Chapter 20: Ease Her Into It

The rest of Wednesday unfolded with a quiet rhythm, each moment slipping into the next. I packed the car with items from our apartment, then we drove over to the new place. Once there, I unpacked, mostly just placing everything in the main living area. Figured we’d sort through it later. It was more important to get everything here first.

As I moved back and forth up and down the steps, Isla was mostly outside, talking to the neighbors who had noticed us moving in. There was a calm about it, nothing felt out of place—just a couple moving into the neighborhood. I overheard snippets of conversation about the acting, about being fitted for the restraints and what happened.

But there was an underlying feeling—that Isla was somehow dangerous. It was subtle, but it was there—the same kind of reaction we’d seen with Rachel. Casual, friendly enough on the surface, but beneath it, an unmistakable undertone. “So, you’re an actor. Hmm. A mix-up at the prison, you don’t say. Sorry to hear that. But as long as you’re in those, sweetie, and can’t wiggle out of them, we’ll get along just fine.”

The feeling I got wasn’t one of pandering. They weren’t humoring her. I can’t explain it exactly, but they believed her. Yet at the same time, it felt like they thought it was best if she stayed in them. Like the restraints gave them peace of mind, as though her being confined somehow made everything easier to accept.

Later, we made our way to the Prescotts, the air charged with the faint, lingering scent of leather. We had brought all the items. All the clothes. The bondage items—the harness gag, mitts, all the padlocks—all if it. Even the dildo.

But when we reached the leather cuffs, Becca’s hand was firm.

“These stay with her,” she said firmly, her tone final. They were the only things that had helped protect Isla’s skin, and Becca insisted we keep them—at least until Isla learned to stop resisting. Until her body adjusted to the restraints. Especially after we explained what had happened ... and that Isla might be wearing them for months.

Sophie, ever focused, kept circling back to what Jeffrey had told us—how long this might go on, how deeply it might reshape things. Becca, by contrast, seemed to see it as a kind of transformation. An opportunity for Isla to become familiar with confinement. To settle into it. To find her place in it. To know her place.

I had to work tonight, and we couldn’t stay. We’d only stopped by to drop off the items, explain what had happened at the prison earlier, and thank Sophie for calling Jeffrey.

But, as before, Becca simply extended her hand, silently asking for the keys, and they took Isla. Ben wasn’t home, so I settled into the family area, absentmindedly petting Lucie, watching their cat slip in and out of rooms, its soft paws barely making a sound on the floor.

I think it was at least 30 minutes before Isla reemerged slowly into the room. She was in a skin-tight dress that extended from her neck to just above the knees, tapering in tightly, forcing her to hobble, unable to move her legs from the knees up. Her hands were held behind her, and it wasn’t until she turned slightly that I realized I couldn’t see her arms at all.

“Okay,” Becca replied. “Like we discussed at dinner, two options for Friday’s event. They just got in today, so your timing coming over is perfect.”

She turned Isla around by the shoulders. “Tight-boned leather hobble dress with a built-in armbinder.” Becca then turned Isla to the side. “Zips up, keeps her arms behind her, her hands pressed palm-down against her butt.”

Becca wasn’t kidding. The leather of the armbinder creaked as Isla moved. The corset cinched tightly around her waist, the rigid structure of the leather pushing her shoulders back, forcing her chest out, and leaving her arms restrained behind her in place, as if they were an afterthought to her body’s movement. Isla could barely move her arms, her hands held stiffly against her body in the thick, restrictive leather.

Becca then described the heels. “Six-inch Pleaser heels—Domina.” They were outrageously sexy. Strappy, black matte leather, and impossibly high. The kind of shoes that transformed posture, presence, and purpose with a single step. Seeing her painted red toes through the seamed stockings made them even sexier.

Noticing my reaction to the heels, Becca smiled. “I know she wore the dominatrix ones to the audition, but she needs more practice. She needs to get accustomed to the height and the restriction. This will help her get properly heeled,” she said, her voice rich with implication.

I wasn’t entirely sure what “properly heeled” meant. But I understood enough. Isla was expected to master stilettos—five, six inches at least. It wasn’t just about balance. It was about surrendering to a new posture, a new discipline, a new shape of self.

My attention eventually drifted to what Becca was holding—a bondage hood. It seemed designed to cover the entire head, made from thick, black leather. The craftsmanship was imposing, the kind of leather that enveloped the face entirely. The eye openings were narrow, barely wide enough to see through, forcing the wearer into a constrained, limited view.

The back of the hood was designed to be laced up and buckled tightly, secured with heavy-duty straps, while a thick collar was attached, likely to fasten snugly around the neck, locking everything into place. It was similar to the puppy hood and collar we had—same high quality, but this was much, much thicker. The way Becca held it, with her steady grip, made it feel heavy, designed to ensure that whoever was trapped inside would know without question that it was on.

She held it up, noticing my gaze fixed on it. “The hood for that outfit,” Becca said matter-of-factly. “The artist insists it be worn.” She added, “But as you can see, it’s a serious piece. The kind used for long-term BDSM training. You know, the kind that’s kept on slaves for extended periods.”

She turned the hood, showing me its details. “Large nose holes, tiny eye slits, and no mouth opening. Easy to breathe in, hard to see through, and nearly impossible to speak out of—especially once it’s buckled tight. And if she’s in medical tape or a ball gag, it’s pretty much impossible to talk. It’s definitely designed to teach submission.”