Ruth was so mortified by the patch of damp stickiness on her left thigh that she nearly refused the Master's gentle invitation to stay and share the coffee she had brought. Nearly, but not quite, for despite the wording of her contract, her employer's invitations always seemed like commands to her, commands that a nude and shackled female had no choice but to obey. She knelt, glad of the opportunity to rest her juddery legs. Emily did the honours with a neck chain, fumbling behind her to get the padlock through Ruth's collar ring, the expanse of pale flesh that formed blonde girl's buttocks and thighs inches from the brunette's face, the cold links of the bond brushing lightly against her nipples. After what seemed like an age, the padlock clicked closed, confining Ruth to the wall of the study.
While Emily went to pour the refreshment, Ruth shuffled until her new restraint was comfortable between her breasts, at the same time fighting all her old anxieties: what will he think? Love handles, cellulite, tummy too floppy, breasts too saggy, arms too fat? In the old days she would have avoided the meeting, or at least been covered in some shapeless, frumpy old rag, but these were no longer options for her. Now she was chained to the wall, naked, and even her hands were no use to protect her modesty. Ruth smiled. Thank God. She did not need to fight any more, her bondage did that for her. She looked at the damp patch again, grown worse by the experience of being neck chained. No more choices, no more modesty: even her inmost needs were publicly displayed. Hearing, at last, the far door open, she spread her knees as wide as she could, waiting respectfully for her employer.
He sat on the leather sofa in front of the kneeling women, putting down the long, cloth-wrapped package he was carrying, helping by moving the low, wheeled coffee table so that the girls could lean forward and sip from their cups. Tall, over six feet, broad shoulders, black jeans and turtle-neck, carpet slippers. Brown hair, blue eyes with gold around the edge of the irises, eyelashes Ruth herself would have died for. A little older than the brunette -- maybe mid forties? Her employer. The Master. A complete enigma.
He never discussed anything personal with Ruth, nor as far as she knew with any of the girls. She only knew what was public -- his name, which she and the other staff were not permitted to use, that he was a millionaire due to his electronics firm, several clever patents in security systems, known as something of a recluse as far as the press and so on were concerned. A reputation as a bit of a nerd even. Of course, rumours and gossip abounded (how could they not with so many under-informed women around?): a wife killed in a road accident some years ago, children somewhere? Never in evidence here. Ruth did the only thing she could -- she relied on her feminine intuition. He was certainly confident with women. You did not keep women naked and in chains without a certain level of self-assuredness, after all, and the frankness of his gaze, of his touch and of his own lustful response was always completely unashamed. But it seemed to Ruth that her employer's confidence tempered with a certain something -- she could not say what, there was no word she knew. Something like a vestige or a legacy, of a time when it was not so, and which informed his assurance with a respect that made it no less effective, but yet utterly without threat to her, or indeed anyone else. It made her wonder, with sympathy, about his past. How else could she describe it? Being locked in his chains was like being his trophy, but she had had boyfriends in the past who viewed her as a trophy, the kind of trophy that is a sign of victory over ones peers. It wasn't like that here. Here she was made to feel like a treasured item in a collection, to be enjoyed for herself, with no bearing at all on how others might feel, no element of macho competition at all. It was really very refreshing. His eyes bored into hers. Oh God he was speaking!
"Sorry, Sir, I was miles away."
"I was just asking if you were still enjoying yourself here. It's been nine months now, hasn't it?"
"Yes Sir. And yes, I love it here." It was true, she did. It was a strange and wonderful adventure.
"And you are OK with your chains? It can be hard to wear them for so long. You don't get any pain or anything?"
"They are fine, Sir. A perfect fit."
"And no, how shall I put it, practical issues? With your restraint, I mean."
"The facilities are designed to deal with everything like that Sir. It all works brilliantly."
Ruth's heels were close together beneath her bottom, adjacent to her handcuffs. She allowed her finger to stray downwards, feeling her close-fitting anklet, running the tip along the line where the cold steel gave way to the warmth of her foot. What did she want to say? That she thought it was easy to wear chains, for what could be easier than being locked into rings of metal, when there was no hope of release and no chance of escape? That the feel of the bonds holding her was the very antithesis of pain, a warm and loving caress? To describe the thrill, when she stirred in the mornings and felt, as her very first sensation, her bondage, unbroken from the night before? The thrill when wakefulness took a fuller hold, and the knowledge, like returning daylight, poured anew into her brain, that her bondage would continue unbroken for that day and the next and the next, and that she had all her needs dealt with to leave not the slightest practical excuse to request release from her shackles? What could she say? She sensed that he knew all this anyway.
"And how is your course?" None of the girls had extensive duties. Ruth was filling her spare time with an on-line degree course. It was an interesting challenge: "Fine, Sir. I got an A for my last piece of course work."
He was taking the cloth-wrapped package. Out of it came a bright metal rod, shining bright. "Have you any idea what these are, Ruth?"
A giggle: "They are metal rods, about three feet long, with a ring at each end and another in the middle." Ruth was intrigued, excited by the items, and had her suspicions as to what they might be, in outline if not in detail, but she enjoyed her cheeky literalism. She smiled widely, and pushed her breasts forward a little, asserting herself. A slight, but quite deliberate clink of the links joining her cuffs was intended to remind her employer of her shackled helplessness. It was a by-product that it also reminded her, adding new drops of moisture to the tops of her legs.
"The thing is," smiled the Master, "I thought you might like to help with a little experiment. A little variation to your chains. Emily has already agreed to try it out, but I wanted two of you, so that you can compare notes and well, help each other if necessary. It might be a bit more restrictive than handcuffs." He gazed at the two naked girls. Emily worked here every day and was used to his presence. Ruth's little gesture and its rather personal result had not gone unnoticed. Of course he needed no reminder of her bondage, but he found her efforts stimulating and entertaining, none the less.
"Perhaps, Sir," said the blonde PA, "you should explain to Ruth how the devices work."
Taking one of the rods, the Master stood up and moved behind Ruth. He knelt: "This bar sits at the back of your neck, thus." He held it in position. "The middle ring padlocks to your collar at the back, and your cuffs padlock to the end rings. It is a yoke."
Ruth's nipples felt as if they would explode. She clenched her fists and pulled as hard and smoothly as she could against her handcuffs, using the tension to try and retain her composure. She genuinely felt that if the Master so much as touched her back, she would come there and then. Please don't touch my back she thought, Please touch my back. Please don't touch my back.
"Would you like to try it?"
Her voice seemed to come out as a squeak: "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." She felt the bar being padlocked to the back of her collar.
"Now, it will be necessary to remove your cuffs so as to fit the yoke. We need to turn the cuffs round on your wrists, so that the ring is at the top. I want you to relax and hold your hands just there at your back. You are not to move them at all, do you understand? I will move them one by one when I am ready."
How strange it felt, just for an instant, to have nothing about her wrist, even though her employer's command held her just as securely as the chains had done. It was only a few seconds anyway. The cuffs were turned and locked back into place about her limbs, though no longer joined together. Then, he pulled each arm up in turn, and padlocked the cuff to the end of the bar. Ruth's arms dangled, helpless. She was yoked.
Ruth knelt, not daring to move, staring whilst the Master repeated the process with Emily. It was only when the blonde girl was ready, kneeling there in front of her, her arms held secure and useless by her metal bar, her unclothed flesh totally exposed, that Ruth dared turn her head to examine the linkage on her own shoulders. Oh God, she could actually see it! Her hand there, imprisoned in its cuff. She clenched and unclenched her fingers, feeling the metal locked on her wrist, and feeling, as she pulled down, the tendency of her other arm to rise up. But if she pulled with both at once, nothing happened -- nothing except a clinking of the metal links and padlocks that joined the components of her yoke. She could not slide her hands from the cuffs. She could not pull the cuffs from the bar. She could not pull the bar from her collar, and nor, of course, could she pull the collar from her neck. She was yoked, and she was staying yoked. What could she do? She needed desperately to do something. She raised her left arm, thus allowing her right hand to move downwards. Her hand moved, but it went only so far, despite her twisting her body as far as she could. Her fingers came nowhere near her aching breasts, nowhere near the flowing wetness of her pussy. Nowhere near her flesh at all.
Later, she lay on the floor of the study, her right hand, comfortably encircled by its manacle, gripping the links of her neck chain, her right knee bent upwards as far as her fetters would allow. The Master, himself naked now, lay on her left, his right hand supporting his head, his left still on her body, its middle finger trailing gently in her still-moist slit, prolonging the memory of his other fullness within her, just a few moments ago. She, of course, was flat on her back: the only way she could lie with her arms chained in this way. Her head was turned to the left, looking from her own stoutly cuffed wrist to his eyes, and back again. In the background, her chains rattling merrily, Emily was pottering, tidying up, getting used to her new style of restraint. His voice was soft, but manly: "Thank you, my dear."
She smiled. "Thank you Sir, Thank you. For everything, thank you."