Trapped

I don’t see how Richard can blame me when I never MEANT for it to happen. It’s not fair to hold me responsible for something that wasn’t deliberate. It’s not as if I enjoyed it. That was an experience I definitely do NOT want to repeat ever again. I’m probably mentally scarred for life, I don’t need to be punished as well. I’m going to tell Richard that he shouldn’t spank me! In a moment. Maybe. Just as soon as I’ve finished my time in the corner.

****

Clothes shopping is something that I loathe with a passion. It’s such a pain fiddling with buttons, belts and laces over and over again when trying stuff on. And things never seem to fit right, I look a scruff in five minutes whether it’s Marks and Spencer or designer label. Whenever I find something that does fit and doesn’t make me look too awful, I just tend to buy lots of the same thing, it’s much easier, saves you having to think too much in the morning as well.

But Richard insisted that I needed new underwear, and he needed some more shirts – the pink never did come out of those ones I accidentally washed with the bright red ‘sexy’ underpants Jane gave me for Christmas. I admit to whining a bit but in the end I agreed to go into town with him on Saturday morning as I did feel rather guilty that it was sort of my fault. And Richard bribed me with the offer of lunch after we finished the shopping, which is something that I’m never going to turn down.

It started off okay - call me a romantic, but even time spent shopping with Richard is at least time spent with Richard. I soon picked up the underwear I wanted, white three packs just the same as before, good old M&S. Then we went to the big department store for Richard to get his shirts, which is where the problem started. He picked his shirts but then he decided he might as well get a new suit as well – yawn. If there’s anything worse than having to get new clothes for yourself, it’s having to hang around while someone else chooses new clothes. There wasn’t even any entertainment factor in him trying them on, ‘cause they only allow one person in each changing cubicle.

After a while I suggested to Richard that I go look at the electrical section while he dithered over suits. (Okay, I might not have used the actual word ‘dither’, but how long does it normally take to pick a suit? I’d have finished way sooner, and I’m usually the one that gets told off for procrastinating.) He seemed to think this was a really good idea, so maybe I’d been fidgeting a tad too obviously. Anyway, we arranged to meet in half an hour and I slipped off up to the more interesting part of the store before he could change his mind.

What happened next really wasn’t my fault. I was making my way to the computer section when I caught sight of Mrs Duckworth, our next door neighbour, heading in my direction. She’s easy to spot –her bright red raincoat doesn’t exactly complement the lavender rinse perm. And I thought my colour co-ordination was bad. I suppose Mrs Duckworth isn’t too bad as neighbours go, but she talks …. and talks .… and talks. And I don’t know how old she things I am, as she always seems to be chucking my cheek and talking about fattening me up. Richard says that she’s just lonely, her family all live at the other end of the country and rarely visit, but the last thing I wanted to face at that moment on my own without Richard was Mrs Duckworth.

Luckily she was looking at a display of toasters and hadn’t spotted me yet, but she’d be upon me at any moment, so without any further ado I ducked through a nearby door. She’d soon be past, and then I could virtuously head off to where I was supposed to be without a long hold up.

The door was heavy and solid and I hovered behind it for several moments, wondering how long I should wait as there was no way to tell when Mrs Duckworth had gone past. But then the decision was taken out of my hands by an ominous sound – the creaking of the door beginning to open. With no time to think, still firmly in the grip of the ‘flight’ instinct, I bolted further into the room, looking round frantically for somewhere to hide.

A quick glance told me I’d entered the toilets, which was lucky as the stall on the end was empty and offered a perfect hiding place. I shot in and slammed the door behind me, relieved that I hadn’t been caught hanging out behind the toilet door.

I put the toilet lid down and perched on it while my heart beat slowed down to normal. In a moment I could leave in perfect innocence, and no one would be the wiser. Least of all Richard, who would give me that disapproving look if he knew I’d tried to avoid Mrs Duckworth. He was a great believer in politeness, my Richard.

A sudden sound made me stiffen. Voices and laughter as more people entered the room. Highly out of place in a public toilet, where the unspoken code of conduct is to do your business in silence and without looking left or right. Even more out of place given the fact the voices were female. I frowned to myself in righteous indignation. Women were always complaining that there were never enough female loos, and I know my old friend Jane had nipped into the men’s in desperation once or twice, but it didn’t seem right to me. Toilets should be a sort of sacred place, right? I mean, it’s hard enough showing off your pride and joy to all and sundry without having to worry about WOMEN suddenly popping up. It’s enough to put any bloke off his stride.

I frowned to myself while the women giggled and shouted across to one another. Honestly, you’d have thought they’d have been more circumspect given the situation. Some people have no shame. Still, at last they were gone and I relaxed once more. I’d just give them time to get away, and then I’d leave myself.

My hand was on the cubicle latch and I was just about to step out when another batch entered, and this time the horrendous truth suddenly struck me.

I’d been in too much of a hurry when I rushed in to do more than look for the nearest bolt hole, but thinking back I couldn’t remember seeing any urinals. Looking round the cubicle, it seemed strangely cleaner and sort of shinier than I was used to, no mysterious puddles on the floor for one thing. And oh shit! How come I hadn’t noticed that – that grey box THING beside the toilet before now? I shuddered and edged further away from it, soon coming eyeball to eyeball with the smiling woman in the poster on the door, advertising something I just didn’t want to know any more about.

Yep, the evidence was pretty much conclusive. I’d ended up in the ladies. Now, the only question was, how on earth was I going to escape without being seen?

I have to admit here that I panicked. Dreadful visions crossed my mind of being caught and dragged off to jail in chains. Mrs Duckworth giving evidence in court: “I always knew he was a pervert!” she wailed. “And to think I gave him a slice of my coffee and walnut cake only last week!” “Toilet Terror’s Trial – Twenty years!” screamed the local paper headline. Richard, nobly standing by me and being shunned by his friends and family for harbouring such an evil criminal as me. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll wait for you to get out, darling. After all, we still have this issue of you going into ladies’ toilets to discuss, haven’t we?”

I shuddered. My agenda had now changed from getting out unseen, to getting out unseen without Richard finding out anything at all about this little incident.

My first plan, to escape out a window, was foiled by the simple fact that there was no window in the toilet cubicle. The whole room was lit only by artificial light; there was a large, round electric light set into the ceiling just above me, and I wondered briefly about smashing it and trying to escape under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately there were other lights, not just the one above me, so smashing mine would have no effect other than to bring attention to me. I thought about pretending to be a cleaner, but gave that up after a moment, too, as the lack of a mop and bucket would rather give the game away.

I sank back down onto the toilet seat despondently. The only possible way out that I could think of was to listen for a lull in women using the toilets, and then make a run for it. Hardly foolproof, but the only idea I had right now.

Unfortunately the number of women coming in only seemed to increase over the next half an hour or so. I sat huddled on my porcelain throne, inadvertently listening to the conversations going on around me as the queue built up. Discussions about the latest Coronation Street or Eastenders, gossip about friends and boyfriends and work and family, analysis of all the latest fashions and what they would wear with the clothes they’d just bought, plans for the evening – and the night. If I’d been an anthropologist studying the secret society of women no doubt I’d have found it all fascinating. If I’d been straight I’d probably have found it fascinating – although, trying to block out the blow-by-blow detailed and bloody account of Susan’s childbirth now being recited outside my cubicle, I rather thought I’d have been put off sex for life. I winced. This was all rather more information than I’d ever wanted to have.

Suddenly my phone rang, distracting me from the story of Susan’s piles. I froze for a moment, knowing instantly who was ringing. Richard, wanting to know why I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I let it ring for a moment or two. There was no way I could answer it; speaking on the phone would pretty much give away the fact that a man was in the ladies’ toilets. And what on earth could I say to Richard anyway? No, better to hope that I could find a way out very soon. Maybe then I could still get away with him never finding out about this little incident. I began to rack my brains to try and think of useable excuses. Would he buy me getting lost in a three floor department store that we regularly visited?

My phone stopped ringing and I knew it had gone into voice mail. Knowing Richard, he would try again in just a few moments so I quickly dug it from my pocket and switched it off before the incessant ringing could bring any more attention to me. There must surely be a way out of here… somehow…

Unfortunately I was still completely stumped and completely fed up – spending all afternoon in a toilet was not my idea of fun. Another ten or fifteen minutes passed. And then of course, as if I didn’t have enough problems already, fate decided that it would throw another lovely surprise my way when I heard the cleaner arrive.

My heart practically leapt into my throat when I heard the first clank of metal bucket on tile and the swoosh of the mop over the outside lobby. Then the cubicle next to mine came free again, and I could hear the cleaner mop and wipe in there. I knew how this worked, the cleaner would do each toilet in turn as it came free – and mine was never going to be free. Oh shit.

I could sit there and hope the cleaner would think the toilet was out-of-order. I could pretend to be ill. But at the back of my mind I knew none of these would work. In a world where blue lights were becoming increasingly frequent in public toilets, hogging a cubicle would likely get security called. This was it. There was only one thing I could do now.

I switched my phone back on and noted in passing that there were five voice mail messages registered. Ouch. Not checking what they said yet, I began to text my message.

Help. Stuck in women’s loos by toaster display. All big mistake. Please rescue!

The answer came back only a minute or two later. I know texts can’t show emotions, but I could practically feel the strength of the order radiate off the screen.

Sit tight and don’t do anything. I WILL want a full explanation.

***

My actual rescue had been rather anti-climatic. Richard, in typical Richard fashion, had somehow managed to sort everything out with reason and charm. Apparently he had explained things at the customer service desk in such a way that I hadn’t been in any official trouble. In fact I had been treated (by the store staff at least) with twitching lips and poorly repressed amusement when they had closed the toilets to new customers and escorted me out. I had been full of relief – until I’d walked out of the ladies’ into the full force of Richard’s ‘you are in deep trouble, young man’ glare. For one second I’d almost been tempted to run back to my hiding place.

And now that full explanation had landed me here in the corner, desperately trying to think of excuses to get out of trouble.

“Stop fidgeting, Toby.” Richard’s voice came from behind me and I straightened up in a hurry.

After what seemed an eternity I heard him call me over.

“So, let me get this straight,” Richard said. “In order to avoid being polite to a neighbour, you hid in what turned out to be the female toilets. Where, instead of simply leaving when you realised your mistake, you continued to hide for nearly an hour, ignoring that we were supposed to meet up.”

“But!” I began to protest.

“Yes or no, Toby,” Richard overrode me.

“Well, yes, but –”

“There’s no but about it. You’ve agreed that that’s what happened. Now, I’m not cross that you entered the toilets, that after all was a simple mistake. I am disappointed that you thought it was better to hide rather than have a simple conversation with a lonely old lady. Two minutes of your time could have made all the difference to her day. You’ll have some lines to write later about politeness.”

I scowled. Richard knew full well that I hated writing lines by hand. What was the point in writing the same bloody thing over and over when you could copy it on the computer in five seconds? Still, it looked as if I was getting of lightly, so I wasn’t going to complain too much.

Richard spoke as if reading my thoughts. “We’re not done yet, young man.”

“Richard!” I protested. “You just said you weren’t going to punish me about the toilets.”

“Not for entering them by mistake, no. However, there is the matter of your action in them to discuss – specifically turning off your phone. We agreed that you would leave your phone switched on, and you would always answer it if I rang you.”

My heart sank. I had conveniently forgotten that was one of the rules.

“Erm – maybe my phone wasn’t switched on?” I tried.

“Are you telling me that your phone wasn’t switched on the first time I tried to ring you?” Richard’s dark eyes stared into mine calmly but penetratingly, and my own dropped before them.

“No,” I mumbled.

“I’m not happy that you deliberately switched your phone off to avoid speaking to me, Toby. If you had answered that first phone call, this whole matter could have been resolved a lot quicker. And I was worried that I couldn’t find you where we agreed to meet, and that I couldn’t speak to you.”

I bit my lip, feeling suddenly guilty. I hadn’t meant to worry Richard. I’d been too busy concentrating on trying to get out of the situation without him knowing that as usual I hadn’t stopped to think. Backfired on me again.

“So you’re getting a spanking for deliberately turning your phone off when I rang you.”

“Richard, no, that’s not fair…” I wailed softly.

“How is it not fair, Toby? You broke the rule that you keep your phone on and answer my calls. That calls for a spanking.”

“I won’t do it again!”

“I hope you won’t. But I’m going to remind you of the consequences so you’ll think twice about breaking that rule in future. Come on.” With that he beckoned me nearer.

“No… I don’t want to.”

“Come here, Toby,” Richard repeated in his usual level voice. Normally I found his calmness in all situations comforting, but this quiet refusal to get worked up or argue about things was highly irritating before a spanking. Why did he have to be so bloody rational?

I opened my mouth to yell out another refusal, my foot raising to stamp, when Richard’s eye caught mine again.

“I wouldn’t,” was all he said, meaningfully. “You’re in enough trouble already. Come on, Toby, let’s get this over with.”

Somehow I found myself edging nearer to him, until his hand caught mine and pulled me the last few steps between his legs. He always knew I was too nervous to cooperate at this stage, so he undid my jeans and drew them and my underwear down himself, before tugging me into place over his lap.

“No, Richard, please,” I couldn’t help but say, hopelessly, feeling the tears well up in my eyes already in anticipation of the pain to come. “Please…”

He didn’t answer me in words, but his hand stroked comfortingly down my back before lifting my shirt out of the way and tilting me further forward. I could feel his hand resting warm and smooth on my backside, then suddenly it was gone and I clenched my muscles. The clenching didn’t lessen the sting of the first sharp crack, nor any of the other spanks that quickly followed. Richard spanked quickly and heavily, rarely speaking, as he knew by this stage I was too involved in the pain and the embarrassment to have a rational conversation. The heat and the sting built rapidly and I squirmed helplessly, unable to escape from the punishing hand, his left arm holding me firmly in place and a leg stopping mine from kicking. I was sobbing with no regard for dignity, incoherent pleas for Richard to stop falling from my lips despite the fact I knew they would have no effect. My whole backside felt as if it was on fire before I felt the last hard smacks at the very tops of my thighs that signalled it was nearly over.

When Richard had finally finished, I lay limp and motionless, unable to do anything but cry and shiver in reaction for several moments. Then, desperate to escape from the embarrassing position I wriggled and Richard helped me slide down to kneel in front of him, head buried in his lap as I continued to cry. I could feel an arm round my shoulders and his hand playing in my hair, stroking it repetitively, and the soothing motion and comforting nonsense he murmured helped me to calm down. After a while I struggled to my feet, pulling up my jeans with one hand while I rubbed at my wet face with the other. Richard helped me straighten my clothes, zipping and buttoning, before handing me a handkerchief and pulling me back down onto his knees, right way up this time. We cuddled for a long time.

Finally Richard straightened with a sigh. “Time for some lunch, Toby my lad, then you’ve got some lines to do.”

I sighed heavily but didn’t argue. It was never any use arguing with Richard. So I made a creditable attempt at eating my toasted sandwich, with only a faint thought for the nice lunch out we would have been enjoying if I hadn’t spoilt it all. I sat on my cushion and wrote out “Showing kindness and politeness has never hurt anyone” two hundred times without complaint.

And finally I could feel the relief that it was all over and I didn’t have to feel guilty any more. I’d paid my dues and that was that.

“Good boy, I’m proud of you,” said Richard, with a hug and a kiss. The praise warmed me; knowing he loved me enough to correct me, enough to help me work through my faults and put up with the trauma, made me feel so safe and happy, made all the pain worthwhile. I grabbed him back, holding on tight, never wanting to let go of my lover, my friend. My Richard.