The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 7: The Journalist
“Hold still,” Maya said standing behind me.
The chain shifted again as I felt the padlock close, the quiet metallic click echoing in the hotel room. I tested my arms and immediately felt the limits of the restraint she had just finished putting me into. Whatever range of motion I normally took for granted was gone now, replaced by something far more ... structured.
“Comfortable?” she asked.
“That’s not really the word I’d use,” I said, shifting my weight carefully. Even standing still required more attention than usual. Being in heels was going to be hard enough tonight.
Maya stepped around in front of me, studying her work the way a technician might check equipment before a demonstration.
“You said you wanted to experience it.”
“Yeah,” I replied, wearily.
She wasn’t wrong. I did say that.
I tried moving my hands again out of habit and stopped almost immediately when the restraints reminded me how little freedom I actually had. Even that small motion pulled at the limits of what I could do.
Maya noticed.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be able to use your hands in those,” she said, her tone a little flat. “That’s kind of the whole point of transport restraints.”
“Yeah,” I said again. “My hands are just ... stuck like this. I can’t move them.”
I could see she was looking at me that way. The way she always did when I was dressed up.
The dress I’d chosen for the evening was simple. It was the kind of thing I normally wore to a gallery opening or a quiet private reception, with simple lines and a style meant to blend politely into a room full of art and conversation. A little black dress—simple and unassuming, but timeless. And with stockings and heels, it added a sexy element. And I knew she noticed.
But in these, it just felt heavier. The effect felt ... different. I didn’t feel sexy. I just felt formal, but not in a good way.
I shifted my footing again, testing my balance. The heels forced my posture upright. They were higher—much higher than what I normally wore. But from what I had researched, these were the right shoes for these events. And I knew Maya wouldn’t complain. If she had her way, I’d be in heels all the time.
“Try walking,” she suggested.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Better to figure it out here than in the lobby, or worse, the museum.”
She had a point.
I took a careful step forward across the carpet. The movement was slower than I expected, my stride shorter and more measured. The quiet sound of metal shifting against metal followed each motion, a faint reminder that I wasn’t moving the way I usually did.
Step. Pause. Adjust.
Maya watched closely.
“I feel like I’m learning how to walk again.”
“The chain’s really short,” she replied.
It was. But again, based on what I had seen and learned about these events, short-chain leg cuffs were the norm—at least for the individuals I was supposed to be covering.
I took another cautious step.
“You seem to be doing it,” she said.
I nodded.
“Not well. I just need to figure out my stride. If I keep letting the chain go taut and the cuffs stop each step, my ankles are going to be completely bruised by the end of the night.”
I stepped off the carpet and onto the tile. That’s when I realized that walking on carpet and tile were two very different things in these restraints. The metal shifted with every step, clinking softly against itself, and the sudden firmness underfoot made my balance waver.
I sighed, bracing myself the best I could against the counter. I reached out but that was useless, and just ended up leaning forward, trying not to fall
Maya stared at me and gave me that smirk. I knew that look. It was the one that said, I told you so.
“You can say it,” I admitted.
She just looked at me and smiled.
“Go ahead,” I told her. “I can already hear you saying it in my head.”
“That those were a terrible idea?” she prompted, her voice light.
I didn’t argue. I walked over to the bed and lowered myself down, careful but inevitably a little clumsy, a soft thump announcing each shift of weight. Reaching for the keys next to me, I realized with a frustrated groan that with my hands like this, I couldn’t even reach them.
I pointed. Maya leaned over and handed them to me with a small laugh.
It only took a moment to realize the lockbox covered the keyholes. And reaching around to the padlock wasn’t going to happen, not without twisting myself in ways the restraints made impossible. My frustration mounted as I wriggled, tested angles, and realized the limits of what I could do.
“Lovely,” I muttered.
Maya laughed again, soft and amused.
“I think they’re designed so you can’t just take them off,” she said, tilting her head. “High security. Remember? You wanted the real thing.”
I glared at her, though a small smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Once again, she was right.
I pushed off the bed and fell back, laughing. Then I scooted forward, leaned in, and stood balancing myself in the heels.
Maya just stood there, smiling. She was enjoying this—it was written all over her face.
I hobbled toward her, handing her the keys before turning back around. Every step had to be thought out, careful, a negotiation with the limits of my stride.
“Just take them off,” I told her, exasperation clear in my voice.
“When we were looking at these things,” she began, “I said they didn’t look easy to walk in.”
“We even watched those YouTube videos of women in court,” she continued. “And they were struggling. And they were in jumpsuits and flats. Even the leg-cuff chains were a lot longer.”
“Yes, yes,” I admitted. “You were right. These suck,” I said, nodding. “You said that. But I insisted. Blah, blah, blah.”
I slid my hands back and forth along my waist. “Just take me out of this stuff. I’ll write the article the normal way,” I added. “Observation, interviews—me standing in the corner, jotting things down in a notebook.”
“You said you’re tired of that,” she reminded me. “That it’s not journalism.”
She reached out and straightened the hair that had slipped over my shoulder while I had been shuffling awkwardly around the room.
“You wanted this one to be different,” she continued. “Not just observing—you wanted to be part of it. To feel it. To write in a way that made readers feel like they were there, like they were part of it, too, experiencing everything firsthand.”
I sighed.
“And I know you can do that. I’ve read some of your stories. There’s so much feeling in them. I don’t know why you don’t just submit them—see if you can get them published. Become a writer.”
“I am a writer,” I insisted.
“Yes,” she replied. “But you spend your days writing tiny stories for that magazine—a magazine I think only I read. And I only read your articles.”
I sighed again.
“You said you didn’t want to be chasing corn maze stories forever,” she reminded me. “And that you’ve tried to get into the serious places, but that world is vicious. No one will give you a chance—not writing about oddball, small-town things.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Isn’t that why you’re in those right now? So, you can write a story that might actually hit a nerve—something that might attract attention. Get you out of that magazine and into something more national. More mainstream?”
I couldn’t argue.
She reached over, gently pulled my hair to the side, and kissed the back of my neck.
“You’re just nervous,” she said. “We’re going. You’re going to write the story,” she insisted. “But if it goes nowhere...” Her voice trailed off. “It’s what we agreed to. We’re submitting that one story.”
I closed my eyes. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I want.”
“I love that story,” she chimed in immediately. She kissed me again. “You could easily write adult erotica,” she insisted.
I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes again. “I’m not nervous,” I replied, eager to focus on something other than our agreement. I turned to look at her, but she was only smiling at me.
“I guess I didn’t realize how hard—” I stopped, realizing how dumb it was going to sound. “I guess seeing those women in these, looking completely comfortable ... I thought this would be easier than it actually is.”
“They seem to wear those a lot,” Maya said. “From what you told me, it’s their thing. So yeah, it makes sense that they make it look easy. They’re constantly restrained. Practice makes perfect, right?”
She smiled at me. “Unless you’ve been chaining yourself up when I’m not around, I don’t think you’ve had as much practice as they have.”
I chuckled. “You ordered these with me,” I told her. “You saw how long it took to get into them. And that was with watching videos on how to do it.”
I smiled. “Anyway, I don’t think you could even get into this stuff on your own if you wanted to. Or at least, not properly.”
“So, no closet bondage?” she asked still smiling not expecting an answer.
She then shrugged a little, a smile tugging at her lips, and reached down to press on the cuffs, confirming they wouldn’t close any further.
“I think we did an excellent job of restraining you,” she said. “You could easily go to court like this, and they wouldn’t have to adjust a thing. Everyone would be perfectly safe around you.”
“Huh,” I huffed at her, at the insinuation that I was somehow dangerous. “I can’t believe you.”
“Everything’s double-locked,” she continued. “And your hands are snug up high, and even the waist chain has been pulled back down behind the lockbox through the ring of the connecting chain.”
I slid my wrists around along my waist. “Yeah,” I told her. “I noticed.”
But I couldn’t say it with a straight face. She seemed so proud of how she’d put them on—even if, yeah, she’d locked them a little snugger than I would have liked.
“It’s nice to know you’re learning proper restraining techniques. And that I don’t have to worry about my fiancé improperly restraining me. That you know how to do it correctly.”
Maya laughed out loud. She carefully brushed my hair back behind my shoulders and rested her hands there.
“Well, soon-to-be Mrs. Sterling,” she said, leaning in and gently kissing me. “It’s just part of my wifely duties to make sure I know how to properly restrain my wife.”
“Oh, really?” I replied.
“Uh-huh,” she said, kissing me again—this time slower, softer.
My breath caught.
“Isn’t that why you love me?” she asked quietly. “When you told me you wanted to be in restraints for this event, I didn’t argue. I helped you figure it all out. Didn’t I?”
I smiled at her. She was right.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “In fact, you might have been a little too enthusiastic about helping with it all.”
“You showed me pictures of those women wearing them—the ones you’re writing about tonight,” she replied. “You said that’s what you wanted. You wanted to be restrained like them.”
She paused only briefly before continuing.
“And from what I read about them, they use the real thing. And I did tell you they might be a little too much—but you insisted. You said you wanted to experience it the way they did. You wanted to see it through their eyes.”
She kissed me again, then added a little more firmly, “So ... I found you the real thing.”
She leaned back slightly, her hands still resting on my shoulders. “And voilà ... you’re all chained up properly now, just like a prison inmate is supposed to be ... all ready for transfer.”
She kissed me again, soft and slow. “Isn’t that what a good fiancé is supposed to do—give her wife-to-be what she wants?”
“Yeah,” I told her quietly.
She kissed me playfully and walked over to the purses on the bed, slipping the keys into hers.
“We need to get going,” she said.
Watching her put the keys away, I tugged at my wrists. “Take these off,” I told her.
She walked back over and handed me my purse. “You’ll be fine,” she said lightly.
I looked at her, smiling in that you can’t be serious kind of way.
“Huh,” I huffed.
“Like I said,” she replied, calm but completely unmoved, “it’s my duty to make sure you’re properly restrained.” Her eyes lingered on me for a moment, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And you really need to do this.”
I blinked at her. “You’re serious. You’re not taking these off.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, a little sharper now, though the teasing edge was still there. “We had an agreement. You wear those, you go write that amazing story, and you become wildly famous.” She shrugged. “And if that doesn’t happen, I submit that other story.”
I groaned under my breath.
She just smiled wider.
Then she slipped on her coat, grabbed mine, and stepped close again. Before I could protest, she threaded her arm through mine and gently guided my bound hands back toward my center, balancing her purse and my coat in her other arm.
“Come on,” she said, warm but utterly unyielding. “You asked for the full experience.”
And from the look on her face, there was absolutely no chance she was letting me out of them now. But I tried anyway.
I stepped forward, then stopped. “Really, Maya. Take these off.”
“No,” she replied, smiling. “You’re doing this,” she insisted. “Besides, you can’t get out of them—you already showed me that.”
“One step in front of the other,” she continued, still smiling at me. “Slow and steady. Come on. You can do this.”
She opened the door and held it for me as I stepped through, then closed it behind us, making sure it was completely shut.
I glanced back at it. The finality of it. And then I thought about how she had the keys—to the room, the cuffs, even the car.
She started walking, then stopped and turned back, spotting me frozen in place.
“Come on,” she said, a hint of sharp amusement in her voice. “Standing there isn’t going to get us to the museum,” she insisted.
She stepped back, placed her hand lightly on my elbow, and began directing me forward. “Really, you can walk in those,” she said, her tone deceptively casual. “The chain’s short, but you can walk. Tiny, careful steps.”
We moved down the hallway. Beyond it waited the elevators, the lobby, a car ride, and eventually a museum full of strangers.
My heart fluttered. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was nervous.
We stood by the elevators as Maya hit the down button. As we entered and she set us on course for the lobby, another couple appeared—husband and wife, maybe. They were both dressed up.
We nodded, and they nodded back.
“Going to the museum event?” the woman asked.
I nodded again. “What gave it away?” I asked, tugging slightly at the cuffs.
The couple smiled. “Well, you look amazing,” she said. “I could never pull off those things.”
“They just look so hard to be in,” her husband added.
“Uh...” I hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah. Much harder than they look,” I said.
“She’s doing great,” Maya then chimed in with a smile.
The elevator doors opened, and we gestured for them to exit first.
“You guys go on ahead,” Maya then told the couple. Then, her eyes flicked to me with a small, knowing smile. “She doesn’t move very fast in these ... you know, with the whole prisoner-transport thing going on.”
“Yeah,” I interjected. “These make you hobble,” I added, taking careful, small steps to show the couple just how much I could move at a time.
They exchanged a glance, and the woman smiled. “Enjoy the event,” she said as they stepped into the lobby.
Maya held the elevator door open as I stepped out, nearly bumping into a few people waiting to get on. I could feel their eyes on me—taking in the restraints. But then again, they weren’t dressed for a gala, so it was exactly like Maya had told that couple: I was doing the whole prisoner-transport thing, and outside of the dress and heels, it actually looked the part.
The lobby was full of people. The young woman behind the counter—the one we’d seen earlier in the afternoon when we checked in. A few people were in the seating area, some dressed up, likely for the event.
Maya held my arm by the elbow again as we shuffled through the lobby at what felt like a snail’s pace. Every clink and rattle of the cuffs echoed off the marble floors and high ceilings, dragging unwanted attention with it. I could feel people staring, some openly, some lingering a moment too long. The sound of the metal made it worse—every chain-link announcing my every careful step. There was no slipping by unnoticed; the noise forced eyes to lift, even from those who had been absorbed in their own business.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple rising and heading toward the door. As we drew closer, I noticed the wife herself was in handcuffs—just plain handcuffs, nothing more. Her partner guided her smoothly, their steps confident. They walked ahead of us, moving with purpose, the cuffs on her wrists obvious but controlled—nothing like the spectacle I was making.
We eventually made our way to the exit, and once outside, Maya stepped me to the side, just outside the doorway.
“I’ll get the car,” she said.
I looked at her.
“You know where we had to park,” she replied.
“You could take them off,” I said. “I’ll just carry them. You can put them back on once we get to the car.”
“I won’t be long,” she said. “It’ll just be quicker if I go get it.”
She kissed me, draped my coat over my shoulders, and smiled before walking off, disappearing into the parking lot. I watched her turn into a silhouette—an effortless shape in heels under the glow of the parking lights.
I shifted my weight, only to have the chain catch. Even the smallest adjustment sent a tug up my arms and across my waist, reminding me that freedom was not optional tonight. And the heels made it worse. They clicked against the pavement—too high, too formal, too unforgiving.
Even if Maya had removed the leg cuffs, I’d still be hobbling in these heels all the way to the car. I could have taken them off—or she could have, I guess—but then I’d ruin the hose. So, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, she was right: letting her get the car was just faster.
But it didn’t make it any easier. I glanced around, thinking to myself that I was out here—by myself, completely restrained—fully aware that Maya held every key to my mobility.
It also didn’t help that it was February and bitterly cold. We were from North Carolina, used to a chill, but not this kind of biting wind. The coat helped a little, but it would have been better if it were actually on me instead of just draped over my shoulders. Then again, Maya had probably planned to remove it at the museum—she wouldn’t want the hassle of taking the restraints off and putting them back on.
“Whoa,” I muttered as a gust of wind hit. The short chain between my ankles tugged sharply as I swayed, and I tightened my grip on the strap of my purse as if it could steady me.
As I stood there, the wind tugged at the hem of my dress. And I couldn’t do anything about it. The coat helped hold most of it down, but the bottom edge still fluttered in the gusts.
Only the long connecting chain, running from the lockbox to the leg cuffs, kept the worst of it in place. At least in the front.
I sighed. But this was exactly what I’d asked for. Well, not this part. I was mostly focused on the museum event, not the little details that came along with it.
But I had said I wanted to experience it. To feel it. And somehow, even in the frustration, there was a strange thrill in being completely at her mercy.
“Ma’am,” a voice rang out.
That’s when I noticed a security guard in front of me, riding one of those little hotel carts. I hadn’t even seen him pull up.
“Ma’am,” he repeated, leaning slightly forward, polite but cautious. I met his gaze.
“Uh ... are you okay? Staying here?” he asked, eyes flicking to the cuffs at my wrists and the chain between my ankles.
I straightened as best I could. “I’m fine,” I said. “Yes, we’re staying at the hotel through tomorrow. My fiancé is just getting the car.”
His gaze lingered on the cuffs, sharp and calculating, like he was trying to figure out if I’d escaped from somewhere. I gave a small nod. “We’re actually heading to a museum event tonight,” I added. “I’m a reporter. Covering it. That’s why I’m ... in these.” I lifted my wrists slightly, careful not to pull on the chain too hard.
He blinked, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “I see...”
Then I thought about how ridiculous that must have sounded—like telling him I was going to a museum event in these restraints somehow explained it all.
Just then, another couple walked out of the hotel doors. The woman was in handcuffs.
I couldn’t help but smile gently and pointed her out. The guard followed my gesture, watching her carefully as she moved alongside her partner.
He let out a small sigh, shaking his head, then straightened. “Okay. Enjoy your evening,” he said, nodding at me with an awkward smile.
As the security cart rolled away, headlights swept across the pavement behind him. Maya pulled up beside me a moment later.
She stepped out quickly, heels clicking against the asphalt, and opened the passenger door.
“Careful,” she said, taking off my coat and offering her arm.
I turned sideways and lowered myself into the seat as gracefully as I could manage. The chain between my ankles forced my legs to move together, so I lifted them both into the car at once, the metal shifting softly as I settled into place.
Maya closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. When she slid into her seat, she leaned across me and pulled the seatbelt over my shoulder. It settled awkwardly across my restrained hands and the lockbox at my waist.
“Making friends out there?” she asked, starting the engine.
“Security,” I said, my teeth chattering.
She turned up the heat. “It’ll be a second,” she replied. “I had to use a credit card to chisel the ice off the windshield.”
I nodded, my teeth still chattering, though not as badly—it was at least warmer now.
“Cuffs and cold don’t go well together,” I murmured.
“He probably thought I’d escaped from somewhere,” I then added with a wry edge, glancing at her.
Maya laughed, easing the car out of the parking space.
“Did you tell him about the museum event?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Though I’m not sure he believed me ... and honestly, it probably didn’t make any sense ... not unless you knew about tonight’s event.”
“If it wasn’t for that other couple leaving ... and the wife being cuffed,” I smiled, “you’d probably be showing up with me being detained or something, while he called the cops.”
Maya looked over at me with a smirk.
The streetlights slid across the windshield as she drove. It wasn’t a long ride, but I shifted slightly in the seat, the restraints reminding me again of how little room I had to move.
She noticed immediately.
“Still regretting it?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“Well ... I did ask you to get me out,” I replied.
She glanced over at me just as I watched her miss the turn.
“We just passed the museum. There’s parking,” I said, glancing back as we drove toward downtown.
“I know,” she replied calmly.
I looked at her. “So where are we going?” I asked.
“Do you know what day it is?”
And then it hit me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been so wrapped up in this museum thing I completely forgot.”
“I know,” she replied gently. “But it’s not only Valentine’s Day. It’s also the day we first met.”
I smiled. “That’s not our anniversary,” I said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she said with a small laugh. “It wasn’t our first date.” She trailed off as she made another turn down a side street. “But ... it is when we first met.”
She glanced over at me again.
“Do you remember?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“So, where are we going?” I asked again.
She looked over at me and smiled, that familiar glint in her eyes.
“No,” I said, recognizing that smile and realizing what she had in mind. “Not with me like this,” I added, tugging at my cuffs. “Is this why we left the hotel early?” I nodded toward the clock glowing on the dashboard. “I was wondering why you wanted to leave. I just figured you wanted to wander around for an hour before the actual event started.”
She glanced at me again, and for a moment, her expression softened.
“No,” I said again.
“It’ll be fun,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the road, but her voice had a gentle edge—hopeful, almost fragile.
“For who?” I asked, looking at her, noticing the tiny crease forming between her brows.
Then we saw it.
The boarding. The faded notices pinned to the front. The graffiti sprayed along the plywood.
“It’s gone,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I replied, my own heart tightening a little.
She huffed softly, a mix of frustration and disappointment, and her shoulders slumped forward.
“I’d always hoped we’d come back here over the years,” she said, voice low. “Whenever we’re in town. Maybe get a coffee from across the street and sit ... maybe in that little area in the back. Talk. Like we did that afternoon.”
I was on an assignment—not at the museum, some other thing, honestly, I can’t even remember now. I don’t think my employer ever even ran what I had written. I was heading back to the hotel where we were staying, to grab my things, catch my flight, return the rental ... just the usual.
I passed through the downtown area and decided to stop for some food. Thought I might find something interesting. Little places like this always seemed full of stories—locals, oddities, moments worth noticing. You never know when you’d come across that story.
I ended up with a coffee and some pastries and wandered over to a tiny bookstore. The kind that felt stuck in time, as if it didn’t even realize the rest of the world had moved on—or maybe it didn’t care.
I grabbed a book and asked Maya, who was already in the space, if I could sit in the small seating area. She said sure. She started talking to me there, and then—somehow—she asked me out. We hit it off right away.
Not long after, she left New York and moved in with me at my place.
Even now, thinking back, it feels like that little bookstore didn’t just sell books. It quietly held the moment when everything changed—when I met her, when our story began, when the ordinary turned into something I’d carry with me forever.
I reached out instinctively, wanting to brush her hair back, but my hands were trapped. So, I just gave her a small, reassuring nod. “We’ll find another place,” I said. “Preferably without me in restraints.”
Her eyes glimmered, and I could see the memory unfolding across her face. “That place was special ... it had a charm all its own. Old books stacked everywhere, the warm wood paneling ... even the mousy clerk up front, dressed like a—well, like a sexy version of Velma from Scooby-Doo.”
I smiled softly, watching her sink into the memory—unguarded, tender.
We heard a car horn, and she straightened. Maya continued down the road, turning onto a side street, and I felt her decision in the way she gripped the wheel, calm, certain, protective.
We were heading back to the museum—but I knew, even through the disappointment, that she wanted to share this moment with me.
It didn’t take long to reach the venue, and even though most of the parking spots around the entrance were gone, Maya found a space about a hundred feet away. She stepped out first, helping me out of the car and then looping her arm through mine after draping my coat back over my shoulders.
“Alright,” she said softly, playful but firm, just loud enough for a couple walking passed us toward the entrance to catch it. She stepped behind me, tugging gently at the padlock before moving in front to inspect the cuffs. “Just making sure everything’s secure,” she said, her tone teasing. “We wouldn’t want our little ... inmate slipping out now, would we? Can’t have you ruining the experience you begged for.”
I glanced at her, cheeks burning as the couple’s eyes flicked to me—curious, amused, maybe a little entertained by my predicament. Horror and thrill twisted together in my stomach. I hesitated, then shifted my weight carefully in the heels and chains, taking small, deliberate steps under her watchful gaze.
“You’re so bad,” I whispered, but it sounded more like an admission than a complaint.
“Come on,” she continued, ignoring me, making sure the couple could still hear every word. Her sharp, teasing smile cut through the air as she gripped my elbow firmly. “Just like those videos you made me watch of female prisoners in maximum-security transport. Step carefully, tiny little steps in those short-chained leg cuffs. Just like you wanted.”
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