The Con Artists Graveyard

The harsh sun hammered down like judgment, slicing through the gloom of the abandoned garage to illuminate drifting dust motes resembling suspended stars. It was a cavernous tomb of forgotten tools and junk, but the center of the concrete floor was occupied. Kneeling in the dust, with their flesh grinding against the cold slab, were Stephen and Vicky. They were broken shells of their former selves, tightly bound in a kneeling hogtie, ropes biting deep into wrists and ankles until circulation was cut off. Their skin was a map of violence—crisscrossed welts and angry bruises from the whipping they had endured under Nicola’s hand.

Underneath the black sacks covering their faces, the remnants of their vanity were broken: mascara flowed down their cheeks in thick, black streaks, and their mouths were stuffed with dirty underwear, held closed by laddered stockings, leaving them to drool and mumble in desperate silence.

A week ago, they had been the untouchable king and queen of the high-stakes con game. Now, they had been broken and humiliated, their schemes turned against them. The silence stretched out, suffocating and heavy, broken only by the wet, ragged sound of their breathing.

Suddenly, the sound hit Stephen—a high-pitched, electronic beep. It was mechanical, cold, and devoid of soul. It wasn't a human voice; it was a machine. It grew louder, cutting through the dusty air, resonating in his hollow chest like a digital countdown. He couldn't see anything through the sack.

The beep stopped suddenly, leaving a ringing silence in Stephen’s ears. He stayed frozen in motion, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He tried to inch forward slightly, straining against the ropes, but the lack of leverage made it pointless.

A heavy thud echoed from the garage entrance a moment later. The sound of a metal door sliding open came next, followed by the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. A silhouette appeared against the bright sunlight, blocking out the dust motes dancing in the air. They walked slowly, the click of their heels rhythmic and deliberate. The person stopped directly in front of Stephen.

He waited for the blow. Instead, a gloved hand reached out and grabbed him and pulled his head back. With a sharp tug, the black sack was torn from his face. He gasped, the harsh sun burning his eyes. He blinked, adjusting to the bright light. Standing over him was a woman dressed in robes that shimmered in the dusty air, the symbol of the Sisterhood of Nyx displayed on her chest.

“Unload the crates,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. She looked down at Stephen, then glanced toward Vicky, then back to Stephen. “You’re not going to give me any trouble now, are you?” She pushed the sack back down over his head, not expecting any answer.

Stephen and Vicky flinched violently as the rough wooden crate smashed onto the concrete floor. The ropes binding his ankles to his wrists cut with a sharp snip. He stumbled as he was hauled upright. They shoved him and forced him to kneel until his heels crushed against the back panel. Then his head was forced downward until his forehead slammed against the front wall and the bottom of the crate, trapping him in a grotesque, vertical bow. With his arms still tied behind his back.

Leather straps yanked across his legs, and the sickening crunch of a metal ratchet engaging echoed through the box. The strap tightened with brutal force, strapping his feet immovable. A similar strap was pulled across his back, cinching it tight with a click that promised he wouldn't be able to move at all. A lid descended, sealing him in total, absolute darkness. The electric screwdriver shrieked as it drove screws into the wood, one by one, hammering the lid shut with a final, terrifying thud.

The van's tail lift groaned as they lifted the box. Inside, the engine roared to life with a deep, vibrating hum that shook him to his core. Vanessa followed, her box clicking shut behind his, sealing their fates. They were so close yet so far, separated only by inches of wood and silence, just as Nicola had cruelly predicted.

Muffled through the wood, a conversation drifted in—voices of the housekeeper and the woman, loving hugs and warm farewells. It was a conversation of the living, while Stephen and Vicky were being carted off to a living death. The van jerked forward, and the darkness swallowed them whole. Stephen and Vicky’s old lives were dead; their new lives as slaves to the Sisterhood had officially begun.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Nicola leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking softly as she stretched her long legs. She checked the screen one last time, seeing the transaction numbers rolling in. By this afternoon, one hundred and twenty-three widows, widowers, or their surviving families would be receiving the full restitution of the funds Stephen and Vicky had swindled from them, plus the accrued interest.

She glanced out the window, her gaze drifting toward the gamekeepers’ cottage where her aunt and uncle now lived. From this vantage point, she had a perfect view of the driveway. She smiled.

Parked there was the three-wheeled electric milkfloat, the name "Bourne and Hillier" printed on its side. The crates on the bed were filled with empty bottles. The leftovers were stored in the small cooler section at the front of the bed.  It was collection day, once a month. The routine was the same: The young Milkman would make most deliveries on his round till around eight o’clock, then he would knock on the doors as he delivered and collect payment. The Gamekeepers Cottage was the last call on his round. 

It was a lucky coincidence that they met shortly after the aunt moved into the cottage and set up the milk delivery routine. She had run out just as the milkman was turning his float around to go back to the depot, hoping to grab a few eggs. She caught him off guard, and he quickly got out of his seat with a smile, eager to help. But his excitement gave him away; his heavy coat snagged on his leg, pulling him backward into the gravel. Magazines flew across the driveway, scattering like fallen leaves.

The aunt bent down to collect them, surprised to discover they weren't gardening catalogs or newspapers, but high-gloss magazines dedicated to FemDom and sadomasochism. The milkman’s face flushed a deep, embarrassing red as he realized what she was holding. She offered him a knowing smile and handed them back. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?" she asked.

The invitation changed everything. Now, every Friday at the end of the month, for a single hour, he spent his time serving her, attending to her every need while her husband looked on, the willing cuckold to the milkman.

END.