The Clerk
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 12: Crazy, Freak, Dangerous
“Bobby?” I asked, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Coordinating your next date?”
“Yes.”
“And?” I prompted, waiting for her to give me the rest of the details.
“We’re thinking next Friday.”
“Only thinking?” I raised an eyebrow. “What’s the holdup?”
I glanced at the calendar behind the counter. “There’s nothing going on. That works.”
“Waiting on a response from Bambi,” she replied, smiling back. “Seeing if Friday works for her.”
She shrugged, still grinning. “You know ... our double date.”
Her phone chimed. She glanced at the screen, typed a quick reply, smiled when it chimed again, and sent another message.
“There,” she said, holding up her phone so I could see. “Bobby and Bambi are both confirmed for Friday. Bambi will be here at six.”
She smiled at me. “I told her to come at six so you can get her into her restraints—make sure everything’s secure, since we’ll be out. And I know you don’t like taking them off once they’re on, unless it’s an emergency.”
“Bobby’s coming at seven,” she added. “You should have Bambi and me fully restrained and ready by then.”
I looked at her phone. “You told her to go to the department store?” I asked. “To pick up another outfit?”
Susan shrugged again. “It’ll give you two a chance to talk. And ... well ... you can help her pick out something sexy to wear.”
I looked at her flatly. “It’s not like that,” I told her.
She just smiled.
“Maybe a fitted business suit,” she said casually. “Something like what Trinity wore. And the same tailored dress shirt...”
She looked at me, a glint in her eye. “Bambi’s ... well ... she’s definitely got boobs.”
I was about to deny it again when a customer walked up and placed a book on the counter.
“Is that all today?” I asked. “Can I help you find anything else?”
The woman nodded, but her attention was fixed on Susan. Her eyes were clearly drawn to the restraints—Susan’s hands chained securely to her waist.
“I’ve read it—it’s really good,” Susan said, nodding at the book. “Keeps you guessing till the end.”
The woman gave a small nod but didn’t speak.
“Thirty-six eighty-two,” I said. “Cash or card?”
She handed me her credit card, and I took it from her. I slipped the book into a bag, then passed it back to her along with her card and the receipt.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “For coming in today and supporting the tiny stores here in SoHo.”
She smiled and nodded, but still didn’t say anything. Her gaze was fixed—subtly, but unmistakably—on Susan. Even when she looked at me, her eyes kept drifting back.
Susan, standing there with her hands chained to her waist, didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care.
The woman hesitated. Then, glancing between us, she finally spoke—quietly, cautiously.
“Sorry ... um—can I ask?” She gestured subtly toward Susan, but looked at me, clearly unsure how to phrase it. “Is she ... okay?”
Susan smiled politely. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said brightly.
The woman tilted her head slightly, her voice low, hesitant. “So ... you’re—you’re okay in those?”
“Yes,” Susan replied calmly. “Really, I’m okay.”
The woman blinked, clearly trying to process what she was seeing.
“But ... why?” she asked. “I mean—if you don’t mind me asking. Why are you in those?”
Susan glanced at me briefly, then back at the woman. “It’s ... complicated,” she said softly. “Let’s just say it’s about managing things. Keeping safe.”
She shrugged lightly, as if that explained everything.
“When I’m not in them, it can get...” She trailed off a little. “It’s just better this way.”
The woman nodded slowly, clearly trying to piece together what Susan had meant.
“It just seems ... excessive?” she asked carefully. “I mean, when I’ve seen situations like this, it’s usually just handcuffs. Maybe leg irons, at most.”
“It’s not that bad,” Susan said softly, stepping around the counter so the woman could see her more clearly. She then pointed down at her feet. “Even the leg cuffs—you kind of get used to it.”
The woman’s eyes widened as Susan stepped into view, hobbling forward—the chain at her waist dropping down to the gleaming cuffs at her ankles, each step measured, restricted by the short hobble chain that clinked softly with her movement.
I had her in the other set today—the leg cuffs with the slightly shorter chain. I needed her to get used to the rhythm of it, to learn how to carry herself with grace and control, even in a forced hobble. Especially in five-inch heels. And the store was the perfect place for that—familiar and just public enough.
The woman took a small step back, blinking again. Her voice was softer now, cautious.
“So ... so you’re allowed to be out like this? In public?”
Susan smiled brightly, unfazed. “Yes. Very.”
She glanced down at the restraints around her waist, then back up again.
“The sheriff’s department knows about it,” she added casually, as if that explained everything.
The woman’s eyes flicked from Susan’s face to the chain at her waist ... then down to the cuffs at her ankles. Her brow furrowed.
“They’re aware? I—I would hope so,” she replied, a little surprised by Susan’s comment.
“And they’re okay with it? That you’re just ... out like this? Unsupervised?” Her voice was a mix of disbelief and confusion. “They’re ... they’re not worried? At all?”
Susan gave a small shrug. “Yeah ... they’re fine with it.”
The woman stared at her, clearly still trying to wrap her head around it.
Then, without thinking much of it, Susan gave the restraints at her waist and wrists a light tug—the metal clinked sharply, and the woman flinched, just slightly.
“I can’t get out of this,” she said, shaking her head. “These are what they use on high-risk inmates—the really dangerous ones.”
She gave the chain another tug, metal clinking softly. “Nope. No getting out of these. Not without the keys and someone who actually knows how to take them off.”
That seemed to only confuse the woman more. She opened her mouth like she wanted to ask something else—but didn’t. Instead, she gave a tight, polite smile and adjusted the bag in her hands.
“Well ... um ... I guess that’s good,” she said awkwardly. “That—that they know you’re like that.”
“I just didn’t realize they had unsupervised programs like this,” she said hesitantly. “You know...” She nodded toward Susan. “For individuals like yourself who require restraints like those.”
Her gaze dropped again to the cuffs, and her voice lowered slightly.
“It’s good they have programs for people like you ... I just didn’t think that applied to a certain ... kind of case.” She glanced at me, then added, “It’s really great that you’re doing this—letting her work here, giving her a chance at something like a normal life.”
She offered a tentative smile, clearly trying to be supportive, but still uneasy.
I smiled and nodded, quietly enjoying the awkward exchange. This had happened earlier in the month—Susan and a customer completely talking past each other, neither fully grasping the other’s reality. Susan was oblivious to the fact that the woman thought she was on some kind of work-release program.
I knew I should correct her, but I didn’t. I knew this town. Whether people thought Susan was on work release, or that it was some kind of bondage fetish, or a psychological issue—it didn’t matter. In the end, people would gossip, make up stories, and no matter how much you tried to control the narrative, the people in this town would believe whatever they wanted.
But I could see it in Susan’s eyes—the little bulb over her head finally switched on.
“Uh,” she said, stumbling a bit. “Job here ... normal life?” she repeated, almost to herself.
Then she took a step forward, and the woman instinctively took a step back.
“It’s really great they have programs like this. And that they trust you to be out in public, around others...” The woman gestured politely toward the restraints. “But they also understand the situation and the importance of public safety, so they make sure you’re properly restrained.”
“But even with all that on you,” she continued, her voice softening. “It must be nice to wear civilian clothes ... you know, to put on a pretty dress ... even pantyhose ... to just feel normal.”
Her eyes dropped to Susan’s shoes and then smiled. “And really high heels,” she added quietly. “It must be nice to just feel ... girly.”
“I guess they’re not worried about the stilettos ... that you’d slip them off,” she mused aloud.
I knew what she was getting at—that the heels could be used as weapons.
“The leg cuffs are snug around her ankles,” I explained. “That’s why she’s wearing hose. Helps protect her skin a little.”
“And the cuffs are tight enough that without the heels,” I continued, “she can’t walk properly. The cuffs would dig into her tendons. Without them, she has to stand on her stocking toes—that’s the only way she can move.”
“That’s why she’s in five-inch heels,” I smiled. “The higher the heels, the tighter we can make the leg cuffs—and the higher her foot has to be just to stand if she tries to take the heels off.”
“Ah,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Yeah, that makes sense.” She nodded slowly. “You really can’t walk any other way.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Five-inch stilettos and short-chain leg cuffs...” I nodded. “No chance of getting away. She can only hobble around the store.”
“So, it’s really safe then,” the woman said in return.
“Perfectly,” I replied. “As you saw, she can’t move her hands—they’re cuffed to her waist. She has to hobble in the heels or not walk at all. Completely safe.”
“Okay,” the woman said with a smile. “I’ll have to tell my friends about this place. Especially since you’re so open to helping others.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Anyway,” the woman added, offering a small smile, “you two have a nice afternoon.”
I watched her leave, the door chime fading into the quiet hum of the store.
Susan glanced at me, a hint of something unspoken in her eyes—maybe relief, maybe resignation. I wasn’t sure.
For a moment, we stood there in silence, the restraints softly clinking as she shifted her weight.
In this little bubble of normalcy, it was easy to forget the world outside—the rumors, the judgments, the stories people told themselves to make sense of things they didn’t understand.
“So, she thought I was ... like a prisoner?” Susan asked slowly. “That I was on some kind of work-release program or something?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, smiling a little.
Susan closed her eyes with a quiet groan. “Is that why she kept stepping back?”
I nodded again. “Yeah. You did tell her you’re in the kind of restraints they use on high-risk inmates. The really dangerous kind.”
Her eyes stayed shut for another second, then she exhaled.
“So, she left thinking I’m some dangerous inmate—the kind nobody would normally be allowed out on a program like this. That I have to be locked down in all this just to keep everyone safe. And yeah, I’m dressed up to feel girly, but it’s really just another way to keep me from moving freely, acting out, or running.”
I nodded again. “Uh-huh.”
“Great,” she said, with a sharp edge.
“And she’s going to be telling people that,” she said flatly, as if making sure I understood the full weight of it.
“Just start with—’I suffer from extreme anxiety and my therapist—’”
Susan cut me off. “That makes me sound crazy.”
“So, tell them you’re into bondage and it’s a lifestyle thing,” I offered. “Like we had originally talked about.”
She opened one eye. “Then I sound like a freak.”
“Then you’re on an unsupervised work-release program,” I said. “And since it’s unsupervised, you get to wear those.”
She lifted her head, giving me a look halfway between amused and exasperated.
“Crazy, freak, dangerous,” she said flatly. “Those are my choices.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “And if you don’t say anything, or you’re vague, they’ll just assume option three—that you’re dangerous. But yeah, they’re definitely going to tell others.”
Susan sighed.
“What other options are there?” I asked her. “That you’re being held captive? Because that one’s not going to end well either ... probably even worse.”
“What’s wrong with just telling people you’re into bondage?” I asked her. “That’s what you’ve been telling people ... that’s what you told Bobby.”
“I hate the look they give me,” she replied. “Like I’m some ... broken thing. Like there’s something wrong with me. Like I’m doing it for attention, or because I’m messed up.”
She shook her head, the chain at her waist giving a soft rattle. “They smile, but it’s always tight. Always guarded. Like they’re trying really hard not to say what they’re thinking.”
“They’re guarded, Susan, because you’re in restraints—the sort they strap onto dangerous inmates. The kind you only ever see in films, for the ones who are really dangerous. So yeah, that’s the story everyone’s brains jump to. It’s natural. And unless someone points them the other way, that’s what they’ll keep telling themselves.”
I nodded. “People want a tidy story. If the truth doesn’t fit, they build a version that does—whatever version seems to make the most sense.”
“Look at Becca,” I said. “How many stories have we heard about her?”
I looked at Susan. “And which one do we hear the most?”
I waited for her to answer.
“That she’s required to wear them...”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s a law enforcement thing. The sheriff’s department makes her.”
“Because...?” I pressed.
She closed her eyes. “To keep everyone safe.”
“So, what do people think,” I asked, “unless they know her personally? Or they’re from the museum, or part of that artsy crowd?”
She let out a sigh. “That she’s dangerous.”
“And?” I asked.
“It’s okay to be around her ... as long as she’s restrained.”
Susan searched my face. “So which lie’s the least awful?”
“Tell the truth,” I said with a small shrug. “Otherwise more people like that woman will walk away today thinking you’re dangerous—and they’ll spread it.”
“The anxiety?” she asked softly. “That I only feel right when I’m like this? That without it, I’m overwhelmed ... lost?”
She paused, watching me. Then, more quietly:
“And that you keep me like this twenty-four se—” She caught herself, then continued, voice lower. “During the day ... and at night I now sleep frogtied in a straitjacket, gagged, and in leather cuffs? With a metal dildo and butt plug locked inside me until morning?”
“You don’t sleep with the muzzle on,” I explained. “I only tape and muzzle you long enough to get the chastity belt on. And before you go to bed, I take the muzzle and tape off.”
I crossed my arms. “And I’ve only been adding thirty minutes each night to the belt. I even get up during the night to unlock it and gently take it off—before putting you back into the frogtie.”