The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 11: It Was Overwhelming
“Does it hurt?” I asked, my voice low and edged with worry as Isla’s eyes flicked down to her wrists. Faint bruises bloomed across her skin—red indentations lay where the cuffs had held her captive through the night. Her ankles bore the same silent testimony—marks left by her resistance, by the way she had fought beneath me.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No,” she whispered, though the slight quiver in her voice gave her away. “It looks worse than it feels.”
Guilt twisted inside me like a knot pulled too tight. “Okay,” I murmured, though the word felt empty. “It should be gone by Monday ... in time for the audition.”
She offered a small, practiced smile, but her body betrayed her—a subtle tremble still ran through her limbs. It said everything her lips refused to—that she hadn’t yet decided how she felt about it.
“I’m sorry,” I finally told her, my voice heavy with regret. “I didn’t realize—”
She held that same smile, but her eyes still carried the weight of the night. “So ... me struggling, screaming ‘It hurts’ and ‘Please stop’—that wasn’t clear enough?”
I flinched. “I thought you were just being playful. Sexy,” I said, guilt seeping in like an uninvited guest. “Like when I first cuffed you to the bed—when you struggled, I thought you were teasing me ... showing how you couldn’t get free.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, her laugh soft but brittle, like it might shatter if she breathed too hard. “I couldn’t get free, alright. Those cuffs? Definitely fucking real. And I knew that yesterday, having been stuck in them all day. But last night...” She paused, her gaze distant. “It confirmed it.”
She spoke the next part more softly, like the words were balancing on the edge of something sharp. Again, she seemed to be struggling with how she felt about it.
“And yeah, I wanted to look helpless—for you. At first, it was fun. But then ... it started to hurt.”
Her fingers drifted absentmindedly over the faint bruises, her touch almost reverent. She wasn’t just recalling the pain—she was reliving the confusion that came with it.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, the words falling uselessly between us, as if trying to undo what had already been done.
Her cheeks flushed as her gaze flickered. “You’re normally so gentle. Just talking about sex gets you flustered, even embarrassed. But last night...”
She paused, the memory thick in the air between us.
“You’ve never been like that before. Not like that. It felt ... fuller. I don’t know how else to explain it. Like you were bigger. A lot bigger. And you went deeper than you ever have. I think ... I think you touched my cervix.”
She breathed out slowly, her tone softer now.
“That’s when the pain really began,” Isla’s voice cracked a little. “I kept telling you to stop—over and over—but you didn’t. So, I started struggling, trying to push you out of me. But with you lying on the chain ... I couldn’t move my legs at all.”
She swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor as if the memory burned too bright. “That’s why I arched my back, curled my abdomen—anything to create space, to keep you from going any deeper. But there was nowhere for the tension to go. I was trapped in that position, stuck and straining against it all.”
Her voice was barely more than a whisper now. “And the harder I fought, the deeper you went. It was intense—overwhelming. There was a moment when I honestly thought I might pass out.”
She looked up then, eyes searching mine with vulnerability. “Was it because I was chained up?” she asked softly. “Is that what made you feel ... what made you so big?”
I nodded, heat creeping up my cheeks in embarrassment.
Seeing my reaction, her tone softened, no trace of anger—just a quiet desire to understand. “I’m not upset,” she said gently. “I just want to know. It’s okay—I just need to understand why ... why you were like that.”
I looked down, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “It was because you were tied up ... and because of what you said.”
She gave a faint smile, a fragile light flickering behind her eyes. “I screamed a lot of things last night,” she murmured, as if recalling a secret only I was meant to hear.
I took a breath, trying to find the words. “After we finished the first time,” I said slowly, “I asked if you wanted to be released.”
My voice faltered for a moment before steadying into a quiet certainty. “You wanted me to pull out ... but you wanted me to keep you cuffed—that you were mine, and that I could do whatever I wanted to you.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper. “Uh ... yeah, I did say that,” she admitted now recalling the conversation.
“If it hurt that much,” I said softly, “why didn’t you just ask me to uncuff you?”
“You’ve never been like that before, so when you asked me if I wanted to be let go, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want it—I did—I just didn’t want to disappoint you. And then I came. Hard. Toes curling, whole-body kind of release. It felt incredible. Overwhelming, but in a good way. So, when it was over, I needed a second. A break—from how deep you were, from how intense it all was. And you were still hard. Still so big, even after you finished,” she said quietly. “And I remember thinking ... there’s no way you could do that again. Not like that.”
“Then around 4, I woke when you touched me again. You pulled on the leg cuff chain, and I felt you back inside me. That’s why I was begging you to finish so you’d get soft—because you were still just as hard and big. When you finally did this morning, I was so exhausted from struggling and screaming all night that I just lay there crying.”
“Did you come in me three times last night?” she asked softly.
“I know the first time—I could feel it, how full you made me. But the second and third? I wasn’t completely sure ... there was already so much. I still felt full even after you pulled out. Not in a bad way—it felt good. Safe. Like I didn’t even need to check with my hands or anything ... not that I could. But I could just feel it.”
I nodded.
“Okay,” she sighed with calm resolve. “I’m going to have to get on birth control. Especially with me being cuffed and all ... and you reacting the way you do when I’m like that. We’re definitely safe—I mean, we’re not pregnant—but after last night...”
She thought for a moment before continuing. “It’s only a matter of time before I’d get pregnant. And I don’t want to spend my pregnancy hobbling around in full chains.”
She smiled softly, a hint of humor in her voice. “Even Becca doesn’t have to wear them until after the baby is born.”
Looking me straight in the eyes, she asked pointedly, “How do you think that will work? With restraints around the kid? I mean, sure, they could wear them when the baby’s little. But once the baby gets older?”
I nodded, unsure how to respond. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if it were a given: that from now on, she’d be restrained during sex. At least that’s what I think she meant.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to do that every night,” she said, still matter-of-factly.
I thought she was talking about the sex. But she wasn’t.
“With my hands above my head like that,” she continued. “We’ll have to try other positions—like the one we talked about ... where my hands are cuffed behind me, lying on my stomach, legs spread and cuffed to the footboard.”
She looked into my eyes, seeking understanding. “You just have to promise me you’ll use plenty of lubricant if you want me like that in the middle of the night.” Then, firmly, she added, “And you can’t come inside me like last night—not with how much came out. I don’t want all that inside me.”
She softened her voice, noticing the surprise on my face. “I’m not saying I don’t want your come at all,” she said carefully. “Just ... not there. It’ll stay there until I can get it all out or until my body absorbs it. And that’ll take a while. It’s just uncomfortable.”
Again, I nodded—overwhelmed by her honesty, her openness.
“Issy,” I said softly, “I want you to be you. You don’t have to be chained up every time we’re under the covers. You don’t have to wear them around the apartment, or dress up for me ... or be in heels all the time. I’m sorry about our conversation yesterday.”
I leaned back on the couch, letting out a heavy breath. “And ... I’m sorry. About last night. About hurting you.”
She looked at me steadily, her voice soft but grounded, as she cupped my face gently in her hands.
“I gave myself to you ... and you took me. Made me yours. That’s what it felt like, anyway.”
She paused, her eyes searching mine.
“I begged you to stop—and you didn’t. It—It was just the force. The loss of control. I just felt so helpless. It was overwhelming ... I—I just wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t know you could be like that.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me with a kiss—gentle, reassuring.
“It’s okay,” she said, her smile soft but strained. “Really. At least now I understand what you like. How you want me.”
I could see it on her face. She was trying to convince herself.
But then she said it—out loud.
“That my boyfriend wants me obedient? Submissive? That it shows in the way he wants me dressed—restrained, put in positions that leave me open and exposed?” she asked, her voice calm, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet.
“That it brings out a side of him that doesn’t just make love to me—but fucks me. Ruins me. Uses my body until I’m shaking, dripping, and lucky I can even walk after?”
She paused, her eyes shining, searching mine for something steady—something real.
“If that’s what keeps you ... if that’s what love looks like for us...”
Isla turned her gaze toward the restraints still sitting on the coffee table and pointed to them with quiet resolve.
“I have to wear those anyway,” she said, reminding me gently. “Maybe this way ... it’ll force me to really process it all.”
We both looked at the restraints on the table.
“Did you want to go?” I asked. She knew I meant the fair.
I also knew I was changing the subject. I felt bad—guilty about everything.
Isla wanted to make me happy, I could see that. But there was fear in her eyes, too. Her comment, about what she’d learned—that this might be a way to keep me—I knew then she was still afraid I’d leave. Even after confessing that I loved her and that I wouldn’t.
She shrugged. “I—I don’t know.”
“You wanted to go,” I said gently. “We still can, if you want.”
“That was before I had to wear those,” she said, nodding toward the cuffs.
“The fair’s at the grounds,” I reminded her. “It should be okay. The sheriff’s department knows your situation. And we have that letter.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s not that. I just ... I don’t want to be stared at. I don’t want to deal with all of that.”
She was right. There would be hundreds of people there. Normally, we’d disappear into the crowd. At least me, anyway. No one would look twice.
But with Isla in restraints...
Yeah. She was right.