THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT

(Part 1)

By Sailor 861

Isabel Metcalfe felt older than 35 as she drove her 1974 Austin Mini Minor home that cool, summer night years ago on the Scottish west coast.

She was a free woman but a single, mysterious event during that drive into the countryside in June 1975 changed all that.  Today, 28 years later, she has lived with chained ankles every day, coming and going in public and private with confidence and the illusion that long dresses afford her quirky love for steel bondage that was applied to her ankles so mysteriously, so absolutely.

Her husband, Peter, jokes with her privately she is the only 63-year-old Scot in captivity who enjoys having her ankles chained 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Isabel accepts this pleasantry with the realization that an 18-inch walking pace is normal for her and the chink-clink from her ankles as customary as breathing.

She has given up counting the days, weeks and months she has been shackled permanently in chains and now accepts bondage as a part of everyday life.
But unknown to her that fateful night, an innocuous trip home would turn out to be a life-altering experience that would change her concept of freedom -- and the way she walked -- for the rest of her life. The event would also contribute to her becoming a sex slave to a group of mad genetics engineers in East Africa just a couple of short days afterward.

No one in Scotland had ever heard of a woman being chained against her will and, later, growing to love the feel of securely-chained ankles every day -- provided her bonds were hidden from public view. But Isabel had a hint of things to come; she and her lover were already into recreational bondage but a 24/7 lifestyle in chains for Isabel was yet the stuff of dreams for them.

It was June 11, 1975; she had just finished a 3 - 11 p.m. shift at the local mill and was driving home along a secondary highway, anxious to feel the embraces of her modest, new country bungalow, complete with live-in boyfriend, Peter, who had just emigrated to Scotland from Canada to be with her. She had acquired the land, he built the house for them and they were getting to know one another again after a year-long absence.

Isabel was reintroduced to a part-time life of having her ankles chained at nights and for continuous, 48-hour periods on the weekends. She stayed in the house or around their property on Saturdays and Sundays but she enjoyed her boyfriend's lighthearted banter about taking the "big step" by going in public with chains adorning her trim ankles.

Peter, a bondage aficionado, brought a pair of light, 24-inch ankle chains with him from Canada and Isabel had grown accustomed to their hard, implacable grasp early on. Tonight, she looked forward to having them snapped onto her ankles just before bedtime after a particularly boring shift in the mill. Making love with chained ankles was different for them at first but steamy, thrice-weekly sex sessions in bed - and the living room, kitchen or workshop - gave the happy couple ample opportunities to try every position in the book. Isabel's chained ankles were the spices to their sex life and they both enjoyed the feeling her restraints imparted. Their favourite position, Isabel recalled on her drive home, was for Peter to slip between her legs, underneath her chains, so that her cuffed ankles were taut against the small of his back with her knees widespread underneath him. Then she would mount him, tangling her two-ft. tether around his ankles, and then . . . .

Her uneventful evening shift intruded on her fantasy again and she felt tired as she continued along the rural highway. Again she thought about getting home, having a bath and a snack and then joining Peter in the living room for an hour of telly before retiring to bed and dreamland with ankles chained together until after breakfast next morning.

The little Austin purred along in third gear as she negotiated a slight incline and turn in the road that led into the craggy, undulating countryside.  As she turned the small steering wheel, her underwire bra - which she preferred to keep Peter's attention on her 38-26-39 figure - dug into her for the hundredth time since she drove away from the grey, grimy mill and north out of the small Scottish railway town and seaport.

A native Scot, Isabel was as used to the vagaries of the Scottish climate as he was to the twists and turns in the five-mile-long rural highway trip from town to home.

She was dressed typically for the Scottish light-industrial workplace: comfortable loafers, wool slacks, a large, baggy sweater over a thin, translucent white silk blouse, which her boyfriend had brought her from Canada, and her shoulder-length light-brown hair was brushed gently away from the sides of her face.

Her five-ft. two-in. frame, still buxom and curvy despite two boys, turned slightly to the right as she slowed and eased her little "black box on wheels" onto the right shoulder of the highway to deal with the bra problem.

"Bloody bra," she said to herself in her Scottish lilt. "It's like some kind of bondage gear. Well, I'll soon set this aright." Braking, she put the car in park, pulled off her sweater and undid her blouse, reached around behind to unclasp the accursed garment and freed her pendulous, C-cup breasts for the first time that day.

"Ah-h-h, that's better," she said, as she massaged the red lines left underneath her breasts by the offending garment and ran her small hands over her dark-pink nipples as they grew erect in the cool confines of the little car.

She forgot to turn out the headlights but all they illumined was the fog rolling in off the Irish Sea. She knew she was alone on the highway, just a couple of miles from home. But was she?

She donned her silk blouse, noticing the two small-finger sized nubs that poked enticingly against the sleek, nearly see-through fabric, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose as she pulled on her brown sweater.

"Hmm, what's this all about?" she wondered, patting the back of her neck before shifting from park into first gear as the little car lurched back onto the black pavement.

She had just shifted into third gear when she saw a dim, oval object off in the rolling fog just ahead of her. It rose straight up, into the black-and-grey mottled night sky, before she had a chance to utter a gasp or word. It was out of sight again in a flash.

Stunned, Isabel drove off the highway for a second time and wondered if it was fatigue or her overactive imagination.
No-o, I don't believe in ghosts; I don't believe in flying saucers, ETs or any of that foolishness, she thought to herself.

Suddenly, a wide beam of high-intensity, white light, brighter than the noonday sun, blasted straight down out of the silent, starless sky, enveloping the little black Austin and its sole occupant, Isabel Metcalfe, a slim housewife on her way home after work.  Her last awareness was that she was out of the car, rising easily and slowly through the night air and into the cavernous maw of an enormous spacecraft. She was unafraid and felt sedated as she heard and felt her ankles and wrists being fastened, with electronic beeps, whirs and clicks, spreadeagle in midair. Suddenly, her world turned black.  She saw no one and heard nothing else.

Time passed and when she revived, she felt she had been anaesthetised -- she neither knew how much time had passed nor what had happened to her.
When she opened her eyes a moment later she was back in her car again, as though she had never left, dressed as before with her beige pushup bra on the passenger seat beside her and, despite a slight headache, dry throat and slight, sharp tingles in her nipples, she was all right. She looked around the car interior, out the windscreen and then down at the floor.

"Wha-at?! What's this," Isabel exclaimed suddenly, as she saw a small pile of sturdy, silver links between her feet and a vague yet familiar metallic grip around her ankles.  She moved her feet from the floorboard toward the accelerator, brake and clutch pedals and saw just below her pantlegs that, indeed, her ankles were cuffed and chained in steel that gleamed dully in the car's weak interior lighting and the reflected headlight beams.

"How did this happen?" she cried. "Who did this?"

She opened her knees to gauge the length of her ankle chain and discovered it was only 18 inches. She lifted her pantleg to examine the cuff. It was steel, alright, two inches wide, about 1/8th-inch thick and fit so snugly around each ankle that she could barely get a fingernail between cuff and leg.

She picked at the gap between ankle and left cuff with her fingernail and saw the chain was fastened to the interior of each by a half-link incorporated seamlessly into the side of the shackle itself.

She also saw twin fading red marks left on her wrists by some unknown clamping devices and her heart leaped into her throat when she observed, seconds later, there were no hinges, locking mechanisms, bolts or rivet heads to be seen on the ankle cuffs' cool silver surfaces.

"What bloody prankster did this to me?" Isabel exclaimed.  She snapped the car's ignition key off and swivelled as she opened the car door to investigate her surroundings.

Getting out of the car was the first problem; the 18-inch chain instantly hobbled her left foot as she placed it down onto the pavement and she had to put both feet down, awkwardly at first, then slide herself out of the car seat and into an upright position.

She held onto the car's bonnet with her right hand as she balanced herself on her chained feet for the first time that night. It wasn't the hardest thing she had ever done;

Isabel was somewhat used to chains and cuffs -- Peter loved putting his Scottish woman's trim ankles in chains every night ritually just after she put on her nightgown -- but this was entirely different. She was used to taking comfortable, 24-inch strides snubbed by chains that were locked on her by someone she loved.

Her stride now was six inches shorter than they would otherwise have been about this time and the chains were fastened to her in an unknown process by someone she would never know.

A clammy fear engulfed her as she looked around the murky darkness which glowed eerily in the Austin's two little headlights and saw and heard only black silence beyond.

She took her first, tentative step toward the front of the car and felt and heard her 18-inch chain grow taut suddenly.

"Oh my, this is going to be hard," Isabel said. "But by golly, I'm going to find out who did this to me and why."

Although she had some practice walking with measured, chained steps - every night her boyfriend would watch admiringly as she walked about the bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen or bathroom and back -- by the time she had taken three steps to the driver-side front fender she was panting with fright and excitement.
These new chains felt different from those she wore every night to bed and during her off-duty weekends. They just felt different -- more implacable, more inescapable - than the pair of shackles that hung in the same place she put them this morning, on a hook affixed to the inside wall of her walk-in closet.
Five more steps, her links rattling against the pavement with a high-pitched chink-clink , and she was around behind the car, looking down the hill -- seeing absolutely nothing but black, starless sky and a grey countryside. She looked down at her feet for the second time in the minute or so that had elapsed since her discovery and became more puzzled about the sudden, unexplained appearance of sturdy, solid ankle chains on her legs just moments away from home. 

How? Why? she asked herself as she continued to walk around to the driver's side. Isabel sat down on the driver's seat and lifted her legs into the boxy, little car with a clink and rattle of chain.

Her mind was turmoil as she shifted into first gear, snagging her ankle chain between the clutch and brake pedals, and continued the remaining mile home. She had never driven a car in chains before and knew she needed help - fast.

The trim, white, three-bedroom bungalow, with the living-room light on, loomed quickly on her left, as usual, and Isabel wondered how she was going to explain her new accoutrements to Peter she turned into the driveway.

She parked the car in the driveway, shut off the headlights, turned off the ignition, opened the car door and noticed the sharp tingle in her breasts again as they swayed gently side to side as she swivelled awkwardly out of the car again.

Her 18-inch strides impeded her progress up the front-porch stairs, forcing her to lift one leg, then the other, up the four steps to the front-door landing. Unlocking the door, she saw Peter sitting in his favourite living-room chair watching television.

She began to sob. "Peter, you won't believe what happened to me tonight. I was driving home, stopped for a minute and that was the last thing I remember.
"When I came to again, I was still in the car - dunno where I was before - and had these around my feet."  She looked at him then bent forward to lift her trouser legs to display her trim, chained ankles. Again, a little tingle in her nipples distracted her as her breasts joggled forward underneath her sweater and blouse as she stood up again, meeting Peter's concerned look at her legs.

"What on earth?" Peter exclaimed, as he rose quickly to kneel at her feet for a closer examination of her bondage. "Who did this to you and why?"
"I don't know," Isabel wailed, "and I don't know how they come off. There's no lock."

Peter looked more closely at his distraught partner, then at the cuffs, and confirmed for himself there was only one way to get these off her. He wondered whether this experience would put them both off bondage for good. He hoped not.

"Come, sit down Isabel; let's think this through," he said, as he guided her halting steps to the couch.

"Let's get these off and I'll go back down the road to check the area where you were," Peter said. "I've got some boltcutters and a hacksaw downstairs that should be able to cut that chain. It looks like only 3/16ths to me."

 Peter disappeared into the basement workshop as Isabel put her feet on the coffee table, looking once again at her chains in a mixture of fear and grudging admiration for the mysterious way she was shackled and for their obvious quality and implacability. She was, after all, no stranger to ankle chains and this set was by far the best pair she had ever seen.

 "These are no ordinary police cuffs, Clejusos, Hiatt's or VOPOs or whatever they're called," she said with Gaelic feminine certitude. "I know what they look like in the Police Gazette and these are definitely not at all like those in the pictures . . . and they don't even vaguely resemble ours."

Peter ran back upstairs, tools in hand, and sat on the coffee table facing his woman. "Right, let's see if this will cut 'em," he said, as he fixed the boltcutter's jaws over the half-link attached to her left cuff. He pressed the tool's arms together and strained as the jaws closed hard against the half-link. Nothing.
He increased pressure on the tool's arms but the carbon-steel jaws failed to bite into the strong silver link. His arms and wrists began to spasm with strain as he increased force on the boltcutter arms, expecting a metallic snap when the cutter's jaws would break the chain. But only the silly chatter of a television talk show filled the room.

"Hm-m," Peter said, as he removed the tool and knelt to look closely at where the jaws should at least have left a small impression. He ran his finger over the smooth half-link and found an unblemished surface. "There's not even a mark, Isabel. I'll try the hacksaw but if the cutters didn't leave a trace then the saw will likely come up naught."

Two passes of the hacksaw proved that theory correct. Peter placed the saw on the floor and they both sat on the couch, looking at the tools, the chains and each other.

"Well, they're on for the night, anyway," Peter said hopefully. "I'll look for a bigger set of cutters tomorrow in town." Isabel nodded, failing to realize her bondage predicament had suddenly became far more serious than she first thought.

Neither was in the mood for television or their usual bondage games that night but Peter consoled his frightened woman by putting an arm around her shoulder and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Isabel, returning his embrace, turned to face him and Peter caressed her soft breast through her sweater and blouse. His fingers traced a small circle around her left nipple and he noticed a hard, circular shape on the lower curve of her breast.

"What's this, Isabel? Did you have your nipples pierced over your supper break today?" said Peter half-jokingly.

"No, I certainly did not," she said, drawing away, astonished he would change the subject so quickly. She put her hands under her sweater to feel through the silk blouse the silver rings that now adorned her nipples.

"The bastards even pierced these!" she cried, as she lifted her sweater to investigate further. "My God, what else have they done to me? And how am I going to get undressed for bed with these on?" She raised her ankles as the chain depended gracefully from between her ankle cuffs onto the coffee table.
"Scissors?" Peter said helpfully.

"I dunno, I guess so," Isabel said reluctantly. "I'm so tired; let's go to bed. "
Peter went into the kitchen to get sturdy scissors and an Eversharp knife to remove her pants and came into the bedroom, tools in hand, as Isabel sat on her side of the double bed with a small clink.

"What're you going to wear tomorrow, Is.?" Peter asked, as Isabel stood to allow him to begin cutting up her pantleg, emergency-room style, then the other leg.

With her trouser legs in halves, he cut through the waistband with the knife and the pants fell in a heap around her chained ankles. Her then turned his attention to her panties and they fell quickly about her ankles, too.

"Skirt, probably," she said. "A long one, too," as she pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned her blouse. Her bra-less, pendulous breasts fell heavily revealing to the dumbstruck pair her perfectly-pierced nipples. Peter looked closely at the rings, which gleamed to match her ankle cuffs, and noted the gauge and diameter of the rings. There was no question he was not going to attempt to remove these, he said to himself, as Isabel looked down at her ringed nipples in a mixture of dismay and disbelief.

"No wonder they are so tender," she said finally, lifting her hands away from her breasts. "How did they do this? And why are they not sorer than they are?"
Peter examined the seamless,12-gauge, 11/2-inch silver rings inserted horizontally with surgical precision through her nipples and said:

 "No storefront piercer did this."

"Piercer indeed," Isabel replied. "Look at me now. I'm chained, my tits are pierced and you say no storefront wank did this! Well, who?" she asked despairingly for the fourth time.

Peter did not reply as Isabel clinked away, naked as a newborn, to get her nightgown from the closet. She slipped it over her head, noting the smooth silky caress of the fabric as it slid past her now-sensitive, newly-ringed nipples.
 She glanced at herself in the mirror behind the closet door, noting her tear-smudged face, the graceful fall of the floor-length nightgown she was so fond of, the telltale points of her erect nipples poking through the bodice with hints of the new, shiny steel rings around each and, further down, where the bottom hem of the nightgown met her ankles, the implacable chains, put on her by persons unknown, that she would wear that night and evermore.
She got into bed and her man followed her. Both were soon asleep.
---

The electronic alarm of the bedside clock sounded off sharply at 7 a.m. but both had been awake for half an hour, each wondering about last night's bizarre encounter and what they would have to do to free her ankles. Steps to remove her nipple adornments would be postponed, they agreed, until they dealt with the ankle chains first. After all, she had to go to work, she had errands to run and she couldn't very well traipse around town like a chained criminal, could she? Well, could she?

"Isabel, this is a long shot," Peter said finally, "but I know someone at the University of Edinburgh who might be able to help. Also, we'll drive by the spot where you say this happened to you and I'll check for clues. Maybe the police should get involved?"

"First of all, no constabulary," Isabel replied. "Second, who is this guy at Edinburgh, anyway?"

She had been thinking of how she was going to explain her chains to one of those dyke-looking female constables downtown and, worse, having to walk in public with chain-shortened steps. "And how do we get there with me like this? Edinburgh is an hour and 15 minutes away, remember."

"Let me call ahead and see if Michael is in today," Peter replied. "He's a teaching assistant of metallurgy in the engineering faculty and he may be able to help. I really don't think bigger boltcutters are going to work and we saw what a hacksaw was able to do last night. I can just tell him I bought these cuffs on mail order and put them on you as a joke. Some joke, I know, but this might be our only hope.

"He deals with the rapid spot-checking of metals and has access to some lab equipment and portable x-ray machines that might be able to help. I met him in Tennant's pub last week and he was telling me about spectroscopy and . . . ."

"Alright, alright," Isabel said.  "Let me think about this. I have to go to the University of Edinburgh in chains, meet this total stranger and have him look at these cuffs that appeared on me as if from outer space so that he might be able to tell you what sort of steel these are made of? I don't think so."

"What are our choices?" Peter replied. "I don't think I can get them off for you and I don't think MacEwan's hardware has anything in stock that might touch that steel. You may be right -- these may very well be the shackles from outer space," he said with a laugh as Isabel swung her legs out of bed to greet the foggy early June morning.

Taking her short steps to the bedroom window, she looked out onto the front lawn and to her right, down the narrow, paved road, where her adventure began several hours ago. She felt her breasts with still-sensitive, ringed nipples pendulous against the front of her long blue nightgown as she leaned against the cool window pane.

"Alright," she said, turning to face Peter. "Call your friend and say that you need his help to get these cuffs off. I'll wear one of my long summer dresses so I won't be a spectacle. And get me as close to the front door as possible.
"There are no steps to that engineering building, are there?" she asked.
Peter didn't know but he would ask Dr. Michael Ledstone, metallurgy TA at Edinburgh University.

Isabel donned her housecoat and scuffed her slippered, chained way into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She noticed her breasts swayed provocatively with her shorter strides making her feel just a little sexier, despite the lack of sex last night.

Sitting at the kitchen table, with the telephone between the two of them, she idly crossed her knees and wagged her left foot nervously. She felt the chain, tugging at her ankles, as she usually did when her ankles were chained on weekends. But this tugging was foreign, scary. The silver-grey, oblong links were longer and heavier than the lighter, shorter links she was used to and the cuffs were fused solidly and expertly onto her legs, just above the ankle bones, somehow. She felt as though she might cry but she forced herself to keep her cool.

She poured them two cups of coffee from the percolator on the table, stirred her coffee and looked at the telephone, then the kitchen clock. It was just after 8 a.m. and they had seven hours to get to Edinburgh and back in time for her to start her 3 - 11 shift.

"What time does he get in?" Isabel asked with growing anxiety.
"Probably about this time," Peter replied. He had brought Michael's business card to the kitchen table, looked at it and dialled the number.
Peter lucked in and a short conversation ensued during which Michael said he would be glad to see the two of them in his lab over the noonhour.

Peter relayed this news to Isabel and she reluctantly agreed to go with him to Edinburgh to have a stranger look at her cuffs. I don't even know this fellow, she thought, and here I am, going to present myself to him in chains.
"I wonder if these damn things rust," Isabel said, as she rose from the kitchen table to walk into the bathroom to shower and get dressed for this eventful day.

She clinked down the hallway into the en suite bath, undressed, sat on the edge of the tub and swung her legs in to a loud rattle of chain on the porcelain tub and turned on the shower.

"Yikes!" she yelped, as the hot spray stung her sensitive, ringed nipples, turning her back to the shower stream. "I guess I'll have to shower like this for awhile," she thought glumly.

Emerging into the steamy bath minutes later, she dried herself off, towelling down her legs and patted dry the cuffs and chain before patting her tender breasts with the rough white towel.

Putting on her dressing gown, she walked into the bedroom to start dressing. Tights? No. Panties. Hmm. Nope. Breasts to sensitive for that bra; anyway, it's still in the car.

She decided on a wool pullover, last night's white blouse, her long, black summer dress and sandals.

She thought she might look like a 1970s bra-less university student instead of a workaday woman.  She could live with the look and feel of her swaying breasts, she thought, but her breast jewellery and ankle hardware were to be hidden from public view at all costs.

Fully dressed, she looked at herself again in the mirror. Hm-m, she thought, not bad. Breasts a little loose, a bit saggy, but the sweater will hide 'em. My skirt is long enough to cover the chains but, oh, those nipples, she remembered from the shower.

Peter soon emerged, showered and shaven, from the bathroom and dressed in slacks, sweater and shirt. Isabel lightly made up her face and, soon, they were out of the house, Peter slowing his walk so Isabel could hurry along with her little, chained strides. Peter helped her down the front steps and into the car and they were soon on their way to investigate the site of last night's incident then onward to Edinburgh, a little over an hour away. It was 9:15 a.m. so they had lots of time to get there, find the building and hear what Dr. Michael Ledstone, PhD, MEng, had to say about Isabel's shackles.

Two minutes down the road, Peter braked at the roadside at Isabel's insistence and both emerged from the little car to look at the road and gravel shoulders.
The warm June sunshine felt good on Isabel's and Peter's shoulders and backs as they walked around a few yards, looking at the gravel, the pavement and the hilly fields beyond for any trace of Isabel's close encounter of a third kind.  Peter again slowed his step to Isabel's hobbled progress in her long skirt but after 10 minutes of looking -- for what neither knew -- they got back into the car and continued southeast to Edinburgh.

Isabel secretly hoped this metallurgist could not find a way to get her ankle chains off.

"How do you find walking in those, Is., compared to the ones I brought over?" Peter asked as Isabel watched the countryside roll by.

"They're still scary," she replied. "My steps are shorter than ever and I'm always reminded they're there. And they're heavier, too."

The couple were quiet for most of the trip, each immersed in their own thoughts. Peter was hopeful the shackles would stay and that Isabel would come to accept them. When he first produced the chains he brought with him from Canada, he recalled, Isabel shyly bared her ankles for him, opening her shapely legs slightly as he knelt before her at the bedside one night not long ago. The two snaps that followed were almost music to their ears.

Isabel's thoughts, however, were more prosaic:

If the chains could not be removed, maybe she would be able to resign her boring job with "just cause," retire, maybe even draw Workers' Compensation and look after the house as Peter's 'chained thrall'. She smiled grimly to herself as she wondered:

What will it be like doing housework in chains? (Probably take a little longer).  What happens if I get pregnant? (Talk to my doctor).  How do I do the gardening, get the groceries,go bowling or make love with chained ankles? (All in good time, Is.). How in hell do these chains come off, anyway? (Dunno.  Yet).

Isabel's imagination was still in full flight when Peter finally located the University of Edinburgh's engineering faculty and parked the little car in a visitor's spot just to the right of an enormous concrete staircase that led to a pair of imposing front doors. Peter did not tell Is. about the steps.

"Great, just what I need," Isabel thought, as she swung her legs out, keeping her ankles quietly together as she stood up and away from the car in the small university parking lot. Walking in public in daytime with chained ankles was not going to be the scary experience she thought it would be, as long as Peter held her arm, she thought.

Together, they mounted the stairs, Isabel taking each one step at a time, giving a good impression of walking with a sprained ankle, and Peter held her left arm carefully as he opened the door for her.

"Oh, good gosh, no," Isabel muttered quietly to Peter as her chains made a soft, chink-shink as they made their way along the terrazzo passageway into the laboratory area. There was no one in the hallway and Peter found Lab D-265 easily just before 12 noon, the appointed time. Peter knocked on the brown wood door and Dr. Ledstone opened it, welcoming both inside with a smile and gesture.

After Peter briefly explained the situation, the TA asked Isabel to have a seat at his desk near the front of the lab and the 40-year-old metallurgist put on his glasses to have a closer look.

Dr. Ledstone pulled his chair closer as Isabel lifted the hem of her long, black skirt a few inches to afford him a view of her trim ankles, chained now for just over half a day.

"And you said you got these where, Peter?" Ledstone asked, looking up as Isabel blushed crimson by revealing her chained status to a stranger for the first time.

"On mail order, Michael," Peter said. "Some company somewhere in Europe."
"Hm, well-made. Sturdy. I wonder who makes these?" Ledstone asked.
'No idea," Peter said in his first honest admission of the day. "We just filled in an order form from Police Gazette, mailed it and this is what we got back in the post.
"Unfortunately, when I put them on Isabel - we were going to a masquerade party, me as a sheriff and Is. as my prisoner - we couldn't get them off again afterwards," Peter said dishonestly.

"I see," said Ledstone, not believing a word. "You know, there doesn't appear to be any locking mechanism; no fastening, seam or weld anywhere. The cuffs appear to be solid-unit construction and I can't see any other way but to cut them.

"Did you try boltcutters or a hacksaw?"

The reply was affirmative and Ledstone thought for a moment. "Let me try my scope to see what sort of metal we are dealing with and I'll also x-ray them to see the structure and what's inside. Can you walk into the lab next door, ma'am?" he asked politely.

"Yes, I'll try," Isabel said, smoothing her skirt down over her ankles. "Is there anyone in the hallway just now?"

Peter and Michael looked out and saw the long hallway was still empty. Classes were out for an early lunch and the three rose and walked together across the hall into an adjacent lab. Dr. Ledstone motioned Isabel to sit on another chair near a bank of machines and electronics arrays.   He then brought out and adjusted a portable machine that looked like an x-ray device. Placing it over Isabel's ankles, he flicked some switches and the machine began to hum. "There's no need to worry; there's less radiation in this little puppy than there is in the x-ray machines you find in hospitals," said Ledstone.

 "The first test, called a spectrograph, will give us an idea what kind of material we are dealing with, such as its properties and chemical attributes; the second will give an actual look inside the cuffs for a locking mechanism. It will also image your bones underneath the cuffs, in case you're interested, Ms. Metcalfe."
Isabel sat quietly with her ankles propped on a low table underneath the apparatus as Ledstone ran his tests. A few moments later, the tests results were printed out on a nearby teleprinter.

Dr. Ledstone looked quietly at the two pages of data, red-circled some paragraphs and put the pages down to look at the x-ray images.
Taking off his glasses, he looked at the man and woman and said, quietly, "these tests show that the metal or alloys your shackles are made of, Isabel, are not identifiable with the Periodic Table of Elements; in other words, they are made of some metal that is unknown to science; at least this is what my data tell me. The x-ray also reveals they are, indeed, solid-unit construction.

"Where on earth did you get these? We need to run more tests."
Isabel's heart sank but Peter's rising bulge in his pants just got harder when he heard the metallurgist's news. Shackles of unknown origin, unknown construction and, so far, no apparent means of getting them off his sweetheart's ankles. It was his dream come true!

"Isabel, perhaps you could tell your side of the story," Ledstone asked quietly. Step by step, the 35-year-old mother of two recounted the previous night's experience during the drive home -- from leaving the mill to awakening in the car in chains about an hour later -- before choking out to the two men: "Do you mean there's no way of getting these off?"

Ledstone looked at her as a doctor would with his patient, and said: "The tests we have run today show these are no normal restraints. The steel, or whatever they are made of, is an unknown; the chain is of the same material, apparently, and the x-rays; well, I've told you what they have shown. The only good news I can tell you is that they are not radioactive.

"The cuffs apparently have been fused on in some process that could have involved extreme heat but there are no visible indications, such as a weld, on the surface, or in the x-rays, to suggest this.

"Isabel," he added quickly. "Could I arrange for you to see some of my colleagues and professors of metallurgy here at the University of Edinburgh? At our cost, of course."

Ledstone did not want to tell the attractive woman sitting before him that she may have to wear her newly-acquired ankle chains indefinitely, or at least until science unlocked the mysteries of her harder-than-steel cuffs.

Peter and Isabel thanked Dr. Ledstone for his time, said they would think about meeting his colleagues and left the lab area.

Isabel shuffled along in her long skirt and felt her breasts jostling under her sweater as she tried hard to avoid the glances of students and staff returning in groups and singly from lunch. Maybe they thought she was a mature student with bad knees or a sprained ankle but Isabel today felt like an unwilling prisoner. Peter felt sorry for his woman's plight yet, secretly, was pleased that it could not have happened to a better gal.

"What do we do now?" Isabel asked.

Well, I'm hungry, for starters," Peter replied. "There's the Locksmith's Arms just down the street from the university. Would you like to get a bite and pint there before going home?"

"I'm in chains already and I'm not even fully dressed," Isabel replied. "I can't go into a pub in broad daylight like this! It was a struggle just to get to see Dr. Ledstone.  And how am I going to get to work this afternoon? People would wonder why I'm wearing a long dress around the mill."

Peter stopped before they made the long descent down the staircase, just inside the front doors, and said: "Isabel, you look beautiful. You always look gorgeous in chains, day or night, and I can't see them underneath that skirt. The only trace is that slight sound the chains make on the floor.

"Let's give the pub a try. I don't think anyone will notice."

Isabel nodded quietly as they emerged into the June sunlight that gleamed off the university building's glass front doors.

Arm in arm, they began their slow descent down the 25 broad, concrete steps into the campus.  It was June 12, 1975, and Isabel Metcalfe's life in permanent bondage had jut begun.

As they drove away to find the pub further downtown, Dr. Ledstone pulled a page from his IBM Selectric typewriter. It would be the first of many secret memos that would pass between him and his seniors that day and for weeks thereafter.
It read:

SECRET - TO BE DELIVERED BY HAND ONLY

UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH
Faculty of Engineering
Metallurgy Division

                                                                12 June 1975
TO: Dr. Bramwell Stoker
Dean, Faculty of Engineering

FROM: Dr. Michael Ledstone
                     TA, Metallurgy Division

SUBJECT: DISCOVERY OF METAL-LIKE SUBSTANCE NOT
FOUND IN THE PERIODIC TABLE OF ELEMENTS

1. At 1200 hrs, 12 June 1975, I was visited by a man and woman in Laboratory D-265 of the Metallurgy Division, Faculty of Engineering, for advice on how to remove a pair of ankle cuffs from the woman's legs.

2. The woman, Isabel, a Scot, and her companion, Peter, a Canadian, explained they had ordered the restraints through the post from some company in Europe, which they could not identify, and that he had put them on her ankles for a masquerade with no forethought about how to take them off again. When I pressed the woman for more details, she told a fantastic story that she had been kidnapped on a rural highway near their home the night before (11 June 1975) by extraterrestrials, put in bondage, rendered unconscious and when she awoke an undetermined time later, found the shackles on her ankles.

3. I found both stories entirely implausible and thought, at first, this was some practical joke being foisted upon this division.

4. However, when I ran a spectrograph and x-ray tests on the restraints, I discovered the shackles were made of a metal or alloy not found in the Periodic Table of Elements and that the cuffs, 1.5-in. wide, 1/8th-in. thick with an 18-in. length of 3/16th-in. chain secured to the cuffs by half links, are of solid-unit construction; i.e.: no locks, hinges, hasps, rivet heads or bolts were found anywhere on the shackle cuffs.  Copies of the spectrograph and x-ray reports are attached for your information.

5. The gentleman, who later withdrew his story, said he tried to cut the chain from the cuffs the night before, using boltcutters and a hacksaw, but indicated neither tool had made so much as a dent in the surface. I confirmed this on visual inspections of each.

6.  They left the building at about 1300 hrs and said they would consider my request for a conference with you and other faculty members about their unusual circumstance and this extraordinary discovery. I have their telephone number and address, should we need to contact them again.

7. Following are my critical points:

* The metal, or alloy, of these shackles appears to be steel-like but the material defies identification by spectrograph and is, therefore, not defined in the periodic table of elements;

* it is too early to say what sort of metal, or alloy, the devices are made of and I do not know of any further tests that could be done to identify the material and its properties, such as hardness, tensile strength, corrosion resistance and radioactivity;

* it appears they have been fitted to the woman's ankles by a heating process that is unknown to me, as a metallurgist with 25 years of experience, and I am at a loss to know how they could be removed;

* it is suggested the heads of departments of the engineering faculty convene to discuss this discovery further and ask the woman and her companion if they would submit to interviews and further, detailed examination/experimentation to identify the material and structure of her restraints;

* the woman says she is employed at a wool-products mill on the west coast of Scotland and makes about three pounds (UK) an hour. I would suggest we discuss ways how to bring her to us by offering her term employment as a subject for further engineering, metallurgical and other physical tests on her restraints; and

* news of this discovery, if leaked, would create a crush of news media activity at the university which should be avoided at all costs at this time in the interests of preserving confidentiality and impartiality should scientific investigation be considered, approved and initiated. If, however, we find a way how to remove these chains from the woman (should she so desire them to be taken off), then perhaps an official announcement could be made.  News coverage accruing to the engineering faculty would be of a scientific, investigative nature at first, I expect, which would devolve subsequently to human-interest stories and pickup by the tabloid press, magazines and so on. Either way, news coverage of our initiatives in dealing with this woman's situation would be in the best interests of our longstanding public image.

I look forward to your reply. Ext. 265.

(signed)

Michael Ledstone, PhD, M.Eng

attachments

THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT

(Part 2)

By Sailor 861

Life Goes On - Day 1

Isabel bent forward slightly to see if she could get her left-index fingernail between her ankle and left cuff again as Peter braked for a traffic light just outside the university. Damn, these are snug, she said to herself, but there doesn't seem to be any abrasion inside the cuffs. That's a relief, I guess.

Peter looked over and put his hand on her left hand as she straightened up again while a large transport truck rolled up in the lane next to her. She smoothed her skirt down further to ensure the trucker, high on her right side, didn't get a glimpse of her ankles. Soon, the light changed and they were off again.
Moments later, the Locksmith's Arms pub came into view on the driver's side and Peter slowed in traffic to look for a parking spot.  Cars lined either side of busy Commercial Street and he was forced to circle the block to look for a meter or parking lot.  Two blocks away he found a small park-and-pay lot with some vacancies and pulled in.

Oh no, Isabel groaned inwardly, another walk; and this time along a busy street in the daytime.

"I'll never be able to make it, Peter," she said. "Can't you pull up closer to the pub, let me out and then come back for me?" This, of course, just as Peter was turning into a parking spot.

"Oh, come on now, Isabel; you were able to get up those university stairs alright and the walk down the hallway wasn't that bad," Peter replied, shutting off the ignition. "There's not many people on the sidewalk just now and the noise from your chain should be drowned out by the traffic. Now, let's go."

Isabel was silent as she swung her legs out of the Austin again to join Peter behind the car. Isabel took his right arm with her left hand and they walked slowly to the parking lot attendant's booth where Peter collected their ticket. The male attendant didn't give them a second look and they turned right and walked carefully, with Peter on the curbside of the sidewalk, the two blocks towards the pub.

It was the longest two-block walk Isabel had ever taken and she felt as though every eye on the street and in the storefronts that lined busy Commercial St. was on her and her ankles. She slowly placed one foot in front of the other, careful not to step on the ankle chain, but the shackles caused her to walk with a slightly-exaggerated, hip-swaying motion which caused her heavy, unconfined breasts to sway and bounce under her light-brown sweater. Her nipples, too, were rampant through her blouse and sweater - surely everyone can notice, she thought - but no one seemed to notice as pedestrians passed them without a second glance. She didn't feel particularly sexy but Peter was all "cock and eyeballs" as they walked arm-in-arm down High St. to Commercial St.

"Whew, so far so good," Isabel said quietly to Peter as they rounded the corner onto Commercial to finish the half-block to the Locksmith's Arms. "But these short steps are taking the wind out of me. I wish I could take a little longer stride."

Soon, the couple were at the pub's front door. Peter opened it for his woman and they walked in looking around to find a table and chairs as near to the front door as they could.   There was a vacant table about 15 ft. away among other pub patrons and Isabel took the distance in six steps, swivelling her hips to ease herself behind the table with a muffled clink.

The telltale sound was unheard among the ambient noise and unobtrusive chatter of the pub clients, she thought, tucking her long, light skirt closely around her legs and very carefully crossing her ankles to keep the chain out of sight and underneath her hemline. She put her purse on the table, fished out her cigarettes and Peter went to the bar to order them half-pints of "dark-and-tan," two ham-and-cheese sandwiches and some Scotch eggs -- Isabel's favourite. He thought he should treat her; after all it had been a pretty traumatic day or so.
Peter looked over his shoulder and smiled as he saw Isabel lighting up, looking serene and confident for the most part, and both were suddenly aware of her first public foray, her "big step," in chains. It wasn't as bad as he had thought. So far.

Neither Peter nor Isabel had noticed the brooding, intoxicated, 50-ish man two tables away who had watched Isabel's every move from the moment they entered the pub.

He looked at Isabel up and down with a drunken leer and cast his stare down to her ankles where Isabel met his unwanted looks. She dared not move her hands or her ankles lest she reveal her secret to this soak and, instead, continued to smoke her cig as nonchalantly as she could, fervently hoping Peter would return quickly from the bar with their drinks and eats. He was only 25 ft. away but it felt more like 25 miles.

Isabel groaned inwardly as she saw Peter strike up a conversation with the publican as he waited for their sandwiches and eggs. Oh, no, he's going to be longer and here's this rummy looking at my legs as though he knows already!

We shouldn't have come here in the first place and . . . .

Peter was paying for his purchases and was making his way back to their table when she thought she heard the drunk say something like: "Ar-rr-, that woman's in chains 'ere.  M-m-m, whatever turns 'er on. She's bound to make a fine addition to the Africans' collection." Isabel pretended not to hear but her sixth sense told her he had noticed her shackles by the way she walked; maybe he caught a glimpse of them as she sat down, or heard the noise, or. . . . Did he have anything to do with that incident on the county road the night before, she thought suddenly. She shifted her legs and turned away as Peter arrived with food and beverage.

Isabel smiled at him, relieved he was at her side again, butted her cigarette and dug in to the sandwich with gusto. She was hungry and the cool beer complemented the delicious, fresh-made sandwich and stuffed brown egg.
The couple ate in silence and Isabel avoided the drunk's stare until, finally, she had had enough: "Peter, that man over there is staring at me and my legs. I don't know if he's seen 'em or not but can you please ask him to stop looking this way? It's making me nervous."

Peter immediately stood up and walked over to the man sitting to their left.
"Stop looking over at her, Mac, or I'll ask management to turf you," Peter said in a loud, clear voice. The bar drew suddenly silent as every eye in the pub was on the two men.

"Sorry, guv," said the man, looking down at his glass of Scotch. "Just admiring your woman's good looks an' all; that's all."

"Geroff!" Peter said. "Giddaddahere." And with that, the drunk downed his half glass of whisky, got up unsteadily and left on his own, looking back over his shoulder as he opened the opaque glass door onto Commercial St.

Peter went back to Isabel, who put her hand on his right arm with a quiet "thank you."  The pub noise and activity resumed and Isabel and Peter enjoyed their light lunch together. Soon, they were back on Commercial St. in the bright June afternoon sunshine making their way back to the car.

"It's just after 2, Isabel," Peter said, as they walked arm-in-arm towards the parking lot. "Maybe you should call the mill and say you won't be in today. We'll just go home, recoup, have the rest of the day to ourselves and plan our next move. I think we're going to hear from Ledstone again soon."

They stopped at a phone booth on the sidewalk and Isabel stepped in with a clink and rattle on the booth's metal floor to make the call, emerging in a minute with a broad smile. She patted her man on the shoulder and said:  "Well, that's that. I'm officially on sick leave today. Maybe I'll be better in a couple of days," she said with a laugh. "Maybe not."

There was a slight spring to Isabel's short steps as they walked into the parking lot and, for the 10th time that day, she felt her breasts sway hard from side to side as she lowered herself to get into the little car, pulling her legs in after her.

She settled into the seat with a little rustle of chain, did up the seatbelt and, soon, they were driving out of the city to the northwest and home again.
One hour and 15 minutes later, Peter pulled into their driveway and quickly got out of the car to help his woman get to her feet by the front steps.

She grasped his arm again as they went up the four stairs and he opened the door for her, making a proper, good show of it all.

"Thank you, kind sir," Isabel said, as she snuggled up against him as Peter closed the door with his right foot. She crushed her tender breasts against his chest and he ran his hands through her hair and kissed her firmly on the lips. Isabel tried to slip her left leg between his to turn him on in her usual fashion but the cuffs stopped her. "Damn," she muttered. "These chains stop me even doing that."

No matter. Peter suddenly swept her off her feet in his muscular arms and walked down the short hallway into the bedroom, sitting her down at the edge of the bed making her breasts joggle invitingly under her sweater.

"Yes, master?" Isabel said jokingly. "Your chained slave is ready and waiting."
Peter sat beside her, kissed her firmly on the lips, then knelt at her feet. He gently unfastened her sandals and stroked her feet, moving the shackles around her ankles and pried them up gently to look at the skin underneath.  There was only a two-in. band of pink skin underneath the cuffs so they had not seriously abraded her ankles in the last 18 hours. He looked closely at the cuffs and made a mental note of their rounded edges and mirror-smooth inner and outer surfaces.

"Maybe we should put a little moisturizer on underneath your cuffs to keep the skin healthy," he said. "Mmmm," Isabel replied. "Maybe later."

Peter ran his hands up the inside of her calves and Isabel shivered with sudden excitement. She pulled her sweater up over her head and began undoing the blouse buttons as Peter reached the waist clasp and zipper of her ankle-length skirt. Isabel shrugged out of her blouse as Peter removed her skirt and both garments ended in a pile on the carpet beside the sandals.

Isabel swung her naked legs onto the bed and Peter was beside her in a moment. They kissed and cuddled for what seemed like hours until Peter slid down to her feet and underneath Isabel's joined ankles. He wriggled himself up until his face was level with hers and easily inserted his manhood into her warm, moist waiting pussy.

 Isabel, in turn, moved her legs into their favourite position with her ankles at the small of his back, just above his hips, and her knees splayed widely on either side of Peter's flanks.

Peter's thrusts were slow at first and he withdrew his cock almost completely then plunged deep into her warm depths again. Isabel groaned as his steel-hard rod reached time and again into her cervix. Her breath quickened. The sun shone into their bedroom as the couple's lovemaking intensified and Isabel reached her first "plateau."

Peter stopped for a moment and Isabel caught her breath, digging her fingertips into his shoulders, pulling her ankles downward, forcing him deeper into her.
Peter looked into his woman's eyes, kissed her fervently again on the lips, cheeks and forehead, and resumed his slow, rhythmic thrusts again and again deep inside her.

Isabel's breathing quickened again and she felt her climax, or "pop," starting to build on that warm, fuzzy pink horizon that developed under her half-closed eyes.
She thrust her chest against his, feeling the nipple rings press into her breast flesh as she did, and Peter's thrusts became harder, faster and furious. Isabel clenched him as hard as she could with her hands on his shoulders and ankles against his back, her hips rising to meet his downward thrusts. Their bodies smacked sweatily together as perspiration rolled off Peter's forehead onto Isabel's chin and neck.

"Ohh-h-h-h," Peter groaned loudly. "I'm coming. Hang on Isabel," he said softly as he pounded her mercilessly 16 more times. Isabel gritted her teeth as she felt waves of orgasm wash over her as Peter unleashed the biggest ejaculation he had ever felt deep inside her.

"Mm-m-m-nnnn-oo-o-o-a-a-a," Isabel's long, low moan of her intense climax sounded almost animal-like and it surprised even her. Another, equally-powerful orgasm convulsed her hips and body scant seconds later. It seemed to go on for minutes as Isabel gripped Peter even harder.

She thrust her hips against him as hard as she could, burying his cock deep inside her, as they both collapsed into a sweaty heap, Peter still on top with Isabel's legs splayed wide on either side of his hips, her ankles tight against their chain at the small of his back.

Panting, they lay still until their senses began to restore.

"Wow, best yet," Peter offered. "Mmm, very good," Isabel replied after a pause. They couldn't help notice "Little Pete" was still very erect deep inside Isabel's pussy and Peter, the proprietor, decided to make a few tentative thrusts again. Isabel responded with her own upward motions and soon the action was on again.

"Let me get on top for awhile," Isabel said, stopping Peter in mid-thrust.  Peter happily agreed and slid his way easily out and under the grasp of her legs, rolling onto his back beside her. Isabel smiled as she climbed atop and placed her knees on either side of his hips, lowering herself onto his still-rigid cock.

"Mm-m-m-, always good this way, too," she said as she buried his pole deep inside her once again, tangling her ankle chains around his legs. Her 38-C breasts bounced and swayed sexily as she thrust her hips against his, feeling another orgasm loom.

"A-aa-a-gg-g-g-h," Isabel cried suddenly as her pussy began to spasm rhythmically. She flexed her lower abdominal muscles, which she had toned specifically to grip his cock harder, and the orgasm swept over her. Peter held her breasts with both hands, massaging both gently as she climaxed again and again on top of him, her pussy juices running onto his groin and down her legs. She bent down further, dangling her breasts near his mouth and gently and playfully ran her ringed nipples over his lips so he could kiss and play with them, making them harder. Peter thrust up again inside her one last time and held her tightly, his arms clasped around her back, as he pounded another load of goo deep inside Isabel's loins.

They stayed like that for almost half an hour until Isabel pushed her matted hair away from her forehead, slid off him with a wet "plop," and hobbled into the bathroom to clean up.

"Mon," she said to herself quietly, I won't have any trouble getting pregnant by him. What a load he shot into me. And it's still coming out!"
Peter, his ears still ringing and burning from his intense double orgasm, knew this sex session was the best yet and began to wonder if her new chains had anything to do with it.

"Come back to bed when you're done in there, woman," Peter called out. "Alright," she said. A moment later, when were snuggling again on top of the bed covers, playing with each other's body.

"Did you find that your orgasm was more intense than usual today, Is.?" Peter asked.

"Yes it was; yours, too, I think," she replied.

"Tell me again how you got those chains on your legs last night. I think they have something to do with this."

Isabel related her story once again and Peter was at once excited and awed such an event could happen to her so close to home.

"Peter, do you think Dr. Ledstone will be able to help to get these off me?" Isabel said, looking down her body at the chains that had contributed to their lustful pleasure.

"I don't know, sweetheart. Do you want me to contact him again or should we just wait until he contacts us - if he ever does."

"Let's wait," Isabel said. "I'm on sick leave today and I'm seriously thinking of putting in my letter of resignation tomorrow. I've worked there 17 years and I should get some sort of allowance or return of pension contributions that I could invest. It won't be much but I can't very well go back to the mill and become a safety hazard among the machinery with these on my legs, can I?"

Peter liked the way this conversation was headed and agreed.

"Okay, let's wait until Ledstone calls. And I fully support your decision to resign.  I can hire myself out as a carpenter. There's a new housing subdivision being planned for the eastern outskirts of town so let's think about this for a bit. I'll probably go over there tomorrow and see if they're hiring.

 "I'm going outside to soak up some rays; how about you?"

Peter slid out of bed, put on his jean cutoffs and sandals, bent over to kiss his woman again on the lips, chin, breasts and navel, and strode out of the bedroom, down the hallway and out the patio doors onto the backyard sundeck.
Isabel moaned quietly with renewed sexual energy - och, those kisses - and stood up, walked over to her closet and selected her blue-silk, mid-thigh-length dressing gown which she put on to cover her nudity but not her shackles.

She felt herself actually getting rather fond of them as she tied the belt snugly around her waist, enjoying as always the sensuous feel of the material against her body and upper legs as she shuffled her clinky steps down the hallway out the doors to join Peter on the deck.

The mid-afternoon June sun was bright in the backyard and Isabel squinted as she stretched out in the chaise longue beside her man.

"Oh, this is so nice; sex and then sun. A rare treat in this part of Scotland this time of year," Isabel said. "I should really get some tanning time in," she said, as she got back up to go into the bathroom to look for suntan lotion.
She found the bottle underneath the bathroom sink and smiled as she felt her still-sensitive breasts sway against the loose, sleek material of her dressing gown. She went back out onto the sundeck, breasts swaying, and sat down again.

"Put some on my legs, please?" she asked Peter nicely. "You bet," he replied. Once again, he knelt at her feet and squirted some of the viscous, white lotion onto his palms, massaging it into her calves, shins, knees and her thighs. Isabel parted the hem of her dressing gown and let him massage the upper reaches of her legs and around her pussy mound.

She opened her ankles as wide as the chain would allow and then undid the belt, letting her gown fall open, revealing her white breasts with her erect tawny-pink nipples.

"I'll tan these tomorrow," Isabel said, feeling her breasts and ringed nipples lightly with her hands. "Legs today."

Peter put a second light coat on her legs and the tops of her feet, noting to himself the skin underneath the cuffs will likely be pale and her legs nicely tanned, weather permitting. The couple held hands as the sun continued its path across their backyard, bathing each in a warm glow and helping to erase the mysterious private event of the night before as well as the embarrassing public moments at the university and pub a few hours ago.

The two were happily quiet as they let the sun warm and brown their bodies. Isabel's white legs started to tingle and turn pink in about an hour when they decided to go back in and think about supper.

"What would you like to eat for supper, sweetheart?" Isabel called out to Peter who had gone into the bedroom for a moment. "There's leftovers, cold roast beef or I can warm up some spaghetti if you like."
Isabel heard some rustling around in the bedroom but could not identify the sound.

"Would you like me to dress for supper -- or just the way I am?"

No answer, just rustling sounds and a faint clink.
Isabel tied her short dressing gown a little tighter around her waist and bent to look inside the refrigerator. She decided on cold roast beef sandwiches, a small salad and lemonade. She knelt down to get the items from the bottom shelf of the fridge and stood up again, nudging the door shut with her shoulder instead of her foot -- the way she usually did - until yesterday.

When Peter walked back into the kitchen, Isabel was at work at the counter getting the sandwiches and salad ready for them. She looked over her shoulder and saw he was carrying some material and a small bunch of light cord in his right hand.

"What's that for?" Isabel inquired as she put down the kitchen implements.
"Oh, just something for my sexy slavegirl to wear around the house this afternoon," Peter said, as he placed a long, narrow rectangle of pale yellow chiffon material and a three-ft. length of gold cord on the counter beside her.
Puzzled, Isabel looked at the items, then at Peter.

"How am I going to wear that?" she asked him.

"Allow me," he replied, as he untied her dressing gown, looping the cord around her hips, tying it in a snug square knot over her left hip. He then passed the chiffon under the cord at her belly, down between her legs and back up to tuck underneath the cord at her back.

He then adjusted the front and back panels so they were roughly the same length, falling to about six in. above her knees.

The eight-in.-wide strip of translucent material instantly turned Isabel into Peter's image of a chained harem girl - a picture he had waited many months to see - and Isabel graciously agreed to wear the sexy little garment for him.

"Mmm, nice," Isabel said as she felt the silky material against her thighs and loins. "Makes me feel kinda sexy, like your slavegirl in chains should. I think I must be the first woman in western Scotland to be dressed like this.  And summer's just started."

Peter agreed, Isabel re-secured her dressing gown over her little undergarment and got on with the supper preparations, her ankle chains making a delightful, little clink as she moved from the counter to the kitchen table with their plates.
Always handy in the kitchen, Isabel had supper ready soon and the two sat opposite each other in their kitchen that overlooked the backyard, watching the June afternoon sun draw its first shadows among the bordering trees.

"Brri-ing, brring," the Scottish telephone rang. Isabel answered and it was her best friend, Moira McPeak, from the mill. Peter listened absently as Isabel cooked up some lame excuse why she phoned in sick today.

The two women chattered about mill gossip, the weather and other goings-on in the town and Isabel suddenly invited her over for tea the next afternoon, much to Peter's surprise.

"Good for you, Is." Peter said, after she hung up. "Are you going to tell her about your chains?"

"I might," she said. "If not, I'll just be sure to keep them quiet while she's here. Maybe wrap them in something."

That would ruin the entire image, he thought, as he put that possibility out of his mind.

"Long skirt again tomorrow, eh?"

"Quite possibly," Isabel said. "But I have other skirts and dresses in my closet, too."

"Oh, yes. I like that straight black one that comes to just above your knees. And we both know what that hemline would show, don't we?"
Isabel nodded quietly as she pondered what she would wear for her friend's visit tomorrow.

They finished up their light supper, Isabel cleared away the plates and cutlery and they  retired to the living room to watch the 6 p.m. BBC news.
 Peter sat on his large comfortable recliner and Isabel joined him, sitting on his lap with her left arm around him and her right on his chest.

Her legs were draped over the arm of the chair, the chain dangling in a nine-in., U-shaped bight between her ankles, and she purposely let her dressing gown fall open as she turned her head to watch the television news. Peter took the opportunity to toy with her nipple rings with his right hand, pushing the left, then the right one, gently through the little slits pierced through the base of each nipple while he massaged her still-sensitive clit with his left. Isabel moaned quietly as the BBC news anchor began his half-hour newscast. With Peter's attentions, Isabel was soon near another gasping orgasm by the first commercial break and at 6:20 p.m. was writhing in ecstasy as she approached another climax on his lap.

 Her hips shuddered and she held him tightly as waves of orgasm swept over her again and again. At 7, well before their usual 10 p.m. bedtime, Peter snapped off the coffee table light beside them and motioned Isabel into the bedroom. She got off him stiffly and shuffled into the bathroom to clean up once again from her unusually wet orgasm. She slid out of her short dressing gown and undid the cord around her hips as she bathed herself in preparation for another sexy session in bed.

The sun was casting longer shadows across their neat backyard as Isabel clinked back into the bedroom toward her walk-in closet to get her favourite, ankle-length, blue-satin nightgown with the spaghetti straps Peter loved.
She saw her usual ankle chains hanging from a hook on the inside wall of the closet and wondered whether she would ever wear them again.

But Peter had another bondage surprise already rigged for her in bed - he had secretly locked a 35-ft. length of light chain, with 1/8th-in. oblong stainless-steel links he had been saving for such an occasion, to the boxspring near the head of the bed. Another sturdy little lock was hung from the business end of the chain which he planned to snap around her neck, tethering her to the bed but allowing her to reach into the bathroom, the hallway and nearly into the kitchen, if she had reason to go there.

Isabel slid soundlessly into bed and noticed the little metallic stash between their pillows. She sat up, as if to read, as Peter climbed in beside her half-expecting her man to secure her for the night. He reached down between the feather pillows, pulling up the chain and quickly draped a loop of chain snugly around her neck, snapping the lock closed through two links. The chain fell between her breasts and disappeared under the pillows to its anchor on the boxspring.

"Now I'm really hooked up," Isabel said lightly. "Chains at my neck and feet. Are you sure you don't want to lock my ankles to the bed, too, Peter?" Peter kissed her gently and tugged on her neck chain to pull her down and towards him. He was instantly erect again and easily penetrated her pussy as they lay facing each other, the chain nestled between them.

They rocked back and forth rhythmically and both reached their climax at the same time, Peter shooting another large wad deep into her womb.
He was still hard when Isabel climbed on top of him and began a gentle to and fro and up and down motion that caused her breasts to sway. Her neck chain depended gracefully down the front of her nightgown, past her delicious cleavage to disappear into the bedsheets. Peter took all this in and gently massaged her breasts as he felt yet another orgasm starting to build distantly.
Moments later Peter and Isabel clutched at each other in yet another well-timed orgasm.

"Wow, six in one day," Isabel said as she flopped to her right side, with a clink of chain, exhausted. Peter put his arm around her and both were suddenly asleep, as if by a spell.

Life Goes On - Day 2

Wednesday, June 13, dawned grey and overcast as Peter and Isabel awoke in the same position in which they fell asleep: Peter on his right side with his left arm across Isabel's waist and Isabel half-turned toward him, chained ankles spread lightly, her knees bent and her neck chain tangled between them.

As always, Peter kissed Isabel on the shoulder and got up to start his day in the bathroom. Isabel awoke with the kiss and heard her lover in the shower as she cast around the bed for the key to her neck chain. She had to wait until Peter stepped out of the bath to ask him where the key was - she found it inside his night table - and she unlocked the small brass padlock that secured her neck chain to the headboard.

Relatively free once again, she donned her long dressing gown and shuffled into the kitchen with the clinks to which she was growing accustomed and started a brew of coffee.

"I hereby resign from the Darner and Skein Woollen Products Ltd. mill effective Friday, June 15, 1975," Isabel said to herself as she mentally composed the letter of resignation she would put to paper later that day.

She was thinking about how she would get her letter to the mill business office - Ah! Moira can take it for me - when Peter strode into the kitchen in his work clothes.

"I'm going to go to the construction office of that new subdivision and see if they need any carpenters," he told her. "I've brought my journeyman's papers from Nova Scotia but I'll see if they're hiring." Isabel poured them their coffees and Peter sat with her and asked of her plans for the day.
"Well, I'm going to resign formally today," Isabel said. "I'll get Moira to take my letter in tomorrow when she comes by later for tea."

"Decided what you're going to wear yet?" Peter asked. "I've got to get going. Let me know." And he gave her a goodbye kiss on the cheek as he stepped out of the kitchen, across the living room and out the front door to the car.
Isabel found herself completely alone in the house at 7:45 a.m. Moira would not be here until about 3, she thought. Well, I guess I can tidy up a bit. Get dressed - hm-m-m, what to wear? - and sit out in the sun.

She finished her coffee and clinked into the bathroom to undress, shower and brush her hair. Moments later, she emerged, feeling rejuvenated and sexually satiated, and shuffled into her walk-in closet to pick out something to wear. Her breasts were still too tender for a bra, she thought, so she picked out a white cotton blouse, the straight black skirt Peter liked and some comfortable shoes. Her legs were slightly sunburned so she did not have to worry about stockings -- tights were impossible -- and the difficulty of getting her conventional underwear on past her shackles required some thought.
"Oh, well, I'll try that little loincloth Peter put on me yesterday," she said to no one. "It will have to do for now." She found the piece of chiffon and the gold cord where Peter had left it - on the bedroom chair - and she put it on easily.

Partially dressed, she went back into the bedroom to finish. She looked in the mirror and decided she didn't look too bad - white blouse, no bra (you can still see my nipples, dammit, she thought) - and straight skirt. All pretty conventional, Isabel thought, until she noticed her ankle shackles for the first time that morning.

"Well, I look like a secretary who's going to prison," Isabel said. She brushed her hair and swayed her hips knowingly as she sashayed into the kitchen to finish her coffee and write her resignation letter.

The hours passed with Isabel doing household chores, watching daytime BBC television (boring) and sitting out in the backyard to brown her legs a bit more before Moira arrived.

The letter was in its envelope on the kitchen table when Isabel heard the doorbell ring at 3 p.m. She had spent most of the day in the backyard reading, flexing her legs and walking about a little, trying for the nth time to get used to an 18-in. stride, and enjoying the lingering afterglow of the potent sex she and Peter had enjoyed since yesterday afternoon.

Isabel thought nothing about walking to the front door with her chained steps - she had almost completely forgotten about them - and it wasn't until her friend Moira's gasp and hand to her mouth that Isabel remembered her chained condition.

Moira, dressed in slacks and sweater, stood slack-jawed on the front porch as she looked at her best friend, Isabel, in blouse and skirt, with ankles in sturdy silver chains.

"Isabel! What on earth are those things on your legs?" she asked. Mrs. Moira McPeak felt her nipples go erect under her sweater as she looked at her well-dressed best friend's chained ankles.

"Come in, Moira, and I'll tell you all about it," Isabel said, pulling her friend in by the hand. Moira, two years younger than Isabel, was a slender brunette who had married her grammar-school sweetheart, had known Is. for almost 20 years, worked the same shifts and each had no secrets from the other.

"Did Peter put those on you, Is.?" Moira asked.

"No, some stranger," Isabel said. "Sit in the living room, I'll get the tea and I'll tell you the whole story, including what happened in Edinburgh yesterday. There was this bright light on the road home two nights ago, then a university professor in Edinburgh, then this creepy guy in a pub, then the drive home and last night and . . . . "

Moira listened agog as Isabel recounted the fantastic events of the past 11/2 days and finally blurted out: "My God, Isabel. Do they hurt? How do you walk in those things? What does Pete say?"

"Well, they don't hurt, they just snub my stride to about 18 inches or so.  Sort of like wearing a straight skirt all the time, you know, and yes, it's hard to walk with such short strides. But Peter just loves them. Honestly, Moira, I think I'm getting used to them, too. God knows they make me wet in bed."

Isabel's monologue gave Moira some ideas how to rekindle her sex life with her husband, Dennis, but she would wait another day to ask more questions.

The girl talk continued for another hour and Moira was sad to her friend was resigning but said she would keep her abreast of all the news of the mill every day by visit or by phone, no matter what. She also said she would hand-deliver Isabel's letter of resignation next day.  It was after 4 p.m. when they heard Peter drive up the road.

"Well, I must really get going and get Dennis's supper ready," Moira said, envelope in hand. She gave her good friend a kiss on the cheek, waved at Peter and drove off.

Supper in Isabel's kitchen was almost a repeat of the night before and by 6 p.m., they were in front of the TV again, this time with Isabel more fully dressed than the night before wearing skirt and blouse and her loincloth underneath.
Little did she know that sexy little underthing would be here only garment for the next few days and that heavier chains on her neck, wrists and ankles would be her constant companions in a far-distant land.

Isabel was about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery as an indentured woman to a group of mad scientists in Eastern Africa.

(continued)

THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT

(Part 3)

By Sailor 861

Slavery Becomes Her

Peter was still horny from the fantastic sex he had enjoyed with Isabel and had thought of nothing but to get her back into bed with her legs chained about his back as usual.

At 7 p.m., they were back in the master bedroom, Isabel having doffed her blouse, stepping out of her skirt en route, leaving just the ankle chains and loincloth on while Peter literally hopped out of his work clothes. Isabel did not bother with her favourite nightgown - this night was to be just pure lust, nothing else - a good, firm fuck is what they both wanted and needed.

Goddamn these chains, Isabel thought to herself as she felt Peter lock the slim chain around her neck again. Goddamn, they're good; it's almost as though they are magic somehow.

Peter was in no mood to question her stranger-than-fiction shackles; tonight was going to be a "hard night" -- all night long. He gently pulled the loincloth to one side and slipped easily underneath her ankle chains as Isabel spread her legs in their usual diamond for him.

Their lovemaking was no less amorous and intense as the night before and at 11 p.m. both collapsed into each other's arms, exhausted beyond words. Sleep came quickly to both as did the 7 a.m. alarm, which Isabel slept through.
Peter got up, dressed and quickly kissed his woman as he planned the big trip to the jewellery store for the diamond ring he would surprise her with that night in his easy chair. He hoped.

Isabel was still sleeping when he dashed out the door and drove down the road to the construction site where he had just landed work the day before.  He scarcely noticed the little black Renault driving past him as he planned his lunchbreak to get from the construction site to the jewellery, pick out the ring, get to the bank, back to the store, back to work, and back to the store after work to get the ring, then home and then . . . .

The man in the Renault was the same drunk that Peter had verbally dismissed at the Locksmith's Arms two days ago but he did not know. Or care.

The grey-haired, stocky man, unshaven and in his 50s, was a white slaver and British expatriate from Marseilles, France, whose target this ordinary day in June 1975 was Isabel Metcalfe, sound asleep in chains in her bed at home, in rural western Scotland.

This mission would make him impossibly rich, beyond his wildest dreams, he thought. It would also, instantly, change Isabel, a, attractive mill worker, into a chained thrall, an indentured woman. Isabel Metcalfe, 35, mother of two boys, was about to become the chattel of a bizarre genetic-engineering project in the remote reaches of Ushwant, a rugged, desolate country with mountains to the west and deserts sloping to the Indian Ocean to the east.

The country had a thriving slave trade and Bruce, the slaver, knew a white woman, especially a Scot, would "gather quid" - probably in the hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling.

He had it all plotted out since the chance meeting with his target at the pub a couple of days ago. He had seen Isabel's chains when she sat down two tables away from him and he knew she would make a good target - a good acquisition. If she and that bozo-husband of hers were into chains, so what? So much the easier for him to make sure she would be immobilized for the big trip.

He had the private jet from the Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering, and its crew, sworn to secrecy on pain of death, waiting for him at Prestwick Airport's general aviation area but the hardest part was about to begin: how to get her out of the house without alerting anyone.

He was tipped by a construction contractor friend that Peter had just started work at a site across town and that Isabel would be alone at home alone, probably in chains, he hoped. Bruce, an ex-British army commando, found the house easily and radioed his position back to the private jet on the GA runway at Prestwick.

The rest was easier than he thought. He jimmied the front lock with his tools, put on the black ski mask inside the house and found Isabel sound asleep in the master bedroom. With a commando's trained sense for acquiring details at first glance, Bruce saw the slender chain padlocked around Isabel's neck and the little brass key on the nightstand farthest away from her.
She was still sleeping when he picked the key up and it was only when he was leaning over her that she awoke with a scream.

"A-a-agh! Who're you?" Isabel cried, as she scrambled with her hands to tug the neck chain over her head. Those were her last words. He plunged the disposable hypodermic into her shoulder and injected a large dose of a powerful sedative as he held her down onto the bed with a deathgrip on the chain that secured her head and neck to the bed. Isabel had five seconds only to thrash her chained ankles feebly underneath the bedsheets before she faded into oblivion.

Bruce unlocked her neck chain, pulled down the quilt and sheets, quickly appraised her near-nakedness and the sturdy, 18-in. chain between her ankles he had glimpsed in the pub - "Ar-r-r, that's the ticket; those chains are sure to get a few more quid" - and set to work binding and gagging the 35-year-old woman.

So what if the rough, 1/8th-in. hemp cord he knew and trusted made red indentations and welts if tied on feminine flesh for more than five minutes? She was going to be bound a lot longer than that so she may as well get used to it, he thought.

Isabel, clad only in her yellow-chiffon loincloth, ankle chains, nipple rings and earrings, was rolled hard over onto her belly and her arms were drawn into the middle of her back. Bruce quickly and easily looped three bights of cord around her elbows, drawing them tight together so her forearms ran down the middle of her back, then lashed her wrists together in eight overlapping figures-of-eight, tying elbows and wrists together at mid-forearm with doubled lengths of cord and a series of square knots which he doubly secured with fine stainless steel wire.

"Even Mrs. Houdini would have a helluva time getting out of that one," he laughed heartlessly, as he bent to lash her knees and ankles together in similar, methodical fashion. He then drew her chained ankles up to her wrists, noting the woman's gymnastic degree of flexibility as well as the fine craftsmanship of the shackles, and tied Isabel into her first-ever hogtie. He was familiar with that particularly brutal bondage after having practised on several prostitutes in Piccadilly Circus.

After his dishonourable discharge from the army in 1973 he prowled the streets of central London looking to fulfill his bondage fantasies.

He remembered Eliza, a slender blonde from Essex, commenting afterward it took him all of one minute to hogtie her into complete immobilization. Bruce told her the slightest movement would cause any of the eight key knots in his expertly-tied bondage to tighten down inexorably.

Isabel's bondage was total and complete -- in just over one minute - and she couldn't move. And, soon, she wouldn't be able to speak. The ex-commando withdrew a 10-in.-diameter spherical sponge from his army fatigues pocket, pried Isabel's jaws open and stuffed her mouth with the sponge so fully that her cheeks bulged. He then applied a 25-ft. elastic bandage which he wound round and round her lips, chin and cheeks, followed by six layers of sticky medical adhesive bandage and, finally, a locking head harness to ensure everything stayed in firm place. The harness, which he acquired from a bondage equipment house in California, was made of half-in. chrome flexible steel straps that tightly circled her mouth and passed under her chin. Two attaching straps that joined in a V between her eyes were rivetted to another band that passed over her head and the whole ensemble locked with two hasps in back. She could never reach that when she comes to, Bruce said to himself, as he snapped the last lock closed. Isabel lay silent, still and unconscious, breathing shallowly through her nose only with the effects of the sedative injection.

Taking off his ski mask Bruce lit a cigarette as he walked back out to his car and got his oversize - "woman's size" he called it - kitbag from the backseat, walked nonchalantly back into the house into the bedroom and slid the bag over Isabel's doubled-up body.  He zipped up the bag, fastened the sturdy buttons and Bruce and his female baggage were ready for a trip Isabel would never forget.

He hoisted the 115-lb. woman, bound, chained, gagged and immobile inside the kitbag, easily on his shoulder and walked out onto the front porch. He flicked the cigarette butt into the flower bed then put the kitbag in the waiting open trunk, slammed the lid and went back and closed and locked the front door.

Two crows flew overhead soundlessly and there was no one to be seen for miles.
Smiling at the ease and success of his gambit, Bruce then got into the stolen Renault and drove off to Prestwick, about two hours away, humming the First World War soldiers' tune Pack Up Your Troubles (in your old kitbag).

Arriving at Prestwick after an uneventful 1 1/2-hour drive, he parked the little sedan in the long-term lot, got out and shouldered the kitbag, with Isabel still unconscious inside, and strode inconspicuously inside the air terminal building's GA area. He passed through customs easily, saw that the kitbag was gently loaded onto the small African-registered twin-engine jet and walked onto the apron, up the few steps into the little plane. Grounds crew closed the hatch quietly, pulled away the mobile staircase and the twin engines of the little jet purred and whined into life.

The little jet turned and taxied onto the GA runway, the pilots received clearance from the tower and, moments later, the plane was climbing high into the grey skies of southern Scotland with the first leg of the flight under way over England and across the English Channel into continental airspace.

At cruising altitude, Bruce got up from his seat and walked back into the jet's triangular-shaped rear compartment to check on his baggage: he unbuttoned and unzipped the duffel bag and pulled it off Isabel's silent, immobile, nearly-naked body.

For her "personal safety," he locked a six-ft. length of sturdy chain around her waist, using another padlock to secure it to a nearby padeye on the fuselage. Isabel Metcalfe lay bound and still as the jet continued its flight south. Her waist chain swayed to and fro slightly as the little aircraft passed through some light turbulence over the grey skies of Northern France but she was aware of nothing as the little jet continued its southerly course at 25,000-ft.

As the sedative's effects wore off, she became groggily awar of a jawbreaking feeling that nearly triggered her gag reflex. She panicked seconds later when she realized her mouth was filled with some object and it was firmly secured in place with material she could not identify. As well, her eyes could barely focus on the two thin metal bands of her head harness that passed up either side of her nose to join on top of her head.

A small "mmmmmpppphhhh" was all that she could manage over the quiet whine of the twin-engine jet, cruising now southeast over central France, heading into the airspace of the Federal Republic of Germany. She had never before been so securely, or viciously, bound. Hogtied since before 8 a.m., her arms and legs were now completely numb. Her eyes snapped open wide and all she could see were her head harness's two shiny, thin bands of metal on either side of her nose.

Unable to move a muscle in her arms or legs, she felt the addition of the heavy chain around her waist and, looking down her bound body, followed its length to where it was locked four-ft. away to a padeye.

Gathering her thoughts and getting her panic under control, the brave woman wriggled a little and found she could barely move - maybe a couple of inches - and quickly realized the numbness in her limbs would ensure she could not be able to walk unassisted even if she were freed of her bondage.
Her kidnapper came back to gloat and she recognized him right away.

"Mmmmfffoou!" she shouted, glaring at him past her harness as she recognized him from the pub in Edinburgh.

"Yes, it's me," he replied.

"Wfffrrroogmmmfff? (What are you going to do with me?)
"You're going to be sold."

"Hmmmffftt?" (What?)

"Sold. As a slave."

"Mrfffnshtngzz. Mmffnrd." (There's no such thing as a slave! Bastard.)

"Oh, yes, there is. Where we are going. By the way, would you like some water?
Isabel nodded.

Bruce began to remove her harness, the sticky adhesive, elastic bandage and pulled the sponge out of her mouth. He then put the canteen of ice-cold water to her lips. Isabel drank deeply thinking she might not have another drink for a long while.

"I'll have to put all this kit back on you now, Isabel."

"How do you know my name? Who are you and where's Pewaaooo. . . " Her question about Peter was choked off as he expertly prised her jaws open with his powerful, gloved hand to accept the saliva-damp sponge.

"Close your lips; it'll be easier for you that way."

Isabel complied, closing her jaw and lips around the bulky sponge, making her cheeks bulge even further. Bruce dexterously reapplied the elastic bandage, another half-roll of sticky tape and the complex metal harness that kept everything locked in place.

"Mmmmfffff," Isabel said, as she shifted away from him to ease her cramped hogtie on the cool steel deck. Escape was impossible, bound as she was, and she ceased struggling. She had been starved for oxygen for a couple of hours in the kitbag but the oxygen-rich interior of the aircraft was having its desired effect.

She knew she would have to slow her breathing or risk becoming lightheaded and panicky again but it was a struggle to breathe through her nose only.
She was thinking of the calming effect her pre-natal breathing exercises had on her before her sons were born when, suddenly, Bruce returned with an object in his right hand and a small tube in his left.

"I've brought you a friend to keep you company for the rest of the trip," he gloated, as he bent down to show Isabel the foot-long, three-in.-diameter silicone dildo with attached electronic hardware.
"This little tube of SuperLube will help ease your introduction to your new lover," he added, as he swung Isabel's tightly bound and chained legs toward him. She attempted to wriggle away but he stepped on her ankle chain and she was going nowhere. As well, the chain holding her to the fuselage was pulled taut and she was immobile. Bruce knelt in front of her cramped legs, doubled up in twine, and inserted the tube's long probe into her vagina, emptying the entire contents into her.

He then slid the foot-long dong into her easily and used another long length of hemp cord to lash it in place using the waist chain as an anchor. He passed a bight of the cord through an eye at the base of the dildo, around between her ass cheeks and secured it at the waist chain in the small of her back, the knots facing away from her fingers.

"This little black box will rev that dildo-vibrator inside you at 2500 r.p.m., which is considerably faster than the fucking you got last night from Peter," Bruce said mockingly as he straightened out the box's eight-ft. electrical leads.

 He lodged the box securely into a small compartment well out of the reach of Isabel's securely-bound knees, smiled at her and pressed the red buttons.
Instantly the high-pitched, gyrating dildo made her spasm in fear and pain.

"Mmmmpphhhhrrrrr," she said softly through her thick gags.

"Night, night," Bruce said as he pulled the compartment curtain closed, leaving Isabel bound, chained, gagged and helpless with an enormous dildo vibrating intensely deep inside her slick pussy.

She had been hogtied now for nearly six hours in chains, cords and extremely effective gags. She now would have to endure pussy torture for the rest of the four-hour trip across the southern continent, across the Adriatic and Mediterranean into North African airspace.

Their destination, a dusty gravel airstrip in East Africa with a line of tin-and-wood shacks scorched dry by countless days of heat, sun and sand, was in the desolate desert of Ushwant - a land known for centuries to the slave trade

The dildo was an immediate frustration to Isabel. Its high-frequency vibrations stimulated her clit, her vagina and the deep recesses of her cervix - all at the same time -- and she cursed her body for the rising sexual sensations as she twitched and shrugged in little increments to ease the cramping pain of her bonds.

She lay there, quietly mmmppphing through her nose, as the dildo continued its stimulations deep inside her. After 15 minutes, she felt the first small wave of sexual pleasure ease the pain of her pinioned arms and legs and the ache in her jaws.

The quarter-hours became half-hours, then hours, and still the dildo continued, running steadily at 2,500 r.p.m. on the aircraft's DC power supply.
Two hours later, she couldn't stand it anymore and heaved herself onto her back with a cha-clunk from her heavy waist chain. She vainly tried to spread her legs as far as they would go - about one inch - and gave herself over to her first electrically-induced orgasm. The humming dildo made her legs and groin spasm intensely and she tossed her head around trying to free herself from the gags and harness.

"I don't want these bastards to hear me come," she said to herself. "I'll be damned if I'll give them that satisfaction." She bit down hard on the sponge gag, forcing it deeper into her mouth, as the first orgasmic wave lifted her hips off the steel deck.

"Mmmffffnnngggghhh," she said quietly. "Mm-ggg-enntt-wzgd." (Migod, even that was good).

When she popped during sex with Peter she could move about relatively freely, whether he was on top, or she atop him, but her hogtied orgasm reduced her to a twitching bundle of arms, legs and nerve endings.
And the dildo continued its devilish delights.

An interminable time later, just as she was starting her second orgasm, she heard the engines' pitch change.

"We're going to land," she thought. "Ohmigod, what's going to happen to me now?"

The wet spot on the front of her loincloth suddenly disappeared into insignificance as Bruce emerged through the heavy black curtain to remove the power dildo.

"Mmmfff," she said, as he untied the cords holding the vibrator in place, sliding it out for the first time in three hours. He noted how slick it was with lube and pussy juice as he put it on the floor beside her head. Isabel looked with bemusement at the foot-long, three-in. toy that had helped ease her pain in the last hours of the flight.

Bruce then untied the cords on her knees and ankles, freeing her from the hogtie but he left her elbows and wrists bound tightly behind her back, the chain around her waist and her gags in place.

"In preparation for landing, please fasten your seatbelts and put your chairbacks and tables in the upright position," he laughed, as he tugged on her waist chain that secured her to the plane.

"Mmmmffff-ggooo!" (Fuck you) Isabel wheezed, glaring at him while trying to swallow around the gag as the cabin pressure started to change during descent.

She shook her head feebly, trying to clear her ears - opening her mouth wider was impossible - and she noticed the deck at her feet was declining sharply. She slid slightly forward on the now-warm deck but was halted by her waist chain which turned her sideways in the small compartment.

The engines' pitch continued to lower as the plane reduced speed and Isabel was suddenly thrust into the rear of the compartment, to the full length of her waist chain, as the small jet's main landing gear hit the coarse gravel with a shocking crunch.

The deck finally straightened up when the nosegear touched down, the flaps deployed and the plane slowed dramatically as the brakes were applied and the spoilers deployed. Isabel rolled forward slightly and her waist chain again brought her up short.

Soon, she felt the plane lurch and bump its away off the runway and onto a rocky apron; the interior grew suddenly hot as the air conditioning was temporarily shut off then the cool air started up again as groundcrew hooked power from a small generator to the jet's body.

Thumps and bumps followed and suddenly a hatch several feet in front of her snapped open from the outside, bathing the cool, grey interior of the aircraft in brilliant, hot sunlight.

"End of the road, Isabel," Bruce announced as he came back for her, still in the same smelly clothes as he wore earlier that day. "Welcome to Slavery, East Africa."

A tear trickled down Isabel's gagged cheek when the impact of those statements - anathema to her Scottish sensibilities -- sunk in.

"I'm not a slave," she said to herself. "Never have been, never will be and by Christ I'll do anything I have to to kill this man."

"Upsy," Bruce said, as he unlocked her waist chain from the fuselage, pulling her to her feet by its four-ft. length.  Isabel could barely stand on legs which had been cramped for hours in a tight hogtie but she managed to wobble our of the tiny triangular compartment near the tail of the plane with Bruce holding onto her waist chain.

Isabel took five steps to reach the jet's hatch, her chains rattling on the metal deck. Her leg muscles screamed at her as circulation was restored to her chained legs that had been lashed double for so many hours. She groaned into the gag as she saw the steps and the rough ground beyond.

Looking down past her head harness and gag, she saw 18 steep aluminum steps that would take her to a new destiny in hot, dusty Africa. Her chains clinked and rattled loudly as she took each metal step, one at a time, in the hot, bright mid-afternoon desert sun.

The heat she felt was hotter than any she had ever experienced -- it's a hundred times hotter, and dryer, than the mill's boiler room when they're trying to get steam built up on a January Monday morning, she thought sadly.

"Mmmmffffooooohhh," (oh, no) she wailed, thinking she would never see Scotland; her house; Harry and Charlie, her boys; Peter, her lover, or Moira, her best friend, ever again. Her gags, the cords on wrists and elbows, the waist chain, the ever-present ankle chains and her nipple rings all weighed heavily on her conscience now and she cursed every bond that had been placed on her.

"This way, Isabel," Bruce said as he guided her towards a tin shack with a chimney about 100-ft. away. Her chained feet created little clouds of dust in the ground as she shuffled along toward the decrepit, single-storey shack.
Inside the dimly-lit structure it took a minute for Isabel to focus her eyes. Her nostrils flared as her breathing began to quicken as she looked at a long table, a pile of chain, a black valise, two men in white suits and three African soldiers in scruffy combats, complete with rifles, pistols, bandoliers, and the requisite mirror-finish sunglasses.

"Well, here we are, safe and sound," Bruce said. "Gentlemen, this is Isabel. Isabel, meet your new owners, Sheikh Musafdi and Omar al-Muesli."

"Mmmff," Isabel said.

"Unbind her at once; those cords may cause circulation and neurological problems, you fool," the younger African said. "And take that gag off but leave those ankle chains on her; they look very well made."

"Very well made, indeed," Bruce said. Isabel agreed, too, to herself.

"Yyuuttrnnggtmmoff," (you just try and get 'em off) Isabel tried to yell through her gags. "Pleef."  Her jaws -- aching from the hours of being stuffed and pried apart -were making life more miserable for the captive woman and mother of two.

Bruce stood behind the captive and the two Africans and three soldiers watched him untie Isabel carefully. She winced as he cut and peeled the thin cords away from her elbows, leaving deep, red furrows in her arms. Next to be untied were her wrists, equally well-marked by the vicious, thin cord. Her arms, now freed, flopped helplessly by her sides and Isabel tried to flex her fingers one by one.

She panicked when she was unsuccessful and breathed in sharply through her nose when she realized she might have acquired nerve damage from the long bondage. Bruce unlocked her heavy waist chain and left her gag on until last.

The soldiers were motioned silently outside.

"Sit down, Isabel," the older white-suited African said, motioning her to a chair at the long table.

"Bruce, thanks for the job," he said. "You're dismissed with our thanks. Here's your money - 200,000 pounds sterling - for professional services rendered. Well done," he said with a sudden dark glare at the expatriate Brit. "Now, go. Begone."

"Thanks," Bruce said, picking up the black case, turning to leave into the brilliant African sunlight. The door closed with a soft thud.

Seconds later, "Crack, crack."

Bruce, ex-British army commando, fell in a lifeless heap just outside the tin shack in the east African desert, blood oozing out of two 7.62 mm bullet wounds that left two tidy, half-in. holes in the back of his skull.

"Mmpphhh!" Isabel nearly peed herself when she heard the rifle shots and quietly cried into her gag when she realized her last, tenuous connection to the UK had just been cut forever. She was now in the hands of these Africans and she feared the worst.

Omar spoke first. "Let me introduce ourselves. First, we are not savages, Ms. Metcalfe. Far from it. I was educated at the London School of Economics" -- Isabel hmphed in disbelief - "and graduated cum laude in 1972 with an MBA in economics.
My uncle, Sheikh, was trained at the University of Edinburgh's school of medicine" - Isabel's eyes widened in hope - and was fully-certified in 1970 as an MD specializing in obstetrics and gynaecology with tenure at an Edinburgh hospital. He is being assisted by Amina, who you will meet later today, and who has combined master's degrees in genetic engineering and biochemistry from the University of Southern California." Isabel's eyes widened incredulously.

"You are probably wondering what we - and you - are doing here in the middle of the Ushwanti desert on a weekday in mid-June," Omar, the economist, continued. "I believe it is 'cricket', shall we say, for me to tell you that we have developed a plan to create a genetically-engineered breed of women that incorporates certain character traits, such as the devotion, hard work, love and sexuality of the East African male, with the robustness, industry, thrift and dedication of the Gaelic woman, such as yourself.  I am looking after the business side of this venture and Dr. Musafdi is looking after the genetic and gynecological sides."

Isabel could scarcely believe her ears. She had read Frankenstein as a child but this was too horrible to be true. Or was it?

"Eeeooonnndblllfftt!" Isabel shouted. (I don't believe it).

"Take off her gag," the doctor said. "I need to examine her arms and legs for signs of infection and circulatory or nerve damage." Isabel tried to flex her fingers again and was able to move only the small fingers of both hands. She slowly lifted her arms and was able to rub lightly the welts on her wrists and elbows but they were still too painful.

Omar went outside and rifled through Bruce's pockets and produced two small keys for Isabel's shiny steel head harness. Returning inside, he fiddled clumsily with the locks at the back of Isabel's head and pried the device off her head and face.

The harness, which left red marks across her cheeks, nose and chin, fell with a metallic clunk on the dirt floor and, moments later, the doctor had experly snipped away the tape and bandage from her face. Isabel spat out the sponge and worked her jawbones and facial muscles with her stiff hands and fingers for the first time in six hours.

Her heart was pounding as she looked at the two African professionals and the three soldiers who had wandered back into the shack, one carrying the valise of British 10- and 20-pound notes now splattered with Bruce's cranial fluid, blood and small skull fragments.

"So, Isabel," Omar began again, you are going to become a slave for us - a guinea pig, so to speak - in that you will have sexual intercourse with selected African male specimens in the hope, in the expectation, of producing genetically-modified offspring that will market well as future slaves."

Sheikh, the doctor, spoke up: "Many, but not all, African males fantasize about having sexual relations with Caucasian women who are bound in chains. Something of a historical role reversal, when you think about it; after all, thousands of African men, and women, were taken off the continent in chains to be sold as slaves centuries ago.

"Well here we are, re-living that experience, in a sense, although you are now to be the slave about to be bred with a selected group of African males who have volunteered for the experience."

"You're mad," Isabel cried. "This will never work, I'll never cooperate. I am talking about kidnapping, torture, rape and now, murder, and by God when I get the chance -- and I will -- I'll make sure you are charged, tried and convicted and that the full weight of the criminal laws of my country will be brought to bear on you." She stamped her left foot for emphasis but the chink of chain deflated her.
The two African gentlemen looked at each other and Omar clapped in mock applause for Isabel's little speech.

"Thank you for your edifying remarks, Ms. Metcalfe," Omar said, "but I scarcely think you will have the opportunity to report us to Scotland Yard, Interpol or your local constabulary while you are in chains here in the desert. Look at this table. This pile of chain will soon adorn your body. You will be weighted down somewhat but you will still be able to move about, even have sexual intercourse in your chains.

"We are informed you already have some experience in this latter area. Our late courier, who has left to join his ancestors, advised us you apparently enjoy going about publicly - even to pubs - in ankle chains and that you have been in bondage for quite some time now, for recreational purposes."

"For two days." Isabel replied semi-truthfully. "And you'll be glad to know you can't get these off," she said, nodding at her feet. "In fact my husband (she lied) and I were at the University of Edinburgh the other day to see if they could be removed and they can't. So there."

"Well, that's just fine, Ms. Metcalfe. We'll just work around them," Omar said. "I've always wanted to put chains on a white woman who's already in chains; now, here's my chance.

"Now, please stand up and accept your shackles. It's pointless for you to attempt to fight or flee. You have nowhere to run; in fact, you would probably find running exceedingly difficult, bound as you are; as well, you're hundreds of miles from anywhere and you don't speak the language.

"In this context, then, please look at the chains about to be applied to you as symbols of your new station in life. The chains, of course, will slow you down somewhat, as I said, but they will not harm you physically -- we will ensure that -- and my medical colleague will monitor you for any detrimental psychological symptoms. The latter effects will remain to be seen; however, the fact you already have bondage experience suggests to us you should tolerate these shackles well."

Isabel looked at the heap of chains and sighed.

"Very well, put them on," she said finally, as she heard the familiar pop sound of an oxyacetylene torch being lit behind her.
One of the soldiers knelt at her feet and attached a heavy, three-in.-diameter steel ring to the centre link of her ankle as a second man hunched down in goggles with the lit torch to weld it closed. Smells of burning welding rods and steel rose from her ankle chains and soon the ring was attached securely.

"This way, please," Omar said, leading Isabel to an anvil and forge at one end of the shack. Please kneel beside the anvil for your wrist shackles."

Two semi-circular bands, two-in. wide and 1/8th-in. thick , with a 12-in. silver chain, were closed around her wrists and another man, in blacksmith's apron, reached with tongs into a small hearth and withdrew a red-hot rivet which he placed into two perfectly-aligned holes in the flanges of her right cuff. Two careful blows with a small, heavy hammer flattened the hot rivet which was cooled quickly when he applied a soaking heavy rag. He repeated the process on her left cuff and she lifted her arms to test the weight of her new shackles. She saw that another, longer chain was attached to the centre link of her wrist chain and this was passed down to her ankle chain, through the centre-link ring and back up to her waist where it was locked with a small sturdy padlock just above her hips.

"You can take that loincloth off and pass it through your waist chain if you like," Omar said. "It will help keep the chain off your skin at your belly and in your back."

"Like hell I will," Isabel called back.
Omar whipped it off her unceremoniously and cut off her little gold cord with a sharp knife he produced out of nowhere.

"Do it!" he ordered, handing Isabel her little garment. Isabel complied.
"Now your collar," Omar said. "Please kneel down again and put you head across the anvil. Smith, do your duty."

Again, two semi-circular pieces of grey steel were placed around her neck and rivetted closed with next to Isabel's left ear three solid bangs of the hammer against red-hot rivet, steel and anvil.

It was all over in less than a minute and when Isabel rose the second time, with ringing ears, she knew herself to be solidly and inescapably chained. The only way these were coming off would be through a return visit to the blacksmith. Or with a cutting torch.

She tried to lift her hands to feel the collar round her neck but could only lift them to the level of her breasts when the chain connecting her wrist chains to her waist through her ankles snubbed her arms short.

She took a couple of steps away from the hearth and the clatter of chains from her wrists and ankles was heard by all.

"Now," Omar said, "let's get out of the desert to somewhere more comfortable. This way, please." The doctor and the economist walked outside, the soldiers threw Bruce's body into the rear of their jeep and climbed in the little army vehicle. Isabel, still inside and alone, walked out in a rattle of chains into the dry African heat.

A shiny-new, black limousine pulled up from behind the tin shack and Omar motioned Isabel to get into the back seat. She clambered in with difficulty, her chains catching a wrist or ankle at virtually every turn; Omar went around to the left side and the doctor got in the right and Isabel made herself reasonably comfortable for the first time that day on the cool leather upholstery of the air-conditioned, black limo.

Her trip into slavery was to begin in style.

As the sleek, expensive Cadillac moved away in a cloud of dust and the doctor reached into a black medical bag to look for antiseptic and antibiotics to tend the welts on her elbows, wrists, knees and ankles. "These should be better in 3 - 4 days," he said. "I'll look after them for you; in the meantime, try to relax and get over the shock and trauma that you have just gone through. Nothing will harm you just now; just the realisation you have a new life ahead of you. This small pill will help you relax."

Isabel nodded, opened her hand for the little white pill and swallowed it dry as she tried to find comfortable places for the little pile of chain that had collected in her lap.

Warm, pink clouds of sedation soon overcame her. She felt her head nodding -- then blackness enveloped her and she saw and heard nothing except a muffle clink of chain as she passed out for the second time that day.

THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT

(Part 4)

By Sailor 861

Isabel the Slave - the End of the Beginning

Isabel awoke, as though from a dream, with a hangover from the sedative and the gritty achiness of the rough bondage she had endured all day. She still thought she was dreaming and shook her head to clear her mind. But the heavy steel collar sat at the base of her neck and the reality of her desperate situation sank in.

She was still in the back of the limousine, chained and naked except for a yellow loincloth, beside two well-dressed, but probably delusional African professionals en route to a destination she knew not.

"Ah, you're awake, finally," Sheikh, the doctor, said to her. "I've dressed your ligature wounds and they should heal in a couple of days. You'll be okay, I'm sure."

Omar, the economist, said, "Yes, and you'll soon meet Amina who will help you through your learning process."

The limousine and its three passengers continued its way along the rocky desert for another hour until Isabel thought she saw a mirage on the horizon.

"There's home," said Omar, "just over there about 10 miles. "Distances in the desert are as deceiving as they are at sea because you have no points of reference.  Our Centre of Excellence over there actually looks closer to us than it actually is. In fact, if you were to walk to where we presently are from there in the midday heat, you would surely perish; am I correct, doctor?"

"Indubitably," the medical man replied.  "Dehydration, hyperthermia, heat exhaustion, confusion, stroke, paralysis, death, in that symptomatic order," he said, in a suddenly cold, clinical tone.

"No escape," Isabel thought. "How could I get away, anyway, chained up like this? And I am sure they're going to lock me up at night."

Thousands of miles away, at precisely that time, Peter was barging through the front door of the little white bungalow in the Western Scottish Highlands with Isabel's brand-new engagement ring clutched firmly in his right hand.

  "Isabel, where are you?" he called. "I'm home and I've something to give you. Isabel? Isabel?" Only silence greeted the tired carpenter.
Peter dropped the one-carat diamond ring to the floor when she saw the unmade bed and Isabel's neck chain askew on the bed sheets. He balled his fists as he tried to quell the rising tide of panic as he fled down the hallway looking for any sign of his woman. He knew straight away something had happened to her but wasn't sure.

 After five minutes of frantic searching, he looked into her closet to see what clothes she might have taken but nothing was disturbed, not even the ankle chains he had brought from Canada, and the first feelings of deep despair grabbed at his guts.

Ten minutes later, looking at the chain he had locked on her neck the night before, he wailed: "Isabel, where are you? I love you."

Isabel heard the limo's tires crunch on a gravel driveway as the Cadillac pulled into the forecourt of three modern, white buildings, with palm trees and a small pond in front, in the middle of the desert. Looking out the tinted windows, she noticed a high, razorwire-topped, chain-link fence along the perimeter as the vehicle pulled up to the front of the largest building, followed by the jeep with three dusty soldiers and a dead white slaver inside.

No one came out to greet them but Omar spoke first:

"We're here, Isabel. Time for you to get out and meet your new friends." Omar slid out of the back seat first and helped Isabel to her feet. Only three wide steps leading to the entrance of the main building greeted her this time.
Omar took her left arm and Isabel wrenched it away with a clatter of her chains, growling at him.  "I'll walk alone," she said. "I managed 25 steps at the University of Edinburgh's faculty of engineering; I can certainly walk up these."
The two African men were quietly pleased at Isabel's pluck and determination; it was more than they had hoped for.

 Isabel's chains rattled more noisily than before on the white limestone steps and she pushed open the wide front door with her shoulder, followed by Omar and Sheikh, into a large, open area at the front of the building. She looked around and saw what she believed to be offices, laboratories and a dining room further down the hall.

"Welcome to our Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering," the doctor said. "Amina should be here momentarily.

"Amina? Where are you, please? Our guest has arrived!"

"Just a moment," a cultured, feminine voice called out. "I'm on the wireless to my friend at USC."

Wireless, Isabel thought. So that's how they communicate with the outside world; no landlines out here. She also noted a cool draught of air circulating in the spacious lobby indicating the presence of air conditioning and a power source, possibly solar panels and battery storage, she thought, as she gathered information and evidence for the charges she was going to pursue once she got free.

She was determined to get free, despite her chains, her nakedness and her location (where in hell am I, anyway? she asked herself) and she would bring these crackpot quacks to justice somehow.

Isabel looked around and heard a slight rustle of chain in a hallway to her right. Turning, she saw a statuesque African woman, about 25, naked, slender and beautiful. Isabel was not the least bit surprised to see this woman's ankles shackled by a 24-in. chain - at least she would have a soulmate - and she walked as though she was free. Clearly, she was used to her bondage, Isabel thought, but as Amina drew closer she saws her additional jewellery: silver rings through her septum, her nipples and her vaginal labia, all linked together by light, decorative chain.

"Amina, come and meet Isabel, our new subject," Sheikh said. The African woman walked with a light clink up to Isabel, extended her right hand and said "Hello, Isabel; I am Amina and I will be your maid, your slave, your friend and your instructor."

Isabel raised her chained right hand and shook Amina's welcoming hand with a clink and rattle, wondering about the multiple roles Amina would play and the order in which they might occur.

"Well, I guess I am pleased to meet you," Isabel finally blurted. "I look forward to knowing more about you. Are you the graduate from the University of Southern California?"

"Yes, I am," the African woman said. "I will be assisting Dr. Sheikh in the genetic engineering initiatives of our study."
Oh, great, Isabel said to herself. And I am the guinea pig.

Amina asked Isabel if she would like a bath before supper and Isabel quickly agreed.

"I'll show you to your quarters, Isabel. Come this way, please."
The leggy African woman slowed her pace to accommodate Isabel's small, chained steps, noisy on the flooring, as the two women walked down a long, cool hardwood hallway into a suite of two apartments. The door on the left opened to Amina's chambers, she said, and Isabel's was next door.

As Amina opened Isabel's door, she fully expected a jail cell but was amazed to find a well-appointed, two-bedroom apartment, complete with living room, dinette, fully-appointed bath and small patio with a 16-ft.-high chain-link fence bordering three sides.

"This is your apartment, mine's identical, except for the chain-link fence," Amina said. "Please make yourself comfortable. I"ll come by in 90 minutes to take you to dinner. It's now just before 5 p.m. local time, dinner is at 6:30 p.m., on the dot; see you then."

Isabel's apartment door closed solidly and she heard two barrel-locks thudding home outside.

Here she was, locked inside a luxurious apartment in the middle of the desert, chained hand and foot with a steel collar rivetted around her neck, and being asked to get ready for supper at 6:30 p.m. What next?

Isabel clinked her chained way around the apartment, looking at the furniture, inside her refrigerator (there was no stove), at the dinette, the en suite bathroom, the large and small bedrooms - she suddenly had a pang of sexual hunger for her Peter - and decided she would enoy a bath -- it had been a long and tiring day.  She clinked into the tiled bathroom and ran a steamy, hot bath. She took off her sole piece of clothing - the eight-in.-wide strip of translucent, pale-yellow chiffon tied on her so long ago by Peter - and eased herself into the tub in a clash and clatter of chain.

"Mmm, noisy, noisy," she said, as she sank down into the hot, soapy water, feeling the suds rise up past her metal collar. Her ankle, wrist and waist chains scraped along the marble interior of her tub as she watched the desert grime, and the aches of her hemp bondage - wash away. Long, lingering moments later, she stood up, drained the tub and pulled the shower curtains closed in another loud clash of chains and ran the shower to wash her hair and rinse off, taking care to avoid the red welts on her wrists, elbows, knees and ankles.

Warm, relaxed and somewhat serene, she turned off the shower after 15 minutes, stepped out, nearly tripping over her chains on the edge of the tub and staggered to the towel rack to dry herself off in the large, fluffy towels.

Do I go to supper with a towel wrapped around me, she wondered, or have they given me any clothes at all? Maybe even a hospital johnny shirt? But even that wouldn't go on with her chained the way she was. She had to sit down on the edge of the tub to towel her hair with her tethered hands. She then stood up and took a step to the medicine cabinet. There were the usual contents: alcohol, perfumes, quality makeup but no razors or anything else that could be used as a weapon. She stood tiptoed and pulled her chains taut to reach into the cabinet to withdraw a small perfume bottle. Looking at it, she opened it and daubed a little scent behind her ears by kneeling down in front of the mirror. She also put a dot between her breasts with a little laugh; at her elbows where she noticed the dark-red, corrugated ligatures and behind her knees where she once again felt the inflamed roughness left by her hemp cords.

Freshly showered and with damp hair, she clinked into the master bedroom and looked in one of the two closets. There she saw a long row of hangers with the same garment - five-ft.-long lengths of 8-in.-wide chiffon - literally dozens of them. So this is to be my wardrobe, Isabel thought.  The row of hangers was conveniently low enough for her to reach in her chains and she picked the first one - a champagne-coloured item - off the rack.

She put it on the usual way, over and under her waist chain, and straightened out the front and back lengths as though she was straightening hems on a skirt at home.

Freshened up, she shuffled stiffly into her fenced-in patio and let the hot desert air dry her hair.  It was dry in five minutes and she came back in, lay on the bed in a clink and rattle of chain, organized her wrist, ankle and connecting chains and began running the day's events over in her mind.

Her right hand wandered down toward her vagina and she began idly to stroke her sensitive clit as she thought of her hours of tight bondage in the back of the little jet. She rotated the little nub with her right index and middle fingers, relishing the feel of the chain over her abdomen and upper thighs.
Her reverie was soon interrupted by two sharp raps on her front door.
"Isabel, it's me, Amina. Supper's in 10 minutes and we're expected."

"I'll be there," Isabel called out, struggling to get off the double bed.
She clashed, clinked and clanked he way to her front door, found it unlocked from the outside and opened it to see Amina in a beautiful, white evening gown that revealed more than it covered.

Isabel's hands went instantly to her breasts and said: "I don't have a thing to wear; just this little loincloth. What am I going to wear to dinner, Amina?"
The African-born, USC-educated engineer calmed the Scottish womanand said:

"You look just fine the way you are. Don't worry about it. If you want, I can put on the same thing you are wearing and we'll be two of a kind."

Isabel thought about this strange offer and replied: "Well, yes, Amina, if you would. That would greatly reduce my embarrassment if you and I appeared the same."

Amina agreed, returned to her apartment and emerged five minutes later in a loincloth nearly identical to Isabel's, her nipple and nose rings and their light chains flashing brilliantly against her dark skin.

Together, they walked into the dining hall and joined Omar and Sheikh in a formal, British-style, three-course evening meal brought them by white-jacketed male waiters.

Isabel and Amina sat at one side of the long table and the two African gentlemen sat across. Isabel had to place her feet on the lower rungs of her chair to allow her some slack in her chains to reach her plates and cutlery but other than that the dinner was a great success and she enjoyed the small talk offered by the two gentlemen-kooks.

The only difficulty Isabel had was reaching some of the silverware, justo ut of reach of her shackled hands. Instantly, a waiter would appear at her side and pass the fork, spoon or plate to her.

The smalltalk was far from the usual chat she was used to:

"How long have you been in chains, Isabel, not counting today?"

"Oh, about three days."

"Do they distract you?"

"Only when I'm doing something."

"Do you prefer rope? Or chain? Or both?

"Never both. I am getting used, slowly, to being chained. But the prospect of being tied and chained is not looked forward to at all."

"How did you acquire your ankle shackles? They look very strong and difficult, if impossible, to remove."
"It happened at night not far from home. And that's all I'll tell you. The rest is too fantastic to believe. And you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you."

After supper, the two men, Amina and Isabel withdrew to a library where sherry, cigars and cigarettes were produced. Isabel, seated in a big easy chair, accepted a cigarette from one of the servants who placed it in her mouth, lit it for her adroitly and offered her a crystal glass of expensive sherry.

The sherry hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks, considering her exhausted physical and psychological states, and she was tipsy with the second glass.

Giggling, she set the glass on the table beside her with both chained hands, then knocked it off when her chain caught on the stem. She was not used to being chained nearly naked in such a high-class atmosphere with this lot of certifiable kooks, she thought, as she looked about her with an apology on her lips.

"Oops, silly me; sorry" Isabel said, as she knelt with a soft rustle of chains to pick up the shards of broken crystal. Amina, Omar and Sheikh looked at Isabel on her knees, her chains dangling from waist wrists and ankles, and were all smiles. Yes, they all thought, she will make a wonderful subject. And slave.
-

The walnut wall clock chimed 10 p.m. and Isabel bent forward slightly in her chair to stifle a yawn with a chained hand. Amina offered to "secure her for bed" and Isabel's eyes widened in recall that she was still, very much, their captive.
"Yes, I'm ready for bed, Amina; do with me what you will." The two women bade Omar and Sheikh good night and walked slowly to their quarters.
Amina came into Isabel's bedroom with her.

"Stage One of the process involves getting you used to bondage at all times, Isabel," the younger woman said. "You seem predisposed to being in chains and shackles and we are all personally very pleased with this. But every night, for security purposes and to prepare you psychologically for our procedures, you are to be chained by the neck until breakfast. And gagged."

"Gagged?" Isabel said. "Why? No one can hear me way out here."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," Amina replied. "Meanwhile, let me lock this chain - it's 30-ft. long - to your collar and put in the gag. There's a sleeping pill beside your bed if you need it."
Amina reached down to the floor beside Isabel's bed, picked up the length of chain and padlocked it to the ring built into the front of Isabel's collar. It snapped home with an air of finality that Isabel remembered from her home, so far away this night in western Scotland.

"This is called a ring gag," Amina said, as she showed Isabel the 2 1/2-in.-diameter, 1/8th-in.-thick, stainless-steel ring with two lengths of small light chain welded to either side. "Open, please."

Isabel opened her mouth and Amina inserted the ring behind her upper and lower front teeth, splinting her mouth open in a perfect O. Isabel then submissively raised her head as Amina passed the two small chains around and locked them securely at the base of her skull just above the top of the back of her collar.

"Good night, now, Isabel. See you in the morning."

"Arr-gg-ll," Isabel replied. Now, how am I going to sleep with my mouth wide open? She thought. Where's that pill?  She moved over to the right of the bed and struggled to turn on her reading lamp, found the little, pink pill, reached for it with her chained hands and lay back down.

She then raised her feet to allow her slack to reach her mouth, tilted her head back and tossed the pill into the back of her throat, nearly hitting herself in the face with her wrist chains. She managed to swallow it without gagging and was soon sound asleep.

Seven a.m. arrived before she knew it and Isabel was gently shaken awake by Amina, now wearing a white labcoat which covered her nudity but not her ankle chains.

"Grr-arr-gg-ll?" Isabel asked. (What time is it?)

"Seven a.m.," Amina replied.  "Here, let me take the gag out and your neck chain off."

Two snaps and Isabel was working her jaws again between cuffed hands.

"How did you know what I just asked you?" said Isabel. "I could barely make it out myself."

"I'm used to gag talk," Amina replied sweetly. "You see, I was into bondage almost full-time when I was going to USC. I had to pay the tuition and bills somehow so I found a rich guy who paid plenty to gag and bind me. Chains paid off for me big time; I got my two degrees that way. And the gags? Well, they just came with the territory, I guess. Personally, I prefer the ring gag over the others."
---

Isabel's first day as a lab subject was about to begin. After a hearty breakfast, she was taken to a lab and asked to lie down on what appeared to be an operating table in the lab wing of the main building.

"Don't worry," Amina said. "We're not going to put you to sleep. Just a few tests to get your genetic profile, look at some of your reproductive organs and test your responsiveness to sexual stimuli."

Isabel positioned herself on the table and Amina secured Isabel's chained wrists and ankles to the table sides with strong leather straps. "Just to keep you in the same position throughout," she informed. The physician then appeared at the foot of the low table and began Isabel's pelvic examination.

When he was finished 45 minutes later, Isabel was writhing, panting and wringing wet with perspiration and pussy juice. She had just experienced the strongest orgasm ever induced in her by a physician trained in ancient African sexual tradition and stimuli.

"She is most assuredly a 9.8 on the Ushwanti orgasmic scale," Sheikh said to his assistants. "Reproductive system entirely normal with evidence of previous childbirths. Nipple rings may hinder breastfeeding. Nevertheless, she tolerated the examination and orgasm measurement extremely well. Highly recommended for breeding."

It was the news Isabel did not want to hear and she began to shake.

"No, no," she cried. "I will never submit. Do what you want with me, chain me up some more, but I don't want to have anything to do with your experiments. Please."

"Gag her, please, Amina," the doctor ordered. "And proceed to Stage 2."
Amina produced the same ring gag as the night before and chained it securely around Isabel's head. "Mmffrr," Isabel groaned.

The doctor then ordered her leather straps unbound and Isabel was taken to an adjoining lab which had a single, narrow cot with two long lengths of chain attached to each of the four corners of the bedframe.

Isabel freed her arm from Amina's grasp, looked at her with her O-shaped mouth and lay down unassisted.

Isabel's breath came in gasping pants through her wide-open mouth and her chest heaved in expectation and anxiety as Amina set to work chaining the Scotswoman to the cot.

Waiting in the hallway was a handsome, black African male, chained identically to Isabel. His credentials, according to Amina's chart, were perfect: STD-free; 6-ft. 2-in., 218 lbs.; athletic, endomorph physique; BP 120/80; P, 62/min; high sperm count; single, 22 y/o; MSc, UCLA, 1971; varsity football player, flanker position, three years; no injuries.

"Wilson, you may come in now," Amina called. The young African stud strode in clattering and Isabel's eyes grew wide in despair and admiration as she saw the length and breadth of the huge manhood rising between his legs.

"Aww-gg-aa-kk. Nntkaawwtt," (I can't take all that) she cried, as Amina finished securing Isabel's ankles just 18 in. apart. Isabel, nearly as helpless as she was on the plane the day before, pulled futilely on her chains, heard their clack, metal on metal, and knew herself to be bound securely once again.

"You may mount her now, Wilson," Amina said clinically. "Do your duty."

Wilson grunted as he climbed with some difficulty aboard spreadeagled Isabel and Amina assisted him by directing his firm penis into Isabel's still-moist vagina.
"Ah-h," Wilton said, as he sank his 12-in. member deep into Isabel.

"Mrarf," Isabel groaned. "Mmmmnnn."

Wilson began rhythmic thrusts and Isabel thought she would climax almost immediately.

"No, impossible," she said to herself. "Not so soon. Ohmigod." She thought Peter was good but this stud was even better - today anyway.

"Isabel," Wilson whispered softly in Isabel's ear, out of earshot of Amina who was standing 15-ft. away. "Don't look at me and don't give any sign you hear anything," he said quietly into her left ear as he continued to thrust into her. "Just listen. These people are mad. Mad scientists. I can help you escape but we need to plan." Thrust. Pound.

"Mroofay," (OK) Isabel said softly through her circular mouth. "I will get a note to you somehow." Pound, pound. "Be prepared to flee at a moment's notice. Be brave."

"Permission to come, Mistress Amina?"

"Permission granted, Wilson. You may proceed."

"Arrr-gggg-hhhh," Wilson cried as he spurted his hot white cum inside Isabel, pulling out a moment later to shoot another load of semen on her breasts, abdomen and thighs. Isabel's eyes were wide open as he stuck his rigid cock through her ring gag and the big African football player pounded her mouth for a few seconds.

"Gaa-aack," Isabel choked, as she felt the large cock slide through the ring into the rear of her mouth. She faked her orgasm and as Wilson withdrew his thick member from Isabel's gaping mouth, she tried to swallow his cum and digest what he had just told her.

Here was her chance to get away from this madhouse. But how?

"Very good, Wilson; you may go to the locksmith to be unchained. You are free to go."

"Yassum," said the big football player.

Wilson clinked away down the hall and Amina approached Isabel with the second bit of startling news of the morning.

"Well, Is., I hope you enjoyed it. It appears your cycle is on track and we should know in six weeks whether Wilson has successfully impregnated you or not. If not, we have another subject waiting in the wings to copulate with you."
Isabel recognized a significant change in Amina, especially from last night's relatively amicable overtures to her.

"I hope you're pleased that our scientific studies are under way. It's a combination of business and pleasure. Don't you agree?"

"Nnnggg," (no) Isabel replied.

Amina unlocked Isabel from the cot, removed her ring gag and Isabel sat stiffly up, wiping her lips, mouth and chin as she swung her legs onto the floor, feeling Wilson's high-grade African semen dribbling down her legs as well as her esophagus.

"You are free to go," Amina said ironically.

Isabel clinked her way back to her apartment and heard the door close with a solid thud, followed by the double-bolts, and she was locked inside her apartment again.

She ran another bath, showered, and dried her hair out on her fenced-in patio.
Sitting in a chair out of the hot, dry sun an hour later, she noticed a small paper-covered rock come sailing over the 16-ft.-high fence. It clattered on the patio stone and she stood up, took two clinking steps over and picked it up, unwrapping the note.

"Meet me here at 0200 tomorrow. W."

It was just after 10 a.m. and Isabel had the whole day to herself to think about this next move. She clinked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, fingering her chains and wondering how Wilson could effect her escape.

Soap. That's it. She clinked back into the bathroom and found every bar of soap she could find.

She lathered her wrists as best as she could and tried with all her might to push her wrist cuffs down over her wrist bones. They wouldn't budge. Frustrated, she threw the bars onto the bathroom floor and shook her chains in frustration.

She had been chained continuously for four days and was finding a way to escape. But how could she manage to get free of these chains by 2 tomorrow morning?

She paced her bedroom and living room, lost in thought about how to get the rivetted shackles off her wrists. She had given up on freeing herself from her ankle chains and the steel collar would not hinder her escape, she thought, unless she was leashed.

She stopped the inner dialogue and looked in the fridge for something to drink. She poured herself a glass of cold water with both hands and took it to her dinette, sitting down to look out the patio doors into her chain-link enclosure and further into the vast, deadly desert expanses.

Time passed and still, no solution came to the chained Scottish woman.
She got up and shuffled over to look at the bookcase in her living room and was not in the least surprised to find they were all fantasy fiction novels dealing with female bondage.

:"Just great," she said, as she scanned the cover titles of the rows of paperbacks. "Isabel in Chains"; "Carly Chained"; "Sheila Shackled"; "Moira Manacled." Isabel smiled at the drawings and cover illustrations, each showing some damsel in distress.

She picked up the first one she looked at, titled "Isabel in Chains," and started reading. It described the plight of an ordinary university coed kidnapped by African slavers who bound her in steel and sold her to an Arabian sheik. Isabel started reading with interest; perhaps there would be a clue, she thought, as she read chapter after chapter that dealt with a hapless, young woman put in bondage.

There were no clues, only lurid details about sex, bondage, chains and hope for escape where there was none.

Time passed and by the time she finished the book, it was after 4 p.m.
She started reading the Carly novel and soon she was summoned for supper.
The stately supper passed again with idle chatter at the table, sherry and ciggies in the library afterward (Isabel did not knock over her class this time and nursed one drink).

At 10 p.m. Amina led Isabel by the arm back to her apartment, locked the chain onto Isabel's collar and inserted the ring gag.

"Night, Isabel, see you in the morning," Amina said.

"Mmffggou," (fuck you) Isabel replied.

"Now that's not nice, Is.," came the reply. The door shut again firmly followed by two solid thuds and Isabel was secured and chained for the night - at least until 2 a.m.

Isabel lay in bed, wide awake on top of the covers, toying with her neck chain. Her breath made a peculiar sound as she contorted her jaws around the 2 1/2-in. steel circle that propped her mouth wide open. She wondered how far she could get across the desert, chained and gagged as she was, and whether she could get free of her leash.

"Aa-ww-kk?" (Anyone there?) she called. No one answered.

How is Wilson going to hear me? Or how is he going to break these, she wondered, as she grabbed her neck and wrist chains together to remind herself of her implacable bondage. Did he have tools? Unsure whether her leash was long enough to allow her out the patio doors, the resourceful woman stood up in a rustle of chain and carefully pulled her tether along as she backed her way out to the patio doors. She had to pull up on her ankle chain to reach the patio door latch and succeeded. She took 1 1/2 steps outside was nearly pulled off her feet as her tether pulled taut.

But at least she was able to get outside if Wilson comes by.

She went back in her apartment, left the patio door ajar and sat down in her living room, gasping through her gag and checking that her long chain was not caught on anything as it reached back to where it was locked in the bedroom. It was after 1 a.m. and she would just sit there, mouth wide open and mute, until someone came by.

She began thinking about the desert and was reminded of the doctor's description of the perils she faced if she dared cross it on foot. She decided she should at least get a drink of water before her escape and adventure and made her noisy way to her small refrigerator for a drink.

Leaning down, she withdrew a water bottle with both hands, unscrewed it and sat down, careful not to tangle her chains any more than they already were. She placed the bottle neck carefully against the lower part of her ring gag, tilted her head back and poured in an ounce or two, swallowed and repeated until she had consumed nearly a half-quart and put the bottle back in.

Quenched, she resumed her seat by the patio door and looked out quietly at the stars, thinking quietly about home and her lover, Peter. A tear trickled down her cheek into her open mouth as she looked out and around.

She saw her reflection in the glass door and was at once appalled and resolute: her propped-open mouth made her appear awe-struck or dumb-founded and she looked away, saddened and anxious. When she looked again, however, her chains made her desire for escape even greater, despite the odds against and, she had to admit, she still looked kind of sexy sitting there, in chains, waiting to be rescued.

She then began to wonder whether this was the right night to make a getaway.  If they did get away, and were recaptured, what cost would she have to bear? What more could they do to her? She was already completely chained and gagged!

Isabel looked at a wall clock and saw its digital face -- 1:45 a.m. -- looked away and thought she saw a fleeting shadow, thorugh the patio door, outside her fenced enclosure.

"Wffn!" (Wilson) she said urgently.

She stood up, breathless, holding her chains in her hands, slid open the single patio door and ventured into the cool desert air as far as her neck tether would allow.

"Wffnn? Iffaaatooo?" (Is that you?) she called, at the full length of her neck chain.

"Sshh," he replied. "Yes, it's me." Isabel saw his dark physique barely outlined by the night sky outside her enclosure. He was carrying a long, narrow tool - boltcutters - and Isabel looked wide-eyed over her gag-propped mouth as he snipped a hole through the bottom of her fence.

 It was not electrified, fortunately, and after a few too-loud snaps, Wilson squirmed inside. He applied the boltcutters quickly to the neck tether and it fell with a chink into Isabel's hands. She placed it quietly on the patio stones. He then cut away the chains holding her ring gag in place and she pried it out from behind her teeth, dropping the hated device on the patio beside her tether.

"Thank you," Isabel whispered. "Can you cut these now? she asked, as she held out her wrists. Wilson put the cutters on her wrist chains, pressed with his strong arms, and snap, Isabel's wrists were free. Two more snaps and the waist chain that held her loincloth and the chain that fell from her hips to her ankle chains were free.

"Forget the ankles, they don't come off," Isabel told him. "Sure?" Wilson looked at her quizzically.

"It's a long story," Isabel replied, as she stooped to pick up a length of chain Wilson had just removed, wrapping it round her hips to drape her loincloth. "Let's go. Can you carry me? I can't walk very fast because these are only 18-inchers."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Wilson said, as he swept Isabel up in his powerful arms and carried her to the fence. She dropped out of his arms to her belly and scraped her breasts and ringed nipples on the rough ground on both sides of the fence.  In a moment they were outside and Wilson picked her up again, half-running towards a waiting jeep he had hotwired a few moments before.
He threw Isabel into the passenger seat, ran around to the driver's side, clashed the gears and took off in a cloud of dust and the whiny roar Jeeps are known for.
Wilson drove all night, using a compass and flashlight he had borrowed from the Centre of Excellence. Finally, after a jarring, four-hour ride across the rubble-strewn desert, he stopped at first light to get his bearings.

Isabel looked at him and asked if he knew where he was.

"I was born and raised in Ushwant," Wilson replied. "I am a son of the desert and I know this area very well. Those people back there are very bad and we shall report them to the authorities when we get to town.

"The town I was raised in should be about 60 miles further south. We should be there in just over an hour." Isabel leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, remembering their copulation of just 24 hours ago. She brushed her left breast against his brawny upper arm for good measure and Wilson shifted into first gear toward the town of Ubangi.

"Don't worry about being topless there," Wilson said, as he glanced at Isabel's breasts jostling with the lurches of the jeep over the rough terrain. "All Ubangi women believe in the sacredness of their breasts and they go uncovered year-round."

"Oh, that's a relief," Isabel said. "What about my chains, though?"
"That's another story. I don't know. Ushwanti women have not knowen chains for centuries so you will be a bit of a novelty to them."

Half an hour later, they were entering the outskirts of the dusty, little town and Wilson drove straight to the house of a mechanic he knew with a request to use his grinder.  Isabel clinked into the little ramshackle garage and Wilson's friend looked at Isabel carefully as he plugged in his handheld grinder. "This will vibrate a lot," the mechanic said as he held the machine to her collar. After a minute of teeth-clenching grinding and a shower of sparks, Isabel's steel collar fell to the ground with a thud. Her wrist cuffs were less painful to remove and soon they too joined the little heap of scrap metal on the ground at her feet.

Forget the ankle chains," Isabel told the surprised young man as he was about to kneel down to grind them off. "They're on for good, I think." Wilson and his mechanic friend looked at each other and winked and Isabel smiled her thanks to both. She gave the mechanic a little peck on the cheek as Wilson and Isabel turned to climb back in the Jeep to continue to the town hall. The single main street of Ubangi was deserted at 7:45 a.m.

Isabel clinked her way into the police office and Wilson followed, both only too anxious to tell their stories to the police chief about the Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering and its bizarre staff.

The 35-year-old woman and the 22-year-old athlete/stud told their wild stories to an incredulous, young constable who recorded every word on an old reel-to-reel tape recorder.

The policeman then picked up the phone and made a series of inquiries. Within the hour, Isabel had some western clothes -- a skirt, blouse and nothing else - and after signing her police statement, she thanked Wilson for her rescue and was in a dusty, little taxi en route to a small airport nearby for a connecting flight to Tangiers and home, courtesy of the British Foreign Office which the town hall had contacted.

With travel and customs arrangements organized through the Foreign Office, Scotland Yard and Interpol, Isabel was on board an Air France flight at Tangiers the same day, bound for Heathrow and connecting to Prestwick.

French national police escorted Isabel through the Tangiers air terminal building into an official vehicle that took her to the waiting Air France flight. She was the first to board and was shown to a seat in the first-class section where she received the warmest hospitality and attention, and the finest airline food imaginable, from the male and female cabin attendants. She was the only person in first-class and was the first to be allowed to disembark when the plane rolled up to the Heathrow arrivals area three hours later.

The Air France crew wished her bonne chance and Isabel stepped slowly and carefully into the arrivals/customs area, and freedom, for the first time in three harrowing days.

Isabel Metcalfe's breasts swayed and bobbed seductively underneath her white blouse in time with her clinking progress through Heathrow ATB and she was aware of the stares, giggles and gestures from men and women in the public areas. She did not have a police escort and she did not mind in the least.

 She was now aware the chains were there to stay and she had been informed by the airport police and security staff there was no law or ordinance that said she could not be chained in public, provided she did not make a spectacle of herself and minded her own business.

She would read about the arrests at the Centre of Excellence in the British press tomorrow.

She was anxious to tell Peter of her adventures.

Epilog

Isabel Metcalfe arrived seven hours later at Prestwick Airport, to be greeted by Peter and her two boys, 18 and 19, who were aghast to see their mother, braless and barefoot in chained ankles, dusty and dishevelled from her desert ordeal.

Peter had informed them, en route to the airport, about their mother's kidnap, bondage and escape, as he was in communication with a senior official in the Foreign office, London, but his explanation did nothing to ease the shock of seeing "mum" hobble in chained progress across the busy airport arrivals area, her breasts swaying side to side in time with her small steps.

The reunion was heartfelt and there were hugs and kisses all round. Isabel told her boys she was all right, that they should accept her the way she was for the time being and that she going to keep her chains for an indefinite period. She thought this was the best way to break Dr. Ledstone's news to her sons.

At home in rural western Scotland later that night, Isabel spent an hour in the bath getting rid of the East African grime and memories of her forced orgasms hogtied in the jet and chained in the desert labs.

When she re-emerged, she was dressed in her best skirt, blouse and shoes, her hair was washed and combed and she looked fresh but tired. Her boys told their mother they would support her decision about her chained ankles - they had not heard of Dr. Ledstone or his findings - but if she wanted to have chained ankles it was all right with them. Isabel asked the boys to step out for a half-hour and she told Peter her amazing stories of kidnap, bondage, murder, coercion and sex in the desert.

When her boys returned she gave them a sanitized version of the same events. After the boys had gone to bed, Peter showed her a copy of the local daily newspaper with its page one story about the arrests at the Centre of Excellence in the Ushwanti desert earlier that day and the sidebar article with a few details about her kidnapping and desert experiences but no mention of her mysterious ankle chains.

Next day, Peter took Isabel to their family physician who treated her for bruises and ligature injuries but declared her otherwise healthy, although he was extremely sceptical about her insistence on keeping her ankles shackled.

"Isabel, these small pierces in your nipples and the rings were put in by someone who obviously knew what he or she was doing," Dr. Hall informed her.

"The procedure was evidently done recently but the piercings have healed entirely, and in a remarkably short time. The scar tissue suggests the pierces were done by cautery - an extremely-hot instrument -- and the rings were evidently sterilized before they were put in. Your rings can stay in without compromising your breasts' health but I need to warn you of consequences to your hips, knees or ankles, caused by your short strides and unusual gait. You may want to have your shackles removed professionally as I do not understand how they have been fitted to you."
 

Isabel said she would check back with him in a month when she would request a pelvic exam and they left on good terms. Isabel returned home with Peter and decided to get pick up their life where they left off.

The boys left for their Royal Marine training base and said they would be home in about six months.

Their sex life resumed its normal vigour and sensuality and, one month later, Peter applied for a marriage licence. Isabel and Peter were married within the week at a town-hall ceremony. She wore an off-white, knee-length bridal dress and a full-length picture of the bridal party -- Isabel, Peter, the boys, Moira and her husband, Dennis, and the JP -- was published on the front page next day.

Nine months later, she gave birth to a bouncing baby girl and exactly one year after that happy event, was contacted by the University of Edinburgh's engineering faculty with an offer of employment as an assistant in the metallurgy division.

She was only too happy to accept -- at a salary of 12,000 pounds a year -- and went out and bought herself a new wardrobe of suits, skirts and dresses, all sensible, knee-length fashions, to begin her new career as a university staff member where she has been employed, happily, productively and effectively, from 1977 to date.

Before starting her employment, she decided she liked the bra-less fashions that were in vogue and kept only one bra in her dresser for a special occasion. Every June 11, she puts it on for one hour and drives out to where she took it off the night she was chained forever, just moments away from home. She then shrugs out of the bra, puts it on the car seat and drives home again to tell Peter, her husband, her story once again. Peter never tires of hearing her account of the events that changed her life that night so many years ago.

Today, if Isabel gets tired of her breasts flopping about while she does housework, the gardening or at bowling, she simply passes a locket chain through her nipple rings and ties her breasts together snugly until her vigorous activity ends.

At the university, years of tests and studies followed to determine the best ways to remove the shackles from Isabel's ankles - all ended inconclusively.  Isabel and Dr. Ledstone became the subjects of national media attention and articles, photographs and illustrations of her and the unremovable chains appeared regularly in prestigious scientific and engineering publications, medical and psychology periodicals and newsmagazines around the UK.

Today, Peter and Isabel are living a happy, quiet life in the highlands of Western Scotland. Peter has started his own construction company and Isabel continues to work at Edinburgh University, Monday - Friday, her chained ankles and bouncing breasts everyday sights and sounds in the laboratory wing of the metallurgy division where she is employed as a technical assistant/consultant.
Carly, their 27-year-old daughter who lives nearby, has lately discovered the joys of bondage with her live-in boyfriend. She had recently seen Mrs. Moira McPeak, her mother's best friend, in a swim suit in her back yard with curious bands of mild abrasions on her ankles, wrists and neck. She also noticed Moira had begun walking with her mother's unusual gait, even though she was not bound, the day shey found an ad for ankle cuffs in the Police Gazette.

 She has decided she will tell her mother tomorrow about her experiments with handcuffs and the curious ankle chains she acquired through the post.
At exactly that time, meanwhile, 56-year-old Amina Drumm was having her handcuffs and leg chains removed for the first time in 25 years. Sentenced to life at the East Africa Prison for Women for her role in the Centre of Excellence, she has thought of nothing but finding and re-enslaving Isabel Metcalfe.
She avoided the looks of the prison guards as she stepped outside the prison walls to a waiting dusty-black, beaten-up 1975 Cadillac limo that would take her to her important meeting later that day with her former colleagues.

(Isabel's life and adventures in bondage continue in Moira's Story, The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira and Jayne's Chains , by Sailor861 , which will be posted in due course).