An explanation by the author:

The original 'The Caretaker' story was conceived and written over a period of about two years stretching from 1987 to 1989. This was during a stage in my life when writing seemed to take up most of my spare time. My most creative years probably spanning from 1985 to 1990. In this period I wrote a science fiction trilogy, a detective story, and a few other obscure works that I failed to finish. (None of which ever got published by the way!)
'The Caretaker' came into existence, mainly for my own gratification, and also as a welcome break between mental blocks with my other stories.
All my stories in those days were written on a UNIX based mini-computer. Come the early 90's, and after having been moved around several machines, 'The Caretaker' and all my other stories were eventually consigned to a pile of back-up tapes. It was at this point I also lost interest in writing.
After that my work gathered dust until the arrival of the new millennium. A tidy up of some forgotten tapes brought my old stories, including 'The Caretaker', back to my attention. By this time computer technology had moved on, and I was in a position to transfer everything onto my PC and actually look at it all over again using Microsoft Word.
Having got that far, I must admit, that apart from re-reading my old stories, I had no further plans for them. They were just reflections of a period in my life that had been enjoyable at the time, and now something that simply brought back fond memories of the past.
Then came the Internet, and an encounter with Leviticus and his most excellent web site. Over a period of time I read most of his fine works on 'The Valley' and the 'Rhianna Summer' series and realised that here was a man who would probably enjoy reading my little story on 'The Caretaker'. After all I think we both seemed to have a lot in common when it comes to writing BDSM tales with an actual story line to them.
From then on the rest is history. Leviticus added my story to his 'Guest Author' pages and you the public have now had the chance to read all about Malcolm Smith and his dungeon exploits.
There was one little problem however. Only the first nine chapters were properly completed, and with the ending still very much up in the air. Peter suggested that I finish off the story, and in the mean time he said that he would publish one chapter at a time in order to give me some breathing space in which to bring everything to a successful conclusion.
Corresponding by e-mail, I agreed, but instead of ending 'The Caretaker' at that point I decided to keep the story going for at least another ten chapters. I could see a little more mileage in the story and a chance to develop some of the characters. So I got stuck in and eventually came up with a story far longer than originally intended. In fact it ended up as being nineteen chapters altogether.
However, just one word of warning. You may find 'Chapters 10 to 19' a little different in style from the original. You must remember that 'Chapters 1 to 9' were written way before I had even read another BDSM story. The aim then was to start the story slowly and build up to a climatic conclusion with bodies littered everywhere inside a dungeon. Now thanks to the web, I have grown a little wiser to the likes and dislikes of the discerning BDSM reader, and hopefully by incorporating at least one bondage scene into each new chapter, then this will hopefully keep the reader's interest going right to the end.
I also have one apology to make. Although the last ten chapters were written in the year 2000, the year in the story had to remain 1987 going on into 1988. So in that respects I'm afraid the story may sound a little dated. It was a time of no mobile phones or Internet, remember? Also communications were all very different then. But I felt that it was impossible to leap some thirteen years in technology and still keep a certain amount of continuity to the story. So put up with the use of telephone boxes, teleprinters and the lack of communications in general. Sorry!

Once again my special thanks to Leviticus, without whom this story would never have been published.

And I add a special thought for Maria, whom I know he loved dearly and will be sorely missed.

Nosbert
 
 
 
 

THE CARETAKER: by NOSBERT

CHAPTER TEN - 29th DECEMBER

12:00 midnight

As midnight passed and another new day arrived, Georgina Watkinson struggled to sit upright in her hospital bed. All the lights in the small ward were dimmed and the room was in semi-darkness. She looked around the small four-bedded ward. Sleeping in the two beds opposite were the two girls from Castle Point. Both Tracy Goodyear and Wendy Bartlett had been given sedatives and were fast asleep. The doctors had said that they would be out until morning. To Georgina's left, on the same side of ward lay Davina Townsend. She was the woman who had left her car headlights on outside the gates to the Amusement Park and managed to get caught by Malcolm Smith when she asked for assistance. Davina, like Georgina had refused the offer of any form of sleeping draught, opting for natural sleep and rest. Now Georgina wished that she had taken up the offer.
She tried to reach the button that would ring for attention, but somehow she just could not manage to swivel round enough to reach it. It was a difficult thing to do with one arm and shoulder now completely encased in a very large plaster cast. But help she required. Her mouth was dry and she desperately needed a drink of water.
"Psst?… Davina?… Are you awake?…" she whispered quietly across to the neighbouring bed.
Davina Townsend raised her head from the pillar and looked across to the adjoining bed. "No, just dozing," she said quietly.
"Do you think you could do something for me?" asked Georgina still at a whisper.
"Sure Georgina! What can I do for you?" asked Davina.
"Could you pour me a glass of water please?" replied the Georgina.
Davina struggled out of bed. Lying on her side had been a necessity. Her chest and back were still sore to the touch, but after medication and treatment from the understanding doctors and nurses she felt a whole lot better than she once did. She stood up and poured out a glass of water from a jug from her own bedside cabinet then handed it across to Georgina.
"Here, get that down you," she said.
Georgina took hold of the glass in her one free hand and said: "Many thanks Davina. That looks lovely."
At that point Wendy Bartlett in a bed opposite screamed and began to sob in her sleep. She was having a nightmare. She had been having them for the past few hours now.
Davina crossed the room and sat down on the edge of Wendy's bed. Gently she began to comfort her and stroke the young girl's hair.
"There, there, sweetheart. Try and get some sleep. We're all here to protect you. And that nasty evil monster won't ever come again. The police have got him now. He's safely locked away. He won't be around to bother us anymore," she said trying to reassure her fellow sufferer.
Georgina in the bed opposite shed a little tear. If only she too could get out of bed, then she too would go across and cuddle the terrified youngster. If anything was to come out of this little episode, there was one thing for certain: A special bonding had occurred between the four of them that went way beyond just a passing mutual acquaintance. Each in their own way had suffered terrifying ordeals, and each were far too big just to ignore or forget what had happened to them. The mental scars in each and every one of them would run deep for a very long time indeed.
Georgina did not know why she spoke these words. They just came out, but across the room she swore an oath to Davina: "If… or when… that evil creature ever gets out of jail,… then I'm going to kill him."
Davina answered coldly: "Join the queue!… I'm at the head of it."
Georgina clenched her fists with rage. Somehow being a police officer and vowed to uphold the law meant nothing compared with her despise and hatred for Malcolm Smith. There was nothing anybody could do about it. This was how she felt.
Tracy Goodyear moaned in her sleep. She too was having a bad time.
Then Wendy Bartlett screamed again.
Davina ran her fingers through Wendy's hair. She would stay by the bedside all night long if necessary. She knew exactly what the young girl was going through.
 
2:00 a.m.

In a small detention ward on the other side of the hospital, Malcolm was wide awake and wondering just what sort of mess he had got himself into. All of a sudden his future looked very bleak indeed.
He sat up in bed and looked around. He was in a secure side ward at the local hospital. He was alone in the room, but he knew that the door was locked and that a policeman stood guard outside. Furthermore there were bars at the window, and a shackle and short chain attached to the bottom of the bed gripped his right ankle.
He tried to think back to the moment when the police arrived. At that point he was still semi-conscious and his mind held some recollection of the frantic activity around him. At least he was mindful of being grabbed and forced to the ground, but that was about all he could recall. It was at this point he must have passed out, for his next memory was of being carried on a stretcher from out of the back of an ambulance and into a building. He vaguely remembered being stripped of his clothing, thrust into a hospital night shirt and tethered by the ankle to the bed. After that he just did not care. All he wanted to do was be left alone to sleep. The trouble was his head throbbed so much that slumber was impossible. Then a very nice doctor came around and produced a very big syringe with an equally long needle. Within ten seconds of the injection being administered a blackness engulfed him and he could recall no more.
Malcolm must have lain on the bed fast asleep for at least twelve hours. He was not certain of the exact time, but it must have been somewhere around midday when he was brought here. Two hours ago he had woken up and not knowing where he was, or what the time was, had called out loudly for assistance. The police officer on duty outside had opened the door and looked into the room. Still in a groggy state of mind Malcolm was informed that the time was midnight and told to go back to sleep until morning. Nothing was going to happen until then.
Now, two hours later, Malcolm found himself wide awake and wondering just how he was going to explain it all away. He looked about the small room for inspiration but gained nothing. The small side ward was all very sparse and basic, there was neither a wash basin nor television in the room. There was just the bed he lay upon, a side cabinet and a small table against the wall at the foot of the bed. He looked inside the cabinet. It was empty. He turned his attention to the table at the foot of the bed. On the top, all neatly folded were his clothes. The cape and mask were gone, possibly taken as evidence, but his trousers, shirt, shoes and socks were all there. Next to the pile lay a clear polythene bag containing his possessions. They had been taken from his pockets and sealed away, but he could see Katie's Christmas card, the money she had sent him and her bunch of keys. Along with these items there were a small business card, two very snotty handkerchiefs, some loose change and his wristwatch. He wondered why they had been left in the room? But either way it did not seem to matter. He was going nowhere and he knew it.
All the same he did start to worry a little over the presence of Katie's letter. Having got over the initial shock of reading what was inside, he knew that deep down he still loved the fiery redhead with all his heart. He decided that when the police started questioning him he would deny any involvement on Katie's part. After all, in reality she really did know nothing about what had gone on.
In time his thoughts turned to ways of disposing of the incriminating letter and the business card address that accompanied it. As far as he was aware these two cards were the police's only link with Katie. Her stay at the Amusement Park had been their little secret, and no-one else knew of any connection between Katie and himself other than their brief encounters in Alf's Café.
Malcolm decided to act. He got off the bed quietly so as not to disturb the guard on the door and, despite his one shackled leg managed to stretch and reach the polythene bag and retrieve it back to the bed.
Opening up the bag he read Katie's message once more. Soon tears began to appear in the corners of his eyes. He desperately needed to see Katie and explain everything that had happened to him, and to tell her exactly why he did the things he did. He also wanted to tell her just how much he loved her. He was certain that she would understand, but he knew that such a meeting was now completely out of the question. Now it was up to him to protect her. The Christmas card and the smaller business card just had to be destroyed, but how? He could rip them up into tiny pieces, but that would only alert the police to the nature of the contents, and he felt sure that they had the ability to piece them all back together again. No, there had to be a better way!… But What?
He returned the Christmas card and business card to the envelope and placed everything back in the bag for safe keeping. He did not want to do anything hasty at this point in time and knew that he had several more hours to wait until morning. He felt sure that he would think of something.
Idly he withdrew the bunch of keys from the bag and flicked through them one by one. The first one he fingered was an ignition key. He had used this particular key to drive Tracy Goodyear's car down from Castle Point and subsequently abandoned it outside Richard Davies' flat. Next came the front door key to the flat. He had once made plans to abduct Tracy Goodyear from the flat using this key but in the end they came to nothing. The third key he was not too sure about, but was possibly to the petrol filler cap on the car. He moved on skipping past a couple more that he was not sure about before finally arriving at a small key that he himself had placed on the ring. This was one of the keys to Katie's handcuffs. He had added it to the ring so as not to get it lost, and had used it when abducting Tracy Goodyear.
Then something occurred to him. Surely not! Could it be possible that this little key also fitted the shackle about his ankle? He tested it in the lock and to his amazement the barrels turned and the jaws sprang open. Suddenly he was free!
But now what was he to do? Suddenly in deep in thought, he re-locked the shackle and lay back on the bed. What he needed to do was to figure out some sort of escape plan that was going to work, and it had to be good.
He set his mind to some serious thinking.

3:00 am

An hour later Malcolm had a plan of sorts.
"Hey! You at the door," he called loudly.
He heard the door unlock and watched it open inwards just enough for a face to appear.
"What is it now?" asked the officer.
"I need the toilet," answered Malcolm.
"There's a pan under the bed," replied the officer. "You can reach down and get it!"
Malcolm peered beneath the bed to find one of those bulky stainless steel pans resting on the floor. He wondered why he had not bothered to look under the bed before. For a second or two he felt disappointed. What he really wanted was to gain a knowledge of the layout of the building beyond these four walls. All the same he gleaned some comfort from the find. From his bending down position he looked back up at the face peering through the partially opened door and simply said: "Thank you."
"Do whatever you have to, then get back to sleep. It'll get emptied in the morning," informed the policeman.
"Thanks," muttered Malcolm and the door closed and the key turned.
Alone once more, Malcolm set to work. Moving silently he unlocked the bracelet about his ankle and put on his clothes. Then he returned all his possessions to his pockets where they rightfully belonged and strapped his watch to his wrist. Finally he tore away four strips of linen from the bed sheet: Doing this slowly and quietly so as not to be heard outside. When he was done, he looked to his watch. The time was very nearly fifteen minutes past three o'clock in the morning. It was still the middle of the night and hopefully there were not too many people around.
Malcolm took up a position behind the door, breathed deeply a couple of times then called: "Hey! You outside?"
Once more the key turned and the door opened slightly. But this time Malcolm was ready. With one swift movement he yanked the door completely open and brought the heavy stainless steel pan down hard on the top of the policeman's head.
The noise of the blow was loud and echoed down the corridor. But Malcolm had no time to think about the consequences. Quickly he dragged the unconscious officer into the room and pushed the door shut. With strips of torn of sheets from the bed he tied the man's hands behind his back and also bound his feet together. He then stuffed his mouth full with another piece of sheeting and gagged him tightly with another. Finally he secured the shackle about one ankle to stop the man getting very far to raise the alarm.
Malcolm opened the door to the detention ward cautiously and peered out into the corridor. There was no-one in sight. It seemed that the noise of the pan striking the officer's head had gone unnoticed. Still trying not to make more noise than was absolutely necessary, he locked the door to the room and pocketed the key. Now they had to knock down the door and untie the man before knowing exactly what had taken place.
Moving a little more quickly now, Malcolm moved down the corridor towards a pair of double doors. This end of the corridor was in darkness whilst the other end showed signs of light. Hopefully the receptionist, or whoever was on night duty was in the direction behind him, and he hoped that he had made the right decision.
Passing through the double doors Malcolm found himself in a lobby area with lifts to one side. There were further double doors and corridors carrying straight on opposite and also off to the right. The signs on the doors told him: 'Wards C1 to C6' were straight on, 'Wards C7 to C12' were off to the right, and that he had just departed 'Wards C13 to C18'. This was all well and good, but the last thing he wanted was to visit another ward. However, next to the lifts stood another door. This was simply marked 'Stairs'. He thought for a moment. Was it to be either the lifts or the stairs? He opted for the stairs considering this to be the safest bet.
Malcolm was in luck. The wards he just departed must have been just one floor up so he did not have to descend very far to ground level. As he approached the bottom of the stairs he found two doors on opposite sides of the well. One returning him to the corridors below, whilst the other was marked: 'Emergency Exit'. He pushed the bar to the emergency door and immediately felt a rush of freezing cold night air upon his face. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had found a way out of the building and now all he had to do was get out off the grounds as quickly as possible.
Once outside in the cold night air, Malcolm took his bearings. There were stars in the sky, the moon was full, and the temperature was down to freezing, but this did not concern him greatly despite not having a coat. He was more interested in making his way to the town centre and then along the promenade. He figured out that he was on the opposite side of the building to the car parks and the main foyer entrance. This suited him, since during one of his earlier surveillance's he had detected the presence of security cameras affixed to the tops of high poles all dotted about the car park.
Malcolm concluded that he was in an area only accessible to various members of the hospital staff. The vast amount of waste bins and skips suggesting that he probably stood to the rear of the kitchens and laundries. Quickly he traversed the cluttered area to a wall at the back. It was taller than himself, but with the aid of a handily placed bin he pulled himself up to sit on the top.
Looking over the other side, even though it was dark, in the moonlight he could see that the wall was a dividing barrier between the hospital and the back gardens of neighbouring houses. Quickly he flipped his legs over the wall and dropped down into the garden below.
A dog barked as he walked the path down the side of the house and he quickened his step. At the end of the path there was a small gate which he opened and passed through, and that was it. Malcolm was now in a quiet back street dotted with trees. From this point onwards he knew roughly were he was and which direction to take to the town centre.
Walking briskly, but not hurrying so as to attract attention he strode on purposefully until he reached the small harbour and jetty where he had previously disposed of a few incombustible items into the sea. As a token gesture, from his pocket he took out the key to his little detention ward and tossed it into the water. He waited for the splash then carried on walking. From here he moved along the promenade, following the sea wall in the direction of the Amusement park.

4:00 am

Under the light of one of the lampposts Malcolm looked to his watch. The time was approaching four o'clock in the morning. Three quarters of an hour was all it had taken for him to escape the hospital and reach the promenade. He listened out to sea. From the distant sound of the waves he figured that the tide was well out and he downed some steps to the beach. Yesterday morning low-tide had been at five o'clock so he was not surprised to find sand and not water at the bottom of the steps.
Keeping close to the wall and scaling the series of breakwater barriers Malcolm quickly arrived at the steps that stood almost opposite the main gates to the Amusement Park. Here he climbed upwards to a point where he could just look over the top step. A street light on the corner was lit and illuminated the scene. From pavement level he could see that there was a police vehicle parked outside and that the gates had been taped off. He recognised the driver sat inside reading a book. It was that tall beanpole fellow that had accompanied the snooping policewoman on the night he abducted Davina Townsend.
Malcolm had not reckoned on returning to the complex to gather up his things, but it was something he had to check out just in case. Resigned to the fact that he had lost his favourite warm anorak, maybe forever, he ducked down out of sight. Dropping back down the steps he returned to the sand and moved on further. His main objective was to reach a point along the beach somewhere opposite Richard Davies' flat, and hopefully the car would still be there.
Once more he cautiously ascended the steps to the promenade above. He was pleased to see the blue Ford Sierra estate car parked exactly where he had left it. Yet he was not surprised. He had reasoned that Tracy Goodyear was probably in a worst state than himself and that she too was at the hospital recovering. He had therefore reasoned that no-one was going to push her for questions until at least the morning, and as she probably did not even know how she was transported from home to dungeon anyway, then the car would probably never come into the conversation.
Quickly Malcolm crossed the road, unlocked the door to the car and climbed into the drivers seat.
As he started up the engine, engaged gear and made his way down the road he began to chuckle then finally burst into raucous laughter. He just could not help the joyous outburst. It had been all too easy. He was free and the police would never catch him now. He was far too clever for them.
From this point onwards his plan was to make his way to Lancashire and to call at the address written on the business card.
 "I love you Katie,… I love you darling… and she loves me… for ever and a day…" he sang to himself as the car left the outskirts of Littlesea and headed northwards on the open road towards London.

8:30 am

It took time for the news of Malcolm's escape to filter through to the four girls in the isolation room over on the other side of the hospital. But when it did, it fell like a bombshell.
All four were awake and struggling to eat a light breakfast of cornflakes, toast, orange juice and a large mug of tea each when the news arrived. However the news did not come from the police but from a duty nurse who had just popped in to check that everything was to their satisfaction. This was not the fault of the police, they had been told to keep away from the girls until the doctors had seen them first. It was more the fact that the nurse in question just could not hold the secret from them any longer.
Anyway, that was how the earth shattering news reached them. Numbed into silence nothing was said at the time. Just deep shock and horror filled their faces. The trauma that accompanied the news was far too unbearable for each and every one of Malcolm Smith's victims to even contemplate.
Only after the nurse had departed and they were all alone together again did anyone speak.
"Right!… That's it!… We're going to get him ourselves aren't we girls?… and then we're going to cut his balls off… and make him suffer the things he did to us… Are you all with me?…" said one of the girls.
Across the room from their respective beds three other voices sung out in unison: "We're all with you!… Let's get the bastard!"
With four minds all of one accord, four woman, all from very different walks of life, swore an oath of allegiance: Together, come hell or high water, they would get to the bastard before the police did, and give him a taste of his own medicine.

9:00 am

Malcolm Smith abandoned the stolen blue Ford Sierra estate car somewhere south of the River Thames. Here he loaded up the parking meter to its maximum thinking this would keep interest at bay until the clock ran out. After locking the car, as a gesture of defiance, he dropped the keys down the nearest storm drain.
Whilst driving northwards to London via most of the back roads, Malcolm had worked out a plan of action. He would abandon the car on the southern outskirts of London and from there walk to his mother's house which was on the north side of the city. He considered the option of taking the underground or some other mode of transport, but in the end thought this to be far too risky. There were security cameras everywhere on public transport nowadays and he did not particularly want his progress across the city to be monitored. Quite obviously he wanted to make it as hard as he could for the police to trace him, so opting to walk seemed the best solution even though it was a substantial distance from south of the Thames to his mother's house.
There was one immediate problem however, Malcolm had escaped the hospital wearing just a shirt and trousers, and at this time in the morning he was feeling the cold. The temperature had fallen below freezing during the night, and at nine o'clock in the morning it was still very cold indeed. So about a mile down the road he came across a 'Famine Relief' shop that sold practically everything including second-hand clothes. Here he purchased a large army overcoat for five pounds, and a wide-brimmed hat for another one pound.
After that Malcolm felt much more comfortable on his self imposed walk. He estimated that it would take him about three hours to reach his mother's house. He crossed the Thames at Putney Bridge and continued trekking northwards at a brisk but steady pace.

10:00 am

Margaret Smith finished dusting off her son's bedroom and moved to the window. Across the street a Christmas tree flashed in a downstairs window to remind her of the time of year. It was a bit sad really, for this had been the first Christmas she had spent alone.
Her eyes dropped to the quite cul-de-sac street below. She was expecting a visitor. The appointment was for ten o'clock and her client was usually at least fifteen minutes early. In fact he was a stickler for punctuality so she was beginning to wonder just where he had got to.
Waiting at this particular window made Margaret fell uneasy. This was her son's bedroom and she did not like to come in here if she could help it. It was very much left to Malcolm to keep tidy. After all he was a big boy now. He had finished school and got himself a job. But at the moment he was working away. He was employed as a 'Temporary Caretaker' at an amusement park at Littlesea on the south coast and would not be home for another two months. And that is why she was in the room. She had taken it upon herself to at least keep the dust at bay whilst her son was away.
Margaret folded her arms and looked pensively out of the window and down at the street below. She was an attractive woman and still relatively young despite having a seventeen year old son. The truth was she was only sixteen when she had had him and now she was thirty-three. She had wavy auburn hair, good looks and kept her shapely figure in trim by maintaining a strict regime of diet and exercise. As for Malcolm's father, he was unknown. It could have been any one of several people at the time. She had never married and Malcolm had taken her maiden name which was Smith.
Margaret watched a large Mercedes car pull up outside the London suburban semi-detached house. She relaxed. At long last Mr. Mortimer had arrived. She looked at her watch. The time was ten minutes past ten o'clock. By her client's normal time keeping standards he was twenty-five minutes late.
Quickly she fluffed up her hair in the dressing table mirror, adjusted her flimsy night attire so as her breasts showed to their best advantage, then hastily departed the bedroom and descended the stairs to the hallway below. There were token Christmas decorations here. Paper streamers lined the walls and a large tinsel ball hung from the ceiling next to the light.
 Through the outermost frosted glass panels not obliterated by the decorative wreath of holly that hung to the outside of the front door, she saw the outline of her client approaching. As he mounted the porch step she opened the door to greet him.
"Good morning Mr. Mortimer, please do come in," she said.
Mr. Mortimer entered the house carrying a small suitcase. He set it down at the foot of the stairs then placed his gloves, scarf and overcoat on the hall stand before saying a word.
"I'm running a bit late today Mrs. Smith, so can we get down to business straightaway?" he said. "I have less than two hours today. I must be away from here by twelve o'clock on the dot."
"Certainly Mr. Mortimer, carry on up the stairs and get yourself changed. I'll be waiting for you in the bedroom as soon as you are ready," she assured him.
"Thank you Mrs. Smith," replied Mr. Mortimer and gathering up his suitcase from the foot of the stairs.
"Do you still want me to be in bed and fast asleep when you come in?" she queried as the man began to ascend the stairs.
"Yes please Mrs. Smith. Just follow the script I gave you," the man replied. "I want to find you lying in bed with your back to the door and dressed exactly the same as you were last time."
"Okay, I'll be ready as you wish Mr. Mortimer," she promised him.
Margaret thought the man looked rather tired and jaded, but did not enquire of his health, nor for that matter question his reason for being late. It was all none of her business. She just accepted him for what he was. In fact, the least she knew the better, it saved a lot of complications. Mr. Mortimer was simply another client willing to pay for her services for the next two hours.
This particular client however was a little bit special and differed from the rest even though she did not know much about him. At least special in the sense that he had a lot of money to throw around. For sessions held in her own home he was willing to pay two hundred pounds an hour. But what was even better were the sessions held in his own private dungeon at a secret location in the East Midlands. For a full all-day session at his own residence he was prepared to pay five-thousand pounds.
Margaret regretted not having met up with Mr. Mortimer before. It was only by chance that she had been introduced to him at all, and that was only via a friend of a friend who needed someone to stand in for a last minute cancellation.
Margaret Smith and Mr. Mortimer had been introduced just three weeks earlier when he collected her from her home and drove her to his secret hideaway in the country. She recalled how apprehensive she had felt as they drove northwards to a little village called 'Muddleton Morton'.
She did not have to go at all. The choice had been hers, and hers alone. What was expected of her had been explained in great detail beforehand and she had been given the chance to refuse. She was told that Mr. Mortimer had a private dungeon beneath a small cottage, and once every month he would arrange to collect a girl and take her there for a private all-day session.
It was explained that the man was highly predicable, and always stuck to the same routine. On every occasion he followed a set pattern of scripted events, and nothing ever varied. However that did not make the action any more palatable. Throughout the gruelling eight hour session the girl would be tied-up, strapped down, and restrained in several different positions as he rotated around the devices held in his soundproofed dungeon. Mild whipping, spanking and caning were also part of the agenda, as was shaving of the pubic hairs, and intercourse mandatory at the end of the day. As a reward however, if she could grin and bear that little lot, then on the return journey she would be presented with a package containing five-thousand pounds in used twenty pound notes.
Margaret thought hard and long before making a decision. The offer was not exactly an appealing one, she was not a BDSM person, but on the other hand one day's discomfort seemed well worth the inconvenience for the vast amount of cash being talked about. In the end the money swayed it, just, and she elected to go.
Since that day Mr. Mortimer had visited her here, at her own home, on two previous occasions, and this was his third. Visiting clients on a regular weekly basis was another of the man's habits. As a result he had booked Mrs. Smith for a regular two hours session every Wednesday morning. Furthermore the next scheduled session at his own private dungeon was already pencilled in for a week this coming Saturday.
It seems that Margaret, for some unknown reason, had become a particular favourite of Mr. Mortimer. However she had been warned that the man had his fads and the current infatuation would not last forever. Basically the advice given was to make the most of the situation whilst it lasted.
Margaret followed her client up the stairs, waited at the top whilst he entered the small spare room, then continued on along the landing to her own more spacious bedroom. Deliberately she left the door to her room slightly ajar. It was part of the script. After closing the curtains and switching off the main light, she removed her chiffon night-gown, kicked off her slippers and climbed into bed. She was wearing just a short see-through nightie and a pair of frilly panties. Both were in a matching pink. She switched on the bedside lamp, turned over on her side with her back to the door, then pulled the single satin sheet up and around her shoulders. After cuddling down and getting comfortable she closed her eyes and waited for her client to enter the room.
Lying in bed with her eyes firmly closed, she prepared herself mentally for what was to come. Every step had been scripted beforehand and she reminded herself of the role she was expected to play. Even though it was the same as last time and the time before, she was still very nervous. It was the first part she did not like. Breathing chloroform was not a pleasant thing to do, but unfortunately it came with the job.

10:30 am

Sir Reginald Mortimer QC buckled the last strap of his leather gear about his chest and felt a pain run down his left arm. He slackened the strap off a notch. He had felt these pains before on a couple of occasions this morning. As a result he had rested at home for a while before kissing his wife goodbye. This was the reason for arriving late for his session with Mrs. Smith. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. After a few seconds the pain went away and his breathing normalised. He told himself to take it easy. At sixty years of age he was no-longer a sprightly young man.
Feeling a whole lot better, he looked at himself in the full length mirror behind the door of the room. The BDSM gear he was wearing was new and looked great. No longer did he recognise himself as the fat, pompous and podgy old man in a long wig and gown that demanded the respect of the law courts. This person reflected in the mirror was somebody completely different. This was an Adonis adorned in leather and ready to spring into action. His penis and balls were gripped in a black leather pouch and the rest of his body was encircled with a harness of black leather straps. On his feet he wore a pair of black leather boots that laced all the way up to his knees. He set himself in several different poses before the mirror and admired the varying images. Suddenly he felt good and healthy again. However, time was pressing and he turned his attentions to the real reasons why he had come to this house. He had come here to do something more than simply admire himself in the mirror.
On a small table in the room he set out his wares. One by one he removed the items from his suitcase and laid them out in a line. His collection consisted of four handcuffs, a ball-gag, a blindfold, a gauze rag, a Polaroid camera, a bottle of chloroform and a small whip. The whip was not a particularly vicious one. It consisted of a short leather handle about one foot long and about a dozen or so soft strips of leather, all about two feet in length. Methodically he placed all the items he needed into a large cloth bag and pulled the string tight. Then having sealed the bag he carefully unscrewed the top off the chloroform bottle, soaked the gauze rag and returned the cap.
He took a deep breath, but being careful not to absorb any of the fumes. Now he was ready and the performance could begin. For the next hour and a half he could forget all about the pressures of the law courts and be the person he really wanted to be deep down inside.
Taking the chloroform soaked rag in one hand and the bag in the other he departed the small bedroom and tiptoed across the thickly carpeted landing. The act had begun. Even though it was daylight outside, to him this was the middle of the night. The door to the adjoining bedroom had been left slightly ajar. He peered in through the gap and smiled. He was in luck. Someone was fast asleep in the bed. Slowly he pushed the door open and crept inside. The curtains were drawn and a bedside lamp was on. He peered over to determine who exactly was sleeping in the bed. He smiled again. He was in more luck. An attractive woman aged somewhere in her early thirties was asleep in the large double bed. Her back was to him and she was alone in the room.
Gently, so as not to disturb her, he placed the bag down by the side of the bed and opened out the chloroform soaked rag in his hands. Slowly he approached the sleeping woman. She was still sound asleep with her back to him and unawares to his presence as he knelt on the bed behind her. Gradually he inched the rag towards her face trying not to disturb her. Then with one quick and decisive swoop he pressed the rag against her nose and mouth, sandwiching it firmly in place with the other hand pressed hard against the back of the head. The woman began to fight and protest but the fumes were too strong for her and she quickly went under.
Sir Reginald congratulated himself on achieving yet another successful abduction. Gently he returned the woman's head to the pillow and tossed away the rag onto the landing outside the door. It had done its job and was not wanted anymore.
Slowly he peeled away the single satin sheet and let it fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. He licked his lips. For the first time he could see that the woman was wearing nothing but a flimsy pink nightie that came down to the waist, and a pair of pink frilly panties. In no particular hurry since he knew that the effects of the chloroform would take at least thirty minutes to wear off, he flipped the woman over onto her back and slowly dragged the panties down her legs and away from her feet. With a nonchalant flick of the wrist he cast the panties away to join the satin sheet on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Savouring the moment Sir Reginald sat down on the edge of the bed and gently rubbed his fingers over a short spiky growth of pubic hair. He considered the new growth to be coming on well. He had shaved this particular mound clean some three weeks earlier at his secret dungeon, and come a week next Saturday she would be ready to be shaved again. This was wonderful. Quite wonderful.
A finger stretched downwards probing gently between her partially opened thighs. Slowly he rubbed his finger up and down against her slit, and a broad grin spread across his face. The woman's condition was just perfect. If anything she was drier than usual at this stage of the game. He sniffed the collected residue on his fingers and smiled again. This is what was so different about Mrs. Smith. On every occasion she had started the session in this semi-dry condition only to become more and more moist as the performance moved on. It was obvious to him that his actions physically aroused her, and he loved her for it. As a result he had made Mrs. Smith an immediate regular customer. All too often in the past the girls presented to him had either remained dry and tense, or damp and wet all the way through from start to finish, and this state of affairs disappointed him.
A hand returned to the mound of stubble and crept slowly upwards, walking with fingers and parting the nightie as it moved until it arrived at a small lace tie just below the neck. Slowly Sir Reginald undid the lightly fastened bow and opened out the front of the nightie to expose the woman's breasts. With his index finger he lightly traced several circles around first one nipple and then the other. This was wonderful! Simply exquisite! Perfectly shaped breasts that remained erect and firm even when the woman was lying on her back were another of his sexual fantasies. He just loved to caress and fondle firm round breasts, and these were the most delicious ones he had every come across.
Sir Reginald rose from his sitting position on the edge of the bed and moved to stand at the bottom. From here he dragged the limp body down the bed and spread the legs wide. With a little sideways adjustment here and there, he centralised the body on the bed, then propped the head up on two pillowcases. Finally he raised up the arms and spread them out so that they pointed towards the top corners of the bed.
From the bag he removed the four handcuffs and laid them out on the bed. Then one by one he set about anchoring the woman's arms and legs to the four corners of the bed. This he did delicately and with a skilful dexterity not befitting a man of his ageing years. Slowly he moved around the bed from right to left, securing each limb as he went, starting with one hand, then the two feet, and finally ending with the opposite hand.
"Get out of that one then my dear lady!" he said quietly when he was done.
Having completed the task and glowing with deep satisfaction, Sir Reginald returned to remove the ball-gag from the bag. Placing two fingers within the already partially open mouth he pulled down the lower jaw and inserted the large red ball. Then raising up the head he buckled the leather strapping at the back before gently laying the head back down on the pillow.
"That should keep you quiet!" he told her at a whisper when he was done.
There was only one more item to apply. Returning to the bag he took out the blindfold and placed it over the eyes of the still unconscious woman. Carefully he stretched the elastic tie around the back of the head and adjusted the blindfold over her eyes to his own satisfaction.
"At last my dear… I've got you now… Got you just how I want you," he said in a slightly louder voice than previous used.
Sir Reginald bent down and collected the Polaroid camera from the bag. Standing up and moving around the bed he took three shots of the sleeping woman from three different angles. One from the foot of the bed looking up between her legs, and a further two taken one from either side of the room. After letting the shots develop and dry, Sir Reginald placed the camera and the photographs on the dressing  table and crossed the floor to sit on a chair next to the drawn curtains of the window. From across the room he surveyed his handiwork. The woman was lying naked, spreadeagled on the bed, with her eyes blindfolded and mouth gagged. He smiled and congratulated himself on an excellent job well done. The 'Phantom Stalker of the Night' had struck again and completed his task successfully. However this was as far as he could go for a while. All he could do now was sit and wait for the effects of the chloroform to wear off.
Reclining in the chair he extracted his already bulging penis from the confines of the tight leather pouch and began to slowly masturbate himself. For a fleeting moment that dull pain in his chest and arm returned, but by now he was far too aroused to stop what he was doing. He always took himself to hand at this stage of the game. It was all written down in the script and it was unthinkable that he should deviate one iota from the carefully orchestrated series of events.
His movements grew stronger and faster. All was going to plan. Then suddenly the pain returned for a second time. This time a little stronger and more painful than before. However he ignored its presence and continued apace. He was too close to climaxing and could not stop now. The pumping gathered momentum. Faster and faster until finally his climax arrived and he shot his load.
At that exact point in time, at the peak of his pleasure, something big within his chest exploded.
And that was the last living memory the judge ever had. Dead within seconds from a massive heart attack, his body tensed, convulsed and shook several times, then finally slumped back down lifelessly into the chair.
 
11:15 am

Margaret Smith awoke not knowing where she was, nor knowing why she could not move a muscle nor see a thing. Slowly the reasons why she could not see, nor move her arms and legs came back to her. She tried to lick her dry lips but her mouth was being forced wide open by a large plastic ball.
Slowly, piece by piece, everything came back to her. Mr. Mortimer was with her and they were playing their little game. Back in the land of the living she collected her composure and waited a few more minutes before giving the signal that she was ready to continue.
Slowly she raised two fingers on each hand and began to waggle them in the air, at the same time she croaked: "Mmmmm… Mmmm… Mmmmm…," three times through the corners of her mouth.
Having given the signal she waited and braced herself in readiness for part two of the role play. Mr. Mortimer would now get up off the chair by the window and cross the room to her. He would then tell her what a naughty girl she had been and beat her with a whip across her breasts and between her legs. Only after what he considered a successful admonishment had been meted out would he switch to fingering her pussy and massaging her breasts. Afterwards, when she was finally aroused and ready for action would he then climb on the bed, position himself between her legs, and thrust his huge penis inside her. This ultimate piece of the drama she did not mind at all. Her client was well endowed and a furious lover. She hoped that today the whipping would be short and the foreplay and fucking long and hard. Already she was starting to feel dampness between her legs at the thought.
When nothing happened within the usually allotted time span, she repeated the signal. Perhaps Mr. Mortimer had not seen or heard her the first time!
She signalled again but still nothing happened.
Gradually she became worried. This was not meant to happen. She recalled the agreed signal that had been written down on the sheet of paper. She was sure she was doing it according to plan. She had another go, this time waving her fingers more vigorously and calling out as loud as her ball-filled mouth would allow.
Again nothing but silence ensued. She listened intensely for any sound at all. But nothing could be heard.
So where was Mr. Mortimer? Where had he got to? What if he had gone home and left her like this? Surely not! The thought horrified her.
She recalled that Mr. Mortimer had stated that he had to go at midday on the dot. She wondered if she had slept for longer than that? What if it was after midday by now? But surely he would not just go and leave her like this? Would he?
Telling herself to stay calm she gave the signal again. This time even more vigorously than ever.
Yet still nothing happened.
After two more attempts Margaret Smith began to panic and call out frantically through the corners of her mouth. Mr. Mortimer must have had gone and left her like this; blindfolded, ball-gagged and handcuffed to the bed.
How could he do this to her? What on Earth was she going to do now? Her son Malcolm was working away and there was no-one likely to call at the house for days, possibly weeks.
She wondered if Mr. Mortimer would ever come back for her? He was due back next Wednesday, but that was a week away!
And what if he never return at all? What if he had given up on her like she had been warned.
Slowly her thoughts became more and more morbid.
What on Earth was she going to do? She could not move, she could not see, and she could not scream for help. She was helpless!
She wondered if she was going to die like this.
 
 

cont.