The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 14: I’m Fine
Isla stepped into view. The fitted purple button-down shirt clung just enough to trace her form, the three-quarter sleeves stopping precisely at the point where her forearms tapered. The fabric moved with her—not freely, not easily—but like something that had to be negotiated with. Her grey pinstriped, high-waist pencil skirt pulled tight across her hips and thighs, the hem resting just below her knees and locking them close. Each step she took was slow, cautious, not for dramatic effect, but because the outfit allowed no choice.
Her legs were encased in tan pantyhose. Not the barely-there kind. Not the kind Becca seemed to wear. But the kind that smoothed everything into uniform perfection. They matched her skin tone, but made her skin look unreal—cool and flawless, like porcelain under museum glass. The black stilettos she wore added to that effect: the six inches forced her to balance delicately on an invisible edge, her feet held just slightly forward, subtly tense.
She smiled when she saw me. Or tried to. There was something practiced in it, something that hadn’t settled fully into comfort. Her shoulders were drawn, her stance precise—composed, but not quite natural. Not yet.
And then there were the restraints.
They were back on—fitted properly. Black leather straps sat flush against her wrists and ankles, the metal studs aligned in neat rows. The cuffs were snug between the studs, clearly designed to protect her skin. Nothing dug in, nothing shifted out of place.
Becca followed behind with Sophie, setting a garment bag gently on the couch.
“This is the suit for tomorrow’s audition,” she said with a smirk. “And a few other ... things.”
Then she added, almost offhandedly, “There’s a pair of tan five-inch stilettos in there too, just in case the six-inch ones are a little too much for her.”
She looked at Isla, then at me—just long enough.
“But if she makes it through the day in those,” she went on, “she’ll be fine. It’s mostly about getting used to the height. Takes time, but once it clicks ... it’s second nature.”
Sophie noticed where my attention had settled. She had been watching me the whole time, silently observing how my eyes never left Isla.
So, she responded evenly to what had caught my gaze.
“It’s the snuggest shirt and skirt we could find that still let her move comfortably,” she said. “We wanted her to get used to wearing something like the skirt she’ll have on tomorrow for the role.”
Becca nodded in agreement and then slowly unzipped the garment bag, revealing just enough of the suit for me to get a glimpse.
“The shirt and skirt aren’t as tight as what Isla’s wearing now, but they’re still pretty snug,” she added, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the fabric.
“The jacket, though—it’s sharply tailored. You can leave it open or button it up. Buttoned, it gives that ... sexy hourglass shape.”
She paused, then added quickly,
“I mean—if that’s the look you’re going for tomorrow.”
She glanced up, her eyes flicking from Isla to me, her voice soft but certain.
“It’ll be like the heels. If she’s fine today in that skirt ... honestly, the suit tomorrow won’t be a problem.”
Her gaze drifted back to Isla’s legs, lingering for a moment before she added, a faint smile playing at her lips.
“Not that the skirt’s going to restrict her movement. I mean, it will—but the chain’s shorter, so it’ll stop her stride before the fabric ever could.”
Until now, I’d been preoccupied with the clothes, the hosiery, the heels. But Becca was right—the steel chain between Isla’s ankles was stretched nearly taut. Eight inches, maybe, if you counted the cuffs themselves. Probably less.
The skirt left just a little give ... but not enough to matter.
“Is that why she’s wearing them again?” I asked quietly.
Becca looked over at Isla, her expression briefly unreadable. Then she nodded.
“When you can’t use your hands to steady yourself, walking in heels becomes incredibly difficult. You don’t realize how much you rely on your arms—until you can’t. They counter your stride, keep your balance, pull your center back in line.”
She nodded toward Isla.
“If she’s going to be in that suit and those heels tomorrow,” she said, gesturing first to the garment bag, then to Isla’s feet, “it’s really important she practices wearing the restraints with the heels on.”
She trailed off, then looked at me again—and that’s when I realized I was staring at the leather straps beneath the cuffs.
Gently, seeing this, she took Isla’s hands in hers, showing me the fit.
“They sit right between the studs, so there’s no shifting. No sliding. No pressure points,” Becca said, her voice calm, almost clinical—until it softened just slightly.
“They help while her body’s still adjusting ... still tensing up from not being used to the restraints.”
She paused, then let her voice drop lower, more intimate now.
“But once she stops fighting it—once her body gives in and starts to want the hold—she won’t need the support anymore.”
There was a sympathetic smile.
“And we saw the bruising...”
She glanced at me—briefly at first, then let her gaze linger. Her eyes were steady, but something in them had shifted. Closer now. More direct.
“Just make sure she wears them. Not for the audition, obviously. But the rest of the time ... I know it’s extra work putting them on with the cuffs, but they’ll really protect her skin.”
There was a pause. She looked at Isla, then down again.
Becca shifted her weight slightly, her fingers still resting on the edge of Isla’s cuffs. She was choosing her words—careful now, but with a hesitation that gave her away.
“They’re especially helpful at night ... you know, for sleeping in,” she said, her voice quieter. “They keep the metal from digging in. When she moves around.”
Another pause. Longer this time. She didn’t look up.
Her words hung there, open-ended, like she’d just realized what they might mean out loud. Something flickered in her expression—a narrowing of her eyes, the subtle tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“Oh, and—” Her voice lifted, lighter now, clearly shifting gears. “There’s a new pair of sheer seamed stockings in the bag too. They go with the garter. Don’t worry about returning those.”
She glanced at Isla briefly. “She was worried the cuffs might snag them. And they might—that’s why she’s wearing the thicker Sheer Energy ones right now. But for tomorrow? Wear the sheers. They work with the teddy, especially the garter. Pantyhose just ... don’t.”
Becca then added, “And the seams can be a bit tricky to get straight on your own—especially if you’ve never worn stockings with a back seam before. So, you’ll need to help her.”
“Thanks,” I murmured. My eyes hadn’t moved in minutes.
Sophie and Becca exchanged the kind of glance people do when they both know something they’re not going to say aloud.
“Food’s ready,” Ben called from the kitchen.
I stood, reaching instinctively to help Isla. Her steps were slow—each one tested. Between the heels and the chain, her movement was a quiet act of focus. I steadied her with a hand at her back, then pulled the chair out gently and eased her down into it.
She started to cross her legs but stopped—checked by the chain. Without a word, I bent down and adjusted it, laying the links so they fell neatly down the center of her skirt, disappearing between her knees.
Once she was seated, I took my own chair.
Ben began plating food, talking softly, but I wasn’t listening. Becca’s voice cut back in.
“Are you sure you don’t want them off?” she asked Isla, her tone low and careful. “It’s okay.”
Isla looked down at her cuffed hands, then up with a steadying breath. Her voice was calm, almost firm.
“I’m fine.”
Becca studied her for a moment.
“You sure?”
Isla nodded, eyes steady.
“It’s easier this way ... You saw how much work they are to get on and off. With the chain catching and all through the lockbox.”
The words were simple, but the weight behind them lingered—something unspoken, but clear.
Becca gave a small, knowing smile.
“Alright. Just say if you change your mind.”
Sophie leaned in, her voice low after a stretch of quiet.
“I’m glad you texted yesterday,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t reply until late. I saw the message come in, but we were still at the wedding. Didn’t get back home until late.”
“We’re just happy you were able to help with the clothes,” I said. “Really. Thanks—and for the invite.”
Sophie smiled, a soft, genuine one. “Of course. I’m glad it worked out.”
“But since you’re here ... Becca and I wanted to speak to you about helping us with an upcoming event at the museum,” Sophie said, her tone shifting just slightly—more purposeful now.
“Oh, right,” Isla replied, straightening a little. “Yeah, you mentioned that at the flea market ... something about Becca not being able to wear the restraints because of the pregnancy.”
Sophie nodded slowly. “Yeah. With you being an actor, we thought you’d be perfect,” she said, then hesitated—her eyes flicking briefly to the cuffs around Isla’s wrists. “But now, with the ... current situation...”
Isla held her gaze and cut in, just enough to steer things back. “What kind of event is it?”
“It’s a one-night installation event—Stillness & Structure. The focus is on questioning perception. Visitors move through a series of staged tableaus. You know, figures dressed in formal wear, bound but composed. It’s not about bondage as we usually think of it, but about what we don’t recognize as bondage—what we call ‘elegant,’ ‘professional,’ or ‘appropriate,’ even when it restricts movement completely.”
She paused, letting the thought settle, then gave Becca a subtle nod—an unspoken cue to continue.
Becca met Isla’s eyes, then glanced briefly at me, as if deciding how far to go. After a moment, her expression grew clear and deliberate—the quiet confidence of someone preparing to explain something intimate but essential.
“It’s about emphasizing bondage so we can see it in places we usually don’t,” she began, her tone steady. “But it’s also about consent—the choice to live within a socially acceptable kind of captivity. There’s historical precedent for this. Corsets, for example—worn daily for generations. They changed how women stood, how they breathed, how they moved. And no one called it bondage ... well, other than maybe the women wearing them. But it was seen as feminine. Proper. Expected.”
She let that sit for a moment, then continued.
“And not just corsets. Heels. Stockings. Gloves. Tight skirts. Every era finds new ways to bind the body—especially women’s—under the guise of elegance, or formality, or professionalism.”
Isla tilted her head slightly. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Becca’s mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “The event is designed to strip away the context and leave only the aesthetic. These scenes spotlight clothing choices that are seen as completely normal—things people wear to work, to parties, to ceremonies. But by isolating those choices, we invite people to ask: Which parts are the restraint?”
Sophie leaned forward slightly. “One display is called The Archivist. She’s dressed in a fitted skirt, blouse, jacket, sheer hose, and heels. Almost exactly like what you’re wearing now ... or what you’ll be in tomorrow. In an office, no one would think twice. She’s polished. Professional. But in the piece, her arms are bound behind her. She’s seated at a desk, surrounded by stacks of paper she can’t touch. Can’t type. Can’t answer the phone. And yet—she looks serene. Ordered. Elegant.”
Isla didn’t respond, her silence more thoughtful than confused—yet it was clear she still hadn’t fully grasped it.
Sophie’s voice softened, leaning in slightly. “Most viewers will say, Her hands are tied. That’s the bondage. But is it? She’s also in really high heels. Her legs are restricted by a skirt that forces her knees together. Her legs are wrapped in pantyhose. Her jacket pulls her shoulders back and keeps them there. Isn’t that restraint too? But because those parts are normal—because they’re expected—we don’t call it bondage.”
Sophie’s eyes flicked with thought before she continued. “There’s another tableau—The Anchor. It shows a woman sitting behind a sleek news desk, perfectly poised, dressed to the nines in a sharply tailored suit, sheer stockings, and high heels. Her makeup is flawless, her hair impeccably styled—she looks every bit the confident professional.”
She paused, letting that image settle.
“But here’s the catch ... she’s muzzled with a harness gag. The tight leather straps hold a ball tucked firmly behind her teeth, keeping her from speaking.”
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