Old Silver

~ antiques ~

Abigail pressed a slender fingertip atop the brightly-lit glass display case of the antique store in downtown Stillwater, directly above a pair of gaudy earrings two spaces to the left of the item she was actually interested in.

“How much are these silver and topaz earrings, Miss MacKenna?” she asked of the antique dealer.

Not even glancing at the price tag, the slim woman with short auburn hair replied, “One hundred ninety five fifty. They’re from the late 1940’s, genuine imitation Comstock Lode souvenirs from Nevada. Post-war vacation chic is in style again, and it’s dragging prices along for the ride.”

“Ummmm…never mind,” Abigail said. She glanced at the display case, drew a quick breath, then said with casual eagerness, “What about those? They look like old handcuffs, but they’re plated silver. What’s their story?”

“Oh, the nippers!” Miss MacKenna said, with obvious delight. She selected a key from the charm bracelet on her wrist and unlocked the display case, reached inside and grasped the silver handcuffs with strong, graceful fingers, placed them atop the glass-topped case.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” she asked of Abigail, who touched them delicately with her fingertips, obviously entranced.

“They’re beautiful,” the young woman with long blonde hair murmured, “are they real?”

Miss MacKenna nodded.

“Not plated, but sterling silver handcuffs with matching silver keys, late Victorian or early Edwardian. They’re clearly of custom design and manufacture, with a hallmark of a pair of crossed sabers, of all things, but I’ve never discovered a clue as to their maker’s identity. But, being of solid silver and of a unique design probably means that they were either made for a very wealthy individual or for an ultra-exclusive house of prostitution, one catering to the aristocracy.”

“They’re beautiful,” Abigail repeated, caressing the silver chain linking the cuffs.

“Beautiful and functional,” said Miss MacKenna; “they still work and they’re as strong as the day they were made. And,” she said with a flirtatious smile, “they were made for a woman.”

Abigail looked at the redheaded woman, surprised.

“How do you know that?”

“Why would anybody handcuff a man, when you can put a woman in chains?” Miss MacKenna laughed. “Look how small and elegant they are -- clearly designed for the slender, graceful wrists of a woman. Here, I’ll show you.”

Miss MacKenna picked up the cuffs and stepped out from behind her counter. Standing close to Abigail, she turned around, put her hands behind her back, and slipped the silver handcuffs over her own wrists. They locked with an almost musical tone as she snapped them shut.

The redheaded woman turned around and faced Abigail, her shoulder muscles tightening beneath her blue silk blouse as she tugged at her chained wrists, her green eyes shining in the late afternoon darkness of the shop. Though they were of a height, Abigail felt as though she were gazing up at the antique dealer from a great distance beneath.

“To be helpless and in chains, Abigail,” Miss MacKenna purred, “is every woman’s darkest, most secret desire.”

Abigail tried to speak and the words caught in her throat. She swallowed and tried again.

“How much?” she asked.

~ bedtime ~

Nude body pale and gleaming beneath the light of a lone candle, Abigail lay upon silken sheets in the bedroom of her Minneapolis condo, eyes tightly shut, caressing the handcuffs, feeling the warmth of the silver penetrate her fingers and spread slowly into her hands, her arms, her breasts, her belly.

Moving as slowly as she was able, Abigail closed one of the silver cuffs about her left wrist and firmly squeezed it shut, her body quivering as each ratchet locked the silver ring tighter upon her wrist.

Her left wrist secured, Abigail slipped her right wrist into the other cuff and again, slowly ratcheted it shut. She opened her eyes, glanced at the silver key resting upon her nightstand, then closed her eyes and tried to pull her wrists apart. She smiled softly as she felt the inescapable strength of the silver handcuffs, as she felt the warmth of her captivity spread throughout her body.

And in that most fleeting of moments, she faded away to sleep…

~ awakening ~

Sunlight streaming in through the high windows fell gently upon Abigail’s eyes, disturbing her sleep until she snuggled deeper into the massive pile of sleeping furs, curling her body into a ball centered about her chained wrists. She drowsed lightly in the twilight land between waking and sleep, her naked body warmed and embraced by the furs surrounding her. And then sleep fell away from her as she sat bolt upright and stared wildly about her, long blonde hair falling in a thick mane about her bare shoulders, cobalt blue eyes wide with astonishment.

Abigail was in a room which she had never before seen, a room the like of which she had only but dreamed. She lay nestled amongst an immense pile of silky-soft, luxuriant furs heaped waist-high in one corner of the room. She was entirely nude; the antique silver handcuffs were still locked firmly upon her slender wrists.

The room was large and octagonal, with a ceiling well over twice Abigail’s height, its eight walls paneled in mahogany polished to a rich, dark gleam. Small horizontal windows were set high in the walls, admitting of light but not of view. Floor and ceiling, too, were of dark and polished wood, with floorboards nearly a foot wide. There was no door.

There was no door.

Abigail arose from the pile of furs, unmindful of her nudity, unmindful of the chains upon her wrists. She moved silently about the quiet room, tiptoeing, trying not to make the least of sounds, trying to find a way out of the room. She found none.

The room was filled with equipment the likes of which Abigail had only seen in films, in photographs, in her innermost desires. A medieval rack, a torture device from the Dark Ages, occupied one corner, ropes new and taut, woodwork burnished to mirror brightness. An iron cage fashioned in a woman’s hourglass shape hung by a chain from the ceiling, its door open in mute invitation. A St. Andrews cross was in another one of the room’s eight corners, dark wooden crosspieces gleaming, leather cuffs dangling, ready to clasp wrist and ankle. An Egyptian sarcophagus stood against another wall, door ajar, awaiting its next mummified occupant. An armoire, wooden panels carved in high relief, stood with doors agape, revealing its contents as whips and paddles and restraints of every description.

Abigail moved on silent, bare feet from one device of imprisonment and torture to another, caressing them all with both eyes and hands. She was careful to make not a sound, not even allowing the silver chains of her handcuffs to strike musically against one another. Curiously, she did not wonder how she had come to this place or why she was here, but she was burning with a passion to know precisely where she was.

Abigail clambered atop a heavy buffet, its top richly burnished wood, its sides steel bars an inch thick, its whole comprising an inescapable cage of great beauty. She climbed clumsily due to her chained wrists, but soon Abigail stood atop the buffet on her tiptoes, peering out the high, horizontal windows. She gasped at what she saw – and then she gasped again.

Paris stood spread out before her, but the Paris of a century past. From the window’s high elevation, Abigail saw men and women in the clothing of a world lost and gone forever, the men in top hats and long-tailed suits, the women in silken dresses and ornate bonnets. Horse-drawn carriages and delivery wagons filled the streets, and in the distance Abigail could clearly see workmen laboring upon the half-finished and controversial centerpiece of the Paris Exposition, the Eiffel Tower.

Abigail gasped at the realization that she was in a world out of time, and then gasped far more deeply as she felt a pair of incredibly strong hands clasp her about her slender, naked waist, lift her off the buffet, and then carry her effortlessly across the eight-sided room. She writhed helplessly within the grasp of the powerful hands, but was no more able to free herself than if she had done nothing at all.

On the far side of the room, Abigail found herself lifted higher into the air and moved toward the dark mahogany wall. She reached out her hands to ward off a collision and saw too late that her chained wrists were being passed over a large metal hook set high in the wall. Lowered gently to the floor, Abigail found that her chains held her helpless beneath the hook, arms stretched toward the ceiling, while she was forced to stand on her toes to ease the strain on her slender shoulders. She felt powerful hands upon her, felt herself twirled about, to and fro, and effortlessly as though she were merely a doll, as her captor examined her naked body.

Abigail’s captor was a tall man with a lean, athletic build. He had handsome, aquiline features and pale blue eyes, and wore a beard of Imperial styling, dark as sin but with the veriest scattering of grey. He was attired in a close-fitting military uniform of blue so dark as to be nearly black, his high cavalry boots buffed to a high shine, the silver buttons on his tunic and the silver insignia of crossed sabers on his kepi gleaming in the room’s now-fading light. He looked sternly down at Abigail and, putting his large right hand gently between her full breasts, pushed her backward until her bare back was flush against the smooth woodwork. He held her there, seemingly without effort, pinning the helplessly struggling Abigail against the wall as though she were a butterfly about to be mounted, as he fumbled with the breeches of his uniform…

~ reawakening ~

Abigail awoke with a start in the darkness of her condo’s bedroom, drenched in sweat, fists clenched, breath coming in gasps, her body at the brink of orgasm. She did no more than gently touch her fingertips to the softness below her waist when her body convulsed, harsh cries erupting from her throat, leaving her moments later lying nude and limp upon her silken sheets in a pool of her own sweat, fading away to a dreamless sleep.

~ antiques, again ~

“Oh, those nippers I sold you last week? Well, yes, Abigail,” said Miss MacKenna, “as it happens I do have matching leg irons for them. They have a limited appeal, so I keep them in the back room. Would you like to see them?”

~ and bedtime, again ~

Nude body pale and gleaming beneath the light of a lone candle, Abigail sat upon her silken sheets and admired the solid silver leg irons adorning her slender, elegant ankles. She lay back upon her multitude of pillows and wriggled with abandon, reveling in the sensation of being helplessly chained, both wrist and ankle.

Abigail closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensation of heat traveling down her body from her wrists, up her body from her ankles. Converging in her belly, the heat grew into a flame.

And in that most fleeting of moments, she faded away to sleep…

~ new awakening ~

Abigail arose from sleep slowly, warm, aroused, aware of her chains, aware of her surroundings, but also aware of differences. The room was darker than usual, its light coming not from sunlit windows, but from dozens of ensconced candles scattered throughout. Abigail was awakening in the massive pile of sleeping furs, just as she always had, but this time, she was not alone. She was aware of arms about her, of the sweet softness of a naked body pressed close to hers, holding her tightly from behind, of fingers gently tweaking her nipples, of lips soft and warm kissing her neck.

Twisting about, enjoying the feeling of warm, smooth hands gliding along her bare body as she did so, Abigail found herself face to face with a beautiful young woman, a woman fully as naked as Abigail, a woman whom she had never before seen. The woman smiled at Abigail, a smile of equal parts gentleness and desire, then she took Abigail’s head firmly in her small hands, pulled close, and kissed Abigail with hunger and abandon.

The handcuffs and leg irons limiting her initiative, Abigail found that the other woman easily took control of her, holding her chained hands down above Abigail’s head, pressing Abigail deep down into the softness of the pile of furs with the weight of her slender body, kissing Abigail’s lips, shoulders, throat…

And then the kissing stopped, and Abigail saw the other woman rising into the air, a man’s large hands holding her securely about her tiny waist. Abigail squirmed about on the furs until she was on her knees, her movements made awkward by her chains, trying to see what was going on. As she had suspected, it was the man in the French officer’s uniform, and he kept lifting the woman until he held her far over his head, where her naked body dangled helplessly. A half dozen long strides across the octagonal room, and he placed his captive inside the cage with a woman’s hourglass shape, closed the cage door, and quickly snapped its brace of padlocks shut, locking the naked woman safely into captivity. Another pair of the man’s long strides, and he stood beside a crank set into the dark paneled wall. He turned it, tightening the chain from which the cage hung, and the woman’s cage rose slowly into the air, rotating slowly first in one direction, then in another.

As the man in uniform worked at his task, Abigail was able to get her first good look at the other woman. She was tiny, perhaps five or six inches shorter than Abigail, and looked to be in her early twenties, with a slender, firm body that made Abigail lick her lips with desire. She was quite beautiful, with a pert nose and features that brought forth thoughts of wood nymphs. Her eyes were dark brown, as was her lustrous hair, cut boyishly short. She wore nothing save a silver collar about her long, slender neck.

Abigail’s study of the caged détenue was interrupted by powerful arms about her shoulders and beneath her knees, lifting her effortlessly from the sleeping furs. She found herself being carried across the room and being placed in a chair made of wood and leather, and of exceedingly peculiar construction, having no seat or back, but only pairs of narrow leather straps in their place.

Within seconds, the uniformed man had bound Abigail tightly into place with straps about her arms and thighs, wrists and ankles, and over her shoulders and beneath her breasts. All her attempts to wriggle free were futile; she was held utterly – and wonderfully -- immobile. Abigail looked up at the man to see him smiling smugly down at her, fingering her long blonde hair with a leather riding crop he held in his large hand.. She opened her mouth to speak and found it instantly filled with a ball made of soft leather which was held in place by means of a strap he secured tightly about her head. And for the first time, the man spoke.

“Je n'aime pas que mes jeunes dames pour aient joué sans ma permission.”

She stared up at him, seized by a sudden regret at having taken six years of Spanish in school, but not one single day of French. She mewed piteously through the leather ball gag. And then she squealed as the uniformed man pulled a lever on her chair and she found herself rotating, the chair somehow turning on its axis, leaving her hanging helplessly upside down, her toes wriggling somewhere above her, her long blonde hair brushing the floor below.

Abigail stopped mewing as she felt a firm hand caressing her bare skin and realized that the chair’s peculiar construction left her body exposed not only to view, but to whatever use the man in uniform might intend. And that coherent thought was her last, for at that moment she felt the first sharp blow from the man’s riding crop landing upon the soft, defenseless flesh of her bare bottom. Her instinctive attempts to escape, even to draw away, were utterly useless. Even her efforts to anticipate the blows were for naught; as soon as she perceived a pattern in the timing of his strokes and tensed her muscles in reaction, the rhythm would change, and the next unexpected blow would seem to fall with even greater vigor.

After an unknowable length of time, the strokes ceased to fall and the room once more was utterly silent, the only sound being the whistling of Abigail’s rapid breathing around the leather ball gag. Her naked body was dripping with sweat, hanging helplessly from the leather straps like meat in a butcher’s window. Then she felt a small, gentle hand tentatively caressing her aching derrière, the fingers apparently tracing the marks left by the riding crop. And after that, a moment’s disorientation, while the chair again rotated about its axis and Abigail found that once again she faced the world in an upright position. Blood rushing from her head left her dizzy for a moment, and when she was recovered, she found that she was gazing into the beautiful and gentle face of the other naked woman, now obviously freed from her cage. The woman smiled most charmingly and spoke.

“Vous serez un esclave merveilleux.”

Abigail shook her head, not understanding.

“Je suis la Bagatelle. Le Capitaine vous a donné un nom pourtant?”

Abigail shook her head again, not understanding what was being said, unable to respond in any event due to the leather ball gag filling her mouth, and the woman shrugged as if it were of no import. She sat down upon Abigail’s lap and stared deeply into Abigail’s blue eyes from mere inches away, a look of adoration on her pert face as she gently caressed Abigail’s cheek, tweaked Abigail’s erect nipples, played with Abigail’s long, full hair. Abigail found herself astonishingly aware of the heat of the other woman’s flesh upon her bare thighs.

Suddenly, a mischievous grin filled the woman’s impish face and she sprang up and pranced her way to the open armoire. She rummaged about inside, seemed to find that which she sought, and returned to Abigail, holding her hands behind her back so that Abigail could not see her prize, all the while holding Abigail’s eyes with her own and grinning widely. She sat down upon Abigail’s lap with her thighs spread wide and inched close, the two women sitting face to face with their breasts all but touching.

The naked woman with short brown hair kissed Abigail gently upon her cheeks, her forehead, her throat, her eyes, and caressed Abigail’s lips, still held still by the leather ball bag, with soft, exploring fingers. She teased Abigail’s hair, brushing it with the fingers of her left hand while still holding her right hand hidden behind her back, caressing Abigail’s locks, and obviously marveling that the blonde mane reached well below Abigail’s waist.

And while she was played with, the small part of Abigail still capable of thought realized with a start that the brown-haired woman’s silver collar wore the same hallmark of crossed sabers as did her own cuffs and leg irons, the same silver insignia that she had seen upon the military cap of the man in uniform.

But before she could begin to think through the implications of this discovery, Abigail felt the woman take a handful of her hair in her small hand and hold it tightly. Then, with her most impish grin yet, the woman produced a pair of gleaming silver scissors from behind her back and began to cut, giggling as she watched a two-foot lock of Abigail’s hair fall gently to the gleaming wooden floor.

Abigail’s blue eyes opened in horror. She tried to protest, but could produce only another slight mewing sound through the leather ball gag filling her mouth. She tried to squirm away from the woman and her scissors, but was held helpless and naked by the chair’s bindings. She could only sit in abject helplessness as she felt her hair being cut away…

~ a new day ~

Abigail awoke with a start in her condo’s bedroom, drenched in sweat, early morning light streaming in through the bay windows. She lolled in bed for a moment, enjoying the anticipation of what was about to be, and then touched herself with gentle fingers until she came with violent abandon.

Reclining upon her multitude of pillows until she was satisfied that sleep was lost to her for the morning, reflecting that this past night’s dream was utterly hot – the best one yet! -- Abigail reached with trembling fingers for the silver keys upon her night table and unlocked her cuffs and leg irons, and was again, for the first time in nine hours, a free woman. She arose gracefully from her bed and walked into her bathroom, where she picked up her toothbrush and then stared with mute astonishment at her image in the bathroom mirror.

Abigail’s full, waist-length blonde hair was no more. She was still blonde, but her hair was all but gone, less than an inch long, cut boyishly short and perfectly styled, in a look identical to that of the brown-haired woman in her dream.

Abigail felt her head frantically with both hands, seeking to reassure herself that her mirrored reflection lied, but she felt nothing but short hair, soft as silk. She then raced back into her bedroom, rummaged through the shambles of her sheets and bedspread, and found nothing. She searched her entire condo and found nothing. Doors and windows all locked, alarm system activated and secure, nothing out of place. But not a hair did she find, not a single long blonde hair anywhere at all…

~ antiques, redux ~

“Abigail, I love what you’ve done with your hair!” said Miss MacKenna, admiringly. “You look so beautiful with your hair this way – I find short hair irresistible – it’s such a statement of submission.”

Confused by the flattery and by Miss MacKenna’s words, Abigail touched her short hair as she had done every few minutes, ever since awakening with her long hair vanished, three days before. Since that moment, she had not slept, but felt rather as though she were sleepwalking through her life. She looked at Miss MacKenna, realized that the woman with short auburn hair was standing before her, patiently awaiting a response.

“Submission?” she repeated, looking deeply into Miss MacKenna’s bright green eyes.

“Oh, yes, Abigail. A woman’s hair is such an important part of her self, of her sexuality, of her beauty. The sacrifice of her hair is making a gift of that piece of herself to another, symbolic of her abject surrender to another – or else symbolic of being claimed. Short of being collared, it’s the strongest statement of submission a woman can make.”

“Collared?”

Miss MacKenna smiled, a predatory glint in her eyes, a gleam not seen by the dazed Abigail. She unlocked the display case she stood behind, reached into it without taking her eyes from Abigail’s, and withdrew an object which she set upon the glass top of the case. The lights of the antique store were reflected in the object, and Abigail’s eyes were slowly drawn to it.

A silver collar lay atop the display case, a collar bearing the hallmark of a pair of crossed sabers, a collar of the same style as Abigail’s cuffs and leg irons, a collar identical to that worn by the naked woman in Abigail’s dreams.

Abigail felt her fingers move slowly toward the collar and caress it softly. She felt the warmth of the silver flow into her fingertips and fill her body with its heat. She felt an overpowering desire to place the collar about her throat, to lock it shut, to kneel…

Abigail felt her blue eyes rise and meet the steady, confident, green eyes of Miss MacKenna. The two women gazed deeply into one another’s eyes for a long moment, and then Abigail heard herself whisper, “How much?”

~ early to bed ~

Nude body pale and gleaming beneath the light of a lone candle, Abigail sat upon silken sheets, chained wrist and ankle, and gazed with wonder upon the silver collar she held in her hands. She softly caressed it, marveling at its warmth, at its beauty, at the intricate design of its hallmark. She picked up the collar’s silver key from the sheets and placed it on her night table beside the matching keys for her cuffs and her leg irons.

Abigail placed the collar about her slender throat and slowly pressed it closed, its lock catching shut with an almost musical tone. The collar fit perfectly. Abigail lay back into her multitude of pillows, chained hand and foot, collared. She closed her eyes.

And in that most fleeting of moments, she faded away to sleep…

~ and early to rise ~

Abigail awakened, and smiled as she felt the soft warmth of fur all about her nude body. She moved slightly in the pile of sleeping furs and smiled again as she felt the reassuring bondage of silver chains upon her wrists and ankles. And then her smile vanished as she felt her throat and found it bare, without a trace of her silver collar. She sat bolt upright, staring wildly about the octagonal room.

Kneeling on the polished floor directly before Abigail was the woman with dark brown eyes and short dark hair, the beautiful naked nymph of her dreams, wearing nothing but a silver collar and a wide grin. Before her she held a pillow of purple velvet, presenting it to Abigail as she would an offering to her deity. Upon the pillow rested another silver collar, and Abigail did not need to even glance at it to know that it was hers.

Heedless of her chains, Abigail arose gracefully from the pile of sleeping furs. The kneeling woman rose to her feet fully as gracefully, her bare back straight as a ramrod, her every motion supple and easy. Side by side, the two women walked slowly, almost ritualistically, across the octagonal room to where the man in the French officer’s uniform awaited them, lolling in a high-backed, carved wooden chair that was almost a throne, one leg dangling comfortably over the arm of the chair, riding crop held casually in his left hand. He made a quick motion with his other hand, and the two naked women knelt directly before him.

The naked woman of Abigail’s dreams held the pillow and the collar toward the man, again as though it was an offering, and he accepted the silver collar with an easy grace and in a low confident voice, said, “Merci, mon petit Bagatelle.”

The woman dropped her eyes and answered quietly, “Oui, mon Capitaine.”

The man in uniform gestured toward Abigail to approach him and she obeyed, crawling in her chains to within inches of his knees. He straightened in his chair, leaned forward, and held the collar before her eyes. Abigail saw the beauty of its design, the warmth of its silver, the now-familiar hallmark of the two crossed sabers, and she saw that the collar’s lock had no keyhole. In that instant she understood that, once the collar closed upon her slender neck, it could never be removed, that her acceptance of her collaring was irrevocable, that her surrender was absolute.

Abigail knelt before the man with her back straight, her body erect, her chained hands resting palm up on her bare thighs, and bowed her head that he might place the silver collar about her throat. There was an almost musical sound as the lock closed, finally and for always, and Abigail felt the warmth of the silver collar spread rapidly and eternally throughout her body. Her eyes filled with tears as she heard the man’s low, easy voice speak to her in a tone of command.

”Accepter mon col; être mon esclave.”

Though she neither spoke nor understood a word of French, Abigail found herself responding, speaking in unison with the other kneeling woman.

“Oui, mon Capitaine.”

~ dawn ~

Early morning light streamed through the bay windows of Abigail’s condo, falling upon her bed’s rumpled silken sheets and multitude of pillows. In the center of the bed lay a pair of silver handcuffs, a matching set of leg irons, and a gleaming silver collar.

Of Abigail, however, there was no trace – nor would there ever be…

~ antiques ~

Melissa peered down at the object resting atop the brightly-lit display case, enjoying a morning away from her law office, a day away from the courthouse, reveling in an all-too rare tour of Stillwater’s antique stores.

“Wow,” she murmured to Miss MacKenna, the beautiful, auburn-haired owner of the store, as she caressed the item with delicate fingertips, feeling its warmth and admiring its beauty. “Silver handcuffs. They’re beautiful – and they look really old. I’ve never seen anything like them. How much are they?”

THE END

©2005 David Gustafson