"What on earth?" Peter exclaimed, as he rose quickly to kneel at her feet for a closer examination of her bondage. "Who did this to you and why?" "I don't know," Isabel wailed, "and I don't know how they come off. There's no lock."

Peter looked more closely at his distraught partner, then at the cuffs, and confirmed for himself there was only one way to get these off her. He wondered whether this experience would put them both off bondage for good. He hoped not.

"Come, sit down Isabel; let's think this through," he said, as he guided her halting steps to the couch.

"Let's get these off and I'll go back down the road to check the area where you were," Peter said. "I've got some boltcutters and a hacksaw downstairs that should be able to cut that chain. It looks like only 3/16ths to me."

Peter disappeared into the basement workshop as Isabel put her feet on the coffee table, looking once again at her chains in a mixture of fear and grudging admiration for the mysterious way she was shackled and for their obvious quality and implacability. She was, after all, no stranger to ankle chains and this set was by far the best pair she had ever seen.

"These are no ordinary police cuffs, Clejusos, Hiatt's or VOPOs or whatever they're called," she said with Gaelic feminine certitude. "I know what they look like in the Police Gazette and these are definitely not at all like those in the pictures . . . and they don't even vaguely resemble ours."

Peter ran back upstairs, tools in hand, and sat on the coffee table facing his woman. "Right, let's see if this will cut 'em," he said, as he fixed the boltcutter's jaws over the half-link attached to her left cuff. He pressed the tool's arms together and strained as the jaws closed hard against the half-link. Nothing. He increased pressure on the tool's arms but the carbon-steel jaws failed to bite into the strong silver link. His arms and wrists began to spasm with strain as he increased force on the boltcutter arms, expecting a metallic snap when the cutter's jaws would break the chain. But only the silly chatter of a television talk show filled the room.

"Hm-m," Peter said, as he removed the tool and knelt to look closely at where the jaws should at least have left a small impression. He ran his finger over the smooth half-link and found an unblemished surface. "There's not even a mark, Isabel. I'll try the hacksaw but if the cutters didn't leave a trace then the saw will likely come up naught."

Two passes of the hacksaw proved that theory correct. Peter placed the saw on the floor and they both sat on the couch, looking at the tools, the chains and each other.

"Well, they're on for the night, anyway," Peter said hopefully. "I'll look for a bigger set of cutters tomorrow in town." Isabel nodded, failing to realize her bondage predicament had suddenly became far more serious than she first thought.

Neither was in the mood for television or their usual bondage games that night but Peter consoled his frightened woman by putting an arm around her shoulder and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Isabel, returning his embrace, turned to face him and Peter caressed her soft breast through her sweater and blouse. His fingers traced a small circle around her left nipple and he noticed a hard, circular shape on the lower curve of her breast.

"What's this, Isabel? Did you have your nipples pierced over your supper break today?" said Peter half-jokingly.

"No, I certainly did not," she said, drawing away, astonished he would change the subject so quickly. She put her hands under her sweater to feel through the silk blouse the silver rings that now adorned her nipples.

"The bastards even pierced these!" she cried, as she lifted her sweater to investigate further. "My God, what else have they done to me? And how am I going to get undressed for bed with these on?" She raised her ankles as the chain depended gracefully from between her ankle cuffs onto the coffee table. "Scissors?" Peter said helpfully.

"I dunno, I guess so," Isabel said reluctantly. "I'm so tired; let's go to bed. " Peter went into the kitchen to get sturdy scissors and an Eversharp knife to remove her pants and came into the bedroom, tools in hand, as Isabel sat on her side of the double bed with a small clink.

"What're you going to wear tomorrow, Is.?" Peter asked, as Isabel stood to allow him to begin cutting up her pantleg, emergency-room style, then the other leg.

With her trouser legs in halves, he cut through the waistband with the knife and the pants fell in a heap around her chained ankles. Her then turned his attention to her panties and they fell quickly about her ankles, too.

"Skirt, probably," she said. "A long one, too," as she pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned her blouse. Her bra-less, pendulous breasts fell heavily revealing to the dumbstruck pair her perfectly-pierced nipples. Peter looked closely at the rings, which gleamed to match her ankle cuffs, and noted the gauge and diameter of the rings. There was no question he was not going to attempt to remove these, he said to himself, as Isabel looked down at her ringed nipples in a mixture of dismay and disbelief.

"No wonder they are so tender," she said finally, lifting her hands away from her breasts. "How did they do this? And why are they not sorer than they are?" Peter examined the seamless,12-gauge, 11/2-inch silver rings inserted horizontally with surgical precision through her nipples and said:

"No storefront piercer did this."

"Piercer indeed," Isabel replied. "Look at me now. I'm chained, my tits are pierced and you say no storefront wank did this! Well, who?" she asked despairingly for the fourth time.

Peter did not reply as Isabel clinked away, naked as a newborn, to get her nightgown from the closet. She slipped it over her head, noting the smooth silky caress of the fabric as it slid past her now-sensitive, newly-ringed nipples. She glanced at herself in the mirror behind the closet door, noting her tear-smudged face, the graceful fall of the floor-length nightgown she was so fond of, the telltale points of her erect nipples poking through the bodice with hints of the new, shiny steel rings around each and, further down, where the bottom hem of the nightgown met her ankles, the implacable chains, put on her by persons unknown, that she would wear that night and evermore. She got into bed and her man followed her. Both were soon asleep. -

The electronic alarm of the bedside clock sounded off sharply at 7 a.m. but both had been awake for half an hour, each wondering about last night's bizarre encounter and what they would have to do to free her ankles. Steps to remove her nipple adornments would be postponed, they agreed, until they dealt with the ankle chains first. After all, she had to go to work, she had errands to run and she couldn't very well traipse around town like a chained criminal, could she? Well, could she?

"Isabel, this is a long shot," Peter said finally, "but I know someone at the University of Edinburgh who might be able to help. Also, we'll drive by the spot where you say this happened to you and I'll check for clues. Maybe the police should get involved?"

"First of all, no constabulary," Isabel replied. "Second, who is this guy at Edinburgh, anyway?"

She had been thinking of how she was going to explain her chains to one of those dyke-looking female constables downtown and, worse, having to walk in public with chain-shortened steps. "And how do we get there with me like this? Edinburgh is an hour and 15 minutes away, remember."

"Let me call ahead and see if Michael is in today," Peter replied. "He's a teaching assistant of metallurgy in the engineering faculty and he may be able to help. I really don't think bigger boltcutters are going to work and we saw what a hacksaw was able to do last night. I can just tell him I bought these cuffs on mail order and put them on you as a joke. Some joke, I know, but this might be our only hope.

"He deals with the rapid spot-checking of metals and has access to some lab equipment and portable x-ray machines that might be able to help. I met him in Tennant's pub last week and he was telling me about spectroscopy and . . . ."

"Alright, alright," Isabel said. "Let me think about this. I have to go to the University of Edinburgh in chains, meet this total stranger and have him look at these cuffs that appeared on me as if from outer space so that he might be able to tell you what sort of steel these are made of? I don't think so."

"What are our choices?" Peter replied. "I don't think I can get them off for you and I don't think MacEwan's hardware has anything in stock that might touch that steel. You may be right - these may very well be the shackles from outer space," he said with a laugh as Isabel swung her legs out of bed to greet the foggy early June morning.

Taking her short steps to the bedroom window, she looked out onto the front lawn and to her right, down the narrow, paved road, where her adventure began several hours ago. She felt her breasts with still-sensitive, ringed nipples pendulous against the front of her long blue nightgown as she leaned against the cool window pane.

"Alright," she said, turning to face Peter. "Call your friend and say that you need his help to get these cuffs off. I'll wear one of my long summer dresses so I won't be a spectacle. And get me as close to the front door as possible. "There are no steps to that engineering building, are there?" she asked. Peter didn't know but he would ask Dr. Michael Ledstone, metallurgy TA at Edinburgh University.

Isabel donned her housecoat and scuffed her slippered, chained way into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She noticed her breasts swayed provocatively with her shorter strides making her feel just a little sexier, despite the lack of sex last night.

Sitting at the kitchen table, with the telephone between the two of them, she idly crossed her knees and wagged her left foot nervously. She felt the chain, tugging at her ankles, as she usually did when her ankles were chained on weekends. But this tugging was foreign, scary. The silver-grey, oblong links were longer and heavier than the lighter, shorter links she was used to and the cuffs were fused solidly and expertly onto her legs, just above the ankle bones, somehow. She felt as though she might cry but she forced herself to keep her cool.

She poured them two cups of coffee from the percolator on the table, stirred her coffee and looked at the telephone, then the kitchen clock. It was just after 8 a.m. and they had seven hours to get to Edinburgh and back in time for her to start her 3 - 11 shift.

"What time does he get in?" Isabel asked with growing anxiety. "Probably about this time," Peter replied. He had brought Michael's business card to the kitchen table, looked at it and dialled the number. Peter lucked in and a short conversation ensued during which Michael said he would be glad to see the two of them in his lab over the noonhour.

Peter relayed this news to Isabel and she reluctantly agreed to go with him to Edinburgh to have a stranger look at her cuffs. I don't even know this fellow, she thought, and here I am, going to present myself to him in chains. "I wonder if these damn things rust," Isabel said, as she rose from the kitchen table to walk into the bathroom to shower and get dressed for this eventful day.

She clinked down the hallway into the en suite bath, undressed, sat on the edge of the tub and swung her legs in to a loud rattle of chain on the porcelain tub and turned on the shower.

"Yikes!" she yelped, as the hot spray stung her sensitive, ringed nipples, turning her back to the shower stream. "I guess I'll have to shower like this for awhile," she thought glumly.

Emerging into the steamy bath minutes later, she dried herself off, towelling down her legs and patted dry the cuffs and chain before patting her tender breasts with the rough white towel.

Putting on her dressing gown, she walked into the bedroom to start dressing. Tights? No. Panties. Hmm. Nope. Breasts to sensitive for that bra; anyway, it's still in the car.

She decided on a wool pullover, last night's white blouse, her long, black summer dress and sandals.

She thought she might look like a 1970s bra-less university student instead of a workaday woman. She could live with the look and feel of her swaying breasts, she thought, but her breast jewellery and ankle hardware were to be hidden from public view at all costs.

Fully dressed, she looked at herself again in the mirror. Hm-m, she thought, not bad. Breasts a little loose, a bit saggy, but the sweater will hide 'em. My skirt is long enough to cover the chains but, oh, those nipples, she remembered from the shower.

Peter soon emerged, showered and shaven, from the bathroom and dressed in slacks, sweater and shirt. Isabel lightly made up her face and, soon, they were out of the house, Peter slowing his walk so Isabel could hurry along with her little, chained strides. Peter helped her down the front steps and into the car and they were soon on their way to investigate the site of last night's incident then onward to Edinburgh, a little over an hour away. It was 9:15 a.m. so they had lots of time to get there, find the building and hear what Dr. Michael Ledstone, PhD, MEng, had to say about Isabel's shackles.

Two minutes down the road, Peter braked at the roadside at Isabel's insistence and both emerged from the little car to look at the road and gravel shoulders. The warm June sunshine felt good on Isabel's and Peter's shoulders and backs as they walked around a few yards, looking at the gravel, the pavement and the hilly fields beyond for any trace of Isabel's close encounter of a third kind. Peter again slowed his step to Isabel's hobbled progress in her long skirt but after 10 minutes of looking - for what neither knew - they got back into the car and continued southeast to Edinburgh.

Isabel secretly hoped this metallurgist could not find a way to get her ankle chains off.

"How do you find walking in those, Is., compared to the ones I brought over?" Peter asked as Isabel watched the countryside roll by.

"They're still scary," she replied. "My steps are shorter than ever and I'm always reminded they're there. And they're heavier, too."

The couple were quiet for most of the trip, each immersed in their own thoughts. Peter was hopeful the shackles would stay and that Isabel would come to accept them. When he first produced the chains he brought with him from Canada, he recalled, Isabel shyly bared her ankles for him, opening her shapely legs slightly as he knelt before her at the bedside one night not long ago. The two snaps that followed were almost music to their ears.

Isabel's thoughts, however, were more prosaic:

If the chains could not be removed, maybe she would be able to resign her boring job with "just cause," retire, maybe even draw Workers' Compensation and look after the house as Peter's 'chained thrall'. She smiled grimly to herself as she wondered:

What will it be like doing housework in chains? (Probably take a little longer). What happens if I get pregnant? (Talk to my doctor). How do I do the gardening, get the groceries,go bowling or make love with chained ankles? (All in good time, Is.). How in hell do these chains come off, anyway? (Dunno. Yet).

Isabel's imagination was still in full flight when Peter finally located the University of Edinburgh's engineering faculty and parked the little car in a visitor's spot just to the right of an enormous concrete staircase that led to a pair of imposing front doors. Peter did not tell Is. about the steps.

"Great, just what I need," Isabel thought, as she swung her legs out, keeping her ankles quietly together as she stood up and away from the car in the small university parking lot. Walking in public in daytime with chained ankles was not going to be the scary experience she thought it would be, as long as Peter held her arm, she thought.

Together, they mounted the stairs, Isabel taking each one step at a time, giving a good impression of walking with a sprained ankle, and Peter held her left arm carefully as he opened the door for her.

"Oh, good gosh, no," Isabel muttered quietly to Peter as her chains made a soft, chink-shink as they made their way along the terrazzo passageway into the laboratory area. There was no one in the hallway and Peter found Lab D-265 easily just before 12 noon, the appointed time. Peter knocked on the brown wood door and Dr. Ledstone opened it, welcoming both inside with a smile and gesture.

After Peter briefly explained the situation, the TA asked Isabel to have a seat at his desk near the front of the lab and the 40-year-old metallurgist put on his glasses to have a closer look.

Dr. Ledstone pulled his chair closer as Isabel lifted the hem of her long, black skirt a few inches to afford him a view of her trim ankles, chained now for just over half a day.

"And you said you got these where, Peter?" Ledstone asked, looking up as Isabel blushed crimson by revealing her chained status to a stranger for the first time.

"On mail order, Michael," Peter said. "Some company somewhere in Europe." "Hm, well-made. Sturdy. I wonder who makes these?" Ledstone asked. 'No idea," Peter said in his first honest admission of the day. "We just filled in an order form from Police Gazette, mailed it and this is what we got back in the post. "Unfortunately, when I put them on Isabel - we were going to a masquerade party, me as a sheriff and Is. as my prisoner - we couldn't get them off again afterwards," Peter said dishonestly.

"I see," said Ledstone, not believing a word. "You know, there doesn't appear to be any locking mechanism; no fastening, seam or weld anywhere. The cuffs appear to be solid-unit construction and I can't see any other way but to cut them.

"Did you try boltcutters or a hacksaw?"

The reply was affirmative and Ledstone thought for a moment. "Let me try my scope to see what sort of metal we are dealing with and I'll also x-ray them to see the structure and what's inside. Can you walk into the lab next door, ma'am?" he asked politely.

"Yes, I'll try," Isabel said, smoothing her skirt down over her ankles. "Is there anyone in the hallway just now?"

Peter and Michael looked out and saw the long hallway was still empty. Classes were out for an early lunch and the three rose and walked together across the hall into an adjacent lab. Dr. Ledstone motioned Isabel to sit on another chair near a bank of machines and electronics arrays. He then brought out and adjusted a portable machine that looked like an x-ray device. Placing it over Isabel's ankles, he flicked some switches and the machine began to hum. "There's no need to worry; there's less radiation in this little puppy than there is in the x-ray machines you find in hospitals," said Ledstone.