The Contract
by Kijegam

Chapter 1: Kirsten Returns

As the house came into view, Kirsten put down her bag and paused. What was she doing back here? She looked over her shoulder, down the drive, the way she had come, but the gate was already out of sight, masked by the large trees that surrounded the entire perimeter. Her cab was long gone. She picked up her bag again and walked on. The air was moist and still; there was no one about and only her footsteps, and an occasional cry from a bird disturbed the silence.

She did not go to the main door -- that was for guests, not for such as herself. What was she? An employee, she supposed, since she had signed the contract those months ago. She headed around the back. A narrow path led to a small green door set into the solid stone walls of the house. She punched in the code for the combination, grasped the knob and turned. The door opened, allowing her to step through into the ante-room. A closer pulled the door gently closed behind her until the lock engaged. Another combination lock was visible on the inside. Kirsten thought nothing of it, but if she had tried it she would have discovered that its code -- the code needed to leave the house -- was not the same as the one required for entrance, and it was not one that Kirsten knew.

The ante-room was about ten feet square. It had two doors, the one she had entered by and another one opposite leading to the rest of the house. There were no windows, all the ample light coming from fluorescent strips hidden behind panels in the roof. The walls were plain plaster, painted cream, the only relief to this being the wide, full length mirror on her left. On her right, in front of the door, the only furniture: a medium-sized table. The only other item of note was the small, circular eyeball of the security camera, set into the ceiling.

Kirsten put down her bag and considered her image in the mirror. An attractive young woman in a dark blue, formal suit. The fabric was well chosen, she thought. It made her 5'2" figure look taller, without in any way detracting from the full curve of her hips. The skirt was too long to show much leg, but her black court shoes and black stockings displayed her ankles well. Further up, beneath the dark blue, her white blouse looked efficient and businesslike, but also subtly emphasized the other full curves of her chest. Her fair hair was shoulder length -- long enough anyway to frame her face, giving due prominence to the height of her cheekbones, her deep set, grey-green eyes and her sensual lips.

The girl thought again: why had she come back? For many months she had thought of leaving this strange place, and then this opportunity to walk away. She was intelligent, she had qualifications: a PhD in Arabic History for one thing. She could easily have found alternative employment, and yet she had come back of her own free will.

Shrugging her shoulders, Kirsten turned to the table and considered the objects on it. There were two boxes, one large one open, and another, much smaller, closed and with a note on top of it. She picked up the paper: "Welcome back. You have been missed. The arrangements are as before. I shall see you this afternoon." There was no signature, but only her -- her what? Employer? Could have written it.

Kirsten thought back to the contract. She still had no idea how she had been found, but her employer's lawyers had been very clear about the terms and conditions. She could never claim to have been deceived, except in so far as its very strangeness meant that until she had experienced this life, she had no real idea what it would mean. Fantasies, yes, but no notion of the day-to-day truth. The lawyers had also been clear about the duration and payment: a two-year initial period, five hundred thousand up front into a holding account, with regular statements, so she could see it grow, and another five hundred thousand when she had completed the contract. But if she left early, nothing except her twenty-five thousand salary for the months worked. She had to live on the estate and could leave only in exceptional circumstances, as she had just done for this funeral.

At the time, the contract had been easy to accept. It seemed like a fantasy come true. And she was after a new start anyway, and two years out of circulation from her old haunts -- and hauntings -- seemed the perfect solution. And then there was the money.

But that was before she understood exactly what she was required to do, or rather to be.

Well, anyway, she was here. She could have left for good, but she had come back. Better get on with it. Kirsten took her overnight bag and placed it in the large box. Then, working carefully and methodically, she began to undress, folding each garment as she removed it and placing it with the bag in the large box. Shoes, jacket, skirt, brassiere, stockings as well as her watch, necklace and bracelet all went into the container, until she stood almost naked.

Once all her attire was within the box, she closed the lid, engaging the locking mechanism. She would have no further need of her clothes or the other contents for the moment, and no further access to them, for she did not have the box key. Then, she turned and looked in the mirror again

Without the distraction of clothes, the girl's figure was revealed in all its glory: her full round breasts, narrow waist, smoothly curved thighs and perfectly turned calves. But it was not this that Kirsten considered: rather her attention was inexorably drawn by the second, and, unlike the money, totally imperative reason why she had returned. Not that being clothed had ever really allowed her to forget it.

The belt was made of shiny metal, about two inches high, lined for comfort with a black rubbery substance. It fitted snugly around the narrowest part of Kirsten's waist, subtly exaggerating the flare of her hips. The metal was not hinged; it was springy enough to get on and off without this, but now of course it was held closed by a lock at the rear, close to the small of her back. The lock also held a metal bar which depended between the cheeks of her backside, split either side of her back passage to form a hole small enough to let wastes out (but nothing in!) and gradually expanded to form a plate that completely enclosed Kirsten's sex. Only the tips of her labia could be seen, protruding through a narrow slit that allowed her bodily fluids to pass. Seen, but not touched, for the slit was covered by a tough shield made of wire gauze that totally prevented access. The plate was securely welded to the belt at the front. The assembly was completed by chains descending from the side of the belt to metal thigh rings, also locked, which were in turn held together by a short length of chain, preventing Kirsten from spreading her legs more than the distance required for a normal walk, and obviously preventing her from wearing panties, slacks or short skirts as well

Kirsten placed her hands behind her neck and turned, looking over her shoulder to admire herself in the mirror from every angle. The metal work that encased her was not unattractive, and neither, she had to admit, was it in any way uncomfortable, for it had been made to her exact measurements. But it was completely escape-proof, and totally efficient in its guard of her feminine intimacies. She faced forward again and felt the closeness of the fit of the belt about her middle. Sliding her fingers downward, she attempted, as she had done many, many times over the last few days, to slip a finger between the metal and her flesh. It was, of course, quite useless. The bet was simply not designed to permit her -- or anyone else -- to do this, Her sex would remain completely inaccessible until the belt was removed.

Kirsten turned again, straining to see the lock at her back. She did not tamper with it, for she had been told it contained an explosive charge which would kill her if she or anyone else attempted to pre-empt it. But in any case what could she do? It was not the sort of lock that required a key: it was opened by a radio signal. The locks on the thigh rings were just the same.

Once again facing the mirror, the girl stretched her legs apart until the chain linking her thigh rings jerked taught. She smiled to herself. Like the initial contract, the conditions that had allowed her to leave the estate for her "exceptional circumstances" had been fully explained. She would be locked into the belt, and it would only be removed when she returned. Well, she had returned. Soon now.

Kirsten went over to the table and opened the other box, the one with the note. She opened it and lifted out the first item. It was made of metal just like her belt, but designed to fit closely around her neck. Like the belt, it had a radio lock fitted neatly into its structure. It had some other electronics in it too, and on the outside it had welded four metal rings, one at the front, one at the back and one at each side, to which padlocks and chains could be attached. Kirsten considered the collar, turning it over in her hands. It was quite familiar, for she had worn it constantly during the first months of her contract. It had only been removed a week ago, just after she was fitted with the belt. Unlike the belt, the collar was hinged: it was too small to spring open. She opened it wide and eased it around her neck. She found herself wondering, just as she had done the first time, what it would feel like, but as the rubbery lining touched her skin a wave of comforting familiarity coursed through her. It felt normal. She shut her eyes, held her breath and closed the ends of the collar together. The lock engaged with a click, confining Kirsten's neck securely within its grasp. Yes, it felt normal. That was how she was used to be, with a metal collar locked around her neck. Normal, and -- nice. Instinctively, the girl's hand strayed down to her sex, though it encountered only the cold metal of the wire gauze. On the other side of this barrier, beads of moisture began to creep as her flesh responded instinctively to the idea of helpless confinement.

The next item in the box was also familiar to Kirsten, for again, it had been her constant companion until she had left the estate those few days ago. It was a pair of stout leg irons: two anklets, built, and fastening in the same way as her belt and collar, linked by about fourteen inches of bright metal chain. The chain was not permanently fixed to the cuffs, but was padlocked at each end, allowing for re-arrangement if necessary. The girl held up the bonds by their chain, admiring their brightness and form. They were not particularly heavy: they did their job of restraint by means of strength, not weight. Kirsten looked at the padlocks. They were securely fastened. Like the locks on her collar and belt, and those on the ankle rings themselves, they worked by radio rather than a conventional key. Kirsten would never herself be able to release them. She let the metal links run through her fingers: her flesh shivered in anticipation of the confinement they promised. She knew what it was like to be locked into this device, her limbs inexorably linked by the shining metal chain. She knew what it felt like to go to sleep in it, to wake up in it and to spend her hours and her days in it, until it was not so much something worn, but part of her. She knew exactly how the irons influenced her movement, not really affecting her ability to walk, but constantly asserting their presence as the chain linking the anklets jangled loose and then drew tight with each step. And of course, she could not run or climb. She knew how they kept her flesh exposed, their presence entirely destroying any notion of donning panties or slacks, which could not be got past the chain. She knew too how utterly escape-proof they were, how they would remain completely unmoved by any attempt she would make to free herself, but would continue to hold her flesh in their obdurate, metallic clasp. And she also knew too how beautiful they were, the hard bright metal the perfect foil to the soft curves of her legs.

Kirsten sighed. The itch behind her belt was growing difficult to ignore. Bending down, she fitted the anklets around her legs and clicked them closed. She was fettered. She walked around the room, looking down at her newly applied shackles as she did so, releasing herself to the feeling of confinement, the caress of the metal about her. A single drop of female moisture made its way through the gauze wire of her belt, and crept down her thigh.

Above her head, and entirely outwith her thoughts, the security camera inside its little bubble shaped housing zoomed in on Kirsten's ankles, double checking the radio indication that the bonds were locked in place.

Kirsten returned to the table, and the box. The handcuffs were much the same as the fetters: small metal rings, made to the exact shape and size of Kirsten's slim wrists. Hinges, radio locks, and the pair of them already fastened together with a small radio padlock, giving just an inch or so of play between them. She held them, looking at them, examining them in detail. They felt familiar, but she was not so acquainted with how they looked, for they were worn, of course, at the back, out of sight. She opened one of the cuffs. The rubbery lining was worn: but then until last week it had been constantly locked about her wrist for several months. She looked at the lock, the little clasps that would engage so securely as soon as she closed the ring about her arm. Somehow the bond seemed to grin at her, like it was alive. Hungry for female flesh to imprison, hungry and confident of its victory over its prey.

For a long time, Kirsten stood, holding the cuffs, remembering how it felt to be confined in them. How the metal would clasp her slender wrists with gentle but implacable mastery, defying even the thought of slipping them off. How on warm days the rubber lining would become moist with perspiration from her wrists. How she would only be able to move her hands as far as her hip on each side. How the linkage joining the cuffs was totally resistant to her struggles, and how it was far too short to allow her to slide her hands down past her backside and so bring them to the front of her body. How she could never clothe herself or in any way cover her nakedness. How she could not feed herself, or brush her hair, or teeth. How little she could do when handcuffed.

And how much she had learned to do when handcuffed. How she had learned to live handcuffed, to wake, move and sleep in handcuffs, to shower in handcuffs, read and think and talk in handcuffs, even to type in handcuffs. How she had learned to be helped by and to help other girls, who were also in handcuffs. Handcuffs that were never removed.

Her chest heaving, Kirsten took the first cuff and fitted it around her left wrist. The lock shut with its single, final sounding click. The other cuff dangled. She looked down at it, at the same time viewing her nakedness. She remembered that once the other wrist ring was locked into place, confining her small hands behind her, she could never, despite their constant exposure, touch her own breasts. One cuff still dangling, she cupped her breasts with her hands, feeling their weight and softness. How long before she could do this again? Her nipples, already hard, grew firmer at the thought.

Giving her breasts a valedictory squeeze, Kirsten reached behind her back, fumbled until the open cuff was in position about her right wrist, and squeezed it closed, engaging the lock. A gentle tug confirmed that it was properly in place: Kirsten was once again handcuffed, as required by the terms of her contract.

Suddenly, a fit of panic seized the girl: my God, what have I done? She thought. She collapsed to her knees, heaving at the cuffs that restrained her arms. She pulled her wrists first to one hip and then the other, as far as her bonds permitted. The padlock that linked the cuffs clinked violently, but remained of course entirely indifferent to the struggles. Then Kirsten grabbed each cuff in turn with the opposite hand, trying vainly to slide it down over her wrist. Neither cuff moved. Finally, still kneeling, still helplessly shackled, she tried to relax, concentrating hard on her breathing, searching for the mental space in which she could enjoy the secure embrace of her chains. It was not long in coming, for it had, she knew, been part of her from her earliest years. Relaxing, she felt once again the strange comfort of her implacable confinement.

Silently, above her head, the camera zoomed out. Kirsten's brief struggle had been a pleasing check that her cuffs were properly applied. A button was pressed, and the radio signal sent. The locks that held Kirsten's belt and thing rings opened, disturbing the girl's thoughts, bringing her to her senses.

Carefully, using her shackled hands, she was able to maneuver each thigh ring from her leg, and finally to ease the belt from her middle. The apparatus came away, fully exposing Kirsten's femininity, now moist and fragrant with frustrated arousal.

Kirsten knelt down on her heels, spreading her thighs as widely as she could and letting the cool air reach her pussy. She peered downwards, past her breasts, noting how her pubic hair had been squashed flat by the metal prison that had enclosed it. Again she moved her cuffed hands to her hip, exploring the exact limits of her bondage. How she longed to touch herself! But now, though her pussy was free, her handcuffs completely prevented her reaching her sex. She had tried many times over the months, sometimes managing, by stretching between her legs, to get a fingertip to the bottom of her opening, but never enough to reach her clit or to do anything to reduce her need: only to make it worse by inadequate stimulation. The only way she had found out of such predicaments was to use a smooth stick, like a broom handle, to reach between her legs, or of course to get help from someone else. Well there were no brooms in this room, but now she had returned she could hope for help reasonably soon.

Greetings, Kirsten, Welcome back." The voice came from a speaker embedded in her collar. "Are you naked?"

Yes, Sir, except for my chains." Her collar microphone carried her voice back to her employer.

Good. And are all your chains all in place?"

Yes Sir." She knew that he knew. The dialogue was just a formality.

And they are comfortable for you?"

Yes Sir, perfectly comfortable."

Good. The inner door is open. You may go through. I shall see you in my study after lunch."