CONTENT WARNING: Mild watersports
1. Discovery.
Alex Bagshot wheeled the lawnmower up to the front of the house and knocked on the door. As he did so, he noticed the garage door was open and Mrs Rochdale's car wasn't there. If she was out, that raised a dilemma. He really didn't fancy carting the lawnmower all the way back home, four doors down, but he didn't want to leave it here either. He could just stick it in the open garage, he supposed, but there'd been a spate of burglaries recently. He thought the odds of anyone actually stealing the mower before Mrs Rochdale came back were practically zero, but the odds of his mother berating him for such recklessness were practically one hundred percent. He knocked on the door again hoping he wouldn't have to look for another solution.
He'd been quite annoyed because he'd been planning to cycle into town to get the new Radiohead album. He'd even gotten out of bed at half-past ten specially to get to the shops before lunch and then his mum had insisted he complete this supposed five-minute task beforehand. He wasn't really in the mood for any delays. He took off his headphones and paused his DiscMan as he listened for any movement inside as he knocked for a third and a fourth time. He couldn't hear anything at all. At this rate all his friends from university would have heard the new album before he had and be calling him up with opinions before he'd even heard the first track.
At the fifth knock and a minute and a half, he gave up the direct approach. He went round to the side of the house to see if the mower could be discretely tucked away somewhere out of sight. He ignored the signs saying 'Beware of the dog'. He knew Scrambles had passed away four months ago and had been a less than terrifying terrier in any case. He'd expected the garden gate would be bolted. Instead it was slightly ajar. So, it turned out, were the doors to the conservatory and kitchen. Even the large glass sliding door into the lounge was wide open. Peering through he could see an empty space where you'd expect a TV to be.
"Mrs Rochdale, are you there?" he cried, hovering at the lounge door.
He though he heard a noise. Not a clear reply, but something muffled. "Mrs Rochdale, if you're there, I'm coming in."
Alex was not particularly good with social situations. He weighed up the likelihoods of being mistaken for the thief versus being fated as a hero if he ventured in. "Mrs Rochdale, it's Alex from number twenty-five," he added, in case of scenario number three, which had just occurred to him: being hospitalized when she ambushed the intruder with a poker from behind the curtain.
As he inched into the living room, the muffled noise continued and was joined by some sort of banging. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. Right about now, a poker seemed like a good idea, although he noticed now that Mrs Rochdale didn't actually have a real fire under her highly ornate fireplace. He wondered how else he could arm himself. Eventually he located a large kitchen knife. It was in the washing up bowl and he had to wipe the Fairy Liquid off it with some kitchen towel before it could be considered a threatening weapon. Suitably armed, he ventured upstairs.
"Is someone there?" he called out, holding onto the banister to support his trembling legs.
Again, the banging continued. The muffled sound started to almost resemble words, "Ey oo eer."
He'd never been on the second floor of the house before, though he'd sat in the lounge watching cartoons many times over the years while his mother and Mrs Rochdale organized the tombola at the village fete or worked out ways to raise money for the local animal shelter over a cup of tea and a biscuit. He hadn't been back since he'd started university last year or since Mrs Rochdale's husband had passed away. Peering round he saw the ladder to the attic was down. That seemed to be where the noise was coming from.
If there was a thief waiting to blat him, he'd be a sitting duck on the ladder. On the other hand, the miscreant was well and truly cornered up there. He considered sliding the ladder back up, locking the door from below then calling the police. The noises didn't seem like the sort that a thief would make though. They seemed to be very deliberately calling his attention. Uncharacteristically, he put caution to the wind and climbed up the ladder far enough to peer into the attic.
It was dark, but with the ambient light from below he could make out a shape.
It was someone's bare legs and bare bottom.
Moreover the bottom was female - that was very clear even without noticing the tall red heels. The rest of the lady vanished into the darkness.
"Mrs Rochdale?" he asked. He wasn't sure it would be more embarrassing if it were she or not.
"Het hee howt hoo hee," said the bottom, sounding quite cross.
Alex looked around. If it was anything like the attic back home there'd be a light switch somewhere in easy reach of the ladder. He reached out in the darkness, eventually locating it just next to the left ankle. Illuminating the scene added a three more key details. Firstly, the woman was bent over and trapped in what looked like a set of medieval stocks. Secondly, there was something plastic protruding from her bottom. Finally, there was some kind of white liquid stuck to her pubic hair and the inside of her thighs.
Given the age of the posterior, the smart money was still on it being Mrs Rochdale, but he'd need to get round face-side to confirm this. It was a great ass nonetheless, in his humble opinion.
He pulled himself up fully into the loft. It was a good deal bigger than the one at home, which had crouching room only and in which one wrong step could put your foot all the way through into a bedroom. This one had proper floors and enough room to stand up properly. Like all lofts, a good proportion of it seemed to contain old microwaves, bags of old clothes and Ikea boxes with unclassified contents. The other half, however, was less conventional.
There were the currently occupied stocks, of course. Next to it, was a tool bench that seemed to have been repurposed with a number of novelty items: whips, paddles, hand-cuffs, vibrators, bottles of various lotions and a few more plastic items that Alex couldn't even take a guess at. More incongruously, but entirely practically, there was a box of tissues and a bag of wet-wipes. They were both Boots' own brand. Hanging down from rafters were firstly a set of chains and then further down some sort of swing, though one definitely not designed with children in mind. The far wall had some kind of crucifix with restraints built into it. The back half of the room had been decorated with a vague gothic theme, though one that obviously that had been realized on a budget. There were a number of scented candles scattered around the room, all burnt out, though the air still smelt more of boudoir than it did of storage. Alex stood stunned, trying to take it all in.
"Het hee howt oo hee," repeated the bound lady.
Alex remembered himself. Striding to the stocks, he unzipped the latex facemask that was covering the woman then removed the ball-gag.
"Thank you," said Mrs Rochdale after clicking her jaw back into place. "Well, that was unpleasant."
They regarded each other for more than couple of seconds. "I returned your lawnmower." he said. He was perfectly aware that this didn't address the major issue at hand. He really just wanted to fill the silence.
"Thank you," she said, not entirely gratefully.
"Are you okay?" He ventured. Perhaps he could have gone with this question first.
"Not really. No," she replied. "I don't suppose he left the key in the padlock did he?"
