The Con Artists Graveyard

While the housekeeper was upstairs transforming Vicky, her husband—the gardener—followed his precise instructions. He unspooled his longest hose and connected it to the outdoor faucet outside the cellar door. He knew there was drainage down there, but no water source. The Mistresses had discussed running pipes down there, but it was deemed impractical, so this makeshift solution was the best option they had for now.

He opened the door and went down the small set of concrete steps into the hallway before the cellar proper. Flicking the switch, he threw the door open. The stench hit him first, a thick, suffocating cloud of ammonia and decay. "Fuck me," he exclaimed in his thick, rolling Medway accent, shielding his nose with a hand and realizing he should have brought a face mask down with him.

He stepped into the room and moved toward the screen and the trolley. On the other side, he saw Stephen kneeling with his face pressed against the cold floor. He was shivering intensely; all around him lay the cooling remnants of the laxatives they had secretly fed him the day before.

Following the script he had been given, the Gardener spoke. "I guess you drew the short straw, mate. Your missus is upstairs gettin' all cozy with the ladies and stuffing ‘erself with a full English."

He moved the heavy screen out of the room; he didn't want to ruin it with the water he was about to spray. "I don't know for sure, my missus told me, you see. She's the housekeeper here. Well, she told me your missus spent the night with that big cop. She said she saw them on the couch, all cozy and shit."

He let that sink in for a moment. "Yer, she told me the ladies were there too. According to the wife, they were watchin' you on that fancy pad thing they got. They got cameras down here, you see. Anyway, they were 'avin' a right old laugh about you.”

Stephen looked up at the older man, his eyes pleading. "Can you help me, please?" he begged. "I've got money."

The gardener crouched down to look at Stephen in the eye, his face a map of sympathy and duty. “Sorry, mate, you're fucked," he said. "Dunno what you did to piss her off, she'll tell me if I need to know. If I were you, I'd just keep my head down and do as you're told."

He stood back up, turned, and left the cellar, only to come back pulling a heavy hose behind him. "Sorry about this, mate, orders are orders."

Stephen jumped as the freezing water splashed him in the chest. He tried to scramble away, moving as much as the collar would allow, but the gardener kept following and soaked him completely. When he was done, he turned off the nozzle and dropped the hose to the floor with a heavy thunk.

He walked over to Stephen. "Turn round, mate," the gardener told him. Stephen did as he was instructed, and the man unlocked the heavy iron collar. Stephen's eyes were darting toward the open door.

"Gonna need you over there by the wall so I can clean this floor," he told Stephen, and gently pushed him toward the wall where Vicky had been chained.

Stephen took a few steps, then looked at the open door. He quickly calculated that the gardener was old and nowhere near as fit as Stephen on his worst day, even though his hands were cuffed behind his back. If he could escape, he could get to someone and call the police, making it all worth it.

Without another thought, Stephen barged past the gardener. The older man grunted in surprise and stumbled backward, falling hard onto the concrete floor. Stephen didn't stop to check; he bolted through the open doorway and around the corner to the stairs.

“Shit”, he mumbled to himself. The door at the top of the stairs was shut. He ran up hurriedly, adrenaline surging, and shoved it. It didn't move; the handle was a big metal circle on some stubborn latch. He turned away from the door and grabbed the ring. He heard footsteps from the cellar below him as his fingers scrambled to find the release.

He found it and twisted, pushing at the door at the same time. The door gave, and it flew open, the momentum carrying him backward. He tripped, his arms trapped behind him as he fell down onto the concrete walkway outside, gasping for air.

He barely had time to recover when a boot hit his groin hard, collapsing him in pain. He curled up into a ball, groaning. The gardener stood over him, panting and out of breath after running up the steps. He raised his muddy boot and stomped it down onto Stephen's throat, cutting off his air.

"You shouldn't have done that, mate," the gardener said, his face twisted in rage. "Now I've got to fuck you up.”

The last thing Stephen remembered was the gardener’s fist swinging toward his face, a blur of knuckles and fury. He snapped awake, the chill air biting into his skin, and immediately felt the tension locking his shoulders. He was hunched forward, his weight pulling against the restraints.

He tried to stand upright, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate; they were forced wide apart. He looked down and saw that his ankles were each tied to the upright posts of the veranda, leaving him spread-eagled. His arms were stretched high above his head, securely tied to the wooden beams beneath the roof. It took a moment for his groggy brain to process the change in location—he was outside. On any other day, he would have been in awe of the spectacular view of the North Downs spread out before him, the rolling hills glowing in the sunlight.

Something else felt different—an extra, heavy weight pressing down on his groin. He looked down, eyes widening in horror. His cock was encased in a black tube, only the sensitive head sticking out from the smooth metal. It seemed alien and obscene, like a metallic cage trapping him.

The gardener stepped in front of him and grabbed Stephen’s chin, forcing his head upward. He moved Stephen’s face around, inspecting the eyes, the jaw, and checking for any signs of concussion. In a previous life, the gardener had been a boxer and then a trainer, and he was using those old skills now to determine if Stephen was strong enough to handle the punishment he was about to deliver. He nodded to himself, visibly satisfied with the results.

He produced a leather-clad ring attached to two leather strips, one of which had a heavy buckle. "Open yer fucking gob," the gardener ordered, his voice gruff.

Stephen ignored him, stubbornly trying to look straight through the man. The gardener didn't hesitate; he reached down and grabbed Stephen's balls, twisting them sharply. Stephen let out a sharp yelp of pain.

"Fucking open it," the gardener growled.

Stephen didn't need telling twice. He opened his mouth. The gardener shoved the ring gag in, forcing it past his teeth, and buckled it tightly behind Stephen's head, cutting off any chance of speech. He looked Stephen dead in the eye, cleared his throat, hacked up a big glob of spit, and spat it directly through the ring into Stephen's mouth.

The gardener pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. "Yes, Miss, he's awake," he reported.

Nicola’s voice crackled over the speaker. "Teach him a lesson, collar him, and then take him to your wife to get him ready. She already has her orders."

The Gardener nodded into the phone. "Yes, Miss." He finished the call and put the device back in his pocket.

He pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves. He moved to his cart and scooped up a handful of fresh, stinging nettles. He walked around in front of Stephen and seized his scrotum, stuffing the leaves and stems directly into the sensitive flesh.

It only took a few seconds for the toxins to take effect. Stephen groaned, his body jerking violently against the ropes as the stinging sensation spread, turning his testicles a deep, angry red. The Gardener held him firmly in place, allowing the pain to sink in, before letting the nettles fall to the floor.

Stephen slumped forward, moaning continually through the ring gag as the Gardener walked behind him. He returned to the cart, rummaging through the tools until he found the birch switch. He had cut it specifically for this purpose, supple and deadly.

He raised the switch high, letting it whistle through the air, and then brought it down with a vicious crack across the backs of Stephen's legs. Stephen cried out, his muscles spasming as the thin branches lashed into his skin.

The Garner continued, slash after slash up and down Stephen’s body.  From his shoulders down to his ankles. Stephen was screaming into the early afternoon air, muffled by the ring gag, but still loud enough to please The Gardner. 

Tears streamed down Stephen’s face, mixing with the drool pouring over the ring gag and running down his chin. His testicles burned with the sting of pressed nettles. His back and shoulders bore a map of pain, covered in crisscrossed welts from the birch switch, skin red and angry.

The Gardener tossed the switch back into his cart with a dull thud; the tip was split and now coated in Stephen's blood. He uncapped a bottle of water he’d grabbed earlier, leaning his back against one of the sturdy upright posts that held Stephen’s ankles prisoner. He took a long, noisy sip, watching the view of the North Downs unfold in the distance.

"It didn't have to be like this," he murmured to Stephen, his voice quiet but cutting through the cool air. " You just had to listen and do as you're told.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle cut through the silence. Stephen looked up, squinting through his watering eyes. "You got him good," a female voice said, clear and approving. It was the Gardener's wife, the housekeeper.

“Leave him like that," she ordered. "For a while. Give him a gentle hose down, and I'll come back in a bit to see what's what."

“Yes, my love," the Gardener replied, his tone submissive and respectful as he pocketed his phone. "I'll get the hose."