Isabel bent forward slightly to see if she could get her left-index fingernail between her ankle and left cuff again as Peter braked for a traffic light just outside the university. Damn, these are snug, she said to herself, but there doesn't seem to be any abrasion inside the cuffs. That's a relief, I guess.

Peter looked over and put his hand on her left hand as she straightened up again while a large transport truck rolled up in the lane next to her. She smoothed her skirt down further to ensure the trucker, high on her right side, didn't get a glimpse of her ankles. Soon, the light changed and they were off again. Moments later, the Locksmith's Arms pub came into view on the driver's side and Peter slowed in traffic to look for a parking spot. Cars lined either side of busy Commercial Street and he was forced to circle the block to look for a meter or parking lot. Two blocks away he found a small park-and-pay lot with some vacancies and pulled in.

Oh no, Isabel groaned inwardly, another walk; and this time along a busy street in the daytime.

"I'll never be able to make it, Peter," she said. "Can't you pull up closer to the pub, let me out and then come back for me?" This, of course, just as Peter was turning into a parking spot.

"Oh, come on now, Isabel; you were able to get up those university stairs alright and the walk down the hallway wasn't that bad," Peter replied, shutting off the ignition. "There's not many people on the sidewalk just now and the noise from your chain should be drowned out by the traffic. Now, let's go."

Isabel was silent as she swung her legs out of the Austin again to join Peter behind the car. Isabel took his right arm with her left hand and they walked slowly to the parking lot attendant's booth where Peter collected their ticket. The male attendant didn't give them a second look and they turned right and walked carefully, with Peter on the curbside of the sidewalk, the two blocks towards the pub.

It was the longest two-block walk Isabel had ever taken and she felt as though every eye on the street and in the storefronts that lined busy Commercial St. was on her and her ankles. She slowly placed one foot in front of the other, careful not to step on the ankle chain, but the shackles caused her to walk with a slightly-exaggerated, hip-swaying motion which caused her heavy, unconfined breasts to sway and bounce under her light-brown sweater. Her nipples, too, were rampant through her blouse and sweater - surely everyone can notice, she thought - but no one seemed to notice as pedestrians passed them without a second glance. She didn't feel particularly sexy but Peter was all "cock and eyeballs" as they walked arm-in-arm down High St. to Commercial St.

"Whew, so far so good," Isabel said quietly to Peter as they rounded the corner onto Commercial to finish the half-block to the Locksmith's Arms. "But these short steps are taking the wind out of me. I wish I could take a little longer stride."

Soon, the couple were at the pub's front door. Peter opened it for his woman and they walked in looking around to find a table and chairs as near to the front door as they could. There was a vacant table about 15 ft. away among other pub patrons and Isabel took the distance in six steps, swivelling her hips to ease herself behind the table with a muffled clink.

The telltale sound was unheard among the ambient noise and unobtrusive chatter of the pub clients, she thought, tucking her long, light skirt closely around her legs and very carefully crossing her ankles to keep the chain out of sight and underneath her hemline. She put her purse on the table, fished out her cigarettes and Peter went to the bar to order them half-pints of "dark-and-tan," two ham-and-cheese sandwiches and some Scotch eggs - Isabel's favourite. He thought he should treat her; after all it had been a pretty traumatic day or so. Peter looked over his shoulder and smiled as he saw Isabel lighting up, looking serene and confident for the most part, and both were suddenly aware of her first public foray, her "big step," in chains. It wasn't as bad as he had thought. So far.

Neither Peter nor Isabel had noticed the brooding, intoxicated, 50-ish man two tables away who had watched Isabel's every move from the moment they entered the pub.

He looked at Isabel up and down with a drunken leer and cast his stare down to her ankles where Isabel met his unwanted looks. She dared not move her hands or her ankles lest she reveal her secret to this soak and, instead, continued to smoke her cig as nonchalantly as she could, fervently hoping Peter would return quickly from the bar with their drinks and eats. He was only 25 ft. away but it felt more like 25 miles.

Isabel groaned inwardly as she saw Peter strike up a conversation with the publican as he waited for their sandwiches and eggs. Oh, no, he's going to be longer and here's this rummy looking at my legs as though he knows already!

We shouldn't have come here in the first place and . . . .

Peter was paying for his purchases and was making his way back to their table when she thought she heard the drunk say something like: "Ar-rr-, that woman's in chains 'ere. M-m-m, whatever turns 'er on. She's bound to make a fine addition to the Africans' collection." Isabel pretended not to hear but her sixth sense told her he had noticed her shackles by the way she walked; maybe he caught a glimpse of them as she sat down, or heard the noise, or. . . . Did he have anything to do with that incident on the county road the night before, she thought suddenly. She shifted her legs and turned away as Peter arrived with food and beverage.

Isabel smiled at him, relieved he was at her side again, butted her cigarette and dug in to the sandwich with gusto. She was hungry and the cool beer complemented the delicious, fresh-made sandwich and stuffed brown egg. The couple ate in silence and Isabel avoided the drunk's stare until, finally, she had had enough: "Peter, that man over there is staring at me and my legs. I don't know if he's seen 'em or not but can you please ask him to stop looking this way? It's making me nervous."

Peter immediately stood up and walked over to the man sitting to their left. "Stop looking over at her, Mac, or I'll ask management to turf you," Peter said in a loud, clear voice. The bar drew suddenly silent as every eye in the pub was on the two men.

"Sorry, guv," said the man, looking down at his glass of Scotch. "Just admiring your woman's good looks an' all; that's all."

"Geroff!" Peter said. "Giddaddahere." And with that, the drunk downed his half glass of whisky, got up unsteadily and left on his own, looking back over his shoulder as he opened the opaque glass door onto Commercial St.

Peter went back to Isabel, who put her hand on his right arm with a quiet "thank you." The pub noise and activity resumed and Isabel and Peter enjoyed their light lunch together. Soon, they were back on Commercial St. in the bright June afternoon sunshine making their way back to the car.

"It's just after 2, Isabel," Peter said, as they walked arm-in-arm towards the parking lot. "Maybe you should call the mill and say you won't be in today. We'll just go home, recoup, have the rest of the day to ourselves and plan our next move. I think we're going to hear from Ledstone again soon."

They stopped at a phone booth on the sidewalk and Isabel stepped in with a clink and rattle on the booth's metal floor to make the call, emerging in a minute with a broad smile. She patted her man on the shoulder and said: "Well, that's that. I'm officially on sick leave today. Maybe I'll be better in a couple of days," she said with a laugh. "Maybe not."

There was a slight spring to Isabel's short steps as they walked into the parking lot and, for the 10th time that day, she felt her breasts sway hard from side to side as she lowered herself to get into the little car, pulling her legs in after her.

She settled into the seat with a little rustle of chain, did up the seatbelt and, soon, they were driving out of the city to the northwest and home again. One hour and 15 minutes later, Peter pulled into their driveway and quickly got out of the car to help his woman get to her feet by the front steps.

She grasped his arm again as they went up the four stairs and he opened the door for her, making a proper, good show of it all.

"Thank you, kind sir," Isabel said, as she snuggled up against him as Peter closed the door with his right foot. She crushed her tender breasts against his chest and he ran his hands through her hair and kissed her firmly on the lips. Isabel tried to slip her left leg between his to turn him on in her usual fashion but the cuffs stopped her. "Damn," she muttered. "These chains stop me even doing that."

No matter. Peter suddenly swept her off her feet in his muscular arms and walked down the short hallway into the bedroom, sitting her down at the edge of the bed making her breasts joggle invitingly under her sweater.

"Yes, master?" Isabel said jokingly. "Your chained slave is ready and waiting." Peter sat beside her, kissed her firmly on the lips, then knelt at her feet. He gently unfastened her sandals and stroked her feet, moving the shackles around her ankles and pried them up gently to look at the skin underneath. There was only a two-in. band of pink skin underneath the cuffs so they had not seriously abraded her ankles in the last 18 hours. He looked closely at the cuffs and made a mental note of their rounded edges and mirror-smooth inner and outer surfaces.

"Maybe we should put a little moisturizer on underneath your cuffs to keep the skin healthy," he said. "Mmmm," Isabel replied. "Maybe later."

Peter ran his hands up the inside of her calves and Isabel shivered with sudden excitement. She pulled her sweater up over her head and began undoing the blouse buttons as Peter reached the waist clasp and zipper of her ankle-length skirt. Isabel shrugged out of her blouse as Peter removed her skirt and both garments ended in a pile on the carpet beside the sandals.

Isabel swung her naked legs onto the bed and Peter was beside her in a moment. They kissed and cuddled for what seemed like hours until Peter slid down to her feet and underneath Isabel's joined ankles. He wriggled himself up until his face was level with hers and easily inserted his manhood into her warm, moist waiting pussy.

Isabel, in turn, moved her legs into their favourite position with her ankles at the small of his back, just above his hips, and her knees splayed widely on either side of Peter's flanks.

Peter's thrusts were slow at first and he withdrew his cock almost completely then plunged deep into her warm depths again. Isabel groaned as his steel-hard rod reached time and again into her cervix. Her breath quickened. The sun shone into their bedroom as the couple's lovemaking intensified and Isabel reached her first "plateau."

Peter stopped for a moment and Isabel caught her breath, digging her fingertips into his shoulders, pulling her ankles downward, forcing him deeper into her. Peter looked into his woman's eyes, kissed her fervently again on the lips, cheeks and forehead, and resumed his slow, rhythmic thrusts again and again deep inside her.

Isabel's breathing quickened again and she felt her climax, or "pop," starting to build on that warm, fuzzy pink horizon that developed under her half-closed eyes. She thrust her chest against his, feeling the nipple rings press into her breast flesh as she did, and Peter's thrusts became harder, faster and furious. Isabel clenched him as hard as she could with her hands on his shoulders and ankles against his back, her hips rising to meet his downward thrusts. Their bodies smacked sweatily together as perspiration rolled off Peter's forehead onto Isabel's chin and neck.