The Clerk
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 3: You Two Have Fun
“Too much?” I asked, standing just behind her, eyes tracing her reflection in the mirror, my hands still hovering near her hair.
“No,” she replied softly, her voice light, but the corners of her lips pulled into a small smile. “It’s really pretty.”
I nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s how Mom used to wear her makeup,” I told her, my voice quiet, like the memory was a secret we didn’t need to speak aloud.
She smiled again, but this time there was something different. Her eyes were bright, but only in the way someone might pretend to be happy when they’re holding something back. “Yeah. It’s really nice. I like it.”
The silence stretched between us, thick with things left unsaid. Maybe it was my mention of Mom. Maybe it was everything we’d been talking about these past few days. I couldn’t be sure. But there was a sadness in her eyes—quiet, buried, but unmistakable.
“Maybe you could start wearing it like that from now on,” I offered, eager to fill the quiet. “Bobby might like it. You’ll have to see if he says anything tonight.”
“I could do a braid, too, if you want,” I continued. “He might like your hair up, something different from how you usually wear it.”
“No. I like it down.” She shook her head gently. “He’s only ever seen it that way.”
“We’re not in high school anymore,” I reminded her. “It’s okay to change things.”
She stared down at her cuffed hands. That’s when I understood. It wasn’t that I brought up Mom—that wasn’t what was bothering her. It was the something else. Something she hadn’t dared to voice. At least not directly.
“Okay,” I said softly, being cautious, trying to avoid an argument. My eyes flicked to the wall clock—the ticking suddenly louder, more insistent in the silence. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
She noticed the shift in my gaze. She knew what I was getting at—I didn’t have to say it. She knew the routine.
“You didn’t have to close the store early,” Susan said as she stood and faced me. Her tone light, but still edged. “It’s a Saturday night. We probably would’ve had a few people come in. Maybe buy something.”
She knew I was always worried about money. So yes—her words stung. She hadn’t meant to hurt me. But they did.
Still, I pushed it down, focusing instead on what mattered—what she needed right now.
“I know,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But this is important.”
I then shrugged, like it was no big deal, before I added, “I wanted you to look nice for your date.”
Her eyes softened, but there was a quiet resignation in them. We hadn’t talked about it since yesterday, but I knew it was still weighing on her. She hesitated for a moment, then slowly held out her cuffed hands. I watched as her fingers curled back into the sleeve of her sweater, tugging it just enough to cover one of the cuffs, like she was trying to hide them.
I took a deep breath and grabbed the lockbox from the table. Slowly, I slid it over the hinged cuffs—my hands gentle as I guided her arms inward so the box could settle into place.
That meant I had to pull back the sleeve of her sweater.
I gestured for her to lift her hands to eye level. She already knew the routine—had already started to do it. But I made the gesture anyway.
I felt the subtle shift in her posture, the tension tightening through her muscles.
“Are you sure about the sweater?” I asked, my hands moving with practiced ease as I wrapped the waist chain around her, threading the metal bar through one of the links—but not the usual one. One closer inward. Making the fit tighter.
The cold, sharp clink of the chains echoed in the bedroom as I grabbed the connecting chain from the table, slipping one end of the ring over the bar. I then gestured for her to lower her hands so I could position the bar through the lockbox.
“I’m fine with it on,” she said, her voice quiet. “In case it gets cold.”
I was threading the loose end of the waist chain through the bar, feeding it down the other side when she spoke again, her voice soft, almost hesitant.
“Do they have to be on so snug?” she asked, her voice a little strained.
I didn’t respond right away, but I saw her stiffen under the weight of the question hanging in the air. I knew exactly what she was getting at. And she knew better than to ask. But she’d been more defiant these past few days—ever since Bobby walked into the store.
Before she could speak again, I grabbed the padlock from the table, stepped behind her, lifted her sweater, and snapped it into place with a sharp, final click. I tugged on it once, testing its hold.
She took a hesitant step back.
I moved in front of her again, my hands steady as I pulled the lockbox forward—guiding it with firm precision, pulling it as far as it would go.
“Okay, pull your wrists back,” I said.
She did as I told her, the chain links rattling softly as she tried. Her voice was still resigned. Quiet. “I can’t pull them out,” she said, her gaze flicking from her wrists to me.
“Again,” I said. “Actually try this time.”
She tested the restraints once more—but she wasn’t really trying. Not that I needed her to. I knew they were secure. She couldn’t get them off. But I needed to make a point.
I pressed her thumbs inward, making her hands smaller, then grabbed the lockbox, holding it steady as she pulled hard. The handcuffs held firm.
She paused, then looked up at me, her eyes searching mine—searching for any hint of doubt.
“Anne,” she said, her voice louder this time. “Really, I can’t slip out. You’ve got them on really snug.”
Then, her voice softened as she asked again, “Do they have to be—”
I cut her off. “Just making sure they’re on properly,” I said, my tone calm, though the tension between us was rising. “That’s all.”
She watched silently as I reached for the leg cuffs. I opened one side, grasped the connecting chain, and lifted it until the ring was in my hand. Looping the cuffs through, I bent down and locked them around her ankles—the cold metal clicking shut with a quick, sure motion. I then double-locked them.
Susan didn’t react outwardly, but I caught her eyes lift toward the ceiling—her expression carefully indifferent. She knew the routine; she was usually fine with it. Honestly, I can’t remember how many times we’ve done this in the past month. It was automatic. Practiced.
But tonight, I could see it—there was a resistance, a frustration.
Standing back up, I took a small step away, my eyes never leaving her. She looked beautiful. The dress fit her perfectly—a sleek column of black fabric adorned with crimson blossoms that seemed painted on. The high neckline and sleeveless cut framed her gracefully, while the fabric hugged her curves just enough to trace the delicate lines of her waist and hips. The skirt loosened as it fell softly to just above her ankles, the hem catching the light in a gentle, fluid drape. Definitely better than the dress I’d been thinking about earlier this week. Sexier, yes—but still covered her.
The restraints fit her perfectly too, like they were made for this dress. The waist chain cinched around her slim waist, accentuating her shape, while the connecting chain seemed to vanish into the folds of the fabric, almost invisible until it reappeared just as the dress ended.
And though I wasn’t entirely sure about the sweater, it worked really well. It added a layer of softness to the boldness of the outfit, giving off that subtle yet undeniable sexy librarian look that Susan carried so effortlessly.
“Take a few steps,” I instructed.
She walked around the room, testing the restraints with each step—her movements fluid, practiced. She had learned how to move in the leg cuffs. But today was different. That subtle tension beneath her, that quiet resignation, had stiffened her posture in a way I hadn’t seen since the first days she was restrained. It was as if I’d cuffed her for the very first time.
“I’m fine,” she remarked, her voice steady, though I could hear the faintest edge of unhappiness.
“The heels feel okay?” I asked, my gaze dropping to her feet, noting how she shifted her weight from one to the other, as if checking for any discomfort.
“Yeah,” she shrugged. “They fit really well.”
I smiled, a quiet satisfaction settling over me. “I thought they might. They’re old stock—real leather. They’ll mold to your feet tonight and fit like a glove.”
“And they go well with a pencil skirt, fitted top. So, you can wear them in the store too,” I explained.
She was in heels all the time now. At least four inches, sometimes five. If these heels molded like I believed they would, she’d be able to wear them comfortably. At least, that was my thinking.
The department store had more like these—I just needed to figure out how to discount them so I could pick up a few more.
Susan looked down, her brow furrowing slightly. “These hose really don’t go with these heels.”
She was right. The hose were heavier—definitely not the kind you’d pair with open-toe heels. Certainly not formal hose. More the everyday type you’d wear to a business meeting with a suit and three-inch heels. They stood out against what she was wearing. Maybe an older woman could pull it off—no one would blink at thicker pantyhose paired with stilettos on someone more ... seasoned. But Susan? At her age, it was impossible to ignore. Most of us didn’t even wear pantyhose anymore. And with open-toe heels? We wouldn’t even consider it.
And that was exactly the point. I wanted the hose to draw attention—knowing they’d do it in the most deliciously unexpected way. Especially since they weren’t thick enough to fully obscure the bright red of her toenails. They remained visible—bold little flashes of color, like a secret she couldn’t quite hide.
“On future dates, you’ll wear sheerer hose,” I replied, my voice soft but matter-of-fact. “But these ... they’ll get his attention tonight.”
That’s when she hesitated—a brief pause, as if weighing something. Finally, her voice softened.
“Can ... can you please loosen these just a little? Just a little.”
She looked at me, twisting her hands in the cuffs, palms turned upward—as if pleading.
I shook my head. I wasn’t angry, but annoyance was creeping in.
“They’re fine,” I said, keeping my tone as gentle as I could. “You can still twist your wrists around. The waist chain is just snugger, so your hands stay closer to your waist. That’s all. Which means they sit higher—exactly where you want them. At the taper of the dress. It accentuates your hourglass shape.”
I took a step closer, my fingers grazing the cold metal of the restraints as I inspected them carefully.
“Plus,” I added, my voice lowering slightly—still doing my best not to sound irritated, “they’re locked the way they should be. Like for a handover ... or a prison transport. Tight. Secure. No slipping out.”
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