Chapter 3: Every Step a Struggle

“Alright, let’s get moving,” the agent said, her words lingering in the air.

Becca’s initial reaction was one of disbelief. She had hoped that this was all some mistake or that a sudden twist would change everything. In her mind, she clung to the hope that the situation might resolve itself before they even had to leave.

As Becca took a final look around the office, her gaze met Lisa’s. The fleeting connection was charged with unspoken words. Lisa’s sympathetic look and the subtle nod she gave Becca were small gestures of support. Lisa mouthed the words, “I’ll fix this,” a silent promise amidst the chaos. The gesture was a moment of solace for Becca, a reminder that she was not alone.

“We need to go, Ms. Bounds,” the agent said with a more affirmative tone. As the three of us started our way out of the office, Becca took a deep breath, and I could see that she was trying to mentally prepare herself.

It didn’t help that she immediately stumbled on the carpet outside Lisa’s office, her legs unaccustomed to the restrictive cuffs that turned the heels into torture devices. The agent, now holding Becca’s arm firmly, guided her with a steady grip, ensuring she stayed balanced and on course.

As Becca hobbled through the building, time seemed to stand still. Each tiny, careful step she took echoed through the hallways, her struggles amplified by her loud confines. Co-workers peeked out from their cubicles, drawn by the out-of-the-ordinary sounds. Their eyes widened as they saw Becca, wrapped in metal, struggling to navigate the corridor. The sight of her constrained movements and the stark contrast of her elegant attire against the harsh reality of her situation captured their attention, with curiosity and concern clearly displayed on their faces.

I stayed ten feet behind as instructed, watching Becca stagger through the building. From my vantage point, I could see each step she took, pulling the leg cuff chain taut, causing her stride to come to an immediate halt with every movement. The short chain served as a constant reminder of who was in charge, making Becca’s progress slow and laborious. Each step was a painstaking effort as she fought to move forward.

We eventually arrived at the security desk at the building’s entrance. Becca’s labored steps had left an impression, marking the end of her arduous journey through the top-floor hallways and winding corridors and down the elevator. As the guards saw her in restraints, their expressions changed drastically.

Earlier, Becca was my girlfriend, bubbly and playful even with the make-believe handcuffs. Now, she was in federal custody, and the atmosphere had shifted. Her hobbles, once a playful fantasy, had become a stark reality. The guards’ expressions were stoic, their professional demeanor reflecting the gravity of the situation.

The security guards escorted us to the street and created a barrier to guide us to the SUV. However, Becca’s predicament drew noticeable attention. As she made her way across the entrance’s concrete slab, people noticed her. Onlookers watched intently as Becca moved forcefully, their curiosity evident.

A voice was overheard, “Who is she?” The question lingered, adding to the murmur of speculation.

As the number of onlookers grew, Agent Reinhardt became increasingly uneasy. She quickly helped Becca into the backseat of the SUV, ensuring she was comfortable and her cuffs were secure before closing the door.

Once Becca was settled, the agent turned to me, motioning me to get into the passenger side.

I got in and watched as the agent checked the street and carefully pulled out. The SUV merged onto the road, starting the hour-long drive to the airport. The hum of the engine and the fading sounds of the city marked the beginning of a tense and uncertain journey.

In the back seat, Becca stared out the window with a tense expression, her fingers restlessly fiddling with the connecting chain. The clinking sound of her ankles tugging against the leg cuffs filled the vehicle, underscoring her unease. Her usual nervous fidgeting was amplified by the weight and limits of the chains.

The agent glanced between the road and the rearview mirror, occasionally looking at Becca. “I usually prefer parking in the back to avoid drawing attention,” she said with unhappiness. “Unfortunately, the back lot was full.”

I replied, “Yeah, Becca and I got one of the last few spots. That lot fills up quickly.”

Becca’s response came in a quiet, almost defeated voice. “I was humiliated.”

Her words echoed in my mind. Had I known, I would have gladly traded parking spaces with the agent if it meant sparing Becca the ordeal. Even if I had parked up front this morning, no one would have paid her much attention, even in 12cm stilettos. Her choreographed walk with her hands laced behind her back might have drawn a few curious glances. Still, it would have been nothing compared to the intense scrutiny and discomfort she had endured moments ago. Exiting through the back entrance, away from the busy street and prying eyes, might have spared her some of the unwanted attention and made the situation a little more bearable.

I turned around to glance at Becca, noticing the strain in her posture. Her usually vibrant eyes seemed dull, her gaze distant. The weight of her situation was evident in the way she slouched slightly, trying to find some comfort despite the unforgiving restraints.

Becca’s breathing was shallow and uneven, and her attempts to steady herself were evident in the way she closed her eyes momentarily as if seeking a brief escape from her surroundings. Her posture remained rigid, shoulders slightly hunched as she tried to create some semblance of comfort despite the awkward position and the heightened anxiety.

When Becca gets this way, I usually hug her and hold her tight, knowing she finds comfort in being encased in warmth. We have weighted blankets throughout our apartment for this reason—they provide her with a sense of security and calm. But now, there was nothing I could do. The only form of comfort available to her was the few pounds of metal locked on her, a cold and unyielding embrace.

I wished I could hug her, offering the same solace she finds in the blankets. Although she was wrapped in the restraints, they only intensified her anxiety rather than soothe it. The metal cuffs, though perhaps physically less oppressive than other forms of restraint, were an absolute reminder of her situation, providing a sense of permanence and inescapability.

No one uttered another word until Agent Reinhardt took the airport exit. Becca, noticing the change, spoke up, her voice showing confusion. “Wait! That’s the main airport. Are we taking a commercial flight? I thought it was one of those planes intended for prisoner escorts, the kind you see in—”

The agent immediately responded, her tone matter-of-fact. “No. Only dangerous prisoners are transported that way. Difficult and dangerous are different things. Transport of prisoners via commercial flights is commonplace. You’ll be fine.”

The noise from the metal clanking seemed to grow louder in the confined space. Becca’s distress was intensifying. She began to tear up, her voice quivering as she spoke, “So, I was humiliated in front of all of my boyfriend’s coworkers, and now I’m going to be humiliated in front of hundreds of people.” Her words were heavy with anger and sorrow, the weight of her dilemma visibly affecting her. She then clenched her hands, the restraints digging into her wrists, a physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil.

Agent Reinhardt glanced at her through the rearview mirror, her expression softening. “I understand this is difficult, but remember, people are focused on their own lives, not on you.”

Becca’s response was a curt nod, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I just want to get this over with.”

The agent then continued with some practical advice. “I’ve learned that the best thing to do is to avoid making eye contact with anyone and focus on your walking. The best way to attract attention is to fall.” Her tone was firm yet reassuring, as if offering a small consolation amid the ordeal.

As the agent pulled into the airport parking, I noticed we were directed to a reserved area for law enforcement. The lot was expansive but largely empty, filled with various police and rescue vehicles—some unmarked cars, SUVs, and vans. The agent parked a reasonable distance from the main elevator, likely to place us strategically away from the more trafficked areas.

I exited the SUV first, standing about ten feet away from the vehicle and watched as the agent helped Becca out of the backseat. Gripping her arm firmly, Agent Reinhardt led Becca in a slow, deliberate march toward the elevator. Her movements, albeit improving, were still labored and awkward as when she had left my workplace.

We didn’t have to wait long before the elevator doors opened. A well-dressed woman in a pantsuit and four-inch block heels exited, accompanied by what looked like a U.S. Marshal. The woman, seeing Becca, smiled. Both moved with a practiced efficiency that caught my eye. As the elevator doors slid shut behind them, Becca and I noticed that the woman was handcuffed.

Becca, her curiosity getting the better of her, looked at Agent Reinhardt and asked, “Was she being escorted too?”

Agent Reinhardt glanced at us. “Hard to say. She could be part of a training program for US Marshals. They sometimes go through simulations where they experience being transported themselves to understand what it’s like. It might be a low-risk individual being taken to a court hearing, or it could be something else entirely. It’s difficult to know without more context.”

“Something else? Like what?” Becca inquired, clearly wanting to know more.

Hesitant, the agent divulged, “It could just be someone who wants to experience what it’s like.”

Becca’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Someone would want to be paraded in public while handcuffed? They’d want to be humiliated?!” she asked, with genuine curiosity and incredulity.

The agent continued, “That woman might have been the marshal’s wife or girlfriend, trying out the experience in a controlled setting. Perhaps she enjoys the feeling of being restrained by her partner or thought it would be interesting to walk out of the airport in cuffs as a bit of fun. There are many possibilities. It isn’t really my place to ask about such things.”

Becca’s response was a stunned, “Wow.”

Agent Reinhardt gave a slight nod, her expression thoughtful. “It isn’t unheard of for people to volunteer for such experiences, whether for training, part of a professional demonstration, or even personal reasons. Sometimes, people want to understand things firsthand.”

Becca looked at me, her gaze conflicted. She was processing the idea. I met her eyes with a sympathetic look, trying to offer some comfort.

The agent’s tone softened a bit as she continued, “Everyone has their reasons, and it isn’t always what you might expect.”

As the elevator doors opened, Becca’s tension increased. She straightened up and tried to compose herself and hide behind the agent and me. Her eyes darted nervously as two women entered. Both were dressed in stylish, business-casual attire, and their high heels clicked with each step. They immediately noticed Becca’s distinctive stilettos.

One of the women, with a warm smile, glanced at Becca’s Louboutin heels. “Wow, those are some stunning heels you’re wearing,” she said, her tone genuine. “I’d been eyeing a pair of ‘so Kate’ for ages, but I never managed to get them. How are they treating you?”

Becca, visibly uncomfortable but trying to maintain a polite demeanor, responded, “They’re beautiful but incredibly painful. It’s hard to walk in them.”

The other woman tilted her head slightly and chuckled. “I can imagine! I’ve wanted a pair for a while, but I’d prefer them without all the—added flair.” She gestured towards the chains and cuffs with a lighthearted tone.