The Shop bondage story | slave, drunk, handcuffs

Cissie was feeling reckless. No, in reality she was feeling miserable. The break-up had been more than just a trifle traumatic - it had developed into a blazing row; she had slapped his face and he had replied with a slap that had knocked her down. He'd stormed out; she had watched him go with nothing but hatred in her heart. Ten minutes later she was feeling lonely and wished that he would come back - but he had not reappeared! Now it seemed certain that he had gone for good and she had no idea at all where she might seek him out.

She'd spent a couple of hours walking the streets aimlessly, just feeling sorry for herself. Then she'd decided on a cup of coffee but no sooner was she inside the place, than she decided that something stronger was on the cards. So she had ended up here in a bar. She'd been sitting on this stool looking at an untouched drink for - she had no idea - and she was feeling not one iota better.

Then he had come to sit beside her. "Penny for them."

"What?"

"Those black thoughts. And they do seem to be so very black?"

"None of your business."

"True. True indeed. But don't you think you might feel at least a tiny bit better if you downed that drink instead of trying to fry it?"

"Fry it? My drink?"

"Ah! Have I got ... at least ... some of your attention?"

"Oh! Leave me alone."

"But I don't want to. I need somebody to drink with and you are the only candidate - the only suitable candidate - in the place."

"All right. If it will make you go away ... what do we drink to?"

"The next one?"

"Who's paying?"

"That's better. See ... you can be quite human."

"Doesn't answer my question."

"Why don't you answer it?"

"You're the one who wants ME to drink with YOU. So ... YOU pay for it."

"Fair enough. I started the party and so ... it shall be my show. What are you imbibing? Looks like ... brandy?"

"And what's so wrong with brandy?"

"Nothing at all as long as it's brandy worth drinking. 'Though mind you, good brandy ought not to be drunk like wine or water or coffee. Smell it. Warm it. Sip it – but don't drink it as such."

"So?"

He raised his glass: "So ... cheers. Bottoms up now."

That was how it had started. In fact he had proved to be quite a nice guy. Her blues had gone and just now she had very nearly laughed out loud.

"Bartender," he called. Turning to her he asked: "What does one do around here for entertainment?"

"You're in the wrong place," she returned sourly. "Dead from the neck up, this place, and dying from there down."

"Well, what can we do to add a little spice to this evening?"

"Not much of it left," looking at the clock. Funny, she had always thought the thing was round?

"We must do something risque."

"Rishky?"

"Well, we can do that too if you like. But I meant risque - with a Q and a U and an E accented. Something just a bit naughty."

"Like taking offff ... my nickersh?"

"You really want to end the evening by getting arrested?"

"Then you suggesht."

"Something to make people sit up and take notice? I know, we can use my favourite toy."

"And that'sh what?"

"These." He was waving a pair of shiny handcuffs.

"Never worn cuffs. Always been a good girl."

"You don't have to be bad to wear mine. Just hold out your hands."

She sat there for fully five minutes admiring her hands with the wrists encircled by bright silvery steel. She pulled against them experimentally. "Shay. I hope you've got the keys for theshe? Or whatever you use to take them off?"

"Sure." He fished in a pocket and came out with a remarkably small key. Or so she thought. "Hold them out. And keep ... still!"

"No! No, don't." She pulled her hands away: "I likesh the look of 'em. Besht brachelet anyone ever gave me. Are you giving them to me?"

"Well, I think in your present state..."

"You think I'm drunk?"

"I wouldn't say that I THINK you're drunk. No, not by a long chalk."

"And what doesh that mean? You're funning me!"

"In the words of the poet it means I don't think you are as drunk as some thinkle peep you be. It means too, I think, that it's time I took you home."

"Don't want to go home. Plashe's empty. I feel good just sitting here."

"But they'll be closing soon. You'll have to go somewhere."

She nodded sagely. "How do you come to be carrying handcuffs. You a po ... polishe...man? What do you do for a living?"

"I own a shop."

"What sort of shop shells hanshcuffs?"

"I didn't say I sold them."

"What'n hell DID you shay? Show me your shop. That'll be shomething to make the place a bit more inter ... inter ... "

"Interesting?"

"That'sh what I shaid. Didn't I?"

"Well..."

"Why don't you want to show me? Don't believe you have a shop. You're showing ... showing ... offf."

"No. I don't mind showing you. But we ought to make it another time. Getting late. Suppose you meet me here tomorrow night and I'll show you then."

"NO! NO! I want to see it now. You're telling Cissie fibbers. Show me now or I'll scream blue murder. She if I won't."

"OK, ok. No, it's all right mate. I'll get her out of here. She seems to be one of those who can't hold it. How much had she drunk before I came in?"

"Nothing at all." The barkeep sounded a trifle disgusted with the world.

He wrapped her coat around her and propelled her to the door. Outside, as soon as the cold air hit her, she passed out and he caught her barely in time. A taxi was cruising conveniently down the street and he hailed it.

Cissie awoke slowly. Because of the feeling in her head, she elected to keep her eyes tightly closed. She was comfortable indeed but the position was a bit...? She must have dozed off again because her next recollection was that, although it still remained pitch dark, her head felt much more normal. And yet? She opened her eyes to find that it made little difference. Still pitch dark.

She stretched out a hand to explore the space around her but it felt as though she was immersed in treacle. Her arm and hand moved only reluctantly and then Snapped back to her side when she stopped trying. But no, that wasn't it at all. Her hands were reluctant to move apart; insisted on moving together - like twins.

She tried to sit up but there came that same feeling of being in treacle. It was then, suddenly, very abruptly, that memory came flooding back. Well, some memories. She could remember the bar and the stranger who bought the three brandies. She could vaguely ... yes, that was it ... her hands were confined in handcuffs! Oh God, had she been THAT stupid?

She was enveloped in something. Something that wrapped all around her, that was holding her arms trapped against her body. Her hands were cuffed, yes, but that wrapping was stopping her from moving them away. And it was also pressing across her face and confining her legs together and...

She began to panic. She screamed. Whatever it was that held her seemed to be elastic and she bounced with her efforts to escape. Then the place was flooded with light: "Whoa there. Steady Neddy. No need to get spooky. You're not in any danger. You got stroppy last night and so I had to restrain you. How do you like my version of the epicene straightjacket?"

"Eppy - what?"

"Sorry. I forget that most people don't like odd words. Epicene ... if you like ... it means sexless."

"You couldn't possibly have sex in this ... or any other straightjacket."

He burst into a great guffaw of laughter. "Well, that's certainly one way of looking at it. Although ... if I may say so ... you do look remarkably sexy hanging in there."

"What is it? What have you done to me?" There was a grey haze over her vision and that feeling of being in treacle still persisted.

"It's my latest acquisition. Not had a chance to sell any of it yet. Its woven nylon sleeving - like a big nylon stocking really only one long length without feet. Your weight is stretching it and that keeps it tight around you. Reckon I could sell a lot if I brought customers down here to see your admirable demonstration."

"You dare do anything of the sort! If you've had enough fun then, be a gentleman and let me out."

"I'm not so sure that I want to be a gentleman. After all ... not had any breakfast yet … and hunger always arouses the beast in me."

"Then I'll call a policeman." She suddenly became aware of her surroundings – what she could see of them: "What IS this place?"

"You're in my dungeon. From here voices don't even reach the shop let alone the sex-hungry policemen who patrol around here."

"Dungeon? Aren't they supposed to be under castles - or something?"

"In general - yes. Under something. In this case - under my shop. I hereby declare that, if you want out, you must pay compensation for my time and effort over the last twelve hours. And the use of my nylon sleeve."

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise ... you stay there like a giant Christmas-stocking filler. At that you could pay your debt ... I'll put you on show in my window?"

"Tying me up like this ... that's illegal. You'll go to prison."

"But who's going to tell on me? Not you, I fancy."

"You can't keep me here for ever. Or...?" The very thought caused a revolution throughout her body: "... or ... can you?"

"You see? Pay up or accept the ONLY alternative."

"You haven't offered any alternatives."

"Oh dear. Women can be SUCH a trial. To get out - you agree to remain as my captive slave for the rest of the day; my dungeon guinea pig. Alternative – stay where you are until the fun subsides and I - and I alone - decide you aren't worth keeping any longer."

"That could be a very long time," she said smugly.

"Today AND tomorrow," he said with suspicious promptness.

"What exactly do you have in mind for your sex-slave?"

"I said slave. Not the same thing. Don't put the blame on my innocence for your dirty mind. Now... I'm hungry. Five seconds to make your decision and then I'm gone."

Cuffed and cocooned... and he really didn't appear to be in any way dangerous... was there a choice? "OK. You win. I'll be a slave on condition that I get breakfast too."

"Of course. A malnourished slave is of no use whatever." He busied himself and soon her hammock-like sleeve lowered her to the floor and she felt its grip relax around her. He approached carrying another pair of handcuffs. Peeling off the nylon sleeve he locked a cuff around her left ankle but left the other dangling. He released the cuff from her right wrist too: "Now get into the shower and make yourself presentable. Breakfast won't be kept if you're not there to eat it."

She pressed her hands together and dropped him a curtsey: "Much haste shall be employed, Master."

"When you're ready re-cuff yourself ... hands and feet ... and sauciness will not be tolerated."

Wearing only a towel she followed her nose to the breakfast table: "Some basket has pinched my clothes," she complained.

"You are properly locked into ... yes. Now why would a respectful slave need clothes?"

"Disgusting dirty old man."

"Not so much of the old, if you please."

After breakfast he set her to wash the dishes and then took her on a tour of his kingdom. "I've always had a fancy for this as a bondage tool," he said showing her into a small room directly behind the shop.

The room was stacked with boxes made of cardboard, boxes made of plywood and some larger ones in heavy timber. "What's that?"

"It's called a banding machine. It straps cases with this plastic ribbon and heat-seals the ends. No knots, no stretch, no slipping. Should be even more effective than handcuffs if you want total inescapability."

"More long words," she complained.

"But think how effective it could be were you required to pack a slave-girl for shipment."

She eyed him warily; he pounced; she dodged; she was in cuffs - both hands and feet! She finished the morning bound into a ball with totally-unforgiving heat-sealed plastic bands and screwed up in a wooden packing case.

And that is how Cissie came to be part-proprietor and part display-prop of the famous sex-toy shop in ... street in the town of ... ?