Signed First Edition Ch. 03

Chapter Three

October 27th, 2011

I was not as strong as I was seven months before, but I had been recuperating nicely and Elaine had more or less forced me to go to a health club three days per week. It was a bit of a struggle, but I managed to lift my lovely wife's sleeping form and carry her to bed, rather pleased with myself that I was only moderately exhausted after doing so. She slept through the night, though she tossed around a little more than usual, probably due to her bound condition. I tired of this about three AM, and without awakening her, I used a pair of scissors to cut her free of the stocking. After that she hugged and snuggled me, as was her custom in bed most of the time.

That morning, I awoke to find her already awake, lying on her back, looking forlornly at her wrists. "Did it leave a mark?" I asked her.

She seemed startled that I was awake, and she lowered her hands almost guiltily and reached under the covers for my cock. "Of course not," she responded. "You've ruined my best pair of nylons, though." She grasped me gently, then slid her hand down to cup my balls. "I can suck you this morning. Can I do that? I really want to."

"Whoa, you little tigress!" I chastised, reaching down and moving her hand away. "I've created a monster! Didn't you get enough last night?" She pouted and rolled her body atop mine, pressing her ample breasts into my chest.

Then she giggled. "I can't WAIT to see what you're going to do with that other stocking!"

"Well, you're going to have to," I replied firmly. "I have plans for today." I rolled her back off of me and then kissed her. "Now, make me breakfast."

She laughed again. "You really only want me chained to a stove!" she accused.

I don't, as a rule, take long in the bathroom, and I was sitting at the breakfast table sipping coffee for the better part of half an hour before she finally made her appearance, clean-scrubbed and fresh. By the time she'd prepared the French toast, I'd finished the online news, found the store I wanted on my laptop, checked traffic conditions and finished making my plans. We chatted idly as we ate, but as the meal was finishing up, she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Finally, she couldn't withhold the subject that was uppermost in her mind.

"Rod ... about the book ...." For some reason, she was blushing crimson.

"Ah. Suddenly, you can remember the book."

"I ... I don't think I'll be able to think about anything else until you ...."

"Not now," I interrupted. "I have things I want to do today. We'll talk about it later."

She seemed very disappointed, but didn't press the issue. I rinsed the dishes, but she had to unload the dishwasher before she could load it, and so it took her longer. I used the opportunity to sneak back into the bedroom and find what I wanted. Several months after we were married, we'd gone to a Halloween costume party, and she'd let me pick out her outfit ... an peasant skirt and blouse that proved to be VERY risqué (I went as a nasty Scottish Laird, demanding my "Right of the First Night"). I laid out the outfit, then went back and confronted her. "I want us to go somewhere," I told her simply. "I want you wear what's on the bed."

"Rod! I'm not going to go ANYWHERE wearing that thing!" she protested when she'd seen what I'd picked. But I simply ignored her, walked back out into the living room and made a phone call to make sure the store I wanted was open. Fifteen minutes later, there she was, her entire body covered in a soft blush.

She looked fantastic. The blouse had such a low-scooped neckline that only the brassier she purchased especially for the costume would work without showing. I was browsing the internet once for "famous TV ad campaigns," and came across a commercial by a famous 50's actress named Jane Russell that touted brassieres for the "full figured gal" ... and that fit Elaine to a "t." She was big up top (and rather generous in the hips department, as well). In the low-cut blouse and push-up bra, it was practically like she was offering herself to every man that looked. And every man WOULD look, believe you me. But I just nodded as if I had fully expected the effect, as well as her compliance. "Leave your purse," I stated frankly. "You won't need it. Let's go." And I held the door to the garage. She blushed some more, but walked past me with lowered eyes and got in the car.

We took the 134 to the 5 to the 118. The San Gabriel Mountains were on our right, the Hollywood Hills on our left. Now, I realize that every city in the world has its own culture and its own language, at least to some extent. For the 99% of my English-speaking audience that has never been to Los Angeles, please allow me to tell you a little about ours. First, it's a bit of a standing joke that if anyone asks you how long it takes you to get from ____ to ____, then no matter what you put into those blanks, be it your home, Great Aunt Sookie's house, Disneyland, whatever, the answer is ALWAYS "Oh, about 45 minutes, depending on traffic." The last part of that sentence, of course, could add two hours, easily. And so, when Elaine asked me where we were going, I told her that she'd find out when we got there in about 45 minutes, depending on traffic. This won me a small smile before she blushed even more and tried not to look at the truckers who were all looking down at HER.

Yet another oddity in L.A. is our habit of naming every freeway "THE." Odder still, we simply can't fathom why visitors to our fair city ask us why we do that. There is, of course, no answer to the question. It is simply so. Anyway, from the 118, I turned off on Sepulveda. (For you 99%, that's pronounced "se-PUL-ve-da.") Now, there are a lot of cities that boast about having the longest street in the world. Our entry to this claim is Sepulveda Boulevard, which stretches 42.8 miles from Long Beach to the San Fernando Valley, under the runways at LAX, over hill and dale, through some great neighborhoods and ... well ... some not so great. I had researched where I was going ... which is pretty much a necessity, if you actually want to GET anywhere in L.A., and after several more miles and several turns, I pulled into the parking lot of the store I was seeking.

My last little entry in your Los Angeles trivia lesson is a comment on business. California is the number one state economy in the country. It almost doubles the second-place state, and is ten times the GNP of many others. Don't get me wrong ... there are problems, too. Several manufacturers bailed out of Southern California in the 1970's and 80's citing high taxes and stifling environmental restrictions. But, without exaggeration, there are more professionals per capita here, in just about every conceivable market, than anywhere else on earth. Be it rocket propulsion or lawn care ... folks WANT to work, and pride themselves as the best in their fields. So, it's the people that make California work ... and it works very well. However, in L.A., there is only one industry that earns the moniker "THE Industry," and that, of course, is entertainment. TV, movies, music recording, you name it. You're either in THE industry, or you know somebody who is, be it a writer, editor, actor, set designer, hair stylist, grip, or any of the hundreds of other occupations involved.

And just one of the multitude of sidelines in THE Industry is porn. They like to call it:"The Adult Industry." Oh, there are a lot of people that frown on it, obviously. But let's face it, when you've got a business in your community that's responsible for billions of dollars in revenue, it only makes sense that you would tend to overlook some of the detractors.

It was at one of the vendors of this industry that we now arrived. It was a rather non-descript building, as you may imagine, but it announced a few of its wares in large red letters that were trimmed in neon bulbs, though those sat unilluminated in the daylight. "Adult Books -- Videos -- Accessories." Elaine's eyes widened, and she sat stock-still, even when I got out, walked around the car, and stood holding her door open. She looked up at me like a young doe caught in the headlights, then she took a deep breath and swung her shapely legs out of the vehicle and stood. She held my arm tightly as I walked into the structure.

Behind the counter sat one of the skuzziest individuals I've ever seen. He was a man of about forty, slightly shorter than my five-foot-eleven, and perhaps two hundred thirty pounds. His beard wasn't so much long as unkempt, and his oily hair was drawn back into a short ponytail. He looked up at us with a minor attempt at showing interest and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I called earlier," I told him. "Your website advertises that you have the greatest selection of sexual restraints in the area. My wife here would like to see what you have."

The guy silently closed a paperback novel entitled "Ravished Nuns Tied and Trained," stood up and walked around the counter to us. He wore stained leather pants and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, and his brawny right forearm displayed a Hell's Angels tattoo under the sleeve of his filthy white tee shirt. He stood inches in front of Elaine, who clutched my arm with crushing fingers, and he said: "Madame, it is indeed superlative luck on your part that you happened to find your way into our establishment. We do, indeed, possess an impressive assortment of the devices you so desperately seek. If you would please precede me into the area at the rear of the edifice, I would be most pleased to explain the differentiations between those items which make up the finer echelons of our inventory."

I might have made a small sound in the base of my throat, but I gallantly kept from laughing. Elaine, on the other hand, continued to regard the man with mute, wide-eyed wonder, and after a long pause, I gently urged her in the direction indicated. The biker followed us as we walked through a hanging curtain of wooden beads and into Bondage Wonderland. The room was large ... maybe twenty feet square ... and the walls were stocked with so many displayed restraint devices that I came to a flabbergasted halt, staring around me in stunned awe. To this day, I have no idea what half the stuff in that room was supposed to do, but our guide slid past us with a quiet "If you will pardon me ...," and stood in front of the far wall, which looked as if it was the all-encompassing final word in sexual discipline.

I glanced nervously at my wife, who was staring in open-mouthed shock, before I finally realized that my own mouth was agape, and I tried my darnedest to put on the mask of one who was supposed to be a little more urbane about such matters. When I finally turned back to our salesman, he was holding up a pair of standard handcuffs, the bright silver finish having already captured Elaine's unwavering attention. "Now, these are obviously customary, regular-issue restraining paraphernalia used by the constabulary in The City of Angels, as well as other centers of urban population. Their only strong selling point is their ease of operation." He held out his hand to Elaine as he said this, palm up. Automatically, she reached out and put her hand in his. In a wink, he had brought the cuff up, smacked it gently against her wrist, and the narrow ratcheting portion spun around her arm and snapped into place with a metallic click. He let go of it and turned back to the wall for something else, and Elaine watched with bulging eyes as the thing swung gently to and fro from her slender wrist in front of her. She was utterly enthralled. "Been on the receiving end of a pair of those me-self, once" he muttered under his breath, before turning back to her with another pair ... this one with a chain almost two feet long between the cuffs.

"Now, this little beauty is a pair of leg restraints, obviously designed to be used on your lovely ankles and hamper proper mobility. Ah, but you see, used in another context, it also has the propensity for marginalizing movement of the arms, as well." He had walked around her, and now held both of her wrists by her sides from behind, though he hadn't actually attached the thing to either wrist. Elaine simple stood there, blinking her big eyes, staring straight ahead of her. "You can well imagine the degree of utter helplessness this might elicit," he told her. "If you were lying prone on your back, you understand, your hands would be trapped. Useless. Unmoving. You would be utterly immobile. Defenseless. Powerless. Vulnerable."

With each new adverb, Elaine gave an almost imperceptible shudder. There was a loud click, and the man came forward, in front of her, holding both pairs of restraints and put them back in their proper places on the display. Her eyes widened in sudden recognition, she held up the wrist that only seconds before sported a shiny metal cuff, and she reached out for a brief second toward the devices, as if she missed them and wanted to reclaim the feel.

He turned back to her, holding another pair, these lined with furry cloth. "And these," he continued, holding them up but looking fixedly into her eyes, "are fur-lined. But these are not for you, my lovely, are they now? Ah, no. I know your sort, I do. You don't want to feel fur ... oh no, my lass. You have no taste for that, now do you? You crave the feel of metal on your fair skin. Now that you've experienced that, there's no turning back, is there? No, I'll just put these away again. These are for the pikers ... not for the likes of a wench with your tastes." My wife made a slight noise, almost like a whine.

The guy picked up a flat white box and turned back to her. It suddenly occurred to me that he had never once dropped his gaze below her eyes; something that, given the circumstances of her dress, was really quite amazing. I wondered if he was gay or just a consummate salesman. "I'll tell you what, my dear," he continued. "Tell me what strikes your fancy." And he stepped back a pace and waved a casual arm at the wall displaying all those shiny wares. Her eyes obediently slid away from him to the wall of chains, clamps and restraints.

They did not wander far, however. In only a few seconds, she was pointing a shaking finger. "What is that?" she asked in a whisper.

The man smiled smugly and removed a duplicate of the thing she had pointed to from the white box. "You have very discerning tastes in the finer submissive arts, my dear lady. This item is one of our own designs ... a chainless set of handcuffs, cast in stainless steel and finished in nickel-chromium. The cuffs are oval and designed to fit the slave perfectly, so that they cannot twist on the wrist and are snug without pinching. We can cast them to hold the hands side-by-side, one atop the other, or so that the wrists cross, such as the one you have picked out." For the first time, he looked toward me. "They are also our most expensive cuff, since they are custom made." I smiled at this and gave him a slight nod. He turned back to Elaine and looked questioningly into her face, but she seemingly could not take her eyes off the shiny device he had just handed her. "Please, allow me to demonstrate," he continued, gently taking the thing and opening it with the key, one restraining arm lifting up and the other downward from a solid, single center portion. "It is imperative that you learn how to restrain yourself in this apparatus, so that if your Master insists you be ready for him upon his arrival home, you can bind yourself."

Placidly, she allowed him to attach the thing to her right wrist, then she struggled for almost a full minute, following his patient instructions, until she was able to snap the other half of it to her remaining hand by using the edge of a table to push against. When she was done, her wrists were crossed, one atop the other, and bound firmly together. "As you can envisage," he continued patiently, "you can attach it with both palms down, as it is now, or both facing upward, or one in each direction ... palms either facing each other or apart." He paused and glanced back at me, since all of Elaine's attention seemed to be centered on her hands. "Shall I wrap these up for you, then?"

"The lady would like to wear these home," I commented casually, eliciting a sharp gasp from my wife. "And she would also like two pairs of standard cuffs, as well as one of the ankle shackles you showed her." She looked frantically in my direction for a full five seconds before returning her gaze to her bound wrists.

"A most excellent choice, Madame," he said formally, bowing slightly. "And while you are here, could I interest you in a pair of nipple clamps?"

She made a sort of gasping little moan and looked up sharply at the guy, then glanced quickly at the display he was indicating with his outstretched hand. "I don't think that's necessary," I said, at the same moment she answered "How do they work?" He glanced quickly from me to her, uncertain if he had overstepped his bounds in the interest of a quick sale. Elaine blushed crimson, and lowered her eyes, obviously believing herself guilty of a slutty comment. But I barked a laugh and broke the tension by saying: "Why don't you ask him which set he recommends, Pet."

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before looking up at him. "I ... I ... um ... don't have to ... to ... show you my ... um ... my ...?"

He coughed politely and peered earnestly into her questioning eyes. "If I may be so bold, perhaps if Madame is unfamiliar with their operation, I might suggest this set. It is not our top-of-the-line, but it is fully adjustable, and it would not be necessary to ... um ... fit you with the device at this time. You and your Master could explore the boundaries of the item at your leisure." He plucked a chain from the display, opened a drawer and chose three boxes, and then took all the packages toward the front of the store.

Elaine seemed to shuffle as she moved after him, as if her bound wrists had in some way impaired the rest of her movements as well. I followed up the little group and plopped down my credit card on the counter. "Pet, could you please sign for this? All these items are yours, after all." I went away and browsed the absurd titles of the books, trying not to laugh at them. I only got involved again when he insisted on seeing some ID to accompany the credit card. Elaine found that it was difficult to write her signature ... indeed it was difficult to do ANYTHING with her hands bound in that fashion, but at long last, the deal was consummated. I couldn't help but notice that while she was bent forward, busy with the credit receipt, our biker friend was unabashedly feasting his eyes on her ample cleavage, so I inferred that his sexual orientation did indeed allow a proclivity toward beautiful women. As we walked out of the shop, I handed him a twenty dollar bill and thanked him for his professionalism.

"You're one lucky guy, dude," he smiled, pocketing the bill.

"Tell me about it!" I replied, and led Elaine to the car.

Back to Sepulveda. Back out on the 118. I turned to my silent, blushing wife and said calmly: "Take off your panties, Pet."

She hissed slightly as her breath caught in her throat, and she looked inquiringly at me, but I refused to look back. She had to take off the seatbelt to do it, of course ... and this was awkward, because I had to snake the seatbelt between her arms to get her strapped into the car's seat in the first place, since I didn't want to take off the wrist cuffs. Eventually, she got the belt off and the hem of her dress hiked up sufficiently, but with both palms of her crossed hands facing the same direction, getting her fingers underneath the waistband of the panties was exceedingly difficult. Finally, finally, the deed was done. But I wouldn't let it end there. "Pull up your skirt so that your bottom is directly on the seat," I ordered. Her chest was heaving slightly from what I assumed was the exertion of struggling with the panties, but even after working further until the back of the skirt was tucked back behind her, the rising and falling of her prominently displayed breasts continued, and I concluded that it was from sexual excitement rather than physical effort. She got the seatbelt back around her, but I had to reach over and snap it into place. She didn't seem to care that this effectively trapped her hand under the belt.