifestyle as Bottoms and they seldom come in to buy gear and, in any event, they have someone to do the business for them. You clearly are a bottom - begging your pardon (with a growing grin) – in truth it would give me the greatest of pleasure to show you the ropes."

She had picked up the cuffs and was feeling the smooth steel as it ran through her fingers. "Well ... if ... "

His masterful act surprised her. He reached across to take hold of her right hand, which held the cuffs. With a gentle twist he forced an arm-lock which made her turn away and, seconds later, she was once again trying to tug her arms free. "Isn't that what you really came back for?"

His words climaxed the panic that was rising within her and she fought the cuffs in earnest, her breath beginning to come in short staccato bursts. He vaulted the counter, wrapped a long arm around her shoulders and, with gentle fingers, lifted her chin: "Shh. Shh. You're not in any danger. Just enjoy the experience. I'll let you out any time you ask. That is a rule in these games. The captive is really the one in charge."

"You called it a game?"

"I can assure you that I'm not into kidnapping nor white slavery. What else could it be but a game?" From somewhere he conjured a large white handkerchief and carefully removed the tears that had begun to well up. "Now. You want out - or are you going to wear them for a while?"

"Somebody might come in."

"You can use the changing cubicle over there. Nobody will see you – there are two of them if a need should arise."

"Hmmm. Maybe... just a little while?"

"Oh, one thing. Your hands are secure but I would like to take precautions against you kicking me."

She stared at him: "Why would I kick you?"

"Because, to play the game, you have to try and escape and first you must dispose of your captor."

"Oh, I see. I think."

"So. If madame will step this way."

He took her by the arm and drew her behind the counter. From the drawer from which he had conjured the handcuffs he pulled a second pair but this time connected by a foot of chain. He bent and, before she even divined his intention, he had locked them around her ankles.

"Now you are truly my prisoner," he said triumphantly. He bent yet again, hauled her over his shoulder and carried her to the changing cubicle. Her indignant attempt to kick or wriggle served only to remind her of the restraining cuffs but, strangely, she had not thought to use her voice. He dumped her on the low bench and pressed the keys into her hand then, with a gentle squeeze of her nose, he pushed a rubber ball into her mouth and strapped it behind her head. "Calling for help is not allowed. You will sit there and practice opening those cuffs." Then, with a little short bow, he left her closing the door behind him.

Such had been her introduction to the strange world of bondage and also to the proprietor of the shop that sought to feed those desires. Twice she had dropped the keys and had been obliged to stand so as to recover them from the seat behind her. After that she tried to unlock her hands while standing because that allowed her a sight - of sorts - of the cuffs in the long mirror. It proved a mixed blessing however in that she had to screw her head round to peer around her shoulder while trying to push her hands out to the side; in itself there was an advantage but it served to confuse her fingers in their sense of direction.

Twice more she dropped the keys and the second time they went out of reach under the bench. The recovery effort she abandoned partly because it all seemed to be getting hopeless but also she was getting very tired. Sitting there she was confronted by a strange dichotomy of mind; she desperately wanted the victory of escaping and yet she was oddly glad to have failed. There was something about having to wait, wait for his return, in being helpless to do things for herself. Her thoughts turned to what he might do if she failed to release herself because she had been forced to the conclusion that indeed she could not release herself. To quote his own words: "She was truly his prisoner." Whatever he decided she had no control whatever over him or her own destiny. If he chose NOT to release her... and she had volunteered the information that she lived alone!

In her purse he would find her full details and intimate facts. In the fashion of the white-slaver stories that had so stirred her ... he could make her disappear. It was a disturbing thought and, her excitement rising, she mounted a determined attack against the steel that held her "bound hand and foot".

Something was happening to her. It was getting difficult to breathe and something, or someone, was wailing inside her head. She beat frantically, with arms that seemed like lead, at walls which confined her and then the world exploded in the most wonderful sensation she had ever known.

When at last, with a long sigh, she opened her eyes she was laid on the floor and he was looking down at her from the doorway. "Something tells me you enjoyed that," he smiled. "Just as well perhaps that nobody came into the shop. Had I not used that gag they might well have heard you all the way to China."

"Mmm. MnnnNN! MMMPH" She was taken aback at how well silenced she had become. Well, not exactly silenced but her tongue would not help in articulating words. In fact, she was just as helpless at talking as she was... helpless...!

"You're not making much sense. But ... err ... I guess you could make good use of a shower. All part of the after sales, madam."

He pulled a square of black material from under his jacket; it opened out into a square bag whose intended use she easily guessed. "MMMM! NNNnooo!" She jerked and squirmed desperately in her bonds but was absolutely powerless to prevent the hood from going over her head. He lifted her, this time cradle fashion, and carried her away. When he again put her down she felt something hard placed around her neck then he unlocked the cuff on her right wrist, pressed some keys into her hand... and she seemed to be alone.

After listening for a few moments, she reached up to pull the bag from her head. She was sitting on the tiled floor of a well appointed bathroom-cum-shower-cum-toilet and she held the keys to her manacles. She soon discovered however that, Although free to move around the bathroom, she was still denied freedom. The mirror told her that this thing around her neck was a steel collar by means of which she was tethered to a substantial ring set in the wall. The keys he had provided did not release it. Clearly this maniac did more than just SELL bondage equipment!

She was a mess, she was tired, she could do nothing whatever about her captivity and so she turned to the practical consideration of that shower. The first discovery came as a bit of a shock. The key could be inserted only from one side and she had been secured so that she had been trying to put it in from the wrong side! Had he deliberately tricked her? Of course there was the swivel connection but...? The collar was a loose fit and she simply worked her thin blouse up between it and her neck. The hot water felt good and, while she soaked luxuriously, she began to calm down and went back over the afternoon's adventure.

She had to admit that he had not harmed her in any way nor had he offered her anything but courtesy. Well, perhaps being chained hand and foot, gagged and hooded and now held on the end of a chain from her neck most definitely did NOT come under the heading of courtesy? She should be frightened but then she had enjoyed the experience too much to regret it. Suddenly into her mind came his words: "... I'll let you out any time you ask..." and she had not asked... had she? "There are rules ..." he had said but she did not know them - had not remembered them.

She was aroused from her reverie by a gentle knock on the door. "Are you OK? Decent?"

She began to wrap herself in the large bath-towel: "Fine. Except I didn't bring a change of clothes."

"Slacks and a sweater do?"

"You run a ladies boutique on the side?"

"My Grandfather was a Boy Scout. Back in two shakes of a guinea-pig's tail."

"Guinea pigs don't have tails... do they?"

"That would explain a thing or two."

At his knock she called: "It's not locked. Ooh yes. They'll do fine. And... err... while you're here... could we dispense with the chain... please?"

"I was beginning to wonder if you would ever ask," and he forthwith produced a key and hung the collar on a wall-mounted coat hook.

"Hmm. I'm prepared for all eventualities. Except watching me get dressed."

"Spoil sport," and he closed the door gently behind him.

She had accepted an invitation to dinner and he proved to be an excellent attentive host. Inevitably the conversation reverted to the afternoon's escapade and she had expressed curiosity as to the many other devices she had glimpsed in the shop.

"Handcuffs," he had said," are certainly inescapable but they are not the only things that only a practiced expert can negotiate. They have the problem too that they can cause injury and usually leave red marks on the wrists - the marks subside after a period but, meanwhile, it takes long sleeves to avoid embarrassing explanations."

"Well ... what sort of other things?"

"I prefer myself to use a straitjacket. They can be put on so as not to cause discomfort and so your prisoner can remain in them for quite a while."

With the word 'prisoner' that feeling had begun to rise again. "I've heard of straitjackets, of course, but what exactly are they. Why straight?"

"I'll demonstrate if you like?"

Which brought her reverie right up to date. He had put her into the warm embrace of this exquisitely soft leather jacket and, at first he had crossed her arms behind her with the securing buckle in front. He had laced her feet into knee-high boots which, in fact, were a single boot so that her legs felt as though glued together. Finally he had replaced the black hood but that time, of course, she could not pull it away.

She knew by looking at his clock that he had left her like that only for about twenty minutes and then he had moved her arms into the more normal position crossed in front and secured behind. She was convinced that, either way round, she was never going to escape unaided. She had remained in the jacket and boots while they watched a bondage movie and then he had re-gagged her with what he called a ring-gag - for obvious reasons - while he went to make some coffee.

She had enjoyed the feel of the straitjacket and adored its leathery smell. Almost certainly because she had never requested release he had not made the slightest attempt to set her free. Finally he had subjected her to a somewhat embarrassing visit to the toilet and then carried her into this pleasant little bedroom where he had chained her feet to the bed-end. "This," he had said laying a hand over a box-like device on the bedside table, "is a good old-fashioned baby alarm. If you need anything you only have to yell."

With that he had locked the blindfold helmet (his own invention he claimed) over her head, kissed her on the very tip of her nose ... and left.

She lay there in the darkness wriggling slowly against the denial of the jacket and the boots that were still laced on to her legs and turned over and over in her mind the undeniable fact that she was a prisoner. Captured... and helpless! But that didn't mean she was an unwilling prisoner? Why hadn't she asked him to let her go? Why did she not do it now?

She smiled gently into the darkness as she thought of his promises for the morrow. He was going to put her into a steel chastity belt (whatever that may be) and also a slave collar that would hold her on a running chain-leash so that, while still under restraint, she would be able to move about the full length of his flat here above the shop. Thus she would be able to attend her duties as his slave - once they had discussed something called safe-words? She would be a helpless prisoner, held in chains up here while down there, in the shop and out on the street, people would be going about their daily lives. Normal people?