Chapter 4: Never Pull Those Off

Becca, subdued and weary, made her way slowly through the airport. Her movements were intentional, each step calculated to avoid the chains pulling too tightly against her ankles. Her only protection was the pair of expensive, luxury stockings.

I watched as she struggled to maintain her balance, her heels shuffling along the polished floor. The discomfort was evident in her expression, and I could tell she was growing increasingly tired. Despite the durability of her hosiery, they offered little protection against the harshness of the steel. Each step was a visible effort, a testament to her determination to handle the situation with as much dignity as she could muster.

If anything, the seams only drew more attention. The defined line running up the back of Becca’s legs only heightened her predicament rather than disguise it. The fashionable stockings, intended to be a mark of sophistication, now felt like an unwanted spotlight.

I knew that if Becca were speaking to me now, she’d be telling me, “Seamed stockings are meant for special occasions, to make a statement or add a touch of vintage elegance. They’re not supposed to be a part of something like this. They just make everything more obvious and awkward.” Her voice would carry a composite of dissatisfaction and satire, reflecting the contrast between the sophistication of her attire and the harsh reality of her current circumstances.

Luckily, the gate was close to the tram, which made me hopeful that Becca might get a chance to sit down before boarding. As we approached, we saw that the flight would be delayed by at least an hour. This unexpected interruption meant that Becca would have some time to rest.

We quickly found a set of chairs situated as far away from the crowd as possible, hoping to offer Becca a bit of privacy. Despite our efforts, people still couldn’t resist glancing over and looking at the unusual sight. The constant stares only added to Becca’s discomfort as she shifted anxiously in her restraints, trying to find a semblance of relief.

As we waited, the seating area gradually filled, and what had been an isolated spot quickly became part of a crowded sea of people. Across from us, a woman sat with her young daughter. The mother’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of Becca, and she glanced around, frantically searching for other seats. Realizing that there were no vacant spots nearby, she had to make a choice: either stand for over an hour or endure the view of Becca’s predicament.

The young daughter, curious and wide-eyed, tugged at her mother’s sleeve, asking questions about the unusuality across the way. The mother, trying to maintain a composed demeanor, answered quietly, though her gaze kept drifting back to Becca. The situation added an extra layer of discomfort to Becca’s already trying experience; her attempts to find a more relaxed position only drew more attention from those around her.

Tugging at her mother’s sleeve again, the young girl whispered loudly, “Mommy, that lady has bracelets like yours.” Her voice, however, was clear enough for everyone around to hear. The mother’s face flushed with embarrassment as she quickly shushed her daughter, her eyes avoiding any contact with us.

The little girl, oblivious to the reaction, continued speaking with a sense of wonder that was now directed toward Becca, “My mommy has bracelets like yours. She wears them at night for Daddy. She keeps them in a drawer next to the bed, and Daddy puts them on her every night.”

Becca, trying to maintain her composure, found herself struggling not to chuckle. Despite her discomfort, a small smile tugged at her lips as she glanced at the young girl. The comment drew quiet laughter from those nearby, adding an unexpected layer of awkward humor to the already tense atmosphere. The mother, mortified, tried unsuccessfully to redirect her daughter’s attention. At the same time, the rest of the waiting passengers exchanged knowing glances, amused by the innocent but blunt confession.

The young girl continued, her voice carrying across the waiting area, “I sometimes go into my mommy’s room at night, and I see her sleeping in her bracelets. My mommy only wears her bracelets at night.” She then looked at Becca with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Do you wear your bracelets at night, too?”

Becca, caught off guard by the question, managed a strained composure as she glanced at the young girl. She was visibly uneasy, but she did her best to respond calmly, “No, sweetheart. At least, I hope not. I hope they’ll be taken off at night. But I have to wear them during the day.”

The mother, clearly horrified by her daughter’s questions, again did her best to regain her attention. “Sweetie, let’s not bother the nice lady,” she said, her voice tight and embarrassing.

Now engaged with Becca, the young girl continued with her questions. “Do you wear them every day, like my mommy?”

Becca hesitated for a moment, her discomfort plain. She shifted slightly within her limits, trying to find a more comfortable position. “This is my first day wearing them, so I don’t really know,” she finally replied, her voice steady despite the tension.

I could see the nervousness in her eyes and how she struggled to maintain her poise. Every movement, every attempt to find relief, seemed to only draw more attention. The young girl’s innocent questions had turned what was already a tense situation into something even more testing for Becca. I watched as she navigated the awkwardness with a grace that only made me admire her more.

The girl, undeterred by her mother’s attempts to quiet her, continued her barrage of questions. “Did someone get them for you?” She asked.

Becca, trying to find the right words, responded with a simple, “You could say that.”

The little girl continued, “Was it your boyfriend? Did you ask him if he wants you to wear them every day? My mommy says my daddy asked her. That’s why she wears them.”

Becca’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, her distress clearly growing. She moved in her restraints, trying to manage the mounting pressure and the increasingly intrusive curiosity of the young girl. “Well, um...” she started, searching for the right words. “Sort of. He was involved in getting me into these. So, in a way, he kind of did.”

Thinking carefully while glancing over at me, Becca further replied, “It’s also complicated. It’s not just about asking; there’s a lot more to it.”

The surrounding crowd was holding their breath, their eyes flickering between Becca and the young girl. I could see how Becca’s efforts to keep her composure were slipping, her forced smile betraying the strain she was under. The innocent inquiries of the girl were unraveling the fragile calm Becca had tried so hard to maintain.

The young girl immediately asked, “Were you surprised?”

Becca looked at the girl, then glanced at her restraints, her discomfort evident. “About getting these?” she asked, her tone now marked with a sign of acceptance. The young girl nodded eagerly.

“Yes, definitely surprised. I knew I was going to get bracelets because he told me. Still, I didn’t know it would be all this,” Becca said, gently trying to lift her hands but stopped immediately by the lockbox and waist chain. “I guess I wasn’t expecting so much of it. I would have been okay with just bracelets.”

The girl’s response was simple yet sincere. “That was nice of him.”

Becca nodded, her eyes shifting in anger and reaction. “Yes, it was. Very thoughtful. He went completely out of his way.”

The young girl, now fully engaged and showing no sign of stopping, nodded as she took in the information. “Are you comfortable? My mommy says her bracelets are very special, but they’re not very comfortable. She says she had to get used to them, and it took a long time.”

Becca glanced at the girl’s mother, who looked utterly ashamed, her face a portrait of humiliation. The tension was unmistakable as Becca shifted anxiously in her chains, looking exhausted.

“Well,” Becca said, trying to maintain her composure, “these are very special too, so they’re not comfortable either. And I have a lot more on, so it could take a really long time for me, too. I guess everyone gets used to them in their own way.”

Becca managed a small smile, appreciating the child’s concern. The mother, still visibly uncomfortable, gave Becca a polite but drained smile and gently guided her daughter’s attention back to their own activities.

The young girl, clearly not entertained enough by her mother, tugged at her sleeve once more. Her eyes were bright. “Mommy, you should ask Daddy to get you those. They would look pretty with your high heels.” She pointed at Becca’s stilettos and the leg cuffs, her tone earnest.

Becca, trying to bring the conversation to a close, addressed the young girl. “These anklets make it really hard to walk. I don’t think your mommy would like them. I think such discussions are best kept between her and your daddy.”

As Becca spoke, the mother showed signs of relief and appreciation. Just then, the intercom announced that passengers could begin boarding. A collective sigh of relief swept through the waiting area. People hurried to gather their belongings, and the mother began to leave with her daughter in tow.

Agent Reinhardt gave Becca a nod, signaling her to get up. With some assistance from the agent, Becca carefully lifted herself from the chair. She shuffled forward, taking a few tentative steps. As she moved, the onlookers observed the perpendicular stance of her feet and the way her restrained ankles limited her gait.

We moved through the line, Becca carefully lumbering along with the agent, and I followed. The final checkpoint loomed ahead. We were among the last to board, which meant that everyone else was already on the plane and likely seated.

The agent presented the necessary documents, and we were instructed to proceed. One of the flight attendants greeted us as we entered the plane, guiding us to our seats. We had three accommodations in the first row: Becca, the agent, and me across from them.

Becca, with some effort, maneuvered into the window seat. Her restraints made the process cumbersome and slow, but she managed with determination. Once settled, the agent fastened Becca’s seatbelt for her, securing her in place. I sat in my seat, taking note of the arrangement and the stares from passengers.

Another flight attendant walked up the aisle, checking each seatbelt. When she reached us, she glanced at Becca and then turned to the agent. “Is she going to be okay? Is there anything we need to know about?”

Agent Reinhardt, maintaining a professional demeanor, responded, “She’s fully restrained. If needed, I’m authorized to take additional measures.”

Becca’s eyes widened slightly as she processed the agent’s words. The flight attendant nodded, acknowledging the information before continuing down the aisle. I could see the anxiety on Becca’s face.

I could also hear the faint clinking of her leg cuff chain as she fidgeted. She was clearly troubled, and it didn’t help that her restraints made any sense of comfort impossible. Becca wasn’t a fan of flying under the best of circumstances, and the added discomfort only exacerbated her nervousness.