She never thought of herself as kinky.
Kinky, to her was a an ungainly combination of the appalling and the ridiculous. Pretentious youths with too much make up, blotchy tattoos and too many piercings, or dumpy self absorbed people, pushing middle age, looking like overstuffed sausages in skintight outfits. She didn’t see herself in there, the rope bondage seemed pointless and uncomfortable, the role play demeaning, floggers and paddles and clamps… That looked like it would hurt. It didn’t appeal to her at all.
She was, when she bothered to think of herself, quite conservative. She was from a large farming family, full of brothers and sisters. The recklessness that had accompanied puberty had been closely monitored by the elders and busybodies of her small village. Rebellion was little tolerated, and there had been too many chores and too much babysitting to get into much trouble. She’d gotten better marks than her peers in school. This had lead to college, and a career in accounting, a job in the city.
She never felt really comfortable with her peers though. Shaped by an odd mixture of small town values, family responsibility and the demands of single urban life, she found herself mostly alone. Not a virgin by any means, that had been dispensed with at university in the aftermath of too much drinking, a perfunctory and unsatisfying act. She’d had sex a few times, found masturbation to be superior, had learned to suck a cock not for any particular enthusiasm but because everyone was doing it and it simplified things. There’d been a few boyfriends, even a relationship or two, but nothing that had lasted.
In reflective moments, she thought that she was one of those self contained people that didn’t need someone in her life to complete her. Growing up in a crowded household, she relished the privacy of her own apartment. At times, she worried about growing old a childless spinster, but she was only in her thirties, there was still time.
It was late September, she was shopping for the twins birthday. The twins were a nephew and niece, she had a lot of nephews and nieces. They all had birthdays and Christmases and Easters and Halloweens, it added up. So she ended up in the Halloween section, looking for a gifts that would be cheap and unique.
A pair of trick handcuffs caught her eye. Perhaps the nephew would like it? Boys always wanted to be cops, or secret agents, or cowboys. She picked up the package and hefted it. To her surprise, there was a bit of weight, they were real handcuffs, steel, with keys and everything.
A closer look showed that they were trick handcuffs, each cuff had a little release latch so that you didn’t actually need a key.
Silly thing, she thought. If its got a release, why would you even bother with a key? And why handcuffs that you could release so easily? For children’s games, she thought….
Or adult games…
Her nephew probably wouldn’t like it, and even if he did, his parents probably wouldn’t approve. Perhaps she should go looking for a Nerf pack.
But still, less than ten dollars? Why not? She tossed it into her cart.
Later that evening, after supper, she wrapped the twins; presents. The handcuffs? Definitely not included. They didn’t go with the other purchases, a unisex set of Nerf toys. Maybe she’d pass them on to some other relative, perhaps in a bridal shower.
She poured herself a glass of wine, carried them to the couch with her, and clicked the television on. She held the cuffs up to the light.
“Made in china.” Well, that was why they were so cheap. She handled them, weighing them in her hand, there was a surprising heft to them. They seemed well made. She played with them absently, running the clasp all the way through, listening to and feeling the click, click, click as it ran through the teeth and then swung free.
Really, if they opened so freely, what good were they? But then, she though, if there’s something in there, then it can’t go through all the way, it would catch.
Experimentally, she stretched out her wrist. Let the cuff slip on, felt the click, click, click as it ratcheted closed around her wrist.
Her heart beat a little faster.
The metal was cold against her wrist. The other cuff dangled free at the end of the chain, a pendulum weight tugging at her arm. She stared at the shining steel locked around her wrist, silver plated, catching the light. There was something… remorseless, about it, relentless. She shivered.
They put these on bad people, she thought. To hold them, keep them. She’d seen enough cop shows and movies to know the combinations. Wrists in front, the prisoner, helpless in the dock. Cuffed to another person or a piece of furniture, enforcing immobility, or forcing them to follow. Or behind the back, to render someone powerless.
What would the real ones be like. She’d never thought of what it might be to be a criminal…. Or a prisoner. Would there be a feeling of helplessness as they went on. casibom A loss of freedom. What went through their minds.
Humiliation? Submission? Surrender?
The metal was hard and cold and heavy on her wrist. Was it like that for them? For someone being cuffed, to hear every click, to know that freedom was vanishing in the bites of hidden metal jaws.
Carefully, she slipped her other wrist under the second cuff. Turning her other hand, to ratchet it shut. It was harder, the links between the cuffs limited her mobility. As it bit tight against her wrist, she realized she was caught – her world now defined by the space between three silver chain links and two pieces of ratcheted chrome plated steel.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Deep in her stomach, butterflies launched and batted themselves against her wrists.
Take them off, she thought. Right now. She got up to retrieve the keys from the kitchen table. But they were too tight, there was no room for her wrists to twist inside them. The cuffs were facing with the keyholes the wrong way. She couldn’t quite get the keys in.
That was okay, they had quick release levers. She’d worked them several times, as she’d played with them. A cold thought struck her, the release levers had worked, except that they hadn’t been encircling anything then. Her breath caught just a tiny bit, a gasp so subtle that no one else would have heard it. Her hands trembled just slightly as she tried to work her fingers around to the release catch.
She found it, the tight steel ring loosened, and she opened it up completely, freeing her wrist and then undoing the other. She laid it on the kitchen table. What a silly thing, she thought. Not so silly if she hadn’t been able to open it though. She wondered, out of the blue, if 911 got a lot of calls from people who’d accidentally handcuffed themselves like that and couldn’t get out. What a thing to have to explain.
Leaving the cuffs on the kitchen table, she went to the bathroom, then back to the living room, settled on the couch, and channel flicked until she found a decent movie.
About an hour in, she paused to go to the kitchen, make a cold plate of cheeses and pickles. Absently, she picked up the cuffs again, and absently played with them, as she watched the rest of the movie, listening to the click of the ratchets, the play of weight from one cuff to the other, the shaping of the hinged jaw. Once in a while, she’d slip it around one wrist, ratchet it closed, and the release it again, but only one wrist. A friend called, she chatted, absently dangling it from a fingertip, watching the light play off the chromed surface.
Eventually it was late. She went into the bedroom and undressed, dropping her clothes in separate adjacent drawers, one for underwear, one for whites, for colours, for darks. She was always vaguely pleased at how organized and tidy she was, it was an instinct.
The bathrobe was plucked from the bedroom door hook. Into the bathroom, hang up the bathrobe, turn on the shower, and when the temperature was just right, step in. She enjoyed showers, there was a casual sensuality to it. She liked the needles of hot water jetting against her skin, liked the private exhibition of her nudity. Sometimes, in the right mood, she played with herself in the shower, occasionally to orgasm.
Bathrobe on, hair toweled, moisturizer applied to face and body
After that, she proceeded through her apartment, shutting off the lights. It was a ritual, start with the kitchen, check to make sure all the appliances are off, then the lights, then the doorway and hall, around to the living room, lamps off, television off and so on….
As she reached for the last remaining lamp by the couch, she noticed the handcuffs again on the coffee table, ratchet jaws open, catching the soft light on the chrome surface and throwing it back.
She sat back on the couch, picked them up. They seemed heavier in the low light, more… potent? More…. Sinister? She flashed back on the awkward moment when for a second she thought she’d been trapped. Not really, of course, but there’d been a moment… of helplessness.
Her heart beat a little faster.
They put these on bad people… she thought. Naughty people, wicked people, people who committed crimes, broke the law, robbers, drug dealers, hookers… Dirty people.
To make them helpless.
Her heart was beating just fast enough for her to be aware of it. Her stomach felt light. Did she feel a tingle.
Not this of course, it’s safe, easy to get out of.
But, still….
Abruptly, she stood and slipped out of her robe. Naked she laid back on the couch, reclining up against the arm.
She watched the ratchet jaw close, felt the vibration as the teeth rotated through, capturing one wrist.
Then the other.
She was naked wearing nothing but handcuffs. It made her tingle. In the low light, the metal seemed to shine bright. It wasn’t Casibom slot oyunları as tight as before, she could move her wrists a little. She pulled her hands apart, feeling the millimeters of slack vanish against the clinking of the chain links. Caught, she thought. Helpless. Anything could happen to her, someone who cuffed her could do anything they wanted, and she’d have to submit.
She pulled one leg up on the couch, knee bending, thighs opening up.
Heart pounding, she lowered her cuffed wrists to her pubic mound, letting her fingers crawl through the black thatch of pubic hair. She touched her lips. She was already wet. She could feel the cold metal against her pubic mound, as she rested her wrists between her legs, fingers opening herself, thumb rubbing against her clit with a fierce urgency. She arched her back. “Fuck!” she whispered, and kept whispering it louder and louder, pulling against the chains, feeling the cuffs, the captivity, the constrained mobility, her excitement building and building.
Until she came, the orgasm a blinding rush, like a landslide falling on her, a sense of impact striking her and just surging up and through her body, leaving her breathless….
The handcuffs were a fascinating new toy. She hadn’t expected the effect on her, and couldn’t adequately explain it to herself.
Was she a masochist? She didn’t think so. She felt no urge to be whipped, to wear a collar, dress up in a leather harness. Calling someone ‘Master’ just seemed silly.
And yet, there was an allure. Somehow, it made things more intense. Maybe it was the restriction on mobility, the fact that she could not move her wrists freely, it meant her hands were like a pair of horses in tandem harness, working together. That was certainly part of it, it seemed to focus her more when she masturbated it.
But there was more. There was just a…sexiness to them. She liked the way they shone in candle light. She used her silver polish to make it shine and catch the light, it worked best in low lights, under a single lamp, or in front of candles.
Sometimes, she’d carefully wrap it in a tea-towel and leave it in the fridge while she went to work, so that when it went around her wrists it was bracing cold, the iciness making the metal ruthlessness more emphatic. Chilled handcuffs, she thought, there was something sexy there. It was hard to ignore or overlook chilled metal binding your wrists, it focused your attention…
There was something about looking down at her body, especially her naked body, and seeing the arc of her arms, drawn together, the unforgiving shining metal binding her, shaping her posture. There was a fascination to it, it was almost hypnotic.
For the first time in her life, she watched herself intently as she masturbated.
It was a wonderful toy.
Sometimes she’d carry it in her purse, shopping, or to work. She’d never wear them outside of course. But just knowing they were in her purse, that secret naughtiness. It was a thrill.
Perhaps, she thought, it was like the earnestness of teenage boys carrying a condom around, sometimes for months or years, never using it, never having even a chance, but just having it. It was the signifier of sex, of naughtiness.
She wondered sometimes about why it affected her. A signifier of sex? Perhaps.
A signifier of… badness, wantonness, of criminality and rule breaking? Did it excite her because it made her think of herself as a bad girl, a naughty girl, the sort that broke the law? There was that, definitely, she’d feel oddly wicked and powerful, liberated, when she wore them. The sort of girl that does sexy nasty things and doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
But there was also surrender, submission, helplessness. Yes, that was there too. It occurred to her, when she thought of it, that the feelings wearing the handcuffs were contradictory. That it didn’t make sense to feel both liberated and surrendered, nasty and helpless at once. But she was smart enough not to worry about it, and just revel in the senses.
Exploration came slowly. She wore them in the kitchen, in the bedroom. Once, she spent a whole evening naked in cuffs, watching TV, fumbling as she made a meal, masturbating repeatedly and touching herself. She wanted to wear them in the shower, by candle light, but was afraid that the water might damage the inner mechanism.
Once on the bed, she knelt, ass up in the air, face down on a pillow, gasping as she struggled awkwardly to a shivering orgasm. Another time, leaning against the bedroom, legs spread, face and shoulders pressing against the wood grain, as close to a police pat down as she could get, hands between her legs, leading her to an orgasm that made her knees tremble.
Mostly, she liked to watch. She liked a comfortable position on the couch, something where she could sit up and look down, knees up, legs spread, steel glinting against the black Casibom hakkında pubic hair of her mound.
But of course, she couldn’t really see that much. She’d never been one of these feminists who got to know their vaginas with mirrors and speculums. She’d always thought that was vaguely disgusting, there’s nothing special about knobby toes, or flabby skin, or the odd places of anatomy. She’d seen cats’ assholes, she’d never felt an urge to get a look at her own.
But now? The cuffs made things different, she wanted to see herself framed by the cuffs. It started with awkwardly trying to use a hand mirror at the same time, which gave her shaking views of the insides of her thighs and rushed glimpses of pubic curls. Then a stationary mirror.
Then on the couch, hips elevated on pillows, a mirror propped up on a kitchen chair placed carefully.
It was a revelation. Her hands, cuffed at the wrists, joined by silver links, seemed almost things of their own, pink butterfly wings, fluttering, joined by chrome. Between the pairs of slender fingers, the black pubic hair, the pink slit. She saw herself wet for the first time, saw not just her pinkness but the shining shimmer between her lips.
Mirrors became a part of it, not always, but often enough. She watched herself in different positions, different postures as she masturbated in handcuffs. Watched a vibrator slip inside. She tried masturbating in different ways. Sometimes she watched her whole body, her pussy hidden between her legs. She stared in fascination at the signs of her own arousal, watched her lips as she gasped, stared at nipples hard and rigid as the glass, noticed the sweat, gazed at the trembling of muscles. It was as if she was seeing herself naked for the first time, seeing her own body, appreciating it, enjoying it rather than simply living in it.
She cropped her pubic hair, something that she had very consciously avoided. She wasn’t a model, why not let it grow? But messy bush clashed with the elegance of steel, the shapeliness of fingers and hands like butterfly wings. Butterfly wings? She liked that image. Sometimes handcuffed, she let her hands flutter between her, imagining a bird or butterfly in flight.
From a cropped bush, to a bikini line.
One night, she shaved it off completely, just to stare at it in the mirror, before sending the butterfly to flutter her to orgasm.
Shaving brought a new self awareness. Panties felt different on bald skin. Not just utilitarian, she was more aware, lace was different, satin was different, a thong stretched over her hips, silk worked its way between her lips. Underwear was now an adventure, even if she was the only one to ever see her in it, it was still something.
Lingerie interested her. She bought a garter belt, spent nights of frustration cursing clips that didn’t seem to hold, discovered stay ups and never looked back. She visited La Senza and Vieux en Rose and Victoria’s Secret, pored among bustiers and teddy’s, slips and robes. It was a little too much though, too over the top. She bought a long silk robe, and then on another occasion, a short silk top.
But really, her favourite lingerie was her hand cuffs, there was nothing like the elegant symmetry of its shape, the shine and weight and chill of its steel, the implacability of it all. No push up bra, it seemed, could shape her body, could pose so sexily and elegantly as her wrists joined together.
It was such an odd small thing, but somehow, she felt more alive, more sexual than she ever had before. It became a game, an exciting game. Sometimes at work, she’d think of some new thing to do with the handcuffs, a new position, or with the mirror, or wearing Cuban heels. The decision to shave away the last of her pubic hair had come during an appallingly dull teleconference, had livened the rest of the day, added a spark of anticipation.
It was better than a vibrator, she thought, since the cuffs inspired infinitely more variation. It didn’t hammer her clit, but somehow, it allowed her, invited her to do more things. It was better than a boyfriend, much as she loved the feel of a live hard man inside her, it was a lot less maintenance, available at her whim, receptive to her impulses.
Her fantasies ran riot, there were men in them of course, sometimes two, sometimes a black man or a Chinese man, sometimes a tattooed Goth. There was handcuffed to a tree, or a desk at the office, or a chain link fence, there were scenarios of arrest and captivity where she was feared, too dangerous to be loose. There were the links between the cuffs seized with a brutal hand, arms yanked away from her pussy, above her head, her body roughly claimed. Or straddling a hairy chest, wrists joined, palms flat, supporting her weight as she impaled herself. There were arrests, kidnappings, hostage crises, romances, astonishing things that had the common thread that as satisfying, as exciting as they were, she’d never do them in real life.
But it did kind of draw her. She had a vibrator, and used it. She had a dildo and used it. But it was her using it. The thought of a live man, a body above her, a hard cock that throbbed in her, that moved by someone else’s will…. At some point, she knew she was going to wear handcuffs to bed with a man, the thought excited her as she masturbated.
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