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I'd had a good run and arrived around twenty minutes earlier than I'd said on the telephone. A delicious - and most welcome - smell of cooking told me at once that she was still there. Perhaps the day was to end with good surprises; precious little else had gone right.

I dumped brief case, laptop and coat and went through toward the kitchen. The glimpse of the dining room as I passed the door stopped me; not only was the table laid for two as never before but the whole place had undergone a thorough clean-up. She'd had a busy day but I was not sure that I really appreciated that?

The real surprise came however as I opened the kitchen door. A look of surprise and delight spread across her face. "You're early!" she said: "I'm not quite ready yet."

But the smile quickly faded as I said, "I can see you've had a busy day. Did you leave any part of my life private?"

Her mouth fell open but almost at once she recovered: "Oh, these?" She held up her hands. "I think they're gorgeous. Wherever did you get them? Old slave chains aren't they?"

"What do you know about slave chains?"

"My Father was a locksmith and he collected all sorts of things like this. I found them while I was clearing up and they took me back to some very pleasant times. But... you do get your house into a pretty pickle. Don't be cross; it gave me something to do."

"Let's say there are other things that interest me more than clearing up."

"Well, while the meal is finishing can you produce the key to these? I'd like to take a shower."

"You like to be held prisoner, do you?"

"Never tried it before but, yes, I did get a kick out of parading around in these things all day. But the leg irons get a bit heavy after a while; keep tripping over them."

"You could say that the principle purpose of shackles is to make moving around slightly difficult."

"No argument. But the key?"

"Did you examine those irons before you put them on? You did say you were brought up with a locksmith?"

"Examine them? No, not particularly. They're obviously very old and that is what attracted me. I had fun imagining all the poor souls who might have worn them."

"Humm. You have a lot more fun to come than you might think. What about the last bit of the set?"

"Last bit? This is all there was."

"There's a collar. That bit has always signified ownership. Had you put that on, you would've become my property."

"Very funny. There wasn't a collar anyway. How old are they ? But this meal will shortly spoil. The key, please."

"That's the interesting bit. There isn't a key."

"What? Then how do you take them off?"

"As a matter of fact I've never had to. They're only three weeks old - since I made them."

"Made them?"

"It's a hobby of mine; making things like that. I'm an expert metal-worker and welder - amateur, but one of the best. I expect the collar is still in the workshop; haven't had a chance to go down there for a few days - been too busy."

"If chaining girls is your hobby what do you do for a living? Eat them?"

"I'm a computer programmer; I sort people's troubles. That's where I've been all day. It didn't go at all well and now... I come home to this."

"Then how will you get me out of these?"

"I can't. But does it matter? Last night you were all ready to throw yourself into the lake. In some societies they would say that, since I saved your life, you're now mine. If I want you."

"You're horrid. I've a good mind to muss up your horrible house again and dump this dinner in your lap."

"Perhaps I'd better go get that collar."

"How will putting a collar on me stop me ?"

"It has a chain tether attached. Just the thing for keeping recalcitrant young women under control."

She looked thoughtfull for a moment. "What would happen if I turned up at a police-station wearing these?"

"Not a lot. You've got to get there first. Remember - you put yourself in those. Is there any reason why I should destroy my work just to get you out again?"

"Let's eat first. Then... "Can't you make the key?"

"As I said... did you examine those cuffs before you put them on?"

I don't think she believed me at first. Then slowly she raised her right arm and examined the circlet clamped about her wrist. "There isn't a keyhole..."

Her voice was so disbelieving I wanted to laugh.

"That's right. It's not a complicated locking mechanism but, once you poke the end of the strap into the block it locks - and there's no way to pull it back out. You really shouldn't go nosing into other people's things."

Her face reddened with anger but, even as she started to speak, she seemed to change her mind. Then she closed her eyes; her hands spread flat and rigid and she began to shake. At first I thought she was going to fit and moved forward to catch her but it passed before I had time to fall in. She had orgasmed!

I eased her down on to the stool and supported her until she regained some composure. "Wow," she breathed. "Perhaps I wouldn't mind staying in them."

Why on earth did I resent her? I had made those manacles as part of a long-lived fantasy. I dreamed of leaving them around, wonderful artistic things that would tempt a beautiful maiden to put them on not realising that there was no escape once they were locked. "So, my foolish beauty..." and similar nonsenses.

I'd made the manacles as a dummy run to get the system working and then spent weeks on the slave collar. Although I said it - and had the least right of any to do so - I knew that collar was superb. Lucky I hadn't left it lying around; had she put that on there would have been no alternative to destroying it - unless I kept her for all time?

I had worked late into the evening to finish it and then went directly from my workshop down to the lake for a breath of fresh air; I loved the quiet tranquility of that place at night. Why else had I bought that rambling pile of brick and stone way out in the wilderness? In my imagination I had seen that fantasy maiden standing at the end of the rickety pier; as I broke from the cover of the trees there had been a loud splash - it had taken a few seconds to realise that somebody was not swimming in my lake but was drowning.

I have to admit that I'm one of those aggravating people who are good at whatever they tackle; I'm an excellent swimmer, big and strong. I fished her out, pumped her out and packed her up to the house. The next day I had to go to Glasgow; a whole factory complex with two-thousand-odd employees were awaiting my skills. She might try again but there was little I could do about it.

"No way," my strange guest had assured me: "That was horrible."

"Then my advice is to learn to swim before you try again."

She had actually grinned and it changed that drawn face. "Sorry, but I really have to go. Keep warm and eat something," I said. "There's light food in the fridge and all sorts in the freezer - second door outside the kitchen. "Bye."

I can't really understand my resentment when I got back that evening. The house was welcoming and so was the ready-cooked dinner. And she COULD cook. Looking back on it I suppose she had taken a liberty; it was as though, unbidden and without asking, she had moved in and taken over my life. I know it's not true but putting on those manacles .. ? I completely overlooked the fact that she had but brought real life into my fantasy.

Without doubt however I failed to realise what I had got and continued to fail until the moment I lost it. A few days later I came back from that next visit to Glasgow full of comfortable thoughts. I had not stopped to eat as was my normal habit; the dinner would be ready, the fire roaring in the dining room, candles burning with their soft light - all that a weary and brain-numbed man could want.

I parked, set the brake, cut the engine and then the headlights. It took a moment for the truth to sink in. The place was in darkness. As I entered the door it was like stepping back through three weeks; it was cold, empty, unwelcoming. In the kitchen I felt for the button and, as the generator coughed into life, the room was flooded with light. On the table side by side there lay the manacles, the key to my workshop and my set of feeler gauges with one protruding from the bunch.

She was the daughter of a locksmith and had presumably known all along that I was deliberately keeping her locked up. And now, with my silly ungrateful resentment, I had driven her away.

I wanted to rush out, call her, find her, bring her back - yes, in chains if I had to. But then it hit me:

Goddammit - I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HER NAME!

I spent the next seven or eight weeks - exactly fifty-four days if you want to know - in remaking those fetters as I had originally intended. They were carefully crafted works of art that matched the collar; it took several days before I realised that she had taken only two things with her: the clothes I had supplied and the collar. The clothes had belonged to my sister who died of anorexia. But my beautiful collar ... I couldn't find the heart to remake that.

I was sitting in the big chair beside a black cold fire looking speculatively at the bottle of brandy; it was an appreciative but not appreciated gift from a grateful customer. The 'phone rang; I was needed again in Glasgow. I showered and found in the shaving mirror what a damned wreck I had become.

The trip to Glasgow was successful; the trip back was sheer misery. I came close to staying there overnight. I drove the distance on automatic pilot; no sense of time or distance, speed or direction. Arrived at the house I parked, set the brake and cut the headlights. There was a light at the back of the house.

I felt under my seat for the long spanner I kept there, dragged the keys from the ignition and moved quietly to investigate. As I passed the dining-room window I saw that the subdued light was candlelight reinforced by the glow from the fire. I think I stopped breathing. Further on I looked through the kitchen window then laid down my spanner, eased open the door and entered.

I must have made some sound because she suddenly turned but, seeing me, her face broke into a smile and then immediately shyness flooded up over it. She was wearing my new shackles ... and the collar. I opened my arms and, jangling all the way, she ran straight into my embrace.

I carried her to the big chair and drew her on to my lap. After a while she pushed gently on my chest: "Oh, you must let me breathe".

I reached up to finger my creation that now, with an irrevocable grip, encircled her neck: "You shouldn't have closed these," I said: "The tolerances are so much tighter... " .

She placed a finger gently over my lips as though to seal them: "You can cut off the chains, replace them with what you will... but the collar... my SO... BEAUTIFUL... collar... that must stay putů always."

END





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