Part 1
It all started in August 2019, before COVID — when Tracey, my college friend, decided on a major.
My name is Mugdha, which means “innocent,” “tender,” and “spellbound.” It’s pronounced “moog-dah.” I’m an engineering major in my junior year at Boston College, and my parents are from India. I stand about 5’6” and have long, straight jet-black hair and almond-colored skin. I have an athletic build, and I work out with the treadmill and weights about once a week. Every Wednesday I take a yoga class at the college gym.
I’m often told I have an exotic beauty, or that I look like an Indian princess. I sometimes catch people — women as well as men — looking me over when I’m in public. I don’t return their gaze. I’m shy and retiring by nature, so I feign embarrassment at such attention and compliments, while inwardly I feel flattered, and enjoy the attention.
I met Tracey in my Freshman year. We had a lot of the same classes and wound up hanging out a lot, so naturally we became friends. She has the same build, but she’s a little taller, has a ruddy complexion and long strawberry-blonde hair. I started calling her “Trace” for short, so she nicknamed me “Moogie.” Our mutual friends sometimes refer to us as “Salt & Pepper” because of our contrasting looks, and the fact that we spend a lot of time together. Neither of us has a steady boyfriend, even though we get lots of male attention.
Whereas I’m shy, Tracey is assertive, always ready with a plan for bar-hopping or partying, always outspoken about school, which instructors she thinks are good, and which ones she thinks are jerks. Tracey suggested we split an apartment, and in the spring of our freshman year we found an older house that had been made into a duplex. The owners are a middle-aged couple who live upstairs, and they agreed to rent us the first floor apartment, which had two bedrooms as well as a living room.
It’s located on a pretty, tree-lined street in Newton, which is a suburb of Boston. It’s close to the “T,” which is what they call public transportation in Boston. I’m able to commute to school, and Tracey can usually find a parking spot for her car. Moreover, the apartment gives us a quiet study space, and solitude.
That private space was a big part of what happened in the 2019 fall semester, the start of our sophom*ore year. Though we were both doing well in school, Tracey hadn’t chosen a major yet. I knew it was bothering her, and she was often sullen and reserved around the house. I suspected she ditched classes, because I came home a couple of times to find her asleep on the couch in our living room, her hair askew, wearing her plaid pajamas.
It bothered me, too. Worse yet, I had no idea how to comfort her in her listless state, and it left me feeling a little lost. Then one Monday in early September I saw her talking to some other female students in the student union . She was wearing khaki pants and a light-blue button down shirt — an unusual look for her — and her hair was pulled back in a dark-blue scrunchy. She spotted me, waved, and jogged over.
“Moogie, guess what! I settled on a major!”
“What did you pick?”
She grinned smugly.
“C-J…Crim-in-al Just-ice,” she said, drawing out the words for effect.
“Excellent! I’m so happy for you.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty psyched about it, too. “I’m just talking to some other CJ majors right now. Seeya later?”
“Yep.”
We hugged and she trotted back to the other students.
That evening over dinner we talked about the various careers she could pursue with her new major. We were sitting near a window at a local bistro, one of our favorite places. I thought she might fall into another funk, dithering about life beyond college. But I needn’t have worried.
“I want to become a cop,” she said. I put down my salad fork and tucked my legs under me.
“Well, that makes sense,” I said. “You know, you always take charge, Trace…you’d be good at that. I can definitely picture you as a police officer.”
“’Pol-ice Officer,’” she said chuckling. “That sounds so formal, Moogie. I guess that’s just the engineer in you talking.”
I grabbed the check when we finished, but she snatched it out of my hand.
“My treat!” she said. “I insist. You’ve been so supportive over the past weeks. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“Hey, we’re friends!” I replied. “That’s what friends do.”
I woke up early Wednesday morning and dressed for my yoga class. It was still warm out, so along with my white Reeboks, black quarter socks and black yoga pants, I wore a black spandex crop tank top that hugged my curves and showed off my belly-button and steely abs.
I popped into the kitchen to fill my water bottle and found Tracey sitting at the kitchen table, working at her laptop. Her hair was pulled back in a black scrunchy, and she was wearing a dark blue polo shirt, khaki cargo pants and black shoes — typical of the cop-like outfits that she’d taken to wearing recently.
“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “Hunting bad guys already?”
She giggled. “Hardly. I’m doing the whole drop-add thing so I can get going on my CJ courses. Are you home around lunchtime, as usual?” she asked, looking up from her screen.
“Yep. Will you be home too?”
“I should be. I’m expecting a package. If it arrives soon, I’m going to head to school to pick up my CJ textbooks.”
“Ok, seeya later.” I headed down the hall and out the door, and almost stumbled on a brown Amazon box that was sitting on the porch. My engineer brain estimated the dimensions: about 8” wide, 12” long and 2” deep. I picked it up. It was heavy, marked "one-day delivery," and addressed to Tracey.
“Tracey!” I called through the open door, “your package is here!”
She bounded down hall and was on the porch in a flash. “I’ll take that!” she laughed, grabbing the box from my hands. Then she went back into our apartment and shut the door.
“Whatever,” I thought as I shouldered my book bag and headed to school.
I returned around noon, and found Tracey waiting for me in the living room. She stood up from the couch as I put down my book bag. She was holding her right hand by her side.
“Hey there, I want to show you something,” she said mysteriously.
“What?”
“These!” she said, holding up a pair of silver handcuffs.
“Wow, are those the real thing?”
“Sure, lemme show you!”
And with that, she grasped my left wrist firmly and snapped one cuff on it. Then she calmly walked my cuffed arm behind me, grabbed my right wrist and snapped the other cuff onto it.
“Ta-da!” she said.
I whipped back around toward her.
“Holy Cow!” I laughed, wriggling my hands in the cuffs. "I’m glad you’re taking your new major so seriously!”
“They even came with this book on how to use them…see?” she said, holding up the key and a white paperback manual. She flopped back down on the couch, patting the spot next to her.
So I sat on the couch too — with my hands still cuffed behind my back. The couch cushions are really soft and sinky, so I sat on the edge, leaning slightly forward, so I wouldn’t fall back on my arms. Tracey watched me adjusting my position and put the book down.
“Here, let me double-lock them for you,” she said, reaching behind me.
“What does that mean?” I asked looking over my shoulder.
“The double-lock mechanism ensures the cuffs won’t accidentally tighten up on you…if you’re moving around. I read it in the manual.”
Even so, I felt her grasp both cuffs, and heard the unmistakeable sound of her tightening each of them by two clicks. Then I heard two more almost inaudible clicks, which I presumed to be Tracy manipulating the double-lock thingy she’d explained.
“There, a regulation collar, if I do say so myself! Now let’s check out the manual!” I was leaning forward already, so it was easy to see things Tracey was pointing out as she flipped through the pages.
It may seem strange that Tracey didn’t take off the cuffs, or that I didn’t ask her to take them off. I mean there I was, in my apartment, sitting on the couch with my best college friend, as usual — except with my hands manacled securely behind me. Part of me was just happy to have the old Tracey back, and I wanted to keep being supportive.
But in other parts of my being, I felt all kinds of new, pleasant sensations and emotions that I couldn’t name or sort out at that moment.
We must’ve sat there for a good half-hour, reading about how the cuffs worked, and studying the various illustrations and handcuffing techniques. The manual said they were hinged cuffs, and I could tell they were definitely tight. Finally she shut the book.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, Moogie…I want to show you my textbooks!”
So I followed her down the hallway into the kitchen. We sat at the table, and we spent another 20 minutes talking about her books, her new criminal-justice classes, and the classes she’d dropped. Eventually she smiled with satisfaction, tucked her new books into her backpack, and looked at me.
“So, did I do a good job?” she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.
“With the cuffs?” I twisted my wrists a little. “Yes, you’ve got me locked up good. I could never get out of these.”
She got up, pulled the key from her pocket and leaned over behind me.
“Super,” she said, unlocking the cuffs. “I’m really into this, and I want to be good at it.”
I felt a slight rush when the cuffs came off. Even though they hadn’t hurt me at all, I self-consciously rubbed my wrists, like you see people do in the movies and on TV. I realized I’d been holding my breath as she unlocked the cuffs, so I sighed deeply.
“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I’m sure you will be!”
Part 2
However, I was anything but casual. The incident should’ve been forgotten in the hurly-burly of schoolwork, but I felt terribly distracted by what had happened. I’d never been arrested or tied up, and I rarely wore bracelets. But I couldn’t get over how I’d had Tracey’s heavy-duty, escape-proof bracelets restraining me.
At night I tossed and turned, re-running the incident over and over in my mind. I marveled at how quickly and easily she’d taken me. She was taller and stronger, and she definitley knew how to use those cuffs.
The truth was, I liked the feeling of being restrained. Nothing in my life so far had ever generated such a unique thrill. But this truth didn’t set me free. We were often alone in the apartment…might she grab me and cuff me again? She’d said that she was “really into this.” What did she mean by that? Being a cop, cuffing me, or both?
I fantasized about other scenarios. Maybe I could get myself arrested? Or perhaps I could take a babysitting job, and get myself tied up while playing cops & robbers with the kids? I quickly dismissed those ideas as improbable, impractical and costly — not to mention embarrassing. But actually asking Tracey to cuff me again felt weird and embarrassing, too.
By Friday I was utterly checked out, and my mind was racing with ways to bring about a replay. In calculus class I sat at the back, and furiously scribbled things that might inspire Tracey:
• Casually ask about actual arrest procedures, to get her to “demonstrate” a proper arrest on me;
• Taunt her…tell her that her first cuffing attempt was lame and escapable, and she should try again;
• Tell her that as an engineering student, I could figure out a way to pick the handcuffs, and offer to show her;
• Do something “bad” in the apartment (e.g., leave the milk out, make noise when she’s trying to sleep) and suggest she “arrest” me as punishment;
• Tickle her so she’ll pounce me back and cuff me.
I looked over the list and realized that the only lame thing was my scheming. Tracey could read people well — that was part of her assertiveness — so she’d easily see through my deceptions. The demonstration canard would only work once, if at all, and I didn’t want to pick my way out of her handcuffs — once they were on me, I wanted them to stay on me, at least for a while.
Moreover, I didn’t feel like fooling her into it; ultimately, I wanted Tracey to want to lock me up. In other words, I hoped she was truly “into it,” as she’d hinted. She’d been so kind, even offering to double-lock the cuffs for my safety and comfort, and I ached for her to take command of me again.
When class ended I tore up my paper of crazy schemes and decided on an even more desperate one. I hurried to the T so I could get home ahead of Tracey. I even jogged a little from the station to our apartment.
She wasn’t there, so I rushed into my room, stripped, and put on the workout clothes I’d worn Wednesday. They were clean; I vaguely remembered washing them sometime during the mental fog that followed Wednesday afternoon. I grabbed my textbooks, headed to the living room and sat on the couch.
This, I thought, was the “scene of the crime.” We usually went out on Friday night, but I was hoping that the same place and same clothes would spark Tracey’s memory, and prompt her to show off her skills again. After all, she’d just bought a shiny new pair of hinged handcuffs; with me as her willing partner, why wouldn’t she want to try out her new “toy” on me again, just for fun?
About ten minutes later I heard her bumping up the porch steps and opening the front door. I quickly cracked a book and pretended to read it.
“Hello,” she said as she passed the living room and headed to her room.
She hardly noticed me. I got up and walked to her room, which was just off the kitchen. Her door was open, and she was just pulling on a pair of jeans to go with her maroon tank top.
I leaned against the door jamb and placed my hands behind me. My heart was beating wildly with anticipation. Here she was, and here I was, in the same clothes. I felt as light as a feather — that was sitting on the lip of a precipice.
“If this doesn’t give her the hint,” I thought, “nothing will.”
She looked up.
“Hey, why aren’t you dressed?” she asked. “It’s Friday night…don’t you want to go out?”
My heart sank. I looked down.
“Well, you know, I’m kind of tired tonight,” I said. “I really want to stay in tonight, and lie low. We both had a big week…”
“You mean me finding out I want to be cop, right?” she grinned, pulling off her purple scrunchy and tousling her hair. “Well, I thought we’d head out to Scaramouch’s…that’s where all the CJ majors hang out, and I want to mingle, network and celebrate. You sure you don’t want to come?”
“No, you go ahead.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, brushing past me and down the hall. She paused and looked back. “Are you ok?” she asked, her eyes full of concern. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“No, I’m fine…it’s just…it was just a big week, that’s all.”
“Ok, catch ya later!” she said, and she was out the door.
I spent that evening on the couch, still in my workout clothes, channel surfing. It was like Tracey and I had switched roles. Now she was exhilarated and happy, and I was sullen and depressed.
At one point I made up my mind to use her handcuffs on myself, and I snuck into her room. Then I felt guilty. It would mean going through her stuff, and I couldn’t do that. Anyway, she’d discover I’d rifled through her belongings, and what if I got stuck?
So I grabbed her purple scrunchy off her dresser instead, took it back to the living room and sat on the couch. Aromas are powerful memory enhancers, so I sniffed the scrunchy and caught the scent of the Paul Mitchell lemon sage shampoo Tracey used. That helped me reminice about Tracey taking me prisoner, so I put her scrunchy behind my back and twisted my wrists into it. It was snug, but it wasn’t Tracey’s handcuffs, so I wriggled out of it and fell asleep on the couch.
Despite my fatigue, I dozed fitfully. At one point I woke up, imagining Tracey hobnobbing with the other CJ majors. Maybe she was telling them how she’d cuffed me, and they were having a good laugh about it. I couldn’t take that, I thought…I’d have to move out, and change schools. What would I tell my parents?
Then I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamt that I was walking across the campus quad. I saw Tracey entering Gasson Hall, a tall grey Gothic building with a clock and bell tower. She didn’t see me, so I followed her through the heavy oak doors and into the rotunda.
She was nowhere to be found, and when I looked up and saw the statue of the Angel Michael, my surroundings suddenly fell away…I was falling through deep space, accelerating faster and faster…the stars blurred…I wanted to scream, but had no voice.
I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. I stood up, strode into the kitchen and guzzled a giant glass of water. Eventually my pulse returned to normal. I turned off the TV, and made myself a cup of chamomile tea. I sipped it slowly, cradling the warm cup in my hands.
A terrible dream! One thing was certain: my relationship with Tracey — and with myself — had changed in some radical, unexplained way. Furthermore, I had to avoid Tracey, for her sake, as well as my own. I’d spend more time on campus and hit the books harder than before. This thing, whatever it was, would ultimately lead to greater discipline on my part, which was a good thing. I’d move out at the end of the semester.
I yawned and looked at the stove clock. 11:45 p.m. Well, no time like the present to embark on my new plan, I reasoned, and headed off to bed.
I woke up around 7:30, the bright autumn sun shining through my window. A good day to get caught up, I thought. I crept to my bedroom door and opened it a crack. The light was off in the kitchen…no Tracey? I listened…nothing. Good. I slipped out of my pajamas, threw on my robe, and tiptoed across the hall to the bathroom.
“Hey!”
Almost made it, I thought. I peeked around the corner and saw Tracey in the kitchen.
“Hey yourself,” I said, feigning a yawn. “How was your networking mission?”
“Great! I…”
I ducked back into the bathroom, closed the door partway, turned on the shower and got in. “I’m in kind of rush, Trace,” I called out over the noise of the shower. “Talk to me while I get ready…ok?”
Tracey stood outside the door and yakked about the CJ majors she’d met and all the things she’d learned. I responded with “uh-huh” and “cool!” and other non-committal expressions. As she talked, my mind drifted to other things. I studied the white soap suds coursing slowly down my brown curves, and thought suddenly, “I’m truly beautiful, and I’m going to be okay.”
“Oh Mugdha…?” Tracey’s voice interrupted my reverie. “I may have some of them over for study sessions…it that ok with you?”
“Fine!” I said, louder than I liked. My irritation was showing, and I realized I’d have to bear down harder on my feelings.
The weekend flew by. I studied late into the night at the library on Saturday, bolted out early on Sunday and managed to avoid Tracey. My feelings settled down, and my focus returned. Doing homework was a joy again, as was the solitude. She texted me a few times and invited me out for dinner, but I kept my answers short: “sorry, studying,” or, “busy.”
I woke up early on Monday, determined to keep up this routine. I threw on dark sweat pants, my white Reeboks and a loose-fitting red t-shirt. But when I returned at about 9 p.m., I saw flashes in the front window — a sign that the television was on, and that Tracey was watching it.
She was home. No big deal, I thought. Just go in, say hi and walk on by.
But I began to tremble as I mounted the steps. My palms began to sweat as I opened the door.
Just walk on by, I repeated to myself. But I felt myself melt a little as I caught sight of Tracey sitting on the couch. She was my friend, and despite my irritation, I missed her.
Her voice did me in.
“Moogie! Where ya been?!” she said, muting the TV with the remote. “By the way, I just found one of my scrunchies on the couch. How’d it get in here?”
I settled on the ottoman opposite her, clutching my book bag.
“What are you watching?” I asked. I almost stammered, I was so nervous.
“Some cop show,” she said, looking at the TV. “You know, ever since I started my new classes, these things seem super corny.”
I was barely listening. My eyes had become fixed on the end table, and the shiny object that was lying on it.
The handcuffs. My heart skipped a beat. Tracey, me and her handcuffs were all together in the living room again. And she was still talking.
“…like, they do all kinds of things real cops would never do, and they’re always soooo dramatic…you know what I mean? Hey, what’s wrong?”
I looked at her, and she fixed me with her piercing blue eyes. Involuntarily, my eyes flickered to the end table, then back to her.
Her jaw dropped. She’d seen that I’d seen the cuffs. Our eyes met again.
“So that’s why you’ve been acting so weird!” she burst out. “Oh Moogie, I promise I’ll never handcuff you again!”
I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to say anything. Yet I couldn’t look away.
Her mouth gaped in astonishment as she finally grasped the truth. Then she grinned from ear to ear, and grabbed her cuffs off the table.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s take care of you. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind you.”
I wordlessly complied. Within a second I felt the cold metal cuffs closing about my wrists, and heard the rapid clicking sound as Tracey ratcheted them tight. I shuddered, and all the tension of the past few days seem to evaporate. Relief enveloped my entire body, and I let out a deep breath.
There it was again, that reassuring weight of handcuffs locked on my limbs. Tracey drew the curtains, locked the front door, sat back down on the couch and un-muted her cop show. I looked around for a place to sit, then took two steps toward the couch.
“You’ll probably be more comfortable sitting on the floor, Moogie,” she said, “with your back against the couch.”
I looked down at the floor at the area she indicated, then hesitated. I heard Tracey giggle.
“Face the TV, and go to your knees first,” she said. “Then sit on your right hip…don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
I knelt, then slowly leaned toward my hip. She caught me by the shoulders as I slumped over, and eased me to the couch. Then she helped me scooch around so my back was resting against it.
“Now bend your legs and place your feet flat on the floor, so you don’t slide down,” she said.
I obeyed, easily finding my balance. She gathered up my hair, pulled it away from my face and secured it at the back of my head with her scrunchy.
“Here,” she said, settling a sofa cushion behind my neck. “This should make you feel even more comfy.”
Indeed I was...sitting there, tightly restrained, my helpless fingers touching the cold wooden floor, the grey-blue light of the television illuminating my cozy form.
Part 3
That was our first session, based on our mutual interest: Tracey liked to handcuff me, and I liked being handcuffed by her.
Certainly some of it had to do with her strong interest in law enforcement. She used me to practice handcuffing techniques, and I’d eventually become her “suspect” in an entire arrest scenario, which included cuffing and frisking me; placing me in the back of her car and securing me there with the seatbelt; then driving me back to our apartment to conduct mock booking procedures. She learned many of these methods from her handcuff manual, or from training videos online.
But as our first session showed, Tracey also enjoyed her power over me, and she got a kick out my awkwardness and increased shyness while cuffed. During that session, for example, she suggested we go for a walk before bed. I was shocked at the idea, but she just threw a coat over my shoulders to hide my pinioned wrists.
“This is our secret,” Tracey said firmly. “No one has to know.”
Then she grabbed me by the upper arm and walked me out the door, like she was escorting a prisoner to jail. It was a cool adventure to be restrained in public. I truly had no idea where she was taking me; but as I said, I become more even more reserved while captive, so I couldn’t muster up the nerve to ask.
Besides, the suspense was almost intoxicating, and my imagination ran wild. We’d role-play extensively in the months to come, but during that walk, on my own, I pictured myself as a poor innocent girl inadvertently caught up in some white-collar crime, or as a reluctant witness who Tracey was charged with detaining and protecting.
We also felt the excitement of flouting our secret under the unknowing noses of our neighbors, all snug, comfy and ignorant in their little houses and apartments. We only walked around the block, but I almost asked Tracey to keep me cuffed all night.
We rarely discussed our “play” openly, and she never mocked me or demeaned what we did. We didn’t use terminology like “domme” or “sub.” Tracey wasn’t domineering, and she kept it light. We treated it as a hobby, and we evolved our own codes, signals and terminology.
This also helped define boundaries, and prevented the sessions from interfering with schoolwork. So our lives went on normally, except that Tracey always had her cuffs handy at home, and she was always happy to lock me up. She never interrupted me while I was studying, but our casual encounters in the apartment usually led to informal sessions, if time allowed.
If we struck up a conversation at the kitchen table, for instance, she’d deftly step behind my chair and cuff me while we chatted. When we washed clothes together in the basem*nt laundry room, we’d hang out down there during the dry cycle — except with me sitting on the floor against a pole, my arms shackled together behind it.
Sometimes if she heard me yawn and stretch while studying, she’d peek into my room and ask if I needed a break. I’d always set my books or laptop aside, roll over on my tummy, get comfortable and present my hands to her. Sometimes she’d sit on the bed and visit with me, but if she was hitting the books hard, she’d set her cell phone timer for 15 or 20 minutes, and leave me handcuffed until the time was up.
If she was watching TV, I’d stroll in, ask what was on and reflexively turn around so she could gently lock the cuffs on my wrists. That led to us binge-watching Riverdale one Saturday afternoon, with me alternating between sitting on the couch, the ottoman or cross-legged on the floor. Tracey fed me popcorn, and I dutifully offered my hands for re-cuffing after my bathroom breaks.
She always made sure to cuff me with my palms facing out — another technique that ensured I was securely restrained. I could do nothing with my hands when they were manacled in that position.
From our practice sessions, I learned different arrest stances — like my hands on top of my head, fingers interlocked, or my hands on the wall, legs spread. So if I wanted some cuff-time, I’d simply find Tracey and assume an arrest position. She’d smile, stop what she was doing, shackle me, and put me on the timer.
If she happened to be studying on those occasions, I’d go sit at my desk so as not to distract her. I always took a few seconds to look in the mirror and admire how her cuffs looked on my wrists.
Occasionally I’d wander into the living room and sit on the floor just beneath the front window, where I could peep at cars, neighbors and other pedestrians. They couldn’t see me from their angle, and had no idea that they were passing by me, a chained prisoner, just yards away.
For the rest of September and into October, Tracey only used her handcuffs on me. Who could blame her? They were new and shiny, like jewelry, in addition to being fast, efficient and secure. As an engineering student, I liked those aspects, too.
By mid-October I could count on being Tracey’s prisoner for several hours a week. For me, our apartment came to represent stability, study, solitude — and occasional captivity.
Whether I was on the T, on campus, or in class, I often experienced the phantom sensation of being handcuffed, and I’d daydream about being at home, under Tracey’s control. When my yoga teacher announced that she was teaching us the “handcuff stretch,” I almost laughed out loud.
Around that time, Tracey advanced our play to another level.
