The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 8: She’s Trapped. She’s Damaged.
“Please have a seat,” the young woman said with a polite, practiced smile. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
I guided Isla down into one of the soft chairs lining the wall, careful to adjust the connecting chain so that it fell straight between her legs rather than draping over her knee. She hadn’t said anything about it, but I’d spent enough time watching her today to know she didn’t like it that way. As she settled into the chair, she exhaled—just a faint, weary breath.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the young woman watching Isla. She didn’t say anything, just gave a small, curious smile before disappearing through a door at the back of the narrow studio.
The space was small—no frills, just the essentials to get the job done. A modest reception area held a few chairs, a low table scattered with magazines, and a cluttered desk piled high with folders. Ahead of us were two doors: one to the bathroom, the other to the audition room.
We had just arrived, driving over from the museum. Sophie was originally supposed to come with us to smooth things over with the sheriff’s office in case anyone made a call, but she’d already handled everything. She even gave us that quick behind-the-scenes tour of the museum, just as she’d promised, to introduce us to the locals—especially the busybodies, the ones she knew would make sure the story got around.
And the version they’d spread—well, it was pretty much the truth. Isla had voluntarily surrendered herself to the maximum-security prison to prepare for a role as an inmate. But something had happened, and until the ongoing investigation is resolved, her prison record can’t be corrected. So, on paper, she’s classified as a high-risk, escape-risk inmate who must be restrained when not in a cell. The sheriff’s office—and the New York Department of Corrections—are aware of the situation, so she’s allowed to remain free. But thanks to bureaucracy, the restraints have to be worn.
I glanced over at Isla. She was fidgeting with the connecting chain. Over the past few weeks of dating, I’d noticed she tended to twirl her hair when she was nervous—a small, anxious habit. But now, the chain had to do. A gesture that carried much more weight.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
She shook her head slightly.
“No,” she said softly. “Just tired. I can’t wait to finally get these fucking things off—” She caught herself, then added, “—even if it’s just for a little while.”
“You don’t have to wear them at home,” I said gently.
“It’s just us—no one’s going to know if you’re not in them at the apartment.”
She nodded, but her voice was quiet.
“Yeah ... I guess.”
I could see the exhaustion in her posture and on her face. It had been building all day. She was trying so hard to stay composed, but the cracks were there—in the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, in the moments when her voice nearly broke. The restraints had taken their toll, both mentally and physically. And the elevator breaking down earlier hadn’t helped.
We were on the second floor of the museum when it happened, so Isla got a crash course in stairs. It was slow going. She did her best to grip the railing with her hands bound the way they were, carefully placing herself at the edge of each step so the chain could stretch far enough to reach the next one. But I think what wore her down most wasn’t the climb—it was the unrelenting stares from the people who simply watched her struggle. I knew the experience had humiliated her.
I reached over to take her hand gently, just as the young woman returned from the audition room.
She approached us with deliberate poise, each click of her four-inch stilettos echoing sharply against the cold tiled floor. She wore a dark grey plaid pencil skirt that hugged her hips before ending just below the knees. A crisp white blouse framed her figure, buttoned just enough to maintain a professional appearance. Her hair was styled in a loose half-braid that gave her a distinctly Celtic air.
But it was the silver chain at her waist that caught my attention. A decorative belt, clearly, but where it connected, a loose length of chain hung down at her side. Normally, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But after today, it stood out.
“They’ll be ready for you in just a moment,” she said to Isla. Then her eyes dropped to her cuffs. “Did you bring headshots?”
Isla’s eyes closed for a moment. She’d forgotten. After everything that had happened today, it had completely slipped her mind. But, as in so many other situations, she recovered quickly.
“My agent said he was contacted,” she replied smoothly.
“Didn’t he submit the photos in advance? Carrying a portfolio was going to be ... difficult.” She shifted her wrists slightly, drawing subtle attention to her restrained hands.
The young woman gave a small nod of understanding. “Of course,” she said gently.
She returned to her desk and flipped through a stack of folders.
“Here they are,” she said, then glanced at her screen.
“They’re ready for you.”
She stepped out from behind the desk and approached us.
Isla shifted forward, trying to stand. The chains clinked softly as her legs moved. Seeing this, the woman looked at me.
“You can go in with her if you want—to help.”
“I’m okay,” Isla said quickly as she rose. “Really. I need to get used to this,” she added, her voice taking on the quiet, uncertain tone of someone who had just been locked into restraints, knowing they wouldn’t be coming off again.
The woman gave her a friendly smile.
“Did your agent tell you what the part is?” she asked.
It was clear she assumed Isla’s comment referred to the role she was here to audition for—that the restraints were part of getting into character.
Isla nodded, repeating the details Charlie had texted us earlier that day. “But I wasn’t told what it actually involved,” Isla added.
The woman leaned in a little. “You arrive at the hotel in a snug skirt suit, and the main character has you take it off, revealing a leather teddy, panties, garter, stockings, and six-inch heels. The scene then shows you hogtied with rope on the bed, a ball gag in your mouth. She’s tied you up for sex, but then she sits at the edge of the bed and starts reflecting on something tied to the plot. It’s like you’re her silent therapist or conscience. That’s how they’ve described it to the other actresses auditioning today.”
“Honestly, the hardest part will be saying your lines with the gag without drooling,” she added with a small smile. “But they won’t strap it into your mouth until they’re ready to shoot. Ideally, they’ll get it in one or two takes, so you’re not tied up for long.”
Then she smiled at both of us with a shrug.
She gestured toward Isla’s restraints.
“I know you’re wearing those to get into the bondage mindset, but unless it’s a prison scene, the best way to prepare for these kinds of roles is to practice at home. The usual positions—wrists above the head, ankles to wrists, all four corners, or the classic frogtie.” Her smile widened just a bit.
“You know ... the kind of positions that can be fun to explore in other ways afterward.”
She leaned in slightly, her eyes tracing the extra waist chain that dropped from the back of Isla’s lockbox. She followed it across her thigh to where it ended, then let out a quiet murmur.
“Padlock,” she said aloud. Then she looked at me, her tone shifting. “So ... she can’t get out of those on her own?”
I shook my head.
“I saw you two getting out of the car with her in them. Most girls would’ve just slipped into that kind of thing in the bathroom or something.”
Her lips curved into a knowing smile, eyes still on me. A spark of mischief danced behind her expression.
“Did she ask you to bring her here like that? Or was it your idea?”
I must’ve gone pale, because before I could answer, Isla jumped in—smiling, calm, composed.
“Let’s just say these are the real thing. The kind they use for high-risk inmates. And no—I’m not allowed to take them off.”
The woman gave a soft laugh, clearly enjoying the implication, her smile widening just enough to let me know she wasn’t buying the whole story—or maybe she liked that she couldn’t tell. Her gaze lingered on the chain one last time.
“Fair enough,” she said, voice smooth and amused.
She turned and gestured toward the door.
“Come on. I’ll take you in.”
Isla nodded and stepped forward, the soft clink of her restraints echoing faintly across the tiled floor. I moved beside her, close but not touching—ready if she needed support. She didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer. Not yet.
The woman opened the door and held it for us, and then walked up to the three women seated behind a long folding table, just like the ones we’d used during the CPR training session I’d run earlier this week. She leaned over slightly, set Isla’s folder in front of them, and nodded subtly in our direction.
“Boyfriend,” she murmured, just loud enough for us to hear, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. Her eyes flicked toward me with a faint smirk. “He brought her here like that. She’s not allowed out of those.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back to us. As she reached Isla, she leaned in and whispered quietly in her ear.
“They’ll walk you through the blocking and give you a chance to run the lines. Just take your time. They’re looking for presence more than perfection.”
Then, with a faint smirk, she added, “And remember—you’re a sex toy. Someone’s helpless, bound plaything. A rubber ball strapped tightly behind your teeth.”
Her eyes dipped once more to Isla’s restraints, that same amused glint flashing across her face. The knowing smile returned as she let the door close gently behind us, the soft click of the latch marking her return to the front desk.
We stood in the small audition space. Like the reception area, it was minimal—no distractions, just the essentials. The kind of room designed to strip everything down to performance and presence.
A single chair waited in the center of the room, positioned perfectly within a square of white tape, in front of the women. Studio lights stood tall on tripods above us, casting an intense, even wash of light that left nowhere to hide.
Isla glanced over at the two chairs lined up against the wall, identical to the one at center stage. She gestured toward them with her bound hands—subtle, but clear. She wanted me to take a seat.
I nodded and crossed the room, settling into the nearest chair. Next to me on the floor sat a clear plastic storage bin, stacked with what looked like coiled rope, leather cuffs, ball gags, and other restraint gear—clearly prepped for the screen test. To my right, against the same wall, stood a low black steel cart. It was about four feet high, three wide, and five long, topped with a padded cushion—black leather or maybe vinyl.
“EYE-luh KOO-mar?” the woman in the middle of the table called out, carefully enunciating the name. “Did I pronounce that right?”
She was middle-aged, elegant, and clearly polished. Not quite to the point of the frozen-faced celebrity aesthetic, but close—you could tell she was putting in work to keep age at bay. Still, she wore it well.
As she crossed her legs, the flowing hem of her maxi dress settled just above her ankles, revealing a slim four-inch heel that rested at an angle against the floor. Her smile was professional, but warm, genuine enough to feel disarming.
Isla gave a small nod. “Yes. That’s right,” she replied, wearing the best smile she could manage. Even though the woman had butchered her name. But it was more performance than anything genuine. The exhaustion she’d shown in the reception area hadn’t left her—it clung to her posture and dulled the usual spark in her voice.
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