By Cuffed Locked

I didn’t expect to end up in chains. But thinking back, I probably should’ve seen it coming. It started a few weeks before with a lawnmower and a stupid joke that I took seriously.

My name is Nathan “Nate” Keller, and about a month back I was out cutting my front yard. It was one of those hot Saturday mornings where the sun bakes the sidewalk and you question all your life choices. That’s when Grant Mason, my neighbor, a hot firefighter, leaned over his porch railing with his usual beer in hand and said, “Hey Keller, when you’re done with yours, why don’t you do mine next?”

He said it like a joke. I laughed like it was one.

But the next thing I knew, I was halfway through his yard too — front and back, zigzag stripes, neat lines. I didn’t really know why I did it. Maybe I wanted to be useful. Maybe I thought it would lead to some kind of neighborly gratitude. But before I finished, Grant was tearing away in his jeep, leaving me sweat soaked and grass stained.

I didn’t see Grant until two days later when I was getting my mail. He looked at me from his porch and nodded. No thanks. No offer of a cold drink. Just a smug grin. “Nice job with the lawn,” he said with a smirk, “but you forgot to trim the edges.”

Despite this, over the next few days and weeks I kept showing up when he needed something — holding a ladder while he patched siding, hauling bags of mulch from his truck, grabbing beers when he was elbows-deep in engine grease. He never asked nicely. He didn’t need to. And for some reason, I never said no.

So when I heard the laughter and truck engines outside Grant’s garage this afternoon, I wandered over.

It was a long Fourth of July weekend, early afternoon on a Thursday, the start of a four-day weekend off from work for me. Summer was just getting under way in earnest, making it feel like the start of something. Grant’s garage door was open, and inside were four of them: Grant, of course, and three of his fellow firefighters.

I recognized two from the neighborhood. The third was a bald, broad-shouldered guy with a coiled serpent tattoo that wrapped around his arm like a warning label. His name, I later learned, was Deacon. He was the kind of guy who looked like he could deadlift a pickup truck and probably had.

The four of them were already half-dressed in what looked like hyper-realistic police uniforms-dark navy shirts with metal buttons, tactical belts, heavy boots. Grant saw me coming and grinned.

“Well, well. Look who wandered into the precinct. Officer Keller reporting for duty?” I gave a small laugh. It was surprising for me to see firefighters dressed as cops, and I asked them about it.

“Station 23 is having a costume party,” Grant said, throwing a thumb toward the back of the garage. “It’s a big contest every year. It’s the annual ‘Red, White, and Boo!’ costume contest. This time, we’re going in as a squad. Four cops and one prisoner. Group costume. Total crowd-pleaser.”

I asked why they were going to a costume party in the summer.

“The party goes back to ’97, when the fireworks delivery was late, so they held a Halloween party in July instead,” Grant explained. “It was so much fun that it became a tradition.”

“And for us, bragging rights are on the line,” added Russ — the guy with the old-school mustache and the permanent smirk.

“We got the setup perfect,” Deacon said, tapping the metal on the workbench.

“Uniforms, cuffs, even these babies.” He held up a pair of thick steel leg irons. Real ones. Short-linked chain between them, with a heavy-duty, high-security locks at each ankle.

Then Russ tossed something orange onto the hood of Grant’s jeep. A prison jumpsuit. Faded, wrinkled, with an inmate number stamped on the back in block letters.

“That’s for the rookie,” Grant explained. “Fresh meat at the station. Total greenhorn. We are gonna lock him up, chain his ankles, cuff his hands, and march him through the party like a captured fugitive. The humiliation’s part of the ritual.”

“Yeah,” Deacon said, grinning. “Everyone gets their turn. We rode Russ into his first Halloween party duct-taped to a dolly.”

Russ shrugged. “Still won.”

“But it looks the rookie bailed,” Grant said, checking his phone again. “Ghosted us. Now we’re down a guy, and that kills the whole gag. Four cops without a prisoner? Weak.”

There was a pause. And then, right on cue, all four of them turned and looked at me.

Grant’s smirk widened.

“Nate,” he said mockingly, “you always do seem to enjoy helping out. How about one more favor for your favorite neighbor?”

I blinked. “Wait — me? No, no way. I’m not-”

“C’mon,” Grant interrupted, walking over and slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“You’re about the right size. You already mow my lawn, might as well let us lock you up for a couple hours.”

The other guys laughed. Deacon stepped closer, opening the leg irons with a metallic clink.

Russ chimed in. “Just for the party. We’ll be gentle.”

“Promise,” Deacon added, though his grin said the opposite.

I tried to backpedal. “I mean, it’s not really my thing. Being… paraded around like that.”

“Aw, you scared?” Grant teased, giving me a nudge. “Don’t worry. Hands in front, feet chained, but we’ll walk slow.”

I didn’t like the idea. Not at all. The thought of being shackled, marched into a room full of strangers, laughed at, it churned something in my gut. But the way they looked at me — four guys, solid muscle, confidence dripping from their boots — they weren’t really asking. And something in me, something pathetic maybe, still wanted to be part of it.

To belong, even if just as the punchline.

“Fine,” I said. “But just for the party.”

“Good man,” Grant grinned. “Let’s get you suited up.”

He handed me the jumpsuit. But first, they made me strip naked in front of them. My heart was pounding. I was getting a stiffy and was hoping to god they wouldn’t notice or say anything. It was a one-piece orange inmate uniform with no pockets, and they wanted me going commando underneath. At least they let me keep my socks and put my work boots back on.

“Perfect fit,” said Deacon. “Almost too perfect.”

Then they got to work.

Grant knelt down and snapped the leg irons around my ankles. Cold steel locked tight against my work boots. The chain was short — maybe 12 inches. Just enough for me to shuffle. As he clicked the shackles around both my ankles I noticed the strange looking keyholes. I saw him pocket a key. It looked different from the one for the handcuffs. This key was heavier, rounder. A special kind, apparently.

“Custom key for those shackles,” he said with a wink. “No cheap props here.”

Then he took my wrists in both hands and cuffed them in front of me. Standard handcuffs. Tight, but not crushing. Still, the clicking sound sent a chill up my spine.

I tested the restraints with a small tug. Nothing gave.

“How do you feel, prisoner” Grant asked.

“Like I am stuck now,” I said, trying to keep it light.

Russ chuckled. “Oh, we’ve got all night.”

I laughed along with them, but something about his tone stuck with me.

I wasn’t one of them.

And I was starting to realize-maybe I never had been.

***

The metal clink of the chains around my ankles was the only sound as we made our way to the jeep. My wrists were cuffed in front of me, the orange jumpsuit snug around my chest, making me feel even more out of place.

The firefighters — Grant, Deacon, Russ, and yet another guy I hadn’t met before — were chatting and laughing as they loaded up, not sparing me a second thought.

That guy, Alex, looked to be about the same size as the others, with a buzzcut and a rough look about him, his arms bulging under his t-shirt as he cracked open a cold beer. He was a little rougher around the edges, the kind of guy who probably spent more time in a gym than I ever did. But the way they all acted around him, he was clearly in the same circle. Another alpha. Another guy I could never be.

I shuffled to the jeep with them, feeling the weight of the shackles at my ankles, the short chain barely allowing me to take more than a few steps at a time. I wasn’t used to feeling like this — not in control, not in charge of what was going on in my life. But it was also kind of… freeing, in a way. As messed up as it was, I wasn’t thinking about work, or how much I hated sitting at my boring desk job all week. This was different.

Grant threw a sideways grin my way as he opened the passenger door. “Ready to make an entrance, Keller?”

I shot him a half-hearted smile. “If by ‘make an entrance,’ you mean ‘walk in shackled like a prisoner,’ then sure.”

Deacon chuckled. “Come on, you’ll be fine. You’re just the fifth man for the costume contest.”

As the guys climbed into the jeep, they casually tossed a folded sign into my lap: INMATE – DO NOT FEED. “Don’t wrinkle it,” Grant said. “We’re sticking to the gag for the contest.”

The others laughed as Russ and Deacon took the back seat. Alex threw me an amused glance before starting the engine. The drive to the party was loud, filled with their banter, while I sat there silently, trying to adjust to the weirdness of it all. It wasn’t horrible, but it was certainly strange — not exactly what I’d expected for the Fourth of July weekend. Still, I could feel that weird thrill building inside of me, even though I had no idea what was in store for me beyond the costume contest.

The party was already going strong by the time we arrived. It was a massive backyard affair behind a firehouse out on Route 17. Lights strung up across trees, a tent in one corner for drinks and food, and music pumping loud enough to shake the leaves. There were guys everywhere — cops, paramedics, firefighters — most of them in costumes. There were gladiators, pirates, baseball players, SWAT teams, a group dressed like medieval knights.

Testosterone overload.

As we walked in — well, as I was walked in — many of the guys started to turn.

“There he is!” someone shouted. “Got yourself a live one, huh?”

“Look at that chain! Are those real?”

Grant gave a dramatic tug on the short handcuff chain between my wrists and dragged me forward like a misbehaving criminal. The guys flanked me in perfect formation, two on each side. I shuffled in the middle, hands cuffed in front of me, head low, the sign now hung around my neck.

Guys clapped. Laughed. Took pictures.

“Nice touch with the ankle irons,” someone said. “That guy looks legit miserable.”

“He is,” Grant shot back. “He doesn’t know it yet, but prisoner Keller here’s got another five years on his sentence.”

I tried to smile through it, but it felt like my skin was buzzing. I couldn’t get comfortable. Couldn’t move naturally. And I definitely couldn’t relax with the way everyone stared. Guys slapped me on the back like I was a good sport, but none of them talked to me.

They talked about me.

Like I wasn’t there.

The guys doubled down as the night went on. Russ ordered me to stand by the keg and hold cups for the men. Deacon had me pose with other partygoers, acting like I was trying to escape while he gripped my shoulder or held a fake baton to my neck. Grant made me kneel on the lawn at one point while he and another guy took selfies towering over me.

“You’re killing it, Keller,” Grant said with a wink. “You were made for this.”

Then came the contest.

We lined up on the patio in front of the DJ tent. Group after group was called forward and cheered on, but when it was our turn-four cops, one shackled, shuffling prisoner-the place erupted.

The MC couldn’t stop laughing. “Looks like the fire crew from 23 brought their own inmate! Give it up!”

We won. Loudest applause by far. A dumb little trophy was handed to Grant while Russ hoisted my chained wrists in mock victory. They cheered, I smiled weakly, and the crowd moved on.

No one asked if I was okay. Not even once.

We didn’t leave until after midnight. By then I’d lost track of how many men had taken photos with me in handcuffs and leg irons. My wrists were raw. My calves ached from shuffling. My pride… well, that had been gone since the keg duty.

Finally, we loaded back into the Jeep, heading home with the trophy tossed in the backseat and my dignity in tatters.

When we got back to Grant’s place, the adrenaline wore off fast.

Back in the garage again, Russ unlocked the handcuffs and stepped back with a stretch. “Alright, prisoner’s off the clock.”

“Cool,” I said, rubbing my wrists and looking down at the leg irons. “Now how about unlocking these?”

Deacon patted his pockets, then checked the cup holder. “Grant, toss me that key.” Grant frowned. “I gave it to you.”

“No you didn’t,” Deacon replied.

Russ chimed in. “I thought Grant had it.”

“Didn’t you put it in the glove box?” Grant asked.

There was a long pause. Four grown men staring at each other. Then at me.

“…You’re kidding,” I said.

They started patting pockets, checking the seats in the jeep, looking under bags and jackets, but with zero urgency. Like they were hunting for a remote, not a key shackling a man’s ankles together.

Deacon checked the floorboard. “Huh. Not here.”

Russ laughed. “This is what we get for using real restraints.”

“I told you guys to keep track of that key,” Grant said, smirking. “It’s not like you can run to Home Depot for another.”

“You said you had it,” Deacon shot back, half-laughing.

They all looked at me again.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” I said. “You guys were the ones playing prison guard all night.”

Grant shrugged. “Well… guess those ankle irons, and that jumpsuit for that matter, are staying on a little longer.”

“Until when?” I asked.

“Until we find the key,” Russ said, like it was no big deal. “Relax. You’re not going anywhere.”

I stared down at the ankle irons. The jumpsuit was tucked under the thick steel around my ankles. I couldn’t even take the damn thing off without removing the shackles first.

“And when’s that supposed to happen?” I asked.

They didn’t answer.

Deacon cracked a beer. “We’ve got the whole weekend, Nate. No rush.”

Grant stood there in his boots with a sly grin. “Consider it phase two of the costume.”

They were all grinning now, relaxed, amused.

Me? I was still shackled. Still dressed like a prisoner. Still very much not in on the joke.

The men’s weekend had started.

And I had no idea when — or if — it was going to end.

***

“Alright, Keller,” Grant said after a while, stretching with a yawn. “Let’s get you settled in for the night.”

I stood there in the garage, still in the jumpsuit, still shackled at the ankles, the short chain clinking quietly with every small shift of weight. The cold was creeping up my legs.

I thought he was finally going to take me inside, maybe give me a blanket and a spot on the couch, let this joke die down.

He walked to his back door, opened it, then turned around and shook his head.

“Actually, no. You’re not coming in.”

“What?” I said.

Grant pointed down at my legs. “I just had the hardwoods redone in there. No way I’m letting those irons scrape up my floors.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Russ laughed behind me. “Prisoners don’t usually get to pick where they sleep, Keller.”

Deacon cracked another beer and gave a little toast. “Garage it is.” I looked at Grant, expecting him to change his mind, maybe offer something better. He didn’t. Just stood there, smug as ever, then jerked a thumb toward the garage.

“Side room’s got a sink and a toilet. You’ll survive.”

I shuffled toward it, the cuffs clinking on the concrete. The garage was clean, but it smelled like oil and metal and cold air. The side room had a utility sink, and a narrow door to a half-bath.

“Blanket?” I asked.

Grant shrugged. “If you’re lucky.”

He tossed me an old flannel from the back of his truck. It hit the floor at my feet.

“Sweet dreams, inmate,” Russ said with a smirk as the guys headed inside.

They left the garage light on. I stood there in the echoing stillness, the steel around my ankles reminding me with every movement that I wasn’t in control. The jumpsuit clung to my skin like plastic. I looked down at the flannel and the concrete floor and realized-this wasn’t a prank anymore.

This was something else.

Every once in a while, l’d hear them laughing inside. I caught words here and there through the walls-“he really went for it,” “should’ve brought him on sooner,” “might keep him for the weekend.”

Then Russ’s voice, sharp and lazy through the garage door: “Hey, maybe we should go back to the party tomorrow and look for that key.”

A pause. Then Deacon, deadpan: “Eh. Tomorrow.” Grant added, “Yeah. He’s not going anywhere.”

They all laughed again.

As I listened, I stretched the chain between my ankles as far as I could and leaned my back against the wall. I pulled the flannel over me, but it didn’t help much. I was still in restraints. Still locked into this damn orange suit.

As I lay there in the dark, with the weight of the chains heavy around my legs, my mind began to race. I figured it would be easy for me to make an escape. I could pick the locks or maybe find something in the garage to break the shackles. Or I could go home, get out of here, and forget this whole thing.

But then, I stopped myself. I thought about Grant, the way he led the others so effortlessly, the way he’d grinned when he’d tossed me that orange jumpsuit. Part of me didn’t want to let him down. Maybe I was getting too comfortable in this strange situation. Maybe it was the power he had over me, or maybe it was something more — something I couldn’t explain.

I didn’t want to leave, not really. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere yet. As messed up as it was, I kind of wanted to stay. I had to admit it to myself — I liked the attention. The control they had over me felt strangely freeing. Maybe it wasn’t about escaping. Maybe it was about finally letting go.

I closed my eyes, the sound of the garage door creaking above me.

I was rock hard and about to go to sleep on concrete in a garage I’d helped organize three months ago while Grant stood around and pointed at things.

It hit me hard, right then: I’d mowed his lawn. Fixed his fence. Helped him load firewood for a party I wasn’t invited to. I’d carried his cooler into this same garage two weeks ago.

And now, here I was.

Sleeping in it.

The worst part? Some pathetic part of me still wanted to believe they liked me. That they’d unlock me in the morning, laugh it off, say I was one of the guys now.

But the way they talked about me…?

They didn’t see me as one of them.

They saw me as something to use. A prop. A joke.

A prisoner.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow I had a feeling I’d be doing more than just mowing Grant’s lawn.

The more I thought about my predicament, the harder I became. I could not help myself, listening their voices, I started to beat off.

***

By morning, my back ached from the concrete, and the thin flannel I’d used as a blanket hadn’t done much. I must’ve drifted off for a few hours, but I woke up early — stiff, sore, and still very much shackled. For a few minutes, I just sat there in the quiet, blinking up at the garage light that had stayed on all night. The garage was cold, and the metal around my ankles dug in with every tiny movement.

No key. No freedom. No sign they were taking this seriously.

Eventually, I heard voices from inside-laughter, movement, someone opening the fridge. Then the garage door creaked open and in walked Deacon, shirtless and stretching, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other.

“Mornin’, inmate,” he said casually, as if this were normal. “Rise and shine.”

He tossed the bagel to me. Plain, and cold. That was it. No drink.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Don’t say we don’t feed our prisoners.”

I tried to ask again about the key. “So… any luck finding it?”

Deacon scratched his head like he hadn’t even thought about it. “Nah. Grant checked his truck. Russ looked in the garage. It’s gotta turn up.”

I shifted, chains rattling. “What about bolt cutters?”

That got his attention.

“Hell no,” he said, like I’d insulted his dignity. “We’re not ruining a perfectly good set of shackles just because you’re uncomfortable. After all, you have no place to go this weekend, do you?”

He had me there. I was not due back at my boring desk job until Monday morning, and it was only Friday.

“But these leg irons are locked on my legs,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “And you look real authentic, too.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “Listen, Keller. You’re not bleeding. You got food. You’ve got a sink and a toilet. You’re doing fine.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Russ came in next, followed by Grant, both of them settling into chairs in the garage like it was their weekend lounge.

“I got an idea,” Russ said, grinning at me like I was already involved. “Since Nate here’s our prisoner, shouldn’t he be on prison duty?”

Deacon laughed. “Good call. Inmates don’t just lay around.”

Grant leaned against the wall, arms crossed, still in his sweatpants and a faded fire department hoodie. “That’s right. State pays ’em like, what — twenty-five cents an hour?”

“Generous,” Russ added. “But hey, maybe we’ll throw in a bonus if he doesn’t scratch the paint.”

I blinked. “Wait — what are you talking about?”

Grant nodded toward the driveway. “Trucks are filthy from the ride last night. Nate, why don’t you be useful and give them a wash?”

“You’re serious.”

Deacon tossed me a sponge and a half-empty jug of soap. “Look, you’ve already got the outfit. Let’s make it official.”

Russ added, “We’ll supervise.”

I stood slowly, the weight of the shackles pulling at my ankles. I took a step. The chain rattled.

Grant pointed at the garage door. “Hose is already hooked up. Start with mine.”

I walked outside, legs limited by the chain, still wearing the orange jumpsuit. The driveway stretched out in front of me like a punishment yard. Their jeeps and trucks were lined up like a chore list.

They dragged out chairs and sat there watching me, joking to each other, tossing me instructions like it was a training exercise.

“Get the bugs off the grill, Keller.”

“Better rinse that wheel well.”

“You missed a spot.”

I didn’t argue. I just did it. Cold water soaked my work boots, the sponge slopped heavy in my hand, and the jumpsuit started sticking to me as the morning warmed up.

Twenty-five cents an hour.

I tried to tell myself they’d find the key. That this was all still part of the joke. But the way they acted… no one was in a hurry. No one was even pretending to look.

This wasn’t just about a missing key anymore.

They liked having me like this.

And I was starting to wonder just how long they planned to keep their “prisoner” around.

By noon, I’d washed all four of their vehicles. My wrists were rubbed raw again from hauling the hose and scrubbing tires with my hands still stiff from the handcuffs the night before. I wasn’t shackled at the wrists anymore, but the ankle irons were still on, and they made every step a small battle with balance and frustration.

When I finally sat down on the edge of the driveway to rest, Grant leaned out the sliding glass door and shouted.

“Keller! Break time’s over.”

I stood up slowly, water dripping from the jumpsuit, legs stiff from the shackles. I shuffled back toward the house, where the others had posted up around Grant’s backyard pool. The contrast hit me hard: they were shirtless, relaxed, cracking beers and soaking up the sun like it was the first day of summer.

Grant had a beautiful place — clean lines, new stonework, a yard that stretched out behind the house like a private resort. The pool glinted in the sun, water calm, a Bluetooth speaker playing something low and easy. The smell of grilled sausages drifted from the patio.

And there I was, still in the orange jumpsuit, ankles chained, sweat and car-wash water soaking into the cotton like a second skin.

“Can I ask again?” I said, stopping a few feet from them. “Did anyone check the party site for the key yet?”

Grant didn’t even look up from his beer. “We’re relaxing.”

“I could call-”

“You could start stacking those tiles for my rock garden,” Grant cut in, gesturing to a wheelbarrow near the shed. “That’s a little more your pay grade.”

They laughed.

“You’re not seriously making me do landscaping like this,” I said.

Grant looked at me, deadpan. “You think I’m going to bend over and do it myself? You’re the prisoner, remember?”

“I was the fifth guy for a costume party,” I said. “That was the deal. The only deal.”

“Yeah, well..” Deacon stood and cracked his neck. “You volunteered. No one twisted your arm.”

Russ added, “And we can twist your arm if you keep arguing.”

The worst part? They were still laughing, still treating it like a joke. But none of them were pretending to look for that key anymore. They were past that.

I swallowed my pride, turned around, and started stacking the flat river stones from the back pile to the edge of the flowerbed by the pool. The chain between my ankles caught every third step. The rocks were heavy. My back was already sore from the night in the garage.

“You missed a few,” Grant said without looking, lounging by the pool as he dried off with a towel. “You want us to double your sentence?”

More laughter.

Eventually, I just shut it all out. The comments. The heat. The clink of the chain with every step. I started moving the rocks one by one, not because I wanted to, but because there wasn’t really a choice.

Around mid-afternoon, I heard new voices out front — loud, joking, boots on concrete.

Two more firefighters had shown up, both in shorts and off-duty station shirts, both with that same confident walk I’d started to recognize in all of them. I didn’t know their names.

Grant brought them around back.

“This is Keller,” he said, grinning like a proud handler. “Our temporary inmate.”

The new guys burst out laughing. One of them elbowed the other. “You weren’t kidding — dude’s in real leg cuffs.”

“He volunteered,” Grant added. “Then lost the key.”

“Lost it, huh?” the tall one said. “Man. Hate when that happens.”

The other leaned in, looking at the shackles like he was inspecting gear. “Still got your handcuffs, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Deacon said. “Standard issue. Keys are right here.”

He clicked them in his hands.

“Maybe later,” Russ said with a smile. “If he earns it.”

“Earns what?” I asked, voice sharper than I meant.

Grant looked at me like I was stepping out of line. “Keep it up and we’ll chain your hands again while you finish the stonework.”

They were only half-joking.

Maybe not even that.

I shut up and kept working. The afternoon wore on, the shadows stretching across the yard as the sun moved west. At some point, one of the new guys walked by, dropped a cold soda near me, and said, “Prisoners get water breaks, right? Gotta keep you alive.”

They laughed again.

And somewhere, deep down, I realized this wasn’t ending anytime soon.

They were enjoying this too much. Having someone on the outside. Someone to control.

Someone they didn’t have to respect.

The long weekend had only just begun.

***

I don’t know what finally pushed me over the edge. Maybe it was the fifth trip to the back pile for another load of rocks, or the heat pressing down on my shoulders while the others sat in the shade laughing at nothing. Maybe it was the chain that snagged for the hundredth time on the patio paver, nearly sending me sprawling face-first into Grant’s fancy stonework.

Whatever it was, I’d had enough. The frustration was real. Sweat trickled down my face, my body aching from hours of the same routine. I could feel my muscles stiffening under the strain of it all. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Can I take a break?” I asked, my voice more tired than I meant it to sound.

They all turned.

Deacon, Grant, Russ, Alex, the two new guys. All lounging around the pool with drinks in hand like they were at some resort. Grant raised an eyebrow.

Russ, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You want a break, Keller?” he said. His tone was mocking. “You don’t just get a break. You work until we say so.”

I swallowed, hoping the words wouldn’t come out too harsh. “I’m just asking for a minute. These shackles are heavy.”

Grant stepped forward, and for a moment, I thought he might let it slide. But then he raised an eyebrow and looked me over. “You want a break?”

Then he held out his hand.

Deacon tossed him the standard handcuffs without a word. They landed in Grant’s palm with a familiar metallic weight.

My heart sank.

“Let’s reset your attitude,” Grant said, stepping behind me. “Hands behind your back.”

I hesitated.

Russ stood and rolled his shoulders. “Don’t make us do it, Keller.”

I swallowed hard. My wrists were sore. My legs ached. My pride was in tatters. But I turned around slowly and brought my hands behind my back.

Click. Click.

The cuffs locked into place, smooth and practiced.

“There we go,” Grant said, stepping back in front of me. “You had a little too much freedom anyway.”

Now, with my hands cuffed behind me and the irons still locked around my ankles, I was fully bound. Helpless. I couldn’t even sit down comfortably, not without falling over.

The two new guys howled with laughter.

“Damn, you weren’t kidding,” one of them said. “Full prisoner package.”

“He should be wearing that all weekend,” the other added. “Hell, make it a month.” Grant grinned. “He’s got the attitude for it. Maybe we tack on some time for that little outburst.”

“Harsh sentence,” Deacon agreed, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah,” Russ added. “I think Keller just earned himself a longer stay.”

They were joking, but they weren’t. Not really. It had stopped being about the costume party a long time ago. It was about power now. About control.

And they seemed to like having someone beneath them.

Grant clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ll take the cuffs off later. Maybe. If you’re good.” Then he turned back toward the pool, towel over his shoulder, not a care in the world.

Meanwhile, I stood there — cuffed behind my back, ankles chained, sweat dripping down my spine — watching them dive into the water like it was any other weekend.

For them, it was.

For me?

I was starting to understand the full weight of the joke.

And I was the punchline.

***

The sun had dropped low by the time they unlocked my wrists-just long enough for me to carry the empty beer cooler around back, rinse the patio, and haul firewood up from the side of the house. They didn’t ask. They just ordered. I obeyed. And every time l shuffled by in the leg irons, there was a comment.

“Prison labor’s the future.”

“Twenty-five cents an hour? Overpaid.”

“You think he gets weekends off?”

They were high on it now. The dynamic. I saw it in their body language, their jokes, the way they didn’t even look at me when they gave orders. I was furniture to them. A novelty. Less than a man.

After the sun set, we were back in the garage.

After my “break” from the forced physical labor they had uncuffed my wrists, which gave me some of my dignity back. Back in the garage I was able to peel the suit down to my waist, but I was still in the orange jumpsuit that I was stuck in because of the leg irons locked around my ankles. They were drying off with towels and talking like they were wrapping up a shift at the station.

Deacon was digging through a gear bag when he snapped his fingers. “Oh. Hey. Grant, remember Marcus from Station 17?”

Grant nodded from the garage door. “The tall guy with the broken nose?”

“Yeah. He texted me earlier. Said someone found a set of keys out behind the firehouse this morning.”

I straightened up instantly. “The keys?”

Deacon turned to me, smirking. “Dunno. Could be.”

“Is he bringing them?”

“Tomorrow,” Grant said casually, like they’d just announced when the pizza was arriving.

“Said he’d swing by after his shift.”

My pulse jumped. “Tomorrow? That means—”

“Yup,” Grant cut me off. “One more night, Keller.”

The hope I’d started to feel collapsed into something worse than disappointment. Not because of the wait, but because of how relaxed they were about it. Not one of them seemed eager to confirm the keys matched. They were just… letting this continue.

“Which brings us to your overnight setup,” Russ said, walking over to the far wall of the garage where a large bolt ring was set into the concrete floor — left over, I assumed, from some old mechanic rig or cargo anchor.

From a small box on the workbench, Grant pulled out a heavy-duty metal collar.

“Come on,” I said. “You’re not serious.”

“We’ve got a runner on our hands,” Deacon said in a mock-radio voice. “Inmate’s been showing signs of rebellion.”

“You want to sleep loose in my garage again?” Grant said. “I don’t think so.”

He held up the collar, and I saw the padlock clipped through the hinge. The thing wasn’t decorative. It was utilitarian. Steel. Cold.

“I’m already shackled,” I argued.

“Yeah,” Russ said. “But you’ve got hands. For now.”

They walked me over to the anchor ring. I didn’t fight. I don’t even know why. Some part of me still believed the key was coming. That this was temporary. That if I played along, the humiliation might stop.

They closed the collar around my neck. It clicked tight — not choking, but snug — and the padlock snapped shut with a finality that made my chest tighten.

Then came the chain: thick gauge, about 15 feet long, padlocked from the collar to the anchor on the floor. It was long enough for me to reach the toilet and the sink, but not the door to the house or the other door to the outside.

Grant gave it a testing tug. “That’ll hold.”

Deacon dropped the flannel shirt from last night beside me. “Prisoner’s bedding.”

They didn’t even pretend it was normal.

They were smiling.

“We’ll see about those keys tomorrow,” Grant said.

“Maybe,” Deacon said as he and the others went inside, “or maybe we just lose those too.”

Grant was the last to go inside. “Don’t stay up too late tonight beating off,” he said, tossing the garage light switch off. “You’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Might even promote you to grill duty.”

The door clicked shut.

I sat in the dark, my head tethered to the floor like a dog on a stake, steel around my throat, ankles chained, jumpsuit damp and filthy, and a rock hard cock in my hands.

I’d never felt so small.

And the worst part?

Somewhere in the back of my mind… I still held onto that word: maybe.