The Chef
Copyright© 2025 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 8: Past Paths, Present Self
“How does this look?” Becca asked, striking a pose in one of her grandmother’s vintage dresses. The navy-blue dress was sleek and form-fitting, gently hugging her knees with short sleeves and a high neckline. She wore her usual nude hosiery and stood tall in patent four-inch stilettos.
“You look really pretty,” I said, admiring her. “I’ve always liked that dress. It’s simple but elegant.”
Becca smiled and then slipped on one of her classic grey blazers. “Too much?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly.
“No,” I replied. “It’ll keep you warm; the museum’s cold. Plus, the blazer will help cover the waist chain and padlock.”
Becca nodded thoughtfully. “Not that it matters now, but yeah, I see what you’re saying.”
Her gaze shifted to the bed, where the transport restraints lay. “You should get me into those. Sophie will be here soon.”
She then extended her hands close together, a gesture she had made countless times before, clearly without thinking. Being restrained had become second nature for Becca; she instinctively positioned herself to ensure the transport setup went on quickly and smoothly.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
Becca gently tugged at the restraints, as she always did to demonstrate that she couldn’t get out.
“Yeah, I can’t get out.”
This had become Becca’s standard response over time. She associated the restraints being on correctly with her being secure, equating her inability to free herself with the setup being correctly done.
“We never discussed Sophie having keys,” I told her. “I know you only want me to put you in those and take them off. Veronica had the keys for a little while when you and she were getting ready for the exhibition, but this situation is long-term—Sophie will have to keep the keys I’ll give her this morning.”
Becca nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I know. But I feel comfortable with her. That’s why I suggested she work from here two days a week and be kept in jewelry.”
She paused, then added, “I know it seems like I’m just helping her explore her need to be in them, but it’s more than that. I’m hoping that by having her wear them regularly, we’ll develop a deep understanding about being responsible for each other.”
She paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”
I nodded. “I know this is all hard to explain, but I get it. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with me handing over a set of keys to her.”
“I’m okay with it,” Becca replied. “I trust her.”
We moved into the living room, and Becca, with her hands fastened at her waist, did her best to ensure she had everything, including items from her work bag and purse.
“I guess Sophie will have to carry these,” she mused aloud.
“You did let her know it would be difficult to hold things while managing the connecting chain when walking, right?” I reminded her.
“Yeah, I know,” Becca replied. “Just getting used to everything.”
As I hugged her and kissed her forehead, there was a knock at the back door.
“Hey,” Sophie said, waving as she entered. “I thought I’d use the back entrance and driveway for more privacy than parking on the street. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s perfect,” Becca said. “No need for the neighborhood to see me walk out of the house in these—”
She caught herself and added, “Not that there’s much of a choice in the matter.”
Seeing Becca reach for her work bag and purse, Sophie quickly stepped forward. “Oh, let me get those.”
She picked up the items and asked, “Ready?”
Becca nodded. “Yeah.”
I handed Sophie a handcuff key and a padlock key for the chain around Becca’s waist. Both were on a keyring with a tiny nameplate that read, “Rebecca.”
Sophie smiled. “Thanks. And I’ll know what they’re for.”
We all chuckled.
I covered Becca with a coat and watched as Sophie helped her down the steps and into her car, placing Becca’s bags in the back seat. I waved as Sophie carefully turned her car around and drove away. Becca glanced back at me, in a silent farewell, unable to wave.
I spent the day working on an analysis. It wasn’t until late that evening, as we lay in bed, that Becca shared the details of her day. She came home later because she and Sophie went shopping after work. I had dinner ready, and right afterwards, noticing her high anxiety, we decided to turn in. That’s when she began to recount her day, starting with their conversation on the drive to the museum.
I listened quietly as she shared her perspective, her voice carrying me back to this morning.
As she spoke, I pictured it the way she must have experienced it—the car, the quiet drive, Sophie’s easy tone.
Before long, I was there, in her passenger seat, watching Sophie glance over with a smile.
“Thanks for taking me to work,” I told Sophie. “It saves Ben two round trips today. He can now get an earlier start on his workday.”
“I’m happy to do it,” Sophie replied. “Honestly, I pass by here anyway, so it’s not a big deal to swing by and pick you up. Ben’s happy to take you, but it’s no trouble for me.”
“Thanks. We really appreciate that,” I said.
“So, what exactly does Ben do?” Sophie asked.
“He’s an analyst,” I explained. “I’m not entirely sure I understand it myself, but he’s given projects where he dissects processes and procedures, analyzes them, and puts together reports on his findings.”
Sophie smiled at me and nodded her head. “That sounds terribly boring.”
I smiled and said, “But it’s stable, and he gets to work from home.”
Chuckling, I added, “It’s not completely boring. If it weren’t for him analyzing the FBI’s transport procedures, I wouldn’t be wearing this beautiful jewelry right now.”
As she smiled at my humor, Sophie asked, “Have you two been together long? I know it’s serious—buying a home together and all. And, well, you’ve committed to wearing the jewelry he got you.”
I chuckled a bit more. “Yeah, you could definitely call it a commitment—especially since I’d be arrested if I were seen not wearing all of it.”
I glanced over at Sophie and added, “It’ll be five years this year. So, yes, you could say it’s serious.”
Sophie smiled and said, “That’s wedding talk around here. Usually, a ring suffices, but those work too. Like I said, people are open to things around here—but when they get used to it, well—you know.”
I laughed.
“We’ve talked about it, and honestly, it was tough to justify spending that much on a ring when it could go toward a down payment on a house,” I said. “But I know he’s ready. He wants to make me his.”
Glancing at her, I added, “But to your point, I’m literally bound and completely dependent on him now,” shifting slightly in my cuffs for emphasis. “I don’t know what else could possibly scream that I’m his.”
Sophie looked at me for a quick second as she got into a turning lane. “You seem okay with it, though. I mean, I know you have to wear those, but you seem okay with it all.”
“My life with him is so much better,” I said. “He gives me stability. It’s more than just his job. I know I have this jewelry partly because of him, but my life with him is the best it’s ever been.”
I paused for a moment and added, “My childhood was chaotic. My parents meant well but were often overwhelmed and couldn’t provide a consistent, secure environment. So, I ended up living with my grandmother.”
Sophie looked at me sympathetically. “Is that where all the dresses and heels you wear came from? All those clothes I saw in the closet?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice carrying admiration and resignation. “She grew up in a time when women knew their place and dressed the part. I used to wear her heels around the house, and I learned to walk in them from an early age. She encouraged it. It wasn’t until years later that I fully understood what she meant, but she used to say that the only way a woman could become properly ‘heeled’ was to wear them.”
Sophie, curious and empathetic, asked, “‘Knew their place?’ Seriously? And properly ‘heeled?’ So—what did she mean by that?”
I smiled, knowing that Sophie probably saw a hint of nostalgia in my eyes.
“Like I said, she grew up in a different time. She had a career, but women had a role ... and one of those was wearing heels. She believed that heels weren’t just about fashion. To her, it was a symbol of grace and sophistication. She used to say that to be truly ‘heeled’ meant more than just putting on a pair of shoes—it was about embodying confidence and poise.”
Sophie tilted her head, intrigued. “So, it was more than just about looking good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She believed that proper women wore heels until their feet became so accustomed to them that walking any other way felt unnatural.”
Sophie’s eyes widened slightly. “So, she felt women should wear heels until their bodies became dependent on them?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It was a different time. That’s how she ended up in four-inch stilettos. Most women wore shorter heels back then, and she did, too, at least at first. But over time, her heels just kept getting higher. She knew they were towering compared to what other women wore, but she said anything lower felt unnatural.”
I added, “When I became a teenager and could fit into the old work dresses she had kept, I started wearing them too.”
Sophie asked, “So, what did she think about you wearing her dresses? She seemed to want you to learn how to walk in stilettos and become ‘heeled.’ Did she think the same way about you wearing her clothes? I mean—you were a teenager.”
I nodded. “She was fine with it. And just like with the stilettos, she encouraged it.”
I paused, reflecting on the complexity of our relationship.
“As I mentioned, she grew up in a time when women were expected to dress and act a certain way. She taught me how to dress. She was very particular about how things should be done.”
Sophie asked, intrigued by the discussion, “Like what?”
“I remember the first time she taught me how to shave my legs,” Becca began. “She explained how to dry them properly, and once I had done it as if by magic, a pair of her vintage stockings and a garter appeared. She showed me how to put them on and adjust everything exactly right.”
Sophie asked, clearly surprised, “Seriously, your grandmother had you wear stockings and a garter when you were a teenager?”
“Yeah, she told me that ‘Women never, ever show their bare legs,’ she said. ‘Only floozies do—the kind of women who expose their thighs to men,’ she added dismissively.”
I looked at Sophie and nodded. “Her words reflected the values of her time, instilling in me a strict sense of decorum and modesty. She was loving but also extremely strict, and she made it clear that showing bare legs was not acceptable. Even though I didn’t know what floozies were at the time, I knew I didn’t want to be seen as one. That was the last time I ever showed my bare legs in a dress or skirt. Plus, she’d never let me go out without stockings—or at least pantyhose. It was a matter of principle for her.”
Sophie laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. So, you just dressed that way from then on—the way you’re dressed now?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I was a teenage girl who looked like I belonged on the set of Mad Men. Ever since, I’ve dressed in four-inch heels, hosiery, and a dress or a skirt.”
I added, “I occasionally wear shorts and pants, but only when I’m on some kind of adventure.”
As I said this, Sophie pulled into a parking spot and asked, “Speaking of adventures—ready?”
I nodded as Sophie helped me out of her car. She grabbed both our bags, and while she carried them, I held onto the connecting chain as we walked into the museum.
Becca continued to describe her day to me.
She told me they had arrived just before nine, and the museum hadn’t opened to visitors yet, so it was quiet except for the staff who had just arrived before them.
Their entire day was subdued. Sophie assisted Becca as needed, but most of it was spent coordinating matters with the current exhibition in Chicago and working with Veronica on a potential new one. From what I understood, Becca and Sophie were finalizing the details to pitch the idea to Eleanor.
Her voice trailed off slightly, and I realized I had a question.
“You shared all that with her?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s not like it’s a secret. Most of it focused on the clothes and my grandmother and the influence she had on me.”
Becca looked at me and added, “I left out the details. I wasn’t ready to discuss why I had to live with my grandmother.”
With Becca’s anxiety high, I had her in the jacket and frogtied. The muzzle and its accompanying padlocks were on the bedside table, so she knew she’d be in it soon.
“So, was it the discussion about your parents that raised your anxiety?” I asked.
“Like I said, I didn’t go into the details with Sophie,” she replied. “What was I supposed to say? I loved my parents, but they couldn’t take care of themselves, let alone a little girl. My father died in an accident, and my mother, who already struggled with mental illness, completely lost herself after his death and eventually took her own life. And I had to be raised by my grandmother.”
Unable to move but shifting slightly, Becca added, “Yeah, thinking about all that and the rest of the day—it really got my anxiety up.”
I let Becca continue and didn’t interrupt her again. She explained that it had been a quiet day overall. But while she was out of her office and walking with Sophie—to view one of the open spaces that was currently closed off for an upcoming exhibit—they ran into a family visiting the museum. The exchange with them was fine, but it left Becca feeling unsettled.
I listened as she described it—the woman’s stance, the way she glanced at her husband and daughter, the seriousness creeping into her expression. Her perspective seeped in, coloring the scene with the anxieties and awareness I couldn’t fully feel myself.
But before long, I was there beside Sophie, restrained and observing the family through Becca’s eyes.
“You’re the woman everyone’s been talking about,” the woman said, standing next to what I assumed was her husband and young daughter.
“Yes, probably,” I replied. “I’m guessing you’re referring to these?” I gently gestured to my restrained hands.
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