The Con Artists Graveyard

The gardener cut the ropes first, freeing Stephen’s ankles from the rough stone. He then moved to the ropes, holding his hands up in the air. Stephen’s arms gave out instantly under the weight, and he collapsed heavily onto the cold, rough paving stones at the edge of the garden. He felt a sudden pressure tighten around his neck as a slip leash was clipped on. The gardener gave the leash a sharp tug.

"Better come with me, or you'll get another beating," the gardener shouted.

Stephen looked up at him, his eyes hollow and defeated. He knew he had no real option; he was done in. He slowly began to crawl toward the gardener, the leash pulling at his neck.

He was led into the house, moving through the kitchen and into the room with the shower. His wife, the housekeeper, was walking down the stairs after just depositing Vicky in the playroom. As per her niece's instructions, she had made her a thoroughly uncomfortable and doll-like figure in the rubber body suit. "Put him in the shower," she commanded, her voice lacking any warmth. "Cuff him to the bar, I want him upright. Then pop the kettle on, I could do with a brew."

"Yes, my love," came the gardener's reply.

He led Stephen to the shower. There was a heavy, welded metal bar running across the top from one side of the cubicle to the next. The gardener picked up the cuffs that his wife had used on Vicky. He ordered Stephen to raise his hands, and he quickly cuffed one hand to the bar, then the other, locking them together with the rail firmly between his palms.

Then he grabbed Stephen’s chin, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. "Do what you're told, or you'll be back outside."

He didn't wait for an answer. He slipped the leash from over Stephen's head and left him alone in the shower.

The housekeeper entered the stall, her eyes scanning Stephen's battered body with clinical detachment. She bent down and unfastened the metal cock cage. She examined his scrotum, running her fingers over the angry, red welts left by the nettles, then moved her hand across his lacerated back. Some of the whip marks would leave permanent scars, but she didn't believe any were severe enough to prevent her from continuing with her instructions.

She removed the shower head and aimed it directly at his groin and chest. Stephen flinched sharply as the water hit him. She didn't wait for him to adjust; she simply replaced the shower head and grabbed a spray can she had brought. She shook the can vigorously and coated his crotch and chest with a thick, bright pink foam. The foam stuck to his skin; he felt it tingling, then warming up into a burn.

Stephen tried to speak, his eyes widening in panic, but the gag muffled his cry into a wet, gurgling sound. The housekeeper turned her back on him, closed the shower door with a sharp click, and walked out into the kitchen to finish her tea.

The gardener took his wife’s empty cup, his movements respectful. He looked down at her, "Do you need me to do anything, my love?"

She smiled up at him, a look of pure adoration softening her features. She reached out, her finger sliding through the ring at the front of his collar, and pulled his face down toward hers. She kissed him, gently at first, testing the waters, but then her grip tightened, and the kiss became firmer, demanding. Her tongue took possession of his mouth, a silent claim of ownership.

She pulled away, a thin strand of saliva connecting them for a heartbeat before breaking. She whispered, "I love you," and then louder, sharper. "Get back to work."

He stood, bowed his head slightly in deference, and said, "Yes, my love." He turned to leave the kitchen with a small, satisfied smile.

The housekeeper returned to the shower stall where Stephen was chained, her step lighter than before. The pink foam should have done its job by now. She opened the shower door, and Stephen jerked on the cuffs above his head.

She removed the shower attachment and turned on the water. The cold spray hit his chest, washing away the foam that covered his body. The few curly hairs there went into the runoff, and the mixture ran down his skin. The results on his crotch were just as effective, leaving his balls red and bare.

"Perfect," she said to herself. She turned off the water, then picked up the restrainer from the bed and quickly locked it back into place. Stephen looked down as she clicked it shut. She smiled up at him, a cold, hard smile.

She stood and looked him in the eye. "I'm going to let you down now," she said. "If I get any trouble from you, my husband will come back to see you. And this time, you won't be able to walk again. Do we understand each other?"

Stephen nodded to confirm he understood. She patted his cheek. "Good boy."

She reached into her housecoat pocket and retrieved her keys, releasing the cuffs so his hands fell to his sides. She quickly and gently grabbed one wrist, pulling it behind his back, then reached for the other and cuffed both hands behind him. She guided him out of the shower and made him sit on the chair that had held Vicky. 

The housekeeper methodically tied Stephen to the chair, mirroring the same bondage she had just finished with Vicky. She threaded the rope through the gap in the chair's backrest, then through the handcuffs on Stephen's wrists, pulling them tight against the wood. Then wrapped his chest tight in the excess.

As an added precacuation she tied a rope around his ankles. She pulled it under the chair, bringing it up the back of the seat and pressing Stephen's legs beneath it, forcing his ankles back as far as they would go and bending his knees at an uncomfortable, painful angle.

Finally, she grabbed the loose end of the rope and wrapped it tightly around Stephen's neck, tying it off in a rough, makeshift noose.

Stephen’s instincts kicked in. Panicking, he tried to lean forward to ease the tension in his trapped legs, and in doing so, his feet jerked forward. The movement pulled the rope under the chair, tightening the noose around his neck instantly. The rough rope dug into his skin, cutting off his air.

The housekeeper stepped back and observed him, a cold, hard smile curling on her lips. She wanted to see if he understood the mechanics of his own downfall. Stephen gasped, his eyes bulging and his face flushing red as rope tightened around his neck. He gasped for air, panic flooding his thoughts. After a brief moment of suffocating struggle, he realized that bending his feet back would loosen the noose. He forced himself to relax his posture, his feet settling back under the chair. The rope slackened, and the noose loosened just enough for him to breathe again.

The next 30 minutes were a chaotic blur for Stephen. It began with the housekeeper removing the ring gag. She forced a metal ratchet into his mouth and locked it open. She grabbed his tongue with locking forceps, pulled it out as far as it would go, and then coldly pierced it, fitting a stud. Next, his ears were pierced, small hoops inserted with a sharp click.

Then came the shave. She shaved his head and face. Every time he tried to fight or flinch, the noose tightened; he quickly learned that he had to sit perfectly still to avoid strangulation. Following that was the makeup—a full makeover that transformed him into an adequate-looking drag queen.

He was untied, bent over, and a butt plug was inserted, secured in place with a belt. He was then dressed in a ridiculous-looking black maid's outfit with huge breast forms inserted into the front. It was zipped up at the back and padlocked. A hood identical to Vicky's was placed over his head, framing his made-up face.

Stockings, suspenders, and high heels were next, followed by a thick metal band that was buckled around his waist, held in place by a heavy padlock. Thick rubber gloves were slipped onto his hands, the fingers fused together, rendering them useless.

Silver cuffs were locked onto his wrists, and a chain was run from one to the other, threading through a ring in the belt. A thick, heavy metal collar was locked around his neck, and the ring gag was reinserted. Finally, the housekeeper attached a leash to his collar and led him up the stairs to be left with Vicky, awaiting the mistress's return.

The housekeeper returned to the downstairs room, gathered everything, and tidied it. Satisfied, she texted her niece.

'They are prepped and ready. I'm going to spend some "quality time" with your uncle. Text me if you need me. xxx,'

She received an almost instant return text. A thumbs up icon followed by:

"Have fun."

The housekeeper smiled, then called her husband on the phone.

“Yes, my love," he answered.

"Be in the back room of the cottage in 30 minutes, naked on your knees. Strap on covering that little dick and be fully hooded."

She didn't wait for an answer. She knew he would be there waiting as she ordered.