The Con Artist

by Kitty Thomas

  She heard a zipper and then pants hit the floor, and then he was behind her, fucking her.

  “I love how wet you are for me,” he said.

  Saskia pressed back against him. He didn’t fill her in the same absolute way that Quill did. She might have been satisfied by Phillip’s cock if she’d been with him first, but Quill had ruined her for any other man. Perhaps it was best her master had told Marcus no fucking. It would only be a point of contention when he couldn’t satisfy her in the same way Quill had.

  She didn’t come again, but Phillip didn’t seem to mind. He’d paid for his pleasure, not hers. When he was finished with her, he pulled out and zipped up. He didn’t linger or make small talk, something for which she was grateful. Nothing would be more awkward than post-coital small talk with a practical stranger.

  Phillip stroked the side of her face. “Goodbye, petal. You were worth every penny.”

  He left her chained and sprawled on the floor, the door closing softly behind him while the cello music still played.

  She lay on the floor in a sort of floaty space. With the blindfold still over her eyes and her hands bound, it was hard to tell which way was up and which was down. The door clicked open.

  “Are you okay, love?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Saskia said, barely recognizing her own voice.

  It didn’t surprise her that Quill could make her feel this way. And in a way, it wasn’t that shocking that Marcus could do it either. The shock was that a stranger could play her body and mind with the same success. It was just another slide deeper down the rabbit hole.

  Marcus unchained her wrists and removed the blindfold. He looked her over for anything he might need to bandage. When he found nothing, he helped her back into her gown, picked her up, and carried her out to the gallery.

  She didn’t see Quill again that night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tears streamed down Saskia’s face as Quill berated her. She gasped when he ripped the painting off the easel and threw it across the room. The sad little canvas buckled when it hit the wall with a force that startled her. This was becoming a habit with him.

  “No! Why don’t I just give you a child’s coloring book? It’ll be just as much art as this is!”

  Did he think his abuse would help anything? All this yelling? If possible, she cried even harder.

  “But you said I was good!” If he really believed that, he wouldn’t be treating her this way. He just wanted a punching bag. What he needed was a fucking therapist.

  “You are good. Technically. There is precious little I have left to teach you technically. I am genuinely impressed with how quickly you were able to switch to my methods, but you have to give up more of yourself if you don’t want to be forgotten. You have to give the work everything you give me and more. Great art isn’t made of stitched together rainbows and kittens. It’s born of anger and despair and frustration.”

  “My life hasn’t been a cake walk! You know that!” It wasn’t even a cake walk now. Quill was making sure of that. How dare he with all his heaping piles of money tell her about what pain and struggle felt like. As if he could remember any of it.

  “Then show me, Saskia! Put it on the motherfucking canvas before I have to bleed it out of you!”

  He meant that quite literally. He seemed to itch to take her into the gallery to whip her. Maybe this was just an excuse. Her eyes narrowed as her tears ran their course. She felt she might snap the paintbrush in half; she squeezed it so tightly.

  “You’re angry,” he remarked, his tone empty of inflection.

  “No shit, I’m angry! I worked on that for five hours, and you’ve warped it!”

  He picked up a new canvas from the ground and set it on the easel. “Put your anger on the canvas. I won’t ask you twice. Paint your anger, or you can paint the pain I’m about to deliver.”

  “You don’t paint your anger and despair and frustration,” she retorted, knowing how dangerously close she was to the threat he’d just issued. The gallery was filled with paintings of her. They were all brilliant, but it wasn’t something he could teach. He had to know that by now.

  Quill ripped the brush from her hand and threw it on the ground. He stalked her across the studio until her back met the glass. His eyes bored into hers, drilling down into her soul with the smallest effort.

  “No, I don’t paint that. That isn’t where my art comes from. I paint power and control and all the dark urges that live inside me. And you’ve been an endless source of inspiration for that! But that’s my material. You’re living your material and you can’t even get it on the fucking canvas!”

  His patience had reached an end. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her from the studio, down the hallway, and into the gallery where all his brilliance stared back at her.

  His newest work mocked her from the corner. It was her in the high heels and long black opera gloves, blindfolded and suspended in the harem room with Phillip looming behind her with the crop in his hand. Quill hadn’t just been watching that night. He’d been capturing it on canvas. Just how large was the screen he monitored the video feeds on?

  “I’m doing the best I can!”

  “No, you aren’t!”

  “Master, please. Don’t do this while you’re angry.” He was really scaring her this time. “Please.”

  He dragged her to the cage and tossed her in and locked it. “I’ll be back for you when I’ve cooled down. But pain is coming, sweetheart. And then you’re going to paint it for me. And it will be fucking glorious.”

  There was an or else in there somewhere. He’d completely lost his mind.

  Saskia let out a deep breath and stretched out on the giant plush pillow, relieved he’d listened to her plea. She just wasn’t sure how much he’d really cool off before he came back.

  Maybe an hour passed before Quill returned. He’d changed out of painting clothes and into all black. Black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black gloves. His anger had dissipated—at least the surface of it had. In its place was a cold darkness that seemed to swirl around him like dramatic fog, cocooning all his emotions. Saskia wasn’t sure this was better.

  He unlocked the cage without a word and helped her out.

  “Just let me try one more time. I know I can paint something that pleases you.”

  “Speak again and I’ll gag you.”

  She closed her mouth and allowed him to drag her through the gallery. He stopped at each piece of BDSM furniture in turn, sizing it up, then sizing her up. His face was unreadable. Unhappy with his options in the gallery, he dragged her back into the studio, and he sat on one of the chaise lounges meant for his softer nudes. He hadn’t managed to paint Saskia even once that way.

  With her it was all blood and pain and welts. Harsh, dangerous eroticism. Never anything sweet or languidly seductive. It was all work that screamed for your attention at the top of its lungs then held its breath until you looked for good measure.

  Quill pulled her over his lap and shoved the artist smock up over her hips. For the past week or two, he’d insisted she wear nothing but the smock to paint. No pants or shirt or skirt underneath. No panties. No bra.

  He wanted her in the right mental zone to create the work he’d said she was destined to create. If she shied away from the subject matter, he’d determined to turn her into the subject matter. This was another lesson in becoming the art. As if there weren’t enough canvases splashed with her image to drive that point home already.

  He didn’t say anything, and she was afraid to. Instead, his gloved hand struck her bare flesh over and over. It didn’t matter how she cried out or begged. He would only stop when his hand was tired, then only to rub her heated skin for a few moments before he started up again.

  Quill didn’t try to seduce her or fuck her or finger her. This wasn’t foreplay. It wasn’t even punishment. In his own demented way, he was trying to help her, trying to pull her material to the surface so she could see it, so she could feel it, so s
he could create something raw and vital enough that strangers could look at it and taste the same acrid fear and darkness. All her work was locked away inside her with no clear channel to communicate those things to others.

  Eventually, she surrendered under his hand. The begging stopped. The crying changed from attention-seeking sobs to hushed tears.

  He pulled the smock back down and she slid onto the ground. Her head rested on his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair absently, then seemed to catch himself. His hand stilled at the nape of her neck and he leaned close to her ear.

  “Now. Paint.”

  Saskia wiped her face and struggled to stand. Quill didn’t help her. He merely sat and waited to be impressed. She began mixing pigment and started to cover the canvas.

  Five hours later, she was finished with a piece that was emotional, but that was all it was. It was one extreme or another with her. The painting was a mess of erratic colors and harsh lines. She wasn’t even sure what she was painting. It was as if she’d changed her mind multiple times in the creation of the piece but each time just moved to a different part of the canvas and started over, never mind what had come before.

  In the hands of a better artist, maybe it would have been brilliant, but this was anything but. It felt chaotic and hurt and angry. All her technical artistry was gone, leeched out by Quill’s impatience and anger. She was too upset to focus, too panicked and terrified to displease him. He’d terrorized her to the point that she was afraid to paint—especially while he loomed over her, pacing in the background, watching and judging each brush stroke. It made the hairs of her neck stand at attention every time he walked past.

  She’d finished it when she’d run out of space on the canvas. Always a bad sign. It meant she was flailing about with no direction or purpose. Quill sensed it, too. Hell, he didn’t have to sense it. A child could see it. A child could do better. Any other aspiring artist on the planet deserved his attention and instruction more than she did.

  Saskia put the brush down and tensed, waiting for more rage. Instead she got silence. She chanced a glance at him and wished she hadn’t. She’d never seen him look so disappointed, like a boy whose ice cream had fallen in the ditch, and there was no more left.

  He stared at the canvas as if he could unmake it with the power of thought. Then he sent that same withering look her way as if she’d done this on purpose. Then back to the canvas. Then he turned and left the studio and gallery without a word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A week passed. No new men were introduced. There were no trips outside the estate. The work had ground to a halt. He didn’t paint her, nor did she paint. The studio remained untouched. She remained untouched.

  At least by Quill.

  Saskia wondered if he’d lost interest in her completely. Only Marcus was there at night to comfort her, to touch her, to bring her pleasure and soothe her. She hadn’t seen Quill for days. For all she knew, he’d left the country. Maybe he’d gone back to Venice to the villa she’d bought.

  Her meals were brought to her in the gallery. And she’d taken it as a signal not to venture to the main house. Maybe he was in there, and he just didn’t want to see her.

  On the eighth morning of this, it was Quill, instead of Marcus, who let her out of the cage.

  He wore dark jeans and a white polo shirt that made him look even more bronzed than normal.

  Was he getting rid of her? There was no reason for her to think that, but he’d been gone a long time.

  Awful scenarios popped into her head—after all she had plenty of ways to destroy him if he set her free. Would he sell or give her to someone else? Perhaps Ari or Phillip? She tried to imagine belonging to The Viking or Phillip. It wouldn’t be a terrible outcome would it?

  She stood outside the cage, tears silently moving down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at him.

  Quill wiped the tears away and pulled her into his arms. She let out a long breath as her body pressed against his.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “A-are you getting rid of me?”

  He pulled away and studied her, his face a mask of confusion. “No. Why would you think that?”

  Was he kidding? He’d completely ignored her. “We haven’t painted... or done any other things.”

  “I’ve just been very busy.”

  She wasn’t buying it.

  He sighed. “I thought we needed a break from the work. I was getting too frustrated with you. I wasn’t in control of myself, and I didn’t like it. I’ve been working on some other things.”

  “Okay, but what about the rest? Do you not want me anymore?” Before Quill, she’d never considered herself an insecure woman. Now she was every woman she hated. The girl who sat beside the phone waiting. The girl consumed only with some man and whether or not he wanted to fuck her. She hated that girl. She thought that girl was weak and pathetic and should develop some hobbies or something.

  “I wanted to give you a rest period and let you bond with Marcus. He’s... less intense than I am. Go shower and get ready. I want to take you out.”

  “Okay.” Out sounded good. Her mind had been slowly unraveling, locked away inside the gallery, imagining the worst.

  Quill’s face was stern. “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, Master.”

  “Good girl. And when we go out, you will call me what?”

  “Sir.”

  He nodded and pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

  Saskia quickly showered and put on a lavender sundress he’d laid out for her along with a pair of silver strappy sandals.

  He gave her a quick once over when she emerged, nodded his approval, then took her hand in his and led her out to the car. Marcus had already gone to the house to sleep for the day.

  Saskia wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t what she got. Quill took her to an amusement park. It was a local family-owned park, named after the large lake situated in the middle of the property.

  He won her a stuffed Dalmatian at one of the carnival games. He made sure she got enough sunscreen on her back and shoulders. He fed her corn dogs and cotton candy and held her hand in the haunted house.

  They rode all the rides. He talked and acted like a normal person, not the man who’d intimidated and scared the shit out of her from moment one until this morning. As the sun began to glow orange and set behind the trees, they sat at the top of the oversized Ferris wheel. He looked content high above the tree line and crowd.

  The ride malfunctioned, and they were stuck at the top for about twenty minutes while someone from maintenance was called to fix the glitch. Stuck in the bucket suspended over the park, far away from Quill’s estate, Saskia managed the bravery to ask the question that had been on her mind since he’d knocked the milk bottles down and won her the toy dog.

  “What is all this? Why...”

  His face appeared relaxed, but she couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark reflective glasses he wore to block the glare of the sun. Even as the sun finished disappearing behind the trees, he hadn’t moved to take them off.

  “Let’s not make a big deal out of it. I just wanted to get out. You needed to get out. I haven’t been here in a while. I used to come here a lot when I was a kid.”

  Saskia waited for some further explanation, some cute anecdote that would make him seem less distant, more approachable. But he didn’t say anything more.

  She wanted to ask if he’d brought the first girl he’d collared here. But there wasn’t enough bravery in the world for her to broach that question. She didn’t want to see him shift back into the person who pushed her further and further away. She felt like she’d already messed things up somehow. As if he might have let her in a tiny bit if she’d just been quiet and enjoyed it, without making him examine his motives.

  Finally the wheel lurched forward and began its descent. When they reached the bottom, a manager handed Quill two free passes. “We’re very sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

  “It’s no
problem. Thanks,” he said, slipping the passes into his pants pocket.

  As they moved away from the ride, Saskia asked, “Can we come back sometime?”

  “We’ll see. We should get back.”

  She didn’t react at all when his hand slid into hers, afraid if she acknowledged it, he’d pull further away from her.

  “Did you have a nice time today?” he asked, sounding almost normal.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m glad.”

  It was as close to heartfelt confessions as she’d likely ever get from him.

  ***

  Saskia followed him back into the gallery, startled by the changes that greeted her arrival. Everything was different. There were paintings on the wall, but none of the Quill pieces. And none of her. It was all other artists he’d collected, as well as a few installations scattered about.

  A buffet table stood at one end, laden down with all the fancy party foods one might expect at a gallery opening. The servants were putting the finishing touches on the food. One thing was certain: a lot of people would be in this space very soon.

  Her cage was missing, though the sex furniture remained in place. The furniture wouldn’t be easy to move, being bolted to the floor. But wasn’t he concerned about people seeing that? Then again, if it could be rebranded as art it might pass—depending on the intended audience. But you had to be careful. You didn’t want to rattle the birds in their cages.

  “I’m having a private party,” Quill said as if this were a thing that needed stating. “My work has been moved into the main house and replaced with paintings that were on display there. It would look a bit suspicious if everyone I knew saw how many Joseph Quill pieces I own. Don’t you think?” The question was rhetorical. “Come.”

  He guided Saskia to the far end of the gallery where temporary walls had been erected in her absence.

  So the day at the park had just been to get her out of the gallery for whatever this was?

  “You’re going to be part of an interactive installation tonight. You’ll come more times than you can count, though I expect you to count your orgasms for me anyway.”