Chapter 4: The Road Trip

Isabel handed the keys to Moira’s chains to Graham and they were in fine spirits as they headed out to the car, the girls following behind, with Moira having to shorten her pace slightly to Isabel’s 18-in. pace. 

Both women wore skirts, blouses and jackets with sensible shoes and their chains made a metallic clatter on the driveway as first Moira squeezed into the back seat, to be followed by Isabel, and Peter joined Graham in the front.

Three hours later, the foggy, forbidding north coast of Scotland loomed into view and they followed the road signs to the Balmoral Hotel (there was a different sign on the property) near the cold, dark and damp, granite-shrouded Cape Wrath, on the Atlantic seacoast.

"Well, we’re here," Graham said, as he drove into the gravel driveway leading to a Georgian-style, three-story brick and stone building overlooking the seacoast.  "It certainly looks well made.  Let’s hope it’s warm inside -- it’s certainly clammy out here," Peter said to the two goosebumped women huddling to keep warm in the backseat as an Atlantic fogbank moved in across the dim northern moor.

Graham parked the little white Ford outside the imposing oaken front door and the four got out to stretch their legs and look at the property before heading in.  Isabel and Moira walked tentatively onto the front lawn and looked questioningly at some hiking paths that led down and away from the property before deciding to turn back toward the hotel, their chained feet making odd patterns on the moist, thick lawn.

"I need to warm up, Isabel, I’m not used to this northern weather just yet.  Let’s hope our cells are as warm and comfortable and they say they are."  Isabel nodded and pulled her jacket a little closer around her neck as she took Moira’s hand and the two women made their way up the four broad steps into the foyer of the spacious, old hotel.

Sheila and Michael, the proprietors, met the two couples in the foyer with warm handshakes all round and they were off to a good start.  Sheila, a curvy, 36-year-old woman from Somerset, England, aka "Somerset Mom," and her husband, 35, from Portsmouth, England, gave them a brief verbal description of the layout, the amenities and services, registered them, gave them an armload of pamphlets and showed them to their adjoining rooms on the first floor, just above the dungeon suite.  They, too, had two sons in the RN.

The women’s chains clacked and clashed loudly on the hardwood floor -- to their embarrassment and to the delight of their husbands, and to Sheila, who smiled enigmatically -- and, soon, the two couples were in their rooms, unpacking and getting ready for their sexy weekend.

"I think I’d like to be chained as I was in the desert," Isabel said to Peter as she looked through her suitcase.  Maybe we could inquire if they have the sort of chains that were put on me; I kinda grew to like them on me, you know, Peter.

"I‘ll check, Isabel; but first let’s have a drink and settle in; it was a three-hour car trip, after all, and it’s only 3 p.m. so we’ve still got lots of time for supper.  Maybe we could try the dungeon cells tonight after supper if you’re keen."

"Oh, yes; I’m keen," Isabel said.  "Now, you come here," she said, as she pulled him toward the bed smothering him in wet kisses as she struggled to get at his belt and zipper.  He gently pushed her onto the wide, soft double bed and kissed and caressed her. Isabel felt her sexual energy beginning to climb as she squirmed out of her skirt so that she was wearing just her loincloth and plain white blouse.  Her breasts flattened toward the sides of her chest as she lay on the bed, arms widespread, as Peter began a torrid session of foreplay.  Isabel gently pushed him to one side as she straightened up to take off her blouse, giving Peter a full view of her ripe, ringed breasts as she straddled him to begin another session of lovemaking that had become so intense in recent weeks.

Isabel sat forcefully on Peter’s cock and Peter obliged by thrusting deeper inside her.  Isabel groaned loudly as she felt the deep penetration but she did not notice Peter reach beside her for a two-foot length of hemp twine.

"Put your arms behind your back, honey," Peter said softly, and Isabel complied.  He then bound her wrists securely behind her back and began thrusting inside her with renewed vigour.  Isabel leaned back, putting her bound hands on his thighs, and opened her thighs wider to give herself as much wanton pleasure as she could.

 Their lovemaking continued for an hour until Peter exploded deep inside her, causing Isabel to writhe in pleasure and slight pain from her pinioned wrists. 

They rolled over onto their sides and Peter hugged and caressed his wife tenderly as the afterglow of their lovemaking sedated them.

Across the hall a different story was unfolding.  Moira wanted to check out the prison cells downstairs and asked Graham to take her below.  The couple wandered down the hallway to the staircase leading to the stone-floored prison-cell suite and Moira looked into the first one on her right.  The doors consisted of a barred grill on the front and a thick oak door, with a small hatch at eye level.  Forced air heating kept the 8 X 10 cell at a comfortable 75 degrees F. although the walls were made of stone, the floor was carpeted and the cot, just three-ft. wide, had a soft mattress and silk sheets.  Chains and ringbolts decorated the walls, floor and stone ceiling and there was a small washbasin, table with mirrors and a chest filled with bondage equipment for the inmates’ use and delights.  Moira sat on the small bed and looked at the chest questioningly.

"Open it, Graham, I want to see what’s inside," she said.  Graham went to the chest near the wash stand and lifted the lid.  His eyes widened as he looked at the assorted chains and shackles that it held -- the diameters of the cuffs suitable for the female form only, he assumed. Graham pulled out two pairs of cuffs and laid them on the cot beside Moira.  He bent down to unlock her ankle cuffs and replaced them with a set from the chest. 

"Hold out your hands, Moira," he said, as he clasped a pair of handcuffs around her slender wrists.  When he was done, Moira’s ankles were joined with an 18-in. chain and her wrists by 12-in. shackles.  Moira stood up and examined her wrists and ankles carefully and sat down with a rustle of links.  She put her chained arms around her husband and pulled him down on top of her on the little cot with a creak of springs and rustle of chain.  Their afternoon sexual delight was about to begin.

Meanwhile, Isabel and Peter continued to snuggle in their luxurious double bed upstairs.  An hour later, after dozing in each other’s arms, Peter reached behind his wife and untied the four bights of thin cord that pinned her crossed wrists at the small of her back. 

Isabel immediately brought her arms around in front and rubbed the four red indentations left by the cord. "Oh my, these will show at suppertime, Peter," she said mildly.

"Maybe we should just use chains on my wrists for a while?  I have a nice evening gown I want to wear for the dinner tonight and I don’t want my wrists or elbows or my neck marked up any more than necessary, OK?"

Peter agreed and after a while they decided to get up and start to get dressed for drinks in the bar before supper.  They enjoyed a luxurious shower together "to conserve water" and Peter dried Isabel off carefully afterward, paying careful attention to patting dry her ankle chains and, particularly, the skin underneath the cuffs.  Peter even sprinkled a little talcum powder between the cuffs and her ankles to prevent chafing and skin irritation and dusted the excess off the smooth metal.  Isabel finished with her hair and makeup and soon was poking around inside her suitcase for her evening gown, a black, floor-length affair that clung to her body and draped over her hips to fall in A-fashion to her ankles.  The neckline plunged low to her waist and the deep cleavage of her mature breasts was on full, magnificent display.  Peter was pleased as Isabel got dressed in front of him and Isabel looked critically at herself in a full-length mirror.

"Do you like this dress I bought last year?" she asked him. 

"Oh, yes, it’s stunning," Peter replied, as he continued to get dressed in blazer, slacks and tie.  He casually walked over to his woman and put his powerful arms around her waist, lifting his hands to cup her pendulous breasts. 

"Mmmm, just wait ‘til after supper," Isabel replied, as she turned around to face him making her ankle chains clink slightly.   Her husband had a small surprise for her.  In his right hand was a gold locket, on an 18-in. fine, gold chain, he had given her months ago for her birthday.  The locket contained pictures of both of them with an inscription, "My Isabel, My Love," engraved on the inside. 

He reached inside the front of her dress and passed the slender, sinuous chain through her left nipple ring, then threaded the other end through her right ring, closing the little clasp between her breasts.  The little gold locket hung decorously between her breasts and the thin gold chain, weighted by the small locket, tugged lightly at her nipples as she moved.

Isabel enjoyed the sensuous feel of the suggestive, little tugs on her shiny-ringed nipples and they were instantly erect, much to her delight and Peter’s admiration.  Soon, Peter and Isabel were ready for drinks and supper.  Peter opened the door for his formally-attired wife, whose ankle chains chinked indiscreetly underneath her gown, and the couple made their way to the bar at the far end of the hotel.  The little locket bobbed gently between Isabel’s swaying breasts, reminding her constantly of the sexy placement of the little piece of jewellery. They entered the bar and found a table near a window to wait for their friends.

Downstairs, Moira and Graham had been exploring the contents of the chest of bondage gear in their cell and Moira was now wearing a locked steel collar in addition to her handcuffs and leg chains.   After more discoveries and reading the pamphlet about long-term bondage, they, too, decided to go upstairs and get ready for supper -- with Moira wearing her new bondage accoutrements.  Moira clinked and clattered her way, on her husband’s arm, back to their room where they, too, began to dress for supper.  Graham unlocked Moira’s 12-in. handcuffs and left her leg chains on while Moira looked for her favourite little black dress, a spaghetti-strap, mid-thigh-length number that clung to her like cloth, showing off her sexy 36-C breasts, long nipples (the dress could only be worn braless) and her long, tanned, shapely legs.  She quickly slipped it over her head and smoothed it down over her hips, tidied her shoulder-length hair which fell around her collar,  turned to Graham for his approval and checked her appearance in the nearby full-length mirror.

"I am satisfied that I look sexy enough to kill, gr-r-r," Moira told Graham in the sultriest voice she could manage. 

Sex appeal did not come naturally to either Moira or Graham but each was trying to outdo each other and, if they turned on their best friends in the process, all the better.  "Indeed you do," Graham replied.  "Here let me snap these back on your wrists and we will leave the collar on for our ‘grand entrance’ in the dining room.  I believe Isabel and Peter are already there.  Here, Moira, give me your hands."

Moira held out her wrists to accept the 1 ½-inch wide steel bands and 12-inch connecting chain that Graham lovingly placed around each wrists; pushing each cuff snugly home into its self-locking mechanism.  (Graham had two sets of keys in his jacket pocket -- one for her left and right ankle cuffs and a single key that opened her wrist cuffs.)  He caressed Moira’s wrists lovingly and patted his breast pocket to make sure the keys were still there and out of reach from Moira’s prying fingers should she suddenly desire to be free from her bondage -- which he doubted.  Moira saw the gesture and shrugged it off with an admission to herself that Graham would unlock her as soon as she wished.

"Moira, you look absolutely ravishing," Graham said earnestly.  "I’ve never seen you in chains and wearing your black dress before.  Sure, you’re bound to turn heads when we appear in the dining room tonight.  I wonder how many other couples are there in chains like you and Isabel."

"I don’t know, Graham; let’s go down now and find out," Moira replied, turning with a swish of her ankle chain to go out the door.  Moira and Graham tried to walk hand-in- hand down the hall but Moira’s wrist chains did not permit her to grasp her husband’s hand easily.  Instead, Graham looped his left arm through his wife’s right, causing Moira’s arms to he held in front of her,  and the two walked arm-in-arm to the dining room about 50 yards way, down the hall, across the lobby and through the first set of double doors on the right. 

The combined restaurant-bar was a well-appointed, brightly-lit and expensively-appointed facility: there were about a dozen intimate tables lining ceiling-high, Georgian-style windows that overlooked the front yard and its commanding view of the Atlantic seacoast; they immediately saw Isabel and Peter at a corner table set for four.  Moira blushed when she saw that Isabel was not wearing handcuffs as she was and was only mildly shocked when she saw the lines of four red indentures on her wrists, left by her recent bondage.   She knew her ankles were still chained underneath her long, low-cut dress and she quietly clinked her way over, with Graham at her side, to join their friends for a romantic supper.

Dining in chains in a semi-formal setting was a first for the two women and they almost forgot their chains as their fantasies and imaginations took flight: here they were, in semi-formal attire, both chained like common criminals, but with their husbands at their side, in a sumptuous restaurant overlooking the rugged north Scotland terrain.  Moira felt her nipples harden even more, poking out firmly through the stretchy wool fabric of her dress, as she sat down with a rustle of chain beside her pal, Isabel.

"Hi, Is., what’s new?" Moira said lightly.  "How do you like my new bracelets?  Graham just put them on me a few moments ago." Moira held up her chained wrists and crossed her legs sexily.  "I hope they don’t interfere with supper; I’m half-starved.  We were in the cells for a while and, well, you know they don’t have meal service down there."

Isabel smiled and commented that her wrist shackles looked very nice on her, the chrome setting off her black dress, silver ear-rings and modest eye makeup and lip gloss effectively.  "They suit you wonderfully, Moira," Isabel enthused.  "I wore a pair somewhat like those during my kidnapping, although mine were attached to my ankle chains so I could only lift my arms so high," she said, motioning with her free arms.  Moira looked and thought to herself it must have been difficult to be chained in that manner for days on end and not knowing when, or if, release would ever come.

Soon a formally-attired young waiter appeared and the two couples ordered vodka martinis to be followed by shrimp cocktails, a vintage Chardonnay roast beef au jus with Yorkshire pudding, oven-roast potatoes and buttered vegetable medley, closing with crème de menthe parfaits, coffee and Glayva, the fiery Scottish liqueur they preferred.

The meal took two hours -- from the usual starting time of 7 p.m. -- and by 9 Moira, Graham, Isabel and Peter were ready for more recreational pursuits after hours of small talk which explored the women’s introductions to the world of steel bondage.

Isabel informed her companions that she had become accustomed to wearing ankle chains -- possibly for the rest of her life -- and that people, herself included, would have to accept this little collection of metal and chain that adorned her trim ankles.  Insofar as mobility was concerned, she informed them that it was no different than walking in a long, snug- straight skirt except that the chain would occasionally get caught on things -- a chair leg, a step, a tree-root or her one of her feet -- but she was getting used to the small inconvenience of having to stop and free herself. 

Other everyday manoeuvres, such as climbing into the town’s double-decker bus, bowling or having to take an occasional long step to traverse mud puddles or rainwater in the gutters, were challenges "that will be dealt with over time," Isabel said confidently.

Moira listened attentively as Isabel described in more detail the experiences and bondages of her kidnap and escape. Her imagination caught fire as she put herself, between the meal’s courses, in Isabel’s place (with Graham at her side, of course), instead of that coarse kidnapper.  "I’m glad he was shot and killed, Isabel; your kidnappers did one good thing anyway," Moira interjected, when Isabel described the landing in the East African desert.  (See Through Night to Light for details of Isabel’s desert adventures). "And anyway those moronic London toughs have it coming to them; any way they get it is fine with me.  Two slugs in the back of the head? Too right!"

Moira felt her wrist cuffs with the opposite hands and reached  to her steel collar with her joined hands to emphasize her point and remind herself of Isabel’s situation. 

Graham placed his left hand on Moira’s right solicitously and the four looked out the crystal-clean, huge window into the black Scottish night.  Each was suddenly alone in their own thoughts.

Moira thought she would like to be chained for the night in cells in the same manner that Isabel was during her African adventure; Isabel thought she would like to be bound with cord again, ring-gagged as she was in Africa in front of her captors; while Graham’s and Peter’s libido-fired imaginations flashed pictures of their mates in chains beside them in bed.

The four were aroused and adventurous and by the time the waiter appeared for the last time with their second round of liqueurs, they had made up their minds what the night’s activities would comprise.  It was to be bondage all-round for the women and hot sex, they way they had always dreamed, for their menfolk.    

As they were about to leave, the proprietors, Sheila and Michael, appeared at their table.  There was no one else in the dining room and the owners had gone to extremes to ensure their four guests were comfortable and well-accommodated.  Michael was smartly dressed in blazer, white shirt, regimental tie and grey slacks and Sheila was gowned in a floor-length, off-white evening dress, and her short steps suggesting her ankles, too, were probably chained.

"How was everything tonight?" Sheila inquired.  "Was the meal and service satisfactory?"

The two couples all nodded in agreement and Sheila informed them they were free to choose between deluxe bedroom accommodation or the more spartan prison-cells in the dungeon suite downstairs and that all facilities were entirely ready for them.

Peter, Isabel, Graham and Moira rose as one and the two men hastened to assist their ladies to get clear of the table in their chained conditions.  The two women rose effortlessly from the chairs.

Isabel whispered in Sheila’s ear: "Sheila, are your ankles chained, too?"

"Oh, yes, every night; in fact, I’m planning on having them welded on by a tradesman as soon as I get Michael to agree to contact him.  In fact, I’m the one who has to ask him to put me in bondage -- quite the opposite situation for you, in’ it?"

"Yes, it is; believe me, after the initial shock of being chained all the time, there’s really nothing to it.  People think that it must be painful, humiliating and embarrassing to be this way but, you know, it’s really not all that bad."

Sheila nodded her understanding and she, too, looked forward to a romantic night in her lover’s arms with her ankles in chains.  With Isabel’s attention, she began to wonder deeply what it would be like to have chains welded on permanently.  She had followed closely the news stories of Isabel’s so-called "plight" and when Isabel’s chained condition was described, she thought that she, too, would someday like to be bound as she was.  Sheila was absolutely delighted when Isabel phoned in the character references for the MacPeaks and informed she and her husband would also like to attend.  She had wanted this chat for so long.

"Isabel, may I have a word?" Sheila asked.

"Why yes, of course; take all the time you want," Isabel replied, as he watched her husband wander away toward the bar while Graham and Moira turned to wave goodnight en route to their hotel suite.

"I am a combined history and psychology major at the University of Edinburgh and I know, from the newspaper reports, you will be starting work in the metallurgy division of the engineering faculty so I want you to know we have something in common."

"Go on," Isabel said, sitting down at the table again with a little rustle of chain.  Sheila took the cue and sat across from her, in the chair just occupied by Peter, and began:

"My studies have led me to some observations about the conditions of women in chains down the centuries and I would like your comments.  I’ll begin."

Isabel’s imagination was immediately captivated.

"Through the centuries, women have either delighted in -- or have been condemned -- in chains or other bondages.  I prefer to think that you and I fit into the former category.  But let us look back for a moment.  Cleopatra of Egypt had herself bound and rolled into a carpet to be presented as a gift to Antony, emperor of the Roman Empire, when Rome was at its pinnacle of power and prestige. 

"But did you know that centuries before that, in Persia, a woman by the name of Schehrazade, of 1001 Arabian Nights fame, became a chained thrall who told her captor, the monarch, a different story every night, for more than three years, so that he would spare her life.  And she was successful although she was never released from bondage, or so the story goes.

"White women, for centuries, were captured for, or coerced into, harems of countless Middle Eastern men of influence and wealth and many were held, in chains, against their will, sometimes for the rest of their lives or until they were rescued, freed by other means or died in thrall.  In fact, Mozart and Rossini composed operas, respectively Abduction from the Seraglio and Italian Girl in Algiers, about these women’s perilous fates.

"Indeed, records in some Middle Eastern countries have come to light that show white women were the harems’ prized members -- the sultan’s favourite, so to speak --  and some were kept in silver and bejewelled chains for up to 20 years or more."  Sheila lit a cigarette, took a puff and continued. "There also is the darker side to woman’s experience in steel bondage throughout history.  Joan of Arc was kept chained in a secular military prison for months while she was on trial and was still chained when burned at the stake in 1431.  Five-hundred and 10 years later, the terrible Gestapo kept female members of the Resistance handcuffed and shackled in kneeling positions months at a time to break their spirit and convey their ruthlessness to the unfortunates’ colleagues.  More recently, some U.S. prisons are known to keep hardened female convicts in chains for days, weeks, months on end, and when they appear in the mass media they are always shackled and chained most effectively.

"It is my understanding, from my psychology studies, that some women -- not all -- actually prefer the clutch and clatter of chain as a prelude to lovemaking.  You and I have taken this preference a step further, from a sexual overture to a fact of every day life, and, I will be quite frank, there is something in my psychological makeup that makes me want to be chained, to be bound, to be restrained somehow, as long as it is with someone I love.  Call it ‘loving bondage’, call it what you will, but I am making my choice, with free will, to have my ankles chained permanently. 

"In your case, Isabel, as I understand it, the situation did not involve free will at all; that your chains were placed on you with neither awareness nor consent.  Further, that your chains, according to the media, are of unknown construction and metal that defies definition.

"I expect I will be making my decision to have my chains welded very soon," Sheila said, poking her left leg out from under the table to show Isabel her elegant, shiny steel cuffs and a 16-in. connecting chain. "I just wanted to get your comments about what it’s like to live in chains year-round; to live with the reality that they were put on without agreement, and that they may be on forever.  I just need your input before I ask Michael to call in the local welder. Please?"

Isabel began as her listener butted her cigarette.  "Well, Sheila, I’m most impressed with that slice of history.  I had no idea so many women before had such experiences.   I would think the prospect of permanent bondage likely made them scared, anxious or, quite possibly, excited, at first. But as time went on, they probably forced themselves to became accustomed to their bondage.

"Enjoyment of bondage is purely subjective.  In my situation, I am relatively fortunate in that my bondage is painless and, thus, enjoyable.  It has to be.  I could not endure it otherwise.  I mean, a little discomfort here and there is tolerable but if you are thinking of long-term, or lifelong bondage, as in my case, there has to be a wide comfort zone.

"History will never tell us how comfortable, or uncomfortable, Cleo, Schehrazade or the countless others were in their bondage and I can only speak for myself.

"I’ve worn these chains now every day for just over three months and the realities of my situation are sinking in.  For example, my friend, Professor Michael Ledstone, the metallurgist, has informed me recently that further spectroscopies have indicated the metal of my chains have tensile strength and density tens of thousands of times more than the most-refined tungsten-steel alloy -- and, therefore, cannot be removed by conventional means.  He advises even the most-advanced, diamond-bitted cutting tools would not make a scratch in them.  They were applied with extreme heat, apparently, but I was not injured.  There are no seams, rivets, bolts or hinges anywhere so they are on for good, as far as I know.  They weigh about 14 ounces, I understand, so their weight is not a problem.

"I’ve checked them as closely as I can and the interior surfaces are mirror-smooth which ensures my ankles will never be chafed unless, of course, I try to run the 800-metre dash."

The two women giggled as they fished their cigarettes out of their purses and lit up.

"Michael, could you please get us a couple of Glayvas for us; like a pet, please?" Sheila asked.    "Yes, dear," he said from the nearby sideboard where he had been listening inattentively.  He and Sheila had gone over the bondage issue many times before.

"Michael is such a pet and so understanding," Sheila butted in.  "We are in a dom/sub relationship and I’m the dom -- and in chains -- and he loves it when I try to wrestle him into bed with my ankles tied.  It’s a scream because he has the obvious advantage!"

Both women laughed aloud as Michael placed their liqueurs in front of them and retired to the bar to let them continue in confidence.

"Well, anyway, where was I?" Isabel said.  "Oh, yes.  The night I was taken aboard this spacecraft; oh, it was so mysterious, so powerful, and yet I can’t remember a damn thing.  I just remember a brilliant light that suffused the car I was in and then an indeterminable time later, I awoke in the car with chains in my ankles and rings in my nipples. 

"Right here," Isabel said, pointing to her pendulous breasts connected by the locket that bounced sexily in her cleavage as she spoke and smoked.  "This little locket chain connects ‘em so I’m chained in two places, really, hee-hee."  She took a drag on her cigarette and continued.

"You are quite correct that my entry into bondage was done without consent and the devices are unremovable.  But those realities don’t really bother me, three months after the fact.  A Canadian author, Sailor 861, has written about my kidnap, bondage, forced sex and my escape, in a short story called Through Night to Light, so I won’t go into detail about that; suffice that it taught be a bit more about non-consensual bondage.  It was a difficult time, to be sure, but I’ve been able to put it behind me.  I have recently married, I am starting a new job at the University of Edinburgh, where they plan to study the chains in more detail, and my sons have fully accepted my bondage without question.  So, I have a lot to live for -- and I am enjoying my new life.  If I was fated to be in chains to enjoy this new life, so be it.  We’re Scottish women, you and me; we’re strong, resilient and resourceful.  These are the characteristics that helped me get through my African ordeal and those same qualities are at work right now.

"Now, in your situation, your bondage is consensual, or it appears to be that way, and that’s good.  In my situation, I have grown to accept bondage as part of my body and have had to incorporate it into my psychological makeup; they’re on me, they’re on me for good, so I’m not going to fight them.  So my situation, although of non-consensual origin, has devolved into one of acceptance.

"My word of advice to you, Sheila, is to ensure your comfort zones -- physical and psychological -- are assured and in place.  Be sure you are comfortable in chains and that you have looked into your heart of hearts to see if this is the lifestyle for you.  Life in permanent restraint will be different for you, no doubt, but I’ve found that women can adjust to nearly any thing or any situation that is thrown at them.  You say you are making your decision with free will.  Bravo, lady, take the decision and bonny good luck be with you.

"On a personal note Peter and I love the way they look and feel.  Walking about is no big deal; I keep saying it’s just like walking in a straight skirt all the time. By the way, my chain’s 18-inches long.  How long’s yours?"

"Sixteen."

"Well, girlfriend, you’ll be looking at making 16-in. paces from now on, won’t ye?"

"Yes and I’ve been practising.  It’s really not all that bad; makes the hips sway and boobs bounce a bit more than I would like but I think that’s part of the sexual allure, right?"

"Right," Isabel replied.

"You said your sons have accepted your new, chained status unreservedly," Sheila said.  "I am still wrestling with how I am going to tell my boys.  They’re 18 and 19, in the RN and their situations might be made more difficult when they and their shipmates discover I am chained up.  How should I tell them, Isabel?"

"I don’t know, my dear, and I wish I could tell you how," Isabel replied.  "But let’s face it: you’re their mother; you’ve decided, with free will, that this is how you want to be; you’re not hurting anyone and I doubt very much you will be held up to public ridicule considering this lifestyle of yours so, if I were you, I would be open and candid with them.  If there is fallout, let the pieces land where they may.  I’m sure they will find a way to accept this little feature in their mother in the times ahead, Sheila.  In fact, I think my friend, Moira, may have to come to grips with this same issue.  But that’s all I can say to that."

The women smiled knowingly at each other and sipped delicately at their fiery, strong Scottish liqueurs.  A friendship seemed to be blossoming.

"Do you mind if I give Michael a precis of our conversation, Isabel?" Sheila asked.  "After all, he’s an important part in the decision-making process.  He’s my husband."

"Please do.  I encourage it, Sheila.  Communication’s the key to the success of any relationship and I would tell Peter the same if I were you."

"Isabel, I’m just delighted you found the time to spend a few moments with me on this subject," Sheila said, reaching for her purse. "I don’t want to keep you away from Peter any longer and Michael and I have some work to do in the kitchen before bed.  May I leave you now?"

"Good night, Sheila, it’s been my pleasure.  And good luck with your decision.  I hope you will be happy with the results and that the boys will accept.  Let me know, OK?"

The two women parted with a heartfelt hug and both clinked off, hips swaying and bosoms bouncing decorously, to look for their husbands and a start to their nightly sexual rituals.

"Well, that was a nice long chat, Isabel," Peter said, when Isabel came into the hotel room, plopping on the bedside beside him.  "Yes, it was very nice.  And I’ll tell you a bit about it someday.  But right now," Isabel said, slipping out of her long gown, "I want some action from you.  I want us to spend the night in the cells below and you can chain me up the way I was in Africa.  I will tell you which chain goes where and how the ring-gag goes in.  That’s how I want to spend my first night here with you, my love."

Peter was smiling like the Cheshire cat as Isabel purred to herself, slipping into her sexy, long blue nightgown that showed her still-chained breasts to such startling effect. She swung her chained legs off the bed, her chain-connected breasts swaying, nicely tugging on Isabel’s nipples, as she took Peter by the hand toward the door and down the empty hall toward the basement luxury cellblock.

 They took the last of four heavy oaken doors on the left side of the dim hallway and Peter opened the door with a creak.  Stepping inside, they found an 8- X 10-foot stonewalled prisoner’s cell complete with cot, small barred window, sturdy ringbolts on all walls, the floor and ceiling, a large chest on the side opposite the couch, a nightstand, telephone and bidet.

Everything they could ever want for a sexy night in steel bondage, Isabel thought, as she threw her arms around Peter and gave him a deep kiss, grinding her breasts and hips into his chest and loins. 

The embrace went on for 15 minutes and they were entirely ready for sex-in-bondage by the time they released one another in a gasp of pent-up excitement and emotion.

Isabel suddenly sniffed back a tear as a flashback sent her mind to her comfortable East African prison cell for a moment.  She quickly recovered, thinking this time would be entirely different.  This time it would be consensual, just like Sheila’s upcoming decision, and she looked forward to the weight of chains that would soon adorn her limbs, neck and waist.

Isabel was in charge.  "Peter, get a long chain from the chest and lock it securely round my waist."  That was done and Isabel felt the cool snugness of the 3/16ths-inch oblong-linked waist chain.

"Now, get a ring shackle and fasten it on the centre link of my ankle chain."  That was done, with a solid snap.

"Run the long part of the waist chain down through the centre link and attach it to a pair of handcuffs and lock the cuffs on me.   Then I want a steel collar and a 30-foot chain that should be attached to that ringbolt above the cot; then I’ll show you how to put in the ring gag."

Peter did as instructed and in one minute, 10 seconds, Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe was Peter’s chained slavegirl in a prison cell in the far reaches of Northern Scotland.  And she loved it.

Isabel sat on the edge of the bed, arranged her chains and pulled her nightgown up over the waist chain and smoothing it back down again so the long chain was against her loins and legs -- the way she wanted it.

"Peter, the ring gag goes in behind my upper and lower teeth. My mouth will be propped open and you can lock the two chains behind my neck, just above the collar, right here, see?"  She gestured to the back of her neck with her chained hands that pulled the ankle-connecting chain taut against her front with a smooth rustle of chain as it passed through the centre link of her ankle chain..

Peter retrieved the gag from the bottom of the chest, turned it around to see how it would go in and put it beside Isabel to give her the deepest, sexiest kiss of their relationship. 

Isabel, moaning in ecstasy, panted out: "Put it in now, love."

Peter kneeled in front of his bride,  placed the 3½-in.-diameter steel ring in Isabel’s wide-open mouth and stood up to run the small chains behind her head , snapping the little brass lock in place to join the two ends just above the lock of her steel slave collar.  Peter had used six sturdy, small, brass padlocks -- at the wall ringbolt, collar, gag, wristcuffs and waist chain -- to secure his wife to herself, and to the wall, for the night.

The slender silver chains were snug against Isabel’s cheeks.

"Aawwwfff," Isabel moaned, looking at her husband straight in the eye as he moved away to undress.  "Aa-oov-ooo-eee-naow" (make love to me now).  She drew her legs up onto the little cot, arranged her chains and spread her legs as wide as her 18-inch chain would allow, lifting her hem up to her waist.  The waist chain ran down the side of her left leg and back up to her 12-inch handcuffs which she kept at her waist. Her neck chain was in an untidy, little pile on the thick pillow beside her right ear and her mouth gaped open lasciviously. 

Isabel tried to smile as Peter sat beside his chained wife and caressed her face, tracing the gag’s chains where they ran from the sides of the gag indenting her cheeks to the back of her neck, tickling her delightfully.

"Aah-icks" (that tickles).  "Ock" (stop).  She glared at him in a mock-menacing way.  What could she do, anyway, bound as she was.

"All righty, dear, be with you in a moment."  Peter was undressed in a flash and seconds later was pummelling Isabel’s chained loins rhythmically with a creak of bedsprings and clink-chink of chains that turned into a symphony of percussive sexual energy.

Isabel’s chest, with the locket still jammed between her pancaked, chained breasts, heaved in gaspy breaths though her O-shaped mouth, propped to its widest by the stainless-steel ring gag.  Peter’s sweat dripped onto her face and into her mouth.  He subdued the growing signs of his approaching climax by driving his manhood deep into his woman’s warm, moist recesses and stayed there momentarily until the sexual surge subsided.

Five minutes later, he kissed her on her open mouth and Isabel tried to return the gesture, thwarted instantly by the implacable gag, succeeding only in flattening her lips even more around her propped-open gums. 

"Ah-ant-iffuu" (I can’t kiss you), she gasped.  Peter responded with another, deeper kiss and Isabel started to moan with her first orgasm, her husband’s cock deep inside her.