The Con Artists Graveyard

The housekeeper looked down at Vicky, smeared with the gardener's deposit. She let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. "Men," she spat. The comment dismissed the male species in general, capturing the power dynamic that left Vicky alone in the shower, covered and broken.

All went quiet for a while; Vicky could feel the goo drying, pulling gently on her skin as it did. Then a phone rang, piercing through the silence. The housekeeper answered immediately. "Yes, Miss Nicola. About seven," she confirmed, her voice clear and efficient. "Yes, Miss Nicola. She's waiting in the shower. Will do." A brief pause. "Will you be having breakfast? ... Ok, see you then."

Vicky listened, her heart racing inside her chest. She realized the conversation wasn't casual; it was about making a schedule. Then, the housekeeper began whistling, a sharp, piercing sound that signaled the end of her quiet. The whistle grew louder as the housekeeper entered the room. She walked over to the shower stall, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Vicky's miserable, sticky form. She reached in and grabbed a handful of Vicky’s hair, yanking her head back roughly. The movement made Vicky arch her spine, her neck exposed and vulnerable against the cold tile behind her.

She tilted Vicky's head back until her eyes met the housekeeper's cold gaze. "The missus wants me to clean you up," she sneered, her breath hot against Vicky's face. "Are you going to give me any trouble?”

Vicky moved her head from side to side to indicate no.

The housekeeper didn't hesitate. She reached over and hooked the chain connecting Vicky's ankles to her wrists, the metal cold against Vicky's skin. She pulled Vicky up, helping her find her balance. Vicky was surprised by the older woman's strength; her grip was firm and steady, lifting her weight without strain.

Vicky leaned heavily against one side of the shower stall as the housekeeper crouched down. She removed the ankle, restraints, taking a moment to examine the raw, red welts and swelling around Vicky's ankles. Next were the wrist cuffs. Vicky groaned softly, her arms hung limply at her sides, the circulation returning with a stinging rush

The housekeeper reached behind Vicky's head and unfastened the strap of the cock gag. She pulled the rubber cock free, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap. Vicky immediately opened her mouth, her jaw stiff and sore as she moved it from side to side, trying to work out the cramp.

"If you need to pee, do it now," the housekeeper commanded.

"No," Vicky whispered, her voice sounding thin and scared. "I'm okay."

The housekeeper nodded, satisfied, and began to strip. She pulled the apron from her waist and tossed it aside, then unfastened the buttons on her housecoat. As it opened, her large, heavy, and sagging breasts hung in a sturdy bra. Her torso was loose, with skin that hung slightly, though she had little excess fat—just a small, rounded belly. Below that, her pussy was bold and hairy.

Vicky stared at her, eyes wide with fear. The housekeeper caught her gaze and smirked.

"Well," she said, stepping out of the housecoat completely. "You don't expect me to get my clothes wet, do you?”

The housekeeper reached into the stall and turned the dial. Vicky jumped as the strong jet of water hit her chest, the sudden shock of cold soaking her skin. The water warmed up quickly, and the housekeeper stepped back, sliding the glass door shut. They were now sealed inside the small, humid cubicle.

The housekeeper picked up a bar of soap from the niche, lathering it quickly between her hands. She started to wash Vicky’s body, her touch firm and efficient. Her hands moved to Vicky’s shoulders, kneading the tense muscles with practiced strokes. Vicky closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth, letting the sensation wash away the lingering fear.

The housekeeper’s hands moved down Vicky’s back, easing the knots before shifting to part her buttocks. Vicky jerked forward, eyes snapping open in surprise as she felt a slick finger probe the tight ring. She instinctively tried to step away, but the housekeeper’s grip held tight on her shoulder, keeping her in place.

Vicky looked down, watching the murky, gray water swirl around her ankles, washing away the grime and filth of the past few days. The finger pushed past the resistance, sliding in deep. Vicky gasped, her body trembling, but the sensation changed. Her eyes drifted shut again, and with a soft exhale, she leaned back into the housekeeper, the pain gone but strangely accepted.

Vicky felt the hard, distinct nipples of the housekeeper pressing into her back as the older woman held her tight, slowly fucking Vicky’s rear passage with a steady rhythm. She could feel the housekeeper’s breath hitching on her neck, followed by the thrill of a kiss pressed against her skin. The sensation of the finger sliding out left a brief, disappointing void, but Vicky didn't resist when she opened her legs.

The housekeeper crouched slightly, her hand slipping further between Vicky’s legs. Her fingers teased the swollen outer lips, massaging gently in slow circles, deliberately teasing the opening but refusing to go deeper. Then, the contact disappeared as the housekeeper moved to wash Vicky’s legs, the water sluicing away the grime.

She guided Vicky back against the cold tile of the stall, soaking her legs to soothe the sores and swelling. Standing up, the housekeeper moved until she was eye to eye with Vicky. Vicky’s eyes fluttered shut as the housekeeper’s fingers dug roughly into her pussy, parting the slick folds with an aggressive upward thrust. "Look at me," the housekeeper ordered.

Vicky forced her eyes open. The housekeeper then pushed her hand inside, her four fingers filling the space before her thumb clamped down outside. Vicky groaned, the stretch both painful and pleasurable. The housekeeper leaned in, kissing Vicky hard, her tongue demanding entry. As her hand moved slowly from side to side inside Vicky, the younger woman cried out in a mix of sharp pain and overwhelming ecstasy. The pleasure intensified as the housekeeper suddenly yanked her hand out, leaving Vicky gasping from the shock and feeling a deep, lingering emptiness.

The housekeeper kept washing Vicky's front, her touch lingering on her pert breasts. She slid her slick fingers around each nipple, rotating her thumb around the sensitive buds with skilled precision. Her hands moved up over the soft flesh, kneading deeply before moving up to massage Vicky's neck.

She looked Vicky in the eyes and wrapped both hands around Vicky's throat, kissing her once more on the lips. Vicky felt the sudden pressure as she was squeezed, the grip tight and suffocating. She could sense the housekeeper's immense strength; panic flared in her chest. The housekeeper held her tightly, kissing her relentlessly and depriving her of precious breath.

Vicky's hands shot up, grabbing the housekeeper's wrists, trying to pry them apart. Her vision began to tunnel; she started to see stars and sparkles in her eyes. The grip tightened even more, cutting off her air. Then, suddenly, the pressure was released. Vicky gasped, eagerly sucking in air, her body trembling as she took deep, ragged breaths.

The housekeeper looked at her, placed her hands on Vicky's shoulders, and pushed her down onto her knees. Then she grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her face between her legs. Vicky understood what was expected, but instead of resisting, she decided to get it over with. She leaned in, her tongue finding its mark.

Thankfully, it didn't take too long. The housekeeper groaned, her hands gripping Vicky's hair as she reached her climax. She pulled Vicky away after she finished, leaving her disheveled. Then she turned the shower off and stepped out.

She grabbed a soft towel and started drying herself. She left Vicky in the shower, shivering and wet. After redressing, she threw Vicky her damp towel to dry off with

As Vicky dried herself with the damp towel, the housekeeper returned. She pulled a high-backed wooden chair into the room, its legs scraping loudly against the tile. Sitting on the chair was a pile of rough, dark ropes.

Vicky stepped out of the shower, shivering in the cold air, unsure of her next move. "Put your hands behind your back," the housekeeper ordered. Vicky didn't argue; she pressed her hands behind her back. The cold steel of the handcuffs snapped shut around her wrists with a sharp click.

The housekeeper opened a cupboard above the small sink and placed a few bottles in the basin. She then told Vicky to sit down. Vicky sank into the chair, pulling her arms back as far as she could to relieve the pressure. The housekeeper took the end of the rope, threaded it through the gap in the chair's backrest, and pulled it through the handcuffs. Vicky gasped as her arms were yanked tight against the wood, her shoulder joints protesting.

She instinctively leaned back in the chair to ease the pain, but the housekeeper simply pulled the rope tighter, holding her in place. Then, the rope was wrapped around Vicky’s waist and secured to the chair’s frame, making her immobile. She couldn't even shift her weight.

Vicky thrashed and screamed as the housekeeper turned on the electric hair trimmer. The buzzing sound was deafening, and the sensation of the blades scraping her scalp was agonizing. The housekeeper pulled large clumps of hair away as she worked, causing Vicky’s head to tilt back from the force of the pulling. The hair fell in thick, wet clumps onto the brick floor at her feet and into her lap.

Tears streamed down Vicky’s face. She tried to move her head, but the housekeeper held her firm, forcing her to endure the onslaught. Clump after clump fell away until her head was nearly bare.

Eventually, the buzzing stopped. The housekeeper ran hot water in the sink and lathered up a stiff shaving brush. She transferred the foam to Vicky’s head, covering the remaining stubble with white lather. "Now don't fucking move, or you'll cut yourself," she warned, her voice lacking mercy.

With steady hands, the housekeeper began to shave the last of Vicky’s hair, the razor gliding smoothly over her sensitive skin with a soft hiss. When she finished, she dried Vicky’s head with a coarse towel and planted a big, wet kiss right in the middle of the bald scalp. It was an act of ownership, marking the smooth, vulnerable skin.

The housekeeper left the room, then came back holding a small, powerful leaf blower. She turned it on, aiming the nozzle at Vicky and blowing all the loose hair from her lap and the hair trapped under the chair legs into a pile. She grabbed a dustpan and brush and carefully swept the hair away, tidying up the mess. Then, she went around the room, cleaning the shower, remaking the bed with fresh linens, dusting the shelves, and vacuuming the corners—all while Vicky sat tied to the chair, a bald, crying mess, completely ignored.

The Housekeeper then spent the next thirty minutes skillfully applying makeup, transforming Vicky into a provocative, painted doll. She darkened Vicky's eyes with thick kohl, lined them boldly, and painted her lips a deep, blood-red shade, and finished them with gloss. She even applied mascara to make her lashes look wild. By the time she finished, Vicky looked less like herself and more like a cheap whore.