All is true.—Shakespeare, Henry VIII
The text message read: You have two minutes to get dressed and be ready. Unlock the front door.
I was brushing my teeth when I heard the noise at the front door. Then I heard, “Police! Announce yourself!”
It’s hard to announce yourself with a mouthful of toothpaste. I spit, rinsed, and moved from the bathroom to the bedroom as the officer repeated himself and I called out, “I’m here.”
“Come out here!”
I walked into the dark hall to see a flashlight and a gun pointed at me. The officer’s specific words after that escape me. They were nonstop directions that ended only when I was lying face down on the carpet at the end of the hall, arms out to the sides, palms up. The officer knelt, grabbed my left wrist, pulled my arm to the middle of my back, and applied the handcuffs. After he brought my right hand back to complete the job, I realized he had my palms facing out. He instructed me to stand, providing assistance as I did. He grabbed my left arm and led me out the door.
His police car sat in my driveway. Headlights on but, fortunately, no flashing lights.
He hauled me to the front of the vehicle and had me face it.
“Spread your legs.”
He pulled my phone, keys and wallet from my pockets and tossed each onto the hood of the car.
“Do you have any sharp objects?” he asked as he quickly and efficiently patted me down.
“Mr. Milton, I am Sergeant Martin of the West Plains Police Department. You are under arrest. I am going to read you your rights.” After he completed the recitation, he asked, “Do you understand, Mr. Milton”
He grabbed me by the arm, escorted me to the rear passenger door, and opened it.
Getting in and out of a vehicle without the use of your hands is not as easy as you might think. After I ungracefully landed on the seat and swung in my legs, the Sergeant reached over and buckled me in.
Then I saw what would become my uniform. Next to me on the seat was an orange jumpsuit, folded neatly. Although it wasn’t visible, I knew the word “inmate” was stenciled on the back. The jumble of chains and cuffs lying atop the jumpsuit were restraints for prisoner transport.
While I was distracted by the uniform, the Sergeant moved my possessions into the car. Then he opened the door by me and held my keys in front of me.
“Which one locks your front door?”
I confirmed that the key he held was the correct one, and he left to lock the door. While he was gone, I looked around the interior of the car and noted the time on clock in the dashboard. He returned, got in the driver seat, and turned to me.
“Mr. Milton, you are my prisoner. You will obey my orders promptly and without question. Do you understand?”
“You will address me by my rank of Sergeant.”
“For your safety, my safety, and public safety, you will be restrained at all times. Do not ask to be released. For example, in the event you are ill, I will take you into the hospital handcuffed and shackled. Do you understand?”
“Be advised that we will stop at each rest area along the interstate and I will escort you to the restroom so you will have opportunities to relieve yourself. Regardless of your needs, I will escort you in.”
“We’re now going somewhere to get you into some more comfortable restraints.”
He then turned around and put the car in gear. He left the neighborhood and drove towards an entrance to the interstate.
I learned that acceleration in a car can be painful when your hands are handcuffed behind you. After a couple of accelerations from stop signs or stop lights, which pushed my weight onto my cuffed hands, I twisted my arms so that my wrists were off to one side. This made the accelerations less painful, but going around curves was now a problem as centripetal force pushed my weight against my wrists.
Once on the highway, we traveled south from the city towards the bluegrass at a fast clip.
I knew this stretch of highway and had an idea of where the first rest stop was. When we approached it, the Sergeant exited the highway and took the lane leading to the truck parking. I was puzzled as he slowly drove past and around trucks towards the exit to the highway. Just before the point where the lane from the truck parking merged with the lane from the car parking, he stopped the car.
I realized that the vehicle was positioned to minimize the number of people who could see it and to block the view of the passenger side.
The Sergeant opened the driver side rear door and grabbed the uniform. He walked around to the front passenger door, opened it, deposited the restraints on the seat and dropped the jumpsuit on top of them. He then opened my door. He had me turn so he could remove the handcuffs.
“Strip down to your underwear.”
I began to remove my shirt, pants, shoes, socks and watch as he closed the door. After I was stripped, he opened the door and handed me the jumpsuit.
“Put it on. Button it up and adjust the collar.”
He left the door open so I could turn and extend my legs into the legs of the jumpsuit. It was a challenge to get the top part on because the jumpsuit fit snugly. Not too tight, but not baggy or loose in any area. The pants legs were the right length, too. How had he obtained a uniform that fit so well?
“Put on your shoes. No socks.”
After my shoes were on, he had me swing my legs out and he applied leg irons. Next he had me stand, turn to face the vehicle and put my hands on it. He looped the belly chain around me, cinched it, and closed the lock that held the chain in place. In the front, a connector chain ran from the belly chain to the leg irons. He grabbed one hand and locked on a cuff that was attached to the belly chain by about four inches of chain. He repeated this with the other hand. After turning me around, he pulled a tool from his shirt pocket and used it to double-lock each of the four cuffs.
He looked me over, messed with the collar of the jumpsuit as if to prepare me for an interview or a stage entrance, and announced, “Congratulations, Mr. Milton. You are now a prisoner of the West Plains Police Department.”
In a moment, I was back in the car and belted in. He pulled out of the rest area and back onto the interstate.
As we drove in silence, I inspected my new hardware. I noted the Sergeant’s expert application of the restraints. He had fastened the leg irons over the legs of the jumpsuit; this held them above the ankle and prevented them from coming in contact with and injuring the Achilles tendon. The handcuffs were spot-on. There was some space between the wrist and the handcuff, but only the least bit. The cuffs would not impede circulation or pinch a nerve; at the same time, there was no way I could slip out of them. The handcuffs were positioned 180 degrees from each other on the circle of chain that encompasses my waist. While I was able to reach the fly of the jumpsuit, I could not reach the cuff on the opposite hand. The Sergeant had applied the cuffs properly, with the locks facing away from the hands. If he had handed me a handcuff key, I would not have been able to use it to free my hands.
I turned to inspect the interior of the vehicle. The front seat was full of technology: a laptop computer and a horizonal panel with multiple lights were positioned to the right of the driver’s side. I noted the pair of hinged handcuffs hanging on a hook between the windshield and the driver’s door. Some zip ties were stored above the seat to my left. An extremely serious rifle with a silencer was stored near my left leg, behind and between the front seats.
As we traveled, I noted that the new hardware, while more comfortable than “regulation” cuffing, posed a few challenges. At one point I developed an itch between my right eye and the bridge of my nose. I have no idea what caused it, but there was nothing I could do to alleviate the itch. I could only raise my hands a few inches above my waist. Later, I became frustrated with how difficult it was to adjust the cuffs. That is, the simple act of sliding the cuff up or down my wrist a bit to relieve pressure was a challenge since one hand could not reach to adjust the cuff on the opposite hand.
True to his word, the Sergeant pulled off at the next rest stop. He parked close to the entrance to the visitor’s center that housed the restrooms. This eased my anxiety a bit; at least I wouldn’t have far to walk. The Sergeant directed me to get out of the car, grabbed my left arm above the elbow, and led me to the visitor’s center.
“Led” doesn’t adequately describe the process of moving me along. Sitting in the car relatively motionless, the leg irons and handcuffs were almost comfortable. When I walked, however, I discovered their true function as restraints. When the Sergeant took a full stride, I could only take a partial one. With each step, the leg irons pulled on my legs as I tried to extend them as far as I would in a normal walk. This, plus the fact that I had to walk more quickly, taking more steps in order to keep up with the Sergeant, distracted and disoriented me. The handcuffs prevented me from swinging my arms as I walked, putting me off balance. The Sergeant’s unrelenting pull on my arm preventing me from slowly adapting a modified gait. I essentially stumbled along towards the door.
Thankfully, there was no one in the visitor’s center or in the men’s restroom. The sergeant led me to a stall, pushed me in, and said, “You stay for a minimum of two minutes. Do your business.” He allowed the door of the stall to close and then moved towards the door of the restroom.
I opened the bottom snap of the jumpsuit and pulled out my junk. I attempted to urinate but my equipment wasn’t cooperating. The stress of my current situation made that system shyer than a mouse at a cat convention. I sighed and started to close the jumpsuit’s snaps.
“Hold on just a minute. I have a prisoner in there. Give me a minute to get him out.”
Oh, great. I heard noises of agreement from somebody or somebodies outside the restroom. As I contemplated being a sideshow for the waiting men, the Sergeant came to the stall and said, “Let’s go.”
Grasping my arm as before, he walked me out into the lobby. Fortunately, there was a partition with an information display between me and the men; I didn’t see them as I kept my eyes down and focused on walking. The Sergeant informed me later that he saw the men watch with fascination as I hobbled from the visitor’s center to the vehicle in my uniform and swinging chains.
I sat with relief and resignation as we hit the highway again. I looked down at the shackles on my wrists, waist and ankles. However comfortable they might be, their form matched their function: control. The limited range of motion they allowed slowed my movement and limited my access. The officer and the public were indeed safe.
We came to a third rest stop. I sighed as the Sergeant pulled in and parked. This time, he exited the car and walked into the visitor’s center. He returned shortly, pulled me from the car, and led me inside the building.
I sat on a bench in the middle of the lobby as the Sergeant cracked the door to the restroom. I looked around, glad again that it was late and there was no one there to stare. Presently a man exited the restroom, surprised to see the Sergeant.
“I have a prisoner to take in there. I was waiting until you were finished so we wouldn’t startle you when we came in.”
The man glanced at me and departed. In we went and I found myself in a stall again. This time I was able to pee. Either the limited range of motion of my hands or the shriveled state of my penis made my aim terrible. I silently apologized to the next user, but there was no way I could reach the toilet paper and wipe up the mess. I flushed and exited the stall.
The Sergeant was waiting by the door and said, “Come on.” This was the only time I walked any distance without him as an escort. It didn’t improve my walking; the #%& restraints really made me walk clumsily. As we exited, I saw my reflection in the glass that formed the entrance to the video center. I was very orange and wore a lot of jewelry.
I was belted in again. I had learned to turn my head to the left as the Sergeant reached across to buckle the seat belt. When I failed to do this, he would use the side of his left arm to push my face to the side and pin my head as he buckled me in. I don’t know if this gave him more working room or was a precaution against spitting and biting.
After he shut the door, the Sergeant walked over to the vending machines near the visitor’s center. While he did that, I tried the window control on my door. I brought the window down a bit. Hmmm. Interesting. I quickly raised it again when the Sergeant turned back towards the car.
He returned with a couple of bottles. Once seated, he opened a bottle of what I’d guess was Dr. Pepper, drank some, and examined his phone. I realized I was thirsty as I reflected on our relative positions. I couldn’t have gotten a bottle to my lips or use a phone if I had either.
We had travelled farther on the interstate to an area I was not familiar with. The Sergeant pulled off at an exit and turned into a service plaza. He pulled up to a pump, got out and filled the tank. While he was filling the car, I tried the window again and found I could roll it all the way down. The idea of climbing through the window and making a getaway crossed my mind. Not a viable option.
He got back in and pulled away from the pump, asking, “Did you get dinner? Are you hungry?”
“No, Sergeant,” I replied.
“Well, I am.”
He pulled into the lane for the fast-food operation in the service plaza. He ordered and received his meal. I noticed he asked for two straws and listened as the attendant thanked him for his serivice and made the meal complimentary.
The Sergeant pulled into a parking space and ate. (He did not offer me any of his fries.) When he was done, he stepped out, came around, and opened my door. He held a bottle of water and a straw. The straw was too short for the bottle, so he had to hold the straw in place so it didn’t drop into the bottle.
“Have a drink.”
I drank about half of the bottle and thanked him. He returned to the driver’s seat and turned to me.
“At my house, you’ll have one more chance to use the bathroom before I chain you down for night. Tomorrow, you go to work.”
He put the car in gear and we returned to the interstate.
I sat in the parked car, looking at the front of the Sergeant’s house. We had traveled down the interstate, taken an exit that led to towns I did not know, and drove a couple of miles with multiple turns to end up in a residential neighborhood. The Sergeant pulled into the driveway of his house, turned off the engine, and left the car to enter the house. I saw his shadow on the front window; its movement showed he was moving around in the front room of the house. After about five minutes he returned and opened the car door.
Again, he gripped my arm and led me into the house. I stared at the arrangement in his living room.
He had cleared the floor in front of a large gun safe. A sleeping bag and a folded blanket were in front of it. Some configuration of chains and handcuffs was between the safe and the sleeping bag.
“Do you need to use the restroom?”
He directed me to the bathroom and I walked in to urinate one last time. I didn’t want to have to go in the middle of the night, as I suspect the Sergeant would not take kindly to me waking him up for a bathroom visit. I carefully directed the stream into the toilet bowl so I did not, um, piss him off by leaving urine on the rim.
I flushed and returned to the living room. He directed me to kneel on the blanket.
“Mr. Milton, consider your situation. You are in the custody of a police officer, dressed in orange, restrained, and in an area that you don’t know. You are my inmate. Don’t try anything foolish.”
He stepped behind me, out of my range of vision, and returned with his fly open.
“Get your mouth on that.”
I went to work with as much skill as I could muster. As he gradually got hard, I felt a stirring down below as I began to get hard. The uniform, the chains, and this officer’s control made me an eager, horny … (fill in the appropriate word).
I couldn’t see his eyes from my position, so I focused on his basketweave duty belt in front of me. I made the mistake of pausing for a moment and he withdrew.
“That’s all you’re getting tonight.”
He directed me to stand. He undid the handcuffs and the lock on the belly chain. With my hands on my head, he knelt and opened one of the leg cuffs and removed the connector chain. He reapplied the leg cuff and stood up.
“Hands in front.”
He produced a standard pair of handcuffs and slapped them on me, then double-locked them as usual. He placed his right foot on the folded blanket.
“Get down and clean that.”
Down I went and my tongue went to work. With my hands reasonably free, I could move around and reach all the surfaces that needed to be cleaned. He switched feet, and I worked on his left shoe more methodically. I used my chained hands to lift the leg of his pants so I could easily reach the sides and back of his shoe and lick the leather.
He withdrew his foot.
“Lift up your hands.”
He reached down and brought up the open portion of a second pair of handcuffs and closed it around the chain between the handcuffs I wore. The other bracelet of the pair was closed through the two ends of a belly chain or connector chain. He had threaded the chain around one of the legs of the gun safe. My cuffs were handcuffed to a loop of chain that circled the safe’s leg.
The Sergeant turned, shut off the lights, and left for his bedroom.
I sat back on the sleeping bag. I was chained to an essentially immovable object and left to sleep on the floor. I remained in leg irons. I sighed. Well, at least the arrangement allowed me to take off my glasses and to reach the bottle of water the Sergeant had left nearby on the floor. And there was no way I could have gotten any sleep wearing the belly chain and handcuffs. I did not, however, expect to sleep much.
I attempted to find a position that would allow me to fall asleep. Although I usually sleep on my side, flat on my back seemed a logical choice. I tried it, placing my handcuffed hands in the middle of my chest. However, when I started to relax and fall asleep, my hands and arms would relax and drop. This caused the handcuffs to dig into my wrists and I jerked awake.
I tried laying on my right side, facing the safe and the connecting chain. This didn’t work. For some reason, I could not get my hands into a comfortable position.
Since sleeping on my stomach was out of the question, the last position to try was my left side, facing away from the safe. This offered the most promise. The chain and second pair of handcuffs rested on my side and did not pull on my cuffed hands. However, the weight on my side was an annoyance. The leg irons were less of a problem, although occasionally the housing of one leg cuff would bang against the other and cause discomfort. The sleeping bag muffled the sound of the chain when I moved.
Sleep evaded me. While trying different positions, I found that my shoes were making my feet uncomfortable. I stopped and took them off. At another point, I felt cold and opened the sleeping bag so it would cover me. I had the folded blanket, but it was my pillow and I didn’t want to try to sleep without one. Opening the sleeping bag removed a layer of cushioning between me and the floor (albeit a thin layer).
Time passed and I became irritable and irrational. At one point, I shook and pulled at the handcuffs and tested to see if I could slip out of them. That wasn’t going to happen without crushing the bones in my hand. I even half-heartedly tested the safe to see if I could lift it and slip the chain free. Another fruitless effort. I checked the second pair of handcuffs, the ones that connect me to the chain. They weren’t double-locked, but that didn’t help any. The Sergeant had cleared the floor for two or three feet in each direction. I couldn’t reach any furniture or items in the room, so no tools were available to help me get free.
I think I got a little sleep.
My eyes opened and it seemed there seemed to be more light coming through the windows, although I wasn’t sure. I lay on the sleeping bag, waiting. Eventually I heard the Sergeant stir. He moved about and eventually walked into the living room, passed me without saying a word, and went outside. I heard the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut.
What if he leaves? The question alarmed me at first, but I subsequently realized that there was nothing I could do, so why worry? He was going to do as he chose, and I would remain a chained prisoner. Those were the facts. I shrugged and left the kneeling position I had assumed when I anticipated he was coming in and sat down and put on my shoes. I looked down and noticed the marks on my wrists and hands from wearing the handcuffs all night.
He did return, though, flipping on the lights and dropping my clothes on the floor as he entered. He walked over to me.
“Put your legs out.”
He unlocked the leg cuffs and then removed the handcuffs.
“Stand up and change into your clothes.”
I did so, putting on my watch and checking the time. Seven-fifteen.
After I was dressed, the Sergeant dropped the leg irons on the floor in front of me.
“Put them on.”
I sat down and fastened each cuff around a leg of my pants. I’d learned from the Sergeant. This was the first and only time that any cuffs were not double-locked.
The Sergeant took me by the arm and led me to the car.
“The neighbors don’t need to see you in your uniform.”
He had me sit in the front seat and handed me a bottle of water. He climbed into the driver’s seat and looked at me.
“Don’t try anything.”
We left the neighborhood and drove out to county roads. At one point, he pulled off a side road and had me get out of the car. He quickly handcuffed my hands behind my back and put me in the rear passenger seat. Off we went again.
The Sergeant took me to the work detail he had mentioned the night before. The details aren’t important, except to note that any time we changed locations, I was handcuffed regulation style and put in the back seat. Any time he needed to consult his notes or review the work, I was handcuffed regulation style and put in the back seat. The length of time I sat there uncomfortably handcuffed didn’t matter to him. I knew he had experienced this position in training exercises and had heard complaints from other prisoners. No matter. He was entitled to leave the package in the back seat for as long as he wished. It was safely stowed and wasn’t going anywhere and that’s all that mattered.
We reached a dirt road that branched of a narrow country road. The Sergeant pulled up and backed up the vehicle so that it was parallel to the road with the driver’s side facing the road. He extracted me, removed the handcuffs, and handed me the orange jumpsuit.
“You know the drill.”
In minutes, I was back in the seat clothed in my uniform. The restraints were a welcome change from regulation cuffing. I relaxed a bit as we left.
I stopped relaxing when I remembered the Sergeant planned to visit each rest stop on the return trip. I had asked him the night before if he would skip them on the way back, but he denied my request. This time I was going into the visitor centers in broad daylight. Oh boy.
I think I exercised denial. Except for the car that pulled in next to the police car as I made a return trip from the restroom, I thought I avoided attention. Not so. The Sergeant assured me later that people across the parking were staring and one guy who was closer to us nudged his buddy so he would turn and get a look at us. Perhaps it’s a good thing that walking in restraints requires concentration. And I’m okay with some denial.
At the last rest stop, the Sergeant again pulled into a location that was screened from observers. He unlocked the restraints, handed me my clothes and said, “You’ll have to change with the door closed.”
Soon I was back in regular clothes. He cuffed me once more and put me in the front seat.
“It’s easier if you scoot your butt forward on the seat.”
I did so, and found that I could place my arms behind me. Instead of spreading my arms, I pulled them together to prevent me falling back on my hands when the car accelerated. It made the trip easier. Not comfortable, but easier.
Hmmph. You could have told me that sooner, Sergeant.
The Sergeant pulled into my driveway. He backed into the turnaround so he could get me out of the passenger seat and uncuff me discretely. The car hid us from the street.
“Mr. Milton, you are released from my custody. Get outta here.”
I went into the house. I looked down and saw deep marks on my hands and wrists from the handcuffs. They were still there an hour later when I sat down to write this account.
© Copyright 2021 by S. Milton, email@example.com, Manacled on Recon
Please do not distribute, copy or post this content without the author’s permission.
The author has altered or omitted some details to preserve the anonymity of the participants.
Metal would like to thank Practicerestraint for this story and for the original pictures, posted here with permission.