The Con Artists Graveyard

Continuing down the winding path, they passed the side of the house and stepped onto a small, slightly overgrown brick walkway. There, in the moonlight, stood the big man. The silver collar around his neck gleamed, and the tight leather pants he wore occasionally caught the light as he moved with silent, predatory grace.

At his feet, kneeling in a tight hogtie, was Vicky. She was completely naked, her thoughts of outsmarting her captors vanishing, replaced by raw, primal fear. Attached to the chain connecting her cuffed arms to her cuffed ankles was a heavier, rusted chain. It extended up to a small, swinging gantry that jutted out from an old-looking brick structure.

At first glance, it could be mistaken for a water well, but it was, in fact, a leftover from the days of the chalk quarries, an old air duct that had long been blocked at the bottom, about thirty feet down. Still, to Nicola, it had always been a "well," ever since she and Robert found it on their first tour of the property years ago.

Vicky looked up toward her captors, her eyes filled with fear as she gazed at the rough brickwork of the well. She didn’t know it was dry; she imagined water rising from the bottom, thinking this was it, they had finished with her.

The two women walked arm in arm, their dresses buttoned down the front, looking like they were from the same designer but with different patterns and colors. A sudden thought crossed Vicky’s mind. "I bet they didn't pick them up off the racks at Marks & Sparks".

Nicola thanked the big man, giving him a firm kiss on the cheek. "When we're done here, I want you to shower and be ready for us later tonight. I think we could both use some of your big cock tonight."

Geraldine smiled and nodded in agreement. "Ok, let's do this. I'm hungry."

They moved to different sides of Vicky. Neither wore panties, only hold-up stockings. They unbuttoned a few buttons on their dresses and crouched down. Holding hands above Vicky's head in a display of dominance, they both sighed as they released. The hot, steaming stream of piss instantly covered Vicky. She screamed into the cock gag. She felt it run through her hair, down her naked body; it felt hot as it pooled around her knees. 

The big man stepped back to avoid any splashes, a broad smile on his face.

When they finished, Nicola took a tissue from her small bag, handed it to Geraldine, and then took one herself, patting themselves dry. Then, they threw the soiled tissues down the well.

Buttoning up their dresses, they turned their backs to Vicky and shouted, "Goodnight," before walking away.

As Nicola and Geraldine walked away arm in arm, their laughter fading into the distance, the big man stepped forward. His fingers brushed the controls of the winch attached to the gantry. With a mechanical whir, the chain tightened. Vicky gasped, her body suddenly yanked upward. She screamed into the gag as the chains dug into her wrists and ankles, straining her joints until she thought they would snap. She swung forward in the air for a moment, helpless and suspended, piss dripping from her body.

The big man guided the gantry, steering the swinging Vicky toward the mouth of the well. Vicky screamed again as she was slowly lowered, inch by agonizing inch, into the darkness. The air grew colder, and the smell of the well—ancient brick, damp dirt, and the metallic scent of piss—flooded her nose. She looked up, desperate to see the man, but he was just a silhouette against the sky.

Finally, her knees touched the uneven ground. The chain loosened, giving her a brief moment of relief from the strain. But as she tried to shift her weight to find some comfort in the hogtied position, the debris that had accumulated over decades dug sharply into her knees and thighs.

She looked up again, but the man was gone. All she could see were slow-moving clouds drifting across the stars, obscuring the sky. That was when her bladder gave out. She let a warm stream onto the dirt floor of the well. She cried then, truly cried for the first time since she and Stephen had been captured. The dam had broken.

Nicola was reclined comfortably in the soft leather of the vintage Bentley, the interior bathed in the warm, ambient glow of the evening. On the center console, a tablet displayed a split-screen feed: one grainy image showed Stephen curled in the freezing basement, and the other showed Vicky kneeling in the dark well. Both looked suitably miserable, exactly as Nicola wanted them. She glanced sideways at Geraldine, who was resting her head on her shoulder, and they shared a satisfied smile. They were both full from a wonderful ethnic meal. 

The driver, a silver-haired man with a rugged face, looked back through the rear-view mirror. He gave them a brief, respectful nod. He had been Robert’s driver long before Robert married Nicola, a regular fixture in the household who had witnessed the family’s shifting dynamics firsthand.

His mind drifted back to the pivotal moment when the transfer of power became final. It had been a few weeks after Robert’s mother’s funeral, a chaotic time of settling the estate. Nicola had called him into the office, closing the door firmly behind him. He was shocked to see Robert kneeling in the middle of the room, his hands cuffed behind his back, head bowed in submission.

She had explained that things would change. From that day forward, she would be in charge. She had offered him the choice of a large payout in exchange for signing a strict non-disclosure agreement, or of continuing to work for them with the same respect he had always shown Robert. He looked at the trembling man on his knees and then at Nicola's steely gaze, and he made his choice without hesitation.

Two weeks later, a notification popped up on his phone: a generous pay raise and a large number of stock options in the expanding Woods empire. He was now among the wealthiest drivers he knew and definitely the most loyal, feeling confident that his future was securely tied to the woman relaxing in the back seat.

They said goodnight to their driver, and the Bentley glided away, leaving them in the peaceful quiet of the house. They were still giggling, the lightness of the evening lifting them up the stairs as if they were weightless. The bedroom door was pushed open, and they stepped inside, ready to shed the evening's wear and enjoy their reward.

The big man waited for them in the middle of the room. He knelt on the floor, his posture a perfect reflection of his training. His hands were behind his back. His silver collar shone against his skin. He was naked, a statue of flesh and submission. As they approached, he straightened his spine, locking his muscles into the rigid position they had taught him, so that his large cock pointed straight up at the ceiling, waiting to be used.

The big man was also known as Detective Sergeant John Murray, currently assigned to the MET Fraud Squad. He first crossed paths with Nicola when she was working as a runner for a small London newspaper. At that time, he was a Detective Constable on the Vice squad, and Nicola had interviewed him a few times about a case called the "Luncheon Voucher Madam." He had always been charming, polite, and candid when sharing information.

Then, about a year later, Nicola was invited to a "special party" by the infamous Madame Smith. Lo and behold, there was Detective Constable John Murray, being led around on all fours by one of Madame Smith's girls. You could say that he and Nicola have been friends ever since.

The two women shared a lingering kiss, their hands exploring each other's bodies as the sound of fabric rustling filled the room. Soon, they stood before the detective, both completely nude except for their hold-up stockings and heels—a look they knew was especially enticing to him.

Nicola stepped into the kneeling man's space, spreading her legs wide to give him access. He shuffled forward, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path between her swollen lips. She gripped his hair, pulling his face closer until his neck bent unnaturally at her command. He went to work with expert precision, his tongue moving like a finely tuned machine, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.

Geraldine watched from the side, her hand sliding between her own legs, fingers slowly stroking until they were slick with her desire. She moved behind Nicola, wrapping an arm around her and squeezing and tweaking her nipple. She leaned in, gently biting Nicola's ear and neck before rubbing her wet fingers over Nicola's mouth like a smear of red lipstick. Nicola opened her mouth, eager to taste her lover's juices.

Nicola eagerly sucked on Geraldine's fingers, her body trembling with the height of her climax. Her knees buckled, threatening to give out, but Geraldine held her firmly, her arm a steady support to stop her mistress from falling.

The detective, however, didn’t miss a beat. He kept working with his tongue and lips, focused entirely on giving pleasure to his Mistresses while he enjoyed the groans of satisfaction filling the room.

Nicola finally pushed his head away with a gentle but firm hand, needing a breath. She turned toward Geraldine, their lips meeting in a hard, hungry kiss. She guided her lover back to the bed, gently pushing her until Geraldine fell backward, her heels sinking into the soft mattress as she spread her legs wide.

Nicola dropped to her knees on the floor, positioning herself perfectly between Geraldine's thighs. She pulled the younger woman's lips apart with her hands and lowered her head, her mouth making love to Geraldine's pussy with skilled, rhythmic strokes.

The detective saw the cue clearly. He knew this scene, knew exactly where he fit in. He moved forward, grasping his hard cock in his hand. He guided the swollen head toward the welcoming slit of Nicola's legs, positioning himself behind her kneeling form. Nicola groaned into Geraldine's sex as he slowly parted her with the thick length of his dick, filling her completely.

He moved with a rhythm that varied between brutal force and delicate teasing, fast and slow, hard and soft, proving himself a master of the cock while remaining a slave to the whims of his mistresses. Nicola moaned and cried out, her body shuddering, while Geraldine’s head tossed from side to side, her eyes rolling back into her skull as Nicola’s mouth worked magic, bringing her to a shattering orgasm.

Nicola fought her own battle against surrender; she could feel him cresting. "Come now," she commanded, her voice breathless. He cried out in release, pumping jet after jet of hot seed deep inside her until her own climax overtook her, collapsing atop him.

The scene remained still for a moment, each player basking in the afterglow, taking deep, ragged breaths. Nicola was the first to groan as he pulled out of her, his cock dripping with their combined essence onto the floor. He bent down and licked the excess up, a display of devotion, before rolling onto his back and sliding underneath the kneeling Nicola, moving like a mechanic on a greased dolly. Nicola sat on his face, closing her eyes and enjoying the thorough cleaning.

Sometime later, the detective stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, facing the bed. Geraldine sat on the edge, her face just inches from the cock that had just serviced her. She stroked him with a mix of adoration and power, savoring the strength within it. Her tongue flicked the sensitive tip, earning a soft groan from the man.

Nicola sat behind Geraldine, gently pulling her hair and kissing her neck. She looked up at the detective. "So John, would you like my slut to take you in her mouth?"

Geraldine gave the head another lick, and he moaned in response. "Yes, please, Miss Nicola," he said breathlessly.

"Are you willing to pay the price ?" Nicola asked, her voice dropping an octave. "Ten for kissing you, fifteen for letting you come, or twenty for her swallowing?"

"Yes, Miss," he replied.

"Well, what is it, boy? Your choice," she demanded, her hand stroking Geraldine's hair.

Geraldine watched him closely, her tongue flicking his slit. To her, his cock was her second-favorite thing after Mistress Nicola's pussy.

"Twenty, please, Miss."

"Ok," she said, sliding off the bed. She walked to her dressing room, pulling a bamboo cane down from the rack. Then she found the leather gloves she saved for such occasions. She slid her gloves on, enjoying the snug fit around her hand, and walked back into the bedroom.

She nodded to Geraldine, who smiled before taking him as deep as she could into her mouth. Her job was to make him come as soon as possible so that most of the slashes would occur after his adrenaline was spiked. Her record was twelve.

The detective lowered his hands to his sides and clenched his fists. The first strike hit his bottom hard, the sharp crack of the bamboo slicing through the air. The others followed slowly and painfully across his butt, back, and thighs, crisscrossing his skin with red and blue marks.

He made it past twelve, gasping. At fourteen, he exploded into Geraldine's mouth. She swallowed as much as she could, but some dribbled down her chin. By sixteen, he was barely able to stand, his legs trembling. Geraldine was now working on his balls, her hands and mouth tormenting him. At twenty, Nicola stepped back, and he collapsed, panting.

Nicola stepped to Geraldine and joined her on the bed. They kissed deeply, Geraldine depositing a mouthful of the collected semen into Nicola's mouth. Their tongues shared the fluid between them, a private ritual of possession and consumption. For the next twenty minutes, they lay in each other's arms, making love with a tenderness and intensity that was exclusively their own.

The detective lay on his back on the wooden floor, the dull ache from the cane still radiating through his muscles. He found a strange pleasure in the pain and in the sound of his two mistresses enjoying each other. A symphony of female pleasure, he was lucky enough to witness. He opened his eyes and saw himself looking directly into Nicola's eyes as she gazed down at him, a soft, appreciative smile on her face. She held out her hand, palm up, and he joined them on the bed, settling into the warm space between them.

The two women lay on either side of him, their arms reaching across his chest and holding hands, creating a warm cocoon around him. His large, muscular arms were stretched above him, with the crooks of his elbows serving as pillows for the women. 

“Before leaving in the morning, get the bitch out of the well,” Nicola told the detective.

"What would you like me to do with her?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Put her in the downstairs shower. But no need to make her comfortable."

He smiled in the dim light. In his years working on the fraud squad, he had seen firsthand how many people got hurt by people like Stephen and Vicky. As far as he was concerned, any shit he could rain down on them, he would.

The three of them fell asleep with no more thoughts of Stephen, shivering and likely sleeping in his own filth in the freezing cellar. Or of Vicky, down in the dark depths of the well, bound and vulnerable, surrounded by silence, and the nasty things might be exploring her body in the darkness.