The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 15: Say It
“Just don’t say you’re sorry,” Isla said, looking me straight in the eye. “It’s not your fault our neighbors are assholes. I don’t get why they can’t mind their own fucking business.”
We didn’t go back to the Prescotts. We had extra keys to the set she was wearing at the apartment, and Isla just wanted to get home. Plus, we’d see Becca and Sophie tomorrow anyway—since they both work from home on Mondays and live less than 20 minutes from the audition spot. We could return the clothes and grab the keys then.
But as we were coming in, one of the neighbors spotted us. Guess she saw Isla, restrained, but it was probably the outfit, and heels, that really set her off. She sneered, loud enough for us to hear.
“It’s bad enough we have to see you walking around like that—but now you’re parading around like a whore?”
Isla’s jaw had clenched, but she stayed silent.
Then we found out the neighbor had called the sheriff’s department—complaining about the restraints. We knew because, frankly, she told us. I guess she was pissed the cops didn’t do anything. But there was nothing for them to do. Isla was in the restraints, and in the apartment building, not out in public or anything. I think the neighbor was expecting them to arrest Isla or kick her out of the building or something.
“She’s a prude. You know that,” I told Isla gently. “You kept your cool, and so did I. Now we know exactly where we stand with her.”
Isla nodded slightly, calm.
I shifted the subject. “Do you want the cuffs off?”
She shook her head. “We’re giving the clothes back tomorrow. Then it’ll be these pantyhose and the babydoll. That’s as good as it’s going to get. So, no—I’ll stay like this until bed. That way ... you get to see me like this a little longer.”
“But you can at least get the cuffs off,” I told her.
She stepped toward me slowly, and I reached out to steady her. She leaned forward in the heels, lifting the tips off the ground by another inch. Then she leaned in and kissed me—softly, unhurried.
Then she gave a little laugh. “Even in these fuck-me heels, you’re still taller. Guess one perk of wearing them is at least I can reach you easier.”
Heels back on the ground, she then bent down a little, her hands touching me through my pants—slow, the same way she had last night. No rush, just quiet control. It didn’t need words.
She looked up at me with a small, knowing smile. “Yeah ... you definitely like me like this.”
I knew she felt that I had pulsed against her hand. There was no hiding it—no way to explain it away. It was just involuntary, natural, and reactive. My body had answered before I could. A raw, unfiltered response. I hadn’t meant to give anything away, but some things don’t wait for permission.
Then she pulled back slightly, the shift in her weight deliberate, thoughtful. Her voice was softer now.
“Get a pillow?”
She bit her lip, then tilted her head with that same sly curiosity.
“And ... another pair of cuffs? And keys?”
“Now?” I asked.
She nodded.
I walked into the bedroom and came back with the items—another pair of cuffs, the keys, and a small pillow.
Isla looked up at me, her wrists still bound tightly to the chain around her waist. She couldn’t lift her hands far, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes flicked to the floor in front of her—then back to me.
I placed the pillow at her feet.
Then, without needing her to ask, I unbuckled my belt and slid my pants down, stepping out of them slowly. The air felt cooler across my skin, every movement suddenly sharper, more deliberate.
She watched me, silent, then spoke softly.
“Turn around.”
I placed the keys on the coffee table and handed her the cuffs before doing as she asked.
I could feel her close behind me—close enough that I heard the soft jingle of metal before I felt her breath at my back. Her cuffs limited her range, but she made it work, reaching her hands out far enough to bring the first cuff around my wrist. A cold snap of metal closed in place.
Then the second.
“Good,” she murmured.
There was a small pause, then her voice again, quiet but edged with something curious—testing.
“Can you get out?” she asked.
I tugged slightly against the cuffs, feeling the cold bite of metal, the solid resistance behind me.
Then I shook my head. “No.”
A slow, satisfied exhale escaped her lips behind me.
“Perfect,” she said. “Now turn back around.”
As I did, she leaned just a little closer, as if grounding herself with that knowledge—then began her careful descent again, using me for balance, the restraints keeping her movements measured.
When her knees found the pillow, she settled against it slowly, looking up at me with something unmistakable in her eyes—control, calm, and just the hint of a smile.
Then she leaned forward, gently biting me through my boxer briefs. It was soft, teasing. When she looked up again, her voice was low and steady.
“Take them off,” she said, her voice low. “I want to see what’s been inside me the past two nights.”
I looked down, then back at her, hesitating just a moment. With my hands cuffed behind me, it wasn’t going to be easy.
She watched as I struggled—shifting, trying to catch the waistband of my underwear with the backs of my wrists or the awkward twist of a finger.
“Come on,” she said, her tone sharpening just slightly, more insistent now. “Those don’t come off, so you need to figure it out.”
I realized then she wasn’t talking about the underwear. She was talking about the cuffs. She wasn’t taking them off.
I tried again, and bit by bit, the fabric began to slide down.
She didn’t move. She just watched.
And when the waistband finally dropped low enough—falling past my thighs, pooling at my knees—she let out a slow, steady exhale.
“Okay...” she said, looking breathless. “That’s why my eyes rolled back and I felt like I was going to pass out.”
“Um, yeah,” she added, still catching her breath, “we’re, um ... going to need these leather straps from now on. Hopefully Becca doesn’t want them back anytime soon.”
Then, more to herself than to me, she murmured, “Even after I get used to wearing these ... that...”
She rubbed her cheek slowly up and down along me, her skin warm and soft against the undeniable hardness pressing into her.
I pulsed against her again—an involuntary, biological reaction—but this time, the movement was strong enough to make her face shift back slightly under the pressure.
“ ... that’s going to take a lot longer to get used to,” she finished, her voice low and steady.
Then she lowered herself further, taking me in just enough to make me react—slow, and fully aware of the effect it had. She continued like that for a while, until she took me in as much as she could.
Later, the pillow and cuffs were left on the coffee table, and Isla sat on the couch—still dressed, still restrained. I was in the kitchen, heating up the leftovers the Prescotts had sent us home with. Ben had packed enough for dinner, and the quiet hum of the microwave filled the room.
I brought the food over—just one plate—and set it on the coffee table, nudging the pillow and cuffs aside with care.
“I can get you more orange juice if you want,” I offered, noticing her glass was low.
She shook her head. “No more orange juice,” she said with a small exhale. “I just needed some to help with...”
She paused, thoughtful. “There was just so much of it,” she added, almost to herself, her voice quiet and a little surprised.
“I mean, it shouldn’t have surprised me—I could feel it the last two nights. That ... fullness. But swallowing? That’s something else. It was the first time I had to swallow more than once just to keep from choking.”
I offered her a bite of food. She took it, chewing slowly, then looked at me with that calm, no-nonsense tone she used when she’d already made up her mind.
“I need to get on birth control,” she said plainly.
She’d mentioned it already this weekend, but now her voice carried more weight. Certain. Decided.
“If that’s going to be what’s normal for you from now on,” she said, eyes steady on mine, “you’re going to get me pregnant.”
We kept talking, mostly about how to get Isla in to see someone at the university clinic. It was just a prescription for birth control—shouldn’t be a big deal.
Eventually, we finished eating. That’s when I noticed Isla fidgeting—more than usual.
“You’re uncomfortable,” I said.
“It’s not the clothes or the cuffs,” she murmured. “I just ... I just need to get this thing out.”
I looked at her, confused. “What thing?”
Isla scooted forward a little. “It was fine at first,” she said, swallowing hard. “But now ... I just need it out.”
She motioned for me to help. As I lifted her up, she leaned on me and then hobbled to the center of the room.
“Unzip my skirt,” she said. “The zipper’s in the back. Just unzip it and let it drop to my feet.”
I started to reach for the keys, still not sure what was going on.
“No,” she said quickly. “It takes too fucking long to get these off. This’ll be easier.”
I unzipped her skirt. It slid down and bunched around her ankles, caught where the connecting chain looped at the leg cuffs.
“Okay,” she said. “Now pull down my pantyhose. Gently.”
I did as she asked.
“More,” she said. “Down to my knees.”
“Panties too.”
I pulled them down just above the hose, trying to be as gentle as possible.
She bent her knees outward as best she could, limited by the cuffs and the pantyhose.
“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Reach inside me—and then pull.”
I blinked. “What?”
“It’ll make sense,” she said, her voice tight. “Just reach inside me and pull it out.”
I reached in, carefully, and felt something—a small ball, just barely protruding.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Just ... gently pull it out,” she said, her voice tight.
As I did, she gasped. “Stop!” she yelled, breathing hard.
She steadied herself, wincing. “Okay—I’m really dry. That’s why it’s hurting.”
“Touch me,” she said. “You know ... the way you do, to help me get aroused.”
Then she leaned forward, trying to kiss me. I kissed her back, gently, and placed my hand on her, doing what she asked. A few minutes later, her breathing had changed—deeper, heavier.
Nodding quickly, she said, “Okay. Okay—now, gently pull it down.”
As I gently pulled the ball down, I could tell she was aroused. She yelped, but I kept going carefully—until I realized what it was.
A large dildo was inside her.
I held it up in front of her as it slowly flopped over and dripped onto the floor.
Surprised, I said, “This has been inside you this entire time?”
“Go wash it off,” she said quietly. “Put it on a paper towel to dry, then come help me get dressed.”
I did as she asked, helping her back into her panties, hosiery, and skirt. Once she was seated on the couch, I finally asked, “Why did you have that inside you?”
When I was with Sophie and Becca—when they were helping me try on the suit and then these clothes—Sophie noticed the bruising. And Becca got these leather cuffs.
“Yeah,” I said, “you mentioned that. She saw the bruising and kind of knew it was from sex, not just you fidgeting while wearing them during the day.”
“Well, what I didn’t tell you on the drive home is that they asked,” Isla said, trying to find the right words. “They asked if I was wearing them in bed, during sex.”
“Really?” I said, surprised. “They actually asked that?”
“Yeah,” Isla nodded thoughtfully. “Becca can be pretty direct. Sophie’s more reserved—quiet and friendly, but I’ve noticed there’s a bite to her if you cross her. Becca’s less like that, but she’s definitely more open about things.”
“So, what did you tell them?” I asked.
“What could I say? I told them yes, I’ve been wearing them to bed the past two nights, and well ... me in them ... it’s been making you ... well, you know.”
I leaned back, surprised. “Really? You told them that?”
Isla leaned forward a little towards me. “Yeah ... But it’s okay. They weren’t surprised. Becca said she’s had similar experiences. I guess Ben ... well, he’s like you—especially when Becca’s dressed and tied up.”
I just stared at her, not sure what to say.
Anyway, she kept watching my reaction as she shared what she’d learned. We got to talking—you know, about sex, and what to do when your man is ... well ... Becca mentioned she’s never really gotten used to Ben. They’ve been together a few years, but even now, he can be too much for her. So, she’d wear a dildo to help get used to having something that big inside her.
“Really?” I asked, surprised by the conversation.
“Yeah,” Isla said, nodding gently.
“Does Ben know? I mean, about her wearing that? That he’s been hurting her?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But if anything, I think it’s like with you—it’s not intentional. It’s more that she needs time to get used to him, the same way I’m starting to understand the real you.”
“The real me?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Not the reserved guy everyone else sees, but the one who likes his women bound, submissive, dressed up, and gets sexually aroused by it.”
I didn’t say anything.
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