Author's Note: This story was originally written by Clinton Crayle ("C. C.") in the late 1970's, and it was published in Bondage Life magazine. I edited and updated the original, and I am posting it with the permission of the original author.


I'd heard about a new night spot in the heart of the Olde Towne district: "Shackles" - ultra-chic, ultra-kinky and ultra-in. My job as the highest-ranking female executive at HQ didn't give me much time for leisure though, and none of my dates ever had the courage to take me there. So, I never went into the place... until the night my car broke down right outside.

It was Friday night, and the place was packed. I pushed my way through the foyer, trying not to think about how out-of-place my conservative dress seemed in the crowd of boots, corsets, and glittering chains, until my way was blocked by a Maitre d'... in a leather tux! Of course, he wanted to know if I had a reservation, and naturally, I told him I just wanted to use the phone. My mobile phone battery was dead from a long conference call that I had just finished.

There was a phone in the rear of the bar, he said, and then he held up a pair of handcuffs and fastened one cuff onto my wrist. Okay. Yeah, I read about this. You wear one handcuff to get past the door. Their idea of being cute and kinky, I guess. I didn't make a fuss, figuring that I could get to the phone, make my call and get out without a problem. Besides, it was sort of exciting, walking around with a pair of handcuffs dangling from my wrist.

The feel of the unyielding band of chrome keeping my arm symbolically captive was a strange fascination for me, and the sway of the loose manacle was almost hypnotic. I moved as quickly as I could through the crowded bar, still feeling conspicuous, noticing the legcuffs welded to the bar rail, and trying not to return the lusty smiles of men or stare at all the scantily-clad women. Which ones were the employees and, which ones were the customers? Once I reached the phone at the back of the bar, it took all of my concentration to hear and be heard by the tow truck company.

Finally, I managed to complete the call, and I turned leave... but I was handcuffed to the phone! How the hell did that happen? And how was I supposed to get out? A woman wearing nothing but high heels and a leather thong offered to unlock me in exchange for my dress. Well, I figured that she did need it more than I did, but that was outrageous. It was preposterous! It was... well, it was better than any offer I'd get from the men looking my way.

I tugged uselessly at the 'symbolic' bondage and gave up. Ever try taking off a dress while handcuffed to a telephone? The laughs, as I pulled and struggled, were maddening. Having to unzip it with just one free hand was bad enough, but my writhing, wriggling antics as I wormed it up over my head, off my free shoulder and down my cuffed arm, were positively lunatic. Adding to my embarrassment, a small crowd had gathered to watch and cheer me on! Finally, I got it off. My wrist was uncuffed, and there I was, standing around in a slip and lingerie with that handcuff dangling again.

I was sure in no hurry to get outside to wait on the curb dressed like this. So, I figured I would make the best of a bad situation and have a drink at the bar. Even in my lace-trimmed white nylon slip, I was plain enough to attract attention in the bizarrely dressed crowd. I was busy turning down some very flattering offers... from guys and gals, alike. It was kind of a kick really, sitting here on the bar stool in front of everyone feeling my slip slither and slide across my sensible pantyhose while watching that handcuff swing about as I raised my drink.

While I was biding my time, a woman in a leather corset and miniskirt challenged me to a game of strip poker. I guess my slip must have been really popular, but I told her I had to leave soon. I got up to go and... What's this? While I was talking with her, someone had cuffed my ankle to the bar rail! That odd sensation I had at the phone swept over me again, the strange feeling of having some part of me restrained. I felt my nipples stiffen inside my bra, and I cleared my throat with difficulty. So, what was the price of freedom now? Strip poker? Well, here goes nothing.

The cards were dealt face down on the bar. I had six cards, and she had six cards. We would take turns matching them, and if she had the high card, I would peel off an item from my already abbreviated wardrobe. If I had the high card though, the ankle cuff would come off. So, it sounded like a pretty safe bet. But wait, there was more. Every time I would take something off, I would have to put something else on - a bondage item!

I quickly discovered the significance of the rules when her ace beat my queen, and my slip was replaced by a leather collar. What an odd feeling. It didn't choke me at all, but it forced me to hold my neck straight with my chin tilted up, and it made it difficult to turn my head. I tried looking around in it, and the feel of my soft skin squirming within the leather confines somehow excited me.

Turns out, though, that the collar was just the preliminary for the arm bag that replaced my pantyhose when her nine beat my three. It was a snug, shiny black nylon bag that extended about halfway down my back. My arms were folded up behind me inside of it, then it was snapped closed and clipped to the back of my collar. My arms were pinioned up at my shoulder blades. This was really strange. For something that just snapped closed, it sure was inescapable.

My bent arms tugged down on the collar, forcing me to arch my back and flaunt my breasts which became very apparent when my opponent's king beat my second queen. The smiling bartender turned my card over for me, and I lost my bra. Of course, It wouldn't come off over that arm bag, so she had to cut it off with a pair of manicure scissors.

It was so distressing, helplessly watching my cute little white nylon bra reduced to a pile of useless rags in front of me, as I sat there with my hopelessly held behind my back. But not half so distressing as the stares, my bare breasts got from this kinky crowd. I blushed furiously, wishing I could put my arms over them, but of course I couldn't. All I could do was look down and moan softly as a giggling waitress painted my nipples with shiny black mascara.

I protested. That was not a fair trade for an item of clothing. My poker partner agreed, and she put a hood over my head. It was tight, pressing in on my cheeks and ears, which made it hard to hear. It was also hard to see through the narrow eyelets, and it was almost impossible to open my lips through the mouth slot. In the mirror behind the bar, I could see that it concealed any trace of my features, my expression, and my stylish hairdo. I was now anonymous. My face was a glistening black cipher as I struggled to look down at the cards.

More bad news! A jack had beaten my deuce, and I was on the losing end - for the fourth time in a row. My pretty, white, high heels were gone now, replaced by thigh-high black, latex boots with impossibly high heels. They clung to my legs so tightly that it was hard to bend my knees. I couldn't run. I couldn't use my arms. I could barely see, hear, or speak. I could only look down in dismay as the next-to-last cards were flipped over.

I watched helplessly as my lowly eight was topped by my opponent's ten! Oooo! And, I thought my frilly lace panties were so cute and daring! Damn the luck. I hated losing them, but off they came, to be replaced with a teeny, tiny, tight leather G-string that just barely covered me in front and disappeared completely in back. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the waistline of that thing clipped to a ring at the bottom of my armbinder! I really had to arch my back with that thing on!

The top of the arm bag pulled on my collar, and the bottom pulled up on my G-string. The only way I could stand and see in front of me was to keep my knees straight, legs apart, and bend sharply forward at the waist, pushing my breasts out in front and sticking my ass out behind. In the mirror, I could see how this pose and my jet-black accessories called attention to my milky white assets. I blushed until I became hot-pink all over.

As they got ready to turn over the last cards, someone brought over an incredibly narrow corset and set it on the bar in front of me. Just the idea of being laced into that crushing thing made me shiver, but my luck finally turned. I drew an ace to beat her trey, and I was the winner for a change.

The ankle cuff came off, and I was free to go. Thank heaven that was over with! I had to get out of there while I had the chance. Where was my purse? I needed it back! What? Oh, all right, they told me that they had to run my credit card through their machine. They put the pen between my lips, and I signed for all that fetish wear I just "bought." What's that? Would I like my panties back? You bet I would!

At last, I made it out to the street just as the tow-truck pulled up. I was awfully chilly in this get up, and people were staring, but I couldn't cover much with my arms bagged up behind me. It was hard to explain anything to them with my panties stuffed in my mouth! At least they draped my purse strap over one shoulder, so that if I moved very carefully I wouldn't drop it. My billfold was inside it, I thought, but I didn't dare put it down there on the street and try to go through it.

The lady driving the tow truck told me that she had visited the that bar the previous weekend. She showed no surprise at my appearance. She didn't offer to release me, but she let me ride scrunched down in the backseat of my car - very sympathetic. She was nice enough, however, to help me get out once we dropped my car off at the underground garage of my apartment building. She held my purse open so that I could confirm that I had the keys to my apartment. Before closing my purse, she tossed her business card in, and she told me I could call her if I ran into any problems. My purse slipped off my shoulder, and as I bent down to maneuver my shoulder inside the strap to support it again, I heard the tow truck shift into gear and drive away.

Without the use of my hands, and without any suitable clothes, all I could do was hide, crouched in the shadows for the next few hours. I was consumed by the tightness of my hampered arms, legs, and head, and I let the cool, exciting air blow across my naked flesh. I sure hope nobody saw me when I took the elevator up to my floor and scampered down the hall to my apartment. It was a little tough getting inside, but I was able to manage it by grabbing my keys through the fabric of the arm bag.

Upon entering my apartment, I struggled against the armbinder without success. My only option was to call the tow truck driver for help. Fortunately, she had written her personal mobile phone number on her card. She laughed and agreed to swing by after her shift.

As I rested on my couch awaiting my release, I made a mental note to wear a necklace on my next visit to Shackles. That should be just enough to get me into that corset.