Carrie

I nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“I can do that, if that’s what you need,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I can tell you what to wear ... how I want your makeup. But honestly”—she gave a small smile—”that’s a really cute outfit. It just needed a minor adjustment. You’ll be fine wearing things like that. And your makeup is fine.”

She shook her head softly. “You don’t need it. Your eyes ... they’re just so beautiful...”

She stepped forward and lifted her cuffed hands and gently touched my cheek with the back of one. The gesture was delicate, almost hesitant.

“You’re definitely going to be a distraction,” she murmured. “I—I could just stare at you all day.”

I nodded slowly, unsure what to say. Finally, I admitted, “I—I had to borrow these clothes.” I shrugged. “Not exactly the kind of thing a poor acting student keeps in her closet. Especially heels like this.”

“Okay,” Carrie said with a small smile. “So, you’ll have to purchase clothes?”

I half-nodded. “My roommate—she’s an actress too—these clothes are hers. She said I could wear her stuff, but she’s moving to Philadelphia soon. So ... yeah. I’ll have to buy clothes. I—I just have to save up first.” I looked at her. “Even with a roommate, the rent’s really high ... and then there are the student loans ... and—and with her leaving I have to find another roommate ... and—”

Carrie’s expression softened with understanding. “Come with me,” she said, gently interrupting me.

She turned and gestured ahead as she began walking. “There’s clothing in the dressing room—pieces we wear depending on the client.” She pointed at her dress. “The clothes, the shoes ... they’re all high-end; not exactly the sort of thing I could afford to keep in my own closet.”

I followed, lifting my hands automatically when she motioned.

“Sorry,” I murmured.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “I know it’s an adjustment ... it’s just that we’ll be passing Maria’s office, and you probably don’t want to spend your first week in hinged cuffs.”

I nodded before repeating, “A week?”

She nodded, looking at me. “Yeah ... That’s how I do it anyway. First time, it’s a week. Second time, a month. And hopefully, by that point, it corrects the behavior. But it just depends on who you belong to.”

We walked down a hallway lined with glass—glass walls, glass doors. Through them I saw women in immaculate suits, blouses, skirts, and dresses, each paired with sheer hose and stilettos. They moved with crisp precision: poised in front of computers, on the phone, pulling documents from cabinets.

Carrie subtly gestured toward one of the offices as we walked past. A young woman sat behind a desk, typing calmly with her cuffed hands. Around her head rested a gleaming metal muzzle—elegant, polished—small padlocks holding it all in place.

“Brenda,” Carrie said quietly. “She decided to talk back to Misty.” A faint, wry smile touched her lips. “So ... as you can see...”

“Is that ... a muzzle?” I whispered.

“A shrew’s fiddle,” she replied, tone smooth, matter-of-fact. “Old design. Modern version. There’s a bar inside that holds the tongue down just enough to prevent speech. Perfectly safe, just ... silencing.” Her voice dipped slightly on the last word.

“How long has she been like that?” I asked.

“Since last Monday,” Carrie said. “So, she’s heading into her second week now.” She glanced at me with a soft, amused smile. “Here—let me introduce you.”

We stopped at the office door, and Carrie pushed it open, leaning in slightly. “Hi Brenda, do you have a minute? I want to introduce you to Isla, our new receptionist.”

Carrie stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. Brenda rose from her chair, hands outstretched. I mirrored her gesture, moving across the desk to meet her.

“Isla just started today,” Carrie added, her tone light but informative.

Brenda nodded. “Mmn ... t’ mt uh ... uh-uh rd,” she said. I could see her smiling behind the metal plate covering her mouth, though it all came out muffled. She rolled her eyes slightly, clearly frustrated by how distorted her words had sounded.

I smiled and nodded back.

“Brenda’s in charge of logistics—scheduling the sessions both here and onsite,” Carrie explained. “She’s the one who’ll get you client files ... Most of them are electronic now, but some paper files still need to be converted.”

“Mmn ... a’ll ... op ‘em ... on ur ... es-k ... mmmrnin’s,” Brenda tried, her words thick and distorted through the shrew’s fiddle. “Or ... s-sen... ‘em ... el-ek ... ronnn-i-ka-ee.” She paused, giving me a pointed look, clearly checking if I understood. Then she exaggerated typing motions in front of her, making it obvious she meant she’d message me.

I nodded again, and Carrie confirmed what I was thinking. “She’ll message you.”

I nodded once more, and we headed out, exchanging polite “nice to meet you”s as Carrie and I walked away.

“She’s doing better,” Carrie said, glancing back at me. “Not drooling nearly as much as she was.”

I just looked at her as we passed Maria’s office. Maria was seated behind her desk, while another woman stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed as far as her cuffs allowed.

“As you can see,” Carrie said referring to the suite, “It’s basically a big loop. This hallway takes you all the way around and back to reception. Offices are on this side; the client rooms are on the other. And in the center we have the shared spaces—lounge, kitchen. You met Jona, so you’ve already seen his area.”

I nodded.

“All these women work here?” I asked. “I mean ... they’re not, like...” I searched for the word Maria had used. “The talent?”

“Clients are from all over the world,” she replied. “Many come here when they’re in the city for business or travel. And some are, well, how do I say this? They’re well known and respected, so it can take a bit of coordination to make sure we can accommodate them while they’re here. Make sure their needs are met while ensuring privacy.”

I nodded. She didn’t need to go into detail.

“And this”—she opened a door and stepped aside—”is the dressing area.”

We stepped into a large room. Racks of clothing lined the walls in long, orderly rows. Shelves were stacked with heels in every imaginable style and color. Along the opposite wall, clear bins were neatly arranged, filled with every conceivable piece of bondage gear.

“Everything in here is organized,” she said, her voice warm, almost proud.

“Suits over there, dresses there”—she pointed with her cuffed hands, the chain between them glinting—”separates over there ... blouses, fitted shirts ... and the skirts there.” She kept pointing as she moved, hips swaying slightly. “Corsets, bustiers, leather pieces are there.” A faint smile curved her mouth. “Heels are organized by color and then size. And as you can see, nothing under five inches.”

I nodded, though my attention was drifting somewhere between her hands and her voice.

She led me toward the shelves of shoes. With a single glance at my feet—quick, assessing, intimate—she smiled like she already knew the answer.

“Sheer toe?” she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to my feet. “Red nail polish ... like your nails?”

I slipped off one heel. The soft click against the floor made the room feel suddenly quieter. Carrie’s gaze followed the motion, her eyes tracing the line of my leg. She was looking at me like she had in the reception area after she had unbuttoned my shirt.

When she placed the sandals in my hands, her fingers brushed mine. The touch was small, but my pulse jumped anyway. And she hadn’t asked my size, yet somehow, she’d chosen perfectly.

“Try them on,” she said softly, her voice low and careful. “They’ll fit better than the ones you’re wearing—they look a size too big. You’ll feel much more stable in them ... and they’ll show off those beautiful feet.”

She was right. I was a half size smaller than my roommate, so while the heels fit, my foot slipped slightly in them when I walked with the hose on.

Carrie crossed to a small bin, picked up a pen-style handcuff key, and stepped closer—close enough that I could smell her perfume again. She gently unlocked one of my cuffs. Her fingertips grazed my wrist, warm against my skin, and for a second she seemed in no hurry at all. Then she clicked the cuff closed again, leaving the other wrist secured.

“Dressing rooms,” she said, pointing. “There’s a bench you can sit on. Go on.”

I hesitated. “Right now?”

She gave a small laugh—low, amused. “Yes. Silly. Go. I want to see them on you.”

In the dressing room, I slipped into the heels, strapping them in place. They hugged my feet perfectly. I adjusted the seam of my sheer toe, took a breath, then stepped out.

Carrie’s eyes swept over me the moment I emerged—starting at the shoes, lingering up my legs, then meeting my eyes. When she smiled, it was slow, appreciative.

“How are they?” she asked, voice softer.

“They ... fit really well,” I said.

“Good.” Her gaze dipped to my feet again. “More comfortable. And it’ll give you practice today before you’re back in the court style stilettos.”

She lifted a jacket—one she must have grabbed while I was in the dressing room—and stepped behind me. “Slip into this.”

I gathered the dangling cuff and turned. She tried to ease the jacket onto my shoulders, and we both laughed at the awkwardness—her hands were cuffed, after all. I slipped into it, and she carefully smoothed the fabric down my arms, then briefly over my waist, working around the limitations of her cuffs. I felt her breath near my ear before she stepped back.

She guided me to the mirror, standing close enough behind me that I could feel the warmth of her presence along my back—her eyes meeting mine in the glass.

“Much better,” she murmured. “The jacket really pulls the whole look together. Very professional ... and those strappy heels?”

Her voice dipped slightly. “Very sexy.”

She was right—the blazer was perfect, complementing the skirt flawlessly and tying the whole outfit together. And the heels ... not ones I would have picked, not heels I’d ever wear, but she was right ... yeah, they were undeniably sexy.

That’s when she gently turned me around and grabbed the dangling cuff, opening it carefully despite her own cuffs. I held up my other hand, and she gently secured it in place. Then she retrieved the key and double-locked it.

The rest of the day went smoothly, mostly spent learning the job and getting a feel for how everything worked. I learned where everything was stored, how the client lists and files were organized, and who did what. It was a lot to take in, but I liked it—the structure, the rhythm of it all.

I also understood why Carrie had chosen the strappy sandal heels for me. There was no way I could slip them off under the desk without effort—and without being seen. The design wasn’t just for aesthetics; it was deliberate, much like everything else I was learning about Carrie’s way of doing things.

That included the clothes she started picking out for me to wear. I never asked her to. I think part of it was that she knew I couldn’t really afford expensive outfits. But I also think she liked it. And I didn’t mind. She had impeccable taste—everything was fitted, everything hugged in all the right places. I also learned quickly that she’d leave the top buttons undone on fitted tops, exactly the way she expected them to be worn.

But it also meant I could wear regular clothes to and from work—no five-inch stilettos in public like that first day. The plan, of course, had been to wear flats and just carry the heels in my bag, which I still sometimes had to do when early-morning schedules forced me to bring the outfit home the day before. But still, the less staring, the better. Especially from women. It was just uncomfortable.

As the months passed, Carrie and I got to know each other well—but I guess that happens when you spend your days with a coworker who dresses you and keeps you in handcuffs. It wasn’t just me, though; I could see the same pattern with some of the other girls.

The time we spent together also bled into the weekends. She started introducing me to the modeling scene—or at least the fetish side of it. On weekends, she’d take me along, presenting me as a friend—which I later learned was a common practice when you didn’t know the photographer or the studio. And even though I knew why she was inviting me, I still learned a lot from her about modeling, and along the way, I got to meet photographers and artists.

I think I had been at The Library maybe six months, when Carrie had invited me to go with her on a Saturday, telling me we’d spend the day at what I thought was a regular shoot. You know, dolled up in some super tight outfit, stockings, sky-high stilettos, maybe sitting on a motorcycle or something. Her anyway.

But I probably should have known something was up when she asked me if I could swim and to wear a string type bikini under my clothes. That’s when I stopped being a friend and got into the modeling scene myself. Well ... sort of.

I remember just glancing over at her as the gates opened.

“You’ve done modeling here before?”

The place was enormous—like, really enormous. The kind of mansion you see in movies, with a massive courtyard that you had to wind through just to reach the front door.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, looking over at me and smiling.

As she pulled up, a gentleman in a tuxedo standing by the entrance walked over, opened my door, and helped me out. He did the same for Carrie before holding out his hand toward the entrance.

“Please,” he said with a smile. “Ms. Warren is waiting.”

I looked at Carrie as we walked inside. It was exactly as I had expected—the interior matched the exterior. There was money here. Lots of it.

He led us through the home to the back, where we entered a large pool area, an Olympic-sized pool sitting in the center. Hundreds of feet of stone, pavers, and landscaping surrounded it.

Standing off to the side was an older woman, maybe in her late sixties, who looked like it was still 1960. Her suit, her glasses—everything about her was classic, glamorous, like I had stepped back in time into a Hollywood movie scene.

As we approached, she hugged Carrie.

“Hello, sweetie,” she said.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” Carrie replied, then pointed to me. “This is Isla—the friend I told you about.”