Handcuff Girl

I often wore handcuffs in a certain club that was a hangout of mine. In fact, people I've never met call me `the handcuff girl' or `the handcuff chick' or `the girl with the handcuffs' because I used to wear them really a -lot- and no one else ever does. They were always the cheapie-generic ones you can pick with a bobby-pin (or any of a number of other things, including a Denny's fork – don't ask) but never the ones that actually have a release lever on them. Anyone too dumb to pick my handcuffs while wearing them is too dumb for me to want to deal with. Besides, if anyone ever really got in a jam with them, they would also break fairly easily if you'd apply the right torque. I've gone through several pairs of handcuffs, and in a lot of ways, they're my icon of me. A quick rundown on the club is that it was a basement with cement floor everywhere and floor-to-ceiling, reasonably slender poles scattered throughout the main area. There were two bars.

The night in question started with me wearing a scoop-necked top that was just this side of showing my nipples and a knee-length, floaty skirt, knee socks, nothing underneath, and chaining myself with my hands behind me to one of the poles. Some guy, thinking he was a big-shot, walked up and pulled the neck of my top down so my tits were showing, then grinned at me and asked if I wanted him to fix it. I was mortified and trying to shrug my shoulders forward to cover myself, despite the obvious futility of the gesture, driven by pure reflex. He noticed, told me he'd fix my top if I'd do him a favor and that he'd be right back, then walked away. So, I was stuck waiting for him, trying to tune out the presence of everyone else there in order not to know whether they were staring or snickering or speculating. I could walk around the pole, but it was in the middle of a crowded room and my back had to stay to it, so this didn't help much. I could hop a little bit in hopes or encouraging my top to come back up to where it should be, but this just made me jiggle, which was worse. I stood there, and I waited.

After a bit, maybe two minutes but it seemed like longer, Mr. Big-shot came back with a timid little Geek-boy friend. Big-shot stood behind me and sheltered my breasts from the view of onlookers by cupping them in his hands. Then I did see people snickering, despite my work at being oblivious. Standing like that, he murmured into my ear, telling me that all I had to do to get him to let me go was to teach his innocent friend there about girls, instruct Geek-boy in how to get me off, walk him through it 'til it worked. While he was talking, he shifted one hand to pinch my nipple, then slapped the breast before cupping it again. I couldn't do that, I couldn't talk about stuff like that, I couldn't talk about stuff like that to the little geeky innocent gawking before me, I couldn't tell him how to get me off and let him do it in front of the entire club. People would know, no matter how subtle he was. So I refused. So Big-shot tucked the hem of my skirt up into the waistband, slapped my butt, fingered me, and told me it was just gonna get worse 'til I did it. I could feel my juice – and smell it – slick on his finger when his hand returned to my breast. I nodded. Geek-boy stood in front of me, put a hand at my waist and looked eager.

I tried to think and not think at the same time, so I could participate enough to get through this without letting myself really become aware of it. I shifted my feet apart and told Geek-boy to sit in front of me and run a hand up my thigh.

"No, inner thigh," I hissed to him. And I felt it, but it did nothing for me. Big-shot rolling my nipple between his fingers and the air moving past my butt turned me on, but Geek-boy's timid hand did nothing at all. I told him to touch me like he wanted to know what I felt like, and it's strange how much that changed things. He took my advice too much to heart and became frighteningly detached from me as a person; I could feel the cynical analysis replace the eagerness to please, and this did turn me on, hard core. I didn't like it at all, but my body reacted in spades.

I could tell that he was intrigued by the various reactions he could provoke in me from the systematic way that he cycled through types of caress, pinch, poke and knead. I was wriggling and the room was going dark, and the idea of crowd and Big-shot behind me were faint hints of memory that were too much trouble to track down. Finally, I climaxed with a hoarse scream, every inch of me electric and space and time having no meaning at all. I felt slight tugs and brushes but couldn't pay attention to them as I was preoccupied with the process of reoccupying my body, with breathing. As my vision cleared, I saw the club still around me, but no one looking at me. My top was arranged with as much propriety as it had been upon my arrival, and the back of my skirt was hanging, not tucked up. In the crowd of dancers, I thought I saw the back of Big-shot's head, but I wasn't sure.