Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (46 page)

Privately I'm of the view that that was her plan all along, but I say nothing. I catch one last glimpse of the scene playing out across the dungeon before Mel hooks her arm through mine and tugs me across the room to greet her top for tonight. I make polite conversation for a few minutes then retreat to a discreet distance to leave them to negotiate the finer points of the evening's entertainment. It gives me another chance to survey the continuing activities of my old form tutor.

His submissive–Maria–is suspended from a ring attached to a solid metal beam running the length of the dungeon. Her wrists are secured in cuffs, and she is stretched up onto her toes. She wears only a thong, and her collar, plainly visible beneath her cap of short cropped hair. Her back is bare, and even in the subdued illumination, I can see she's been thoroughly worked over with a flogger. Her bottom is a much darker shade, and bears the distinctive curved marks left by a paddle. She has her back to me, but I wouldn't mind betting her nipples are clamped.

As I watch, Mr McCain slowly circles her. He has a belt in his hand, looped, the buckle secure within his fist. He stops, leans in to say something to her. A frown flickers across his face. He takes a handful of her hair and turns her head toward him. He speaks to her again, this time forcing her to meet his eyes. He waits, she answers. He glances over his shoulder at Maria's Dom, beckons him forward. The two men speak briefly, then Mr McCain returns his attention to Maria. More words are exchanged before he once more takes up his position behind her. He drapes the belt across her shoulders, drawing the supple leather over her skin, then down her back. He uses the palm of his hand to caress her reddened bottom, and Maria flinches as he presses her sensitised flesh. Then he steps back, swings the belt, and lands it hard across both buttocks.

Maria's cry is soft. I would miss it entirely were it not for the fact I'm watching, listening, concentrating. Her Dom moves in close in front of her, and as Mr McCain steps back, her regular Master slides his hand under the thong. He cups her chin in his hand as he finger-fucks her. Moments later he is done, backing off and signalling Mr McCain to take over once more.

He does. The belt arcs through the air again, this time landing with a resounding crack across that sweet spot where leg meets bottom. Maria jerks hard, then continues to shudder as she dangles from the restraints. Mr McCain's lips move. Across the room I can make out the one word.

"Again?"

Maria gives a brief, desperate nod.

Mr McCain flexes his arm and delivers the required stroke. Maria lets out a strangled cry and her body convulses. Her Dom is on it, his arm around her waist to hold her still as he pushes the flimsy fabric of the thong aside. This time there is no let-up. I watch as Maria's orgasm ripples through her, her Master drawing it out with his fingers, his lips, and his words. He is murmuring to her, kissing her hair, nuzzling her neck.

Mr McCain stands apart from the couple, allowing them this moment. Then, as Maria's wild shivers subside, he approaches and reaches for the cuffs. He releases her, and she crumples into her Dom's arms.

Again the two men exchange a few words. Mr McCain bends to talk to Maria, then kisses her on the forehead. He smiles at the pair of them, then turns his back to me as he starts to gather up his stuff.

His movements are fast, efficient. I could watch him all day, but I tear my attention away to do proper justice to Mel's performance with Jerry. Whilst I've been watching the scene across the dungeon, he has secured my friend to the spanking bench and is now dropping light, rapid smacks onto her upturned bottom. Her skin is pinking up beautifully and her rapid, breathy sounds suggest things are going well. I wallow in vicarious pleasure as I shift my weight from one stiletto-encased foot to the other, wishing my leather shorts were perhaps a little less tight, my corset slightly more forgiving. This is going to be a long, horny evening.

––––––––

"B
ut what if he doesn't go to the club at all in the next week?" I stir my coffee and glare at Mel across the smooth, gleaming table. We often share a McDonalds breakfast at the weekend, and this Saturday morning is no exception

She shrugs and takes a bite out of her hash brown. "He probably will. He's there fairly often."

"Like, every Wednesday? Or at weekends? Does he have a regular pattern?"

"Well, no, but..."

"But, knowing my luck, I'll probably miss him. I fly to New York in exactly eight days and, once I leave, it'll be months before I'm back in the UK, probably not until the summer at the earliest. I can't wait till then."

"You could hang out at the Darkroom every night from now until you go. Chances are he'll show up." I notice she doesn't try to suggest I could, in fact, wait. Mel appreciates the urgency of my predicament.

I've haunted the Darkroom most evenings for the last two weeks, hoping to catch a glimpse of my old form tutor. Any awkwardness I might have initially felt – given our previous acquaintance – has evaporated. Mel's right: that was ten years ago and he's no longer my teacher. These days, all that matters to me is that he's one seriously hot Dom with a reputation for delivering a hard spanking. I know: I've asked around. And I want some of that before I leave.

"Are you certain he doesn't have a sub already?" I may be desperate, but I have principles.

"No, not that I've ever seen. I've been going to the Darkroom for over a year now and I've seen him there a lot, but always with different partners. He likes to play, he's popular but there's no one regular."

I stare into my latte. "Even if I do see him, I can’t just march up and request a spanking. He'd say no. He doesn't know me from Adam." I conveniently manage to forget that, up until now, no one has turned me down. Why should Mr McCain be the first?

"He might agree, if you ask nicely. You'll never know if you don't try."

"How can I try?" I wail. "He's never there."

"Well, there is another approach. I wouldn't normally suggest it, but since you're running out of options..."

"What?"

"If the mountain won't go to Mahomet..."

"Mountain? Mahomet? Mel, you're talking in riddles, and my brain's frazzled enough already."

"Go and find him. Go to his house."

"You're joking. I couldn't do that. It'd be rude, and—"

"Yes, and dangerous, all alone with a strange Dom. But you do know him, sort of. He’s not a total stranger. And we know he's okay, because everyone says so. It might be your only option. Last chance saloon and all that."

She's right, and I'm ready to try anything. But there's one major flaw in Mel's plan. "I don't know where he lives!"

"Ah, but Jerry does. He picks him up every Sunday morning and they play squash. I'll wheedle the information out of him, somehow."

I stare at her, mesmerised. It might be possible. It just might work.

"But, suppose Jerry does tell you, and I do just show up on his doorstep. What would I say?"

"I’ve been giving that some thought, too. See how diligent I am on your behalf? It’s Valentine’s Day this weekend. You could give him a card: personal delivery.”

“A Valentine’s card?” I need to check, not sure I’m following this.

She nods, her expression smug. “How’s this for an opening line?
Here's a Valentine’s card, Sir. Please spank me, and fuck me
." She hesitates, "You did want him to fuck you, as well, didn't you?" She shoves the last of her hash brown into her mouth and chews on it as she contemplates my wide-eyed gaze.

Do I? Want him to fuck me, that is? I suppose I do. Yes, I definitely do.

"Valentine's card? I don't do hearts and flowers and I'm bloody sure he won't."

"He might, if it's the right card. It's only the tenth today. If you get a shift on, you've time to buy a special BDSM-themed card online and you could take it round to him on Valentine's Day. It'd be an ice breaker."

"BDSM-themed? Do they actually sell those?"

"Oh, yes. Hand me your phone."

Moments later, she has found a website for me which advertises all manner of bondage and spanking cards, perfect for my little project. I look from the tiny screen to Mel's excited face. She's warming to the plan almost as fast as I am.

"Right, when are you seeing Jerry next?"

"I'll text him now."

––––––––

"H
e lives close to the town centre, in an apartment over a bookshop." Mel announces her findings almost before she has sat down in my mother's tiny kitchen.

I shush her. My mum is watching television in the next room, and I see no benefit in involving her in this plan. I gave notice on my own flat when I landed the New York job, and I'm just camping out here for the remaining few days. Privacy is at a premium right now.

Mel grins, unabashed. "Apparently he owns the property, rents out the shop downstairs and has a loft apartment or something of the sort above it. Sounds very trendy. Handy for the station, too."

"Why would he need the station?" I whisper, hoping she'll take the hint and lower her voice.

She does, slightly. "Jerry says your Mr McCain is no longer a teacher. He has an IT firm now, and he’s doing very nicely, I gather. He travels a lot."

"Right. I see."

I'm sort of relieved he's no longer in the education business, though I can't exactly pin down why. It just seems better, somehow. "What bookshop? Do you have an address?"

"I do." She digs in her pocket and pulls out a sheet of notepaper. "Here. Now all you need to do is show up. Did you get a card?"

"Sure did, but I'll show you it later." I glance toward the door connecting the kitchen to my mum's tiny sitting room. "Right, my flight is the day after tomorrow so that means it's either tonight or tomorrow..."

"Tonight's a no go. According to Jerry, there's a stag do on and your guy is going. So is Jerry."

"Tomorrow, then. Saturday."

"Great. And don't leave it too late – he might have plans to go out."

"If he's going to the club anyway, I might as well have not bothered with all this."

"But what if he isn't? Last chance, remember. You need to make certain, and this is how."

"I suppose so." I give a little shiver, nerves already starting to catch up with me now that the scheme is taking shape. "So, a bookstore. Maybe I'll check the place out in the morning. I could do with some new reading matter, for the plane."

"Sounds like a plan."

It does indeed.

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.