JAYNE'S CHAINS
By Sailor 861
Able Seaman Peter Metcalfe Jr., 19, was not a happy "jack." He and his
brother, Philip, 18, ("Oggy-Oy" and "Oggy Oy-Oy" to their shipmates), had
just returned to their RN base at Portsmouth, England, from daring, deadly
rescues of their mother, Isabel, and friend, Moira, from a white slavery
cartel in Ushwant, East Africa, and they had feared the worst - they were
about to be paraded before their executive officer to answer to charges of
being "adrift" more than five months -- which could mean "digger time" in
H.M. Detention Barracks, fines and release.
The Metcalfes, members of the Royal Navy's clandestine Special Boat Squad,
along with Hiram and Harry MacPeak, Moira's sons, and their fathers, Peter
Sr., and Graham, were involved in the tortuous rescue of their loved ones in
early 1976. The four sons had watched as their fathers were shot and killed
during the rescue, an event matched only by the shocking scenes they had
witnessed just moments earlier of seeing their mothers, 35 and 33, chained,
naked, gagged and branded by slavers in the East African desert. (See The
Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira)
But their bravery and determination, as well as evidence and testimony they
gave at a subsequent trial, had sent 11 white slavers to prison for life and
the Metcalfe and MacPeak lads, together with their mothers, still chained
the way they were when kidnapped from a northern Scotland B and D retreat in
the late summer of 1975, returned to Scotland to heroes' welcomes.
Although the feats had attracted attentions of media, high levels of
government and police forces in Great Britain, Scotland, Europe and Africa,
A/Bs Peter and Philip Metcalfe were, nevertheless, subject to the RN's code
of service discipline and had to account for their extended AWOL. Thus, they
found themselves, on a Wednesday morning in May 1976, in their No. 1
uniforms with gold badges, fresh haircuts and polished shoes for XO's
Defaulters at Portsmouth naval barracks.
When their turns came, they were marched in, ordered to "off caps" and face
the stern, steely-eyed Lieutenant-Commander, John Walker, DSC, who asked
them coldly to explain themselves after the charges were read out.
The young Metcalfes, undeterred by the executive officer's pervasive,
cold-grey eyes, related the sordid details of their mother's kidnap,
bondage, slavery and the valiant rescues they and their late fathers planned
and carried out. One hour later, the incredulous officer said:
"This is the most fantastic story I have ever heard at my defaulters parade.
To your credit, it has been in the press, together with photos of you with
your mothers, and I have read some initial police reports and court
documents that were provided to me. I have no doubt, then, as to the
veracity and congruence of your accounts to the official documents and you
are to be commended for your initiative and daring. However, you are still
162 days 18 hours and 43 minutes absent without official leave and,
therefore, guilty as charged. Mild letters of reprimand will be placed on
your service files. Fines of one pound sterling each. Dismissed."
"Dismissed, aye-aye, sir," barked the short, stocky master-at-arms at his
side with an incredulous look. "On caps. Right turn. Single file, quick
MARCH! Left, right, left, right, left, right . . . ."
Lt.-Cmdr. Walker, a 25-year career man, shook his head wearily and wondered
what the MacPeaks would tell him when he heard their cases next. The MacPeak
boys were then marched in, charges read out and the young commandos gave
their hair-raising adventure stories that corroborated those of the
Metcalfes'. They were also found guilty of being AWOL 162 days, 19 hours and
56 minutes, were rebuked with mild letters of reprimand and fines of one
pound sterling each.
But just three days later, on a Friday afternoon, came a "messdeck buzz"
that the Metcalfes and MacPeaks were to receive bravery decorations for
their roles in releasing their mothers from slavery and that formal letters
of commendation, signed by a vice-admiral, would be placed on their service
documents.
As well, the four lads were to be promoted forthwith to the rank of leading
seaman and that the abbreviation DSM (Distinguished Service Medal) would
appear behind their names following investitures at Buckingham Palace at a
later date.
The "rumor mill" had it that Ministry of Defence boffins were being nudged
from on high to commend, rather than censure, the brave commandos. The
daring Metcalfe - MacPeak exploits and "cooperation with the authorities"
apparently had cast the RN and British police forces in a positive
international light. Therefore, the junior servicemen were to be
acknowledged formally for their devotion to duty, country and family.
Later, unsubstantiated "buzzes" about quantities of small arms, grenades,
ammunition and thunder flashes, filched from H.M. Stores by the Metcalfe and
MacPeak boys, went unheeded by the authorities and inventories were quietly
amended or erased.
But it was Friday afternoon -- messdeck buzzes abounded, 48-hour leave was
about to begin and Peter and Philip were happy and relieved when they
stepped into their civvies and out the dockyard to the "Golden Fleece," a
popular naval pub just outside Unicorn Gate, to celebrate their achievements
and good luck in the traditional lower-deck manner of the Royal Navy.
Wednesday, it was XO's defaulters' parade and letters of reprimand; by
Friday, they "could do no wrong" with a letters of commendation, promotions
and "gongs" in the works for the young Scottish lads. They couldn't believe
their good fortune and were amazed at the rapid turn of events.
Friday night was darts night at the "Fleece," a packed, smoky little pub
just outside H.M. Dockyard, and Peter, with a "Black and Tan" in hand,
quickly beheld a blonde Hampshire beauty, bank teller Jayne
Beresford-Smythe, 22, standing alone at the bar, her long straight hair
falling midway down her back in a golden cascade.
A/B Metcalfe was smitten - he had never before seen a lovelier lass and her
curvy body, sexily understated by her snug, champagne turtleneck sweater and
brown suede miniskirt that fell to mid-thigh, looked like the Page 3 pinup
he had taped to the inside of his locker door at HMS Vernon.
Her shapely figure on a five.-ft. 3 3/4-in. frame, accentuated by the
delicious curves of her 36-C breasts, made her the prettiest girl in the
popular sailors' pub that night.
Jayne was sipping a small gin and tonic when Peter eased his 6-ft., 180-lb.
frame up beside her to ask if she would be interested in joining him in a
match of 501 at the navy's dartboard.
Fully expecting to be turned down flat, he was pleasantly surprised when she
said:
"O-oh, all right; just one game because I can only stay out till 10. That's
2200, right, sailor?" she said with a demure smile.
Peter thanked his lucky stars for this chance encounter with this gorgeous
babe and the game was on. By 10 p.m., the game of 501 was still on and Peter
and Philip had regaled Jayne with their stories about the recent rescue of
their mothers from the Ushwant desert while the MacPeak lads engaged the
somewhat older barmaids in deep conversation about their desert exploits.
The Metcalfes left descriptions of their mothers' steel bondage hardware
until the end of their stories, which Jayne had already read in the
newspapers, but her curiosity about spending long periods - perhaps even a
lifetime - in steel bondage was piqued.
"Your mother was chained throughout that terrible ordeal?" Jayne asked Peter
incredulously. Her imagination quickly conjured pictures of harem slave
women, in their 30s, wearing light, silvery chains and diaphanous,
low-slung, hip-hugging harem skirts, demurely modest but never brazen. "Yes,
they were and, in fact, they still are," Peter replied, leaving further
details to Jayne's lively imagination.
Jayne had been raised and educated in rural Hampshire and at age 17, saw her
first Hollywood B-movie, The Desert Hawk, a 1950 Universal Studios color
film that showed Yvonne De Carlo as "Schehrazade" and four other 50s-vintage
harem girls who were sold into slavery in chains.
Intrigued by the Saturday afternoon matinee's brief scenes of the
20-something starlets in their garish costumes and heavy, black shackles,
she wondered in bed later that night what it would be like to be chained in
a harem, feeling the cool steel of rivetted handcuffs, leg irons and collars
she saw in the cinema.
During the 77-minute movie, she placed the fingers of her left hand around
her right wrist, imagining a steel shackle being snapped closed with cool
finality and continued to wonder what being chained was really like.
She kept her bondage fantasies to herself afterwards for almost six years,
until early 1975, when she saw in a dusty corner of a second-hand bookstore
the bright-red cover of an HOM Inc. paperback, titled Chain Me Forever, by
F. E. Campbell.
Red-faced and nervous with excitement, she bought the little, 200-page book
for three pounds and read it through the same night. She re-read it,
cover-to-cover, next night and picked it up again the following weekend,
putting herself in Jennifer, the central character's place, over and over.
She felt the cool chains Jennifer, the slave, felt and the shackles that
hobbled her strides, wishing for a few moments she, too, was her or that
Yvonne De Carlo-like character she saw years before at a Saturday show.
The teenager also wished some man would chain her as though she had been
captured and had to surrender herself to his will. Her young heart beat
faster as she stared at the air-brushed front-cover drawing of a chained,
naked young woman and felt herself lured irresistibly into bondage
fantasyland. She wished she could be that woman on the front cover, if only
for a day - or a lifetime.
Then, one cold, wintry day, at age 19, while rummaging through a second-hand
store and pawnshop in the older part of Portsmouth, she spotted a small pile
of sturdy, tarnished silver chain which connected two heavy, D-shaped cuffs.
Recognizing the little pile instantly, she picked up the cuffs and chains
from the dusty shelf and nearly dropped it again, realizing they were a pair
of leg irons with small-diameter cuffs for women (or small-boned men) with
an 18-in. connecting chain.
She felt the weight of the shackles, a pair of 1930s Hiatt Darby cuffs,
placed them back on the shelf with a light clunk and left the store
immediately. Jayne was later intrigued by the sound, shape and weight of the
cuffs in her hands and, driven by curiosity, returned to the store two days
later, found the cuffs and chain were still where she left them and took
them to the store owner at the front, feeling queasy with excitement.
"How much for these antiques?" she asked as casually as she could. "I've a
collection of old locks and locksmith's tools and I thought . . . . "
"Ten pounds, miss," said the middle-aged storeowner brusquely. "They're an
old pair of custom-made restraints brought in by the widow of a collector
who had been a warder at HM Prison for Women at Dartmoor. They still work,
they're a bit rusty but here's the key," he said, handing her the small,
sturdy, right-hand-threaded screw key.
Taking the cylindrical key from him with a shaky hand, Jayne reached into
her handbag and withdrew two, five-pound notes, handed them to the cashier
without a word and dropped the 11/2-pound shackles into her handbag.
The chains made a quiet clink and the storeowner gave Jayne a knowing wink,
causing her to blush.
She left the shop without a word and hurried home, her chains tucked away in
the bottom of her handbag. She had just purchased her very own pair of
chains, she thought, and she was soon fantasizing about locking them onto
her ankles that night alone in her bedroom once her parents were sound
asleep. She wondered what it would feel like to be chained overnight. She
wondered, too, what Yvonne De Carlo felt, or said, when she was having
harem-girl chains locked on her wrists and ankles for the innumerable takes
during the filming of The Desert Hawk 25 years previously. The film was just
over an hour long, she had learned, and likely Miss De Carlo and the other
starlets had to wear their chains for much longer than that as directors
ordered scene after scene to be re-shot.
She also wondered what it would be like to be chained for the rest of her
life, if she found the right man. Could Yvonne De Carlo have had the same
thoughts as she acted beside the handsome hero figure, actor Richard Greene,
in the 1950 flick?
At home, she hid her chains in her night table and at bedtime, after hearing
her parents' door close quietly down the hall, silently withdrew them from
the bottom drawer, put the key in full view under her bedside reading lamp
and, as carefully as she could, snapped each cuff closed firmly around each
ankle with a solid click.
Feeling the implacable, cool steel on her ankles was not the frightening
experience she thought it would be. She felt the hard circumference of each
steel shackle around her warm ankles and spread her legs to the 18-in.
tolerance of her chain. She swung her legs out of bed and walked carefully
around the end of her bed to walk the walk of a chained harem girl and she
was thrilled deeply. Climbing into bed again, Jayne was not able to sleep
that night, tossing and turning this way and that in her nightgown as she
tried to get used to the unaccustomed clasp of steel around her slender
ankles.
At 6 a.m. she finally dozed off, waking with a start at 9:30 a.m., Sunday
morning, by her mother's voice telling her to get ready for Sunday breakfast
and church.
She rose, unlocked her ankles with great difficulty and hid the shackles in
the bottom of her bedroom closet underneath a pile of shoes and socks.
Her ankles bore slight red indentations from the overnight wearing of her
shackles and she considered the minor welts a badge of initiation into her
private world of steel bondage. Her parents, both bank employees, either did
not notice the telltale slight abrasions on each ankle or did not want to
ask if they did.
That was three years ago and she kept her chains out of sight but never out
of mind. Too afraid to be found out or accidentally discovered, she limited
her self-bondage to weekends only, looking forward to when her parents were
away from home, to clasp the solid cuffs on her ankles and feeling their
weight by walking slowly and carefully around her bedroom, even venturing
from time to time out the hardwood-floored hallway to the bathroom and back
again. The chains would made a fearful clatter on the wood floor and she
hoped they did not leave any scratches on the polished English oak flooring.
Once in a while, she would take them out and examine them carefully for
serial number, place and date of manufacture, noticing the serial number,
JBS1933 - Birmingham, just below the British broad arrow on the top of each
cuff. She took pride and effort to polish them and lubricate the sturdy
locking mechanisms with light machine oil.
They were a classy but frightfully daunting piece of prison hardware for a
young woman but Jayne was proud of her new possessions and she snapped them
on her ankles at least two nights a week for the next three years. She only
hoped she would not start sleepwalking or forget them and walk out into the
hallway or downstairs with the 18-in. chain still on her ankles. Her dreams
included sexy, little dramas that always included an element of bondage -
every time she wore her chains to bed - and she started thinking seriously
how to turn her dreams into reality. She dreamed repeatedly about being a
harem slavegirl with chained ankles, working as a household servant and
lover to the handsome sheik that owned her. She never pined for escape in
her dreams but preferred the strong grasp of her owner's hands and the
implacable clasp of steel as she danced for him or made love in their gauzy
Arabian Nights suite.
Her parents never found out their daughter's steel-bondage/Arabian Nights
fetish although her mother once asked Jayne whether she was sleeping all
right at night, concerned only with the tossing and turning she heard from
time to time and the odd clinks and squeaks from her bedframe.
Jayne blushed, said nothing and her mother, an attractive woman in her 40s, let
the matter drop.
Unknown to Jayne, her mother, Catherine Beresford-Smythe, had experimented
with steel bondage when she, too, was a young woman and she and Bill, her
husband, had a pair of handcuffs and leg irons stashed in their nighttable
for "bedtime fun and games," as Mrs. B. would tell him when her submissive
mood would overtake her from time to time.
Then, in late 1975, when the first news stories emerged about Isabel's and
Moira's bondage, kidnap and release, Jayne began turning her playtime
fantasies of steel bondage into full-time, permanent bondage.
But first, she would need some guidance and maybe, just maybe, Peter's
mother, Isabel, could be the source of experience and advice.
She, of course, would not tell Peter any of this -- after all, it was Last
Call at the Golden Fleece -- but she quietly hoped Peter would be interested
in seeing her again.
As Peter walked her to the taxistand outside the pub front door, leaning
against her to sneak his first goodnight kiss, Jayne said suddenly, "Call me
at 01-555-6869 tomorrow after six and let's talk," Jayne said intriguingly
as she turned to bid him goodnight, giving him a peck on the cheek just
before she slid into the back seat of a black Austin taxicab.
"Cor, what a day and week this has been, eh?" Peter said to his brother,
Phil, as they drained the last of their Black and Tan inside the bar.
"Here's this 'bint' I hardly know and she wants me to ring her up tomorrow
night to talk. I wonder what about?"
"Wait 'n' see, mate," said Phil and they walked out of the pub back to the
barracks room they shared at HMS Vernon.
THE NEXT NIGHT
Saturday night, Peter dialled Jayne's number and they agreed to meet for a
drink at an upscale restaurant-bar in a high-rise hotel near the harbour in
two hours.
Jayne, a teller at the local Barclay's Bank, had been immediately attracted
to Peter and his commando stories of derring-do but, for the moment, she was
more interested in seeing where their conversation would take them, secretly
hoping she could arrange to see and talk to his mother.
The prospect of life in permanent steel bondage was at once terrifying but exciting and she
wanted to explore her nascent fantasies even further tonight and in the
following days and weeks.
After the preliminaries, Jayne nudged the conversation toward Peter's
mother, Isabel (below), and her friend, Moira.
"How are they recovering from their desert ordeal?" she asked.
"They're as well as could be expected," Peter replied vaguely. "They've
lived in fear for their lives, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for almost
six months so you know they'll not get better overnight.
"They're both seeing psychologists and the doctors tell Phil and me they're
making slow but steady progress. But they're having nightmares, you know;
flashbacks, that sort of thing. The diagnosis is post-traumatic stress
disorder and they are receiving counselling, medications -- it will be a
while."
"Oh, my," Jayne replied. "That is positively appalling." She turned sadly to
the young sailor and said: "Please extend my very best wishes to your mother
when you talk to her next and that I wish her the speediest of recoveries.
Moira, too."
"I'll certainly do that, Jayne," Peter replied, and they looked out at the
darkling sky over historic Portsmouth harbor, both anxious to change the
subject for the moment.
Peter then told Jayne about the week's activities - XO's defaulters,
slap-on-the-wrist punishments and the extreme turn of events -
commendations, promotions and investitures at Buckingham Palace - that
prefaced their meeting 24 hours ago.
Jayne was agog and enthralled by Peter's stories and wry sense of humor and
she felt again that strange, warm urge in her loins as she looked at his
handsome, tanned young face.
"Could this be the man who would put me in chains?" she asked herself as she
turned to look at the glimmering lights of ships coming and going in the
deepening dusk. "He's young, handsome, healthy and looks not at all like
that Hollywood-cast desert sheik (played by Richard Greene) I saw in that
movie a few years ago. But he has had the experience - migod, seeing his
mother in chains - and, well, let's just see where we go from here . . . ."
Jayne's inner voice quieted for a moment.
Then after a couple of drinks, some dancing and more first-date chat, Jayne
asked him quietly at their window table, a hint of longing creeping into her
voice: "What do you think of bondage, Peter? Please tell me. You've seen
some firsthand, in a rather alarming way, but does the thought of steel
bondage on a woman attract you? Or does it repel?"
Peter did not know how to answer at first. The sight of his 35-year-old
mother, ring-gagged and chained in an African desert cell a few months ago
was one of the most disturbing, unforgettable things he had ever seen.
Nothing in his commando training had prepared him for that sight he would
never forget that night raid on the small cellblock that held his mother and
her friend that cost the lives of his father, Peter Sr., and Graham MacPeak,
his best friend.
Seeing his mum bound like that did not repel him; rather, in the heat of
action it had galvanised him and his brother to free her bonds from the
stone wall of her prison cell and do everything they could to effect escape
from the desert palace compound. He admitted to himself later that he was
amazed at the quiet acceptance his mum and her friend had displayed when
they told their sons they were chained indefinitely, or until science found
a way to unfasten their unusual bonds.
He recalled a quiet conversation he had had with his mother after the
rescue: "It's been hard for us, Peter, very hard," she wept. "Moira and I
were worked like animals in chains. We were never beaten but we were
chained, as you see, and branded. Now, we've had to come to the realization
that our chains do not come off.
"I told you before we were kidnapped what the experts said about my ankle
chains," she went on, drying her tears with her chained hands, "you know,
the ones put on by the aliens, and now, these additional chains here and
here," she said, pointing to her wrists and legs, carefully avoiding mention
of her curvy bosom which sported chains as well as the heavy rings that had
been surgically pierced through her vaginal lips.
"Well, fate has had its way, the scientists have had their say and, for now,
the day-to-day part of living with these bits of steel and chain is up to us
- as soon as we get the hell out of Africa.
"You, Philip and me are family and we need to maintain that bond. I know
that these 'accessories' I've been forced to wear will, sooner or later,
become just that -- accessories.
"Like it or not, Moira and I will have to come to accept our chains as a
part of who we are - perhaps for the rest of our lives -- or at least until
science finds a way to remove them.
Until that happens, or doesn't, we are going to try and not let them
interfere with our lives. Life's too short, as our husbands found out, and
Moira and I are determined not to let these events of the past intimidate
our present or in any way diminish the enjoyment of our lives in future."
Peter nodded, remembering his mother's quiet, heartfelt soliloquy.
The recalled conversation continued: "We've worn them now for just over six
months.
"Sure, they may make a little noise, they may make us walk with shorter
strides and we hold our arms and hands differently but that's all.
"I may be chained outwardly but, inside, I am still free. I am still your
mother, and Moira's good friend, and those things will never change. Your
father and Graham MacPeak were killed during your valiant rescues of us and
for that we will always be grateful. But for today, we must know, understand
and come to accept these chains as realities, something to live with and,
eventually, just ignore.
"Help me understand, too, Peter," she had said, as she leaned against him
seeking his embrace and welcomed, comforting kiss.
The tanned, slim and beautiful face over her implacable, steel-grey collar
and her soft Gaelic brogue faded from his imagination for a moment and Peter
Metcalfe faced Jayne again, silhouetted by the window overlooking historic
Portsmouth harbor.
He was not ready to tell this beautiful Hampshire blonde his mother's
secrets and her dilemma -- although Jayne desperately wanted to know -- and
he stalled for time, trying to phrase his answer to Jayne's question.
He looked into her pale-blue eyes and said, finally:
"My mum and her friend, and us boys have had some difficult realities to
confront, in Africa and at home in Scotland, Jayne," he said. "It's not easy
seeing your loved one in chains and they are still trying to come to terms
with the steel, or whatever metal it is, that binds them. I can only say
they are getting professional help from very good psychologists and I
understand they are on the slow road to recovery.
"The psychologists, who are guiding mum and Moira through the healing
processes, have told me they, like many other victims of crime, are having
to come to terms with two lives -- the life they had, and enjoyed, before
their kidnapping and the life they must accept afterwards. As victims, they
are probably asking whether they brought their abductions on themselves. Or
could they have avoided them? Those are difficult questions and only mum and
her friend can answer.
"I talk to mum every weekend; in fact, I'll be calling her tomorrow morning
to see how her week was. All I can do is support her, listen, be a good son
for her and help her as she tries to recover from . . . . "
He looked away and Jayne put a hand on his brawny, tanned forearm in comfort
and to introduce her next question.
"Peter, it looked like you were a thousand miles away just now," Jayne said
softly as she, too, became lost in sudden thought. "I can only guess what
must be going through your mind now, dealing with your mother's condition
and the recent deaths of your father and his best friend and I beg you to
forgive my intrusions. But there is something inside me that is driving my
curiosity. You see, I don't know how to say this, but I can empathize with
your mother and her friend, Moira, on a more-than-casual level." Jayne's
ankles began to ache slightly in a suddenly odd recall of the clutch of her
shackles from the night before.
She continued: "They sound to me like very courageous women. They must be
trying desperately to turn their dreadful crises and ordeals into something
they can live with. I would like to explore that with them and, I sincerely
hope, help them in their recovery. I would like to speak with and meet your
mother -- if she is willing and you approve - to talk about this incredible
inner strength she has to deal with and accept her fate and her bondage."
Peter listened carefully as the lithe, young blonde bank teller went on.
"I'll be frank," Jayne said, mustering every bit of Dutch courage her two
large gins-and-tonic gave her, and began to vent her innermost feelings:
"You see, I have been attracted by the fantasy of being chained for a day, a
week, a month, or even a year, ever since I was a teenager when I saw my
first motion picture at Portsmouth Towne Cinema that showed some old 1950s
picture of harem girls in chains.
"I internalized those images and saw myself as one of them.
"I scarcely know you and I don't want to go into a lot of detail just now
but I am wondering if I might be able to talk to your mother at some time in
the future about this . . . . ?"
"Perhaps you and my mother are kindred spirit," Peter interjected. "Mum's
35, going on 36, and you're 22 but that is not an issue. Your interest in my
mum shows you are probably concerned not only for her welfare but that you
are seeking expression for your own curiosity about bondage. Your situation
is curiosity-driven; my mother's is reality. You are wondering what it would
be like to be chained while mum is trying to come to terms with s lifetime
in chains.
"It appears you and my mother are a study in contrasts - you at the
exploratory end and my mother at the receiving end - and, yes, I think you
two should meet, subject to my mother's approval and her doctor's
recommendation.
"I'm running off a bit at the mouth, Jayne, but let's think about what I
just said," Peter said finally, speaking with a mature candor that belied
his 19 years.
Peter's achingly straightforward talk about his mother and himself gave
Jayne an uncommon sense of continuance and well-being. She considered
herself a "liberated" young woman of the 1970s but their heartfelt talk and
revelations were leading her into another realm for which she was
unprepared. She needed a man, physically and emotionally, and she felt
herself being drawn to this young sailor.
"You must have done well in English studies during your school years,
Peter," she asked politely. "Yes, straight Bs in oral, reading and writing
comprehension and expression," he replied, wondering at the sudden change of
subject. "Thank you for asking."
"It shows," she said with a quiet smile. "You have an excellent command of
the English language and you can communicate your thoughts very well. Maybe
you should be a writer. Or a journalist?"
Peter laughed and said: "Nay, dear lady, I signed on for 12 years in the
'andrew' and I've got 10 to go. What happens in that 'tenner' is hard to
say. Right now, I'm just looking after mum and me and Phil as best I can."
Jayne was inwardly pleased with the self-confident articulation of this
young sailor seated beside her and she hoped they would become fast friends,
possibly lovers.
It was only their first date, however, and she was going to
play it cool and reel this guy in slowly. She wanted him and she also wanted
to speak to his mother about her needs to be restrained in steel.
Their first date passed all too quickly and, soon, it was "Last Call" in the
trendy little bar on the 12th floor of an upscale high-rise hotel near the
waterfront. Peter and Jayne walked out, arm in arm, and Peter hailed a taxi
to take Jane home to her parents' house in rural Hampshire, about 15 miles
outside Portsmouth. The two snuggled in the back seat as the little black
Austin purred along the main highway to the city outskirts and turned right
off the A-3 onto a small, dark country lane. Peter noticed Jayne was not
wearing a bra as he traced the outside curve of her soft, shapely 36-C
breasts with his fingers, much to the delight of Jayne, while the taxi
driver concentrated on the road ahead.
Jayne squeezed against peter's muscular frame and pressed her breasts hard
against his chest as she swung her arms around his tanned neck, embracing
him tightly.
Hold me tightly," Jayne whispered as the taxi motored on. Jayne's
relationship with Peter was about to begin - but not before Peter's
temporary duty to an aircraft carrier sent into the western Atlantic.
AND THEN . . . .
Monday morning, Peter and Phil were ordered pack their bags and ship out to
HMS Hermes to participate in the US Bicentennial celebrations in New York
City, July 4, 1976, where they both hoped to see the newly-constructed World
Trade Center towers -- the twin pylons of prosperity that dominated lower
Manhattan and New York City harbor. Jayne had agreed she would write to
Peter three times a week as long as he wrote back faithfully. Jayne and
Peter's budding love affair quickly became a long-distance exchange of
torrid sex-and-romance letters during the carrier's three-month deployment
and when Peter wrote back saying they were due to return to Portsmouth at
the end of July, Jayne wanted to surprise him the best way she knew.
She would wear her new, long summer skirt -- and her ankle chains -- for the
first time in public. She would not tell Peter and he would make his own
discoveries when they met again in a few weeks.
Jayne had purchased the long, gracefully flowing summer dress from a trendy
shop in downtown Portsmouth while Peter was away and tried it on in her room
the day she bought it to see if the ankle-length hemline would cover her
ankle shackles. Slipping out of her blue jeans and T-shirt and into her
long, off-white light summer dress, she knelt and snapped the heavy chains
on her ankles with practised ease. Standing in front of her full-size
bedroom mirror, she smoothed the dress down and checked with a critical eye
to make sure the hemline covered the shackles. Satisfied it did, even when
she took full, 18-in. steps, she stopped, knelt again and unlocked the
shackles again.
She then went out to the dining room table, sat and wrote a long, romantic
letter back to Peter saying she would meet the ship when it docked in HM
Dockyard, Portsmouth, on the scheduled date and that she wanted to take him
on an all-expenses-paid trip to London that weekend during which time, she
hoped, he could arrange for her to see his mum in Scotland if he had enough
leave.
Peter got her airmail at sea a couple of days later, found a quiet spot on
the hangar deck, read it through and through and wrote back immediately
giving Jayne the public details of the ship's estimated time of arrival in
the dockyard. After his request for seven days' out-of-port long leave was
approved in the ship's regulating office, he then was able to confirm Jayne
could meet his mother, in rural western Scotland, and that his mother was
looking forward to meeting her, despite Isabel's convalescence in bondage.
Peter also wrote the hope their budding relationship would turn into
something mutually more serious and, ever ambitious, he quietly planned to
look for a diamond ring for Jayne after the ship returned.
Plans for the Isabel - Jayne - Peter family gathering were set well before
HMS Hermes turned bows eastward toward the UK in late July and young Peter
started inquiring of his older shipmates about how and where to buy a
suitable diamond ring for his fiancee-to-be.
"Check the shops at Knightsbridge," he was told. "Pricey, you bet, but
that's where you'll find the 'rock' for her."
Meanwhile, as the aircraft carrier was crossing the Atlantic, Jayne spent
hours each night practising her sexy, new walk in chained ankles. She hoped
not to draw attention to herself when she ventured into public for the first
time in chains to meet Leading Seaman Peter Metcalfe when HMS Hermes was to
berth at HM Dockyard, Portsmouth, in just two short weeks. The only drawbacks, she noted,
were the obvious, shorter strides she had to take and the occasional clink
and clatter of the chains on the floor.
She was determined, however, to wear her chains to greet the ship on its
return, realizing, too, there probably would be hundreds on the dock with
her but she didn't care; her fantasies had brewed long enough and now, she
wanted to give Peter her strongest message yet about her desire to explore
this powerful bondage fantasy to the fullest, with him and, she hoped, his
mother, as soon as possible.
WHERE'ER YOU WALK
August 7, 1976, dawned grey and misty over Portsmouth harbor as Hermes
steamed into the Solent and met the four naval tugboats that would nudge the
big carrier into its berth.
Jayne had been up since 6:30 a.m., with her parents out of town on a
business trip, had listened to the vessel-traffic update on BBC Radio One
and was showered, chained, dressed and ready to go by 8:30 a.m., well before
the 11 a.m. arrival of the big, light-grey aircraft carrier alongside.
She had already packed a bag for a week-long tryst she had arranged in
London and the planned trip to western Scotland with her handsome,
6-ft.,sailor. She checked once to make sure the keys to her ankle chains
were on the nighttable beside her overnight bag before she went into the
kitchen for tea and toast. After cleaning up from her light snack, she
checked her appearance as well as her securely-chained ankles in the hallway
mirror for the last time, nabbed her bag from her bedroom, and clinked
quickly out of the house for the first time. She locked the front door and
stepped out into the bright morning sunlight, her chains rattling quietly on
the wood front porch as she stepped down onto the front walk. She had
practised walking in chains for almost two years, inside the house only, and
had become quite proficient at disguising her snubbed strides. Or so she
thought.
There was no one about as she quickly and easily walked the short distance
to her little Ford Escort and, looking to her left and right, slipped into
the righthand driver's seat awkwardly, sitting on the seat first, then
pulling her legs in after her.
"This is going to take some work," Jayne said to herself, annoyed, as she
smoothed her long dress under her. She then started up, reversed and drove
down the narrow, old rural road that branched to the busy A-3 London -
Portsmouth throughway.
Her adventure in steel bondage was about to begin -and the keys to her ankle
chains were exactly where she had left them - sitting on her nighttable,
forgotten in her excitement to get to the naval dockyard's carrier berth.
The 45-minute drive into Portsmouth was uneventful and she glanced at her
ankles from time to time, noticing the little pile of sturdy grey-silver
links on the floor between her shoes. She minded the 80 km/h speed limit all
the way, mindful she did not want to be pulled over and ticketed for
speeding, chained the way she was.
No one could see them, anyway, she thought, particularly those
"cock-and-eyeball" truck drivers in rigs that towered over her little car,
and she became more confident she would pull this little caper off easily.
In the city, she followed the roadsigns to HM Dockyard, stopped at the
vehicular traffic gate and showed ID to the military policeman standing
there and was directed to the large public parking lot about a quarter-mile
away from the aircraft carrier's berth. She found a spot, looked at her
watch and saw Hermes, with crew members lining the flight deck, off in the
harbor approaches in the bright summer sunlight. The distant, stirring
strains of "Viscount Nelson," a naval march she recognized, reached her ears
from the Band of HM Royal Marines, playing their hearts out on the flight
deck as the big carrier drew nearer.
She had about a half-hour to walk the distance to the milling, happy crowd
on the jetty and figured she had lots of time. This was to be her first long
venture in public with chained ankles -- in HM Dockyard, of all places --
and she became apprehensive as women, children and others walked by her car
en route to watch the carrier come in to greet their husbands, fathers and
sons.
She waited until the crowd thinned a bit, then stepped out of the car,
taking time to make sure her dress fell back properly around her ankles,
locked her door and stepped out toward the dock, her chains making a light
clink and clatter on the stone pavement. She pressed on, resolute in her
18-in.-strides, and thought she might be cutting the time pretty short. She
noticed her shorter strides made her hips swivel more than usual in her
haste, and her braless breasts to sway sexily underneath her light top, but
she pressed on, arriving at the dock exerted by her quarter-mile walk - her
first -- with short, chained strides. No one gave her a second glance as she
squeezed her way past women, boys and girls to find a vantage point near the
jetty's big, red bollards.
She had about 10 minutes to spare. The carrier, about 200 yards off the
dock, was being nudged slowly alongside by four tugs and she looked hard for
Peter, handsome in his square rig, among the hundreds of other sailors and
marines lining the flight-deck perimeter.
She thought she saw him. There. Look! That sailor, up there, ninth, maybe
10th from the left, among the Royal Marines near the island superstructure.
"Peter! Peter!! Over here," she called out, waving her arm. Peter saw Jayne
from his position high up on the flight deck by the island and waved back,
blowing her a kiss only as the crew were forbidden to call back to their
loved ones on the dock. A light onshore breeze rumpled her dress and she
struggled quickly to ensure her hemline did not blow up past her ankles. She
was becoming more self-conscious about her self-bondage but everyone else
around her was looking out for their loved ones as the big, light-grey mass
of the aircraft carrier loomed closer.
After a lifetime of manoeuvres, shouted and repeated orders and
linehandling, the 23,000-ton carrier and its crew of 2,000 were finally
alongside and gangways were noisily rigged fore and aft for officers and
other ranks respectively.
Peter signalled and mouthed for Jayne to make her way towards the after
gangway, which she did, and moments later she stood at the foot of the
steep, narrow steel gangway, wondering how she was going to climb in long
dress and chains.
Bravely, she stepped forward just as she heard a little boy's voice behind:
"Garn, lookit, marm; that lady's got chains or summat on her legs. She a
prisoner or summat?"
The boy's mother quickly told him to hush and Jayne, blushing deeply,
pretended not to hear as she continued to make her careful way up the narrow
gangway, wincing as her chains caught and clattered on the steel
reinforcement pads built into the gangway deck. Arriving at the top of the
gangway a full minute later, puffing, she was forced to hop a two-ft. step
down onto the deck of the aircraft carrier. She took a breath, closed her
eyes and hopped down with a metallic clash as her chain met the steel
plating, her braless breasts bobbling violently under her dress, to the
delight of the gangway staff.
Above, the Royal Marines band was playing stirring naval music on the flight
deck as families and friends of the ship's company trooped on board around
Jayne.
The smiling, young quartermaster was at her side in an instant. He saluted
her, as a naval compliment, and politely asked: "May I help yer, mizz?"
"Yes, could you please call Leading Seaman Metcalfe, of the commandos, to
the gangway? Thank you," she said, above the strains of the naval march "On
the Quarterdeck."
"Aye, aye, mizz," he replied, and walked smartly over to the nearby ship's
"tannoy" (internal broadcast) microphone and repeated her request, "Leading
Seaman Metcalfe, of the commandos, brow," that resounded throughout the
aircraft carrier, much to Jayne's surprise.
Moments later, Peter appeared, red-faced and perspiring from his 50-yard
dash from his position on the flight deck to the after gangway. Their
three-months' absence and steady stream of correspondence had deepened each
other's knowledge, respect and affection and they were overjoyed to see each
other again.
Peter took Jayne's hand, clutching it to his uniformed chest, and gave her a
passionate, welcoming kiss in front of the small groups of people clustered
round the gangway.
Jayne and Peter turned and looked upward at the deckhead as the Royal
Marines band, on the flight deck above, struck up a stirring slow march,
"Where'er You Walk," by G. F. Handel. Jayne recognized it instantly from her
elementary-school music studies and her heart thrilled, clutching Peter's
right hand, as she repeated the sublime words to herself:
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade.
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where'er you turn your eyes.
The band completed its splendid rendition of the operatic interlude and
Peter, looking at his sweetheart, quietly classified the musical moment and
their sentimental reunion a defining instant that augured well for their
relationship. Jayne sniffed as she wiped a tear from her eye. She managed a
brave smile for Peter who was, himself, moved by poignancy of their
intimate, little moment on the crowded aircraft carrier gangway.
Jayne felt a little embarrassed wearing ankle chains this day but she was
here, they were on her ankles and the key was sitting on her nighttable at
home, about 40 miles away, in rural Hampshire. The key was the last thing on
her mind right now.
"I've got to go below and get changed, Jayne," Peter said urgently. "Will
you come down with me or wait up here?"
Jayne thought for a moment and considered she would have some difficulty
negotiating the ladders and hatches with her chained ankles. Finally, she
said, "Yes, I'll come below but I can't very well descend ladders and all
with my dress and . . . . "
"No problem, sweetheart, the crew's recreation space is just one deck below
and . . . . "
"Peter, my ankles are chained," she whispered in his ear. "I put them on
specially for you today."
Peter was nonplussed but quickly rallied: "Wait 'ere, Jayne; I'll do the
fastest change into civvies you've ever seen."
With that, and a peck on the cheek, he disappeared down a passageway and
re-emerged just three minutes later, wearing blazer, dress shirt, slacks and
loafers, his hair neatly combed and a splash of Aqua Velva leaving a
telltale scent.
He was ready to go ashore; he deposited his station card and a copy of his
leave form in the crew's large peg-board at the gangway and took Jayne's
hand to guide her back down the long, steep gangway.
In a few minutes, Jayne and Peter were back, safely and together, at Jayne's
little Ford Escort in the parking lot about a quarter-mile away.
Jayne's ankles had begun to ache a little but she was determined not to let them
bother her.
Things had happened incredibly fast for both young people and it was Jayne
who took charge:
"I've reserved a double room for us in the Europa Hotel in Grosvenor Square,
London, as my welcome-home for you, Peter. I've been planning this for weeks
and . . . . "
"Let's go, Jayne," Peter replied happily. "I've got a weeks' out-of-port
leave, meaning I, er we, can go up home to Scotland, too, if you want. I've
written mum, she's doing well and she is looking forward to meeting you, oh,
yes!"
It was the opportunity Jayne had hoped for. She, too, had booked a week off
at Barclay's in anticipation of the reunion and she smiled happily as she
unlocked the driver's door and slid behind the wheel, smoothing her dress
underneath as she reached over to unlock the left-hand passenger door for
Peter who threw his attache cased into the back seat and slid in.
Jayne started up the little white car and they were off to the A-3 and the
City of London, about an hour away.
Traffic was light on the bustling, four-lane highway and Jayne and Peter
talked about themselves, their lives, their jobs, their passions and each
other. Before they knew it, Jayne had driven up to the front door of the
Europa Hotel and parked. Jayne got easily out of her door and the valet
carried their bags into the lobby where Jayne and Peter registered as Mrs.
And Mrs. Metcalfe, of Portsmouth, England, for two nights.
Jayne now could feel the11/2-pound weight of her chains on her ankles as she
walked, as quietly as she could on Peter's arm, to the elevator and ascended
to the 6th floor. Their bags were already in the room and Peter and Jayne
were alone for the first time in many weeks.
Jayne wandered casually over to the huge picture window overlooking a busy
London street and Peter walked up beside her, put his powerful arm around
her waist and held her closely.
"Jayne, I would like us to take our relationship a step further these next
few days and I hope you will approve of what I am about to tell you," Peter
said quietly.
"I've been searching for the right woman for many months now -
someone I can share my life, my past, present and future with -- and I am
hoping that person is you. I have picked out a diamond ring for you at a
jeweller's in Knightsbridge . . . contacted the store by airmail at sea and
they have set aside a big engagement ring for us, er, you.
"I would like you to wear a diamond as a symbol of my everlasting love and
affection for you. I'm hoping we will find time to pop down to
Knightsbridge, maybe not today, but while we're up here. I've been saving my
pay since we left the US and . . . . "
Jayne smiled shyly and held him closely, her ankle chains making a small
rustle as she slid her body into his manly curves.
"Not so fast, sailor," she said lightly. "I want you to see you in bed first
and then we'll see about this ring; and yes, Peter, I accept your
engagement. I, too, have been looking for the right man and I hope I have
found him today.
"I would love to marry you," she said softly.
With those passionate, enduring words, Jayne took the initiative and reached
behind her dress, slid the long zipper down her back and let her long white
dress slip off her shoulders to the carpeted floor, revealing her chained
nudity to Peter's eyes for the first time.
Peter's eyes were drawn instantly to Jayne's and he passionately embraced
her, his thick cock rising to the occasion. He kissed her once, twice, three
times, and began to explore inner and outer curves of her neck and moved
downward to her rising, hardened pink nipples. Looking down further still,
he caught his first glimpse of the cool silver-grey shackles adorning his
woman's ankles. Jayne had her feet about 12-in. apart and the heavy steel
manacles rested just above her ankle bones, small pink abrasions and
indentations showing from her half-mile walk in the dockyard.
"Jayne aren't those heavy for you to wear hours on end? My word, they look
heavy to me."
"Mmm," Jayne said quietly, "not really," as she returned his embrace in
front of the big, curtained front window of their 6th-floor hotel room.
Five minutes later, they were making passionate love in the big, soft double
bed, Peter's deep thrusts bringing Jayne to a series of ear-burning,
eye-watering orgasms she had yet experienced.
Too soon, it was over and the lovers lay in each other's arms, gasping for
breath and feeling each other's overheated bodies for the first time.
Peter was semi-erect after his draining orgasm and Jayne wanted more. She
turned around and straddled his hips, bouncing athletically up and down a
couple of times to lubricate Peter's now-rigid cock, then pulled off and
slid forward slightly before sitting down on him firmly again, impaling her
pussy with her own strength.
Peter, now fully astonished at the sexual drive and physical prowess of this
demure, chained bank teller, lay back and engaged Jayne's eyes as never
before. Jayne, now fully seated and rocking back and forth, the entire,
11-in. length of Peter's ramrod-hard cock nestling deep inside her, bent
forward, her 36-C breasts pendulous against Peter's chest, and kissed him
hard on the lips. She pumped him dry a second time and both held each other
tightly as the bed creaked and rocked with their wild poundings.
Jayne made a mental note of the four mind-blowing orgasms she had in the one
hour of animated lust that swept up Peter and Jayne into a frenzy of sexual
energy and emotion.
Exhausted, bathed in sweat and panting, Jayne caressed Peter's muscular
chest and both were silent, considering the enormous sexual energy each had
just depleted. Jayne stretched her ankles slowly, savoring the clutch of the
warm steel on her ankles, as Peter caressed the sensuous, inner planes of
her shapely thighs and breasts.
"Mmm," Jayne said finally. "And what do you think of my chains anyway? All
you have said was you thought they were heavy. I can easily solve that by
simply unlocking them. I packed the key in my bag."
With that, Jayne threw back the bedsheet, slid out of bed, clinked her way
over to her bag and dug through the contents, looking for that special, old
key that would free her.
After a minute of more hectic searching and digging, she announced: "The
key! It's not here. I must have left it at home. Oh, dear, and that's almost
two hours' away.
"Oh, Peter, dear, would you mind awfully if I continued to wear them for a
little while, at least until we can get back to mum and dad's, so I can
unlock myself?"
"No, not at all, Jayne; in fact, you look extraordinarily sexy in them and
I'm glad they do not bother you at all. I love the way they make you walk
and move. And make love!!"
Jayne smiled and nodded, proud over her self, finally, that she had worn her
antique shackles for her man after all -- and that he had approved. She,
too, had felt the hardened-steel manacles on her ankles throughout their
passionate lovemaking and felt, for a fleeting moment, like that harem girl
of her dreams years ago.
"You know, I don't think I want to go back home to get that key after all,
Peter," Jayne said after a short pause. "I've wanted to know for many years
what steel bondage felt like. What making mad, passionate love with a man I
am deeply in love with felt like. And now I know.
"Now, please understand I'm not your typical submissive slavegirl who asks
to be bound and fucked at every turn; far from it. I'm just a rather
ordinary woman with a rather extraordinary fantasy about being bound in
steel -- as long as that person who binds me is someone like you, someone I
care about and have a caring relationship with."
"Jayne, you have this admirable, disarming quality for being so frank about
your inner self - your fantasies, your sexuality and your personality,"
Peter said, rolling onto his left side to face her. His cock became more
tumescent as he caught her ankle chain in the his toes and toyed with them
briefly, bringing a smile of delight to Jayne's tousled, pretty face.
Jayne untangled her chain from his right foot, slithered out of the bed with
a rustle of steel and headed to the bathroom in her short strides to tidy up
for their trip into Knightsbridge, London's fashionable shopping district.
Peter heard her chains clash on the bathtub as she stepped into shower and
was immediately turned on by the sound of rushing water and clinking chain
and Jayne turned this way and that, soaping her fine, athletic body. He
imagined her feeling the hot water run down her firm body in rivulets as his
semen oozed out of her deepest love passage.
Ten minutes later, she emerged in a mid-length terrycloth hotel dressing
gown, her hair in a towel, and sat in front of the large-mirrored dressing
table to re-do her makeup.
It was, after all, a pretty strenuous afternoon and she had to look her best
for Peter when they went shopping.
"Peter, darling, do you think my ankle shackles make me look sluttish?"
Jayne asked semi-seriously. "I've never worn them this long before and I'm
wondering what you think."
Five-hundred miles to the northwest, Isabel Metcalfe, Peter's mother, was
looking critically at her reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror.
She, too, asked the same question. "Do these chains make me look like a
slut? Like a whore? Or like a slave?" she asked herself aloud. "Ah, woman;
thy name is vanity,' he said softly, turning this way and that, looking at
her face, body and the chains that clutched her at neck, wrists, nipples,
vagina and ankles.
Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe, recently turned 36, was alone and widowed after a
miraculous rescue from captivity in the East African desert in early 1976.
Several months previously, she and her best friend, Moira MacPeak, were
drugged by slavers and collared; their wrists were chained; their ankles
were chained; a 30-in. chain connected their ankle chain to a vaginal ring
placed in them under anaesthesia; then their nipples were pierced and
chained before they were given enormous (48G from 38C) breast-augmentation
surgery (read The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira) -- all in
preparation for their sale as beasts of burden in the Ushwant desert.
Fourteen months ago, on June 11, 1975, she had arrived home with ankle
shackles and nipple rings mysteriously welded on her following alien
encounter (see Through Night to Light) just down the road from home.
Her experiences, and her chains, would have driven another woman to drink,
drugs or worse. But Isabel was resolute.
She lifted her 12-in. handcuffed wrists to her huge, heavy breasts for the
second time in a moment and said, aloud:
"I am chained at wrist and ankle -- but I am not a slave.
"I have these great tits for a man's eye -- but I will never be a slut.
"My pussy and nipples are pierced and chained -- but I still seek pleasure
there.
"I am still Isabel Metcalfe," she whispered. "I'm still alive and vibrant in
this body and I am cared for by my sons, my doctors and my friends. I will
go on, despite all this metal and everything I have endured until now. I
must remain strong for Peter, for Phil, for Moira and for myself. I must!!"
She wiped a tear from her slim, tanned and lovely face as she turned to the
bedroom, the clink of chains between her legs and wrists playing their
percussive songs for her again.
From the living-room radio, Anna Moffo was singing the immortal "Un bel di
verdremo" from Puccini's Madama Butterfly. The haunting crescendo of
passion, heartbreak, promise and loneliness filled her little white bungalow
with anguish and longing as Cio-Cio-san sang her heart out waiting futilely
for her unfaithful lover, Lieutenant Pinkerton, to return.
Outside, clouds gathered on the grey, rugged Scottish landscape. Isabel felt
alone and utterly bereft.
"No, Jayne," Peter replied to his beautiful woman, sitting at the dresser in
front of him in their Grosvenor Square hotel room. "You most certainly do
not look like a slut, to me or to anyone else, for that matter. If ankle
shackles are an expression of your sexual identity, and you desire to wear
them, then so be it. I have accepted them, as I hope you will, in the long
term. And if I may say, Miss Beresford-Smythe, you look absolutely smashing
in them. They look made for you, you wear them well and you look more
womanly, more lovely, than ever in them to me."
"Thank you, Peter," Jayne replied. "I wore them specially for today - and
for myself and you - and I appreciate your thoughts and your kindness . . .
." She came around to him and kissed him lightly on the cheeks and neck and
Peter felt a thrill of arousal course through his 19-year-old loins once
again.
"Are we going out this afternoon?" Jayne asked coquettishly, eyeing the
bulge in the bedsheets between his legs.
"Yes, let's go," Peter replied, as he hurried into the bathroom to shower
and clean up.
Half an hour later, they were downstairs in the lobby, listening to a quiet
Schubert violin trio on the piped-in music system while they waited for a
cab. Peter was dressed as before, in blazer, white shirt, grey flannels and
shiny black loafers; Jayne wore a beige, almost floor-length summer dress
with a small slit up the left that showed intriguing glances of her ankle
shackle and its chain as she sinuously walked across the carpeted,
mahogany-panelled foyer.
A business-suited elderly gentleman harrumphed from behind his Financial
Times in the plush lobby armchair as Jayne rustled by on her lover's arm.
"These women today. Gadsir, what they wear and why they wear them, chains of
all things, is beyond me," he said to himself, after he caught a glimpse of
Jayne's chains over the pages of his paper. Snorting and snuffling, he went
back to his stocks and bonds listings.
Outside the brass-framed glass front doors, the boxy, black Austin taxi
pulled up smartly and Peter gallantly helped Jayne into the spacious back
seat, calling out "39 Cromwell Place South, Knightsbridge, please." Jayne
had heard of the address before and knew it was one of the most-expensive
gemstone and jewellery stores in Knightsbridge with rings starting at 500
pounds.
Jayne cuddled Peter's right arm and smiled, knowing herself to be loved and
looked after by this handsome, young sailor. She hoped she was equal to the
events and commitment that lay ahead.
BACK TO ISABEL
"What to wear? What to wear?" Isabel said resignedly. "Peter and his new
girlfriend are coming up early next week and I have to take two days to
decide what to wear. All because of these blasted chains!"
The heavy, implacable silver chains, affixed permanently to her wrists,
bosom and ankles, together with her new, 48G-25-36 figure acquired during
her slavery days, had significantly reduced the type of clothing she could
wear.
Weeks ago she had sadly given away all her lovely silk blouses her late
husband was so fond of, realizing she could no longer put them on ever
again, chained as she was. Trousers, slacks pantsuits and blue jeans were
obviously things of the past.
She could wear skirts and some specially-tailored dresses to drape down to
her ankle shackles and cover that pesky, 30-in.-long perpendicular chain to
her vaginal ring, if she chose, but her tops were limited to the halters and
tube-tops favored by younger women in the summer.
She was also extremely limited in the underwear department: her one-and-only
38C underwire bra was now in the trashcan after Isabel had tried painfully
to squeeze her heavy, new breasts into it. She had never liked underwires in
the first place and tossed the garment, deciding last week she would do
exercises and go braless indefinitely, if need be.
Panties and tights, too, were out of the question but she felt she had
better get used to the cool, free feel under her dresses and skirts that
shocked her in the cool Scottish mornings that also made her chains feel
damp and clammy against her warm flesh.
Flicking through her garment rack, she finally picked out a dark-blue,
knee-length rayon dress, with a low back and neck loop, to wear for Peter's
and Jayne's arrival in a couple of days. Placing it neatly on the bed, she
checked it over although she knew it would fit very snugly on her bosom.
The dress passed Isabel's critical examination and she held it against her,
looking once again in the bedroom mirror to try and recall what her
38C-25-36 figure she had last year, before it was so dramatically and sexily
remodelled, against her wishes, by that mad surgeon in northern Scotland in
the fall of 1975 (details in The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira).
Somewhat satisfied she had made the right choice, she pulled her dressing
gown more closely around her shoulders with her chained hands and phoned her
friend, Moira, to discuss the reports they had received recently from her
family physician and psychologist.
Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak had been admitted to Royal Edinburgh
Hospital for observation, tests and assessments after their kidnapping and
rescue The specialists found them to be in good physical condition but the
36- and 34-year-old women clearly had been psychologically traumatized by
their seven-months' slavery, the rescue, escape and the deaths of their
husbands in the Ushwant desert.
Nevertheless, they were responding well to therapy at the offices of Dr.
Peter Hayward and Dr. Eoin MacDougall, the best clinical psychologists in
Edinburgh, and the doctors were treating their Isabel and Moira with the
utmost respect, professionalism and confidentiality as their sexy patients
had poured their hearts out to them.
The clinicians, who had taken copious notes, had agreed the women's accounts
of their epic desert adventures had reached the limits of human will and
endurance.
They were touched by the women's uncompromising details which underscored
the determination, fortitude, and resourcefulness that brought them through
to the end and back home, chained but still safe.
Doctor Hayward and Doctor MacDougall, both single in their late-30s, found
it challenging not to become emotionally attached to Isabel and Moira as
their stories deepened and details emerged of their harrowing bondage and
exploits in the desert. But always pleasantly professional and highly
ethical, the psychologists recognized early on they were probably dealing
with post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms and organized and phrased their
therapy and question-and-answer periods around that primary diagnosis.
Dr. Hayward told Isabel at their first meeting his goals were to establish
trust, safety, and to "earn a right to gain access" to her
carefully-guarded, traumatic thoughts and memories. Dr. Hayward leaned
forward in his chair, engaging Isabel's sad, haunted eyes and said:
"Mrs. Metcalfe, you and Moira clearly have been to hell and back. I, as your
psychologist, am here to help you and I want you to remember this. Starting
today, you and I are will be taking a trip, so to speak, into the innermost
reaches of your memory, your recollections and thoughts, your experiences,
your value systems - your inner self. And we will get there together by
following a recognized, trauma-focused program that will allow me to explore
your 'traumatic material' in depth."
Isabel pushed her handcuffs away from her wristbone and eased her steel
collar up her neck slightly for comfort as Dr. Hayward continued:
"Mrs. Metcalfe, we will concentrate on your 'intrusive recollections' and
thereby assist you in disconnecting from the trauma and reconnecting with
your family, your friends and society.
Isabel had a few questions about the duration and number of office visits he
anticipated (three times a week for 26 weeks, at least); the cost (covered
by the National Health Service), and what he thought she should wear to his
office (his secretary had given her a envious glance when she first clinked
into the reception/waiting area a week ago. Dr. Hayward insisted Isabel
should wear whatever she chose and that he would have a polite, firm word
with Miss Primm, his secretary.
He wrote a 60-day prescription with repeats of 20 mg imipramine, an
antidepressant she would take three times a day to help ward off her
nightmares, anxieties and reclusiveness.
Dr. Hayward extended his right hand kindly and Isabel shook it gladly,
grateful that she was early on the road to recovery.
Isabel's and Moira's next office consultations were in four days and now
Isabel was looking forward to her reunion with Peter and Jayne in two days,
a far-better antidote than the brain-numbing little pills she choked down at
breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Isabel, dressed in blue-denim skirt, halter top and sandals, clinked and
clattered out of the bedroom to the living room and slipped into her
favorite easy chair, turned off the radio, flipped on the telly, put her
chained feet heavily up on the ottoman, crossed her ankles and watched the
dreary Saturday afternoon BBC broadcasts on a rainy, cool afternoon in early
August.
Gloom shadowed her tanned, slim face but she brightened slightly at the
thought of seeing Peter and Jayne, for the first time, early next week.
Once again, she reached over with her chained hands to the coffee table with
the three-page letter from Royal Edinburgh Hospital to her psychologist
concerning the observations, tests and assessments a team of experts had run
on her and Moira recently.
Isabel put on her reading glasses and pored over the precise, professional
prose.
ROYAL EDINBURGH HOSPITAL
Morningside Terrace
Edinburgh, Scotland EH10 5H5
July 5, 1976
Dr. Peter Hayward, PhD (psych.)
The Medical Centre
High Street
Edinburgh, Scotland EH09 5K4
Dear Doctor Hayward: References: Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe
NHS No.5357620-26781
Thank you for referring this pleasant, 36-year-old woman to us for
investigation and assessment with respect to surgical removal of steel rings
and chains from her breasts and labia majora.
Mrs. Metcalfe was seen by members of our x-ray department,
obstetrics/gynaecology unit, Dr. Peter Smith, a plastic surgeon, and Dr.
Norbert Kraft, an orthopaedics/ neurology specialist, during her July 3 - 5,
1976, in-patient stay at this hospital.
The specialists' reports are attached (26 pages).
X-rays were done first to define the positions, depth and breadth of the
metal-rings' insertions and the radiologist's report, and recommendations,
are attached. The ob/gyn specialist, who conducted a complete workup and
pelvic examination, shows she is not pregnant but was subject to rigorous
sexual activity at least three months ago with no infirmities that require
medical attention. Her report provides all information on the tests,
observations and conclusions as well as recommendations for further
follow-up consultation.
The report by Doctor Smith concludes it will be virtually impossible to
remove the apparently surgically-implanted rings and chains without risking
permanent nerve damage and disfigurement to underlying nipple, breast and
vaginal tissue. The nipple rings, which are connected by a 14-in. chain,
were inserted by cautery or other high-heat process, and although the pierce
wounds, close to the aureolae, have healed fully, removal of the 3/16th-in.
thick rings would require deep incisions thereby risking nerve and
structural trauma. As well, her pair of vaginal rings, the lower of which is
connected by chain to her unusual ankle shackles, are deeply imbedded with
bilateral, surgically-precise labial incisions, and the surgeons have
recommended leaving them in place for the same reasons.
She reports normal sensations to pinprick, touch and warmth at these areas
presently.
Further, it is well-recognized in medical literature that axillary
breast-augmentation implant removal carries severe risk of nerve damage,
disfigurement and post-operative complications. As her breasts and saline
implants are healthy by all assessments, and causing her no distress, it is
also recommended not to intervene surgically. The patient concurs. Doctor
Smith has also recommended leaving the healed, one-in.-square brand of a
cursive Ushwanti ideogram which appears on the interior lateral of her left
breast. Removal and skin graft would cause more disfigurement than
necessary. Mrs. Metcalfe concurs.
Dr. Kraft, in his report, has appended a list of exercises, including pelvic
floor muscle-group strengthening manoeuvres, lower-back strengthening
measures and vaginal dilatation with stents. She is recommended for a
program of physical therapy to ensure the appropriate muscle groups are
toned and strengthened to adapt to her changed posture and gait imposed by
her steel restraints and large, submuscular breast implants; although, he
observes, she has very little problem walking, lifting, sitting or
exercising at this time and is in good physical form. Dr. Kraft estimates
Mrs. Metcalfe's chains, shackles and rings weigh a total of 2.2 kg (4.84
pounds) and her breast implants each weigh 2.0 kg (4.4 pounds = 8.8 pounds).
These additional, disproportionate weights on on her small frame will
require Mrs. Metcalfe to undertake a regime of physical conditioning and
weight training which are, of course, in her best interests.
The hospital tried every means at its disposal to sever the rings, wrist and
ankle shackles and collar by mechanical means and by a specially-prepared
cutting torch but her attachments defied each of the 15 attempts. On
magnified examination afterwards, in fact, no marks could be identified
where the cuttings took place.
The hospital is aware the metallurgy division of the University of Edinburgh's
engineering faculty has done scientific and spectroscopic studies of Mrs.
Metcalfe's shackles and has not been able to identify the metal in the Periodic
Table of Elements.
Mrs. Metcalfe was advised of our medical assessments, diagnoses and
recommendations and informed Dr. Smith and Dr. Kraft she would discuss the
reports further with you at your earliest convenience.
Mrs. Metcalfe, a cooperative, lucid and intelligent woman, informed us her
handcuffs, collar and leg shackles and appending chains were attached
without consent during an "alien encounter" in June 1975 and during a
subsequent kidnap to East Africa, from where she escaped earlier this year,
at the tragic cost of her husband's life.
Mrs. Moira MacPeak, a friend of Mrs. Metcalfe who was with her during that
time (and also lost her husband), was apparently chained and shackled in an
almost identical manner. Mrs. MacPeak was also examined by our staff and
specialists and their reports have been sent to her psychologist under
separate cover.
This information is being forwarded to assist in your ongoing efforts to
rehabilitate Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe from her psychological traumas in East
Africa during the past several months. She is welcome to telephone the
hospital at any time during business hours, 8 a.m. - 5:30 p.m., Monday -
Friday, and book an office consultation with any of the specialists she has
seen. We would be most happy to see her again and assist in any way we can.
I trust the foregoing, and attachments, will be satisfactory. If you need
further information, please do not hesitate to contact the undersigned.
Yours sincerely,
Haggis MacBagpipe
Haggis MacBagpipe, MD
Chief, Medical Services
attachments
cc - Dr. Eoin MacDougall, PhD (psych.), The Medical Centre
Dr. Michael Ledstone, PhD, MEng, University of Edinburgh
Isabel sighed and slipped Dr. MacBagpipe's three-page letter, with her
pencilled underlines, back on the stack of papers on her coffee table.
"Virtually impossible to remove the apparently surgically-implanted metal
rings and chains, eh?" she repeated to herself. "Nerve and structural trauma
risks? We'll see about that.
"There's more specialists around than those doctors. But then, those severe
post-op complications; aw-h-h-h, I don't know; maybe just leave 'em in until
I find another man who likes his woman chained and ringed up for good."
She reached for her small scotch and soda, popped her lunchtime "mip" as the
overture to "Coronation Street," her favourite "Geordie-land" soap-serial,
started up. She took off her eyeglasses and watched the hour-long show with
interest.
MEANWHILE . . .
Back in London, the taxicab had pulled up in front of the trendy
Knightsbridge jeweller's, Peter paid the driver and held Jayne's arm as she
slipped out of the cab with some effort, determined to hide her chains from
traffic along the busy Knightsbridge street and sidewalk packed with
Saturday afternoon shopper-gawkers.
Jayne smoothed her dress down and clinked her way up onto the sidewalk and
into the jewellery store. Inside, they were served by an efficient,
business-suited staff and after an hour of deliberation, choices and
decisions, Jayne and Peter had picked out a one-carat tulip gold ring, worth
1,000 pounds.
Peter paid for it on the spot with a billfold of American Express
travellers' cheques he had been carrying in anticipation of this big event.
"Oh, Peter, it's gorgeous; so big and so-o-o expensive!" Jayne cried. "Look
at the way it refracts the light inside. It glows!" She flung her arms
around him in front of the store staff who tried to avert their glances at
her impulsive display of affection and hugged him hard, sniffling into his
ear: "I love you, dearest, and I want to marry you as soon as we can."
"Jayne, will you marry me? Please?" Peter whispered, as the male and female
store staff looked on from a discreet distance, trying not to notice but
wishing they, too, were as young as this charming couple. One of the
salesladies, snuffling into a handkerchief at the spontaneous burst of joy,
noticed Jayne's left ankle shackle peeking out through her hemline but she
kept it to herself, wondering what sexy tricks this happy, young couple were
up to.
The transaction completed and with a bouquet of roses and champagne from the
store staff, together with an impromptu photo session with the sales staff
and store owner, Peter and Jayne left and strolled down Buckingham Palace
Road, looking at the Queen's residence in the grey distance where Peter and
his brother and the MacPeak boys had an appointment to be invested with the
Distinguished Service Medal.
"I feel as rich as 'Lillibet'," Jayne said, looking at Buckingham Palace in
the distance. "You could not have ever bought me greater pleasure,
satisfaction and joy as you have this day, Peter. I am deeply moved and I
will be forever grateful to you and for your love."
"You're welcome," he replied. They held hands as Peter slowed his pace to
match Jayne's progress down the busy thoroughfare. Jayne's chains had
disappeared from her consciousness.
An hour later they were back in their hotel room making plans for the trip
to Scotland next day and Jayne had decided to keep her chains on throughout.
Towards suppertime, Jayne put on her best long, low-cut evening gown for
Peter's attention and approval (he did) and they descended together, arm in
arm, top the lobby an dining room.
Jayne and Peter turned heads of diners and staff alike as they walked
gracefully into the dimly-lit, expensively-decorated and -appointed dining
area. After a sumptuous meal of Dover sole amandine, roast potatoes,
mixed-vegetable medley and an expensive Reisling, Peter and Jayne retired to
their hotel room to stretch out and watch a little telly before retiring.
Tomorrow would be a full day driving to Scotland and they wanted to be
well-rested for the trip ahead. As well, Jayne wanted to look her best for
her first presentation to Peter's attractive mother. Peter had shown her a
snap (on page 10) of his mum from earlier days and Jayne thought she was one
of the most attractive women she had ever seen.
Isabel's casual, light brown hair matched her hazel eyes and her slim face
and freckled complexion were visions of loveliness. Her bare shoulders
suggested delights only the photographer, Peter's late father, would know.
Isabel's gaze to the left suggested to Jayne a woman of determination, depth
and inner strength and conviction - a woman not to be trifled with, but a
woman to respected, loved an admired.
She was only 22 and began feeling a little anxious about meeting this
36-year-old widowed mother of two. Tomorrow.
Intent on another sexual interlude, the pair, exhausted from the day's
events, chose instead to slumber nude in each other's arms until the alarm
clock clattered them awake at 7 a.m.
Sunday, August 8, 1976, dawned cool and misty over the ancient City of
London as Peter and Jayne stirred to the early-morning light that
illuminated their expensive hotel room on the 6th floor of the Europa Hotel
at Grosvenor Square.
Jayne had not worn her long, light-blue nightgown to bed and it was still
neatly in place, folded at the foot of the bed, as the lovers had fallen
asleep in each other's arms early the night before, Jayne's chained ankles
tangled loosely around Peter's. Jayne got herself free and was up, showered
and dressed in her long, off-white sundress long before Peter emerged from
sleep and the shadows of Morpheus (the god of dreams in Ovid's
Metamorphoses).
At 8 a.m., Peter snapped awake and Jayne was quickly at his side, kissing
him intently into consciousness and arousal at the same time.
"Time to go, lover," she said. "Mrarf," Peter replied as he groggily swung
his long, muscular legs out of bed to greet the grey Sunday morning.
"Mraraf, er, g'mornin', Jayne; I loves yer wif all me strengths," he said
mock-Cockney style. "Gimme yer 'and, 'dere, ducks."
"And I loves yer, too, Peter; let's getcher dressed, down to brekkie and on
the High Road to Scotland.
"Hee, hee; Oh, Ye Tak' th' High Road, an' I'll Tak' the Low Road, an' I'll
be in Scotland
a-fo-o-re ye," Jayne lilted with a broad smile. "For me and my true love
will ne'er be the same, on the bonny, bonny road to Loch Lomond," Peter
chorused.
They hugged again and Jayne sat watching breakfast television on BBC while
Peter got ready.
Ten minutes later, they were in the dining room enjoying a sumptuous
breakfast of steamed, fresh kippers, fresh tomatoes, home fries, coffee and
toast with Stilton and marmalade. After breakfast, they returned to the room
where Peter called mum at home to inform her they were leaving.
They checked out and, seven hours later, were driving into the laneway of
the neat, little white bungalow in the highlands of western Scotland where
Isabel waited for them anxiously in the living room with tea and scones.
She had carefully washed her hair, put on her best makeup, lightly applied
with a deft, chained hand, and slipped easily into the little dark-blue,
low-backed dress she and her late husband, Peter, were so fond of during the
summer months.
She checked her appearance and fetching, deep decolletage in the hallway
mirror one last time and gave her big tits a skilful, little boost with her
chained hands as she heard their footsteps, and a distinct, familiar clatter
of chain, on the front step as Peter and Jayne walked up to the front door.
Isabel looked like a suntanned, trim, buxom and chained Hollywood starlet
with cleavage to die for and she was determined to let Peter and his fiancee
see her as she really was - a knockout - in her modest estimation. She wore
light-red lipstick, little makeup, a touch of eyeshadow and her new,
knee-length dress fit her sexy, braless body perfectly. Not overly sexy but
it did not diminish the sights of her magnificent bosom that contrasted
sharply with her small, five-ft. 4-in., 122-pound frame, or her chains, to
any degree.
Her steel collar on her slim, deeply-tanned neck, her sturdy, 12-in.
handcuffs and the long chain that depended from under her hemline to the
mid-point of her ankle chain made her look helpless and in difficulty but
the reality was different than the vision -- Isabel was determined not to
let her bondage and sexy, new body interfere with the happy reunion.
She smiled as she thought Peter's eyes would pop when he would see his
"new-look" mum but she was not sure how Jayne would react when she opened
the door.
A few seconds later, she found out: Peter hugged his mother affectionately
and gave her a warm kiss while Jayne, in her ankle chains, stood by
nervously. Isabel released Peter's neck from her chained handcuffs and
turned and extended both hands to Jayne in a warm handshake.
Jayne shook Isabel's right hand with a clatter and clash of chain from
Isabel's wrists and Isabel responded by clutching her to her soft bosom
instantly: the future mother-in-law's bond with prospective daughter-in-law
was beginning to form.
"Come in, come in, you two," Isabel chirped happily. "I want to hear and
know everything about you, Jayne; and Peter, about your trip to America, on
the Hermes, wasn't it? Come in and enjoy some tea and fresh scones."
The trio clinked and clashed their way along Isabel's immaculately-polished
hardwood floors to the plush-carpeted, quiet living room and sat on three
chairs close at hand.
Two hours later, after a few tears, much laughter and many frank and
colorful admissions from Jayne, Peter and Isabel, all three were fast
friends and becoming extremely fond of each other.
Isabel had introduced her oldest son to Jayne as her "hero" who, together
with her late husband, Peter Sr., and Graham MacPeak and his sons, Harry and
Hiram, had rescued her and her best friend, Moira Edna MacPeak, from their
slavery in the Ushwant desert.
Jayne and Peter looked agog and with tear-brimmed eyes as Isabel gently
tugged the bodice of her dress away from inner curve of her left breast to
show them her brand, a cursive Ushwanti ideogram meaning "slave - beast of
burden."
"Yes, the bastards branded Moira and me as slaves but they do not know, nor
will they ever know, that Scotswomen can never, ever, be subjugated or
indentured," Isabel said with conviction. "We are a proud people - always
have and forever will be - and I will never be known by, or called, by that
history-cursed word, 'slave', again."
She patted her dress back into position and continued:
"Fortunately, no one knows what the brand means; only someone who is
familiar with the Ushwanti alphabet may be able to decipher it, and that, my
dears, is my first, little secret of the night."
Jayne, at once appalled and excited about Isabel's brand and her comments,
had been wondering when she could interject with her questions about her
fantasy about steel bondage to Peter's now-experienced mum but demurred,
sensing the time would present soon enough.
Unknown to Jayne, Isabel had already recognized Jayne's unusual gait, to
which Isabel had become accustomed, and she, too, was waiting for the best
moment to talk about this lovely Hampshire bank teller's predilection to
steel bondage At the moment, Jayne was intent on getting to know this
lovely, chatty, chained Scottish beauty before her.
Isabel's eyes were soon drawn to the large stone on Jayne's ring finger.
"My what a beautiful ring that is, Jayne," Isabel said. "Are you two now
formally engaged? You haven't told me a word yet, we've been so busy
chattering about each other."
"Yes, mum, we bought the ring yesterday at Knightsbridge; it was a small
fortune but it's not worth half of what I have in Jayne and what she has
given me in return," Peter said proudly. "We're in love, mum, and we plan to
get married as soon as the time is right."
"Oh, my, I'm so glad for the two of you," Isabel said, clasping her hands
together with a small clink. "
To think: I'll be a mother-in-law for the first time. Mmm and I'm only 36. I
always thought mothers-in-law would be a wee bit older but you are such a
young, lovely couple and you have your whole life ahead of you.
"Jayne, my word: what are your thoughts about marrying a sailor? You know
they do get deployed at sea, often for months at a time. I know you must
have thought about that little reality, haven't you?" Isabel said in her
perspicacious manner.
Jayne thought and was at a loss for words.
"Er, ah, I don't know, Mrs. Metcalfe, uh, I mean, Isabel; we haven't thought
that far ahead just yet and I . . . . "
"Would you two like a drink?" Isabel responded adroitly. "I have some whisky
and soda there on the sideboard and . . . . "
"Yes, please," Peter and Jayne chorused, Peter remembering his mother's
taste in the finest highlands Scotch whisky. Isabel excused herself and
clinked her way to the sideboard to pour three small whiskies with a little
soda - no ice - and returned with the three crystal glasses on a small
silver tray in her chained hands.
Isabel moved with such decorous ease, Jayne noticed, and she could not take
her eyes off the lovely woman's graceful movements in such heavy, implacable
chains. It must have taken her months to practise walking like that to make
it appear so natural, so fluid, so graceful, Jayne thought. I wonder if I
would ever be able to walk like she does with these clunky chains?
"And here's to the three of us," Isabel toasted cheerfully. "Scots' wha'
hae! Hee-hee."
All three gathered to clink their glasses in a toast to each other and each
resumed their chairs and silence fell while their thoughts and recollections
came to roost.
Isabel thought: "What a wonderful gift for Peter to bring this lovely, young
woman home to meet me. And engaged already! What next? I hope Jayne doesn't
wear those chains of hers under her bridegown when the day comes. I have a
better pair for her, if she wants them."
Jayne thought: "I hope I will make a positive impression on Mrs. Metcalfe,
er, Isabel. I hope she doesn't think I'm being too forward coming all the
way up here with my dumb ankles chained all the time. And that blasted key
is still at home! Goll-ee!"
Peter: "Mon, this whisky is good! I hope mum will pour another round. Migod,
mum and Jayne look smashing today. I wonder how her therapy's going with Dr.
Whatsisname? Oh, aye; Hayward."
Isabel finally broke the silence: "I'm roasting a rack of lamb with
rosemary, garlic roast potatoes and peas for supper, you two. I don't know
about you but I'm famished. These pills I'm taking may make me groggy but
they spur my appetite when they wear off and I think I've put on five pounds
since I got home from . . . . "
"You look absolutely lovely, mum, still and always," Peter said. "That dress
does wonders for you, you know. And where do those five pounds appear on
you? I don't see any difference from the day you, me and Phil got home after
dad's funeral and all."
Peter gulped at his faux pas, hoping he did not throw cold water on the
reunion.
"Jayne, do you care for German white wine or white Bordeaux with the rack of
lamb?"
Isabel said.
"I'm fond of the Rhine wines, Mrs. Metcalfe . . . "
"Isabel!" Peter's mother said lightly but emphatically. "Please, no
formalities here this weekend. My name's Isabel, or Is., for short, Jayne.
You can call me Is., or call me for supper. Hee-hee. Peter, you can still
call me mum."
Isabel brightened and beamed as Jayne blushed and lowered her head, thanking
Isabel tacitly for such congeniality and her easy, pleasant manner.
"Mum, may I have another drink, please?" Peter asked. "After supper, son,"
Isabel replied. "There's wine with the meal and one whisky is enough to whet
the palate for supper. You probably drink too much for your own good on
board ship, anyway; give your liver a rest, laddie."
"Aye, aye, mum," Peter replied with a smile and salute.
Jayne and Isabel retreated to the kitchen in a clash of chains and Jayne
realized Isabel must now know of her steel ankle accoutrements. The two
women, 36, and 22, worked together as a pair to get the supper ready and,
after half an hour of puttering in the kitchen and small talk, with Jayne
taking mental notes on Isabel's skills with chained hands and ankles, the
savoury dinner was ready on the table.
"Supper's ready, Peter," Isabel called. Soon, the three were filling their
plates and glasses and two hours later, the dessert dishes and coffee cups
were removed and it was time for relaxing chat again in the living room.
"This is my best opportunity to talk to Isabel about bondage and chains,"
Jayne said to herself. "We're all full, content and quiet and I hope Isabel
is amenable to discussing these intimate sorts of details. But let's find
out."
A few moments later, after thanking Isabel politely for the delicious
dinner, Jayne got her nerve up:
"Isabel, you've probably noticed by now that I have been wearing ankle
shackles. And this is in no way intended as a slight or a joke. We have come
here, first of all, to share news of our engagement and I've also a second
mission.
"With your permission, I would like to draw from you some personal insight
on why I am fascinated by steel bondage. I have admired the way you have
coped with your steel and I would like to draw on your experiences and your
knowledge so that Peter and I can learn from you and participate in, and
enjoy, steel bondage. On me, that is.
"I don't want to pry but your circumstances have been public knowledge for
months. Of course, if you would rather not talk about this, I will clam up
and die a thousand deaths.
But could we talk about bondage for just a few minutes, just us three?
Please?"
Jayne hoped she did not sound too whiney.
Isabel immediately recalled a similar conversation she had with Sheila
Baker, proprietor of the Balmoral Hotel, months and months ago and she hoped
this would not turn into one of her dreaded flashbacks.
"Jayne, and Peter, I have some strong thoughts about the nature and history
of women in bondage and I am glad to be able to share them with you. As my
psychologist, Dr. Peter Hayward, told me, I should 'ventilate' my
experiences to help me 'disconnect from the trauma and reconnect with
family, friends and society', I think he said."
Isabel then began to recount in detail the events of the night of June 11,
1975, when she was mysteriously drawn into an alien spacecraft to emerge an
unknown time later unharmed but with unremovable steel ankle shackles with
an 18-in. chain and 11/2-in. heavy steel rings pierced through her nipples
(detailed in Through Night to Light). She described in less-lurid detail the
subsequent kidnap and flight into bondage and indentured sexual slavery in
the Ushwant desert just days later and, in less detail again, the other,
more traumatic events of her and Moira's bondage, slavery and escape from a
sheikh's desert palace compound and sugarcane plantation.
The Metcalfe's oak mantel clock chimed 10 p.m., two hours and 45 minutes
later, when Isabel stood, turned to Jayne and Peter and pointed to each of
her steel-grey restraints:
"This steel collar can never be removed but the half-link you see on the
front will hold only a piece of jewellery, never a chain again. It will
never again live up to its role as a piece of bondage -- as an icon of
slavery -- it has been reduced to the status of an unusual feminine
accessory . . . jewellery.
Lifting her chained wrists, she said: "These cuffs also can never be removed
but the 12 inches of chain you see are merely decoration which causes me
only slight inconvenience. I have had to alter my wardrobe because of them
but little more."
Looking down at her heavy, braless bustline, with the firm, twin nubs of her
steel-pierced nipples poking hard through the thin dark-blue rayon, Isabel
said:
"My breasts have been surgically enlarged and my nipples have been pierced
and chained in permanency. But what the perpetrators, who are either dead or
behind bars now, did not realize is that they have so emphasized my
womanhood and my sexuality that the chains and rings are merely decoration
to me; they serve no useful purpose other than to excite and, maybe, hold me
together when I'm doing the gardening." Isabel smiled.
Lifting her left leg a few inches, she said: "These ankle chains and this
connecting chain that goes up to here," she said, pointing to her lower
abdomen where the top end linked into her lower vaginal ring, "are a
different story. Every time I walk, move, sit, stand or breathe, I hear a
rustle, a clink, a caress or chafe of steel, and I am reminded daily of my
ankle and leg chains.
"These have been the most difficult articles of my bondage to come to terms
with. But the reality is, I will have to take 18-in. strides for the rest of
my life - not a big deal - and the chain running up between my legs now is
more nuisance than anything. And, once in a while, they do turn me on," she
said with a small smile.
"And that, dear Peter and dearest Jayne, is all I want to say about my
recovery and progress to accept my chains as part of my person, as part of
who I am. The stories about how my ankle cuffs and chain first appeared on
me by alien hand and process, in June 1975; then the collar, handcuffs,
rings and additional chains that were welded to me three months later, while
I was unconscious, and then transformed that mysterious night in the desert
into their present, permanent state, have been reported widely in newspapers
and scientific journals.
"But the woman to whom they are attached is still the same person she was
before all this began late that night in June last year. I may have changed
in appearance, and I may be chained, possibly forever, but I am still Isabel
Metcalfe, determined forge ahead with my life, accept the challenges, deal
with them and move on."
Isabel winced at the word forge, recalling the Ushwant desert chaining
experience, as Jayne and Peter listened intently as Isabel went on, a small
scotch in her left hand.
"An eccentric Greek playwright, Euripedes, wrote in 500 BCE that: 'This is
slavery, not to speak one's thought,'" Isabel said.
"I was a slave but only in a physical sense - my spirit and heart were still
free - and I was then, and am still able today, to speak my thoughts. To be
able to speak freely is to be free of slavery and I think Mr. Euripedes
would agree.
"I have spoken at length about my experiences with my psychologist, Dr.
Peter Hayward - a wonderful man - and he and I have done some research into
the subject of women in bondage and slavery.
"Peter, er, Dr. Hayward, is an excellent clinician, single, too, I might
add, and I will tell you more about him later. But first, let me tell you
what we have learned."
Isabel put down her whisky, fished a cigarette out of her purse on the floor
and lit it effortlessly with her chained hands. She took a puff and
continued:
"Our studies at the university and public libraries have led to some
observations about the conditions of women in chains down the centuries. I
have made notes and have some of them here with me," she said, reaching with
a clatter of chain onto the cluttered coffee table beside her armchair for a
sheaf of notes Isabel had painstakingly typed out for two weeks. "I'll
begin."
Jayne's imagination was immediately fired; Peter listened politely.
"For 2,000 years, women have delighted in, lived with or cursed being in
chains or other bondages. I prefer to think, Jayne, that you and me fit into
the former category. But let us look back for a moment.
"Ancient Greco-Roman history and authenticated records in some Middle
Eastern countries show white women were the households' or harems' prized
slaves - the sultans' favourite, so to speak - and some were kept in silver
and bejewelled chains for up to 20 years or more." Jayne crossed her chained
ankles and leaned forward intently, her papers on her lap.
From the culture of ancient Greece, little is known about the numbers of
female slaves, the nature of their bondage and servitude, or the slaves
themselves, because the information collected - from plays, philosophical
tracts, vase paintings and sculptures - were done by males," she said. "What
is known that slave women were an essential part of the ancient workforce.
They were routinely chained at hand and foot and assigned to domestic duties
-- shopping, fetching water, cooking, serving food, cleaning, child-care,
and wool-working - while male slaves were sent to agricultural and
industrial work, usually chained, too.
"In wealthy households, some female slaves had more specialized roles --
housekeeper, cook or nurse - and because they were owned they were often
permanently chained and/or branded, like Moira and I were. Their treatment
and bondage depended on their status in the household and the temperament of
their owners.
"Not surprisingly, the vulnerable position of the female slave within the
household often meant she was subjected to sexual exploitation and physical
abuse. As well, children from of master-slave liaisons were disposed of
because female slaves were prohibited from raising children, or marrying, as
marriage was deemed a social privilege of the elite."
Jayne thought she was back in school for a moment, listening to an
attractive, chained professor expound ancient history. Isabel continued as
Peter stretched and stifled a yawn:
"Slave women also performed unofficial services," Isabel continued, reading
from her notes. "Close relationships often developed between female slaves
and their mistresses because, given the relative seclusion of upper-class
women in their private homes, and the male-dominated society of ancient
Greece, many sought out confidantes in their slave girls.
"Euripedes' tragic character, Medea, confided in the early fifth-century BCE
her deepest feelings with her slave nurse, who advised and comforted her.
And it is known that slaves always accompanied their mistresses on
excursions outside of the home, chained or, infrequently, free, depending on
the whim of the slave's mistress or master.
"And even in the afterlife, tombstones of prominent Athenian women often
depict scenes of familiarity between the deceased and her frequently-chained
slave companion.
"It is likely that a sense of their common exclusion from the masculine
world of public affairs would have drawn women together, regardless of
class, slave or freewoman. So, the fate of a Greek slave girl or slave woman
was determined by circumstance and more or less rested in the hands of her
owners, who had the power to shape her existence."
Isabel stubbed her cigarette, took a sip of whisky and turned the page on
her lap.
"Women in bondage have had their place throughout history, from ancient to
present times," Jayne," Isabel said. "Queen Cleopatra of Egypt had herself
bound in rope and rolled into a carpet to be presented as a gift to Antony,
emperor of the Roman empire, when Rome was at its zenith of power and
prestige.
"But did you know that centuries before that, in Persia, a woman by the name
of Schehrazade voluntarily became a chained thrall who told her caliph a
different story every night for more than three years so he would spare her
life?
"She was allowed to live, so the story goes, but she was never released
from chains.
"For hundreds of years women of all race creed and culture were captured
for, or coerced into, harems of countless Middle and Far Eastern men -- and
women -- of influence and wealth. 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.
"Did you know that Mozart and Rossini -- centuries apart -- composed operas such as Abduction
from the Seraglio and Italian Girl in Algiers about these women's fates?
Did you know, too, there are well-known statues and paintings of slave women
in ancient times on public display in museums around the world? And,
although difficult to find, there are rare autobiographies written by
apparently-literate slave women or harem girls who probably penned their
words secretly by candlelight to the sound of their grasping chains, hoping
against hope they would not be found out."
"But, Isabel," Jayne interjected, "what about women who were cursed to a
life in bondage; in chains, such as the terrible ordeal you and Moira you
had, and escaped from, in Africa last year."
Isabel casually lit another cigarette with her chained hands and continued
her monologue:
"Naturally, there is the still-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.
"I'm jumping around now but during the Second World War, 510 years later,
the evil 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 US prisons have been known to keep recalcitrant, hardened female
convicts in chains for days, weeks, months on end, and when they appear in
the electronic media they are always shackled and chained most effectively.
They are seen from time to time on the 6 o'clock news, entering or leaving
court for arraignment, hearings, sentencing and so on.
"On the lighter side, for a moment, Dr. Hayward has informed me that some
women - not all - actually enjoy the sound, the clutch and clatter of chain
as a prelude to lovemaking. You and I, Jayne, have taken this quirky, little
preference a step further, from a sexual overture to a fact of everyday
life.
"I will be quite frank and, Peter, this is not for your ears." Peter quickly
got up and fetched himself another scotch. "Dr. Hayward has suggested there
is something in my psychological makeup that compels me to ask to be
chained, to be bound, to be restrained somehow, by someone I love. Call it
'loving bondage', call it what you will, but I am making my choice, with
free will, live in chains for the rest of my life.
"In your case, Jayne, as I understand it, the situation involves free will;
that you placed your chains on yourself, or had someone put them on for you,
and that you have decided consciously to continue wearing them.
"For how long depends only on you and your decision. You are evidently a
mature, young woman, with a responsible position in the bank, and I am
confident you will make the right decision to accommodate your own desires,
Peter's wishes and, of course, the exigencies of the workplace. But that's a
matter for another day and long dresses can hide a litany of sins."
Jayne replied: "I expect I will be making my decision to have these chains
removed and new ones, which I have seen in a special bondage catalogue,
either rivetted or welded on.," The 22-year-old poked her left leg out to
show Isabel her chained ankles finally. Isabel gazed at Jayne's chains,
looked down at her own and nodded to Jayne to continue.
"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 consent,
and that they may be on forever. I just need your input before I ask Peter
to go ahead and order these special cuffs for me. In fact, Isabel," Jayne
whispered, "I want him to rivet them on me!
Isabel's eyebrows arched but she remained quiet as Jayne spoke more softly.
"Isabel, I am just amazed you have done so much research into bondage and
slavery through the ages," Jayne said. "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 is it possible they came to accept their bondage as a part of who
they are? As part of their sexual identity?.
This is what I hope will happen to me.
"Enjoyment of bondage must be purely subjective," Jayne said. "I am a
neophyte and you, Isabel, are more experienced in this matter. I am
fortunate 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 -- mildly-chafed ankles, for
example -- is tolerable but if you are thinking of long-term, or lifelong
bondage, as in your case, there has to be a wide comfort zone. There must
be!"
Isabel interjected: "History will never tell us exactly how comfortable, or
uncomfortable, Cleo, Schehrazade or the countless other Greek, Roman or
African slaves were in their bondage - or what they thought - I can only
speak for myself. I've worn these chains now every day since June 11, 1975;
today is August 9, 1976, so that is 14 months chains! Fourteen months,
Jayne!"
Peter walked back into the room and heard his mother say: "Professor Michael
Ledstone, the metallurgist, has informed me recently that further
spectroscopies have indicated the metal of all my chains has tensile
strength and density tens of thousands of times greater 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 eight or nine pounds so there is no problem there, at least in
the short term.
"I've checked them as closely as I can and the interior surfaces are
mirror-smooth which ensures my ankles, wrists and neck 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 again.
After a few minutes, Peter and Jayne both kissed Isabel goodnight, excused
themselves and walked, hand-in-hand, to his bedroom at the end of the
hallway.
Undressing, Jayne said to Peter: "Your mother is an intelligent, strong and
very capable woman, Peter, and you must be very proud of her."
"Of course, Jayne, I love her as much as I am falling in love with you. And
I heard you talking about having new shackles rivetted on your ankles?
Really, Jayne, isn't that a bit extreme?"
"Let's talk about it more when we get home."
Jayne Beresford-Smythe, 22, a Barclays bank teller in downtown Portsmouth,
Hampshire, and Peter Metcalfe Jr., 19, a leading seaman in the Royal Navy,
lay in Peter's single bed snugly together that first night in Isabel's home.
Jayne, always preferring the woman-on-top position despite her ankle chains,
took charge again that night and quietly slid on top of her man with a soft
rustle of her links. She spread her thighs wide and impaled herself on his
stiff organ with her own strength and began riding him, slowly at first,
then more vigorously, making the little bed squeak and creak quietly.
Isabel, next door, naked and in bed, alone and nostalgic, was getting mildly
horny from her long discourse on female slavery. Tuning out the creaky bed
next door, she reached with both hands for her prescription vaginal stent
and began stroking her ring-enclosed pussy with the 10-in.-long, 1
1/2-in.-diameter solid-plastic, ivory-colored probe to enlarge her vagina
around the enclosing rings.
Gently, with a little rustle of chain, she inserted the dildo-like medical
device between her upper and lower vaginal rings and began the prescribed
circular and in-and-out motions Dr. Kraft had suggested. Painfully at first
until her labia majora eased around the steel rings, the chains and stent,
she persisted and plunged her "plastic friend" deep into her vagina several
times before taking a break for lube. The doctors had told her she should
dilate her ringed vagina six times a day for 40 minutes each - a total of
four hours of self-fucking, she thought - but she had limited herself only
to once or twice a night for 25 - 30 minutes each session. It was only
mildly pleasurable and she dreamed of the time in future when she would feel
again the "human injection" of a ramrod-stiff cock, like her late husband's,
deep inside her, that would nestle into her cervix over and over again.
She wondered again whether she would ever get pregnant. She had two lovely
boys and wanted a third by Peter until it was too late. Could she get
pregnant again? Could she deliver vaginally? Probably not. Caesarian section
then? Probably. What would childbirth be like in chains anyway, she
wondered. She would have to ask that ob/gyn specialist at the Royal
Edinburgh Hospital.
She played with her ring-hidden clitoris to excite herself a little more but
always found her handcuffs limited her wrist motions too much. And the noise
of her chains was a distraction.
These were some of the drawbacks of bondage on her self-stimulation,. She
knew, but she was determined to adapt and not have to "reinvent the wheel."
She fell asleep, sexually unsatiated, with the stent buried deep inside her
the way she liked, and awoke eight hours later refreshed with a full night's
sleep without prescription drugs.
At breakfast next morning Peter asked his mother if Jayne and he could
borrow the car to take a tour around western Scotland and that they would be
back by supper. It was a Monday morning and Isabel had no appointments or
errands to run. Isabel tossed Peter the keys with both hands and the happy,
young couple - Peter in dark-blue Royal Navy T-shirt and Jayne in a
knee-length denim skirt, chains and matching T - took off in the little
Austin Mini Minor, the same vehicle Isabel had been driving when she was
abducted and chained by the aliens on June 11, 1975, just two miles west of
her driveway.
Isabel, at home once again in her quiet, rural bungalow, sighed and pulled
her housecoat a little closer over her shoulders with her chained hands,
took her morning "mip" and sipped her tea at the kitchen table. Nude under
her housecoat as always first thing in the morning, she clinked and
clattered over to the kitchen sink and began, laboriously and noisily, to
wash the pots, pans, dishes, glassware and cutlery from last night's
three-course meal.
Drying her hands and stacking the dishes and kitchenware to dry, her chains
clashed on the hardwood floor in her quiet house as she walked slowly into
the bedroom to decide on something to wear:
Her sartorial choices in clothing were extremely limited and she knew it:
her tops now consisted of halter and tube tops only; a proper, comfortable
bra to accommodate her heavy, 48G bustline had been impossible to find so
she firmed up her bustline by shortening her nipple chain with a small, gold
padlock she found in her jewellery box, giving herself glamorous, if
bondage-enforced, cleavage.
She chose to wear at- or above-knee denim, flannel or cotton skirts and
specially-cut dresses that revealed her terrific, 48G-24-36 figure - and her
chains - as always.
The fall and winter months would see her reaching for her fashionable, long
woollen skirts that hid her chains from public view but that was months away yet.
Isabel took several minutes to dress herself and was still self-conscious
about her appearance, especially her heavy, swaying breasts that still
bounced against their chains to the movement of her chained steps. She knew
she would always turn heads whenever she walked in town to her doctor's
appointments but that was the least of her problems.
Today, she rummaged through a box of her late husband's belongings and came
across a curious tangle of black-leather straps affixed to a
three-in.-diameter red rubber ball - an expensive harness ballgag -- he had
purchased for her on a whim in January 1975. Isabel held it up to her face
in front of the bedroom mirror and traced the line of straps over her
cheekbones, up the middle of her forehead and under her chin with connecting
straps locking in two places behind her neck.
"I prefer to be able to speak my mind," Isabel said aloud and she tossed the
$150 harness ballgag into the garbage, never to be seen again. "I will never
again allow myself to be gagged again like I was for months on end in the
desert. Never!"
Checking her appearance one last time in the bathroom mirror, she walked to
the living room to begin typing a few more pages of MS for her treatise,
titled "The Slavery of Women in Western Civilization - from Ancient Greece
to Modern Times," an investigative work she wanted to turn in to the
University of Edinburgh's sociology department for comment and publication.
An accomplished typist from her years at the woollen mill, she had adapted
fairly readily to typing with hands chained 12-in. apart using a brand-new
IBM Selectric typewriter Dr. Hayward has purchased for her after she had
agreed to join him in the research project. She sat at the dining room
table, rolled a sheet of paper into the platen, turned the machine on and
began transcribing her notes on how female slaves were restrained and
identified as thralls in ancient Rome.
She had just completed 500 words when the phone jangled in the living room.
She left her work and clinked over to the armchair beside the bulky Scottish
telephone:
"Hello? Isabel Metcalfe here," she said softly.
"Isabel, Peter Hayward," came the reply. Isabel's eyebrows arched in
surprise. It was her doctor!
"Today's a banking holiday and I'm wondering if you would care to join me in
a picnic lunch in Western Highlands national park about noontime? That is,
if you're free?"
"Oh, Dr. Hayward, I . . . "
"Please, call me Peter."
"Oh, Dr. Peter, eh, ah, Peter, you know I will never be free," Isabel
replied, with a conscious double-entendre, recalling the double meaning as
an old Anglo-Saxon riddle she had learned in school.
"Why, yes, I would be delighted to join you in a picnic lunch today. Will
you come by and pick me up? My son and his fiancee have the car today and I
have some delightful news to tell you."
"Wonderful!" Hayward enthused. "I will see you then at 12 o'clock sharp and
we'll motor into the moors. It's a beautiful day today and I would
especially like to spend a few non-doctor/patient hours with you."
"Shall I bring the manuscript, Dr. Hayward?"
"It's Peter, Isabel; yes, please bring it along and we can edit it together
over lunch. I have some ideas as well on where to direct our research later
on, if you would like to hear them."
"That will be fine, Peter; see you at 12 then."
"Right-oh, Isabel. 'Bye till then."
"Goodbye, Peter."
Isabel 's ringed nipples sprang to life and full erection as she rang off,
her heart leaping into her throat: her first date in months, and with her
doctor yet!
"Wow," Isabel said, as she caressed her nipples, feeling the light tingle
around their steel.
"At date, at last," she laughed. "Now, what to wear?"
Isabel clashed and clattered back into the bedroom to decide what to wear,
nearly stumbling for the first time on her 18-in. ankle chain that tugged
hard on her vagina-ring connecting chain. She decided on something light and
casual, sexy but demure at the same time, she hoped: she selected a beige
halter top, her knee-length denim skirt and sandals.
She stepped into her skirt and carefully shortened the 14-in. chain between
her breasts to a slightly uncomfortable six-in. bight that gave her the
cleavage she wanted to show.
She slipped her halter top on over her neck, did up the three buttons in front
and checked her appearance. She looked just fine, she thought. Just fine.
It was 9 a.m., Monday, August 11, 1976, and a new chapter in Isabel
Metcalfe's life was about to unfold in three hours.
Epilog
Isabel's and Peter's picnic was a happy, intimate moment for the couple, in
their late-30s; Peter's Black Forest ham and Mozzarella sandwiches, sour
pickles, iced Reisling and cheddar cheese and crackers was delicious and the
doctor and his patient talked endlessly about psychotherapy, Isabel's
progress, the research paper and Peter's background. Their conversations,
under a cloudless, royal blue sky, ranged from the sublime to the
ridiculous. Peter: "Jayne, I want to start using classical music as a
psychotherapeutic intervention for your post-traumatic stress disorder."
Isabel: "Dr. Hayward, er, Peter; what are the mathematical probabilities of
reducing the UK' spiralling birthrate by having the ankles of all women of
childbearing years chained until menopause?"
The happy couple returned to Isabel's little white bungalow at evening time,
kissed romantically and wished each other good night until Isabel's next
office visit. Romance had begun again for Isabel. And Dr. Hayward.
Peter and Jayne returned from their daytrip hours later, excited and
exhausted: they had set the date for their civic wedding, Sept. 23, 1977, in
Portsmouth, England, and insisted on a small church wedding with family and
a few friends.
Isabel was all smiles when she told them of her picnic with Dr. Hayward and
Peter, absolutely delighted about this bit of social news, added that he was
going to inquire about getting RN permanent married quarters in Fareham,
just outside Portsmouth, for Jayne and himself.
A few weeks later, he was successful in getting a three-bedroom condo and
Jayne said goodbye to mum and dad in rural Hampshire and moved into the
comfortable, little three-bedroom abode at Fareham.
After settling into their PMQ, Jayne and Peter had agreed to have her ankle
chains rivetted on by Peter on their wedding night and that she would wear
them to work at Barclay's every day thereafter under long dresses and
skirts. Until that time, her present shackles would do.
On Sept. 23, 1976, Leading Seamen Peter and Philip Metcalfe and Leading
Seamen Hiram and Harry MacPeak, Moira's boys, were summoned to Buckingham
Palace where they received the Distinguished Service Medal from Prince
Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh.
Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak, chained, proud and tearful, stood in
silent admiration as the four young boys bowed their heads to receive their
bravery decorations in the poignant, 10-minute ceremony inside the palace.
The fours sons, stalwart and stoic throughout, were given seven days'
special leave and Peter and Jayne returned to Scotland to rejoice and
celebrate their good fortune with Isabel.
In December 1976, doctors Hayward and MacDougall compared notes and found
Isabel and Moira had progressed slowly but steadily and were well on their
way to rehabilitation. Their patients' dreams were recurring less and less
and their daily lives were returning to normal slowly.
Sept. 23, 1977, dawned bright, warm and beautiful over historic Portsmouth
harbour, the day Peter Metcalfe Jr., 20, would take Jayne Beresford-Smythe,
23, as his "lawful, wedded bride" at a civic ceremony in city hall chambers.
Jayne, wearing a calf-length bridal gown, displayed her polished ankle
shackles for all to see. Isabel Metcalfe, the matron of honour, Dr. Hayward,
her companion; Moira MacPeak and her sons, Harry and Hiram, made an
attractive bridal party. Peter's brother, Philip, 19, was best man and
Isabel, at her sons' side, snuffled her tears as she stood, chained and
proud with Moira at her side, as the justice of the peace recited the
solemn, moving ceremony of marriage.
Isabel and Moira sighed and wept quietly as Judge Clarence Morgan said: "Do
you, Peter Metcalfe Jr., take Jayne Beresford-Smythe as your lawful, wedded
wife; to love, cherish and hold as long as you both shall live?"
"I do," Peter replied. The judge repeated the words for Jayne and she
affirmed ":I do."
"Then I now pronounce you man and wife, Pete and Jayne. You may kiss the
bride."
Jayne's parents, in the background, applauded and Moira and Isabel joined
the applause, their handcuffs adding a distinct metallic clatter to the
happy ceremony.
That night, Peter rivetted the stainless-steel shackles on his woman's
ankles and she was happy and content to be his bondage bride.
Back in Scotland after the wedding, Isabel and Moira began dating their
doctors, especially after Isabel confided in Moira the wonderful time she
had with Peter Hayward at their picnic in the highlands during August the
previous year.
Isabel fell in love with Dr. Hayward; they became engaged in 1978 and were
married in1980, the same year Moira, who had resigned her job at the woollen
mill, and her pal, Isabel, were summoned to the town hall to receive bravery
commendations from the Scottish government - for "courage, fortitude and
unwavering determination in the face of appalling conditions and events" --
in the East African desert four years ago.
In 1981, Isabel and Moira, still in chains and good health, embarked on a
public-speaking tour to describe, in first-person, the horrific events that
swept them up in 1975-76. They were interviewed and photographed over and
over and became the media's sought-after heroines.
In 1992, Moira and Isabel received generous pensions from the government,
the woolen mill and honoraria from the University of Edinburgh for the
Haywards' scholarly work on slavery in the ancient world.
Further tests that year by Dr. Michael Ledstone, the metallurgist you met in
Through Night to Light, showed Isabel's and Moira's collars, handcuffs, leg
chains, nipple and vaginal rings and connecting chains all were of the same,
immutable metallic matter that continued to defy scientific explanation.
Still later, Moira married Eoin MacDougall, her doctor, and Mrs. Isabel
Hayward, as she is now known, and Moira MacDougall, became more financially
secure than they had ever dreamed. They had tax-free government and
(taxable) private pensions as well as their husbands' incomes and agreed to
set up a public relations firm specializing in communications, public
speaking, self-confidence and assertiveness training.
Today, the women, still buxom, curvy and deeply tanned in their early 60s,
enjoy a satisfying and fulfilling sex life with their husbands after it was
discovered that months and years of their chains tugging at their nether
rings had elongated their labia majora slightly to allow penetration.
The sensations were "wicked," Isabel and Moira told their husbands
privately, feeling the sensation of metal rubbing against their love canals
as their husbands screwed the daylights out of their wives. (But they would
not admit that to anyone; not even you, dear reader).
In 1980, Isabel gave birth by Caesarian section to a healthy, eight-pound,
10-ounce girl, Carly, who today, at 23, is exploring steel bondage with her
new boyfriend, Horace Hogg, of Stirling.
Today, Mrs. Isabel Hayward and Mrs. Moira MacDougall can be seen on the
streets of their little Scottish town every day, coming and going from their
little storefront office on High Street. They wear their chains decorously,
with the same aplomb as when they pin their bravery decorations on their
halter tops every March to mark the anniversaries of their late husbands'
murders. Long ago, they had adapted their posture and pace to accommodate
their handcuffs and leg irons and the hospital-recommended weight-training
regimes and a robust, outdoor lifestyle, gave them the trim, buxom figures
they wanted.
Small diamond-and-pearl pendants hang from each woman's collar-loop and the
rest of their chains have become a part of their physical and psychological
makeups; they were able to accept them during their slavery and, after years
in the media limelight, Isabel and Moira can easily fend off or ignore the
few furtive glances and quiet comments that passers-by and their clients
might display from time to time.
In 1981, Peter and Jayne gave birth to a bouncing baby girl, Wendy Alison
Metcalfe. Jayne was a curiosity in the Royal Hospital Haslar, Gosport,
Portsmouth, with her rivetted chained ankles in the delivery-room
stretcher's stirrups and Peter at her side. She later gave up her position
at Barclays, where her attractive figure and unusual, chained steps under
her long skirts had attracted new clients, men and women, by the dozens.
Many men -- and women -- waited long in line to transact their business with
the lovely, blonde teller in the long skirt with her unusual, hip-swaying,
breast-bouncing gait and ready smile. No one at the bank knew Jayne's little
secret until her last day at work when she lifted her hemline to show her
co-workers the 18-in. shiny shackles that she had worn for the past two
years.
Isabel and Moira had dressed fashionably and sensibly long before their
adventures in bondage began in the mid-1970s. Still collared, handcuffed,
pierced and chained as she had been in 1975, Moira, too, had to adapt her
wardrobe to accommodate her unremovable chains and shackles. A look inside
Mrs. MacDougall's closets will show rows of expensive, fashionable dresses,
skirts and specially-tailored tops cut to slip effortlessly over her head
and arms, fastening discreetly at her sides.
The knee-length dresses that Moira, Isabel and daughter-in-law Jayne favor
all have "spaghetti" shoulder straps that fasten with buttons or snaps at
the tops of their bodices. All three women chose long ago to go braless,
preferring to exercise and lift weights to retain their figures and tone.
Jayne, after childbirth, underwent breast-augmentation surgery, at her
request, to look more like her mother-in-law. And the three women's
48-G bustlines today retain the same, heavy, teardrop shape with which they
were naturally endowed.
All three are pleased and proud of their sexy, starlet-like figures.
Isabel and Moira have become regular attendees at concerts in Glasgow by the
Royal Scottish National Orchestra and the Haywards and MacDougalls never
fail to turn heads at the upscale events when Isabel and Moira turn up in
their snug, black, form-fitting, floor-length evening gowns that reveal
their spectacular cleavage, steel collars and handcuffs. Their small
strides, hidden in the graceful folds of their long dresses, give them a
sexy, sinuous walk as they take their seats front-row centre once a month at
the concert hall.
Orchestra members have been known to miss cues and entries as their
attentions were diverted from their scores and the conductor to the sexy
pair sitting 25-ft. away.
I know; I was one: I was the tympanist and missed an entry in the coda the
night the orchestra was accompanying a young female solo violinist in Max
Bruch's extremely difficult Scottish Fantasy and, well, that's another
story.
Jayne is content to be a housewife, raising her little girl and socializing
with her next-door neighbours, all navy wives, who adore talking about
Jayne's chains and her stellar figure.
Peter attached a 35-ft. long chain to a heavy ringbolt he drilled into the
living-room floor and Jayne frequently padlocks a collar around her slender
neck, enjoying the feel of the clutch and tug of chain as she parades around
her condo, ding housework, tending her daughter, watching TV or yakking on
the phone.
Today, Isabel's and Moira's bank accounts are reported to be in the
seven-figure range; they and their husbands live in palatial country houses
(Carly and Horace moved into the Metcalfe bungalow); they drive Porsches and
expensive town cars and take extended vacations to Spain each year,
returning with deep tans that contrast sharply with the virgin-like white
skin under their steel shackles. The women have avoided travel to Africa
although they have received invitations from the Government of the State of
Ushwant to pay a courtesy call, at their expense. Each invitation has been
ignored.
Are Isabel Hayward and Moira MacDougall free women? Or are they still slaves
within?
You will have to ask them.
