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The events related in this story took place before the Internet made the acquisition of bondage items so incredibly easy. In those sad dark days, bondage aficionados were mostly uninformed, isolated and guilt ridden.
The sight of the handcuffs, lying closed in the middle of the flea market table, induced an instant reaction. My throat went dry and I was filled with an absolutely uncontrollable desire to possess them. I had fantasized about owning a pair, but had never expected to be presented with an opportunity. My desire overcame my natural feelings of shyness and I lifted my gaze to the unshaven face of the man sitting behind the table. Seeing that he was watching me, I became embarrassed and looked down at the table once more. I moved my hand towards the handcuffs, not daring to touch them, and said, in a voice thick with emotion, “How much for – the handcuffs?” I could barely get the last word out.
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“Five dollars,” he replied promptly.
I would have given all the money I possessed for those handcuffs, so I fumbled nervously through my pocket book for a $5 note. As I handed it to him he said, looking me in the eye, “And 25 cents for the tax.” I found a quarter and gave it to him. He dropped the handcuffs into a wrinkled brown paper bag and handed it to me. “Be careful,” he said as I left.
I walked quickly back to my car filled with an indescribable joy of ownership, and of overpowering eagerness to touch them. I opened the car door, sat down and reached into the bag to touch the metal. The feel was electric. I closed the car door, drew out the handcuffs and held them in my hand. My vagina had become very wet and I felt like I might have an orgasm right there just holding them.
My rational mind, took control for a second and I checked to see if the keys were in the bag. They were. I experimented with the cuffs. They were adjustable, and the cuff tightened with a wonderful clicking sound. When fully tight the ratchet would swing right through ready for use again.
I put one on my right wrist and clicked it shut. My heart started racing with excitement. I clicked it close about my wrist and felt the wonderful embrace of steel, far more sensual than any gold bracelet. I wondered if I could put the other cuff on and still be able to release myself. I carefully placed the open cuff around my left wrist with the keyhole pointing towards my fingers. Bending my right wrist, I persuaded myself that I would be able to unlock them, so I closed the left cuff with my right hand, and clicked it tight.
My feelings exploded. I had an instant and major orgasm. As I tried to pull my hands apart, my whole being gave into the sexual rush. The strong embrace of the handcuffs, the feeling that I was a helpless prisoner, and the deep thought that I might not be able to release myself, all combined into what had become the emotional climax of my life. I abandoned myself to an overpowering orgasm and the futility of my efforts to free my hands seemed to intensify and prolong it.
As my heart gradually slowed and my panting subsided, I became increasingly concerned that I might not be able to free myself. Experimentally I tried to get the handcuffs off without unlocking them. There was no way. This failure excited me again, and I almost had another orgasm.
I decided it was time to leave. Someone might have observed me playing. I reached down with both hands for the paper bag, which had fallen to the floor. Even this simple action excited me, the realization that I couldn’t reach down with one hand but was forced to use both. I found one of the keys and managed to insert it into the keyhole without much difficulty. But turning it produced no effect; no click like a normal lock. I was trapped! I felt helpless and began to panic. The feeling of panic triggered another orgasm; almost as intense as the first one. When the waves had subsided and I had calmed down a little, I tried the key again. This time the cuff seemed to move. The key, I realized, merely undid the lock; I had to move my wrist to actually open it. I opened the left cuff to free my wrist then did the same with the right cuff. I reverently held the cuffs in my hands, in awe of their power and their potential for complete control over me. I closed the cuffs, one after the other, eager to hear the ominous clicking sound of the ratchets again. I sat and fondled the closed cuffs, admiring the brutal and implacable strength of the shiny steel. After a few minutes I reluctantly put them and the key back into the paper bag.
The handcuffs lived in that brown wrinkled bag for about a year, until it finally disintegrated with age and use. Years later I realized that the man who had given it to me had also given me the best advice I ever received. It was well worth that extra quarter.
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