he blacksmith finished fitting my restraints long ago, yet he still lingers beside me. I can feel his attention on me, and I cannot understand why he is taking so long to let me go. I'm sure he loves the smell of my body!

Why must my legs be chained together, Master? Did my owner really order this terrible restraint for my body, or is this simply what they do to women like me?

Could they shackle me more often? It has been a whole year since I last saw the blacksmith, and I keep wondering when they will bring me back to his workshop again.

I cannot stop thinking about the blacksmith. I wish he would come closer and show me some tenderness just one gentle touch would feel almost impossible in a life made of iron and chains.

Why did you have to connect my neck to my leg with such a short chain, Master? Every movement pulls somewhere else, and I cannot find a position that does not hurt.

Ahh! Something is stabbing me, blacksmith! There must be a sharp piece of metal left inside the collar, and every movement makes it dig into my neck.

Oh no! This chain looks far too short. Is this really what will hold my two legs together for the whole year?

I hope the blacksmith fits the shackle more snugly around my ankle this year. When it hangs too loose, the iron rubs against my Achilles tendon with every step, and that can hurt even more.

Double ankle shackles feel like an awful lot, even after my last escape attempt. I know they blame the missing leg irons for that mistake, but wearing twice the metal still feels like a cruel lesson.

How much longer must I keep my foot on the anvil? I keep waiting for the blacksmith to finally hammer the shackle closed around my ankle.

I keep wondering who will finally replace these worn-out shackles on me, and when. Will it take months—or will I still be wearing the same iron years from now?

That huge, thick iron shackle spreader always hurts, even when they use it only on my ankles. I hate the cold weight of it and the pressure every time they tighten the metal.

If the ankle shackle is too loose, it can slide almost up to my knee. Strange as it sounds, that can hurt less than when the iron bites tightly around my ankle.

That enormous iron shackle spreader always hurts, even when they use it only on my ankles. I try not to move while they tighten the metal, because every small shift makes the pressure worse.

The ankle shackles are the most important part of our restraints they stop me from escaping and hurt the most while I work. Perhaps that is exactly why the masters value them above all the other chains.

The ankle shackles are the most important part of our restraints. They keep me from running far, and the masters seem to value them more than any other iron they fasten onto us.

I’ve noticed the blacksmith spends far too long fastening the irons around my ankles. I cannot tell whether he is simply careful with his work, or whether there is some other reason he keeps watching me so closely.

Let me stay here with you a little longer, blacksmith. You keep looking at me so intently—I cannot help wondering what you see when you look at me.

My chain is too loose, isn’t it, Master? I can already tell they will tighten it again before they send me back to work.

Loose shackles are not allowed on the plantation. The blacksmith tightens my chains again and again, until every step reminds me exactly how little freedom I have.

The sound of the auction always frightens me. I only hope the buyers do not expect answers, because the tight bit in my mouth makes every word difficult.

I can hardly decide which is worse the bit stretched tight across my mouth or the chain running between my thighs. Every step makes one of them bite a little harder.

Thank God they tied me in the shade this time. The iron still bites, but at least the sun is no longer burning my skin.

Thank God they tied me in the shade this time. The iron still bites, but at least the sun is no longer burning my skin.

I wish the master would come back soon. The sun is burning both me and the horse, and neither of us can escape the heat while we wait.

My master treats me as if I were no different from his horse. We are both led by metal and leather, expected to obey without question.

I am so ashamed when they lead me through the street where everyone can see me. I keep my eyes down and wish I could disappear beneath the weight of the chains.

Is the hammering of the hot iron finally over? I can feel the new restraints weighing on me now, and I keep wondering what they have planned for me next.

I suppose the blacksmith has seen enough sweat, mud and bruised skin not to care anymore. He keeps working on my irons as if I were just another job waiting to be finished.

Why is the blacksmith still staring at me? His work is finished, the irons are locked in place, yet somehow I feel as though he has not finished judging me.

Am I finished now, blacksmith? Will you finally hand me back to my master, chained and ready to return?

Are we finished, sir? I can feel the last shackle being checked around my ankle, and I am already wondering how long I will have to wear all this iron.

I understand why my ankles have to be chained together, but I still don’t understand why that chain must lead all the way up to my collar. Every step pulls at my neck and reminds me how little freedom of movement I have left.

I keep wondering whether the blacksmith will stop at my ankles, or fasten something around my toes as well. With every new piece of iron, I feel a little less certain where his work will end.

I know the chain between my collar and ankle will be too short, but I say nothing. I want the blacksmith to see how it forces me to bend before him.

his is already my third visit to the blacksmith, and each time I find myself wanting his hands on me more. Even while he fastens the cold iron around my ankle, I catch myself longing for his touch.

The ankle shackles matter most, because every step can turn them into pain. They are the restraints that make me think twice before I ever try to run.

I don’t like how tightly the blacksmith has pulled the chain between my legs. Every movement makes the restraint bite harder, and I already know this new bondage will make the day painfully long.

I wonder if my master will like the new shackles the blacksmith has fitted to me. The chains feel heavier now, and I know they were chosen to keep me exactly where I belong.

For one brief moment I was free, after the blacksmith cut every piece of iron from my body. Now he is fastening the shackles around my limbs again, and that tiny taste of freedom is already gone.

Each shackle needs one more glowing piece of metal before the blacksmith can hammer it permanently closed around me. I have to stand still and wait while he forges my restraints one by one.

At this pace, we’ll still be here at noon before the blacksmith has all three of us properly shackled. I can already feel the cold iron around my ankle reminding me what the rest of the day will be like.

I have to stay bent over until they finish pulling the chain between my legs and fastening it in place. My back aches, my face burns with humiliation, and I know I am not allowed to move until they are satisfied.

I hate the chain pulled between my legs more than any other restraint. It follows every movement and turns even the most private moments - urinating or relieving myself - into another humiliation. 

I dream of one single moment when no collar, cuff or chain closes around my body. But even while one piece of iron is removed, another is already waiting for me.

I have worn shackles since I was a young girl, long enough that the weight of iron feels almost permanent. Even now, every new fitting reminds me that my body has never truly belonged to me.

If one of us must endure the bit between her teeth, then none of us should be spared. I watch the blacksmith prepare the next restraint and wonder how long it will be before every mouth here is silenced by iron.

He pulled my bound arms too high toward my neck, and now every breath sends pain through my shoulders. I try not to cry out, but my body is already telling him the restraint has gone too far.

The thick ring in my nose makes the bit painfully difficult to fit, and every adjustment feels endless. I force myself to stay still while the blacksmith works, humiliated by the struggle and unable to stop watching him.

I try not to flinch while he adjusts the iron against my mouth. The shame burns almost as much as the restraint, yet I keep watching his face, searching for the smallest sign of gentleness.

He knows exactly how to fit the iron without hesitation; one wrong movement would make the pain unbearable. I stand still beneath his hands, ashamed by the restraint and disturbed by how much I trust the man fastening it to me.

He fastens the iron around my neck, and I hate how carefully I watch his hands. I should fear the man who fits my chains, yet every time he comes near, my heart betrays me.