Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories

by Sierra Cartwright

Chapter Two

  I wake up late on Saturday morning. It's already after ten when I open my eyes, and nearer eleven by the time I finish showering and find something to wear. Almost all my clothes are packed, many of them already shipped to my temporary address in Brooklyn. I'm short on wardrobe choices, but manage to dig out a decent pair of jeans and a cropped sweater. Black leather Chelsea boots complete the look. I make sure the BDSM Valentine card is safely tucked in the zipped pocket at the side of my bag, then head downstairs to grab a cup of tea. I give my mum a hug from behind as she attacks the house with the vacuum cleaner, her regular weekend ritual. I'm going to miss her, and it's been nice living in a grime-free zone, if only temporarily. I got a pay rise with my promotion – wonder if I could run to a cleaner in the US?

  "Just off out. See you later."

  She glances up and offers me a quick smile before focusing again on any belligerent specks of dust she imagines might have had the temerity to invade her domain. Personally, I doubt any would dare.

  "Mmm, yes dear. Don't forget I'm at bingo tonight so make sure you've got your key. I'll be back in plenty of time to see you off tomorrow, though."

  "Good luck."

  I check my pocket for the key then head out in search of uplifting literature. And a decent spanking.

  I'm thinking I could just have a look round the bookstore first, work out where the entrance to Mr McCain's apartment is, then maybe go round to Mel's to make my final plans. I'll probably find myself on the receiving end of a pep talk. Even now, I could chicken out, but Mel won't let me wriggle away too easily.

  I find the shop with no trouble at all. It’s a place I’ve been to before: one of those nice little establishments where they allow you to browse the shelves, and take books into a cosy seating area, with over-stuffed sofas and a free vending machine. As I enter I smile at the youngish shop assistant perched on a stool by the till. She smiles back and wishes me a good morning. I choose a copy of Wuthering Heights and settle in to reacquaint myself with the timeless wonders of Emily Bronte's imagination. She's one of my absolute favourites. I first read this book at school for GCSE English Literature. While I was in Mr McCain's class, probably. Best not to dwell on that. The coffee is pleasant: hot and strong, and best of all, free. I help myself to a second cup.

  Two mugs of coffee on top of the tea earlier: not wise. I need the loo. I grab my bag, replace Emily on her shelf alongside Jane Austen and George Elliot, and nip into the small cubicle at the back of the shop. Job done, I take a few minutes more to check my makeup as I did leave the house in something of a hurry this morning. I'm peckish, so I might grab a sandwich for lunch, and then go round to Mel's. Best to make sure she's in first. I dig in my pocket for my phone.

  Christ only knows how, but one moment I have it in my hand, and the next, my shiny new iPhone is shimmering under the ripples at the bottom of the toilet bowl, submerged in blue tinted water.

  "Shit. Shit! Shit!"

  I'm on my hands and knees, plunging my arm into the cool depths to retrieve the device, but I already know it's ruined. I might have had a chance of salvaging it with the help of a bag of dry rice, but that would take days, and I fly tomorrow. Neither am I in the habit of carrying a kilo of rice around in my handbag and I doubt they sell it here, so my phone is a goner.

  I've only had it a month, and no bloody insurance. I chuck in several more expletives for good measure as I contemplate the soggy chunk of technology, now reduced to worthless scrap. I abandon thoughts of last minute encouragement from Mel. My priority now is to get a new phone, and quick.

  I wipe the excess water off the outer casing and shove the remains of my deceased iPhone into my bag. If I remember correctly there's an EE shop round the corner.

  The bookstore is quiet when I exit the loo. Even the till is deserted, I realise, as I head for the outside door. Lucky for them I'm not a shoplifter. I grab the handle and push.

  Nothing. I pull, instead. Same outcome. I rattle the door, but can't shift it.

  Locked. But why? It's nowhere near closing time. Lunch break, that must be it. I scan the chaotic collection of notices and adverts attached to the back of the door, looking for something to indicate the shop's opening hours. When can I expect someone to be back?

  I find what I'm looking for, and my heart sinks. Not lunch time. Early closing. The bookstore closes at one o'clock on Saturdays. I check my watch - one fifteen.

  While I was messing about in the toilet, fixing my make-up and making a futile attempt at rescuing my phone from a watery grave, the shop assistant was out here locking up. Why the hell she never checked the toilet I don't know, but she didn't and I'm locked in. Until nine o'clock on Monday, it would seem.

  Now I do let rip with a choice selection of profanity. The death of my phone was annoying, but this is disastrous. I have a plane to catch, for crying out loud. Tomorrow.

  There must be someone outside who could alert the owner. Or the police. The door is made of glass, but covered from top to bottom in posters and leaflets. There are hardly any gaps. No one is going to see me from outside unless I start tearing the whole lot down. I can’t do that. Can I?

  Starting to panic, though only mildly for now, I look around me. There is another window but it's five feet up and even then I'd have to scale a bookcase to reach it. Knowing my luck the whole lot would topple over on top of me and I'd be crushed. Without my phone, I can't ring anyone to come and help me. I'm bloody stuck here

  I head for the counter, and rummage around in the cluttered little space behind it. Surely the shop has a landline. Except it doesn't seem to. The archaic laptop I discover, hidden under a pile of book catalogues, lumbers to life when I open it up and press the on switch, but after several minutes of laborious whirring and hissing the Windows 2000 start-up screen demands a password. I growl as I slam it shut.

  In despair, I march back over to the reading corner and fling myself onto the sofa. At least I can be comfortable while I fume and call down divine retribution on the careless fool who sodded off for the day without even checking the toilets. I help myself to another coffee, for good measure, and a complementary twin-pack of custard creams. There are plenty more of those, and some bourbons too. Even if I do miss my plane, at least I won't starve.

  Except missing my plane is not an option. Starvation could be negotiable. I have to get out of here.

  By two o'clock I'm reaching desperation point. I'm bored, scared, and finding it hard to believe I'm actually in this situation. Locked in a bookshop, no phone, no way out and no way that I can see of reaching anyone who could help me.

  Something will turn up. It has to. Surely someone will notice I'm not where I should be and come looking. My mum, or Mel. The check in desk at Manchester airport?

  In an attempt to remain calm, I retrieve Emily Bronte from her usual spot on the classics shelf, then kick off my boots and haul my feet up onto the sofa. Might as well be comfortable while I panic. I find the spot where I left off an hour or so earlier and settle in.

  I wake up, startled. Was that a sound? I sit up, peering around me in the dim shop. The light outside is fading fast. This is February in England, after all, and it'll be completely dark outside by five o'clock. I hold my wrist an inch from my nose, trying to make out the position of the hands on my watch. Ten past four. I need to find a light switch, or I'll soon be sitting in the dark, and I so do not fancy that.

  By the counter seems the likeliest spot. I get to my feet and start picking my way around the displays as best I can, trying to avoid obstacles. I don't entirely succeed, managing to trip over a low table displaying selected works of Shakespeare. I pick the books back up off the floor, and carry on.

  I fumble around the walls beside the till, and come up with nothing. Somewhere near the outside door then: that could be a suitable place for a light switch. I make my way there, the thin daylight disappearing by the minute. Still no joy. I start to pick my way back across the dim shop interior, cursing the lack of any illumination. My
phone has a torch app. Or it did, before I drowned it. I crash into Shakespeare's table again, doing my shins no favours at all. I have it in mind that there must be some back way out of here – a fire escape or some such thing. Or even a window at a reasonable height for me to smash and climb out of. I curse my stupidity for not having decided to find an alternative way of escape earlier, while there was still some daylight.

  The rear of the shop yields nothing useful. A tiny kitchen and a staff toilet, neither of which have any windows, and a large store room crammed with the stock not on display. I can only make out vague shapes in any of those rooms, as the residual daylight from outside is useless now.

  In frustration I kick the store room door. This can't be happening. It really can't.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  I whirl, stunned. The harsh male voice echoes again across the dim interior of the bookstore.

  "It's bad enough you've broken in here. You'll really start to piss me off if you damage anything."

  "What? Who? Where are you?" I can't make out anything apart from the dim shapes of the book cases, now fading fast. "I'm locked in. Can you let me out please?"

  Footsteps; the sharp sound of heavy feet crossing the shop somewhere in front of me, then the overhead strip lighting flickers into life, making me blink. Whoever my rescuer is, he does at least know where the light switches are. I peer around, looking for him.

  "I'll let you out when the police arrive. For now, get over here."

  Where's here? I step forward, wary. The shop owner sounds seriously fierce. Even though none of this is my fault, I can see I have some explaining to do, but once he understands, he'll surely send me on my way with an apology for the carelessness of his staff.

  "There's no need for the police. I got locked in, that's all."

  "Yeah, right. The place has been closed for hours."

  "Tell me about it." I round a tall bookcase, and freeze.

  It's him. Mr McCain. He stands framed in an open doorway at one side of the shop, an exit I never even noticed before. He looks livid as he pockets a set of keys.

  Of course, didn't Mel say he owns the building as well as living upstairs? It's obvious that he'd have keys.

  "You can sit there." He indicates a narrow, straight-backed chair beside the counter. "The police won't be long."

  Shit. I know they'll let me go, eventually. I'm innocent, after all. But how long will it take to establish that? I have a plane to catch and I really can't afford to spend the next God knows how many hours in a police cell. I make no move to take the seat offered.

  "I'm telling the truth, I really did get locked in. I was in the loo, and—"

  "Save it."

  "Look around you. Is there any sign of a forced entry? I'm telling you, I walked in just before closing, and got locked in by accident." I point to the cosy sofa area. "I dropped my phone in the loo so I couldn't call for help. My bag's over there. You can check if you like. It's dead."

  He flicks a glance toward the reading corner. Sure enough, there's exhibit A, my hessian rucksack, balanced on the end of the settee I sprawled on. My boots are still on the floor next to it. I seize on that evidence, too. "How many burglars do you know who go around barefoot?"

  His austere features crease into a frown. He is at least considering my alternative explanation.

  "Okay, so you can tell all that to the police. In fact, that's probably them now."

  The sound of a car door outside sends me into proper panic mode. It's followed by a loud rapping on the door. "Police. Can you open up please?"

  "Right. Coming." Mr McCain moves toward the door.

  I spring forward to grab his arm. "Please, Mr McCain, sir. Don't have me arrested."

  He stops, turns to me, his face a mask of astonishment. "Do I know you?"

  "No. Yes. Please, I came to see you. I have a card for you."

  "A card?"

  More knocking at the door, a voice, loud and insistent. "Police. Can you open the door please? Now."

  "Just a sec." Mr McCain tosses the words over his shoulder as he continues to regard me with interest. "Where is this card?"

  "In my bag."

  He strides past me and over to the sofa. He picks up my bag, then hands it to me. "Show me it."

  I dig in the outer pocket for the crimson envelope and hand it to him. Just his title is on the front in my neat handwriting. Sir.

  I cringe as he rips open the envelope and extracts the card. The design on the front is unmistakable, a cartoon drawing of a devil’s horns and tail making the outline of a Valentine's heart, adorned with a pair of handcuffs. The words Play With Me complete the message. He opens the card to find my personal greeting inside. Rose's are red. So spank me. Please.

  Without a word Mr McCain slips the card back into the envelope and hands it back to me. He turns to open the door. It takes him a few seconds to slide back the two bolts securing it. He steps to one side to allow two burly police officers to enter.

  "Good afternoon, sir. We had a call, concerning an intruder at these premises?" The first one, obviously the senior of the two, glares at us. I get the impression he does not much like his job.

  "Yes, I phoned you." Mr McCain pauses, glances back at me. "I owe you an apology. It was a mistake, a misunderstanding. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, officer."

  "I see. And you are, sir?" The police officer takes out a notebook and pen, regarding the pair of us with an irritation he makes no attempt to conceal.

  "Iain McCain. I own this building and have an apartment upstairs."

  "I see. And do you have any form of identification, sir, to help verify this?"

  "Of course." He extracts his wallet and hands over his driving licence.

  The officer examines it, appears satisfied, and hands it back. He turns his attention to me. "And you, miss. Could I take your details, please?"

  "Er, Rose. Rose Hawkins."

  I glance at Mr McCain, who offers me a sensual smirk as the intent of my play on words sinks in. Oblivious to any of this, the police officer scribbles my details below those of Mr McCain in his little book. "Identification, please?"

  "Yes, my passport. It's in my bag." I'm still holding the rucksack so I dig out my passport and hand it over.

  "I see. Well, that seems to be in order." He turns back to Mr McCain. "So, sir, you say it was you who phoned us?"

  "Yes. I'd forgotten that Miss Hawkins was due to come round. I heard noises down here and thought we'd had a break in. I should have checked before bothering you. I do apologise." The untruths roll smoothly off his tongue. Who would have thought the upright and so-proper Mr McCain would lie to the police to protect me? And do it so well?

  "You do know it's an offence to waste police time, sir." The policeman’s sanctimonious tone is starting to grate on me. If the narrowing of his eyes is any indication, Mr McCain is no more impressed than I am.

  "Yes, if it's deliberate. This was a genuine mistake, officer. However if you prefer that we discuss it with lawyers I'm happy to do so, though it does seem a pity to invest yet more valuable resources."

  "Quite. Well, I'm going to let the matter drop. Please take more care in the future sir. Hoax nine nine nine calls are taken very seriously."

  "Of course, quite right too. We won't be taking up any more of your time today. Thank you for your prompt response, I'll be sure to mention it to Superintendent Thomas when I next see him." Mr McCain is somehow managing to edge the two officers in the direction of the door as he speaks, and in no time, he is closing it behind them. He turns, leans back on it, and looks me up and down.

  "From the content of that card, I assume you're in the lifestyle. You have me at a disadvantage, Miss Hawkins, though you do look familiar. Have we met?"

  "No, Sir, at least, not recently."

  "I see." He waits, clearly expecting rather more in the way of an explanation.

  I had not intended to remind him of our original acquaintance in case he still retains som
e notion that personal relationships between teachers, even ex-teachers and their former students, are a no-go area. Somehow, standing before him, withering under that dark, penetrating gaze, lying is not an option.

  "I went to Brecon Ridge, Sir. You taught me IT in year eleven. I was in your form, too."

  His eyebrows lift, he nods briefly. "That's a while ago." He tilts his head to one side, considering. "Yes, I do remember you. Your hair was darker then, and you giggled a lot."

  "Yes Sir. I don't giggle now. Well, not much."

  "Best not to, not right at this moment. So, Rose's are red. Rose's what? And why would that merit a spanking? I assume that is still what brings you here, Miss Hawkins."

  Chapter Three

  I gulp. Is it really going to be so easy? "Yes. Er, yes, Sir. It is."

  He nods. "And why are you approaching me for this? I know for certain that nothing took place at Brecon Ridge which would have suggested I might be amenable to such a request."

  "No, Sir, of course not. Though I did have a crush on you."

  "I know that, too, which is why I'm so certain that nothing else ever happened. I made it my business to be sure."

  "You knew? How? I never—"

  "Like I said, a lot of giggling, blushing, offering to help tidy up at the end of the day."

  "You never took me up on it."

  His expression of pure scorn tells me all I need to know. "At the time I intended to make my career in teaching. You were a tempting little package, but totally off limits."

  I gape at him, my jaw dropping. "Tempting? But you didn't even remember me."

  "I did. I just told you that. You've changed a lot, in the ten years or so since then. I didn't recognise you until you told me who you were. Now I remember you just fine."

  "I see."

  "So, why ask me this? Why me, and why now? Why here?"

  "I don't understand. What question should I answer first?"

  He frowns at me as though impatient with my lack of ready response. "Let's start with something simple shall we? The door's not locked. If you choose to, you can put your shoes on and walk right out of here. Do you want to do that?"