Couturier | chains, jeans, cuffs | free bondage stories

You might consider my husband to be a bit of a kook ... and I suppose you couldn't really be accused of error. But at least he is a discreet kook and never seriously embarrasses me. I call him the Couturier because he likes making clothes but, let it be said, he only ever desires to dress ME. I'll give him his due, he's really good at it. It must also be said that I enjoy being his model - his Barbie doll - although there have been times when this particular toy dolly would cheerfully have cut his throat with a blunt boot given the immediate opportunity.

When we are invited out, or throw a party in our own right, he never fails to come up with an outfit that makes me the center of attention. So yes, I do come in for a bit of bitchy jealousy but I take that as a compliment - to us both!

I understand that it all started with his boyhood interest, fascination is perhaps a better word, in sewing machines. He calls them the ultimate in precision engineering. People bring him a constant string of machines, both ancient and modern, for repair or adjustment - even valuation. His workshop is stocked with all kinds from delicate fancy-embroidery types through button-holers to a monster that started life as a saddler's tool for sewing together pieces of heavy leather; it looks like a factory in itself and in operation lets out a steady clunking noise that even I cannot resist.

But if he dresses me to kill when in public he also delights in dressing me outrageously in private. I suspect that he would be even more embarrassed than I should I be discovered in one of his bizarre creations and it has uncovered in me a side that I never suspected ... I find inestimable pleasure in wearing them. I don't know why but some of them really turn me on. It is clear too that they turn him into a sex-hungry nut and clear the way for a night to remember. However, there are those occasions... ?

Talk about the bagman cometh. This particular spat began one Saturday morning when I arose early, left him snoozing serenely, had a quick breakfast and departed on my shopping trip. I wanted to get going early because I had planned a full day. Not for a moment did it cross my mind that he might be awake when I returned and, if he was, then almost certainly he was dreaming about that dress he had me in last night. It was the hobble to end all hobbles, fitting like a glove all the way from my hips to my ankles while, above the waist, it would need an experienced explorer to find any traces of it. Technically it was decent but it combined decency with obscenity so that, with the exception of a blind person...?

In the way of most women, I entered the house with my arms full of packages and parcels, navigating on instruments. As was my habit I dumped the lot on the kitchen table but, as I did so, the lights went out. That is to say a bag was snapped down over my head. The element of surprise had much to do with my undoing; by the time I had my hands up in an effort to turn night back into day, the thing had been secured around my neck. As I was to discover later, it was made from soft but very strong industrial cotton with a deep hem around the neck. Instead of a drawstring it had sewn into that hem a length of small open-link chain with each end terminated in a ring. Like some choker dog-collars, it had been turned into a running noose by feeding a loop of chain through one ring before it had been sewn into that hem - all he had to do was pull on the free end and slip a small padlock through the chain and I was stuck with it.

Even as I was feeling my way around it my hands were seized, pulled behind me and cuffed. Then his arms came around me again and he began to remove the leather belt at the top of my jeans; being that I am shaped as young western women are supposed to be the belt was not there to hold up my pants but it was necessary to remove it before I could take them off ... and that is what he proceeded to do. I kicked and invented unlady-like language but, hooded and cuffed behind, what would you expect the outcome to be? Debagged, I lay on the floor for perhaps twenty minutes; in that I couldn't see and my hands were useless there wasn't much point in trying to do anything except wait.

Eventually he came back and, to my surprise, began to restore my dignity. Then came the second surprise - he had sewn the legs of my jeans all the way down the inside legs. But he hadn't yet finished - my leather belt had been replaced by another of his running chain nooses, which he pulled snugly around my waist and fixed with another lock. I couldn't take them off! Neither could I do very much in the way of fighting him off.

Finally he recuffed my hands in front and, with another of his infernal padlocks, fixed the cuffs to the ring in the end of the chain that secured my jeans. After which he just disappeared leaving me, it seemed, to wriggle helplessly in an entirely futile attempt to extricate myself. I guessed that he was enjoying the show and, because I too was enjoying myself, I gave him a good one. Nevertheless, in those odd moments when I paused for breath, I tried to think of something suitable to add to his lunch when next I was able.

I felt him fiddling at my throat and the hood was removed. There reached me a great smell of fresh coffee and there on the breakfast bar was a tray with all the necessary; a pile of rolls, butter, honey and a plate of hot biscuits. "It won't get you off the hook," I said. "I can't eat or drink here on the floor and I need to go to the loo."

"Where's the problem?"

I delivered my most haughty and withering stare but I felt sure that, as usual, the overall effect was diminished by the grin that arose from somewhere between my legs.

"Oh, there isn't a problem really. Only that I can't use my hands, I can't remove my pants, I can't walk or crawl; in fact the only problem is working out something that I CAN do."

"Women complain so much. If it will quieten you without resorting to a gag I will make the necessary arrangements." And that opened up a whole range of possibilities!

He started by putting handcuffs on my ankles; that meant he wasn't considering removing my jeans! Next he removed the padlock that was holding my jeans around my waist but ... he didn't release my handcuffs from the end of that chain. Now I could lower my pants provided that I bent double!

Then ... he simply walked from the room! All that I had to do was walk/jump/tumble to the bathroom, push my cuffed hands down to my ankles and take careful aim sighted through my legs before I launched myself backwards at that pedestal.

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He didn't make many mistakes but I think he boo-booed there; by bending just a little bit further I managed to squeeze the handcuffs over my feet so that I could raise my jeans again with my hands behind just until the cat's cradle stuck in my crotch. Admittedly it was difficult but I managed to clean myself and was in the process of bringing the cuffs back in front once more when his lordship returned.

Was he going to admit to a surprise? I'll give you fifteen guesses. He helped me to restore my dignity but then, instead of re-locking the waist-chain and securing the handcuffs to it, he grabbed on to the top of the jeans, lifted me bodily from the floor, carried me thus back to the bed and dumped me. As he turned aside I thought I had a chance to kick him with both feet but, alas, it was a ruse to distract me. He slipped aside and the hood rapidly, and with a click, once again ended my active participation.

And so I finished sitting on the bed, ankles cuffed together trouser-legs sewn together, hands cuffed in front and hooded; all I could do was listen and wait and wait and wait and...

He tied something to the links of my handcuffs and hauled me upright. My jeans were pulled down to my ankles and, one at a time, the ankle cuffs were released, transferred from below the bunched jeans back to the same ankle above the jeans and I was once more debagged. This was getting to be a bit frustrating because he never once gave me the slightest chance to escape. It all proceeded, a step at a time, and there was nothing that I could do to thwart him.

I was puzzled when he began again to replace the jeans. What the hell? But, as he pulled them up my legs and removed the hobble, it became clear that this was not the garment he had just removed; when he got to my waist it was too bulky and heavy. Yes the legs were sewn together but now my feet were enclosed. Next came a slave collar and a rope with which he pulled me gently backward. Then he tied a rope to each of my wrists, pulled my arms forward against the collar and removed the cuffs. As this shenanigans proceeded I began to realise that he was putting me into a straightjacket which was part and parcel of these "new" jeans.

I expected straps but instead there began a strangely familiar noise - a sort of chack-a-chack-a-chack. It was one of his favourite toys... a handheld miniature sewing machine. He was sewing me into his one-piece all-body straightjacket! He sewed it all the way from neck to waist and, after releasing my right hand and pulling it straight down, he began to work up along the front of my right arm and then down the back of that arm. I discovered later, when he was so kind as to remove the hood, that two flaps had been provided down each side of the suit to which he could sew the sleeves.

When he had finished I stood totally enclosed, legs unable to move apart, arms could not leave my sides, eyes conveyed no information whatever and voice muffled by that wretched hood. But... I was not tightly restrained. I was free to move most of my bits and pieces albeit they could not move very far. I could even walk, a slow shuffle, but it would require care... if he restored my sight.

A new kind of bondage; no ropes, no cuffs or chains, no leather belts or wooden restraints. I was only loosely held and yet I was completely helpless and I had more than a sneaking feeling that, could I reach the kitchen and its stock of knives, it would serve me not at all. My hands were held close to my knees and so I would be able to do no more than look at the knives as they twinkled in mockery from their rack.

Yet he hadn't finished. He produced a cowl which he sewed to a band thoughtfully provided around the top of the jacket. And still more: came a full-face mask sewn around the edge of the cowl. He HAD provided a narrow slot that served for restricted vision upon the world I had left and also as a breathing hole but, apart from that very-small mercy, I was alone in helplessness.

Not a rope, not a button, not a buckle that could offer me a chance to escape - if escape were possible anyway from such garment? But the thought did occur that, if I could not get out then neither could he get in. Come time for him to enjoy the end of a full day... he would HAVE to get me out.

Wrong again! His solution is known to balloonists and parachute jumpers as a rip-patch.

He later developed the idea by re-making his straightjacket-suit in metal; when I was enclosed between the two halves he fastened it irrevocably together with dozens of pop-rivets. It gave much more freedom to move about within it but not to move about. Peering through my narrow sight slot - just a saw-cut - I saw him standing back to admire his handiwork. Suddenly his face took on a look of surprise, he seemed to draw a deep breath; then he dropped the riveting tool, clutched at his chest, seemed to roll his arms across into a ball and dropped, like a pole-axed steer, to the floor.

"My God! He's having a heart-attack!" Frantically I beat on my metal suit, which paid not the slightest heed to the emergency. I screamed for help and added kicks to my fisty efforts but all to no avail. I was completely helpless, without options, fully dependent on the man out there now lying on the floor. In sheer panic I laid about me...

"Hey! Hey!" A voice, deep and vibrant with concern, added itself to the hand that was shaking my shoulder. "Christ, girl. What are you dreaming about?"

Then, although still dark, it was much lighter than had been the inside of that metal prison. "I thought I was..." I stopped feeling sheepish and very foolish. "Wherever it was... you know where you are now?"

"Yes. I'm O.K. now."

He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. I slipped my arms up around his neck. There in the dark, in the warmth of our bed, held tightly but safely within arms that I knew would protect me ... I relished the meaning of the only true bondage.