The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 4: The Receptionist
“She’s gone?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, though the motion felt oddly unnecessary. “She just walked out.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.” I muttered it this time, quieter. “Nothing. Just ... walked out. Didn’t even look at me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it pressed in, thick with implication, the kind that filled the space between us more loudly than words ever could.
“Okay,” Amber replied at last, her voice measured, calm on the surface—but I knew her well enough to hear the curiosity threading underneath.
“So ... she’s really gone-gone?” I asked.
“Yep.” Amber’s smile was small, but there was an edge to it now. “That’s it. We’re done.”
I leaned forward instinctively, lowering my voice like the walls themselves might be listening. “Is she still...?” I tilted my head toward the audition room, aiming for casual, though I could feel the flicker of curiosity—no, mischief—give me away.
Amber didn’t let me finish. She leaned in too, closer across the counter, her smile sharpening into something more conspiratorial. “Yes.”
I paused, just long enough to feel my own anticipation tighten in my chest. “What’s that about?” I whispered, even though I knew Debra couldn’t hear us from inside.
Amber’s eyes darted toward the audition room door, checking—always checking—before she answered.
“I don’t know,” she said. “She just—pulled them out of her purse right before the Mistress walked in.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, quick and bright. I slapped a hand over my mouth a second too late, eyes widening as the sound carried farther than I’d meant it to.
Amber leaned further over the counter, mirroring my energy now, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Yep. She took them out and put them on like she was putting on lipstick.”
I stared at her, trying to picture it, the casualness of the gesture clashing with everything else. “She didn’t say why?”
“Nope.” Her grin stretched, slow and amused. “How do you even ask that? Like, ‘Hey Debra, what’s with the handcuffs today?’”
This time I didn’t even try to hold back my laughter. It came out fuller, easier—and Amber joined in, the two of us briefly losing composure together.
Still leaning in, I lowered my voice again. “So, she’s still ... in them?”
Amber flicked her gaze toward the door and gave a small, confirming nod. “She was when I left the room.”
Another pause settled between us—short, but dense, like it had weight. Then Amber straightened, brushing her hands together as if physically closing the conversation.
“Anyway,” she said, slipping her purse over her shoulder in one smooth motion. “See you in the office Wednesday?”
I raised an eyebrow, watching her shift gears so quickly. “Yeah. What time’s your flight tomorrow? Maybe we can all grab breakfast.”
Amber shook her head, that same sly grin lingering. “This afternoon.”
“Uh...” The surprise slipped out before I could catch it. “Why? Why not just fly back tomorrow?”
She shrugged, but there was a sharper edge to her tone now. “Gotta be in the office tomorrow. DeSotto.”
I sighed, the reality of that name landing with familiar weight. “Right,” I murmured. “Good luck.” The sarcasm slipped in whether I meant it to or not.
Her hand hovered on the door handle, but she turned back, lips curving into a smirk. “Yeah, thanks.”
Then she paused—just a little—like something had clicked into place. The door cracked open behind her, letting in a sliver of cooler air.
“Oh,” she said, lowering her voice again, just enough for me to hear. “Mistress Psycho left her box of toys. Don’t think she’s coming back for them.”
I blinked, one eyebrow lifting. “Woof,” I muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Amber tried to keep a straight face, but amusement broke through anyway. “Yeah. Um ... not that. But ... other ... interesting things.”
She glanced back toward the audition room door again, more cautious this time. “Just ... make sure the movers don’t find it. Take it with you and toss it. I don’t care what you do with it.” She let out a quiet chuckle. “She said she’s billing us for it all. The last thing I need is for the moving company to think it belongs to us and ship it back to corporate. Would like to not have to explain that stuff to DeSotto.”
I nodded slowly, keeping my expression as neutral as I could manage, though I could feel it threatening to crack. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that.”
Amber gave a small wave, already halfway through the door. “Bye,” she called, her voice light again, like none of this had any weight at all, as she slipped out.
I shut down the computer, double-checked everything was in order, and locked the door before heading into the audition room.
Debra was standing by the folding table. Even from a distance, I could see the small, awkward movements—her hands shifting, her wrists turning as she fumbled, trying to work herself free.
That’s when she saw me and stopped. Stopped fidgeting. Stopped trying to get out of the cuffs. I could see she wasn’t happy. But then again, neither was I.
I said nothing as I crossed the room. Instead, I went straight to the box the Mistress had brought and set it down on the table with a quiet thud. The lid lifted easily beneath my hand.
I sifted through the contents—slowly at first, then with more intent.
There.
I paused, letting my fingers rest on the cold metal for a moment before picking them up. I’d only caught a brief glimpse of them earlier in the day while ushering talent in and out. At the time, it had barely registered. But now, seeing them here, untouched, sent a faint thread of satisfaction through me.
Honestly, I’d half expected them to be gone—walked off on one of the girls who had come in to audition. It wouldn’t have been surprising, given the circumstances. But the only one who’d left with anything had been the girl in full restraints.
I set the hinged cuffs on the table. As I reached back into the box, my fingers brushed what felt like a set of leg cuffs—then movement caught my eye.
Debra.
She’d managed to get one wrist partially free. Not fully—her hand twisted at an awkward angle, fingers compressed as she tried to slip it out—but she was close. Another second, maybe two, and she might have had it.
Before she could, I caught her wrist and pushed it back through the opening, tightening the cuff in one smooth motion. The metal clicked snugly into place, cutting off any chance of slipping free.
She stilled.
Neither of us said anything.
I took the key from the loose cuff and set it on the table behind me, out of her reach, then picked up the hinged pair. Out of habit, I tested the key—one turn, the mechanism engaging cleanly—before stepping back in.
I closed the hinged cuffs over her already bound wrists, locking them right over the chain set she was wearing. The snap was heavier this time, more solid. I positioned them with the keyholes facing upward—away from her fingers.
Then I unlocked the chain cuffs and removed them, leaving the hinged pair in place. They held her wrists closer together now—tighter, less forgiving.
I double-locked them with a firm, deliberate click.
No shifting. No tightening. No give.
Satisfied, I stepped back to the table, picked up the key, and placed it back in her hands.
“Go on,” I snapped, glaring at her. “You were so eager to be in them—so desperate to show off in front of everyone. Well, now you’re in them. Exactly where you wanted to be.”
I looked at her, my voice tightening with cold anger. “Go on,” I said again. “Struggle. I want to see how long it takes before it finally sinks in ... you’re not getting out of those.”
She knew I wasn’t happy—about the cuffs. About learning she had put them on.
And again, she didn’t respond.
Without another word, I moved to the table and pulled what looked like leg cuffs from the box. Maybe oversized handcuffs—the short chain made it hard to tell. Not as short as standard handcuffs, longer, about six inches at most. The kind you’d put on a man, maybe—guys with broad shoulders and short arms, the ones who couldn’t bring their wrists together behind their backs.
And they looked standard. Same keys. No need to test them.
I stepped behind her and knelt, sliding them around her ankles. Not tight—just snug enough to look finished, hugging her skin with a finger’s width of space.
Her hands still held the keys. I took them, double-locked the cuffs, and handed them back.
She hadn’t even tried to use them. I’d seen her feel for the keyholes while I was getting the leg cuffs. When they weren’t there—when she realized they faced upward, out of reach—she understood. She knew.
I stood and stepped back, taking her in. The cuffs looked sharp against the fitted dress I’d told her to wear. I was done with pant suits.
She was pretty, leggy, and the leg cuffs—even short—hung cleanly between her ankles.
Especially with the stilettos. Five inches. I’d asked for them. The block heels were fine for stability, but she needed to start wearing stilettos. If Amber could manage them at her age, Debra had no excuse.
I walked over to the box and rummaged through it some more, letting out a quiet sigh.
“That puppy hood would have looked really cute on you,” I said, not looking at her, my gaze fixed on the contents of the box. “Would have been perfect with that dress.”
Dumb Bondage Bitch, I thought to myself. It would have been perfect on her.
She didn’t say anything.
I tilted my head, sifting through the box again, thinking. “Still ... there’s enough here for later. Still a nice surprise.”
Walking around the table, I grabbed some paperwork and the tablet, dropping them in the box. Along with Debra’s purse.
I then moved over to the steel cart, putting the box down, and letting my fingers trail over the cushioned leather top.
“It would be so much fun to strip you down right now and strap you to this,” I said, not looking at her.
“But,” I sighed, “can’t risk it—having my way with you and ... moving showing up.”
“Come on,” I added, letting the words hang.
I looked up at her and pointed to the floor in front of me. “Now!” I told her.
Debra froze for a moment, then shifted her weight and lifted her legs carefully. The fitted dress hugged her as she moved, limiting her stride, but it was the cuffs that kept her feet together. The six-inch chain between her ankles turned every step into a hobble.
The five-inch stilettos didn’t help—each narrow heel threatening to slip, her calves and thighs tightening with every adjustment. The metal clicked softly against her skin. Her balance wavered, the dress brushing her knees as she took a step, paused, adjusted, and tried again.
She had never worn cuffs this short before. At least not with me. The mix of dress, heels, and restraint made her walk awkward and tense.
By the time she reached me, her breathing had sped up slightly. She stopped, wobbling just enough to show her vulnerability, the cuffs clinking softly, heels in place. She had done exactly as I commanded. The scene was sharp—and cruelly beautiful.
I reached out and lifted her chin with my index finger.
“Why did you cuff yourself?” I asked, my voice quiet, but edged with something harder.
She closed her eyes. “I was hoping to have them off before you saw I was in them,” she said, her voice small, unhappy.
A sharp, humorless breath left me. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” I said, irritation creeping in. “That your hands were behind you the entire day? Every time I walked in, you were sitting there, hiding them like that?”
I held her gaze, unimpressed. “Really, Deb. You didn’t think I’d catch something that obvious?”
“I had to,” she said quietly.
“What?” I snapped, the word cutting through the air. “I thought for a second you said you had to.” I let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “That’s strange—because I don’t remember giving you permission to put them on.”
“I had to,” she repeated, barely louder.
I stared at her, my expression hardening as she kept talking—about her session with Mistress Liora. How she had to see for herself, had to convince herself they were real Dommes, experts who could guide the upcoming show. How the second session pushed her too far—too intense, too much—and she’d had to stop.
But now she wasn’t even seeing them anymore.
I let out a slow, incredulous breath as she admitted it—how she’d panicked today. After everything they’d told her, after everything she thought might happen if she didn’t comply. So, she cuffed herself. On her own. Thinking she’d have them off before I ever noticed.
My jaw tightened, my eyes locked on her. “So, you wore them for someone else,” I said coldly. “And you thought you’d be able to hide it—that I wouldn’t find out.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “I just panicked.”
“Two sessions?” I asked. “Only two?”
She nodded.
“One wasn’t enough to realize what they were?” I pressed, my voice hard. “Completely psychotic?”
“The first one was for the audition. Or that’s what I told myself,” she said quietly. “But when I called to schedule the second one, even after being in so much pain afterwards, I knew that wasn’t true ... and that they were really for me.” She sighed shakily. “But it was before we met. Before there was an us.” She shook her head. “I never went back after the second session. I couldn’t. My—my body couldn’t take it.”
My expression darkened slightly. “That was the week you were out?” I asked. “HR just said you were sick.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly, as she adjusted her hands behind her. “I couldn’t sit ... even a little. Every movement hurt. Peeing hurt. I thought I’d have to go to the ER. It took days to recover—my body ached, my muscles tight, every step stiff. I was exhausted ... completely wiped out.”
“So, you wore them because she required it,” I said, circling back to the real issue—her being in cuffs today. “The cuffs. You put them on even though you belong to me.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, her voice tinged with shame. “I—I just panicked.”
I held her gaze, steady and unyielding. “Do you remember what I told you? About us ... about all of this? I was clear, wasn’t I? I was honest with you. Up front. About everything.”
I let my hand drop from her chin but didn’t look away. “I told you that if we were going to have a real relationship, things had to work a certain way. I need someone I can take care of. And you told me you want that—you want someone to take care of you. Tell you how to dress, how to wear your makeup, what to eat, all of it. You wanted ... no, needed someone to take over, to own you, to make decisions for you. Do you remember?”
“You used those exact words, ‘You wanted to be owned. To have decisions made for you.’”
I leaned closer. “That’s why this works, Deb. Because we fit each other. You let me take care of you, and I do—but in the ways we agreed, in the ways that give us both what we need. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to hide. But you do need to be mine, and mine only. Just like there’s only you. It’s not about anyone else—it’s about us, making sure our needs are met.”
She blinked, the hint of a tremble in her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m just sorry. I—I just panicked, that’s all. I belong to you.”
“I know,” I replied. “You’ve shown me. But from now on, you’re in restraints only when I allow it.”
She nodded again, and I could see the weight of it settle over her—a mix of relief, tension, and recognition. We didn’t need more words. We knew the agreement we had, the space we created for each other.
“Amber’s got a flight back today,” I told her. “It’s just us.”
I smiled, letting the words hang. “And ... while I was sitting out there, I did a little research. It seems being cuffed in this town is kind of a thing.” I told her what I’d learned, letting it sink in.
“So,” I continued, “I made a call to a place I found, and we’ll be going by there on the way back to the hotel.” I nodded toward her restraints. “We’ll then get an early dinner. Amber should be gone by then, on her way to the airport, and we can head to the hotel. Call it an early night.”
I smiled at her. “Well ... after we see what other fun things are in that box first.” My gaze flicked over it, letting her imagination do the rest.
She looked at me, her breath catching. I knew she’d heard me—that I was leaving her restrained like this—and the thought of being cuffed out in the open, in front of others, was racing through her head.
“I’ve spent the past few days surrounded by gorgeous models and actresses, all dolled up in sexy business clothes,” I said, stepping up close to her. “Even had to interact with one who was stuck in prison restraints by her boyfriend.”
“Issa or something,” I said. “The Indian girl,” I told her. “The gorgeous one with the green eyes.”
“‘I’m not allowed out of these,’ she said,” I repeated, trying to capture her voice but failing.
I closed my eyes. “All I could think about was you,” I said, letting the words settle. “And how much I wanted you like that—there, restrained, telling me you want to stay that way ... that you’re completely mine until I decide otherwise.”
“And I’ve been horny ever since,” I said, kissing her. “Just wanting you.”
That’s when I caught myself—I was reaching for the top button on her shirt. I turned and picked up the box. “Come on,” I said again. “Before the movers show up.”
“Would rather not have to explain to those Neanderthals why you’re like that,” I told her, walking to the door and looking back. “Or worse—they’ll say something to Amber, maybe even, DeSotto.”
“Come on,” I repeated, firmer this time. “You can walk in those.” I insisted.
She moved toward me, each step small, her ankles held close together by the cuffs. I held the door open as she hobbled through, and I could see the effort it took just to lift one foot, then the other.
I tossed the tablet and paperwork into my work bag, grabbed a few other things—including my purse—and shoved it on top of the box to keep everything contained. Holding the box under my arm, I unlocked the front door and opened it for her.
She paused at the threshold, the weight of her restrained stance making her shift slightly from side to side. But she stepped through.
I locked the door behind her, letting the moment stretch. I wanted her to feel it—the slow anticipation.
Grabbing her arm, I then guided her down from the sidewalk onto the parking lot. It was obvious from her stepping off the curb that stairs were going to be a problem.
When we reached the car, Deb paused again, watching as I loaded the box, purses, and workbag into the trunk. Only then did I help her into the passenger seat. Her movements were constrained—she had to keep her ankles together, pivot, and swing herself in after she had sat. I watched every motion, noting the effort it took before I clicked her seatbelt into place.
The ride itself was short. Maybe ten minutes, if that. We’d just driven down the main strip of the downtown area, where I found a parking spot on the road in front of a bookstore.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her eyes scanning the street. It was a quaint little area, full of small shops. But it wasn’t the charm of the street that held her attention—it was the people strolling up and down the sidewalks on both sides of the street.
I pointed across the street and back the way we’d come. “That little artsy place we passed a second ago,” I said, undoing my seatbelt and then hers.
I stepped out and walked to her side, opening the door to help her out. “Come on,” I said.
She breathed heavily. “Like this?” she asked, eyes wide. “There are people.”
“I know,” I replied. “I see them. But like I told you...” I moved my hand up and down in front of her, gesturing toward the cuffs. “Those are a thing here.”
I grabbed her arm and led her behind the car to grab my purse, then guided her across the street. On the other side, I helped her back onto the sidewalk.
I could see she was humiliated. She didn’t ask for the cuffs to be removed, didn’t ask to be freed—but I could tell part of her was craving exactly this. Part of her wanted the sharp, heavy awareness of being seen.
It was thrilling in a way she could barely admit, even to herself—a mix of fear, exposure, and a deep, quiet surrender. She wanted the tension of being displayed, of feeling the judgment and attention of strangers, and the release that came from obeying without question, letting the world witness her submission while knowing it was all under my control.
We passed a couple and a few others on the way to the art studio. Some stared openly, while others just ignored us altogether. The woman with the man did a sort of double take, mouth slightly open, trying not to smile—but it was obvious she was surprised and amused. The kind of amusement you see when someone witnesses something awkward or unexpected: funny, but they’re trying to hold it in and failing.
I opened the door to the studio and helped Deb step inside before following her into the store myself.
“Natalie?” the woman asked inside.
I nodded. “Yes. Samantha?” I replied.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling back. “And this is Debra?” she added, glancing over at Deb.
Deb nodded but didn’t speak.
“Okay,” Samantha said, eyeing Deb, staring down at the leg cuffs before stepping to the side to peek at the cuffs on her wrists. “I was able to replicate that security box—the one we talked about on the phone.” She walked over to a counter, pulled a metal box, and brought it back, handing it to me.
“It’s identical to what Rebecca Bounds wears at the museum. Except I think hers might have some imprinting on it—or at least I think the one Sophie wears might, if not Anne and Susan.” She smiled as she took it back from me. “But those are branded by the manufacturer. If you want, though, I can imprint something into the metal. It may just take a while to do it.”
I shook my head. “No. This is great.”
She nodded. “Edges are rounded,” she continued, “so no cutting or hurting yourself. And it’s all steel. You’d have to drive over this to make it bend.”
“I just need some measurements, and I can cut the chain, add the metal bar to make the waist chain, and the rings to make the connecting chain. Then we can try it all on,” she explained.
“Okay,” I replied.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.