The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 3: The Neighbor
“Oh my God.”
She was standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at the open box on the bed like it might explode.
“You little skank.”
I folded my arms, trying not to smile. “That’s dramatic.”
“All this time you’ve been talking trash about that woman down the street,” she said, stepping closer to the bed, “and you’ve got ... this?”
She reached into the box carefully, like she expected it to bite her, and lifted one of the cuffs. The metal caught the light from the window. It wasn’t the toy shit you find at those kinky shops. It was solid. Real.
“I just got that stuff,” I said quickly.
“Oh, that makes it better.” She turned the cuffs over in her hands. “Newly purchased moral corruption.”
“It’s not like you’ve never thought about it,” I shot back.
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve made comments.”
“Well, yeah,” she said immediately, a little too fast. Defensive. “That doesn’t mean I went out and bought shit.”
She set the cuffs down and picked up the chain instead. It slid through her fingers with a heavy, deliberate sound. The weight of it changed the mood in the room. What had started as teasing suddenly felt ... tangible.
“These are real,” she said quietly.
“Well, yeah ... duh.”
She looked at me then—really looked at me—taking in the silk folded at the edge of the bed, the nervous way I kept adjusting the hem of my shirt.
A slow smile spread across her face. The kind that said she was putting the pieces together.
“So,” she said, stretching the word out as she leaned against the dresser. “You haven’t actually worn any of this yet?”
I shook my head.
“Thought I’d surprise Steve,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “He gets home tonight.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
She looked at the cuffs again. Then at me.
“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “that when your husband walks in after three weeks on the road, you want to be ... what? Waiting for him like this?”
She pointed to the clothes and the restraints on the bed.
I swallowed. “That’s the idea.”
There was a pause—longer this time. The teasing energy shifted into something more curious. More careful.
“And you need me,” she said, glancing at the restraints, “to help you into it.”
I gave a small, embarrassed nod.
She laughed once under her breath, shaking her head. “I come over for coffee and walk into a full-blown situation.”
“It’s not a situation,” I said quickly. “It’s just—”
“A surprise involving chains.”
I winced.
She picked up the cuffs again, testing them with her thumb. The metal clicked softly when it closed.
“You’re really doing this,” she murmured.
I nodded again, quieter this time.
She tilted her head. “You know, most women just use a dildo or a Hitachi when they’re husbands are away.”
I huffed a laugh. “I have toys.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
She glanced around the room. “I’d wager you’ve got a ball gag tucked away in your dresser. Maybe even a collar?”
“That’s not the point,” I replied quickly, brushing aside the suggestion that I owned anything like that.
“And what is the point?” she asked, folding her arms.
“The point,” I said carefully, “is that I don’t want to take care of myself. I want him to.”
That made her pause.
“So, this isn’t about getting off,” she said.
“No,” I replied. “It’s about being wanted.”
I looked at her. “I’m perfectly capable of giving myself an orgasm, thank you.”
She studied me for a moment, then crossed back to the bed.
She picked up the lace teddy first, holding it between two fingers, letting the fabric spill down like it weighed nothing. She gave a soft, low whistle and set it back carefully, almost respectfully.
Then she reached for one of the heels.
It was black, patent leather, the arch dramatic, the stiletto long and unapologetic. She lifted it to eye level, turning it slightly so the light caught the sharp line of it.
Six inches, easy.
“Oh,” she said slowly, eyebrows rising as she measured the height against her palm. “You’ll definitely be wanted.”
I felt heat crawl up my neck. “That’s the plan.”
She glanced at me over the edge of the heel, her expression shifting—less teasing now, more assessing.
“Can you even walk in these?”
“Yes,” I said quickly—too quickly—and felt the heat rise in my face. “I can walk in them just fine.”
She narrowed her eyes and slowly flipped the shoe over in her hand
The sole wasn’t pristine. The glossy red underside had dulled at the ball of the foot. The tip of the heel was faintly scuffed.
Her mouth curved.
“I can see that.”
I crossed my arms, suddenly defensive. “I don’t wear them out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She looked up at me, something knowingly wicked in her expression.
“It’d be fine if you did,” she said. “They’re definitely sexy.”
“They’re for the bedroom,” I muttered.
She barked out a short laugh. “Handles?”
I froze.
“Oh my God,” she said, pointing the heel at me. “You totally use them as handles.”
“You’re such a bitch,” I shot back, but I was fighting a smile.
She lowered the shoe slowly, her amusement fading into something more thoughtful as she looked at everything—the lingerie, the cuffs, the chains.
“You really are serious about all of this.”
I nodded.
“Are you going to help me or not?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course I’ll help you. I’ve known you since high school. I’d help you bury a body if you needed.”
“I’m ... just surprised,” she admitted. “That’s all. You always have something to say about Pinup Wannabe, and I just ... anyway. Seeing all this is kind of a shock. That’s all.”
“This is different,” I insisted.
“Really?” she said, not believing me for a second. “How so?”
“You’ve seen the way she dresses,” I added, gesturing vaguely. “Women don’t dress like that for themselves. She’s putting it on for that chiseled wall of a man she’s with.”
“And?”
I closed my eyes.
“Okay. Fine. Yeah. That’s the same. I’m going to dress up for Steve,” I told her.
“But,” I added immediately, “I don’t have to wear those.”
I pointed at the box. “I’m not required to be in restraints because I’m some fucking psycho who can’t be trusted unless I’m chained up.”
She picked up one of the cuffs, letting one side fall open, studying it.
“So,” she said, dragging the word, “how are you thinking about doing it?”
“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”
She dropped the cuffs when her eyes caught the lockbox, holding it up. Then she rummaged through the rest of the restraints.
“Is this the same shit she wears?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t know what to get,” I said, too quickly, defensively. “So, I just got the same stuff she’s put in.”
“How’d you even find this stuff?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “Internet,” I said. “Where else?”
She tilted her head, skeptical.
“I Googled prison transport restraints ... something like that,” I added. “That’s what she mentioned when we went over that day, I think.” I shook my head, trying to dismiss it. “Anyway. A site came up and ... well, I found all that stuff.”
She lifted the cuffs again, turning them in her hands. “You know ... cuffs would have been enough.”
“Yeah, normally,” I muttered. “But ever since she moved in ... you’ve seen how the men in the neighborhood look at her.”
She gave me a blank look, like I’d gone off the rails.
“You can’t possibly tell me you haven’t noticed,” I said, leaning closer. “Seriously, Tiff?”
“Steve’s not the only one,” I continued, lowering my voice a little. “They look at her a little too long—especially when she’s walking her dog in the evenings.”
She shrugged, brushing it off.
“It’s bad enough that the guys are drooling over that blonde who’s always over at their place,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the street outside the window.
Her lips twitched into a half-smile, but she didn’t say anything
“So yeah,” I added, returning to the box. “I got the same stuff she has to wear. Or at least it looks like it. I don’t know if it’s the same. But I figured...” I trailed off, letting her fill in the rest.
She shrugged, holding up the padlock. “Okay,” she said, offering nothing more.
I could tell the comment about the way the guys had looked at the wannabe had gotten under her skin. But it was true. She drew attention—mostly from men. And it wasn’t because they were offended by it.
“So,” she finally said, dragging the word, “did you want to change first before I chain you up like a ... prison bitch?”
I grinned at her, the way she said it making me laugh.
I shrugged. “Don’t you think it’s sexier if he finds me in the lingerie ... and the chains?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah ... I guess it depends on what you want. Do you want to be, like, fuck-ready when he gets home, or ... you know, foreplay first?”
I laughed.
“Fuck-ready?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, nodding. “Steve gets home. He finds you on the bed, chained up, in lingerie. Fuck-ready.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling. “I want this to be sexy. He’s supposed to want me. Just ... not get me off.”
She sighed. “Maybe you could put on a suit over the lingerie, maybe?” she suggested. “You know ... dress up like her. That’s what she wears a lot, right? Suits. Or maybe one of those super-tight dresses that make you ... wiggle.”
“You said the guys look at her ... so...” She threw it back at me like an accusation. As if, if that’s what the guys liked, I should be doing it too. I was already going to be in the same restraints.
I looked at her
“He comes home,” she continued, lifting the package of stockings in one hand, the heels in the other. “And he finds you all dolled up in the suit. These.” She paused, turning the heels so the light caught them. “And all chained up. Only to then realize that underneath ... you’ve got that teddy on. Garter.”
She shrugged. “Kind of a sexy surprise ... after the first surprise.”
I smiled.
“Yeah,” I said. “That might work.”
“You two could roleplay,” she said, smiling. “You know ... he comes home to find his sexy secretary all chained up. She’s been really naughty while he’s been away.”
I laughed. “Uh ... not sure Steve’s into the roleplay thing,” I added.
“Okay,” she said, shrugging. “Just throwing out ideas.”
“I can do the suit thing,” I replied. “That might be fun.”
“Do you have anything like what she wears?” she asked.
“You mean the kind of skirt suit you have to hobble in?” I smirked.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a laugh. “Something that screams to coworkers, ‘I’m the one the boss fucks’?”
“Obviously not,” I replied. “But I have nice suits I kept from when I worked at that law firm. Not skin-tight, but they could turn heads.”
She smiled. “Okay,” she said, picking up the lingerie and handing it to me. “Go slip into it all.”
She added, grinning, “Guess you should get on the makeup now too. Might be hard to put it on once you’re chained up.”
I smiled, rolled my eyes, and pointed to the matching panties still lying on the bed.
“You won’t need those,” she said. “Fuck-ready, remember?”
“They pull to the side,” I told her.
“Oh really?” she said, arching a brow. “Tell me more.”
I took the items from her, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door.
I showered and shaved my legs, making sure everything was exactly as it needed to be for later tonight. I dried my hair and styled it carefully, taking more time than usual. Then I put on my makeup—heavier than normal. Nothing I’d ever wear out in public. But enough to set the tone for the night.
Then I slipped into the lingerie.
It was odd not wearing panties. I felt exposed—vulnerable—but then again, I think that was exactly what Tiff had in mind.
I walked into the closet off the bathroom and pulled out a few suits. Navy blue. Snug, but not tight. Then charcoal gray—just as fitted, but the skirt slightly longer and narrow enough to make walking a careful effort.
My eyes drifted to the heels still sitting on the counter.
I hadn’t put them on yet. I’d slip into them when I reemerged into the bedroom. I wasn’t lying about being able to walk in them ... but that didn’t mean I wanted to. Not until I had to.
I hung the navy suit back up, grabbed a fitted white blouse, and slipped into the charcoal one.
Then I stepped into the heels.
I looked ... sexy.
I stood there staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Yeah. Definitely sexy.
I unbuttoned the blouse just enough to reveal a hint of the black lace teddy underneath. Just enough so Steve would know what was waiting beneath the suit.
Then I squared my shoulders, took a breath, and walked back into the bedroom.
Tiff was sitting on the edge of the bed when I walked back in.
The chain running down to her ankles shifted with a dull metallic scrape.
“Really?” I said.
“You were gone for a while,” she replied.
She pushed herself to stand.
The motion wasn’t smooth.
The ankle cuffs pulled first, forcing her feet closer together than was natural. The connecting chain hung heavy between them, short enough that every step required calculation. The cuffs at her wrists were already secured, threaded through the end rings of the longer linking chain. When she moved, everything moved—a layered chorus of restrained metal.
She took a step toward me and grimaced.
“Definitely real,” she muttered.
“Uh,” I replied, folding my arms. “Yeah. I said they were.”
She tried another step.
It wasn’t walking so much as controlled hobbling. The ankle chain allowed only a few inches of movement. The wrist cuffs kept her arms pinned forward, the connecting chain limiting how high she could lift them. Each movement required balance first, motion second.
“How are you supposed to walk in these?” she asked, concentrating as she shuffled forward.
“Carefully, I guess,” I said with a shrug. “Prisoners do it all the time.”
She tested the distance again—the chain pulling taut if she misjudged even slightly.
“You couldn’t get them longer?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the street-facing windows. “But she’s always in ones like that.”
Tiff glanced down at her ankles.
The chain pulled again as she adjusted her stance.
“How do they feel?” I asked smiling at the scene.
“They don’t hurt,” she said realizing how ridiculous it all looked. “But they’re definitely hard to walk in.” She lifted her wrists as high as she could. The connecting chain stopped her short with a firm metallic check. “And they work. I can’t get out of them.”
She gave a small experimental tug, testing the cuffs, the give.
There wasn’t any.
“I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to,” I replied. “I mean, have you ever seen what’s-her-face get out of them? Whenever we see her, she’s hobbling along in those things. A little hunched over. Like she’s just trying to stay upright in those heels.”
Tiff tried to straighten fully.
The wrist chain forced her shoulders forward slightly. Not dramatically—but enough to change her posture. Enough to make her look ... managed.
She exhaled.
“This changes how you stand,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, it looks that way.”
She took another careful step.
The ankle chain drew tight again, forcing her feet close. The metal kissed itself with every movement—not loud, but constant. Present.
“I’m not even in the waist chain or that box thing,” she said, glancing down at herself. “And this is already awful.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you got the full set.”
I smiled.
“I guess it’s different when you have to wear them.”
She gave me a flat look.
“I feel like I need a guard tower and a cigarette break schedule.”
I laughed. “It can’t be that bad.”
She shifted her weight again.
The ankle chain drew tight, forcing her feet back into alignment. The wrist cuffs kept her hands pinned forward, the connecting chain limiting how far she could lift them. Every adjustment produced that soft, deliberate metal sound—not loud, but impossible to ignore.
“It’s controlled,” she replied. “And anyway, you’ll be seeing for yourself. Except you’ll have the rest of that shit on.”
She pointed to the bed and then looked down at my heels, then slowly back up at me.
“You’re going to have to practice walking before he gets home.”
She took a small, deliberate step toward me, demonstrating.
The chain between her ankles allowed barely enough space for her foot to pass the other. It wasn’t walking—it was measured, contained movement.
“There’s no fucking way you’re going to manage this,” she said, nodding toward my shoes, “chained up like this in those.”
I laughed.
She smirked.
“But I guess,” she added, eyes dragging over my suit, “you won’t be doing much walking when he gets home and sees you in that.”
She lifted her wrists slightly and gave the cuffs a testing tug.
“And these.”
The chain checked her movement immediately.
We both laughed—hers edged with disbelief, mine with nerves.
Then she looked at me again, slower this time.
“Okay,” she said finally. “You do look sexy.”
“Really?” I asked.
I already knew I looked good. I’d seen myself in the mirror long enough to be sure of that. But hearing it from her—hearing it from someone who wasn’t obligated to say it—just helped me feel sexy, too.
“Yeah,” she said, looking me over slowly. “I’d fuck you.”
I barked out a laugh, heat rushing up my neck despite myself.
“You’re ridiculous.”
I shook my head and crossed to the dresser. The heels clicked sharply against the hardwood with every step—deliberate, echoing. I opened the top drawer and reached inside, fingers brushing past folded scarves before finding the small ring of keys.
“Wait. They weren’t in the box?” she asked.
“No,” I said, holding them up. The metal glinted in the light. “I put them in the drawer so they wouldn’t get lost.”
“So, if something happened, I’d just be stuck like this?” she asked.
“I didn’t exactly know you were going to chain yourself up while I was getting ready,” I told her. “It’s not something that crossed my mind. Like, ‘Hey, if you decide to cuff yourself while I’m in the bathroom, the keys are in the drawer.’”
She gave me a look. “Fine.”
She then lifted her wrists toward me. The cuffs were still secured, the connecting chain pulling her hands downward.
I stepped close enough to smell her shampoo.
“Hold still.”
“Not like I’ve got much range,” she muttered.
I slid the key into the first cuff. The click when it unlocked was crisp and mechanical. The hinge loosened instantly, the circle of steel opening and releasing her wrist.
She flexed her hand once, testing the return of full movement.
“Okay,” she said under her breath.
I unlocked the second cuff. Another click. Another release.
The difference in her posture was immediate. Her shoulders lifted. Her arms fell naturally at her sides instead of being held in that constrained, downward position.
She took the cuffs from me and shuffled carefully back toward the bed, the ankle chain still binding her stride into short, controlled steps. It wasn’t graceful—not exactly—but it was deliberate. Each movement required awareness.
She climbed onto the mattress with more effort than she expected, balancing carefully before swiveling around and lifting her legs toward me.
“Don’t even say it,” she warned.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
I knelt and reached for the first ankle cuff. The key slid in smoothly. I turned it, and the cuff released with a small metallic snap.
She let out a quiet breath.
I removed the second cuff, and the connecting chain fell slack across the bedspread with a heavy, final sound. She immediately stretched her legs out long in front of her, rolling her ankles in slow circles.
“So much better,” she then said.
Looking down at my heels, she added, “You weren’t kidding about being able to walk in those.”
“I said I could walk in them,” I replied.
“Your foot is practically vertical.”
I smirked. “I’m a size seven. Add a six-inch heel and yeah, my foot’s forced forward a bit.”
“A bit?” she scoffed. “You’re pitched like you’re about to tip over.”
“I am not.”
She laughed.
I gathered the loose chain and set it neatly beside the rest of the restraints in the box. The sound of metal stacking against metal was unmistakable—heavy, unapologetic.
When I straightened up, she was already on her feet again, testing the absence of weight. She took a normal step. Then another—longer this time. Free.
“You weren’t in them that long” I said, smiling. “You’re such a drama queen.”
She flexed her fingers again and rolled her shoulders once.
“I was in them long enough,” she said immediately. Then she glanced at the box. “I can’t imagine being like that all the time.”
Her tone wasn’t mocking now. It was thoughtful.
“I mean,” she added, looking back at me, “you’ll see.”
She then looked at the alarm clock.
“When does Steve get in?”
“Around four,” I replied.
She nodded once, calculating.
“Do you want to be in all that now?” she asked, flicking her eyes toward the box. “Or do you want to wait a bit?”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I should probably see how it all feels together. Make sure I can actually move. Like you said, I should probably make sure I can walk. At least a little.”
She gave me a slow nod of approval.
“Up here or downstairs?” she then asked. “Where are you planning to surprise him?”
I hadn’t fully decided.
“Maybe downstairs?” I said, uncertainty slipping into my voice.
“That might be sexier,” she replied immediately. “Foreplay downstairs. Then he can pick you up and carry you upstairs for the rest of the evening.”
I smiled despite myself. “You’ve thought about this more than I have.”
She shrugged, but there was a knowing look in her eyes.
“I know you said he’s not into roleplay,” she continued, pacing a small circle as she talked. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t appreciate the visual.”
“The visual,” I repeated.
“Yeah.” She gestured loosely toward me. “Imagine it. He walks in. It’s quiet. Maybe the lights are low. And there you are—all put together, trying to move like nothing’s wrong while very obviously restrained.”
I felt a small flutter in my stomach.
“Maybe in his den?” she added. “Or by the bar. Somewhere he doesn’t expect it.”
“Hobbling around downstairs,” I said, half to myself.
She grinned. “Exactly. You just pretend there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Sexy.”
I nodded slowly. I still wasn’t sure—but the idea was ... nice.
“Okay,” I said finally.
“You might want to take those off for the stairs,” she said.
I slipped them off and carried them in one hand, the cool hardwood grounding under my stocking feet. We moved toward the staircase, Tiff holding the box securely against her hip.
The house felt different now.
Quieter.
Charged.