WPC DRUMMOND'S LAST CASE
Arnold Lane wasn't quite sure if his plan was foolproof or not. Would it ensure their getaway, or would it put him behind bars forever. His hostage wasn't going anywhere soon, that much was certain. The police would spend ages looking for her, and when they found her, they would have to figure out how to rescue her from the predicament that they would find her in. In the back of his mind though, there was a worry. His delaying tactic was a stroke of genius, but what if it all went wrong. What if, instead of being a hostage who survived with nothing worse than ropemarks and hurt pride, the WPC ended up dead?
He peered through the dusty window of the garage. The securely bound policewoman stood on the workbench, at the edge, unable to move, not daring to move. She sensed his presence, and turned her head towards the window. He thought he could see a look of desperation as her eyes met his. Looking at her, he thought perhaps he had overdone the tying up. It had been very handy having the clothesline, but he needn't have used it all up. He could see now that it would probably have sufficed to cuff her hands behind her back, her forearms held in a parallel position, with her own Hiatt handcuffs, but he hadn't stopped there. He had used the cord to bind her arms to her sides, above and below her breasts, then passed it between her legs, pulling it tight and hiking her skirt up, grinning at her expression of amazed embarrassment . He had used the rest of it binding her legs at the knees and ankles, knowing he had another bundle of rope to use for his booby trap. It all looked a bit excessive now, as did the five-foot length of bandage that was wrapped round the lower part of her face. He had to admit that she did look pretty good though, the buxom policewoman trussed up tightly in her now disheveled uniform. It was a pity he couldn't take a photo of her and send it to that magazine, like some readers did. But, in the gloomy interior of the garage, he couldn't easily see the ropes that made up the trap. He could hardly see the noose of cord around her neck that went up to the rafters, and he definitely couldn't make out the length that ran from her bound ankles, back under the table to the bracket on the bottom of the up-and-over door. This was the rope that, when that door was opened, would pull her feet off the table and cause her to drop a foot or so, hanging by her neck from the rafter.
This was the rope that the rescuing police were supposed to see before they opened the door. The window didn't open, and the Yale key to the side door was over the fence, somewhere in the nettles and brambles, where he had thrown it. The plan was, they would spend valuable hours figuring out how to get in without endangering her, and by the time they had, he and Chloe would be far away.
But if they didn't see it and opened the main door, what then? He would be blamed for executing the policewoman. It would mean a life sentence, and probably lots of beatings before he even got to court. Anyway, he didn't want the WPC to die, the silly cow had just poked her nose in at the wrong time. It probably happened all the time to the police. They certainly poked their noses into his life too often.
He had prepared for today quite well, and that was going to surprise Chloe. She was always on at him for not thinking before he did things. Well, she had underestimated him this time. When she saw the three thousand pounds in notes, she'd know he was no amateur.
The robbery had gone well, too. He had visited the village sub-post office before, and he knew that on Wednesday afternoon the middle-aged postmistress, if that was her correct title, ran it on her own. Just before closing time, 4.55, was when he struck. The woman was an attractive brunette in her late forties, a bit too plump for him to fancy. She wore her shoulder length hair in a fringe at the front, the rest clipped back behind her ears. She wore a chunky crimson cable-knitted jumper over a high-necked pink shirt, buttoned at collar and cuffs, with a knee-length skirt, in a red and black tartan pattern, with black low-heeled calf-length leather boots. He knew her name from his last visit, a customer had addressed her as Polly.
Once inside, he had pulled the ski-mask down over his face, flipped the sigh on the door from "open" to "closed" and, brandishing the lifelike toy luger pistol, ordered Polly into the back room. Remembering the techniques he had studied in the bondage magazines, she was soon immobilized, more thoroughly than was necessary really, but having bought the washing line, he thought he might as well use it. Polly sitting on the floor in the back room, her hands and arms bound behind her back, while he bound her legs at the knees and ankles , surprised him by commenting "It's not a real gun, is it?"
He was aghast at this, but remembering that he definitely had the situation under control, replied "why d'you say that?"
"It looks like one my kids had. And the way you hold it. A real one would be heavier".
He didn't know what to say, but she continued "I don't ever risk getting hurt to save the post office's money. I've been robbed before, probably will be again. I don't intend to be a dead heroine".
"Quite right" he said, then added. "I wish they all thought like that". He was pleased with that flash of inspiration. She would tell the police he said that, and they would be looking for a serial robber. Not for a bloke who hadn't done a holdup before.
He took the rolled-up bandage from his bag and stretched it out, tying a knot halfway along its length. Seeing her look of panic, he said" I got to gag you, haven't I?"
"Don't be too rough, then. You don't really need to, nobody will hear if I do shout for help, back here, now the shop's shut".
He was relieved that she wasn't going to be difficult. While tying her up, he had started remembering things from the magazine, and she would probably complain. She definitely needed to be gagged. "OK" he said" letís get on with it".
She sat unresisting, opening her mouth to receive the knotted fabric, leaning her head forward as he fastened the ends at the back of her head. She hadn't noticed that, while tying her booted ankles, he had left several feet of cord unused. And now she was gagged, there would be no argument. Now she had mentioned kids, she seemed like a real person, and he didn't want to injure her. He was going to have a little fun though. He was going to turn her over on her face and tie her feet to her hands, behind her back, like in the magazines.
She grunted through the gag as her turned her over, more questioning than protesting. Now she was in this position though, he couldn't resist giving her plump bottom a smack. And another, harder this time. Now her muffled squeaks were definitely protests. That seemed to make it more fun. He gave her several more smacks. Her muffled squeals of protest were something of a turn-on to him, he hadn't expected that. It occurred to him to pull her skirt up and her knickers down, give her a proper spanking, but a voice in his head reminded him that this was a well planned job, and it should stay that way. Giving her a final slap, he lifted her feet up over her bottom, passed the cord from them round her wrists and back to her ankles, pulled it tighter before knotting it. Hogtied, that was what the magazine called it. Looking at Polly, he knew he had got it right. He didn't want to talk to her any more though, it would make him feel guilty. Time to collect up the cash and go.
Polly, spending the next two hours hogtied and gagged in the back room of the little shop, before her husband came looking for her, had ample time to think about what had happened. In her profession, there was a procedure for coping with robbers. You didn't antagonize them, you calmed them down, mention something mundane. It had worked well on past occasions. Not this time though. She'd been tied up in a way that would challenge Houdini, and been given a good spanking as well. This was something the training hadn't prepared her for. Spanking! She hadn't had her bottom smacked hard since childhood.
For Arnold, everything was going with a swing. Even when, as he drew near to the end of the lane, a hundred yards back from where he was headed, he saw a policewoman getting out of a panda car. It couldn't be anything to do with Chloe, she was parking too far away. And anyway, much as he wasn't supposed to contact Chloe, the local law wouldn't know he was in the area. Nevertheless, as he drove by, he had a close look. The WPC was a brunette in her late thirties, not as plump as the postmistress, but she was going that way. She was dressed in the usual summer uniform, dark blue skirt and tie, white blouse with sleeves rolled up, dark tights and black lace-up shoes. She was adjusting her hat as he drove by. Maybe she had come about those bloody kids that kept getting into the gardens and nicking things. He just shouted at them, but maybe someone had called the cops.
In the run down 1940's council house at the end of the lane, allocated to Chloe and him because of the efforts of a social worker, Chloe was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be told that their new life started right now, and they were leaving today. She was doubtful at first, but when he showed her the shopping bag full of cash, she realized he was right. It was just as she was thinking about packing when there was a knock at the front door.
Arnold was upstairs in the toilet at the time, and Chloe didn't hear him shout "No need to answer it. Whoever it is, we don't want to see them". He heard her opening the door and speaking to someone. He heard a woman's voice, and it sounded as if she was in the house. After making sure that the plastic gun was in his pocket, just in case, he hurried downstairs, intending to get rid of the unwelcome visitor. One of those nosy neighbours pretending to be Chloe's friend, he supposed. So he was dumbstruck to see that it was the very same policewoman who he had noticed, getting out of her car back down the road.
"Something the matter?" he asked irritably as he entered the room. Both of the women gave him a look that he didn't much care for. Chloe had a look of desperation, a sort of "beam me up, Scotty" look. The WPC was looking as if he was something unpleasant that she had just trodden in. He noticed that, on the coffee table, the bondage magazine that he had introduced into the house was still laying there, very visible. The policewoman followed his gaze, he saw her raise her eyebrows as she realized what it was.
Chloe and the policewoman both spoke at once. Chloe said "This lady has just brought me a form to fill. Nothing important " her voice petering out as WPC Drummond 's words made more of an impact.
"I've come to take a statement, regarding a complaint that was made" she said. Looking at Arnold, she asked "Would you be Mr. Lane?".
"That's not him" Chloe said, too hastily, but Arnold undermined her pretence, turning on her.
"What have you been telling them?" he demanded.
Chloe was looking tearful "Nothing, Arnie. They made me say it, they put words in my mouth. You know what they're like"
"I think we need to have more of a police presence here, if you don't mind" said Harriet." This isn't the situation that I expected to find" She took the phone from her belt.
"No, you won't " Arnold was suddenly pointing the gun at Harriet. "You won't do anything unless I say to do it. Start by giving her that phone"
Harriet, horrified, didn't know what to say at first. This wasn't the kind of visit where violence was expected, she wouldn't have come alone if it had been. Regaining her composure, she tried to take the initiative "Look, put the gun down. You aren't in any trouble, apart from maybe breaching a court order" Harriet hoped she would be able to stay in control of the situation, just this once. She had been caught up in too many stressful situations in the past, and she didn't want this to be another one.
Arnold wasn't in a mood to respect authority. His confidence had been boosted by pulling off a successful robbery. He had subdued Polly without much effort. Between them, they should be able to overpower the meddling WPC. "Shut it" he snapped."Give her the phone. Get it, Chloe"
Chloe reached out to Harriet, who pulled the phone away. "Arnie, what have you done?" she whined.
"You don't know the half of it" he said, feeling quite proud of what he had done so far today. Then, to Harriet "Give her the bloody phone, before you get hurt. You better understand, I'm calling the shots now". He wanted to sound intimidating, hoping he didn't just sound like somebody who had seen too many crime films. Turning to Chloe, he said "Where d'you think that money came from?"
"There's no need for this to get out of hand" said Harriet firmly, inwardly afraid that she had lost the initiative.
"Give her the phone, and those handcuffs. I won't ask again". He grabbed a cushion. "Nobody will hear the shots if I use this" he said, almost convincing himself that the gun was real. Harriet was fooled. She handed the phone to Chloe, then unfastened the handcuffs from her belt. In the past, when she had been in danger of being captured by criminals, she had taken the opportunity to hide, or lose, the handcuffs. She had learned that lesson the hard way, after a few incidents where she found herself wearing her own handcuffs for a few hours. Today she had missed the chance, she hadn't seen this coming. With a sinking feeling, she handed them to Chloe, knowing that the cold metal was soon going to be closing round her wrists.
"I didn't want to give a statement, Arnie, babe, you know I wouldn't" Chloe was going to be no use to her in this situation, Harriet realized. Best to play along and hope they would leave. Her shift, and Sergeant Forsyth, knew where she was. They would come looking soon enough, and once again, they would find her tied up, or at least handcuffed. She was uncomfortably aware of the bondage magazine, and hoped there wasn't going to be a repeat of some of the things that had happened to her in the past.
"We need to deal with her, first " said Arnold. "They'll be looking for me, but I'm getting an idea. But first, letís make sure she canít give us any trouble" He gesticulated to Harriet. "Get down on your knees in front of that armchair. Put your head down on the seat, and stay like that. Don't keep looking at me". He flourished the gun, to make his point.
Harriet considered challenging him, but decided against it. She had, in her police career, confronted quite a few armed criminals, and she had managed to avoid being the victim of any serious injury or assault. She had been tied up a number of times, but the prospect of that seemed much less worrying than being shot. So, without a word, she walked over to the armchair and dropped to her knees. A sudden thought came to her. She snatched her hat off and, hoping nobody was watching, threw it along the left side of the armchair. If she was taken away by these people , it might be found by the search party. It wouldn't be the first time. She lowered her head gingerly onto the cushion, hoping it wouldn't smell. The whole house had an uncared-for atmosphere. Fortunately, the armchair didn't have any unpleasant odours of its own.
"Great. Nobody needs to get hurt" Arnold announced. "I'll get you cuffed, then we'll have a look in the book and get some ideas. We don't want you calling reinforcements too quickly".†
"If I'm not back in an hour, they'll be here looking for me" Harriet spoke up bravely, hoping she sounded more intimidating than she felt.
Arnold didn't reply at first. When he spoke, it was to say "We got an hour then. Time to set something up, buy us some time". It wasn't the effect Harriet had hoped for. Perhaps the less she said, the better it would be. So, with a deep sense of foreboding, she offered no resistance as he took hold of both her hands, drew them behind her, placing her forearms parallel to each other. Locking the cuffs over both her wrists. These cuffs didn't have a chain, just a short metal block with the bracelets attached. There were two ways that these cuffs could be worn, and this was the most restrictive one, she knew from experience. A captive now, without the use of her hands, Harriet couldn't quite suppress that feeling of excitement, in spite of the danger she might be in. She couldn't help thinking about those other occasions when she had been caught by crooks. Once they had her tied or cuffed, they often took the opportunity to grope her. One of them had even told her that her bottom was just made to be spanked. Thinking about it, she couldn't help feeling just slightly aroused. But her captor had his girl friend with him, so surely nothing would happen this time?
Perhaps now they were going to collect their things and go, she hoped. They thought they had an hour. If I was them, she thought, I'd jump in the car and put my foot down. "What will you say, when my colleagues call me?" she said in her best "teacher knows best" tone, raising her head slightly. She hoped she was encouraging them to go. How could she know that she was pressing the wrong buttons.
Arnold suddenly appeared at her side. "Keep your suggestions to yourself, haven't you caused me enough trouble" he snapped. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her upright, still kneeling. For a moment, he held the magazine in front of her face. It was too close for her to understand the smaller print, but the title "Bondage Life" was easy to read. And she could all too easily make out the three different photographs of bound and gagged women." Useful book, this" he said. "She doesn't quite get it, just yet. Itís a great instruction manual though".†
Harriet didn't say anything. There was nothing polite she could think of. He wasn't deterred, though. He was doing something, behind her, then he said" open your mouth". No "please", she noticed. Not a gentleman robber, this one. On the edge of her vision, she caught sight of a length of off-white fabric with a large knot in it. Knowing what was coming, she took a deep breath, swallowed and opened her mouth. No point in getting her lips bruised just trying to obstruct the inevitable.
He pushed the knotted fabric into her mouth and pulled the ends round the back of her head, bringing one end forward, unfolding and opening it out to cover her mouth, taking it to the back of her head again, then doing the same with the other end, from the opposite direction. He finished the job by knotting the ends of the cloth at the back of her neck. The task completed, the knot in Harriet's mouth held in place by two strips of the bandage ensured her silence. What was he doing now, she wondered, sensing him leaning down behind her. Suddenly he pinched her bottom, brutally hard, between thumb and forefinger. "Nnnnnnkkkkhhh" she squealed, not loudly, mostly through her nose, the gag made sure of that.
"Just wanted to see how much noise you can make" he chuckled. "Not too much, eh!" He gave her bottom a slap as he stood up. "Right. You stay there, we've got work to do".
Then she was alone in the room.† She could hear them upstairs, him shouting and her crying. She wondered if she could get out of the house and run away while they were busy up there. And what if she didn't! The bondage magazine was still there, and he had talked about it being an instruction manual. Harriet was going to be tied up a lot more elaborately before they left her, she was sure of that. Getting out now was the only way to avoid that, she realized.
One thing about kneeling by the armchair, it was an easy position to get to your feet from, without hands. She was glad that he had been too preoccupied to tie her feet. Soon she was standing, looking round. The partners in crime were upstairs, she could hear both of them. She knew she wouldn't be able to reach the handle on the front door, with hands cuffed behind her. And it was at the foot of the stairs, they would hear her leaving if she could manage to get out that way. She made her way to the kitchen, taking care not to bump into anything. Soon she was by the back door, and that was where she realized there was a problem. On a shelf by the door, at face height, she could see a keyring, the fob was a yellow disc with a smiley face. She could see some small keys and one big one, the sort that fitted a back door. It was well out of reach of her cuffed hands. Her only hope was if the door wasn't locked.
It wasn't easy lowering herself enough to grab the door handle, with hands fastened behind her at waist height. Holding the position was a real strain on her knees. And worst of all, just as she expected, the door wouldn't open. The key on the shelf was the one that she needed. Dejected but not really surprised, she straightened up. At least it was a relief to her knees. But something was different. The semi-audible conversation upstairs had stopped. As she turned, she became aware of Chloe, standing in the doorway.
She looked as shocked as Harriet felt. "He's gonna be so mad" she said reproachfully. "Don't try anything" she said, making it sound as much like an order as she could. "You better go back where you were, he'll go bananas ". But before Harriet had a chance to do anything, Arnold was back in the room. His face, like thunder at first, turned into a wry grin. "Don't hit her" Chloe pleaded. "Don't make things worse".
"I don't hit women, not any more. I think things through" said Arnold. Chloe 's expression confirmed what Harriet already knew. This must be a new Arnold. The old one was quite fond of hitting women, that was the reason Harriet was here. "Can't blame her, trying to get away, can you? Just using her initiative, Chlo". He picked up the bondage magazine from the arm of the sofa. "We just need to be a bit cleverer than she is. Like I said,† I've got a plan". Stepping across to Harriet, he took her by the arm and, more gently than she expected, drew her back to the armchair. "Back how you were" he said, pushing down on her shoulder, but holding her other arm so she didn't drop heavily to her knees. "For a start, letís just make sure you stay put. Chlo, can you bring one of those clothesline ropes in, the new ones". Chloe turned and went into the kitchen, and Arnold addressed his conversation to Harriet now. "I'm getting her interested in this, or trying to. So I'm not going to hurt you, don't want her to get the wrong impression. The different ways there are tie a woman up, you wouldn't believe it".
I would, Harriet thought to herself. I've had the pleasure of a few of them. Chloe came to the doorway and, attracting Arnold's attention, tossed a bundle of greyish-white cord to him, which he failed to catch. It dropped at his feet, partly falling on the backs of Harriet's legs. "Ok, letís just get you settled, while we pack" he said calmly. As he fed the cord round her ankles several times before pulling it tight and knotting it, Harriet resigned herself to being bound elaborately with the whole bundle of cord. It was a slight relief when, after tying her feet, he stood up. "We'll be back soon. Don't go away "he laughed.
Lifting her head, Harriet watched as he left the room, heading back upstairs. She knew there really wasn't any point in trying to get loose. She knew from past experience that she wouldn't escape the handcuffs, and even if she got her feet untied, she was locked in the house. There was nothing for it but to wait. With luck, she would be left alone here soon. That would be the time to try to get out. She listened as they moved about, twice† coming downstairs, putting heavy-sounding things down in the hallway. Suitcases or bags, she thought. But then suddenly they were in the room, standing by her. "What are we going to do, leave her here, now?" Chloe asked. "Don't we need to truss her up a bit more than this?"
Harriet had resolved not to attract any attention, and she couldn't talk anyway. Otherwise she would have pointed out that more trussing up was not really necessary. But she was in the hands of a couple who had recently acquired a bondage magazine, and they were intrigued by the world of possibilities that it opened up. "I've got a plan, like I said. The cops can spend time saving her, instead of chasing us. There's two washing lines, right?" Chloe nodded. She had a suspicion that the clothesline was bought with her in mind, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She felt more at ease knowing it would all be used up on binding the policewoman. "Come and have a look in the garage" he continued "see what you think, and bring the other clothesline, the one we haven't started on". He turned to Harriet "Sorry to keep you hanging around" he said with a malicious laugh. The pair left the room, going into the kitchen. Harriet heard them unlocking the door, the one that had recently defeated her. She could tell from the draught that they had left it open, but that was no help now, now that her feet were bound. She just wished they would be on their way.
She didn't have long to wait before Chloe returned, carrying a big woolen blanket, the sort that Harriet remembered from childhood picnics. She threw it down and, walking over to the table, flipped open the magazine. She turned to Harriet, with an apologetic expression." I know you meant well" she said. "Arnie says your kind just won't give him a chance, but I think you just don't really understand him. He never means to hurt anyone, things just get the better of him. We just want a fresh start, you understand ". Harriet felt sorry for her. Life hadn't been good to Chloe. She couldn't see that abducting the one WPC who had tried to help only made that new life more remote. If I wasn't gagged, I could talk her out of this, she thought. But gagged she was, in a most efficient manner, straight from the pages of Arnie's magazine.
Before Chloe could say more, he was back. "Let's get started" he said. "Let's have you standing up" he said to Harriet. Taking her by the upper arms, he pulled her upwards and stood her up, unsteadily at first. He seemed to know what he was doing, she thought as he draped the line over her shoulders, then passed an end under each arm, then forward round the arms and across her chest, looping the ends round and pulling them back again. The cords went round her, pinning her arms to her sides, below her breasts twice and above then twice before they were knotted somewhere at her back. She was uncomfortably aware that Chloe was watching with interest. It was embarrassing, but at least she wouldn't have her boobs fondled, while the girlfriend watched.
Taking a break from his ropework, Arnie crossed to the table again and flicked through the magazine, obviously looking for something. "Look at this. See that. How does that feel?" he said to Chloe. She leaned over, squinting at the article. Harriet couldn't see it, but had an uncomfortable feeling that she might soon find out what it was.
"Oh my god, I wonder if it feels like it looks" Chloe giggled. She opened out the magazine and held it up for Harriet to see. Unexpectedly ,the photographs were black and white. She caught sight of the words "Irving Klaw" in the title at the top of the page, but the lady in the pictures was dressed in an old-fashioned style, a black brassiere and knickers, suspenders and fishnet stockings. In the first scene she stared, wide-eyed, over a cloth gag, and her hands and arms were bound behind her back with an unnecessary amount of rope. She stood on stiletto heels, her legs tied at the knees and ankles, while a tall blonde, similarly dressed, supported her with an arm round her shoulder. Two things caught Harriet's eye though. One was the lengths of cord that ran from the lady's arm-ropes, between her breasts, down to her crotch, disappearing between her legs. How tight they looked! And the other thing, even more worrying, was the object that the blonde held in her other hand. Harriet wasn't familiar with the terminology of equestrians, but was it a riding crop? Certainly a long flexible implement designed for inflicting punishment and pain, the next two photos made that clear. In the first of these, the brunette was bending slightly forward and had her back turned to the photographer. Her bound wrists were pulled up and fastened to the arm ropes, and the ropes that went between her legs were indeed fastened to her wrists. The blonde woman seemed to be tapping her on her bottom with the riding crop. A knee-high pouffe was next to her on the floor. But the third photo was an uncomfortable reminder to Harriet. The bound brunette was kneeling, bent over the pouffe. The camera was at the level of her face, and her dark eyes were wide open in panic as she glanced slightly backwards. She could be† hamming it up, or she could be wailing into her gag, because the blonde behind her seemed, from her pose, to have just brought the riding crop down on her bottom. Harriet couldn't help wondering if the shot was entirely staged, or was the woman really being whipped on her bottom. She would never know, but she was the captive of this weirdo and his suggestible girlfriend, and they seemed to think this book was some sort of guide.
"Maybe there'll be time for some fun like that" said Arnie" Chloe isn't sure about it, so maybe she'll get used to it, seeing how you react". Then suddenly he was picking up the rest of the cord that bound her feet. Drawing the two ends up behind her, he looped them round her cuffed wrists, pulled the cord tight and pulled the ends forward over her shoulders. He passed them between her breasts, inside the ropes that went round her body, then pulled all the remaining cord through and let the ends drop to the floor. "What d'you think happens next?" he said, grinning at her. Harriet had seen the rope between the lady's legs in the photo, and unknown to Arnold, she had experienced this particularly embarrassing indignity herself. She had once been captured by some criminals who were much more dangerous than these two. Hoping that she would never be found, they had left her in a car boot in a forest, bound and blindfolded. She had been left with a crotch rope on that occasion, and she remembered how even the slightest movement was a source of titillation.
"Well, you're going to find out. Pull her skirt up out of the way while I do this" he told Chloe.†††
So, while Chloe lifted up the front of her skirt, so that Arnold could pull the ends of the cords between her legs and draw them tight, Harriet stood quietly, reminding herself that this ordeal would end soon. They would soon tire of bullying her, then she would be on her own, and soon her colleagues would find her. But then, her skirt was being pulled up at the back, the cord was pressing between her legs and into the crack in her bottom, in a way that was hard to ignore. And then, it was jerked tight round her cuffed wrists again and knotted. Now it was there, pressing against her vagina, every movement of her hands causing a tug of the rope that excited her in spite of herself. She could still see the magazine lying open, and it was still open at the same page.
After standing back to admire his work, he turned to Chloe " That's given her something to think about while she waits for her mates".
Harriet had hoped that Chloe just might be a restraining influence, but those hopes were banished when the girl unexpectedly tugged at the cord, sending a worrying tingle through her. The girl laughed as she saw her face redden with embarrassment. "She likes it. How's she going to like it when we cane her bum, like in the picture?"
Harriet froze. This couldn't be happening. She had come here to help this girl, help her get her life back together. The girl wasn't the sharpest knife in the draw, she knew that. She hadn't realized the extent to which she was under Arnie's spell. He only had to show up and all the promise, the wish to turn over a new leaf, all vanished. And Harriet, her erstwhile helper, wasn't needed. Her role was to be a decoy, bound and bullied. She hadn't ever been caned on her bottom. Who had, in this day and age? She strained desperately against the ropes that cocooned her, but of course it pulled the cord tight between her legs, giving her an unwanted surge of excitement. Was any twist of fate going to come to her aid? She tried not to think about what might happen. Bound and gagged, being bent over the back of the armchair, the sting of the cane on her buttocks. She had been spanked in the past, and she was sure that being caned would be worse.
The unexpected saviour was Arnold. "It'd be fun, don't get me wrong, but we haven't got canes, have we? Unless the last bloke left any in the garden". She gave him a querulous stare.
His tone was turning scornful and impatient. He was thinking about how he had given Polly, the woman in the sub-post office, a spanking with his hand. He had enjoyed it, but could it get him in more trouble than robbing the place had? Sure it might be fun to cane this well-endowed WPC on her backside, but what if it got him a longer sentence? It might make them more determined to catch him. No, he thought, this wasn't the moment. And, they had no canes. "I'm right, aren't I? Done some gardening that I don't know about?"
Harriet couldn't believe her ears. Was she getting a last-minute reprieve? She had been mentally preparing for the punishment, knowing from previous incidents that a bound and gagged prisoner just had to put up with whatever happened. In the past, a few criminals had felt compelled to spank her , and she assumed it was their way of showing some disrespect for an authority figure. But it really did seem that she was going to be spared from corporal punishment, just this once.
"We haven't got long. She" he pointed at Harriet " said the cops will be looking for her in an hour. How long ago was that? Now let's get her fixed up in the garage, and be on our way". Harriet's heart sank . For a moment there, she thought they might just go, leaving her to be found before too long. But it wasn't going to be that easy. What did that mean?
"Have a look out there, see if anyone's in the garden, and I'll bring her along if itís clear" said Arnold abruptly. Without a word, Chloe left the room, hurrying to carry out his instructions. It confirmed to Harriet that Chloe was so afraid of him, he had only to show a sign of sarcasm for her become submissive again. But as he turned back to Harriet, his smile returned. It seemed that it was only Chloe who irritated him.
"Well, you can't walk out there, so I'll carry you" he said, and before she realized what was happening, he had stooped in front of her, his shoulder at her waist and his right arm reaching round the back of her thighs. She grunted a muffled protest as she was lifted off the ground and over his shoulder, her head hanging down his back. He steadied himself, his left hand grasping her feet by the ankles and his right pressed flat against her bottom. Squeezing, unnecessarily, she thought. She wasn't going to do anything that might make him lose balance and drop her on the floor. As he strode out of the room, she wondered what was in store for her in the garage.
Moments later, after being carried through the side door of the garage, being bumped against the door frame once, she was dumped down, sitting on the edge of what seemed to be a rough wooden table. Looking more closely at it, she realized it was a workbench, its surface three feet off the ground. "Sorry about banging you into the woodwork" he said, surprisingly polite for the circumstances."I didn't mean to do that". Looking her in the eye, he continued "We just want to start fresh. Everything's going to plan except you showing up at the wrong time. But as you're here, they can spend some time rescuing you, instead of chasing us". Arnold lifted her bound feet onto the table top and turned her to one side. "Won't be long now" he said. "Just setting a little trap, to slow your police pals down. A trap, and you're the bait. By the time they figure out how to save you, we'll be miles away"
What was he talking about? The butterflies took off in her tummy as Harriet stared round the inside of the poorly lit, dusty building. There wasn't much in here, although, as garages went, it was quite spacious. The bench she sat on, an uncomfortable-looking chair and a pine sideboard inside the up-and-over door, that was the sum total of furniture. The floor was concrete. The gabled roof space could have provided another room if anyone had laid floorboards on top of the rafters. A high roof, she noticed, the rafters must be eight feet up. What sort of vehicles had been kept in here, she wondered.†
It was obvious that Arnie and Chloe hadn't taken any interest in it until today. When they had a captive who needed to be hidden, she thought ruefully. Sitting bound and helpless, she had no option but to watch as Arnie was busying himself. She couldn't make sense of what he was doing. He had arranged one of his clotheslines on the floor. One end of it was folded on the floor, close to where she sat, while the other end disappeared under the sideboard. How many of the clotheslines did he have. The detective in Harriet knew that a person buying that much clothesline at once might be remembered by a shop worker.
Her captor disappeared behind the pine sideboard, doing something with his back to her. She noticed the cord move slightly, under the sideboard. Before she could guess what he was doing, he was back at the bench, scrambling up onto it. He stood upright, taking care not to bang his head. Now he was standing behind her, she tried to turn her head to see what he was doing.
Noticing her movement, he said "No, don't watch, it puts me off. You keep facing that way, you'll find out soon enough" . She quickly turned her head forward again, but not before noticing that he had more clothesline rope in his hands. He was doing something with it, up in the rafters. She was the bait in a trap, he had said. Whatever it was, it seemed likely there would be more tying up, she realized. Why couldn't they just go, leaving her in here? Why was it that the criminals she encountered all seemed to have a creative streak, when it came to immobilizing people who got in their way.
It wasn't long before he spoke again "I'm going to stand you up now. Just don't try to move about, you'll be all right". Once again she was surprised at his strength, as he scooped her up, one arm under her knees and one behind her back, then stood her on her feet. With a hand on her shoulder he asked "steady? Not going to fall over?" Harriet nodded. It was then that she saw what he had done with the cord. Her heart sank as she saw the noose hanging from the rafter. It wasn't a proper hangman's noose like you saw in films, but it was hanging from the rafter right next to her, and it scared the hell out of her.
"It'll be all right". Her captor, seeing her turn pale, tried to reassure her. "When your lot come, they'll see you through the window. They'll see that if they open the big door, they'll pull you off the table by your feet, and you'll be hung. So they won't do that, they'll have to work out how to get in some other way. It just looks bad"
Harriet agreed, it looked bad. She hoped he was right. If they saw his elaborate trap and realized what they had to do, she knew they would take the utmost care. But what if they didn't realise?
He reached over for the noose. As he placed it over her head, she could see that it was a double length of cord, fastened with a double slip-knot. Yes, she thought, it looks bad. When you are standing on a table, bound and gagged with a noose round your neck , it feels bad as well. Whatever you say to reassure me! He drew the loop tighter around her neck, enough to stop her wriggling around and getting her head out of it. Standing behind her, glancing round to make sure that Chloe hadn't come in, he reached round and cupped her breasts in his hands, pulling her against him. She could feel his erection hard against her backside, even through her bunched -up skirt.
"A pity we don't have more time" he was speaking breathlessly, like a child who was afraid of being caught doing something bad. He wasn't squeezing her breasts, he was bouncing them gently. She might have been enjoying the experience if she wasn't being threatened with hanging. He abruptly broke off the fondling, giving a sharp tug on the cord that went between her legs. Please don't, she tried to mumble through her gag. It was all too easy for her to become aroused in circumstances where she really shouldn't.
It had been nearly two years since she had been in a relationship. But during that time, there had been a few occasions where, in her role as WPC, she had been captured by crooks. Once they had her bound and gagged, she had usually been fondled, groped and spanked. She hadn't liked it, of course, it was them showing a bit of rebellion by treating an authority figure this way. But now, many months on, whenever she thought about sex, it also involved having her hands tied, her bottom smacked. Without these ingredients, the prospect seemed to lack excitement. When she met an attractive man, she was, in spite of herself, wondering if his tastes ran in the same direction. But currently, her sex life, such as it was, consisted only of being pawed by men like Arnold Lane, who didn't care what she wanted. And while, sometimes, she secretly hoped the pawing wouldn't stop, it inevitably did. As now, Arnold, fearful of his girl friend suddenly appearing, suddenly stepped away from her and climbed down from the bench.
"Sorry, it's time we went" he announced, as if Harriet had some say in what went on. He picked up the loose cord from the floor and looped it loosely round her ankles, repeating the winding until it was tauter, not touching the floor except where it went under the sideboard. She watched helplessly as, satisfied with the tightness of the cord, he secured it with a double knot. She glanced up at the cord round the rafters. The point where it went round the beam wasn't above the spot where she stood on the bench, it was about two feet out. Toward the big door and the sideboard, the direction the cord went in.
Now she understood her situation. It was as if she was on a homemade gallows, and whoever opened the front door would be pulling the handle on the trapdoor. The door would pull the cord tight, her feet would be pulled away from the bench and she would drop down, and be hung! Or was it hanged, she wasn't sure. She panicked, and struggled frantically against the ropes. She had momentarily forgotten about the cords between her legs, and wasn't expecting the sensation as they were drawn across her vagina. She didn't want to be aroused, not now. She wanted to know how she was going to get out of this mess. As if he could read her thoughts, he said. "They'll see the way you're tied up here, and they'll figure that they can't come in through the door. You know what they are like for not taking risks". Going toward the side door, he said "I won't say au revoir, I hope I won't see you again, and I suppose itís mutual"
Harriet would have agreed, if she hadn't been gagged. She watched as he turned and opened the side door, then listened as he turned the key from the outside. A moment later, she caught sight of him walking past the window, looking in at her as he passed. He hesitated for a moment, then disappeared from view. Harriet thought he might return, but she listened in vain.
She looked around her, hardly daring to move. At first she was excessively cautious, only turning her head, only too aware of the noose round her neck. The loop was drawn too tight for her to be able to slide her head out of it. She thought about trying to bend, but she was too fearful about falling. With feet tied together and arms fastened behind her back, it would be so easy to lose her balance and fall over, which meant she might fall off the bench and hang herself. The ideal solution would have been to work herself free from her bonds. She strained her arms against them partly in frustration and partly out of devilment. It wouldn't do any good because her wrists were cuffed behind her, as well as held by the cords. But she could feel the cords rubbing against her, through her knickers. The more she strained, the tighter it pulled, the nicer it felt. Trussed up like this, there wasn't much else she could do but to pleasure herself this way. She probably wouldn't be able to reach an orgasm, but it was better than standing here not daring to move. How long would it be before her colleagues showed up. After the rush of enthusiasm at finding her, and getting her untied and down from the bench, there would be the ribbing, jokes about how, of all the constables at her station, she seemed to be the one who got herself captured by criminals. Uneasy leg-pulling from colleagues who knew it could easily be them next time. But that, she remembered with a sudden jolt to her hopes, was if they got in without hanging her in the process.
Arnold was having doubts now. Looking through the garage window, he could see his captive standing on the bench, but he couldn't see the elaborate snare of ropes that he had created. They wouldn't see it either, and they might just prise the front door open, with fatal consequences. He imagined the bound WPC hanging by the neck, unable to kick and struggle. He quickly pushed the vision from his mind. Maybe they would be quick enough to save her. But maybe they wouldn't, and he would go down for murder. The trouble was that now he couldn't get back in to do anything about it. Not unless he just dismantled his trap, and drove off, just leaving the woman here. Time was slipping away, though. If he wasn't careful, he and Chloe would still be here when the Police came. There had to be another way.†
He couldn't just leave things like this. As he walked slowly back to the van, his gaze fell on the back door, where someone had written "clean me" in spidery finger-writing. That was the answer, the thing to do. Leave a notice, telling them what they had to do.
Nothing too complicated, he had thought, something eye-catching. So he had written, in big capitals on the back of the white envelope "THERES A BOMB INSIDE. GOOD LUCK". He had found two bricks, and placed them one on top of the other, with the paper between them, just in front of the door. They would find it, and then they would spend hours figuring it out. They would see the bound policewoman standing inside, about to be blown up if they weren't careful. They would take the garage apart one board at a time, and he'd be miles away, with Chloe and the cash, before they got round to pursuing him.
The three boys, two ten-year olds and an eleven-year old, jostled each other to look closely at the sheet of paper. "It says 'there's a bomb. Good luck'" said the boy holding it. Turning to look at sudden sound, another boy shouted " It's the filth" as the first car pulled up outside the house. By the time Sgt Forsyth climbed out of the car, the boys were scrambling over the fence into the waste ground, the note carelessly flung across the garden.
WPC Drummond stood bolt upright in her ropes, knowing that any undue movement might cause the noose around her neck to tighten. There probably wasn't anything she could do to save herself anyway, she thought, listening to the assortment of sounds from outside. First the boyish voices, then the approaching vehicles with their sirens. After a few minutes, there were more voices, adults this time. She heard the handle turning, ineffectively, in the side door. Now the sounds were coming from the big up-and-over door at the front. She tensed herself, expecting to feel the rope jerk tight around her ankles, pulling her off the bench. She was certain she saw the door move slightly. Looking down, she shuffled her feet backward. It was hard to tell if she was really moving away from the edge. Would it make any difference, if the door was pulled violently open?
She flexed her arms behind her back, causing the cord between her legs to jerk backwards. What was the sense of not getting as much pleasure as she could from the situation?