The Chef
Copyright© 2025 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 1: A Warning Over Dinner
“Ah’m fahne,” Becca said, trying to reposition her lips over the ball. “Ah neeh yah to undahstah meh wen ah’m earenh onh of theh, or wen yah haf meh muz ehlhd.”
I gently took the small washcloth from her hands and wiped her chin. Her hands were raised as high as she could manage, but they didn’t reach.
“You’ve been in it all afternoon. How about I take it off for now so you can take a break?” I suggested starting to reach for the padlock. “I can put you back in it after dinner.”
“Nah,” she shook her head firmly. “It stah eh onh untih yah undahstah wah ah’m sahing. Thah weh, wen ah reahl eh neeh ah breahk, yah’ll noh.” Her eyes were wide and determined. “Theh otheh neht, ah keef tehhing yah ah neehd ah breahk, buh theh mohr ah sahd it, theh mohr yah exhaushed meh.”
She pointed to her chin, signaling me to wipe away the drool. “It wahs lahk thah neht ahfhteh theh Hahoeen pahhtee,” she continued, her words muffled but her meaning clear. “Ah thaugh ah wah gohing to pahs ooh.”
I knew that she was talking about both the other night and Halloween, telling me how exhausting those nights had been for her. I could also see her frustration because she recognized in my face that the details of what she was telling me had been mostly lost.
“I know why you don’t want it off,” I said apologetically, wanting to show that I understood. “And I know I can’t fully understand you unless we keep doing this. I’m frustrated, too, and I’m sorry it’s taking me so long.”
“Iz ok-e,” she replied, her eyes acknowledging my own frustration. “Ehs goinh to tehk tahm.”
She tried to manage the drool but couldn’t. “Ah wahn to weh gahgs and muz ehlhdhs fo yah,” she said, pointing for me to use the washcloth. “And beh in theh froghies. Soh, eh’s impahtanh thah ah can communicahe wih yah ehven wen ah can’h use meh feeh.”
I smiled and nodded. Becca had realized how much I enjoyed seeing her in gags and muzzles. She seemed eager to embrace these elements herself. She was also perfectly comfortable with the restrictive positions I had her in, finding enjoyment in them. The other night, her ankles were tied to her thighs, with her feet pressed together, making it impossible for her to use them to communicate.
We had tried combinations of “Mmmph ... Mmph...,” like Morse code, but that only made things worse. The more she repeated it, the more frustrated and tired she became.
So, Becca begged to be gagged on days we were home, hoping that eventually, I would be able to understand her while in it—or at least enough for her to communicate with me in the bedroom. This meant she had been in it quite a lot, especially since we were both working out of our tiny apartment.
This is why we couldn’t wait for the closing. But that wouldn’t be until the end of January—at least five weeks away.
We made an offer on the house this past Saturday after seeing it, and it was accepted later that day without a counteroffer. Becca and I talked extensively about the house on the drive home, but she had already made up her mind, and I was okay with that. The home was beautifully remodeled, and we both liked the neighborhood and its community feel. It also kept us close to my parents. Over the past few weeks, we had spent enough time in the area for Becca to become quite attached to it.
As Rachel had promised, we secured the home for significantly less than the asking price and well below market value. The inspection went smoothly and quickly; we had an inspector come yesterday. With Christmas Eve tomorrow, we were concerned we wouldn’t be able to schedule someone until January, but we found a highly recommended inspector who was willing to come out on a Sunday. We took advantage of the opportunity and drove back early yesterday. While some issues were found, they were typical for homes in that area.
As we had discussed with Rachel, we met afterward for an early dinner. We went to a small, family-owned Italian restaurant where she knew the owners. They had heard about Becca and wanted to meet her.
True to form, Becca arrived in a dress, hose, and her usual four-inch heels. I had her in the hinged cuffs, metal lock box, waist and connecting chain, and regular chain-length leg cuffs. This meant she had to hold the connecting chain slightly while walking to keep the leg cuff chain from getting tangled in her heels.
I understood that this might have seemed excessive, but the goal was to familiarize everyone with her restraints, especially since the idea was met with surprising openness. This was something we hadn’t encountered in the city despite its diversity—Becca couldn’t openly wear restraints in public. I thought it would be easy to adjust or scale back later if needed, but we learned much later that this was far from the case.
The dinner itself had gone smoothly. The young host, who couldn’t take her eyes off Becca, had walked us over to Rachel, who was already seated. I placed Becca’s coat, which had been draped over her shoulders, on an empty chair and helped her get settled at the table.
Like the host, Rachel took in Becca’s attire with a sympathetic look. Yet stayed focused and said, “Congratulations! I’m happy for both of you. It’s a beautiful home. And the inspection went well. We’ll have the official report by the end of the week, but—no surprises. Well—”
We all chuckled a bit. “Yeah, he was a little surprised,” Becca said, referring to the inspector, who seemed bewildered by seeing her walk around the house in the restraints she was currently wearing. “I guess he hadn’t heard about me yet,” she added with a grin. “But thanks,” she said in response to Rachel’s congratulations on getting the home. “We’re really excited too.”
As we talked, the conversation was dominated by details of the sale and closing—finalizing the mortgage, completing the title transfer, scheduling the walk-through, and so on. We also talked about coordinating the moving date and ensuring that all necessary documents were prepared for the closing.
As we talked, Rachel’s eyes frequently drifted to Becca, specifically her hands that rested in her lap, securely locked to her waist.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a couple seated nearby who also saw us. They were eyeing Becca and approached our table.
“Are you the young woman from the museum?” the woman asked.
“Yes, that’s me,” Becca replied with a warm smile.
“My husband and I went to the exhibition, and I wanted to let you know that it was really inspiring,” she said, nodding her head in appreciation. The woman was elegantly dressed, with a refined demeanor and an air of genuine enthusiasm. “And when I heard about its curator—well, I was beyond moved. We had hoped to meet you while we were there, but we were told you had stepped away.”
Becca smiled, clearly grateful for the kind words but uneasy about the attention. “It’s nice to meet you. But the thanks really should go to the women themselves. They faced incredible obstacles and overcame so much. Their courage and perseverance are what truly deserve recognition.”
“Not only are you lovely but modest,” the woman replied, smiling, and clearly pleased to have met Becca. “Well, we—” she glanced at her husband and then back at Becca, adding, “just wanted to meet you. Enjoy your meal.”
We all smiled and nodded as the couple returned to their table. Rachel, still glancing at Becca, used the exchange with the couple as a segue into the actual topic she wanted to discuss—what she hoped her comment about the inspector would have done. “I see you’re in the leg cuffs you told me about. I guess you’re in your ‘full transport restraints?’ And you had mentioned your story started with the FBI?” She asked.
Becca smiled softly and said, “Yeah, this is how you’ll usually see me.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “There was a misunderstanding, and I ended up in federal custody. They put me in restraints like these and took me to the courthouse in Philadelphia for my trial.” Her gaze flickered to the cuffs, a subtle reminder of the harsh reality she faced.
Rachel’s eyes widened, and she leaned in a bit. “Misunderstanding?!” she exclaimed, clearly surprised.
Becca nodded. “Yes, I was supposed to be a consultant for them, but instead, I ended up being arrested.” She paused, then continued, “There was a breakdown in communication, and what was intended as a professional arrangement turned into a criminal one.”
Rachel, with a look of disbelief, leaned back in her chair. “Did you try to explain? I mean—did you try to tell them it was all a mistake?”
Becca tilted her head with a smile. “Yeah, I tried.” She tugged at her wrists to demonstrate how she couldn’t get out. Then she said, “When I realized the confusion, I struggled and asked to be released, but it had become a complicated situation. It’s hard to argue that you’re not a criminal when you’re already locked in—” she glanced down at her wrists with a smile, “—and there’s a federal transport order that says otherwise.”
Rachel’s brow furrowed as she absorbed Becca’s words. “I know you said you can’t take them off, but you really can’t get out of those? I mean, you’re really forced into them?” She looked at Becca with wide eyes, the weight of the situation settling heavily between them. “You’re saying there’s no way to break free?”
Becca demonstrated by trying to pull her hands free of the cuffs. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Don’t they hurt your wrists?” Rachel asked, glancing at Becca’s hands resting in her lap. “I would think they’d leave marks and bruises.”
“They did at first,” Becca replied. “But I had to learn not to tense up or fight against them. The initial discomfort was mostly from my resisting. Over time, I figured out that the key was to relax and accept them. Once I did that, it became much easier and more comfortable, and the marks and bruises stopped.”
“So, they force you to be completely submissive?” Rachel asked, her surprise evident.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes. They absolutely force you to be submissive. You become incredibly docile in these,” Becca replied. “But I guess that’s the whole point.”
“And you were taken to Philadelphia? Like that?” She pointed at Becca’s restrained wrists.
Becca smiled and nodded. “Yes, I was escorted through two airports and on a commercial flight.”
Rachel’s surprise deepened. “I thought they used special planes for that. You had to fly like that on a regular flight?” Her disbelief was unmistakable.
“I thought that too,” Becca acknowledged. “But it turns out those special planes are reserved for high-risk transports, and I wasn’t one of those.” She smiled, reminiscing about the experience, and added, “So I ended up flying with regular passengers.”
“That sounds awful,” Rachel said, looking at Becca with deep sympathy. “I can’t even imagine going through something like that.”
Becca nodded, her thoughts drifting back to the event. “It was humiliating. People can be very cruel.” She then smiled, looking at Rachel, and added, “But it showed me a side of myself I hadn’t fully known before. It pushed me to turn a difficult situation into something meaningful, leading me to share the stories of those who’ve faced their own challenges. It helped me find purpose and connect with others in a way I hadn’t expected.”
Rachel smiled, clearly understanding the significance of Becca turning such a difficult experience into something positive. “And when you got to the courthouse?” she asked, wanting to hear what happened.
“Well, they had no record of me, or the transport, or any trial at all,” Becca explained.
“But they didn’t let you go?” Rachel asked, looking confused. “When we first met, you mentioned that you had to wear them.”
“Yeah, that’s right. They didn’t release me,” Becca acknowledged. “Even after they realized I was telling the truth, the transport order required me to stay in restraints. I was eventually brought back here to New York.” She glanced at me briefly, then turned back to Rachel. “Let’s just say the federal agent didn’t remove them and left us with a collection of restraints tailored for various outfits and situations.”
Rachel, sitting across from us, looked bewildered. “You poor thing,” she said sympathetically. But, ever the realtor with a knack for finding the silver lining, she quickly shifted gears. “I was really surprised when I first saw you. To be honest, like the inspector today, I hadn’t heard of you, or your situation. After you left, I called the sheriff’s office because I was worried. They assured me they were aware of your situation, and I learned more from others over the weekend. This isn’t a small place, but it has a close-knit community feel, and it seems you’ve become somewhat of a celebrity.” She smiled at Becca, glancing toward the couple who had stopped by our table earlier.
Becca raised an eyebrow. “You called the sheriff’s office? They were aware of my situation?”
Rachel nodded. “I’m sorry. I was just concerned. I know you said you were fine, but it’s not every day you see a woman show up in prisoner restraints at an open house. They assured me they were aware of you, so when you called later to put in an offer on the house, I felt relieved—especially after hearing more about you from others I talked to.”
Becca looked intrigued but slightly unsettled. “And did you say celebrity status?”