"What a bitch!" one of them muttered.
"I'm a bitch?" I replied indignantly. "Just 'cause I've a life outside of work and can't stay for another drink?"
These guys really annoyed me, but I laughed and teased them back, rather than take offence at my work colleagues. They wanted me to stay on for their regular Friday evening piss-up at our favourite pub in Neal Street. They loved the back-stabbing and bitching, and the men were as bad as the women. They considered me 'stuck up', not a team player, just because I didn't want to get plastered every Friday night. But I needed to be home early on Friday evenings. There were things I simply had to do, and being called a bitch simply reminded me of what I had in store.
I quickly downed the remainder of my white wine spritzer, wished my work-mates an eventful weekend, and made a dash for Covent Garden tube. This station is one of those where you reach the platform using one of the room-sized elevators. If you're claustrophobic or averse to body odour you can always take the spiral staircase, but that's the equivalent to walking down a ten story building. At 6pm on a Friday, we (me and my fellow commuter drones) pack into the elevators like sardines, brusquely pushing against the unsuspecting American tourists in their raincoats.
Soon I was on the eastbound train, strap-hanging at first, but I found an empty seat as we pulled into Finsbury Park. For a typical Londoner like me, happiness is a seat on a rush-hour tube. I lifted my laptop case onto my lap, placed my arms firmly across it, and closed my eyes, lulled by the rocking rhythm of the train.
When we reached Southgate, I was so lost in thought I almost missed the stop. Ironic, considering how desperate I was to get home! Next was a fifteen-minute walk through leafy suburban streets. On a cold winter's night in pouring rain, the walk could sap anyone's spirit, but pleasant and light summer evenings like this one are quite pleaant.
"I'm home!" I called out as I walked in the front door of the bungalow.
"Okay!" came the perfunctory reply from the study. (Max works from home as a web developer, copy writer and all-round computer geek.)
I follow a set routine upon arriving home on Fridays: I head straight down the hallway into my room, kick off the medium heel shoes, and hang up the pin-striped skirt and jacket in the wardrobe. Blouse, bra, panties and stockings are tossed straight into the laundry basket. While the shower is warming, I wipe the lipstick and makeup from my face. I don't wear jewellery, only an antique leather-strapped watch. Max has mentioned buying me a necklace, but it hasn't happened. That's not entirely his fault as I haven't come across one I really want.
The power shower soon washed away the grime and perspiration of a humid London day. After shampooing my hair I smelt nice - like freshly bathed puppy, Max says. My bleached-blonde hair is a three-inch shaggy cut, easy to maintain providing I make regular trips to the hairdresser. The style suits me. I rinse, and towel my body and hair dry.
I stared at myself in the mirror, analysing the image as if looking at a stranger. The vestiges of my outwardly normal life are gone. A woman in her twenties, averagely attractive, neither fat nor thin, nice round breasts - plenty enough for a man like Max to do things to them.
From the bathroom I go straight into Max's bedroom where I find all I need. I spread out a towel on his king-size bed, not in the middle, but to one side. My pulse races, and my nipples firms up as if a sudden chill had blown in. I laid front-down onto the towel, careful not to mess up the smoothness of a freshly laundered duvet cover. Laying flat on the bed, the bedside cabinet was reachable if I stretched out my right arm. In the top drawer, my fingertips made contact with the unmistakable coolness of handcuffs immediately. They were, as expected, tucked in the nearest corner, one cuff neatly arranged on top of the other.
There's a radio wave baby monitor and speaker on the bedside cabinet which transmits through to Max's office. He must have been listening. "Cuff your wrists and wait quietly for me."
I didn't speak. The only sound he wanted to hear was the ratchets of the cuffs closing upon my wrists. I promptly obliged, locking my wrists together behind me.
I could feel the heaviness of the unforgiving cuffs holding my useless hands in the small of my back. There was nothing I could do to free myself - the only key I knew of was on Max's keyring. All kinds of feelings and memories were going through me. I found myself thinking of the strange event that got me into this situation. It took place about six months ago in another place. Very much another place. I was single and lived alone...
I have a confession. I was a self-bondage addict before I met Max - handcuffs, ropes neatly wrapped around my body, clamps and clothes pegs, that kind of thing. I could achieve an orgasm, or deny myself with equal facility, and without the complexities of a human relationship.
Yes, I was pretty good at self-bondage although it's not something one can usually boast about. However, one day I screwed up, fitting the handcuffs behind my back with both keyholes on the arm-side instead of the finger-side and that meant it was impossible for me to put the key in its tiny opening, even with the key in my hand it was hopeless. No matter how I tried I couldn't bend my fingers enough to push the key in the hole.
That evening, a Friday night, I learnt what could be done with one's hands cuffed, and what couldn't - such as untying the crotch rope biting into my pussy. I'd tied the crotch rope knots on my belly, well out of hand's reach. I imagined a sadistic jailor having his way with me. So fiendish with his knots that escape was impossible until he deigned to release me. But upon the realisation of my mistake my imaginary jailor disappeared, whilst his cruel bondage remained.
I went to the kitchen, catching a fleeting glance of my naked body and bound in the hall mirror.
At least I could sustain myself. I drank water straight from the tap after turning it on with my nose. Later I raided the refrigerator for cold food, which I ate off the kitchen floor like a dog... except dogs don't usually cry when they eat.
I'd only been in my rented flat for two weeks at the time of this self-bondage disaster. I didn't know any neighbours well enough to borrow a pint of milk, let alone ask them to release me from my kinky and rather sad bondage adventure. It was hardly the ideal time to introduce myself so I decided to suffer the night in my flat and call Patricia in the morning. It was either her, or wait until I was reported absent from work on Monday. Patricia, although insufferable, was my sister after all, and we already shared a secret or two. This would be another one.
I sat and watched television for hours, finally going to bed at 2 am, to endure my first full night in handcuffs. Sleep was fitful at best; I cried and sometimes got angry. Being a prisoner in chains wasn't as exciting as I imagined. My wrists began to chafe, my arms and shoulders ached, and the rope dissecting my pussy was a constant torment. I vowed to throw away of all my bondage paraphernalia as soon as I was free of it.
Somehow I slept, and suddenly it was 8 am. The morning sun, streaming in through the window, was a welcome sight. I felt pleased to have managed any sleep at all.
