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Cuffed - part 2
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Cuffed - part 2 The handcuffs were a fascinating new toy. She hadn’t expected the effect on her, and couldn’t adequately explain it to herself. Was she a masochist? She didn’t think so. She felt no urge to be whipped, to wear a collar, dress up in a leather harness. Calling someone ‘Master’ just seemed silly. And yet, there was an allure. Somehow, it made things more intense. Maybe it was the restriction on mobility, the fact that she could not move her wrists freely, it meant her hands were like a pair of horses in tandem harness, working together. That was certainly part of it, it seemed to focus her more when she masturbated it. But there was more. There was just a ...sexiness to them. She liked the way they shone in candle light. She used her silver polish to make it shine and catch the light, it worked best in low lights, under a single lamp, or in front of candles. Sometimes, she’d carefully wrap it in a teatowel and leave it in the fridge while she went to work, so that when it went around her wrists it was bracing cold, the iciness making the metal ruthlessness more emphatic. Chilled handcuffs, she thought, there was something sexy there. It was hard to ignore or overlook chilled metal binding your wrists, it focused your attention... There was something about looking down at her body, especially her naked body, and seeing the arc of her arms, drawn together, the unforgiving shining metal binding her, shaping her posture. There was a fascination to it, it was almost hypnotic. For the first time in her life, she watched herself intently as she masturbated. It was a wonderful toy. Sometimes she’d carry it in her purse, shopping, or to work. She’d never wear them outside of course. But just knowing they were in her purse, that secret naughtiness. It was a thrill. Perhaps, she thought, it was like the earnestness of teenage boys carrying a condom around, sometimes for months or years, never using it, never having even a chance, but just having it. It was the signifier of sex, of naughtiness. She wondered sometimes about why it affected her. A signifier of sex? Perhaps. A signifier of ... badness, wantonness, of criminality and rule breaking. Did it excite her because it made her think of herself as a bad girl, a naughty girl, the sort that broke the law... There was that, definitely, she’d feel oddly wicked and powerful, liberated, when she wore them. The sort of girl that does sexy nasty things and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. But there was also surrender, submission, helplessness. Yes, that was there too. It occured to her, when she thought of it, that the feelings wearing the handcuffs were contradictory. That it didn’t make sense to feel both liberated and surrendered, nasty and helpless at once. But she was smart enough not to worry about it, and just revel in the senses. Exploration came slowly. She wore them in the kitchen, in the bedroom. Once, she spent a whole evening naked in cuffs, watching TV, fumbling as she made a meal, masturbating. She wanted to wear them in the shower, by candle light, but was afraid that the water might damage the inner mechanism. Once on the bed, she knelt, ass up in the air, face down on a pillow, gasping as she struggled awkwardly to a shivering orgasm. Another time, leaning against the bedroom, legs spread, face and shoulders pressing against the wood grain, as close to a police pat down as she could get, hands between her legs, leading her to an orgasm that made her knees tremble. Mostly, she liked to watch. She liked a comfortable position on the couch, something where she could sit up and look down, knees up, legs spread, steel glinting against the black pubic hair of her mound. But of course, she couldn’t really see that much. She’d never been one of these feminists who got to know their vaginas with mirrors and speculums. She’d always thought that was vaguely disgusting, there’s nothing special about knobby toes, or flabby skin, or the odd places of anatomy. She’d seen cats assholes, she’d never felt an urge to get a look at her own. But now? The cuffs made things different, she wanted to see herself framed by the cuffs. It started with awkwardly trying to use a hand mirror at the same time, which gave her shaking views of the insides of her thighs and rushed glimpses of pubic curls. Then a stationary mirror. Then on the couch, hips elevated on pillows, a mirror propped up on a kitchen chair placed carefully. It was a revelation. Her hands, cuffed at the wrists, joined by silver links, seemed almost things of their own, pink butterly wings, fluttering, joined by chrome. Between the pairs of slender fingers, the black pubic hair, the pink slit. She saw herself wet for the first time, saw not just her pinkness but the shining shimmer between her lips. Mirrors became a part of it, not always, but often enough. She watched herself in different positions, different postures as she masturbated in handcuffs. Watched a vibrator slip inside. She tried masturbating in different ways. Sometimes she watched her whole body, her pussy hidden between her legs. She stared in fascination at the signs of her own arousal, watched her lips as she gasped, stared at nipples hard and rigid as the glass, noticed the sweat, gazed at the trembling of muscles. It was as if she was seeing herself naked for the first time, seeing her own body, appreciating it, enjoying it rather than simply living in it. She cropped her pubic hair, something that she had very consciously avoided. She wasn’t a model, why not let it grow. But messy bush clashed with the elegance of steel, the shapeliness of fingers and hands like butterfly wings. Butterfly wings, she liked that image, sometimes handcuffed, she let her hands flutter between her, imagining a bird or butterfly in flight. From a cropped bush, to a bikini line. One night, she shaved it off completely, just to stare at it in the mirror, before sending the butterly to flutter her to orgasm. Shaving brought a new self awareness. Panties felt differently. Not just utilitarian, she was more aware, lace was different, satin was different, a thong stretched over her hips, silk worked its way between her lips. Underwear was now an adventure, even if she was the only one to ever see her in it, it was still something. Lingerie interested her. She bought a garter belt, spent nights of frustration cursing clips that didn’t seem to hold, discovered stay ups and never looked back. She visited la senza and vieux en rose and victoria’s secret, pored among bustiers and teddy’s, slips and robes. It was a little too much though, too over the top. She bought a long silk robe, and then on another occasion, a short silk top. But really, her favourite lingerie was her hand cuffs, there was nothing like the elegant symmetry of its shape, the shine and weight and chill of its steel, the implacability of it all. No push up bra, it seemed, could shape her body, could pose so sexily and elegantly as her wrists joined together. It was such an odd small thing, but somehow, she felt more alive, more sexual than she ever had before. It became a game, an exciting game. Sometimes at work, she’d think of some new thing to do with the handcuffs, a new position, or with the mirror, or wearing cuban heels. Shaving the last of her pubic hair had come during an appallingly dull teleconference, had livened the rest of the day, added a spark of anticipation. It was better than a vibrator, she thought, since the cuffs inspired infinitely more variation. It didn’t hammer her clit, but somehow, it allowed her, invited her to do more things. It was better than a boyfriend, much as she loved the feel of a live hard man inside her, it was a lot less maintenance, available at her whim, receptive to her impulses. Her fantasies ran riot, there were men in them of course, sometimes two, sometimes a black man or a chinese man, sometimes a tattooed goth. There was handcuffed to a tree, or a desk at the office, or a chain link fence. There were the links between the cuffs seized with a brutal hand, arms yanked away from her pussy, above her head, her body roughly claimed. Or straddling a hairy chest, wrists joined, palms flat, supporting her weight as she impaled herself. There were arrests, kidnappings, hostage crises, romances, astonishing things that had the common thread that as satisfying, as exciting as they were, she’d never do them in real life. But it did kind of draw her. She had a vibrator, and used it. A dildo and used it. But it was her using it. The thought of a live man, a body above her, a hard cock that throbbed in her, that moved by someone else’s will.... At some point, she knew she was going to wear handcuffs to bed with a man, the thought excited her as she masturbated. Of course, at times the idea seemed freakish. What would he think? Would he laugh, that would be unbearable. Would he think she was some kinky sex freak? She wasn’t really. Sometimes the idea of wearing them to bed seemed like such a horrible misjudgement. Fated to be a disastrous embarrassment. As it turned out, when it did happen, it was quite unexpected. It was a Saturday, she was at the mall, her feet were getting a little sore from walking around so much in heels, she decided to stop in the food court for an Orange Julius. As she sat and sipped, the thickened orange juice a couple of security guards sat at the table next to her. She glanced at them. Young men both, in their early twenties. They wore faux police uniforms, and bulky vests. Were those really bullet proof vests, she wondered, or fake - designed to look like kevlar - the way that the security uniforms were designed to look like law enforcement. They wore utility belts - flashlights on loops, unidentifiable pouches, handcuffs, pepper spray? No gun of course. The handcuffs were black. The two men chatted briefly, then one walked away, leaving the other to sip his coffee. “Excuse me,” she said suddenly, “are those real handcuffs?” “What?” He looked at her. He was half shaven in a hipster sort of way, short brown hair, thick eyebrows, but large expressive eyes. He was tall, at least a head taller than her. Average build. She blushed. The words had escaped her, a throw away impulse. Perhaps her own handcuffs, carried now in her purse, had pushed her, put the thought in her head, or gave her the little extra impulse to ask. “Oh,” she said, “nothing, I’m sorry.” “These,” he said, patting them and lifting it off the belt clasp. “They’re not police issue or anything like that. But they’re real. I mean, they work. The company pays enough money for them.” “Oh, I see,” she said. “I guess that you don’t get police issue gear.” He smiled. “Not for what they pay us, no. But it all works, mostly. It’s for show, but it has to work, obviously.” “Have you ever needed it.” “Mostly no, people are cooperative. I had to pepper spray a drunk fighting with his girlfriend in the parking lot once.” “Really.” “It was terrible. He threatened to sue. I got written up six different ways for it. It went on forever.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “Have you used the other stuff?” “Sometimes. Ninety per cent of the time, all I use is a notebook. I’ve had to handcuff a few people. Mostly if they’re being belligerent. Just to keep them from hurting anyone.” “Not shoplifters,” she smiled. “No, shoplifters usually just come along quietly,” he said. “I’ve never had a problem with a shoplifter.” “Good to know,” she said, hesitated, and then cautioned, “Not that I plan on shoplifting or anything.” He laughed. “You don’t look like a shoplifter.” “Thanks.” “Though you never know.” “Maybe you should keep an eye on me.” “Maybe I should,” he laughed. They smiled at each other. Ask, she told herself. It was a sudden impulse. Go ahead and ask. “Can I see?” She asked, breaking the silence. “What?” “The handcuffs, can I see them?” “Oh sure,” he took them off his belt again, and placed them in her outstretched hand. They were a bit heavier than her own handcuffs. Cool, but without the chill that she liked on her own. There were four chain links, forged. The cuffs were matte black, not chromed. No quick release lever. She’d gotten so used to her own release levers that half the time she forgot where her keys were. They seemed slightly larger than her own. But on the whole, she was struck by how similar they were. “What’s the difference between this and police issue?” She asked. “I have no idea. I think these are actually used by some police forces, just not the ones in town.” She didn’t want to hold them too long, didn’t want him to think she was kinky or anything like that. He seemed edgy, probably wasn’t used to people handling his gear. She gave them back. “Very nice,” she told him, she needed to cover herself a bit, “I won’t ask to see your pepper spray.” He laughed. “That would be a little much.” She nodded. “Well, Josh,” she said, it was on his nameplate, “it’s been a pleasure. Thanks for being patient with me.” “Likewise.” He fidgeted as if to leave, shifted in his seat, half stood. “So...” he said, “you’re meeting your husband here?” “I’m not married,” she replied. “I’m single.” “That’s surprising,” he told her, “you’re very nice.” “Nice,” she smiled, “Never tell a woman she’s ‘nice’, Josh, it’s a backhanded compliment.” “Sorry,” he said awkwardly. He moved as if to stand up. “It’s all right,” she told him. She watched him fidget. Her fingers slipped into her purse, fondled the ratcheted steel jaw. “Josh,” she said, “are you working up to asking me out?” “No....” “Because I don’t mind.” “Sort of... yes.” “I wouldn’t mind going out for a drink sometime,” she said. Some part of her was screaming ‘what are you doing, he’s at least ten years younger than you are. More than ten years.’ “Good,” he said, “that would be fun.” “Do you have a car?” She asked. That was sort of a minimum standard. A man without a car... Well, what was the point? What kind of man was that, probably still living with his mother. “What? Yes? Sure!” “Good,” she said. “Then you can pick me up tonight.” They exchanged , addresses. She watched him walk off. Nice ass, she thought. And then, she thought, I’ve done a very stupid thing. The sensible part of herself was appalled. Dating a security guard? Why not a parking attendant? She was a professional. And he was so much younger. What the hell? But then again, when was the last time she’d gone on a date with anyone. Why not. It would be good to just get out and do something. It didn’t have to go anywhere. She wasn’t shopping for a husband. What’s the harm of going out, worse come to worse, she’d just beg off and call it a night. Unconsciously, she took the handcuffs out of her purse, and rotated the jaw over and over, fingers sliding against the smoothed metal, with the ritual insistence of a devout stroking prayer<b> beads. </font></b>The rest of the day passed in a blur. She got home, she practically tore her clothes off, threw herself on the couch, masturbated in steel shackles, her fingers blurring inside her. She felt elated, almost wanting to laugh spontaneously. It was so different, so bold, she was so timid usually, so bland, she felt as if she’d stepped into a free fall. She liked this new self, this little bit of adventurousness. What would it be like, she’d think to herself, as she cleaned up the apartment, to just meet him at the door naked? To just say to hell with drinks and just fuck him right then and there? She’d never do that of course, but she could imagine the look on his face. She couldn’t imagine actually being that bold. But it was exciting to think. He arrived on time. The apartment buzzer went off. She almost jumped out of her skin. She wasn’t quite ready, so she invited him up to wait. A moment or two later, there was a knock at the door. She opened it, there he was standing there, looming over her, no longer dressed like a pretend cop, but still well dressed, clean and casual, male and youthful. She invited him in, offered him coffee. He didn’t try to kiss her, which she was glad of. Aggressiveness might have been scary. He was polite. She excused herself to go to the bedroom and finish getting dressed. Once the door closed, she sat heavily on the bed. He heart was starting to pound heavily. She took a deep breath. What am I doing? She asked herself. They could go out for drinks, and then they’d talk and tell each other things about themselves, then they might ... what.... go dancing, go for a walk, go for ice cream... And then maybe her place, or his place getting naked and sweaty, or maybe they’d find it wasn’t really working and he’d drop her off and that would be that. That’s how it would go. Or.... Her heart started to pound even harder, her breath caught in her throat and butterflies exploded, battering and fluttering against her insides, her hands shook. Or.... He looked up as the bedroom door opened, and she stepped out... Wearing smooth shaven pussy glistening, nipples hard, wearing nothing but black stay ups on her legs and shining chromed shackles around her wrists. For a second, they stood there, him just staring at her naked blushing body, her shivering and blushing, her eyes dripping. Then he was on her, his hand on her shoulder, the other seizing the chain between her wrists. He marched her backwards, towards the door, lifting her wrists up over her head. She felt her back slam lightly against the wall, the cold solid flatness of the wall pressing against her back. He lifted her wrist higher, forcing her up on tip toes, pulling the cuffs hard against the edges of her wrist. The chain slid up and over a door hook at the top, trapping her. His mouth descended on hers. One hand, a large hand, grabbed her breast. He had such big hands, his palms were cold. She moaned, lips parting under his, his tongue pushed into her mouth. His free hand shoved up between her legs, she was already wet, she was dripping, she could feel how wet she was, it shocked her how sudden and intense it was. Fingers entered her, she spread her legs for him, her weight dragging her wrists down on the cuffs, the steel biting into her in a way it never had before. He thrust deep, fingers opening her, the heel of his hand hard against her clit and all of a sudden she was coming, instantly, as fast and hard as an express train. |
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