by "c.c."

Illustrations by MKH

Originally Published In Bondage Parade Number 29

Story Codes: F/f, bdsm, reluct, public, handcuffs, shackles, leather, collar, armbag, strip, games

I'd heard about the new Night Spot in the heart of the Olde Towne district, Shackles: Ultra-Chic, Ultra-Kinky and Ultra-In.  My job as the highest-ranking female executive at HQ didn't give me much time for leisure, though, and none of my dates ever had the courage to take me there.  So I never went into the place... until the night my car broke down right outside!

Of course, he wants to know if I have a reservation, and naturally, I tell him I just want to use the phone.  It's in the rear off the bar, he says, and then holds up a pair of handcuffs and fastens one to my wrist!

I move as quickly as I can through the crowded bar, still feeling conspicuous, noticing the leg-cuffs welded to the bar rail, and trying not to star at all the scantily clad women (which are employees and which are customers?) or return the lusty smiles of men.  And once I get to the phone, it takes all my concentration to hear and be heard by the tow truck firm.  But I finally manage, turn to leave, and I'm handcuffed to the phone!  How the hell did this happen?  And how do I get out?

Ever try taking off a dress while handcuffed to a telephone?  The laughs as I pull and struggle are maddening.  Unzipping it with just one free hand is bad enough, but my writhing, wriggling antics as I worm it up over my head, off my free shoulder and down my cuffed arm are positively lunatic; and to add to my embarrassment, a small crowd gathers to watch and cheer me on.

So, I figure to make the best of a bad situation and have a drink at the bar.  My lace-trimmed white nylon slip is plain enough to attract attention in this bizarrely dressed crowd.  I'm busy turning down some very flattering offers... from guys and gals both.  It's kind of a kick really, sitting here on the bar stool in front of everyone feeling my slip slither and slide across my sensible pantyhose; and seeing that handcuff swing about as I raise my drink.

That odd sensation I had at the phone sweeps over me again, the strange feeling of having some part of me confined.  I feel my nipples stiffen inside my bra, and I clear my throat with difficulty.

The cards are face-down on the bar.  I've got six, she's got six.  We'll take turns matching them, and if she gets the high card, I peel off an item from my abbreviated wardrobe.  If I get the high card though, the ankle cuff comes off.  So it sounds like a pretty safe bet.

What an odd feeling!  It doesn't choke me at all, but it forces me to hold my neck straight with my chin tilted up, and it makes it difficult to turn my head.  I try looking around in it, and the feel of my soft skin squirming within the leather confines somehow excites me.

This is really strange!  My bent arms tug down on the collar, forcing me to arch my back and flaunt my breasts out... which becomes very apparent when my opponent's king beats my second queen, (the smiling bartender turns my card over for me) and I lose my bra!

I protest!  That's not a fair trade for an item of clothing!  My poker-partner agrees... and puts a hood over my head!  It's tight, pressing in on my cheeks and ears, making it hard to hear.  It's hard to see through the narrow eyelets, and almost impossible to open my lips through the mouth-slot.  In the mirror behind the bar I can see that it conceals all trace of my features, my expression, my stylish hairdo.  I'm anonymous now, my face a glistening black cipher as I struggle to look down at the cards.

I can't run.  Can't use my arms.  Can hardly see, speak or hear.  I can only look down in dismay as the next-to-last cards are flipped over and my poor eight is out-foxed by my opponent's ten!  Ooooh!  And I thought my pretty white lace panties were so cute and daring!  Drat the luck, I hate losing them!  But off they come, to be replaced with a tiny, tiny, tight leather G-string that just barely covers me in front and disappears completely in back!  And as if that weren't bad enough, the waist string on this thing clips to a ring at the bottom of my arm-mitten!

As they get ready to turn the last cards over, someone brings an incredibly narrow-waisted corset.  Just the idea of being laced into this crushing thing makes me shiver.  But my luck finally turns: ace beats deuce, and I'm the winner for a change!  The ankle cuff comes off and I'm free to go!

Standing on the street now as the tow-truck pulls up.  Awfully chilly in this get-up, and people are staring, but I can't cover much with my arms bagged up behind me.  It's hard to explain anything with my panties stuffed in my mouth!  At least they draped my purse-strap over one shoulder, so that if I move very carefully I won't spill it!  My billfold's inside it, I think, but I don't dare put it down here on the street and try to go through it!

Now all I have to do is hide here crouched in the shadows for a few hours, feeling the tightness of my hampered arms, legs, and head; and the cool, exciting air across my naked flesh.  I sure hope nobody sees me when I take the elevator up to my floor and scamper down the hall to my apartment.  It's going to be a little tough getting in, but I should be able to manage it.  And while I'm waiting, I must make a mental note to wear a necklace on my next visit to SHACKLES.  That should be just enough to get me into that corset!