Chapter 2: Life Goes On - Day 1

Isabel bent forward slightly to see if she could get her left-index fingernail between her ankle and left cuff again as Peter braked for a traffic light just outside the university. 

‘Damn, these are snug,’ she said to herself, but there doesn’t seem to be any abrasion inside the cuffs.  ‘That’s a relief, I guess.’

Peter looked over and put his hand on her left hand as she straightened up again while a large transport truck rolled up in the lane next to her.  She smoothed her skirt down further to ensure the trucker, high on her right side, didn’t get a glimpse of her ankles.  Soon, the light changed and they were off again.

Moments later, the Locksmith’s Arms pub came into view on the driver’s side and Peter slowed in traffic to look for a parking spot.   Cars lined either side of busy Commercial Street and he was forced to circle the block to look for a meter or parking lot.  Two blocks away he found a small park-and-pay lot with some vacancies and pulled in.

‘Oh no,’ Isabel groaned inwardly, ‘another walk; and this time along a busy street in the daytime.’

"I’ll never be able to make it, Peter," she said.  "Can’t you pull up closer to the pub, let me out and then come back for me?"  This, of course, just as Peter was turning into a parking spot.

"Oh, come on now, Isabel; you were able to get up those university stairs alright and the walk down the hallway wasn’t that bad," Peter replied, shutting off the ignition.  "There’s not many people on the sidewalk just now and the noise from your chain should be drowned out by the traffic.  Now, let’s go."

Isabel was silent as she swung her legs out of the Austin again to join Peter behind the car.  Isabel took his right arm with her left hand and they walked slowly to the parking lot attendant’s booth where Peter collected their ticket.  The male attendant didn’t give them a second look and they turned right and walked carefully, with Peter on the curbside of the sidewalk, the two blocks towards the pub.

It was the longest two-block walk Isabel had ever taken and she felt as though every eye on the street and in the storefronts that lined busy Commercial St. was on her and her ankles.  She slowly placed one foot in front of the other, careful not to step on the ankle chain, but the shackles caused her to walk with a slightly-exaggerated, hip-swaying motion which caused her heavy, unconfined breasts to sway and bounce under her light-brown sweater.  Her nipples, too, were rampant through her blouse and sweater -- surely everyone can notice, she thought -- but no one seemed to notice as pedestrians passed them without a second glance.  She didn’t feel particularly sexy but Peter was all "cock and eyeballs" as they walked arm-in-arm down High St. to Commercial St.

"Whew, so far so good," Isabel said quietly to Peter as they rounded the corner onto Commercial to finish the half-block to the Locksmith’s Arms.  "But these short steps are taking the wind out of me.  I wish I could take a little longer stride."

Soon, the couple were at the pub’s front door.  Peter opened it for his woman and they walked in looking around to find a table and chairs as near to the front door as they could.  There was a vacant table about 15 feet away among other pub patrons and Isabel took the distance in six steps, swivelling her hips to ease herself behind the table with a muffled clink.

The telltale sound was unheard among the ambient noise and unobtrusive chatter of the pub clients, she thought, tucking her long, light skirt closely around her legs and very carefully crossing her ankles to keep the chain out of sight and underneath her hemline.  She put her purse on the table, fished out her cigarettes and Peter went to the bar to order them half-pints of "dark-and-tan,"  two ham-and-cheese sandwiches and some Scotch eggs -- Isabel’s favourite.  He thought he should treat her; after all it had been a pretty traumatic day or so.

Peter looked over his shoulder and smiled as he saw Isabel lighting up, looking serene and confident for the most part, and both were suddenly aware of her first public foray, her "big step," in chains.  It wasn’t as bad as he had thought.  So far.

Neither Peter nor Isabel had noticed the brooding, intoxicated, 50-ish man two tables away who had watched Isabel’s every move from the moment they entered the pub.  He looked at Isabel up and down with a drunken leer and cast his stare down to her ankles where Isabel met his unwanted looks.  She dared not move her hands or her ankles lest she reveal her secret to this soak and, instead, continued to smoke her cig as nonchalantly as she could, fervently hoping Peter would return quickly from the bar with their drinks and eats.  He was only 25 feet away but it felt more like 25 miles.

Isabel groaned inwardly as she saw Peter strike up a conversation with the publican as he waited for their sandwiches and eggs.  ‘Oh, no, he’s going to be longer and here’s this rummy looking at my legs as though he knows already!  We shouldn’t have come here in the first place and . . .’

Peter was paying for his purchases and was making his way back to their table when she thought she heard the drunk say something like: "Ar-rr-, that woman’s in chains ‘ere.   M-m-m, whatever turns ’er on.  She’s bound to make a fine addition to the Africans’ collection."  Isabel pretended not to hear but her sixth sense told her he had noticed her shackles by the way she walked; maybe he caught a glimpse of them as she sat down, or heard the noise, or. . .  ‘Did he have anything to do with that incident on the county road the night before,’ she thought suddenly.  She shifted her legs and turned away as Peter arrived with food and beverage.

Isabel smiled at him; relieved he was at her side again, butted her cigarette and dug in to the sandwich with gusto.  She was hungry and the cool beer complemented the delicious, fresh-made sandwich and stuffed brown egg.

The couple ate in silence and Isabel avoided the drunk’s stare until, finally, she had had enough, "Peter that man over there is staring at me and my legs.  I don’t know if he’s seen ‘em or not but can you please ask him to stop looking this way?  It’s making me nervous."

Peter immediately stood up and walked over to the man sitting to their left.

"Stop looking over at her, Mac, or I’ll ask management to turf you," Peter said in a loud, clear voice.  The bar drew suddenly silent as every eye in the pub was on the two men.

"Sorry, guv," said the man, looking down at his glass of Scotch.  "Just admiring your woman’s good looks an’ all; that’s all."

"Geroff!" Peter said.  "Giddaddahere."  And with that, the drunk downed his half glass of whisky, got up unsteadily and left on his own, looking back over his shoulder as he opened the opaque glass door onto Commercial St.

Peter went back to Isabel, who put her hand on his right arm with a quiet "thank you."  

The pub noise and activity resumed and Isabel and Peter enjoyed their light lunch together.  Soon, they were back on Commercial St. in the bright June afternoon sunshine making their way back to the car. 

"It’s just after 2, Isabel," Peter said, as they walked arm-in-arm towards the parking lot.  "Maybe you should call the mill and say you won’t be in today.  We’ll just go home, recoup, have the rest of the day to ourselves and plan our next move.  I think we’re going to hear from Ledstone again soon."

They stopped at a phone booth on the sidewalk and Isabel stepped in with a clink and rattle on the booth’s metal floor to make the call, emerging in a minute with a broad smile.  She patted her man on the shoulder and said:   "Well, that’s that.  I’m officially on sick leave today.  Maybe I’ll be better in a couple of days," she said with a laugh.  "Maybe not."

There was a slight spring to Isabel’s short steps as they walked into the parking lot and, for the 10^th time that day, she felt her breasts sway hard from side to side as she lowered herself to get into the little car, pulling her legs in after her.  She settled into the seat with a little rustle of chain, did up the seatbelt and, soon, they were driving out of the city to the northwest and home again.

One hour and 15 minutes later, Peter pulled into their driveway and quickly got out of the car to help his woman get to her feet by the front steps. 

She grasped his arm again as they went up the four stairs and he opened the door for her, making a proper, good show of it all.

"Thank you, kind sir," Isabel said, as she snuggled up against him as Peter closed the door with his right foot.  She crushed her tender breasts against his chest and he ran his hands through her hair and kissed her firmly on the lips. Isabel tried to slip her left leg between his to turn him on in her usual fashion but the cuffs stopped her.  "Damn," she muttered.  "These chains stop me even doing that."

No matter.  Peter suddenly swept her off her feet in his muscular arms and walked down the short hallway into the bedroom, sitting her down at the edge of the bed making her breasts joggle invitingly under her sweater.

"Yes, master?" Isabel said jokingly.  "Your chained slave is ready and waiting."

Peter sat beside her, kissed her firmly on the lips then knelt at her feet.  He gently unfastened her sandals and stroked her feet, moving the shackles around her ankles and pried them up gently to look at the skin underneath.   There was only a two-inch band of pink skin underneath the cuffs so they had not seriously abraded her ankles in the last 18 hours.  He looked closely at the cuffs and made a mental note of their rounded edges and mirror-smooth inner and outer surfaces.

"Maybe we should put a little moisturizer on underneath your cuffs to keep your skin healthy," he said. 

"Mmmm," Isabel replied, "maybe later."

Peter ran his hands up the inside of her calves and Isabel shivered with sudden excitement.  She pulled her sweater up over her head and began undoing the blouse buttons as Peter reached the waist clasp and zipper of her ankle-length skirt.  Isabel shrugged out of her blouse as Peter removed her skirt and both garments ended in a pile on the carpet beside the sandals.

Isabel swung her naked legs onto the bed and Peter was beside her in a moment.  They kissed and cuddled for what seemed like hours until Peter slid down to her feet and underneath Isabel’s joined ankles.  He wriggled himself up until his face was level with hers and easily inserted his manhood into her warm, moist waiting pussy.

 Isabel, in turn, moved her legs into their favourite position with her ankles at the small of his back, just above his hips, and her knees splayed widely on either side of Peter’s flanks. 

Peter’s thrusts were slow at first and he withdrew his cock almost completely then plunged deep into her warm depths again.  Isabel groaned as his steel-hard rod reached time and again into her cervix.  Her breath quickened.  The sun shone into their bedroom as the couple’s lovemaking intensified and Isabel reached her first "plateau."

Peter stopped for a moment and Isabel caught her breath, digging her fingertips into his shoulders, pulling her ankles downward, forcing him deeper into her.

Peter looked into his woman’s eyes, kissed her fervently again on the lips, cheeks and forehead, and resumed his slow, rhythmic thrusts again and again deep inside her.

Isabel’s breathing quickened again and she felt her climax, or "pop," starting to build on that warm, fuzzy pink horizon that developed under her half-closed eyes.

She thrust her chest against his, feeling the nipple rings press into her breast flesh as she did, and Peter’s thrusts became harder, faster and furious.  Isabel clenched him as hard as she could with her hands on his shoulders and ankles against his back, her hips rising to meet his downward thrusts.  Their bodies smacked sweatily together as perspiration rolled off Peter’s forehead onto Isabel’s chin and neck.

"Ohh-h-h-h," Peter groaned loudly.  "I’m coming.  Hang on Isabel," he said softly as he pounded her mercilessly 16 more times.  Isabel gritted her teeth as she felt waves of orgasm wash over her as Peter unleashed the biggest ejaculation he had ever felt deep inside her. 

"Mm-m-m-nnnn-oo-o-o-a-a-a," Isabel’s long, low moan of her intense climax sounded almost animal-like and it surprised even her.  Another, equally-powerful orgasm convulsed her hips and body scant seconds later.  It seemed to go on for minutes as Isabel gripped Peter even harder. 

She thrust her hips against him as hard as she could, burying his cock deep inside her, as they both collapsed into a sweaty heap, Peter still on top with Isabel’s legs splayed wide on either side of his hips, her ankles tight against their chain at the small of his back.

Panting, they lay still until their senses began to restore.

"Wow, best yet," Peter offered. 

"Mmm, very good," Isabel replied after a pause.  They couldn’t help notice "Little Pete" was still very erect deep inside Isabel’s pussy and Peter, the proprietor, decided to make a few tentative thrusts again.  Isabel responded with her own upward motions and soon the action was on again.

"Let me get on top for awhile," Isabel said, stopping Peter in mid-thrust.  Peter happily agreed and slid his way easily out and under the grasp of her legs, rolling onto his back beside her.  Isabel smiled as she climbed atop and placed her knees on either side of his hips, lowering herself onto his still-rigid cock.

"Mm-m-m-, always good this way, too," she said as she buried his pole deep inside her once again, tangling her ankle chains around his legs.  Her 38-C breasts bounced and swayed sexily as she thrust her hips against his, feeling another orgasm loom.

"A-aa-a-gg-g-g-h," Isabel cried suddenly as her pussy began to spasm rhythmically.  She flexed her lower abdominal muscles, which she had toned specifically to grip his cock harder, and the orgasm swept over her.  Peter held her breasts with both hands, massaging both gently as she climaxed again and again on top of him, her pussy juices running onto his groin and down her legs.  She bent down further, dangling her breasts near his mouth and gently and playfully ran her ringed nipples over his lips so he could kiss and play with them, making them harder.  Peter thrust up again inside her one last time and held her tightly, his arms clasped around her back, as he pounded another load of goo deep inside Isabel’s loins.

They stayed like that for almost half an hour until Isabel pushed her matted hair away from her forehead, slid off him with a wet "plop," and hobbled into the bathroom to clean up.

"Mon," she said to herself quietly, I won’t have any trouble getting pregnant by him.  What a load he shot into me.  And it’s still coming out!"

Peter, his ears still ringing and burning from his intense double orgasm, knew this sex session was the best yet and began to wonder if her new chains had anything to do with it.

"Come back to bed when you’re done in there, woman," Peter called out. 

"Alright," she said.  A moment later, when were snuggling again on top of the bed covers, playing with each other’s body.

"Did you find that your orgasm was more intense than usual today, Is.?" Peter asked.

"Yes it was; yours, too, I think," she replied.

"Tell me again how you got those chains on your legs last night.  I think they have something to do with this."

Isabel related her story once again and Peter was at once excited and awed such an event could happen to her so close to home.

"Peter, do you think Dr. Ledstone will be able to help to get these off me?" Isabel said, looking down her body at the chains that had contributed to their lustful pleasure.

"I don’t know, sweetheart.  Do you want me to contact him again or should we just wait until he contacts us -- if he ever does."

"Let’s wait," Isabel said.  "I’m on sick leave today and I’m seriously thinking of putting in my letter of resignation tomorrow.  I’ve worked there 17 years and I should get some sort of allowance or return of pension contributions that I could invest.  It won’t be much but I can’t very well go back to the mill and become a safety hazard among the machinery with these on my legs, can I?"

Peter liked the way this conversation was headed and agreed.

"Okay, let’s wait until Ledstone calls.  And I fully support your decision to resign.  I can hire myself out as a carpenter.  There’s a new housing subdivision being planned for the eastern outskirts of town so let’s think about this for a bit. I’ll probably go over there tomorrow and see if they’re hiring.  I’m going outside to soak up some rays; how about you?"

Peter slid out of bed, put on his jean cut-offs and sandals, bent over to kiss his woman again on the lips, chin, breasts and navel, and strode out of the bedroom, down the hallway and out the patio doors onto the backyard sundeck.

Isabel moaned quietly with renewed sexual energy -- och, those kisses -- and stood up,  walked over to her closet and selected her blue-silk, mid-thigh-length dressing gown which she put on to cover her nudity but not her shackles.

She felt herself actually getting rather fond of them as she tied the belt snugly around her waist, enjoying as always the sensuous feel of the material against her body and upper legs as she shuffled her clinky steps down the hallway out the doors to join Peter on the deck.

The mid-afternoon June sun was bright in the backyard and Isabel squinted as she stretched out in the chaise lounge beside her man. 

"Oh, this is so nice; sex and then sun.  A rare treat in this part of Scotland this time of year," Isabel said.  "I should really get some tanning time in," she said, as she got back up to go into the bathroom to look for suntan lotion.

She found the bottle underneath the bathroom sink and smiled as she felt her still-sensitive breasts sway against the loose, sleek material of her dressing gown.  She went back out onto the sundeck, breasts swaying, and sat down again.

"Put some on my legs, please?" she asked Peter nicely. 

"You bet," he replied.  Once again, he knelt at her feet and squirted some of the viscous, white lotion onto his palms, massaging it into her calves, shins, knees and her thighs.  Isabel parted the hem of her dressing gown and let him massage the upper reaches of her legs and around her pussy mound. 

She opened her ankles as wide as the chain would allow and then undid the belt, letting her gown fall open, revealing her white breasts with her erect tawny-pink nipples. 

"I’ll tan these tomorrow," Isabel said, feeling her breasts and ringed nipples lightly with her hands.  "Legs today."

Peter put a second light coat on her legs and the tops of her feet, noting to himself the skin underneath the cuffs will likely be pale and her legs nicely tanned, weather permitting.  The couple held hands as the sun continued its path across their backyard, bathing each in a warm glow and helping to erase the mysterious private event of the night before as well as the embarrassing public moments at the university and pub a few hours ago.

The two were happily quiet as they let the sun warm and brown their bodies.  Isabel’s white legs started to tingle and turn pink in about an hour when they decided to go back in and think about supper.

"What would you like to eat for supper, sweetheart?" Isabel called out to Peter who had gone into the bedroom for a moment.  "There’s leftovers, cold roast beef or I can warm up some spaghetti if you like."

Isabel heard some rustling around in the bedroom but could not identify the sound.

"Would you like me to dress for supper -- or just the way I am?"

No answer, just rustling sounds and a faint clink.

Isabel tied her short dressing gown a little tighter around her waist and bent to look inside the refrigerator.  She decided on cold roast beef sandwiches, a small salad and lemonade.  She knelt down to get the items from the bottom shelf of the fridge and stood up again, nudging the door shut with her shoulder instead of her foot -- the way she usually did -- until yesterday.

When Peter walked back into the kitchen, Isabel was at work at the counter getting the sandwiches and salad ready for them.  She looked over her shoulder and saw he was carrying some material and a small bunch of light cord in his right hand.

"What’s that for?" Isabel inquired as she put down the kitchen implements.

"Oh, just something for my sexy slavegirl to wear around the house this afternoon," Peter said, as he placed a long, narrow rectangle of pale yellow chiffon material and a three-foot length of gold cord on the counter beside her.

Puzzled, Isabel looked at the items, then at Peter. 

"How am I going to wear that?" she asked him.

"Allow me," he replied, as he untied her dressing gown, looping the cord around her hips, tying it in a snug square knot over her left hip.  He then passed the chiffon under the cord at her belly, down between her legs and back up to tuck underneath the cord at her back.

He then adjusted the front and back panels so they were roughly the same length, falling to about six inches above her knees. 

The eight-inch-wide strip of translucent material instantly turned Isabel into Peter’s image of a chained harem girl -- a picture he had waited many months to see -- and Isabel graciously agreed to wear the sexy little garment for him.

"Mmm, nice," Isabel said as she felt the silky material against her thighs and loins. 

"Makes me feel kinda sexy, like your slavegirl in chains should.  I think I must be the first woman in western Scotland to be dressed like this.   And summer’s just started."

Peter agreed, Isabel re-secured her dressing gown over her little undergarment and got on with the supper preparations, her ankle chains making a delightful, little clink as she moved from the counter to the kitchen table with their plates.

Always handy in the kitchen, Isabel had supper ready soon and the two sat opposite each other in their kitchen that overlooked the backyard, watching the June afternoon sun draw its first shadows among the bordering trees.

"Brri-ing, brring," the Scottish telephone rang.  Isabel answered and it was her best friend, Moira McPeak, from the mill.  Peter listened absently as Isabel cooked up some lame excuse why she phoned in sick today. 

The two women chattered about mill gossip, the weather and other goings-on in the town and Isabel suddenly invited her over for tea the next afternoon, much to Peter’s surprise.

"Good for you, Is." Peter said, after she hung up.  "Are you going to tell her about your chains?"

"I might," she said.  "If not, I’ll just be sure to keep them quiet while she’s here.  Maybe wrap them in something."

That would ruin the entire image, he thought, as he put that possibility out of his mind. "Long skirt again tomorrow, eh?"

"Quite possibly," Isabel said.  "But I have other skirts and dresses in my closet, too." 

"Oh, yes.  I like that straight black one that comes to just above your knees.  And we both know what that hemline would show, don’t we?"

Isabel nodded quietly as she pondered what she would wear for her friend’s visit tomorrow. 

They finished up their light supper, Isabel cleared away the plates and cutlery and they   retired to the living room to watch the 6 p.m. BBC news.

Peter sat on his large comfortable recliner and Isabel joined him, sitting on his lap with her left arm around him and her right on his chest.

Her legs were draped over the arm of the chair, the chain dangling in a nine-in., U-shaped bight between her ankles, and she purposely let her dressing gown fall open as she turned her head to watch the television news.  Peter took the opportunity to toy with her nipple rings with his right hand, pushing the left, then the right one, gently through the little slits pierced through the base of each nipple while he massaged her still-sensitive clit with his left.  Isabel moaned quietly as the BBC news anchor began his half-hour newscast.  With Peter’s attentions, Isabel was soon near another gasping orgasm by the first commercial break and at 6:20 p.m. was writhing in ecstasy as she approached another climax on his lap.

Her hips shuddered and she held him tightly as waves of orgasm swept over her again and again.  At 7, well before their usual 10 p.m. bedtime, Peter snapped off the coffee table light beside them and motioned Isabel into the bedroom.  She got off him stiffly and shuffled into the bathroom to clean up once again from her unusually wet orgasm.  She slid out of her short dressing gown and undid the cord around her hips as she bathed herself in preparation for another sexy session in bed.

The sun was casting longer shadows across their neat backyard as Isabel clinked back into the bedroom toward her walk-in closet to get her favourite, ankle-length, blue-satin nightgown with the spaghetti straps Peter loved. 

She saw her usual ankle chains hanging from a hook on the inside wall of the closet and wondered whether she would ever wear them again.

But Peter had another bondage surprise already rigged for her in bed -- he had secretly locked a 35-ft. length of light chain, with 1/8th-in. oblong stainless-steel links he had been saving for such an occasion to the boxspring near the head of the bed.  Another sturdy little lock was hung from the business end of the chain which he planned to snap around her neck, tethering her to the bed but allowing her to reach into the bathroom, the hallway and nearly into the kitchen, if she had reason to go there.

Isabel slid soundlessly into bed and noticed the little metallic stash between their pillows.  She sat up, as if to read, as Peter climbed in beside her half-expecting her man to secure her for the night.  He reached down between the feather pillows, pulling up the chain and quickly draped a loop of chain snugly around her neck, snapping the lock closed through two links.  The chain fell between her breasts and disappeared under the pillows to its anchor on the boxspring.

"Now I’m really hooked up," Isabel said lightly.  "Chains at my neck and feet.  Are you sure you don’t want to lock my ankles to the bed, too, Peter?"  Peter kissed her gently and tugged on her neck chain to pull her down and towards him.  He was instantly erect again and easily penetrated her pussy as they lay facing each other, the chain nestled between them. 

They rocked back and forth rhythmically and both reached their climax at the same time, Peter shooting another large wad deep into her womb.

He was still hard when Isabel climbed on top of him and began a gentle to and fro and up and down motion that caused her breasts to sway.  Her neck chain depended gracefully down the front of her nightgown, past her delicious cleavage to disappear into the bedsheets.  Peter took all this in and gently massaged her breasts as he felt yet another orgasm starting to build distantly.

Moments later Peter and Isabel clutched at each other in yet another well-timed orgasm. 

"Wow, six in one day," Isabel said as she flopped to her right side, with a clink of chain, exhausted.  Peter put his arm around her and both were suddenly asleep, as if by a spell.

Life Goes On - Day 2

Wednesday, June 13, dawned grey and overcast as Peter and Isabel awoke in the same position in which they fell asleep: Peter on his right side with his left arm across Isabel’s waist and Isabel half-turned toward him, chained ankles spread lightly, her knees bent and her neck chain tangled between them.

As always, Peter kissed Isabel on the shoulder and got up to start his day in the bathroom.  Isabel awoke with the kiss and heard her lover in the shower as she cast around the bed for the key to her neck chain.  She had to wait until Peter stepped out of the bath to ask him where the key was -- she found it inside his night table -- and she unlocked the small brass padlock that secured her neck chain to the headboard.

Relatively free once again, she donned her long dressing gown and shuffled into the kitchen with the clinks to which she was growing accustomed and started a brew of coffee. 

"I hereby resign from the Darner and Skein Woollen Products Ltd. mill effective Friday, June 15, 1975," Isabel said to herself as she mentally composed the letter of resignation she would put to paper later that day. 

She was thinking about how she would get her letter to the mill business office -- Ah!  Moira can take it for me -- when Peter strode into the kitchen in his work clothes.

"I’m going to go to the construction office of that new subdivision and see if they need any carpenters," he told her.  "I’ve brought my journeyman’s papers from Nova Scotia but I’ll see if they’re hiring."  Isabel poured them their coffees and Peter sat with her and asked of her plans for the day.

"Well, I’m going to resign formally today," Isabel said.  "I’ll get Moira to take my letter in tomorrow when she comes by later for tea."

"Decided what you’re going to wear yet?" Peter asked.  "I’ve got to get going.  Let me know."  And he gave her a goodbye kiss on the cheek as he stepped out of the kitchen, across the living room and out the front door to the car.

Isabel found herself completely alone in the house at 7:45 a.m.  ‘Moira won’t be here until about 3,’ she thought.  ‘Well, I guess I can tidy up a bit.  Get dressed -- hm-m-m, what to wear? -- and sit out in the sun.’

She finished her coffee and clinked into the bathroom to undress, shower and brush her hair.  Moments later, she emerged, feeling rejuvenated and sexually satiated, and shuffled into her walk-in closet to pick out something to wear.  Her breasts were still too tender for a bra, she thought, so she picked out a white cotton blouse, the straight black skirt Peter liked and some comfortable shoes.  Her legs were slightly sunburned so she didn’t have to worry about stockings -- tights were impossible -- and the difficulty of getting her conventional underwear on past her shackles required some thought. 

"Oh, well, I’ll try that little loincloth Peter put on me yesterday," she said to no one.  "It will have to do for now."  She found the piece of chiffon and the gold cord where Peter had left it -- on the bedroom chair -- and she put it on easily. 

Partially dressed, she went back into the bedroom to finish.  She looked in the mirror and decided she didn’t look too bad -- white blouse, no bra (you can still see my nipples, dammit, she thought) -- and straight skirt.  All pretty conventional, Isabel thought, until she noticed her ankle shackles for the first time that morning. 

"Well, I look like a secretary who’s going to prison," Isabel said.  She brushed her hair and swayed her hips knowingly as she sashayed into the kitchen to finish her coffee and write her resignation letter.

The hours passed with Isabel doing household chores, watching daytime BBC television (boring) and sitting out in the backyard to brown her legs a bit more before Moira arrived.

The letter was in its envelope on the kitchen table when Isabel heard the doorbell ring at 3 p.m.  She had spent most of the day in the backyard reading, flexing her legs and walking about a little, trying for the nth time to get used to an 18-inch stride, and enjoying the lingering afterglow of the potent sex she and Peter had enjoyed since yesterday afternoon.

Isabel thought nothing about walking to the front door with her chained steps -- she had almost completely forgotten about them -- and it wasn’t until her friend Moira’s gasp and hand to her mouth that Isabel remembered her chained condition.

Moira, dressed in slacks and sweater, stood slack-jawed on the front porch as she looked at her best friend, Isabel, in blouse and skirt, with ankles in sturdy silver chains.

"Isabel!  What on earth are those things on your legs?" she asked.  Mrs. Moira McPeak felt her nipples go erect under her sweater as she looked at her well-dressed best friend’s chained ankles.

"Come in, Moira, and I’ll tell you all about it," Isabel said, pulling her friend in by the hand.  Moira, two years younger than Isabel, was a slender brunette who had married her grammar-school sweetheart, had known Is. for almost 20 years, worked the same shifts and each had no secrets from the other.

"Did Peter put those on you, Is.?" Moira asked.

"No, some stranger," Isabel said.  "Sit in the living room, I’ll get the tea and I’ll tell you the whole story, including what happened in Edinburgh yesterday.  There was this bright light on the road home two nights ago, then a university professor in Edinburgh, then this creepy guy in a pub, then the drive home and last night and . . ."

Moira listened agog as Isabel recounted the fantastic events of the past 1½ days and finally blurted out, "My God, Isabel.  Do they hurt?  How do you walk in those things?  What does Pete say?"

"Well, they don’t hurt; they just snub my stride to about 18 inches or so.  Sort of like wearing a straight skirt all the time, you know, and yes, it’s hard to walk with such short strides.  But Peter just loves them.  Honestly, Moira, I think I’m getting used to them too.  God knows they make me wet in bed."

Isabel’s monologue gave Moira some ideas how to rekindle her sex life with her husband, Dennis, but she would wait another day to ask more questions.

The girl talk continued for another hour and Moira was sad to her friend was resigning but said she would keep her abreast of all the news of the mill every day by visit or by phone, no matter what.  She also said she would hand-deliver Isabel’s letter of resignation next day.   It was after 4 p.m. when they heard Peter drive up the road.

"Well, I must really get going and get Dennis’ supper ready," Moira said, envelope in hand.  She gave her good friend a kiss on the cheek, waved at Peter and drove off.

Supper in Isabel’s kitchen was almost a repeat of the night before and by 6 p.m.; they were in front of the TV again, this time with Isabel more fully dressed than the night before wearing skirt and blouse and her loincloth underneath.

Little did she know that sexy little underthing would be her only garment for the next few days and that heavier chains on her neck, wrists and ankles would be her constant companions in a far-distant land.

Isabel was about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery as an indentured woman to a group of mad scientists in Eastern Africa.