The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 16: The Muse
“Hey, Luisa,” I said, placing my keys in the glass dish just inside the doorway.
“Ms. Gallo.”
“Is he...?”
“In his study.”
I nodded, gave her a brief hug, and crossed the foyer. The house was quiet in the way large houses often were—every footstep softened by thick rugs that covered expensive exotic woods and imported tile, despite the echo often created from high ceilings. At the end of the hall, I stopped before the oversized French doors and knocked.
“Come.”
I pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside.
He glanced up from his desk and acknowledged me with a slight nod before returning his attention to the call. I slipped inside, closed the door behind me, and waited.
He was in the middle of a conference call. The reflections from his monitors shimmered across the glass cabinets lining the room. Dozens of faces filled the screens: older men in bow ties, women in sharply tailored jackets, people whose expressions suggested decades of authority and experience. Shareholders, most likely. People accustomed to responsibility, influence, and routine.
Without interrupting the conversation, he pointed toward the leather sofa.
I sat.
A moment later, he gestured toward the small box resting on the end table beside it.
The instruction was silent but unmistakable.
I moved to the end of the sofa and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a matching set of restraints, one of numerous sets he kept for different purposes.
The set was entirely practical, not decorative: steel handcuffs linked by a short, sturdy chain, with a longer chain stretching down to matching leg restraints. Beside them lay a small double-locking pin. Not a key—just a pin, designed only to engage the double-lock, ensuring the cuffs held their position without risk of accidental movement.
I lifted the restraints from the box and laid them on the rug in front of me. The chain shifted with a faint metallic rattle as it settled into place. I tried to keep my movements quiet, though it hardly mattered—anyone on the call wouldn’t have heard a thing. Well, except for him.
One cuff closed around my right ankle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I paused, testing the fit. Secure without being restrictive.
The second cuff received the same treatment. Five clicks. No more. No less.
Consistency mattered. This was how he required them to be worn. At least this set. I had been taught to fit each cuff precisely, the same way every time, until the method became second nature.
After confirming the fit, I inserted the pin and engaged the double locks. The tiny mechanical shift produced a muted sound, but it was enough. The cuffs were no longer adjustable. Their position was fixed.
Only then did I move to the handcuffs.
I wrapped the first cuff around my left wrist and tightened it until a single ratchet remained visible.
It was the same with these. They had to be worn a certain way—one exposed ratchet on each wrist, no more and no less.
So, the second wrist received the same treatment.
I engaged the double locks again, making sure neither cuff could tighten any further.
The cuffs weren’t about discomfort, and they weren’t about punishment—not unless I chose to earn it.
They were about discipline.
About understanding that there was a right way to behave and a right way to present myself. About accepting limits that had been imposed and respecting them without resistance.
The cuffs were simply the means.
A physical reminder of the rules I was expected to follow. A framework that removed unnecessary choices and demanded attentiveness, obedience, and self-control.
When the restraints closed around my wrists and ankles, they established order.
Not because I was incapable of controlling myself, but because discipline is easier to maintain when expectations are made tangible. That’s what he had taught me.
The bondage wasn’t the objective.
The objective was compliance, composure, and proper conduct.
The cuffs were how that objective was achieved.
Properly restrained.
Properly controlled.
Ready.
I returned the locking pin to the box and closed the lid.
Only then did I settle into the sofa.
The Italian leather gave slightly beneath my weight, supporting me while the chain between the cuffs and restraints shifted with a soft metallic sound, resting over my skirt and then down between my knees.
Every movement now carried a reminder of the limits I had chosen to submit to.
Across the room, he continued speaking calmly into the call, discussing numbers, schedules, and decisions.
I said nothing.
That was how it worked.
I spoke when he addressed me. Not before. Not over him. Not to fill silence simply because silence existed.
And even then, I was expected to answer properly.
Discipline wasn’t only about restraints, posture, or obedience. It extended to the smallest things. To knowing when to speak. How to speak. How to listen.
So, I remained silent and attentive, waiting for my turn, if he decided there would be one.
He wasn’t a man who wasted words. He preferred actions, expectations, and standards that were understood without needing constant repetition.
The restraints simply reinforced those expectations. They were designed to remind them I was in them. And every moment of silence reinforced them.
Across the room, his voice continued, steady and composed, while I listened to the distant murmur of business conversations and waited exactly as I was expected to.
It was maybe twenty minutes before the call ended. I wasn’t entirely sure.
There were clocks in the house, technically. Old grandfather clocks. Mantel clocks. The sort of pieces that belonged in a place like this. Elegant. Expensive. Timeless.
But he never wound them.
Not one of them.
Every clock in the house stood frozen in time.
The first time I noticed, I thought it was strange. The second time, intentional. By the third visit, I understood it was a rule.
Time wasn’t something I was meant to track when I was with him.
My purse was in my car, locked in the trunk, or in my bedroom. No phone. No watch. No distractions. I had learned that lesson quickly on my first day.
When I was with him, there was no checking messages. No scrolling through notifications. No glancing at the time every few minutes.
No outside world.
Not because he demanded my attention every second, but because he expected my presence.
There was a difference.
The discipline wasn’t about making my world smaller. It was about teaching me to focus on the part of it I was expected to be in.
When I was with him, there was only this house, his expectations, and whatever he required of me.
Curiously, he wasn’t attached to a phone either.
I knew he owned one. I’d seen it a handful of times. It appeared only when something genuinely important required his attention. A significant business matter. An emergency. A decision that couldn’t wait.
Otherwise, it remained out of sight.
He expected the same standard from himself that he expected from everyone around him.
“Ms. Gallo,” he said as he placed his headset on the cradle and turned to me.
“Yes, Mr. Whitmore.”
“We have that event today,” he said. Not a reminder so much as a confirmation that I should already have known. “I’ve had clothing prepared for you upstairs. You’ll change before we leave.”
A pause.
“Before that,” he added, “you’ll walk with me.”
He got up and headed toward the door.
I leaned forward and stood. My hands immediately came down with me.
The restraints were fitted to me, made to my exact measurements. He had sent me somewhere after I signed the contract so proper measurements could be taken and everything recorded. Neck, head, waist, chest, wrists, ankles, thighs. Everything.
Nothing was guessed. Nothing was loose or adjustable.
With this particular set, the chain between the hand and leg cuffs was just long enough for me to walk, but only with my hands held down in front of me. The length was exact, leaving no extra room to change how I carried myself.
The leg cuffs were short. That was consistent across all of the restraints. Whenever my ankles were bound, unless I was attached to something, there was very little slack between them—whether it was a chain, leather strap, or something else.
They were designed with only one thing in mind: function. Compliance.
I pulled my legs apart as far as they could go so the cuffs sat correctly, then started to follow.
Walking was awkward in them, especially in a skirt, hose, and stilettos. But that was what I wore for him. It was required. Dresses, suits, skirts. Never pants. Never jeans. Never shorts. Always hose—pantyhose, stockings. Never tights. Even in the winter months. And heels. Minimum of four inches, always stiletto, single sole.
The place that took my measurements for the restraints also took them for clothing. Custom. Tailored. High quality.
So, everything was made to fit exactly—and by fit, I mean snug. The kind of clothes that sat close to my body in the exact way he wanted them to.
He held the study door open for me, and I smiled as I passed. He followed behind and closed it, slowing his pace to match how I was expected to walk.
There were expectations, even while restrained. I was expected to walk elegantly—the kind of walk you see from older women who have mastered walking in stilettos, skirts, and hosiery over a lifetime. The kind of posture you see from royals and people in similar roles.
And I was expected to do the same while restrained. That meant slow, steady steps within the limits of the leg cuffs. No rushing. No awkward shuffling or hobbling. Just controlled movement, staying within the range they allowed.
We cut through the kitchen, then out past the pool and patio, and into the garden.
He didn’t speak at first. But I could tell something was on his mind.
“Your graduation is this May,” he finally said.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He already knew. It had been set that way in the contract—assuming everything went well and I passed all my courses. I had, and I would pass this semester too.
“Yes,” I replied.
He nodded. “I’ll be interviewing for your replacement.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “May I use you as a reference?”
The question caught me off guard. I knew the contract ended at the end of May. So, I was expecting this conversation. But not like this. Not after four years.
A longer pause, maybe. Some acknowledgment of what the arrangement had been. Something more personal, less transactional.
But then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
When I had interviewed for this role, there had been another woman in my place. My age now, more or less. Presentable. Composed. In restraints. Dressed exactly as I was now.
She was graduating too. And it was her time to be replaced.
Just like it was now, mine.
I had been accepted into a very expensive school. Disgustingly expensive. Debt I would never realistically have been able to climb out of. Even with three scholarships. I still couldn’t afford it.
I had gone to the school to tell them I couldn’t go. Then I saw the notice.
An obscure posting on a bulletin board—one of the quieter ones no one really paid attention to. It was simple: “Female muse wanted. Tuition and expenses paid.” Nothing else, just a phone number.
So, I called.
And that call turned into four years.
Four years as his muse.
Attending events with him. Accompanying him when required. Being present when he needed focus, structure, or perspective.
There were others who applied. Prettier, definitely. More polished. He interviewed them too, but most, I suspect, wouldn’t sign the contract.
It was clear and unambiguous.
You worked for him. You followed his structure. You wore what was required. You accepted restraints. Your life was arranged around his expectations. In practice, everything revolved around him.
In return, he provided everything.
Tuition. Housing. A salary for whatever was needed.
He even helped after I had to move off campus.
My roommates noticed the way I dressed—the high-quality clothes, the consistency. It was impossible not to. They put two and two together, or thought they did. Some of them helped themselves to things, mostly clothes, as if it didn’t matter.
He replaced the missing items each time. Nothing was ever said about it. I had to dress for him, even for class—even when I wasn’t with him.
The worst part was the whispers in the hallways, the looks I got from the other girls. The hypocrisy was that some of those same girls had sugar daddies, and I knew sex was part of those arrangements.
So, I moved out after my freshman year.
He offered to pay for an off-campus apartment, but instead I moved into the house. After that, I only went to campus when I had classes. I went, did what I had to do, and left.
Outside of some of the male instructors. The ones who stared a little too long. The ones who always seemed to want to talk after class, about nothing in particular. It worked.
He had a bedroom made up for me. Meals were provided when I was here. Luisa and the staff handled most things without needing to be asked.
So, I didn’t really spend much of what he gave me.
I didn’t need to.
I even had a car when I needed it.
It wasn’t ownership in the way people assumed.
It was structure. A contract. Four years of strict, defined purpose.
And now it was ending.
I nodded at him. “Yes. Happy to be a reference.”
“Have you secured employment?” he asked.
“Interviewed at a few places. Nothing’s landed yet.”
He stopped and turned to face me. “I can make some phone calls. Where would you like to work?”
I smiled at him. He was serious. I knew that much.
He had money, yes—but it was more than that. He held influence. And in the past few years with him, I had come to understand something important: it wasn’t taken or demanded. It was given to him.
People trusted him. They respected him. Even when he was eccentric, even when he wasn’t easy to read, they still took him seriously.
I had learned to trust him too.
“Can I think about it?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said with a slow nod.
We returned to the house after.
He went back to his study to finish some things, while I sat in the chair along the staircase—the kind you see in older homes, built to help those who can’t manage the stairs. Except this one was older, leather and metal, designed to match the rest of the house.
Luisa gently strapped me in, pressed the button, and walked up the stairs alongside me. At the top, she released the seatbelt and escorted me to my room.
“I’ve laid out your attire for tonight’s event,” she said. “As instructed by Mr. Whitmore.”
“Thanks, Luisa.”
She smiled at me and gently removed my restraints, then closed my bedroom door as she left, taking them with her—likely to wipe them down, oil them if needed, and put them back in the box in the study.
She ran the house and handled everything. Third generation. She had been here her entire life—she grew up in this house, just like her mother had before her. And, I suspected, one day her daughter would take over as well.
She was the only other person allowed to take my restraints off. Even if I asked the other staff, they would say no. That was built into the contract—a rule that was never broken. Once I was restrained, I stayed that way until either she or Mr. Whitmore released me.
On the bed was an evening dress. Black. Beautiful. A lace bra, panties, a garter set, and sheer hosiery. These had a faint seam up the back. And of course, the heels—five inches, it looked like. Typical for events like this. They were usually between five and six inches, depending on the venue.
And off to the side was one of the other boxes. I opened it. Inside was another set—transport.
I would be in full transport for him tonight.
I went through it carefully: hinged handcuffs and housing box, short-chained leg cuffs, waist and connecting chains, and a security padlock.
It was one of the high-security sets, the kind used in maximum-security prisons for high-risk cases—at least that’s what Luisa had told me once.
All the cuffs were law enforcement grade—the real thing—and some were more secure than others.
These were one of them. Pick-resistant, reinforced chains, everything designed so I couldn’t get out. Not that I could get out of what I had just been in, but these were his preferred set for certain events. Those in which I was out with him. He liked knowing there were extra measures in place, that nothing would come loose or slip during the evening.
I disappeared into the bathroom and showered, then did my hair. I put it up with a few pieces left down, just enough to add some shape and elegance. My makeup was heavier than usual—not full glam, but more than every day. That’s how he wanted it for events like this.
I got dressed and stood in front of the mirror.
The dress was beautiful—more so once it was on. Black, with a maroon inner lining that gave a faint reddish tone when it caught the light. The stockings were very sheer, only noticeable if you looked closely enough to see the seam. And the heels—high. Higher than I had first thought. Now that I was standing in them. At least five and a half inches.
I checked everything once, then twice. The pearls. The details. All of it.
Then I picked up the box and carried it to his room, knocking softly and waiting until I heard him tell me to enter.
He was already dressed, finishing his tie when I came in. I placed the box on the kneeling stool, then knelt and waited.
It didn’t take long for him to get me into the restraints. After four years, it had become routine. I stood patiently and went through the motions as he worked, each movement precise.
He gently locked everything into place—exactly the way it was always done, double-locked where required. When he was finished, he stepped back, closed the lid of the box, and waited.
I tested the restraints, gently pulling my wrists back, letting them slide slightly to the side. Then I moved my legs apart until the short chain pulled taut.
My wrists were cuffed high, snug against my waist, forcing my elbows into a sharper bend. The box, the housing for the cuffs, was angled perfectly to match my wrists, designed to maintain my posture comfortably, for long periods.
Everything that could be custom was. Outside of the cuffs themselves, he used a metal worker that I later found out lived in the same town I grew up in. She made specific pieces for him, to include the box I was now in.
So, every curve, every connection, every chain had been measured and fitted. It was all designed to hold exactly as it was supposed to, leaving no room for error—and no room for escape.
“I can’t get out of this,” I told him quietly. “They’re on properly for the evening ... you don’t have to worry.”
This was something I was expected to do. Make sure I couldn’t slip out. And tell him. Tell him I was properly secured. The part about him not worrying I had added about a year ago. I had overheard him once tell Luisa that the only thing that genuinely unsettled him was not knowing. Not knowing whether I was comfortable, whether I was safe, whether I had somehow managed to work free.
I had realized he viewed the restraints as a safety thing. That by being in them, I was safe. Contained. Controlled. There were no concerns about what I could do.
But I think it went deeper than that.
The restraints meant certainty. They removed choice. Removed doubt. He didn’t have to wonder whether I would obey because obedience was already built into them.
I think he liked knowing that.
Liked knowing I couldn’t simply decide otherwise once we were out. Once we were in front of others. That for the evening, my compliance wasn’t a question to be answered but a fact established by metal.
“They’re on properly,” I repeated quietly. “You don’t have to worry.”
The faint easing in his expression told me he understood exactly what I meant.
Looking at me the way he had been more and more over the past year—like he actually saw me.
He helped me into the chair and walked with me down the stairs. At the bottom, Luisa was standing with our coats—and my clutch.
He took it from her and draped it over my shoulders, then handed me my purse. It usually held the keys to the cuffs, even though it didn’t really matter. I couldn’t get out of this. Not without his help. I think that’s why he had me carry them.
He put on his own coat, thanked Luisa, and we headed out through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the barn where he kept his cars.
He helped me into the Mercedes. Comfortable, even in restraints—that’s why I think he chose it over the BMW or the Audi. Then we left.
It wasn’t a long drive, but it was already dark—though not dark enough to go unnoticed in what I was wearing.
We pulled into the driveway, winding up toward a circular entrance the kind you only really saw in films—exotic, landscaped, cars parked neatly along the outer edge.
He pulled up to the front and handed the keys to the valet. The staff opened my door, expecting me to step out, then paused when they realized I was secured in the restraints.
That was when Mr. Whitmore came around.
He told the attendant he had it, and helped me out.
Outside of the structure of the arrangement, the formality of events like this, he was still the same—polished, composed, refined. A gentleman.
And he didn’t like anyone touching me. I had learned that early—early into our agreement. I don’t remember who it was now. But he was over. A brunch, I think. A couple. He had me there with them. I sat, restrained.
The husband reached out, put his hand on my shoulder. Innocent. I thought nothing of it. The kind of gesture people sometimes do when they’re talking. Having fun.
But Mr. Witmore didn’t. He didn’t tolerate it. The sharp tilt of his head, the tightening of his jaw—it was enough to make me realize, clearly and quietly, that outside of Luisa, the only person who could ever touch me in his house, or when I was with him, was him.
The restraints weren’t just steel. They weren’t just obedience. They were a declaration. They said: I am his. I belong. Everyone could see it. Anyone who tried to challenge it—or think they could—would see that too. And I, in that moment, felt it. The satisfaction of complete surrender, and the certainty of his responsibility for me, both my protection and my possession.
He took my coat from the back seat and draped it over my shoulders again, his hand steady on my back as he guided me forward.
The house was massive. Larger than his. Old money. He helped me up the steps, and I had to lift the connecting chain to take each one properly. It was awkward in movement, not graceful—but I knew he would never remove them here.
And I didn’t need to be told.
I felt the stares as we entered. Not unfamiliar. After four years, they weren’t new to me anymore. These events always came with them—attention, observation, curiosity.
Most of the time I arrived fully restrained. Only on rare occasions did I attend with only cuffs, and even then, they were always secured behind my back.
It wasn’t humiliation in the way people assumed. Not for me. Not anymore, anyway.
It had been difficult at first—the first time he restrained me like this and took me to one of these events. Difficult to hear the whispers, to be called the “flavor of the day,” his current eye candy, his toy. Difficult to understand that he had done this before, with other women over the years, and that I was simply the next in line ... until the time came for him to upgrade to someone younger.
So, I had to reframe it in my head.
It became presence. Visibility. A role I had stepped into, and learned how to carry without breaking stride.
We made our way into the house and checked in our coats, people gravitating toward him. They always did. Not because it was him, I think, but because of what they wanted—or what they thought they could get from him.
“Hi, Audrey.”
“Hi, Harlot,” I replied, smiling back.
Arnold, her other half, was speaking to Mr. Whitmore.
“How are you?” she asked. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You look really nice, too.”
That wasn’t her real name. But it was what Arnold called her—a nickname, I guess—and eventually, everyone started using it. It just stuck.
And she spoke to me. She always spoke to me. Like she was someone who understood. I don’t know—it didn’t really make sense. I just felt like she didn’t judge me. Maybe she was just sympathetic, seeing me like this at these events. But she always spoke with me, and that made her one of the few people I got to know a little.
Otherwise, I did what I always did. I stood next to him quietly.
To most of the people here, I was just his muse. The plaything he kept around. Not worth speaking to. Not even worth acknowledging.
“How’s school?”
“Graduating in May,” I told her.
“Congratulations,” she said, smiling. “That’s amazing. An amazing accomplishment. Your parents must be proud.”
I nodded. They were. Even though they had no idea what I was studying, or how expensive the school was. They certainly had no clue what I’d been doing for the past four years to afford it.
But it wasn’t something I could tell them, even though they might have understood.
That one woman, Becca—she and her boyfriend came into my parent’s restaurant all the time, and she was always fully restrained, just like I was now. I think maybe that’s why this didn’t bother me. I’d seen her do it. I’d seen how normal it seemed.
Maybe it was the way Ben, her boyfriend, looked at her. Actually looked at her. Not like she was eye candy, but like he saw her. And how he took care of her. Just took care of her, and she was perfectly fine being taken care of.
Most women would have freaked out, having to be kept in restraints like that. Like this. In public. In front of others. The humiliation of it. The message it sent.
People talked about it endlessly—was it punishment? A weird sex thing? Something required? But it didn’t matter. The point was she was fine. And she made it seem normal.
And that stuck with me. That certainty. That calm acceptance of what was expected.
“Job lined up?”
“Interviewing, but nothing yet.”
She smiled at me and rolled her eyes at Mr. Whitmore.
“He already offered.”
She shrugged. “I know you want to do this on your own, but an opportunity is an opportunity.”
I nodded.
We talked a little more, until Arnold caught the eye of someone else and I was drawn into a conversation with another couple.
I’d never seen them before—they were curious, polite on the surface, but clearly fishing for information they didn’t want to ask directly. I answered them, smiled when I needed to, and kept the conversation moving.
But my attention wasn’t really there.
Not fully.
Because nearby, Harlot had started speaking with Mr. Whitmore.
And even while I stood with the couple in front of me, I found myself listening to her instead.
“She’s graduating,” Harlot told him.
“May,” he confirmed.
She nodded. “Started interviewing yet?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll start next week. She’s offered to be a reference.”
The couple in front of me leaned in slightly as I answered one of their questions.
“So, it’s part of an arrangement?” the woman asked carefully, eyes flicking down for just a moment before returning to my face.
“It is,” I said simply, keeping my tone even.
They exchanged a look, clearly trying to decide how far they could push the topic.
“May we ask? Would it be too forward to ask what kind of arrangement?” the man asked.
I was figuring out what to say. How much to say when I overheard Harlot.
“What?” Mr. Whitmore said, glancing at her. “You seem to have something to say.”
She shrugged. “She’s pretty. Early-twenties. She’s been with you four years.” Her gaze shifted briefly in my direction, then back. “And she’s never been a problem.”
“She’s under contract,” he replied. “She understands the ... ramifications.”
He sighed. “And I’m much older than her.”
The couple in front of me followed my gaze for a second, then returned to me, curiosity sharpening. I knew they were wanting for an answer.
“I’m his muse,” I finally said, with a small smile.