By Cuffed Locked
I couldn’t believe my luck when that smokin’ hot guy moved in next door. He drove a pickup truck. Tall and lean, short buzzcut, muscled arms and wearing a sleeveless T. If I had known the trouble I would eventually get into with this alpha guy, I might have thought twice before even going over there in the first place to introduce myself. He was bringing in some boxes that were stacked up in his driveway. I introduced myself as his next-door neighbor and offered to help.
He sized me up right quick and got me to help him move some of those boxes into his three-stall garage. He was friendly but also a bit devilish, almost cocky. Guys like that who are so good looking, in my experience, can often be trouble. I think he might have noticed me checking him out, but he didn’t seem to mind. He told me his name was Ryan and that he was a firefighter.
His attached garage was quite a large space with a work bench and a walk-in tool cabinet enclosed behind a metal grate. There was also a mud room, equipped with washer and dryer, and even a toilet and shower. He wanted some help moving the boxes in the driveway into his garage and stacked over by one wall. After several trips with the boxes, somehow I turned around too suddenly and knocked over one of the boxes and a bunch of shackles clanked out onto the concrete floor of his garage. I was shocked, but he was not embarrassed in the least to explain. “I collect this stuff,” he said. “Mostly handcuffs, but also antique prisoner irons.”
This was a bit odd but also exciting to me. A stud firefighter who collects locking metal restraints! He could tell I was interested. “See something you like?” he asked. There was a set of heavy ankle irons. The set consisted of thick shackles connected by a chain that looked like it was about a foot and a half. “These are heavier than they look for the poor sucker who’s wearing them,” he said, holding them up. I could not keep my eyes off the leg shackles, or him.
“Wanna try em on?” he offered with an ever so slight smirk.
“I, um… ” I was tongue-tied and turning bright red. Yes I wanted to try them on!
“You’ll never know what they are like until you’re wearing them,” he said.
A few seconds later he has me leg ironed, and I am walking back and forth in his garage as he watches me. Yes, they were heavy as fuck, but they fit snugly over my work boots, and I could walk around in them just fine, although I was slowed down and I had to take shorter steps than I normally would. I am certain he noticed the bulge in my crotch, but he pretended not to. “You like em?” he asked.
“Well they are, um… they are very heavy for sure,” I stammered, even more red in my face than before.
We talked a quite bit more, but he made no move to unlock me. With me standing there in his garage locked in his leg irons, he told me he was single but that he works a lot. He said he develops properties as a side hustle, buying houses and vacant lots, fixing them up, and selling them. He asked me about what I do for work, how long I have lived here, the neighborhood, and other topics including the fact that I too live alone and am single. I also confessed that I am fascinated by restraints, especially the kind worn by escape artists, but that the most I have myself are cheap sex shop restraints that aren’t secure at all. He explained that he collects handcuffs, belly chains, leg irons, and other metal restraints because of his fascination with chain gang labor, and that he often fantasizes about scenarios involving such gear. “Oh, you mean you like doing work while wearing restraints like these?” I asked. “Well no, more like locking guys like you up and making them work for me,” he said with a smirk.
I could not believe we were talking like this. Our conversation went on for quite a bit longer, us talking as equals with neither of us mentioning that I was still locked in these heavy leg irons. We talked about our favorite sports teams, where we grew up and where we have each been on vacation. We continued talking for quite a while longer about general stuff, and also about his collection of restraints. He mentioned that sometimes he liked to challenge his fellow firefighters to bets and dares involving handcuffs but that they did not usually take the bait. He said he got the set of leg irons I was wearing now on an online auction.
Eventually he said it was time to release me so he could get back to work. “Unless you want to stay and help me some more?” he said. “You have to be anywhere this afternoor?”
I admitted I was free and could stay and help.
He had already knelt down with his keys and even had the shackle key in one of the locks when he stopped. “Unless…” he said, “I could keep you shackled for a while longer while you help me….”
I stammered some more.
“It’s settled then,” he said. “You stay in those leg irons and help me move the rest of these boxes. And no slouching around either!”
“Yes, Boss,” I said. Where the hell did that come from, I wondered to myself.
He told me he liked my attitude and that I should get to work.
