The Seventh Ring | slave, chain, cuffs | bondage stories

Who first proposed the bet I do not know, but it undoubtedly came out of that perennial argument as to the ability of a feminine martial-arts expert to stand up against a male opponent who offers the advantage of fifty or more pounds and more muscle power.

"Speed and agility, " said Lucy, "is what counts and it helps too if you are supple and flexible." There could not be any argument about that especially if you saw Lucy stripped down to a simple sleeveless leotard; there was not an ounce of superfluous fat on that perfect body and the muscles which rippled smoothly beneath the beautiful skin bode ill for any would-be dark-alley mugger.

In everyday office-going clothes, she was just an unusual girl who moved with an astonishing grace, smiled from a face that would not be rated amongst the world's most beautiful but who drew the eye because of that great mass of brown-red hair that, when allowed its freedom, descended all the way to her buttocks. Was it not a drawback when fighting in the ring? Did it not offer her opponents a ready handhold? She would just smile. A definitely secretive smile.

Against her, of course, I could not indulge my vaunted skill as a boxer and amateur wrestler and I have to admit too that, in any event, I doubted the ease with which I might land a telling punch. As well try to box with a will 'o the wisp. But, if we once closed, I could not see how she could evade my powerful grasp and its encircling hug nor wriggle out from under my one-ninety pounds. I did foresee a problem however in that I had no wish to cause her any harm while she could, with impunity employ any weapon at her command.

Eventually the fencing with words terminated with trial by battle. In the cool of a Friday evening we were to fight it out on the tennis lawn. That day marked the beginnng of a two-week holiday during which the loser was to be the absolute slave of the winner. Both of us were sufficiently confident that neither sought to set rules.

The beginning was portentous and she came so very close to obtaining that knock-out which, by my reckoning, was about her only chance. I stooped to remove my shoes and, as I came erect again, she ran in from ambush and caught me with both feet - one nearly on the point of the jaw and the other on the side of my nose. Most probably my dignity was saved by the boxer's trained instinct to ride a blow. My eyes streamed with the pain from my nose and the ground came up with a thump that all but cleared the air from my lungs.

"That's a foul," I choked.

Lucy tittered, "All's fair in love and war..." before saying, "And this is WAR."

As I rolled to a sitting position, and sought to regain my feet, so once again, I caught a foot this time just below my right ear; if either of those kicks had landed, as intended on the point, she most certainly would have proved her argument. A bit dizzy, breathless and with swimming sight I was aware of a beautiful leg starting to spin close by - had I got up, I would have met another full-blooded spinning kick. So I stayed down.

As far as Lucy was concerned, the kick was beautifully timed but my head wasn't where she thought it would be; on the other hand, a straight forearm swept her support from under her and it was her turn to hit the deck. Now most certainly I am not as graceful as Lucy but, when occasion demands, I can move and this occasion was demanding. I caught one of her feet, dragged her back a yard or so to straighten her along the grass, pushed forward on the leg to double it from the knee and then pinned it by sitting on it.

Did I say that trying to hold Lucy had always been next to wrestling with a well-greased eel? I needed a short respite to clear my head and so I leaned forward, took a firm hold on that long rope of hair and dragged it back so locking her head, neck and spine into a curve; for the moment at least she was helpless. "That's not fair," she objected. "You're hurting me."

"What was that you muttered about love and war?"

"I'll teach you about war." Well, at least I didn't provide a hair-hold but I needed to be careful that she didn't get the chance to demonstrate whatever she had in mind.

I wound the hair-rope around her wrist so allowing me to hold the position with one hand. Leaning forward again I wrestled her for the other hand and it wasn't too difficult to get them both up between her shoulder-blades. With my full weight on her buttocks I was able to hold her locked with one hand only. "Now," I said triumphantly, "it's my turn to wage a little war."

From my trouser pocket, I produced the thumb-cuffs; Lucy, of course, couldn't see what I was up to but an angry howl soon showed that she'd quickly divined the meaning of the contact on her pretty little digits. There was a second pair of diminutive cuffs in my other trouser pocket and seconds later, her toes received similar treatment.

How come I was carrying two pairs of thumb-cuffs in my pockets on that Friday evening? Well - the argument had been building over a period and, although I never was a Boy Scout, I am a firm believer in their motto.

I stood and dramatically placed a foot on her neck: "You lose - slave," I declaimed.

"Slave, hell," she replied.

"Are you welshing on your wager?"

"Not a bit. It's not over yet, cheater."

"From where I'm standing, you don't seem to have much left to argue with."

"As a slave, I'll not be much good to you trussed up like this. Wait 'till you release these cowardly tools of macho chauvinism."

"Lady. 'Twould seem my new slave needs disciplining. Wait there."

I popped back into the house and returned with the old sports bag in which I kept most of the bondage toys. I wasn't the least bit surprised to find an empty lawn; Lucy was never the girl to let grass grow under her whichever way up she may be. But fortune did not favour her that day; she took a tumble and the crashing of dry breaking twigs led me to the spot.

I shouldered her and carried her back, wriggling and squirming, to the sports bag. She was also exercising her tongue. "Quiet slave," I ordered.

"Up yours. Not your slave yet."

"If you insist," I sighed and brought out the ball gag.

She looked at it askance: "Don't you dare."

"I've told you many times you cannot fight effectively with such a rope of hair. Nevertheless - don't ever dare to cut it off. Now... will you open wide or do I have to yank on the rope again?"

For a few seconds, she glowered silent defiance and then, slowly, she opened up. The next concern had to be her feet; cuffed together they may have been but she could still deliver a two-footed kick from the ground. I fitted her iron belt - it would have served as a collar on me - and hooked a short length of chain into the lock. A pair of handcuffs on her ankles and locked to the other end of the chain took care of any kicking ideas she may have been entertaining. She was then in a sort-of semi-hogtie.

From either side of the belt, there dangle short chains about five inches in length which terminate in single cuffs. I worked her right wrist into one of these without any difficulty; releasing the thumb cuffs and securing the other wrist to the belt was just a matter of who asserted the greatest strength. Lastly the iron slave collar equipped with some eight-feet of small chain went on and my lady was secure. Only then did her gag come off.

"Now," I said confidently, "there's no escape from that lot. Give up?"

"Go to hell."

I had to admire her but, for all that, I couldn't see where that attitude was going to get her. "Lucy, " I pleaded, "there is positively no escape from those chains without the keys. Now be a good slave, accept defeat and spend the next fortnight in relative comfort."

Her response was zero. Total silence.

"Oh, Lucy. What the devil's got into you? Give in and I'll remove all the restraints - just leave you with the bare slave chains."

Still silence. "Very well then. The deal is off. Here roll... "

"NO! " That was emphatic enough. "I'm not going to welsh. The bet was made. Don't worry - I'll slave for you for the two weeks. But do I have to relinquish the right to escape?"

"Well, if that's the way you want it. But if you're determined to escape what am I supposed... ?"

And so dear Lucy began her servitude in strict chain bondage and I kept her tethered all the time. I felt sure that she would soon tire of her defiance once she accepted that I could be just as obstinate, wouldn't give her a chance at the keys and would take good care that she never got anywhere near the workshop and its tools. How wrong can you get it?

I fitted leather cuffs to her ankles and joined them with about a foot of hobble chain and then removed the hamper chain; I cuffed her wrists with about two feet of chain and padlocked the centre to her belt. That evening, I unlocked her hands from the belt while she prepared dinner tethered to the kitchen stove; she served it and ate with me and then I tethered her to the stove once more while she washed the dishes.

I kept her locked up again for the remainder of the evening and then chained her by the collar to the bed. We carried out a similar routine on Saturday but, by the afternoon, it became clear that all was not well.

She returned to the sitting room after the chores were done and I called her to me. At first I thought she was going to refuse; she came and I once more locked her hands to the belt. She just stood there, silent, morose with head hanging. Something had to be done.

I pulled her down into my lap. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You don't usually look so glum? And you've always enjoyed bondage games?"

Still silent. She sat on my knees but she leaned away from me. Her back was stiff and as straight as a ramrod. Her face was resolutely turned away. "I can understand you being disappointed in not beating me... but you've always been a good sport. Why this sudden aversion to my company?"

"It's obvious you don't want to be my slave. So what shall we do?"

I waited a few moments more but there was no relenting. I leaned over to the little drawer in the top of my desk. Tightening my arms around her I drew her closer in to my body. "At the moment you are wearing a ring around each wrist, a ring around each ankle, another around this very-small waist and another one around this very pretty neck." I leaned forward and kissed it but she remained in another world.

"I'm going to make you a proposition. I'll remove all six of those rings if you will abandon this attitude and allow me to substitute one that is designed for another place."

For several seconds, she gave not a sign that she had heard me but, slowly, I could see in her body language that curiousity was winning the day; she was turning her eyes as far as possible to the left to see what it was I held between thumb and fingers.

I heard... I thought... a little gasp; such a tiny little gasp that it may not have been given birth.

"Which hand?"

"The left... of course."

There was a longer silence. Did that backbone relent a trifle?

"Which finger is it to fit?"

"Which one would you suggest? For what it's worth, I think it would look best on the third finger. It is, after all, a rather plain little finger and... "

Like a Spring melt she collapsed against me and pressed her face into my chest. "Oh, yes... please. "

When she turned her head back and looked up there was a distinct suggestion of glitter under her eyelids. "Tears?" I queried. "Am I adding so much to your misery? And I had intended to keep it for your birthday."

"Bloody fool," she wept. "But... don't take off ... the other six... just add number seven. And if you could... release my hands... I'd like to look at it."

END