Moira's Story
By Sailor 861

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Moira MacPeak's sex life with her husband, Graham, needed some spark. After 15 years of marriage, the electricity of intimacy had dimmed and Moira was determined to fix it.

She loved Graham -- they were married just after grammar school in their small town in western Scotland -- but sex in recent years had become a strictly so-so, Saturday night routine, devoid of excitement, adventure, experimentation and, most important, lust.

But the day she saw her best friend and next-door neighbour, Isabel Metcalfe, answer the door in blouse, skirt and ankle chains, Moira, a trim, 33-year-old Scotswoman and mother of two teenagers, knew that bondage would someday play an important part in her sexuality and her marriage.

Two days after Isabel Metcalfe, 35, and mother of two boys, had ankle chains mysteriously welded on during a drive home, June 11, 1975, Moira, who also had two sons, now in the RN, visited her to find out why she had phoned in sick at the mill the day before. After the initial shock of seeing her best friend in chains, she recovered sufficiently to listen as Isabel explained her strange encounter on a local county road that night. Moira could scarcely believe her ears. Shocked at first, her surprise turned to sexual energy and curiosity when Isabel told her plainly that, while the chains were initially scary in their steel-grey appearance and implacability, they did add new intensity to her lovemaking with her boyfriend, Peter, who would soon be her husband.

Two days later, when Isabel was just as mysteriously kidnapped and taken, bound, chained and gagged, to East Africa then returned miraculously to Scotland relatively unscathed a few days later, Moira put any further discussion about bondage and chains on the "back burner" until Isabel had recovered sufficiently from her ordeal and things in the Metcalfe household were relatively back to normal.

After a couple of weeks, Moira and Graham were delighted to be asked by Isabel and Peter to be matron of honour and best man at their civic marriage ceremony at the town hall a month later. Moira was mildly shocked when Isabel told her she was going to wear a knee-length bridal dress that would put her 18-in. steel ankle restraints in full public view for the first time -- and at the town hall.

A full-length front-page photo of Isabel and Peter appeared the next day in the town's daily, under the headline Local Woman Ties the Knot -- In Chains , and the picture and accompanying page 1 article indicated to Moira -- and the entire town -- that Isabel was not a woman to be trifled with. "If I choose to wear these ankle chains in public and, quite possibly, for the rest of my life, so be it," Isabel was quoted as saying in the article. "They were put on me mysteriously, it's still a mystery how they might come off -- I just don't know -- and so I am resolved to make the most of my life with these on me. 

"They really don't stop me from doing anything, except horseback riding or bicycling, but I have neither a horse nor a bicycle, so I am not particularly worried." Townsfolk and news media audiences throughout Scotland and the UK had read, or watched and listened to electronic reports of Isabel's experiences as the victim of a daring, yet brutal transcontinental kidnapping plot and her subsequent escape -- in chains, no less -- from a group of mad scientists in the East African desert.

Moira was proud of her friend's feats of bravery and determination in the face of such incredible odds; indeed, Moira glowed with pride when Isabel informed her following the wedding that the University of Edinburgh had offered her employment as a lab assistant/consultant in the engineering faculty's metallurgy division and that she was being considered for nomination by the university to a British order of bravery to recognize her "native Scottish determination, resolve and resourcefulness" in helping engineer her own escape, in the face of incredible odds, and for assisting Scotland Yard and Interpol in bringing the key operatives of the Centre of Excellence for Genetic Engineering to justice.  

(It was later reported that Amina, the genetics engineer, received 25 years; Sheikh, the doctor,10 years, and Omar, the economist, five years in an East African maximum security institution. Read Through Night to Light for more details).

At home, Moira was devastated by the news of her friend's kidnap; even more so when details of her African desert ordeal came to light later -- in Isabel's own words -- that were uttered in strict confidence to Moira only.

Isabel had arrived home in rural western Scotland during the third week of June, 1975, from East Africa via the airports at Tangier, Morocco; Heathrow, London; and Prestwick, Scotland, barefoot, chained and dressed only in dusty blouse and skirt. Her short, 18-in. strides, enforced by her chains, and her chafed neck, elbows, wrists and knees were the visible evidences of her recent, harsh bondage. Clearly, she could not give her friend time for the needed consolations and confidences each woman needed so badly after the harrowing incidents. 

Isabel had a series of medical appointments, interviews at the University of Edinburgh, statements to the police, media interviews and, finally, arrangements for the civic marriage ceremony, the wedding itself, and a brief honeymoon before she would start work at the university.

In fact, it was not until August 12, 1975, before Moira finally got the opportunity to talk to Isabel, woman-to-woman, about her experiences in the desert, her long, enforced bondages and, especially, the effect Isabel's shackles were having on her love life.

"Isabel? It's me, Moira," she said into the telephone in her pin-neat kitchen on a Saturday morning. "Can you spare me a couple of minutes from your busy schedule? I know you've been busy with the university, the news media, Peter and . . ."

"Moira, you come right over," Isabel replied. "It's been so long since we had a cuppa and a chat. Please, Mo, come over now. I've wanted to talk to you so long."

Moira got dressed in her casual weekend wear -- jeans, blouse and sweater -- and walked, to gather her thoughts, down the quarter-mile to Isabel's and Peter's house while her husband, Graham, was at work in town. 

Her thoughts collected from the short walk, Moira bounded up the front steps of Isabel's and Peter's bungalow, rang the bell and Isabel answered, smiling, wearing a light, knee-length summer skirt, sandals and her ever-present ankle chains. Little did she realize at the time that, after a sexy vacation in northern Scotland, she would have to give up bounding up the stairs for a long, long time.

Moira could not help but notice Isabel's chains instantly and made a mental note about the ease in which her friend moved about with 18-inch steps and the silvery clink of metal on the polished hardwood floors. Isabel gave her pal a warm hug and invited her into the kitchen.

The abrasions and ligature marks on her friend's neck, elbows, wrists, knees and ankles had all but disappeared, Moira noted, and she began. "Isabel, you told me already about the night of June 11, but very little of the events that occurred afterward and that can wait," Moira said over tea and fresh-baked scones at Isabel's kitchen table. "But can I be frank? I have to tell you, honestly, I've been thinking of getting a pair of chains like yours to put a bit of spark in our 'you-know-what'. When I first saw you in your chains that afternoon in June, the day before I took your letter of resignation to the mill, it made me feel a little 'goosey' all over and I think I would like to try the experience. Just once, anyway... So can you tell me a little bit about what it's like to wear them? You don't have to be really explicit; just give me a bit of inside info, you know, that I might be able to use with Graham." Moira carefully avoided mention of the kidnapping and terrifying experiences in the East African desert, waiting for her friend to initiate discussion about those times.

Isabel was only too pleased to tell her friend about what it's like to walk about all day with chained ankles -- "like wearing a tight, straight skirt all the time" -- and going in public in chains is no longer the gut-wrenching embarrassment it used to be -- "let 'em look, and admire; that's all I can say. If women are afraid, appalled or embarrassed at seeing me chained up, that's their problem. 

"I know I've been getting some admiring glances from the younger men and some older women in town but that's as far as it goes.

"Moira, that night, June 11," Isabel continued, "something strange happened to me and my sexuality. Ever since then, the chains have made me extremely 'sexed-up', you know, whenever I'm with Peter. And what's more, Dr. Hall, my family physician, told me since I've come back from Africa I've developed muscle tone 'down there' -- something he calls the pelvic-floor muscle group -- that would make a 20-year-old woman envious. And I've had two boys, too, don't forget!

"I don't know what happened to me that night but someone or something, somewhere, improved the way I am able to have sex and, unquestionably the chains have been a part of it; and these too," Isabel said, pointing to her ripe breasts.

"Not only were my ankles shackled but my nipples were pierced, too; by some process even Dr. Hall couldn't identify, although he did say something about laser cautery or something like that. 

"Anyway, the rings in my nippies are there to stay, just as these are," Isabel said, shaking her ankles under the kitchen table with a light clatter of links on the vinyl flooring.

"And you know what?  I haven't worn a bra since that night. It feels great and I don't care if I ever put one on again. And I'll tell you, when my boobs are shaking too much when I'm doing physical activity, I just tie 'em together with a locket chain through the rings in my nips. And when the strenuous activity is over, I just unlock them and go back to the way I was."

Moira was all eyes and ears as Isabel related more -- but not all -- details about her kidnapping, her six hours in an extremely tight hogtie, the adventures in the desert and her miraculous escape. It sounded to Moira like a story from 1001 Arabian Nights and she wanted to feel part of the adventure for herself.

"My God, Isabel, I would not want to be bound they way you were," Moira exclaimed. "How did you manage? But your chains -- where could I get some like that, anyway? I'd like to start experimenting with Graham, you know, and..."

"I don't know where you could find a pair like these, Moira, but you and I could go down to MacEwan's hardware store today and buy you a chain and a pair of locks to get you started. As for my hogtie on the plane, let me tell you it was painful but I had something inside me to keep me company. It was more than my Scottish upbringing could handle and, well, that's all I'll say about that for the time being."

Moira nodded and agreed without hesitation to make the trip in town with her chained companion. They finished their tea and scones, chattering excitedly about their upcoming shopping excursion. Peter was also at work but Moira said she had the car and would walk home, return for Isabel in a few moments for the big trip to the hardware store -- and her entry into the new world of bondage.

Isabel was waiting for Moira to drive up 15 minutes later and, soon, the best friends were on their way into town, past the spot where, unknown to all, Isabel had been "intercepted, restrained, examined, treated and released" by members of the crew of a spacecraft from the planet Venusias, which had ventured off an interplanetary course over western Scotland two months previously. Craft DDE224-A was never heard from again, either over Scotland or at Blintz, its homeport at Venusias, 200 light-years from Earth.

"There's the spot, right there, where I saw a bright light that lifted me right out of the car, took me somewhere and put me back, I don't know how long after, with these on my ankles and the rings in my tits," Isabel said, gesturing to the roadside as they drove south into town. Isabel slowed down, the two women looked out the windows and saw only the road, gravel shoulders and green fields beyond -- nothing else of note -- and they continued to MacEwan's hardware store in the town's commercial section. Isabel's enigma was as insoluble as ever.

"Golly, Isabel, I hope there's not too many people in the store today; I don't want everybody to know I'm buying chains for myself, you know."

"Worry wart," Isabel replied with a smile and nod to her pal. "Who's going to know -- unless you tell them? It could be a bicycle lock you're buying. And besides, look at me; I'm chained all the time and it hardly bothers me at all now. 

The chains seem to bother other people, particularly the young guys and some women, but not me. They look at my ankles, then my breasts and back down again. I doubt some of those jerks even know what I look like from the shoulders up," Isabel said with a shrug.

Isabel and Moira found the little hardware store, Moira parked her little white Ford Escort in the adjoining parking lot and the two got out to walk the short distance into the brightly-lit interior of the hardware store. Moira noticed she had to slow down to accommodate her friend's chained, clinking progress

Isabel's "plight," as the news media called it, was well known to the townsfolk and she was treated with a mix of curiosity, deference and sympathy by most people who came in contact with her. Inside the store, Isabel went up to the proprietor and said: "Angus, where do you keep your chain?" 

Angus MacEwan, 36, a married father of two teenaged girls, looked at Isabel and Moira, then back at Isabel with a slight smile, and pointed to the left, saying "Aisle 2, near the end on the left; six reels, ladies. There's galvanized, stainless steel, zinc-plated and regular, hardened steel; three different sizes and weights. What're you using it for, Isabel?"

"Bicycle lock," Isabel replied quickly and easily as Moira looked down, suddenly red-faced. Angus didn't believe her. "Bicycle locks are over here, on the right," he said.

Isabel insisted on visiting the chain display although Moira was ready to dig herself a hole and hide as Angus took the two women down the aisle to explain each type of chain, its potential uses, safe working loads (SWL), diameter, weight, link shape, corrosion resistance and other properties.

It was all too much for Moira and she nearly ran out of the store. Isabel held her hand as they walked down the aisle, Angus leading, and Isabel whispered:

"Don't you chicken out, now, Moira. We'll get the chain, the locks and we'll be out of here faster'n you can say Jack Spratt."

Moira groaned in embarrassment and put her hand to her face but kept going down the aisle. The three stopped in front of the chain reels and Moira looked away, red-faced. Isabel piped up: "How much is that one, Angus?"

"Aye, that's the NeveRust 1/8th-in. galvanized steel, SWL one ton," he replied. "Fifty pence for three feet."

"We'll take it!" Moira blurted, thinking only of the bargain price.. Angus reached for the cutters and snipped off a length for the attractive brunette with her shackled companion. "Anything else, ladies?" the shopkeeper asked, handing the small bundle of links to Moira who accepted it shakily. Angus smiled in tacit recognition of her discomfort.

"Two locks, please, Angus, " Isabel said quietly. Angus' smile broadened slightly as he handed Isabel two brass-bodied, stainless-steel-shackle padlocks from a shelf near the reels of chain.

 "These are the best of the lot," Angus said. "One pound each and they'll last a lifetime. Rustproof, too."

Moira was mortified as Isabel handed her the sturdy, little locks and the three went to the cash to pay for their purchases, which came to two pounds, 50p -- a fair price for ankle chains, Isabel thought -- a good buy which accorded well with to the women's Scottish perspicacity.

Moira was literally panting with anxiety while Isabel was all smiles as the two walked out of the hardware store, around the corner into the parking lot and to the car, Isabel's ankle chains clinking loudly on the concrete sidewalk. Pedestrians passed and slowed to watch Isabel make her slow, chained progress into the parking lot. Isabel did not notice but Moira was upset.

"Now that wasn't all that bad, was it, Mo.?" Isabel asked her friend solicitously, as Moira, frowning, shifted into reverse to back out of the parking lot. "Not too hard for you, no, Isabel Metcalfe. I was embarrassed stiff; this is only my first time with chains, you know; here, you've had loads of practice and I'm just starting out."

"Starting out, aye," Isabel agreed, patting her friend on the shoulder. "You'll be just fine, you wait and see. Imagine what Graham's going to say in bed tonight! Hee-hee!"

Moira turned beet-red at the thought of her clinking her way into their bedroom tonight, her trim, tanned ankles chained for the first time. 

She wondered what Graham would say. She wondered how it was going to feel. She also wondered what it might be like to be chained for life -- like her friend.

The two friends left the little brown paper bag of chain and locks on the seat as they continued a bit more shopping in town, during which time Moira picked out a beautiful, semi-sheer ankle-length nightgown she was certain was bound to please.

Isabel agreed it was nice and was about to broach the topic of a suitable loincloth, such as the one she was currently wearing, but decided this would not be the proper time. 

 After shopping, it was time for a bit of lunch and Isabel thought back to her first trip into a pub, months ago in Edinburgh, in chains with Peter... and that cretin two tables away. She frowned at the recall but put it out of her mind easily as the two attractive, casually well-dressed women found a table at a downtown steakhouse. Isabel slid in with her customary clink and Moira joined her at the table for two.

"I can't get over how natural you walk around and do things in chains, Is.," Moira said to her friend as she sipped at her water. "Are you sure you weren't born to be in chains?"

Isabel chuckled and commented that while she was not meant to be shackled, she was determined they would not interrupt her life, or her new career, or her marriage. "I'll make do and make out," Isabel said softly.  

After a small lunch of ground steak, chips, cole slaw and tea, Isabel was anxious to get home to finish the Saturday housework. She found it took a little longer now than before. 

Moira had done hers already but she was equally anxious to get to her house to try on her latest acquisitions -- a sexy, long nightgown and ankle chains -- and practise walking like her best friend to see what sort of effects it would have on her and her husband's libidos.

She wasn't long finding out.

Chapter 2: Moira's Introduction to Chains

Moira MacPeak dropped off Isabel at her front door, gave her a hug goodbye until Monday and continued home a short distance away.  Driving in, she put the car in park, turned off the engine, picked up her packages and walked into the house straight to the master bedroom.

She dropped the little bag of chain on the bed, unfolded her new nightgown and sat on the bed looking at herself in the dressing table mirror.  "What the heck, I've come this far so I may as well put 'em on and see what I look like," Moira said, running her hands through her medium-brown hair, then pushing up her 36-C breasts to see how they looked in exaggerated fashion.

"Na-aw, that's not me," she said, dropping her breasts.  "Is. doesn't wear a bra; maybe I'll try going like that, too.  It's August, after all, and some women in town are going without so it shouldn't be a great surprise to anyone," she said, suddenly self-conscious.

Moira looked at her 33-year-old body critically as she undressed slowly to put on the nightgown to check for fit, appearance and sex appeal.

Naked in a late afternoon for the first time in many years, she looked at her 5-ft. 4-in., 118-lb. body, noting the flat stomach, slightly pendulous breasts, long, light-brown nipples with medium-sized aureoles and her long, muscular legs and athletic body she had acquired from years of grammar-school girl's rugby. 

She turned toward the bed, stood and pulled the long, sandy-coloured nightgown over her head and smoothed it over her hips, picking at the skinny shoulder straps as she turned to examine her profile in the mirror.

"Hm-m, not too bad at all, especially after two children and 15 years of marriage," Moira said to no one in particular.  She caressed her breasts through the smooth silky bodice and noticed her half-inch-long nipples grow suddenly erect, with a noticeable tingle in her bosom.

"Ah-h, that's the ticket," Moira said, as she sat on the bed, feeling her breasts bounce slightly as she reached for the little pile of grey-silver, galvanized-steel links. "Now, just how do these go on?" 

She draped one end round her left ankle and held the end link and another, six-in. away, between her two fingers.  She had the lock in her right hand and easily passed the shackle through the two links, closing the lock with a soft snap.  She looped another short length of chain about her right ankle, closed two links with the remaining padlock and stood up for the first time ever in chains.

She hobbled, clumsily at first, over to the full-length bedroom mirror and gave herself another critical look, noticing first the 24-in. span of links between her ankles.  But the short walk caused the coarse, granular surface of the galvanized links to rub and lightly abrade the skin above her ankle bones and she knew she would have to get another, smooth type of chain. 

She sat on the bed, unlocked the galvanized chain from her ankles, took off the nightgown, folded it and put it on her side of the bed, got dressed in slacks and pullover sweater only -- no bra -- and headed back into town. 

She was only slightly less nervous the second time in the hardware store but she knew Angus wanted to close early -- it was getting close to 5 p.m. Saturday and he had other things to do than to tend a fidgety woman who was nervous, of all things, about buying a piece of chain.

"Mr. MacEwan," Moira began nervously, "I need to substitute this, er, ah, chain, for another.  Can you help, please?"  She felt her long nipples grow hard again, this time with anxiety and excitement, against the prickly wool pullover.

"This way, Mrs. MacPeak," Angus said, stealing a quick glance at her lovely, braless breasts that swayed and bounced lightly with Moira's movements, the nipples poking through indiscreetly.

The two walked to the chain display and Angus, trying to be helpful, asked Moira again what the chain was going to be used for.

Moira stammered and said she was going to try and secure her picnic table to prevent vandals from taking it like they did to her two years ago.

"Aye, I see," Angus said, not believing her.  "Then the galvanized chain you have should do the job." Oh, no, thought Moira, the jig's up.  She thought for a few seconds, Angus thought it was some kind of weird women's delay tactic, and suddenly shouted: "The stainless steel one; that won't rust, will it?"

"No, Mrs. MacPeak, stainless steel will not rust.  Will you take three feet of it?  I'll make it the same price as the galvanized."

"Yes, yes; the stainless chain, please," Moira stammered, turning beet-red again as her Scottish intuition told her Mr. MacEwan must by now know what she was up to.  Angus cut her the requisite length, said "No charge, Mrs. MacPeak; even trade," and escorted her to the door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. MacPeak," Angus said.  "Have a lovely weekend."

"You too, Mr. MacEwan; thank you for your assistance."

Moira literally ran to her car with her soon-to-be ankle restraints -- a three-ft. length of 3/16ths, oblong, stainless-steel chain -- and drove carefully home.  In the master bedroom 15 minutes later, she undressed, put on the long nightgown, sat on the bed and, for the second time in less than an hour locked her ankles, this time in smooth-finished stainless steel.  She again looked at herself in the mirror -- unaware her husband had been seated in the living room with her padlocks' keys in his pocket -- and tried to imagine what Graham would say and do when he saw her.

"Moira, you look superb," Graham said quietly, standing in the bedroom doorway.

"Ohmigod, Graham; you scared the daylights out of me," Moira gasped, hand to her breast, as she turned to face him, nearly tripping over the 24-in. chain.  "How long have you been standing there?  I didn't hear you come in."

"Moira, I've been home 15 minutes; you came rushing in and didn't even notice me sitting there.  Now, to change the topic, when did you get the notion that I wanted to see you in chains?  I've wanted to see you like this since before we were married but..."

"Oh, Graham," Moira sighed, as she shuffled toward him to throw her suntanned arms around his neck.  The young couple walked together, hand in hand, to the bed and Graham, a powerfully-built Scots-born bricklayer, lowered his lovely lass to the bed and quickly undressed to lie beside her.  His member was rock-hard as began his customary session of foreplay that brought Moira MacPeak to sexual frenzy in minutes. 

He always seemed to target her long nipples with his lips and teeth, she knew, and this afternoon it would be no different.  Nipples, clit, lips, neck; then back again, she said to herself.  Same old...

But, to her great surprise and pleasure, in just five minutes she was in sexual splendour, moaning deeply, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, as she spread her legs to the full 24-in. span her links allowed her.

"Crawl underneath 'em, Graham," Moira instructed, taking her cue from Isabel's explanation of how turned on she got when she and Peter enjoyed sex in chains.

Graham finished his attentions to Moira's erect, sensitive nipples and slithered down between her legs, got her ankle chains easily over his neck and partway down his back and wriggled his way up further as Moira spread her knees wide at his hips to accommodate him.  His manhood slipped inside Moira with customary ease but the new sensation of Moira's chained ankles at the base of his spine did wonders for both of them.  Moira's legs were widespread, immobile, her knees immobile at his hips, and Graham could feel her chained ankles tugging expectantly at his back as he began slow, deep thrusts into her.

Ten minutes later, both were near mutual orgasm and Graham was the first to climax after a series of pounding "vinegar strokes" as Moira called them.  ("Look at your face after you take a drink of vinegar, Graham," she said once).

"A-aaag-ggg-hhh, Moira; here, take it," he said softly, as he pounded his woman with his hard bricklayer's body, shooting his cum deep inside her.  Moira lifted her hips and widespread thighs legs to meet her man's powerful thrusts and she reached her first of three climaxes that wracked her body as though voltage current was being passed through her.

"Mmmm-mmm-yyyyyyy God, I'm coming; hang onto me," Moira gasped as she thrust her hips against Graham's loins passionately.  She clutched at his broad, powerful back with her hands and ankles as tight as she could as the next two orgasms spasmed her over and over for 30 seconds. 

Both fell back against the soft mattress, exhausted, but quietly enthused that such a piece of utilitarian stainless steel could provide them sexual stimulation and reward.

Moira and Graham lay quietly in each other's arms, looking into each others eyes, then away.  Graham spoke first.  "Moira, who told you about wearing chains?  Isabel?  You know, I've wanted to see you like this, and do you like this, for so long.  Let's keep the chains on you overnight and see what happens.  Tomorrow's Sunday, too, don't forget, and we don't have to be anywhere, so let's experiment a bit." Moira was only too happy to agree and the chains were not bothering her as much as she thought they would. 

Half an hour later, Graham's vigour restored, the MacPeak bedroom was alive with groans, creaks and the soft clink of Moira's ankle chains as sexual ecstasy gripped the couple once again.

At 2 a.m., Sunday, the couple collapsed, sexually exhausted, into each other's arms, concluding a marathon, eight-hour session of intense lovemaking neither had experienced heretofore -- thanks to the fitting of a piece of chain on Moira MacPeak's ankles and some information and advice from a woman who had already been there.  Graham's and Moira's experiments and adventures in bondage were about to begin.

Chapter 3: The Vacation

Moira and Graham opened their eyes together as their alarm clattered metallically on the nightstand at 8 a.m. Sunday.  Graham was, as always, the first out of bed and went to the bathroom to shower, shave and get ready for a day of rest with his "supercharged bride" of 15 years, Moira Edna MacPeak, 33, mother of two teenaged boys recently enlisted in the Royal Navy.

"Graham, do you have the keys to these?" Moira called out to her husband in the bath.  "Can't hear you, Mo," came the reply.  Moira swung her chained ankles out of bed with an unaccustomed tinkle of stainless-steel links on the carpet and shuffled/staggered into the bathroom to join her husband.  Graham was shaving when Moira crept in behind him, put her hands and arms around his chest and snuggled against his back.

Graham's manhood grew as he felt Moira's soft, 36-C breasts flatten against his muscular back and her turned around and kissed her passionately on both cheeks, leaving little traces of SuperShave on her cheeks.

"Keep those chains on for breakfast, Moira, and let's see how you, or rather, we react to them.  It's so far, so good, 'init?"

Moira agreed; after all, they had not hindered their lovemaking; if anything, it made sex much more intense, just as Isabel said had happened to her, and she was just as content to keep her ankles chained Sunday morning -- maybe the afternoon, too.  

Moira finished in the bathroom and shuffled back into the bedroom to get her dressing gown and clinked out into the kitchen to make their breakfast -- juice, bacon, tomatoes, toast, cheese and marmalade and coffee -- while Graham scanned the Glasgow and Edinburgh Sunday papers for news, stocks, bonds and mutual funds quotes and the classifieds.

Graham sipped his coffee and munched on toast as he turned the pages of the Edinburgh weekender, then set it down and turned to the Glasgow Sunday classifieds for entertainment. 

His eyes soon fell on 061 - Personals and he glanced down at the display ads for companions, dog sitters, plant waterers and assorted other requests.

The ad he was hoping to read was near the end of the three columns of display text.  His eyes widened as he read:

Attention: Bondage Weekenders

Are you a woman with a fantasy about spending a comfortable
weekend in chains?  If so, read on: My wife and I have
converted a hotel in northern Scotland into a comfortable,
centrally-heated dungeon complex to fulfil your every bondage
fantasy -- and that of your mate's.  Weekends only, Friday,
5 p.m. - Sunday, 7 p.m.  Very reasonable rates, Custom-made
bondage hardware, chains, etc., supplied and applied without
charge.  Deluxe accommodations, excellent food service and
fully-stocked bar.  No pain, no drugs, all personal limits
respected.  By reference only.  Contact: 01-555-1212.
Sheila and Michael.

"Moira, read this," he said as he sat the classified section down in front of her.  Moira set down her coffee cup and looked at the ad.  She read it the second time.  And a third.

Finally, she said: "Well, that's very interesting, Graham.  But who on earth would refer us?  This isn't Playland, you know.  We would have to know what we are getting into before we would decide on anything.  You know I like to be informed about everything before we make any plans."

"Well, first of all, Moira, I'm just curious whether you would consider participating in such a fantasy weekend in the first place.  If you choose not to, well, we'll just forget we ever saw the ad.  But do you think you would like to spend a weekend, chained in a dungeon, with me, for a weekend?  It sounds kinda sexy and exciting for me."

"Mmm, I don't know," Moira replied.  "I've only worn this chain overnight and I don't know if I'm ready for a weekend in chains or not.  Let me think about it."

"OK," Graham replied.  And he let the matter stand.

Moira stood up with an unaccustomed little rustle of her ankle chain to clear away the breakfast dishes, put them in the sink and turned to go to the bedroom to get dressed.  Graham held her by the hand as she moved past the table and said: "I hope you decide in the positive, Moira; I think it would be a fun way to spend a weekend."

"Mmm, I'll let you know what I think," Moira said as she leaned forward to give her husband a peck on the cheek, affording him a quick, cock-hardening glance down the delicious, deep cleavage the new nightgown gave her, before continuing to the bedroom to dress.

She was about to sit on the bed to unlock the padlocks securing the chain to her ankles when the thought occurred to her:  Isabel Metcalfe has full-time experience in chains and would likely be as good a reference as any, if she consented.  Moira unlocked the two brass locks, put the chain and locks neatly under her pillow and pulled the wrinkled nightgown over her head.  She chose a tight T-shirt, jeans and sandals to wear today and decided she would go braless, for the first time ever, all day.  And the rest of her life.

Dressed, well almost, she thought, she went back into the kitchen to join Graham, her breasts bobbing "like two puppies under a blanket," as Graham would say, under her light shirt. 

Her nipples poked enticingly through the thin material of her white 'T' and Moira was pleased with the way her body was responding in a youthful way.  Graham put the paper down to watch her walk in and she knew she had his attention as she sat down at the kitchen table.

"Let's do it," she announced.  "I ought really to talk to Isabel and ask if she could supply us with references.  She has bondage experience, she probably is well-known to the bondage community by now, even thought she may not realize it, and she is something of a resource person for me.

"Why don't you give them a call tomorrow, Monday, and get some more information and I'll talk to Isabel.  Maybe she and Peter might like to come along, too.  What do you think?"

Graham thought it was a wonderful idea and said he would call the number in the ad first thing Monday. The rest of Sunday passed uneventfully for Graham and Moira: Moira did some housework, Graham mowed the lawns and both watched some afternoon TV before Moira started getting supper ready.  Monday was a national holiday and the two looked forward to a luxurious day of rest at home.

At bedtime, Moira undressed as Graham watched her from the bed.  Both were again turned on as Moira slipped the nightgown over her head, sat on her side of the bed and locked her ankle chain on her trim ankles once again.  And their passionate embraces resumed unabated. Passionate sex two nights in row was doing wonders for their relationship.

Next day, Moira's ankles were slightly chafed and tender from the overnight clutch of chains but she didn't care.  She sat at the kitchen table and listened while Graham made the call to the Ball-More-All fantasy hotel/dungeon in northern Scotland. 

Depending on the results of his conversation, she would call Isabel and get her feedback and recommendation.

"Hello?  Hello?" Graham began.  "My name is Graham MacPeak and I'm calling with regards your advert. in the Sunday newspaper.

"Yes.  Yes.

"I'm 35 and she's 33; married; no, we don't do drugs; happily married for 15 years and just starting to experiment well, you know, with eh, ah, bondage.

"No.  Yes.

"I am sure we can provide references and your rate of 75 pounds for the weekend, all inclusive, sounds quite reasonable.  Let me discuss these details with my wife, Moira, and we will get back to you.  Is it possible another couple could join us?  You have adjoining dungeon cells?  Well!

"Yes?  You would like the women to be chained on arrival?  Oh, my.

"Let me call you first thing tomorrow.  Yes.  Moira and Graham MacPeak.

"Thank you; we'll get back to you.  Goodbye."

Moira leaned over the kitchen table, allowing her nightgown to fall away from her bosom slightly, as Graham hung up and looked intently at his wife.

Graham gave Moira the details of his conversation with the proprietors of the hotel/dungeon on the north coast of Scotland: it was a 100-year-old hotel done over to suit the B/D crowd; it had eight small chambers done over as dungeon cells, complete with chains, cots and shackles galore; all cells were centrally heated; upstairs was a suite of deluxe hotel rooms with adjoining full-service restaurant/bar and lounge for pre- and post-"dungeon time."  Guests had to be referred by someone active in the bondage scene and who was known to the Scottish B/D scene; the price was 75 pounds/couple for a weekend, which included 24-hour access to the cells, deluxe accommodation upstairs and introduction to the hotel's extensive, expensive array of bondage gear which comprised mainly shackles and chains for the bodies and limbs of women of all ages (20 - 75). 

There were even provisions for chains to be fitted on clients -- male or female -- for periods of up to one year, provided medical and legal waivers and release forms were signed, Graham told Moira, but Moira was too busy thinking what she was going to ask Isabel later today.

After supper, Moira slipped out of the kitchen, got undressed and locked her ankles again in the 24-in. chain as she had the previous evening. 

She put her dressing gown over her chained nudity and joined Graham in the living room.  Graham was delighted to see his wife again in chained ankles and wasted no time in getting her in the mood again.  Soon, the pair were mock-wrestling like teenagers on the living room couch, smothering each other alternately with weakly-applied half-nelsons, interspersed with passionate, deep kisses, until Moira could take it no longer.  Moira's chain snubbed her legs at virtually every move but she was growing to enjoy the hindrances they placed on her movements.

"To bed," she ordered jokingly.  "Yes, ma'am," Graham replied.  And the pair moved their action into the bedroom where, once again, the chains proved to be a powerful stimulant for renewed sexual energy.

This night, Moira got on top of her husband and proved she was still the capable lover she was 16 years ago when they first experimented with different sexual positions.  Moira loved the way Graham's manhood slipped so gently into her warm, tender vagina and she took the initiative tonight by using pelvic-thrusting technique to bring him to a shuddering orgasm in just 10 minutes.  Her own climax followed moments after, with Graham gripping her breasts firmly in both hands,  and they continued to clutch each other fervently bathing in the warming, soothing effects of sexual afterglow .

They were soon asleep with Moira still on top, impaled by her husband's semi-rigid cock.

On Tuesday, Moira made her big phone call to Isabel to ask if she would write or phone Ball-More-All, the bondage "entertainment centre" Graham had contacted,  to supply a character reference for them.  Isabel was at first surprised but soon agreed to recommend them unreservedly to the proprietors. 

She told her friend she would say that Graham and Moira MacPeak are of sterling Scottish character; that Moira has a growing interest in safe, sane, consensual bondage; and that the couple had consented to engage in bondage activity in an informed, mature way provided it would be conducted in a private, safe and comfortable environment. 

Moira was delighted to hear the wholehearted endorsement Isabel had agreed to provide and offered that she and Peter might care to come along as well on a fantasy weekend.

"Could you discuss this with Graham?" Isabel asked Moira carefully.

"Certainly, Isabel, and I am sure Graham will agree. I think it would be lovely if you two were to come along with us.  I understand that the hotel would like us women -- er, that means me -- to be in chains before our arrival. Maybe you could help me prepare, provided we are accepted?"

Isabel said she was confident the hotel would accept them as guests for the weekend and told Moira to press on with her plans.

Moira's next step was to inform Graham, when he got back from work that day, that Isabel would provide character references to the hotel and that she had invited Isabel and Peter to come, too.

When Graham called to confirm the arrangements with the hotel next day, he was delighted o hear that Isabel had, indeed, telephoned character references that were accepted fully and that Isabel had taken the initiative in requesting reservations for four -- for herself and Peter and the MacPeaks -- and that she was going to "pay the lot" from an advance of pay she recently received from the University of Edinburgh.

Michael and Sheila, the hotel proprietors, had read all the news reports of Isabel's recent kidnapping and desert exploits in bondage and considered her to be a welcome guest -- and resource -- to their enterprise.  When Isabel asked about how she should be bound prior to arrival at the hotel, the owners informed her that her present shackles would be more than adequate and that, perhaps, Mrs. MacPeak could be similarly attired?  Isabel said she would pass on that little detail and Moira reluctantly accepted to be bound in chains for the trip to northern Scotland at the end of August -- three weeks hence.

Chapter 4: The Road Trip

The following three weeks passed quickly -- Moira and Isabel were counting the days -- until Aug. 31, 1975, Road Trip day.  The two women had packed their best eveningwear, their favourite nightgowns, casual daywear and the usual feminine essentials.  Moira had confided in Isabel she had not worn a bra since the reservations were made and she loved the freedom it gave her.  They agreed they would take the MacPeak's Ford Escort, which was just a little roomier than Isabel's and Peter's Austin Mini Minor, and, soon, the four were ready and packed for the road and a weekend in bondage for the two women. Moira and Graham had arrived and were standing on Isabel's and Peter's front porch when Isabel invited them in for a cuppa before hitting the road.  In the kitchen, Isabel handed Moira a small package, saying "Here, Moira, open it up and tell us what you think."

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Isabel handed the keys to Moira's chains to Graham and they were in fine spirits as they headed out to the car, the girls following behind, with Moira having to shorten her pace slightly to Isabel's 18-in. pace. 

Both women wore skirts, blouses and jackets with sensible shoes and their chains made a metallic clatter on the driveway as first Moira squeezed into the back seat, to be followed by Isabel, and Peter joined Graham in the front.

Three hours later, the foggy, forbidding north coast of Scotland loomed into view and they followed the road signs to the Balmoral Hotel (there was a different sign on the property) near the cold, dark and damp, granite-shrouded Cape Wrath, on the Atlantic seacoast.

"Well, we're here," Graham said, as he drove into the gravel driveway leading to a Georgian-style, three-story brick and stone building overlooking the seacoast.  "It certainly looks well made.  Let's hope it's warm inside -- it's certainly clammy out here," Peter said to the two goose-bumped women huddling to keep warm in the backseat as an Atlantic fogbank moved in across the dim northern moor.

Graham parked the little white Ford outside the imposing oaken front door and the four got out to stretch their legs and look at the property before heading in.  Isabel and Moira walked tentatively onto the front lawn and looked questioningly at some hiking paths that led down and away from the property before deciding to turn back toward the hotel, their chained feet making odd patterns on the moist, thick lawn.

"I need to warm up, Isabel, I'm not used to this northern weather just yet.  Let's hope our cells are as warm and comfortable and they say they are."  Isabel nodded and pulled her jacket a little closer around her neck as she took Moira's hand and the two women made their way up the four broad steps into the foyer of the spacious, old hotel.

Sheila and Michael, the proprietors, met the two couples in the foyer with warm handshakes all round and they were off to a good start.  Sheila, a curvy, 36-year-old woman from Somerset, England, aka "Somerset Mom," and her husband, 35, from Portsmouth, England, gave them a brief verbal description of the layout, the amenities and services, registered them, gave them an armload of pamphlets and showed them to their adjoining rooms on the first floor, just above the dungeon suite.  They, too, had two sons in the RN.

The women's chains clacked and clashed loudly on the hardwood floor -- to their embarrassment and to the delight of their husbands, and to Sheila, who smiled enigmatically -- and, soon, the two couples were in their rooms, unpacking and getting ready for their sexy weekend.

"I think I'd like to be chained as I was in the desert," Isabel said to Peter as she looked through her suitcase.  Maybe we could inquire if they have the sort of chains that were put on me; I kinda grew to like them on me, you know, Peter.

"I'll check, Isabel; but first let's have a drink and settle in; it was a three-hour car trip, after all, and it's only 3 p.m. so we've still got lots of time for supper.  Maybe we could try the dungeon cells tonight after supper if you're keen."

"Oh, yes; I'm keen," Isabel said.  "Now, you come here," she said, as she pulled him toward the bed smothering him in wet kisses as she struggled to get at his belt and zipper.  He gently pushed her onto the wide, soft double bed and kissed and caressed her. Isabel felt her sexual energy beginning to climb as she squirmed out of her skirt so that she was wearing just her loincloth and plain white blouse.  Her breasts flattened toward the sides of her chest as she lay on the bed, arms widespread, as Peter began a torrid session of foreplay.  Isabel gently pushed him to one side as she straightened up to take off her blouse, giving Peter a full view of her ripe, ringed breasts as she straddled him to begin another session of lovemaking that had become so intense in recent weeks.

Isabel sat forcefully on Peter's cock and Peter obliged by thrusting deeper inside her.  Isabel groaned loudly as she felt the deep penetration but she did not notice Peter reach beside her for a two-foot length of hemp twine.

"Put your arms behind your back, honey," Peter said softly, and Isabel complied.  He then bound her wrists securely behind her back and began thrusting inside her with renewed vigour.  Isabel leaned back, putting her bound hands on his thighs, and opened her thighs wider to give herself as much wanton pleasure as she could.

 Their lovemaking continued for an hour until Peter exploded deep inside her, causing Isabel to writhe in pleasure and slight pain from her pinioned wrists. 

They rolled over onto their sides and Peter hugged and caressed his wife tenderly as the afterglow of their lovemaking sedated them.

Across the hall a different story was unfolding.  Moira wanted to check out the prison cells downstairs and asked Graham to take her below.  The couple wandered down the hallway to the staircase leading to the stone-floored prison-cell suite and Moira looked into the first one on her right.  The doors consisted of a barred grill on the front and a thick oak door, with a small hatch at eye level. 

Forced-air heating kept the 8 X 10 cell at a comfortable 75 degrees F. although the walls were made of stone, the floor was carpeted and the cot, just three-ft. wide, had a soft mattress and silk sheets.  Chains and ringbolts decorated the walls, floor and stone ceiling and there was a small washbasin, table with mirrors and a chest filled with bondage equipment for the inmates' use and delights.  Moira sat on the small bed and looked at the chest questioningly.

"Open it, Graham, I want to see what's inside," she said.  Graham went to the chest near the wash stand and lifted the lid.  His eyes widened as he looked at the assorted chains and shackles that it held -- the diameters of the cuffs suitable for the female form only, he assumed. Graham pulled out two pairs of cuffs and laid them on the cot beside Moira.  He bent down to unlock her ankle cuffs and replaced them with a set from the chest. 

"Hold out your hands, Moira," he said, as he clasped a pair of handcuffs around her slender wrists.  When he was done, Moira's ankles were joined with an 18-in. chain and her wrists by 12-in. shackles.  Moira stood up and examined her wrists and ankles carefully and sat down with a rustle of links.  She put her chained arms around her husband and pulled him down on top of her on the little cot with a creak of springs and rustle of chain.  Their afternoon sexual delight was about to begin.

Meanwhile, Isabel and Peter continued to snuggle in their luxurious double bed upstairs.  An hour later, after dozing in each other's arms, Peter reached behind his wife and untied the four bights of thin cord that pinned her crossed wrists at the small of her back. 

Isabel immediately brought her arms around in front and rubbed the four red indentations left by the cord. "Oh my, these will show at suppertime, Peter," she said mildly.

"Maybe we should just use chains on my wrists for a while?  I have a nice evening gown I want to wear for the dinner tonight and I don't want my wrists or elbows or my neck marked up any more than necessary, OK?"

Peter agreed and after a while they decided to get up and start to get dressed for drinks in the bar before supper. 

They enjoyed a luxurious shower together "to conserve water" and Peter dried Isabel off carefully afterward, paying careful attention to patting dry her ankle chains and, particularly, the skin underneath the cuffs.  Peter even sprinkled a little talcum powder between the cuffs and her ankles to prevent chafing and skin irritation and dusted the excess off the smooth metal.  Isabel finished with her hair and makeup and soon was poking around inside her suitcase for her evening gown, a black, floor-length affair that clung to her body and draped over her hips to fall in A-fashion to her ankles.  The neckline plunged low to her waist and the deep cleavage of her mature breasts was on full, magnificent display.  Peter was pleased as Isabel got dressed in front of him and Isabel looked critically at herself in a full-length mirror.

"Do you like this dress I bought last year?" she asked him. 

"Oh, yes, it's stunning," Peter replied, as he continued to get dressed in blazer, slacks and tie.  He casually walked over to his woman and put his powerful arms around her waist, lifting his hands to cup her pendulous breasts. 

"Mmmm, just wait 'til after supper," Isabel replied, as she turned around to face him making her ankle chains clink slightly.   Her husband had a small surprise for her.  In his right hand was a gold locket, on an 18-in. fine, gold chain, he had given her months ago for her birthday.  The locket contained pictures of both of them with an inscription, "My Isabel, My Love," engraved on the inside. 

He reached inside the front of her dress and passed the slender, sinuous chain through her left nipple ring, then threaded the other end through her right ring, closing the little clasp between her breasts.  The little gold locket hung decorously between her breasts and the thin gold chain, weighted by the small locket, tugged lightly at her nipples as she moved.

Isabel enjoyed the sensuous feel of the suggestive, little tugs on her shiny-ringed nipples and they were instantly erect, much to her delight and Peter's admiration.  Soon, Peter and Isabel were ready for drinks and supper.  Peter opened the door for his formally-attired wife, whose ankle chains chinked indiscreetly underneath her gown, and the couple made their way to the bar at the far end of the hotel. 

The little locket bobbed gently between Isabel's swaying breasts, reminding her constantly of the sexy placement of the little piece of jewellery. They entered the bar and found a table near a window to wait for their friends.

Downstairs, Moira and Graham had been exploring the contents of the chest of bondage gear in their cell and Moira was now wearing a locked steel collar in addition to her handcuffs and leg chains.   After more discoveries and reading the pamphlet about long-term bondage, they, too, decided to go upstairs and get ready for supper -- with Moira wearing her new bondage accoutrements.  Moira clinked and clattered her way, on her husband's arm, back to their room where they, too, began to dress for supper.  Graham unlocked Moira's 12-in. handcuffs and left her leg chains on while Moira looked for her favourite little black dress, a spaghetti-strap, mid-thigh-length number that clung to her like cloth, showing off her sexy 36-C breasts, long nipples (the dress could only be worn braless) and her long, tanned, shapely legs.  She quickly slipped it over her head and smoothed it down over her hips, tidied her shoulder-length hair which fell around her collar,  turned to Graham for his approval and checked her appearance in the nearby full-length mirror.

"I am satisfied that I look sexy enough to kill, gr-r-r," Moira told Graham in the sultriest voice she could manage. 

Sex appeal did not come naturally to either Moira or Graham but each was trying to outdo each other and, if they turned on their best friends in the process, all the better.  "Indeed you do," Graham replied.  "Here let me snap these back on your wrists and we will leave the collar on for our 'grand entrance' in the dining room.  I believe Isabel and Peter are already there.  Here, Moira, give me your hands."

Moira held out her wrists to accept the 1 ½-inch wide steel bands and 12-inch connecting chain that Graham lovingly placed around each wrists; pushing each cuff snugly home into its self-locking mechanism.  (Graham had two sets of keys in his jacket pocket -- one for her left and right ankle cuffs and a single key that opened her wrist cuffs.) 

He caressed Moira's wrists lovingly and patted his breast pocket to make sure the keys were still there and out of reach from Moira's prying fingers should she suddenly desire to be free from her bondage -- which he doubted.  Moira saw the gesture and shrugged it off with an admission to herself that Graham would unlock her as soon as she wished.

"Moira, you look absolutely ravishing," Graham said earnestly.  "I've never seen you in chains and wearing your black dress before.  Sure, you're bound to turn heads when we appear in the dining room tonight.  I wonder how many other couples are there in chains like you and Isabel."

"I don't know, Graham; let's go down now and find out," Moira replied, turning with a swish of her ankle chain to go out the door.  Moira and Graham tried to walk hand-in- hand down the hall but Moira's wrist chains did not permit her to grasp her husband's hand easily.  Instead, Graham looped his left arm through his wife's right, causing Moira's arms to he held in front of her,  and the two walked arm-in-arm to the dining room about 50 yards way, down the hall, across the lobby and through the first set of double doors on the right. 

The combined restaurant-bar was a well-appointed, brightly-lit and expensively-appointed facility: there were about a dozen intimate tables lining ceiling-high, Georgian-style windows that overlooked the front yard and its commanding view of the Atlantic seacoast; they immediately saw Isabel and Peter at a corner table set for four.  Moira blushed when she saw that Isabel was not wearing handcuffs as she was and was only mildly shocked when she saw the lines of four red indentures on her wrists, left by her recent bondage.   She knew her ankles were still chained underneath her long, low-cut dress and she quietly clinked her way over, with Graham at her side, to join their friends for a romantic supper.

Dining in chains in a semi-formal setting was a first for the two women and they almost forgot their chains as their fantasies and imaginations took flight: here they were, in semi-formal attire, both chained like common criminals, but with their husbands at their side, in a sumptuous restaurant overlooking the rugged north Scotland terrain. 

Moira felt her nipples harden even more, poking out firmly through the stretchy wool fabric of her dress, as she sat down with a rustle of chain beside her pal, Isabel.

"Hi, Is., what's new?" Moira said lightly.  "How do you like my new bracelets?  Graham just put them on me a few moments ago." Moira held up her chained wrists and crossed her legs sexily.  "I hope they don't interfere with supper; I'm half-starved.  We were in the cells for a while and, well, you know they don't have meal service down there."

Isabel smiled and commented that her wrist shackles looked very nice on her, the chrome setting off her black dress, silver ear-rings and modest eye makeup and lip gloss effectively.  "They suit you wonderfully, Moira," Isabel enthused.  "I wore a pair somewhat like those during my kidnapping, although mine were attached to my ankle chains so I could only lift my arms so high," she said, motioning with her free arms.  Moira looked and thought to herself it must have been difficult to be chained in that manner for days on end and not knowing when, or if, release would ever come.

Soon a formally-attired young waiter appeared and the two couples ordered vodka martinis to be followed by shrimp cocktails, a vintage Chardonnay roast beef au jus with Yorkshire pudding, oven-roast potatoes and buttered vegetable medley, closing with crème de menthe parfaits, coffee and Glayva , the fiery Scottish liqueur they preferred.

The meal took two hours -- from the usual starting time of 7 p.m. -- and by 9 Moira, Graham, Isabel and Peter were ready for more recreational pursuits after hours of small talk which explored the women's introductions to the world of steel bondage.

Isabel informed her companions that she had become accustomed to wearing ankle chains -- possibly for the rest of her life -- and that people, herself included, would have to accept this little collection of metal and chain that adorned her trim ankles. 

Insofar as mobility was concerned, she informed them that it was no different than walking in a long, snug- straight skirt except that the chain would occasionally get caught on things -- a chair leg, a step, a tree-root or her one of her feet -- but she was getting used to the small inconvenience of having to stop and free herself. 

Other everyday manoeuvres, such as climbing into the town's double-decker bus, bowling or having to take an occasional long step to traverse mud puddles or rainwater in the gutters, were challenges "that will be dealt with over time," Isabel said confidently.

Moira listened attentively as Isabel described in more detail the experiences and bondages of her kidnap and escape. Her imagination caught fire as she put herself, between the meal's courses, in Isabel's place (with Graham at her side, of course), instead of that coarse kidnapper.  "I'm glad he was shot and killed, Isabel; your kidnappers did one good thing anyway," Moira interjected, when Isabel described the landing in the East African desert.  (See Through Night to Light for details of Isabel's desert adventures). "And anyway those moronic London toughs have it coming to them; any way they get it is fine with me.  Two slugs in the back of the head? Too right!"

Moira felt her wrist cuffs with the opposite hands and reached  to her steel collar with her joined hands to emphasize her point and remind herself of Isabel's situation. 

Graham placed his left hand on Moira's right solicitously and the four looked out the crystal-clean, huge window into the black Scottish night.  Each was suddenly alone in their own thoughts.

Moira thought she would like to be chained for the night in cells in the same manner that Isabel was during her African adventure; Isabel thought she would like to be bound with cord again, ring-gagged as she was in Africa in front of her captors; while Graham's and Peter's libido-fired imaginations flashed pictures of their mates in chains beside them in bed.

The four were aroused and adventurous and by the time the waiter appeared for the last time with their second round of liqueurs, they had made up their minds what the night's activities would comprise.  It was to be bondage all-round for the women and hot sex, they way they had always dreamed, for their menfolk.    

As they were about to leave, the proprietors, Sheila and Michael, appeared at their table.  There was no one else in the dining room and the owners had gone to extremes to ensure their four guests were comfortable and well-accommodated.  Michael was smartly dressed in blazer, white shirt, regimental tie and grey slacks and Sheila was gowned in a floor-length, off-white evening dress, and her short steps suggesting her ankles, too, were probably chained.

"How was everything tonight?" Sheila inquired.  "Was the meal and service satisfactory?"

The two couples all nodded in agreement and Sheila informed them they were free to choose between deluxe bedroom accommodation or the more spartan prison-cells in the dungeon suite downstairs and that all facilities were entirely ready for them.

Peter, Isabel, Graham and Moira rose as one and the two men hastened to assist their ladies to get clear of the table in their chained conditions.  The two women rose effortlessly from the chairs.

Isabel whispered in Sheila's ear: "Sheila, are your ankles chained, too?"

"Oh, yes, every night; in fact, I'm planning on having them welded on by a tradesman as soon as I get Michael to agree to contact him.  In fact, I'm the one who has to ask him to put me in bondage -- quite the opposite situation for you, in' it?"

"Yes, it is; believe me, after the initial shock of being chained all the time, there's really nothing to it.  People think that it must be painful, humiliating and embarrassing to be this way but, you know, it's really not all that bad."

Sheila nodded her understanding and she, too, looked forward to a romantic night in her lover's arms with her ankles in chains.  With Isabel's attention, she began to wonder deeply what it would be like to have chains welded on permanently. 

She had followed closely the news stories of Isabel's so-called "plight" and when Isabel's chained condition was described, she thought that she, too, would someday like to be bound as she was.  Sheila was absolutely delighted when Isabel phoned in the character references for the MacPeaks and informed she and her husband would also like to attend.  She had wanted this chat for so long.

"Isabel, may I have a word?" Sheila asked.

"Why yes, of course; take all the time you want," Isabel replied, as he watched her husband wander away toward the bar while Graham and Moira turned to wave goodnight en route to their hotel suite.

"I am a combined history and psychology major at the University of Edinburgh and I know, from the newspaper reports, you will be starting work in the metallurgy division of the engineering faculty so I want you to know we have something in common."

"Go on," Isabel said, sitting down at the table again with a little rustle of chain.  Sheila took the cue and sat across from her, in the chair just occupied by Peter, and began:

"My studies have led me to some observations about the conditions of women in chains down the centuries and I would like your comments.  I'll begin."

Isabel's imagination was immediately captivated.

"Through the centuries, women have either delighted in -- or have been condemned -- in chains or other bondages.  I prefer to think that you and I fit into the former category.  But let us look back for a moment.  Cleopatra of Egypt had herself bound and rolled into a carpet to be presented as a gift to Antony, emperor of the Roman Empire, when Rome was at its pinnacle of power and prestige. 

"But did you know that centuries before that, in Persia, a woman by the name of Schehrazade, of 1001 Arabian Nights fame, became a chained thrall who told her captor, the monarch, a different story every night, for more than three years, so that he would spare her life.  And she was successful although she was never released from bondage, or so the story goes.

"White women, for centuries, were captured for, or coerced into, harems of countless Middle Eastern men of influence and wealth and many were held, in chains, against their will, sometimes for the rest of their lives or until they were rescued, freed by other means or died in thrall.  In fact, Mozart and Rossini composed operas, respectively Abduction from the Seraglio and Italian Girl in Algiers , about these women's perilous fates.

"Indeed, records in some Middle Eastern countries have come to light that show white women were the harems' prized members -- the sultan's favourite, so to speak --  and some were kept in silver and bejewelled chains for up to 20 years or more."  Sheila lit a cigarette, took a puff and continued. "There also is the darker side to woman's experience in steel bondage throughout history.  Joan of Arc was kept chained in a secular military prison for months while she was on trial and was still chained when burned at the stake in 1431.  Five-hundred and 10 years later, the terrible Gestapo kept female members of the Resistance handcuffed and shackled in kneeling positions months at a time to break their spirit and convey their ruthlessness to the unfortunates' colleagues.  More recently, some U.S. prisons are known to keep hardened female convicts in chains for days, weeks, months on end, and when they appear in the mass media they are always shackled and chained most effectively.

"It is my understanding, from my psychology studies, that some women -- not all -- actually prefer the clutch and clatter of chain as a prelude to lovemaking.  You and I have taken this preference a step further, from a sexual overture to a fact of every day life, and, I will be quite frank, there is something in my psychological makeup that makes me want to be chained, to be bound, to be restrained somehow, as long as it is with someone I love.  Call it 'loving bondage', call it what you will, but I am making my choice, with free will, to have my ankles chained permanently. 

"In your case, Isabel, as I understand it, the situation did not involve free will at all; that your chains were placed on you with neither awareness nor consent.  Further, that your chains, according to the media, are of unknown construction and metal that defies definition.

"I expect I will be making my decision to have my chains welded very soon," Sheila said, poking her left leg out from under the table to show Isabel her elegant, shiny steel cuffs and a 16-in. connecting chain. "I just wanted to get your comments about what it's like to live in chains year-round; to live with the reality that they were put on without agreement, and that they may be on forever.  I just need your input before I ask Michael to call in the local welder. Please?"

Isabel began as her listener butted her cigarette.  "Well, Sheila, I'm most impressed with that slice of history.  I had no idea so many women before had such experiences.   I would think the prospect of permanent bondage likely made them scared, anxious or, quite possibly, excited, at first. But as time went on, they probably forced themselves to became accustomed to their bondage.

"Enjoyment of bondage is purely subjective.  In my situation, I am relatively fortunate in that my bondage is painless and, thus, enjoyable.  It has to be.  I could not endure it otherwise.  I mean, a little discomfort here and there is tolerable but if you are thinking of long-term, or lifelong bondage, as in my case, there has to be a wide comfort zone.

"History will never tell us how comfortable, or uncomfortable, Cleo, Schehrazade or the countless others were in their bondage and I can only speak for myself.

"I've worn these chains now every day for just over three months and the realities of my situation are sinking in.  For example, my friend, Professor Michael Ledstone, the metallurgist, has informed me recently that further spectroscopies have indicated the metal of my chains have tensile strength and density tens of thousands of times more than the most-refined tungsten-steel alloy -- and, therefore, cannot be removed by conventional means.  He advises even the most-advanced, diamond-bitted cutting tools would not make a scratch in them.  They were applied with extreme heat, apparently, but I was not injured.  There are no seams, rivets, bolts or hinges anywhere so they are on for good, as far as I know.  They weigh about 14 ounces, I understand, so their weight is not a problem.

"I've checked them as closely as I can and the interior surfaces are mirror-smooth which ensures my ankles will never be chafed unless, of course, I try to run the 800-metre dash."

The two women giggled as they fished their cigarettes out of their purses and lit up.

"Michael, could you please get us a couple of Glayvas for us; like a pet, please?" Sheila asked.    "Yes, dear," he said from the nearby sideboard where he had been listening inattentively.  He and Sheila had gone over the bondage issue many times before.

"Michael is such a pet and so understanding," Sheila butted in.  "We are in a dom/sub relationship and I'm the dom -- and in chains -- and he loves it when I try to wrestle him into bed with my ankles tied.  It's a scream because he has the obvious advantage!"

Both women laughed aloud as Michael placed their liqueurs in front of them and retired to the bar to let them continue in confidence.

"Well, anyway, where was I?" Isabel said.  "Oh, yes.  The night I was taken aboard this spacecraft; oh, it was so mysterious, so powerful, and yet I can't remember a damn thing.  I just remember a brilliant light that suffused the car I was in and then an indeterminable time later, I awoke in the car with chains in my ankles and rings in my nipples. 

"Right here," Isabel said, pointing to her pendulous breasts connected by the locket that bounced sexily in her cleavage as she spoke and smoked.  "This little locket chain connects 'em so I'm chained in two places, really, hee-hee."  She took a drag on her cigarette and continued.

"You are quite correct that my entry into bondage was done without consent and the devices are unremovable.  But those realities don't really bother me, three months after the fact.  A Canadian author, Sailor 861, has written about my kidnap, bondage, forced sex and my escape, in a short story called Through Night to Light , so I won't go into detail about that; suffice that it taught be a bit more about non-consensual bondage.  It was a difficult time, to be sure, but I've been able to put it behind me. 

I have recently married, I am starting a new job at the University of Edinburgh, where they plan to study the chains in more detail, and my sons have fully accepted my bondage without question.  So, I have a lot to live for -- and I am enjoying my new life.  If I was fated to be in chains to enjoy this new life, so be it.  We're Scottish women, you and me; we're strong, resilient and resourceful.  These are the characteristics that helped me get through my African ordeal and those same qualities are at work right now.

"Now, in your situation, your bondage is consensual, or it appears to be that way, and that's good.  In my situation, I have grown to accept bondage as part of my body and have had to incorporate it into my psychological makeup; they're on me, they're on me for good, so I'm not going to fight them.  So my situation, although of non-consensual origin, has devolved into one of acceptance.

"My word of advice to you, Sheila, is to ensure your comfort zones -- physical and psychological -- are assured and in place.  Be sure you are comfortable in chains and that you have looked into your heart of hearts to see if this is the lifestyle for you.  Life in permanent restraint will be different for you, no doubt, but I've found that women can adjust to nearly any thing or any situation that is thrown at them.  You say you are making your decision with free will.  Bravo, lady, take the decision and bonny good luck be with you.

"On a personal note Peter and I love the way they look and feel.  Walking about is no big deal; I keep saying it's just like walking in a straight skirt all the time. By the way, my chain's 18-inches long.  How long's yours?"

"Sixteen."

"Well, girlfriend, you'll be looking at making 16-in. paces from now on, won't ye?"

"Yes and I've been practising.  It's really not all that bad; makes the hips sway and boobs bounce a bit more than I would like but I think that's part of the sexual allure, right?"

"Right," Isabel replied.

"You said your sons have accepted your new, chained status unreservedly," Sheila said.  "I am still wrestling with how I am going to tell my boys. 

"They're 18 and 19, in the RN and their situations might be made more difficult when they and their shipmates discover I am chained up.  How should I tell them, Isabel?"

"I don't know, my dear, and I wish I could tell you how," Isabel replied.  "But let's face it: you're their mother; you've decided, with free will, that this is how you want to be; you're not hurting anyone and I doubt very much you will be held up to public ridicule considering this lifestyle of yours so, if I were you, I would be open and candid with them.  If there is fallout, let the pieces land where they may.  I'm sure they will find a way to accept this little feature in their mother in the times ahead, Sheila.  In fact, I think my friend, Moira, may have to come to grips with this same issue.  But that's all I can say to that."

The women smiled knowingly at each other and sipped delicately at their fiery, strong Scottish liqueurs.  A friendship seemed to be blossoming.

"Do you mind if I give Michael a precis of our conversation, Isabel?" Sheila asked.  "After all, he's an important part in the decision-making process.  He's my husband."

"Please do.  I encourage it, Sheila.  Communication's the key to the success of any relationship and I would tell Peter the same if I were you."

"Isabel, I'm just delighted you found the time to spend a few moments with me on this subject," Sheila said, reaching for her purse. "I don't want to keep you away from Peter any longer and Michael and I have some work to do in the kitchen before bed.  May I leave you now?"

"Good night, Sheila, it's been my pleasure.  And good luck with your decision.  I hope you will be happy with the results and that the boys will accept.  Let me know, OK?"

The two women parted with a heartfelt hug and both clinked off, hips swaying and bosoms bouncing decorously, to look for their husbands and a start to their nightly sexual rituals.

"Well, that was a nice long chat, Isabel," Peter said, when Isabel came into the hotel room, plopping on the bedside beside him.  "Yes, it was very nice.  And I'll tell you a bit about it someday. 

But right now," Isabel said, slipping out of her long gown, "I want some action from you.  I want us to spend the night in the cells below and you can chain me up the way I was in Africa.  I will tell you which chain goes where and how the ring-gag goes in.  That's how I want to spend my first night here with you, my love."

Peter was smiling like the Cheshire cat as Isabel purred to herself, slipping into her sexy, long blue nightgown that showed her still-chained breasts to such startling effect. She swung her chained legs off the bed, her chain-connected breasts swaying, nicely tugging on Isabel's nipples, as she took Peter by the hand toward the door and down the empty hall toward the basement luxury cellblock.

 They took the last of four heavy oaken doors on the left side of the dim hallway and Peter opened the door with a creak.  Stepping inside, they found an 8- X 10-foot stonewalled prisoner's cell complete with cot, small barred window, sturdy ringbolts on all walls, the floor and ceiling, a large chest on the side opposite the couch, a nightstand, telephone and bidet.

Everything they could ever want for a sexy night in steel bondage, Isabel thought, as she threw her arms around Peter and gave him a deep kiss, grinding her breasts and hips into his chest and loins. 

The embrace went on for 15 minutes and they were entirely ready for sex-in-bondage by the time they released one another in a gasp of pent-up excitement and emotion.

Isabel suddenly sniffed back a tear as a flashback sent her mind to her comfortable East African prison cell for a moment.  She quickly recovered, thinking this time would be entirely different.  This time it would be consensual, just like Sheila's upcoming decision, and she looked forward to the weight of chains that would soon adorn her limbs, neck and waist.

Isabel was in charge.  "Peter, get a long chain from the chest and lock it securely round my waist."  That was done and Isabel felt the cool snugness of the 3/16ths-inch oblong-linked waist chain.

"Now, get a ring shackle and fasten it on the centre link of my ankle chain."  That was done, with a solid snap.

"Run the long part of the waist chain down through the centre link and attach it to a pair of handcuffs and lock the cuffs on me.   Then I want a steel collar and a 30-foot chain that should be attached to that ringbolt above the cot; then I'll show you how to put in the ring gag."

Peter did as instructed and in one minute, 10 seconds, Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe was Peter's chained slavegirl in a prison cell in the far reaches of Northern Scotland.  And she loved it.

Isabel sat on the edge of the bed, arranged her chains and pulled her nightgown up over the waist chain and smoothing it back down again so the long chain was against her loins and legs -- the way she wanted it.

"Peter, the ring gag goes in behind my upper and lower teeth. My mouth will be propped open and you can lock the two chains behind my neck, just above the collar, right here, see?"  She gestured to the back of her neck with her chained hands that pulled the ankle-connecting chain taut against her front with a smooth rustle of chain as it passed through the centre link of her ankle chain..

Peter retrieved the gag from the bottom of the chest, turned it around to see how it would go in and put it beside Isabel to give her the deepest, sexiest kiss of their relationship. 

Isabel, moaning in ecstasy, panted out: "Put it in now, love."

Peter kneeled in front of his bride,  placed the 3½-in.-diameter steel ring in Isabel's wide-open mouth and stood up to run the small chains behind her head , snapping the little brass lock in place to join the two ends just above the lock of her steel slave collar.  Peter had used six sturdy, small, brass padlocks -- at the wall ringbolt, collar, gag, wristcuffs and waist chain -- to secure his wife to herself, and to the wall, for the night.

The slender silver chains were snug against Isabel's cheeks.

"Aawwwfff," Isabel moaned, looking at her husband straight in the eye as he moved away to undress.  "Aa-oov-ooo-eee-naow" (make love to me now). 

She drew her legs up onto the little cot, arranged her chains and spread her legs as wide as her 18-inch chain would allow, lifting her hem up to her waist.  The waist chain ran down the side of her left leg and back up to her 12-inch handcuffs which she kept at her waist. Her neck chain was in an untidy, little pile on the thick pillow beside her right ear and her mouth gaped open lasciviously. 

Isabel tried to smile as Peter sat beside his chained wife and caressed her face, tracing the gag's chains where they ran from the sides of the gag indenting her cheeks to the back of her neck, tickling her delightfully.

"Aah-icks" (that tickles).  "Ock" (stop).  She glared at him in a mock-menacing way.  What could she do, anyway, bound as she was.

"All righty, dear, be with you in a moment."  Peter was undressed in a flash and seconds later was pummelling Isabel's chained loins rhythmically with a creak of bedsprings and clink-chink of chains that turned into a symphony of percussive sexual energy.

Isabel's chest, with the locket still jammed between her pancaked, chained breasts, heaved in gaspy breaths though her O-shaped mouth, propped to its widest by the stainless-steel ring gag.  Peter's sweat dripped onto her face and into her mouth.  He subdued the growing signs of his approaching climax by driving his manhood deep into his woman's warm, moist recesses and stayed there momentarily until the sexual surge subsided.

Five minutes later, he kissed her on her open mouth and Isabel tried to return the gesture, thwarted instantly by the implacable gag, succeeding only in flattening her lips even more around her propped-open gums. 

"Ah-ant-iffuu" (I can't kiss you), she gasped.  Peter responded with another, deeper kiss and Isabel started to moan with her first orgasm, her husband's cock deep inside her.

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When the last, big, bright-blue flash faded from her eyes, Isabel gasped finally, "Ooaa, e-ohop-ow.  Aah-inif-ooff." (OK, I'm on top now. I'll finish you off.)  Peter slipped out of her with a wet plop and Isabel awkwardly squirmed in her tangle of chains out from underneath him.  Peter assumed Isabel's position in the damp cot and Isabel was astride his hips quickly and easily, her ankle chains across Peter's shins. 

Isabel's neck chain descended gracefully to its mooring on the ringbolt just above the bed and she held her wrist chains at waist level, looping her thumbs into her waist chain for support. She leaned forward slightly as Peter slid his steel-hard cock inside effortlessly and the two began their chained tango again. Slowly and rhythmically, Peter made love to his wife, stopping from time to time to brush a lock of hair away from her gag, then resuming the steady, thrust-per-second pace they loved.  Five minutes of thrust and counterpoint and Isabel felt herself being carried away by her second "pop." 

Peter stopped suddenly. She ground her pelvis deep down, ramming his cock deep into the neck of her cervix.

"Waffock?" (Why stop) Isabel asked, her orgasm fading slightly for a moment. 

"Minor technical adjustment; please stand by," Peter announced.  Isabel rolled her eyes and gulped with difficulty as Peter reached up to slide down her nightgown's slender shoulder strings to her elbows.  Isabel shrugged her shoulders cooperatively and the bodice of her beautiful, blue nightgown slipped off her ripe, pendulous breasts, exposing her ringed and chained tits for Peter's attentions.  Peter reached for the locket chain that connected her nipples and placed it between his teeth, gently pulling Isabel towards him.  Her breasts fell forward gracefully and Isabel felt the gentle tug on her nipples as they began thrusting and counterpointing again.

Isabel was gasping through her wide-open mouth as Peter let go the locket chain and found the tiny clasp with his hands.  He fumbled with the tiny, little lock, opened it and pulled the chain gently through her nipples. 

"Mmm-ooo, ee-ih-innn" (No, leave it in) Isabel moaned.  Peter pulled the chain through her nipple rings and dropped the chain on the night strand. 

Isabel's perfect 38-C breasts were free for the first time in many hours and they both looked at, and felt, their jostling motion as Isabel pounded her hips in frenzy against Peter's loins.  Up-down, up-down, they flopped, making slapping sounds as they jostled against each other in time with Peter's thrusts.  Se ran her breasts over Peter's face then straightened up and grabbed her nipple rings with both chained hands, pulling on them for the added sensations for both of them.  She pulled her breasts almost straight out from her chest and sighed softly.

Isabel dropped her breasts as Peter suddenly pounded her hard,15 times in 15 seconds, gritted his teeth and slammed his eyes shut to spurt a gigantic load of semen deep into her cervix.  Isabel's eyes widened over the gag as she felt him hit bottom, deep inside her, and she gasped in ecstasy again as another, brilliant-blue orgasm swept over her at the same time as Peter's.

The two collapsed in each other's arms, utterly spent, and did not stir until morning.  When they awoke, at 8 a.m. next day, Saturday, they were in the same position as the night before: Peter's semi-rigid cock deeply imbedded in Isabel and her chains tangled every which way, her arms around Peter's head, her knees bent double and their chests together in a sexy swath of sweaty flesh, silk and shackles.

Isabel stirred first. 

"Ooaahheef" (Oh, my knees), she said, as she tried to straighten her legs from their doubled-up position that resembled her hogtie of weeks ago.  "Eee-faaa-gggh?" (please, the gag), she asked, motioning with her chained wrists to her mouth that had been propped wide nearly eight hours.  "IFF-burr-ff" (it hurts).  Isabel brushed her hair from her face, dragging the chains across her body, and pulled her nightgown back up her still-damp bosom.  Peter got the key to her gag which he strategically placed on the nightstand hours before.  Soon the saliva-coated gag slipped out of Isabel's mouth and they embraced again.

Isabel slipped down beside her husband on the narrow cot and they hugged, sharing each other's warmth, and Isabel reached up to place her chained wrists over Peter's neck, resting her hands on his shoulder blades.

"Isabel, it's always a pleasure with you.  Always.  I hope our sex life continues like this until we are 95," Peter said. 

Isabel reached up over his head again and placed her chained hands on his chest to say, "It's always great for me, too.  The chains now are just incidental.  I enjoy the sheer animal nature of our lust and the chains just seem to be a small, but important, part of our sex life now, don't they?"

They lay in each other's arms, quietly avoiding the knock from Sheila on the cell door for breakfast.  Peter estimated nearly five pounds of 3/16ths, oblong-linked, zinc-plated chain had held his wife captive for eight hours, in addition to her permanent restraints.

"Five pounds of these on you last night and this morning, Is.," Peter said, pointing to her links.  "Did it seem to be that heavy to you?  I hope they weren't too uncomfortable."

Isabel rolled over with a rattle of her chains.  "My chains in Africa weighed about five pounds, maybe more," Isabel said.  "They were riveted on and these are locked.  The only thing about last night that was uncomfortable was the gag. It woke me up about 4 a.m. but I fell back to sleep.  Other than that I had a wonderful night.  And you?"

"Tee-riff."

It was nearly noon when they decided, reluctantly, to unlock Isabel's chains, but they had a luncheon engagement with Moira and Graham who had an equally torrid night in bed with Moira shackled and gagged, through prior agreement, the same way as her friend.

In the bright, airy dining room again, Moira was wearing a straight, grey skirt and a snug, beige turtleneck sweater which showed her braless figure to outstanding effect.  Her ankle chains were snugly attached above her comfortable loafers and her wrists, cheeks and neck bore the fading, red marks of a particularly chafing night from her shackles and gag.  Her nipples tingled from Graham's long attention last night and this morning. 

Isabel, whose ringed nipples were also sensitive against the silk blouse, wore her best skirt and jacket which she wore for the trip up. 

All four were smiling as they sat down to enjoy a Saturday brunch of Scottish ham and eggs, gallons of coffee and huge oatmeal cookies to end.

As planned, Sheila appeared with a sheaf of papers for Moira to sign: release forms, agreements and pro forma notarised statements attesting to the agreement between Hotel Balmoral and Moira and Graham MacPeak that the parties had arranged that Mrs. MacPeak's ankles would be chained by shackles, to be chosen by her, for an indeterminate period, at least one year, for 20 pounds sterling -- the cost only of the restraints -- and that at the one-year anniversary, Mrs. MacPeak could decide whether to have them removed or kept in place.

Moira signed the forms with a flourish and passed the sheaf of paper to Graham which he signed with a serious look.  Moira looked at him and winked over her coffee and Graham cracked a big smile.

"My ankles are still chained from the night before," Isabel," Sheila offered.  "No problem at all last night."   

She turned and walked away, hips swaying and breasts bobbing underneath her cardigan as Moira leaned over to Isabel to whisper, "She told me a local metalworker is to come in about 15 minutes to rivet this really beautiful pair of ankle chains that were in our room on my legs.  Riveted. Isabel!  What do you think?"

"Ach, rivets," Isabel replied.  "They can always be hammered out.  Get yourself a pair like mine.  On forever."

The two chained women looked at their men and out at hotel's sunny front yard with the grey seacoast as a forbidding, fogbound backdrop.  Moira's nipples grew erect as they watched a little black van drive up with "Ned's metalworks and fabrication Welds and riveting work our specialties Tobermory.  (Tel. 022-555-2345)" painted in four-in. letters on the sides.

Moira's entry into permanent bondage had just begun.  Sheila, too, was making preparations for Ned's work on her ankles.

-30-

(Read more of Isabel's and Moira's adventures in bondage in The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira , coming soon).