The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 16: Accepting What You Are
I was getting ready when Isla stepped out of the bedroom. She was in the black leather teddy and panties that hugged her petite frame perfectly. The teddy traced the gentle curves of her body, revealing the smooth lines of her waist and hips. She wore the sheer seamed and nude pantyhose held up by the matching garter belt, the stockings showing a slight glimmer in the morning light.
She stepped out confidently, gesturing to the seams running up the backs of her legs. “Help me get these seams straight,” she said softly.
I knelt behind her, carefully smoothing the seams, refastening the garters, and tightening them just as she had instructed. Then she turned around, looking down at me with a knowing smile. She coiled her finger, beckoning me to stand. As I rose, I’m sure she noticed the reaction on my face.
Her hand reached out, brushing lightly over my pants—teasing, moving up and down—until she could feel me pressing against her.
“You need to calm down,” she said with a sly smile. “If you’re going to be like that during the audition, you’ll have to stay in the waiting area. You can stare at that skinny girl out there. Maybe she’ll be in that chain belt...” and then teasingly, she added, “and those short four-inch heels.”
She then grinned mischievously. “But something tells me you’d rather be watching me in this, “she pointed to the teddy with both hands, “tied up and struggling during the audition.”
She reached up and kissed me softly and then disappeared back into the bedroom.
A short time later, she reemerged in the suit and heels.
The tailored jacket hugged her frame flawlessly, sculpting her waist and highlighting the elegant curves that defined her silhouette. The pencil skirt, cut just below the knee, clung to her hips with exacting precision. Beneath the jacket, a crisp white blouse peeked out, its silky texture catching the light and drawing subtle attention to the graceful lines of her neckline.
What truly set the outfit apart were the details. Her sheer, nude-seamed stockings whispered of vintage glamour, their delicate seams tracing the length of her legs and lending a refined, yet teasing edge. It was a quiet nod to a playful sensuality beneath the polished exterior.
The crowning touch, though, were the heels—sleek tan patent leather stilettos with impossibly high heels that seemed to float with each step. The glossy shine caught every flicker of light, while the towering heels elongated her legs and gave her every movement a confident, captivating rhythm.
Isla carried herself with a natural poise, fully aware of the power and allure her appearance commanded. The ensemble wasn’t just clothing—it was an expression of her presence, crafted to captivate and command attention.
“Are those the tan ones Becca was talking about?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. She shook her head. “I’m not wearing them to the audition. Just here for a few minutes.” She smiled again. “Not every day a girl gets to wear $800 heels.”
I looked at them.
“What?”
“Louboutins. ‘So Kate’ fuck-me heels,” she said. “They’re about $800 on sale or something.”
“Seriously?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” she replied. “That’s what they go for.” She glanced down at them, eyes tracing the glossy curve of the heel. “They’re sexy ... very sexy. I get the appeal now—why women go crazy over them. But God, they hurt.”
“They hurt?” I asked.
“Yeah, they’re patent leather—I think they have to be broken in. Don’t think Becca wore these much. Or at all. At—at least not outside or on tile and stuff. The soles are still perfect red.” She turned slightly and lifted her foot back to show me.
“I’ll slip into the six-inch ones before we go,” she remarked. “They’re more broken in. Sad, right? The taller ones actually feel better...”
She glanced down at the shoes again, then added, “And I couldn’t wear these out, anyway. No way the red soles would stay this perfect. I’d ruin her heels.”
It took a second, but the implication sank in.
I think she realized that Becca had been wearing the six-inch stilettos more than the five-inch ones she was in. And that, for her too, the six-inch stilettos were more comfortable.
She didn’t say anything—just paused. But then she caught the look on my face ... and used it as her chance to change the subject.
“We don’t have time for that,” she said. “And I need a break. After last night ... I need time to heal.”
“I’m...,” I began.
She held her finger up to my mouth.
“No, sorry,” she said. “No ... bad boyfriend. Bad,” she added with a teasing smile.
“Did I hurt you again?” I asked.
“I just need to get used to you,” she said softly. “It’s going to take time. I didn’t realize you could be like that until a few days ago ... I just hope it’s not like what Becca told me about her and Ben—where she never fully got used to the size ... and all the, um, energy behind it.”
Isla paused, thinking. Then she said softly, “I’ve realized after last night, I’m probably going to have to wear that dildo—all of it—just to help me adjust. Otherwise, it’s too much. I can’t take all of you ... at least, not for long.”
“As long as you don’t stay pushed deep inside ... if you keep moving—thrusting in and out—I’ll be okay.” She added. “I mean, yeah, that hurts. But not like when you’re just inside me, deep, not moving, and just throbbing.”
She looked at me. “Eventually, I’ll get used to you. It’s not like you’ve really been giving me a choice, with me tied up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I told her, referring to the dildo.
“I don’t mind. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. It just got uncomfortable yesterday. It just feels full—it’s actually kind of nice—but I’d rather feel that from you.”
“I’ll start wearing it this week. I’m just too sore right now. But I’ll wear it a little bit each day.”
“From last night?” I asked.
She nodded, giving me a small smile. “Yeah—from you inside me. It’s been three nights like this now. But really, it’s more from the cuffs ... that position last night. And this morning.”
Pausing, she then said, “You left me hogtied all night.”
“You didn’t seem to want out,” I said.
“Yeah, at first,” she replied. “But later? After I felt you come inside me that first time ... I needed out.”
She looked at me. “I told you ... What, didn’t you understand?” Then she made that sound—the one she was making last night. “Mmmphh? Mmmphh?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
She looked at me again. “I’m not angry. I realized I didn’t tell you—if I move both feet, it means something’s wrong. And I need you to take whatever’s in my mouth out ... or just get me out of whatever fucking thing you’ve got me tied up in.”
“That’s why you were moving your feet?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, then shrugged.
“Had I realized it ... I—I didn’t know.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “It’s okay. Really. We’re figuring things out.”
“But you only did it for a little while, then stopped,” I explained.
“I had to. With my wrists and ankles cuffed to each other ... it was just hard,” she explained. “Especially when you had me on top of you. I couldn’t control how deep you went. I was trying with my knees but couldn’t—not without using my arms or legs. And I realized that when I moved my feet ... I think you thought I was struggling for you ... and the more I did it ... I just felt you get bigger, and you went deeper...”
She caught herself. “Anyway, the missionary position was better. The metal just dug into me a bit, but the skirt helped, with it bunched up around the cuffs. But by that time, I was just exhausted.”
“How bad is the soreness?” I asked. “Do you want something to help with the pain?”
“No,” she said. “I just need to figure out how to get this indentation on my face to go away—from where the gag straps ran across.” She added, “Tried makeup, but...”
“Water,” I said. “Hydrate.”
She looked at me. “Right. Drink lots of that just before you put me into the restraints.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” I said.
She kissed me again before walking back into the bedroom, saying she had to get back into the other fuck-me heels so we could go. When she returned, she was in the Dominatrix heels and carrying the garment bag.
As she handed it to me, she said, “I put all the items back inside so we can return them after the audition.”
“Okay,” I said, draping it over the end of the couch.
That’s when she noticed I had the transport restraints laid out on the coffee table. She held out her wrists and said quietly, “Okay ... back to being chained and submissive.” She then smiled and added, “Well, in public, anyway.”
I put her into them, carefully, just like Officer Claire had shown me. I made sure the waist chain sat snugly against her skirt and waist, under the jacket. I figured that might help hide the chain a bit—even though, once everything was on, even buttoned up, it didn’t really hide the lockbox or cuffs at all. And there was no hiding the connecting chain or leg cuffs.
Once secured, Isla gently tugged at the restraints.
“Okay?” I asked.
“I don’t even know why I check...” she said with a small, tired smile. “You put me in these restraints like I’m really an inmate.”
“That’s what we were told to do,” I reminded her. “So, you don’t accidently slip out.”
She shifted her weight again, the chains giving their soft, familiar rattle. She looked at me, hesitating. Something was clearly building inside her, and she was trying to hold it back—unsuccessfully.
“Can you put on the shorter ones?” she asked quietly.
She looked away for a moment, embarrassed. Her fingers twitched slightly in the cuffs. Not pulling, just reacting.
I blinked. “Really? They don’t seem too long ... that they’d get caught up in the heels—”
“They wouldn’t,” she cut in, her voice too quick, like she was interrupting her own thoughts as much as mine. “I just ... they feel ... awkward.”
“Awkward?” I asked gently. “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, you being able to actually walk around in them.”
She glanced down at her wrists, the steel gleaming beneath her jacket cuffs. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she said quietly.
“Try,” I said gently.
She hesitated, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. Her voice dropped low, almost hesitant. “Yeah ... being able to walk in them—that’s a good thing. But this skirt? It’s what’s really restricting me, not the cuffs.”
She swallowed, searching for the right words. “Yesterday, with that other skirt—they were right, it was a little tighter—but I barely noticed it because the cuffs stopped me before the skirt did.”
She looked back at me. “But this skirt isn’t as snug, and the cuffs are longer. So now, it’s the skirt I’m noticing more than the cuffs. It’s ... awkward.”
I think she could tell I still wasn’t getting it.
“My wrists are cuffed. Like, really fucking cuffed. But my ankles?” She glanced down, then back up. “I don’t know. I just feel like I can walk around fine in them. Like they’re supposed to stop me, but ... they don’t. Not enough, anyway.”
She hesitated, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “It’s like ... there’s something wrong.”
She paused again, eyes flicking away in embarrassment.
“Like I’m ... not cuffed enough.”
I kissed her. “Okay,” I said gently. “Let me go get them.”
I disappeared into the bedroom and came back with the short-chained leg cuffs—the smaller ones meant for bare ankles.
I helped her kneel on the couch and carefully changed them.
She took a few steps. I could see it immediately—how the cuffs were stopping her before the skirt had a chance to. The way they slowed her, limited her.
“Better?” I asked.
She nodded and smiled. “Make sure you’ve got all the right keys?”
I checked, grabbed the garment bag, folded it over my arm, picked up Isla’s purse, and we headed out.
We didn’t run into anyone. Most people had already left for the Monday morning rush. A couple of maintenance guys were on the ground floor, probably working on the plumbing again. The building was over a hundred years old—leaky pipes were just part of life here.
“They saw Isla—and yeah, they really stared. It didn’t help that we were walking slowly, since Isla had to balance herself in the heels while adjusting to the short stride of the chain.”
But otherwise, we made it to the car without a hitch. And we got to the audition on time. Early, actually.
As we stood outside the car, about to head in, Isla touched my arm with her cuffed hands.
“Can you open the trunk?” she asked quietly.
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