By Cuffed Locked

I blinked awake to the glare of daylight flooding the basement. My arms were still cuffed behind me, the collar snug at my throat, and exhaustion felt like liquid in every muscle. My mind spun, trying to make sense of time again, when I heard the stairs creak. Caleb and Derek appeared at the top — effortlessly composed, as if they’d just stepped out of an ad for guys who never lose control. Caleb carried a fresh coffee, hair neatly styled and shirt crisp. Derek moved with an athlete’s ease, wearing a clean hoodie and joggers, smirking like he’d never been anywhere but in control. They didn’t rush.

Instead, Caleb lingered at the top step for a moment and said, soft, amused: “Nice spread.” He didn’t need to clarify. My posture, the cuffs, even the dull ache from the collar — they all spoke his language. I had asked for this.

“Look at this,” he said to Derek. “Thursday night, he strolls over, all cocky, talking about how ‘escape rooms aren’t real’ and how he wanted something serious.”

Derek grinned, sipping his smoothie. “And now look at him. Collared. Chained. Sleepless. Cuffed like a prisoner on his last night.”

“You remember that part?” Caleb asked, crouching down in front of me. “The part where you asked for this?”

I didn’t answer.

“Oh, we remember,” Derek said. “He wanted to be locked for real. No tap-outs. Said the office escape room was too soft.”

“And then he asked for the handcuffs behind his back,” Caleb added, tapping a knuckle on one of the bracelets. “Didn’t just agree. Didn’t just accept. Asked. Said the words.”

I tried to roll to one side, uncomfortable, but Caleb reached out and pushed my shoulder back down with an easy hand.

“You thought we forgot?” he asked softly. “You asked for this.” He leaned on the concrete pillar near the crank. “And now you’ve signed up for six more weekends of service. Signed that contract and made it official.”

“Gotta admit,” Caleb said, “you’ve got commitment. You suck at escaping, but you’ve got guts.” He walked down and crouched in front of me. He tapped the collar lightly, then my shoulder. “Impressive endurance.”

Caleb glanced at the clock: almost 6 a.m. “Time’s up, brother. You’ve got until—”

“Exactly 6 a.m.,” Derek finished. “No lenience. Dressed. Out the door. Coffee trophy already set up for you.”

Derek tossed a pair of clean clothes next to me. Tight. Smart. Like a uniform for a man who’d spent Labor Day weekend in chains.

“And don’t forget,” Caleb said, stepping back. “We’ve been in your house. Changed things. Little adjustments you haven’t noticed yet.”

I locked eyes with him. That was code — some privy secret I’d never know until later. Both men turned to go.

Derek laughed. “Nothing says gratitude like steel around the wrists.”

The door closed behind them.

I lay back, finally free of their voices, a single bead of sweat trickling down my spine. Yes, I’d asked for the cuffs. Yes, I’d signed the contract. But now? Now I realized this — my submission, my surrender — was only the beginning. I closed my eyes and let the last few hours sink in. Every humiliation. Every tease. Every moment of near-breaking. And I still wanted more. Because… it wasn’t just the challenge anymore.

It was him.

It was them.

And at that moment, I knew I would ride this out — six weekends of service, one week of return to the basement cell — because in some twisted way, freedom felt like the hardest challenge yet.

***

I arrived home in a daze — bruised pride, aching muscles, twitching wrists and a late-start coffee in one hand. The collar was gone, the cuffs removed, but their impact lingered. I opened my front door and hesitated. Something felt… off. Minor changes, at first. Something was slightly different in the entryway. A faint smell of musty tool metal was in the air.

I stepped into the living room. One of my favorite mid‑century armchairs was gone. In its place stood a short, heavy-duty metal ring bolted into the floor — an anchor point, sturdy enough to clip a chain. Next to it, a shallow gouge in the hardwood suggested intense drilling. I followed the trail. My coffee trembled in my hand.

In the hallway, the door to my office had a fresh deadbolt — another lock up near eye level. I’d never installed it. What used to be a bookshelf was now half-empty, the rest rearranged to hide two small wall‑mounted eye‑hooks, upside‑down, as though they were engineered for restraint.

My heart pounded.

Caleb had said they’d been in my place. I’d thought that meant just for jokes: moving a chair, switching the coffee pods. But this? These were anchor points. Installations. Deliberate. They’d shaped my home into a second escape environment without me even noticing.

My phone buzzed. It was Caleb. The message was simple: “Enjoy your day. See you this weekend.”

I stared at the message, stepping into the void of altered familiarity. I didn’t want it. I didn’t enjoy it. But I had to admit—

I did.

***

By the time I got through the workday — running on four hours of sleep, half a protein bar, and the ghost of handcuffs around my wrists — I was desperate to crash. But stepping back into my home that evening, exhaustion quickly gave way to something else.

Paranoia.

Control.

Submission.

It wasn’t just the bolt ring in the living room floor, or the two new restraint points hidden behind what used to be my bookshelf. It was the growing sense that this space — my space — no longer entirely belonged to me. I moved cautiously, noticing more details. The closet door in the hallway was slightly ajar — inside, my gym bag was missing. A new, coiled length of chain now hung neatly next to my coats.

Had they…?

No, it couldn’t be.

My phone buzzed again.

Caleb: “Hope you’re settling in. Check under the kitchen sink.”

I walked to the cabinet, heart pounding. Inside, I found a small sealed pouch labeled “Compliance Kit.” Inside: a Bluetooth ankle monitor, zip ties, and a hand-written note:

“New protocol starts this week. You are to remain home after work hours. We will be checking. Welcome to Level 2.”

I sank onto the couch. Or tried to. It was then I realized the legs of the couch had been replaced. Two of them had welded eyebolts screwed into their bases.

Jesus.

The front door clicked.

I shot up.

Caleb stepped inside, as casually as if it were his own place. Behind him was Derek, eating sunflower seeds and grinning like he’d just walked into a game show prize reveal.

“Thought we’d stop by,” Caleb said, tossing a set of keys — my keys — onto the counter. “You left the spare under the rock in back, remember? Rookie move.”

Derek walked over to the couch and sat, testing the anchor bolt with his foot.

“Sturdy. I like it. You could sleep chained here. Netflix and restraint.”

Caleb looked around approvingly. “This place has potential.”

I swallowed. “So this is really happening?”

Caleb smiled. “It was always happening. You just didn’t realize how far it would go.”

“You work nine to six,” Derek added. “We won’t interfere with that. But after hours, you’re… on call. Here. Locked. Secured.”

Caleb walked over and handed me the ankle monitor. “Put it on. Right now.”

I hesitated. Briefly.

But I did it.

Snapped it on. Felt the click. Felt the point of no return.

“There you go,” Derek said.

Caleb turned toward the door. “We’ll do random checks. Make sure you’re following curfew. You’ve still got a lot to prove.”

As they left, I heard Derek’s voice through the open door: “I give him four days before he’s begging for another weekend.”

Caleb’s response was quieter, but crystal clear: “I’m not worried. He asked for all of this.”

On Tuesday night, I received a new set of rules from Caleb and Derek via a shared tracking app installed on my phone, which they control. These included:

• 8 p.m. curfew: Mark must be physically in his home by 8 p.m. sharp. Ankle monitor tracks compliance.
• Shirtless after 8: Caleb insists on this “uniform,” justifying it with, “You don’t need a collar to remember who owns your nights.”

Derek, now with full access to my home, dropped by Wednesday night to inspect the bolt rings. He casually handcuffed me while giving me a mocking “compliance quiz.”

On Thursday, Caleb introduced a “remote task app” that sent daily challenges to me during the evenings. Some examples:

• Spend 10 minutes kneeling, hands behind head. Send proof.
• Do not use your bed tonight. Sleep chained to the floor anchor. Failure results in penalties: handcuff hours, cold showers, more humiliating tasks.

Derek swung by again, this time without warning. I opened the door in my post-8 p.m. state — shirtless, barefoot, collared.

“Attaboy,” Derek smirks. “Starting to feel like home, huh?”

While I was in fact home, somehow I knew that with Caleb and Derek in control of me from now on, life would never again be the same.

The End

Metal would like to thank the author, Cuffed Locked, for this story.