The Con Artist

by Kitty Thomas

  One entire corner was set up for suspension. There were hoods, and gloves, and riding crops. There were duplicates of much of the sex furniture from the gallery. Maybe he’d found a buy one get one free sale.

  An enormous bed stood at the far end, far from most of his kink accoutrements—a safe space. The bedding was black.

  A somewhat innocuous red leather couch angled out from one corner to create a small sitting area. Though it was the kind of couch one imagined a Dear Penthouse letter might be composed from.

  There was a cage next to the bed—like the one on the jet and the one inside his gallery. She fought not to start crying. She had been sure he’d meant for her to actually share his bed. To sleep in it. What was the point of any of this if she’d only be relegated to another cage?

  He caught her staring at it.

  “I told you, you could sleep with me in my bed if you were good at the party. You’ve got a punishment coming for not counting like I told you to, but assuming you accept that without excessive whining, nothing has changed.”

  She nodded, still not trusting herself not to cry. She couldn’t sleep in a cage again.

  “Lose the robe and get in bed.”

  Saskia stripped off the robe and got under the covers on the other side of the room while he pressed a button on a remote. A large panel in the floor slid open and a flat screen, lying horizontal, rose into the room. He pushed a second button, and the screen lifted at an angle until it was fully vertical. It was massive, much larger than the screen he’d made her watch herself on before in his study.

  She wasn’t sure she was prepared to see her pussy in oversized high definition and wondered if she could get away with keeping her eyes closed for this.

  “Would you like to know how much of your debt you paid off tonight?”

  Admittedly, she’d been curious about how much money had gone into that glass jar. She hadn’t been able to help thinking about it every time someone new took a turn with the toys.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “A little over twenty-five thousand. I’ve already made a note of it in the ledger. That’s not bad. At this rate, you may live to be debt free.”

  “And then what happens?”

  He couldn’t release her even if she managed to buy her way out of this slavery. It wasn’t as if any of this was legal. She had so much on him, it was amazing he didn’t keep her chained down 24/7, lest she somehow escape and make it to the proper authorities with a laundry list of felonies to charge him with.

  And anyway, Quill was the one setting the prices. If she got close to paying him back, he could simply lower the amount he charged for access to her body. It was all a game to him. A never ending pit of debt. He would arrange it so she could never climb out and was always reaching up to him from the dark hole he’d tossed her down.

  “Of course, interest accrues daily.”

  Of course.

  “But, in the unlikely event you ever paid off your debt, I would allow you your freedom if you still wanted it by that point.”

  How magnanimous of him.

  “You aren’t worried I’d report you?”

  He chuckled. “No. I know you won’t report me for the same reason you were so torn up over stealing from me. Because you know who I am. Because you can’t bear the thought of hurting Joseph Quill. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Joseph Quill was a lie. The art was real, but everything else around him was carefully crafted artifice, yet she still fell for the illusion.

  Saskia wanted him to be wrong. Desperately. There had to be something he could do, some line he could cross that she couldn’t forgive. There had to be a level of depravity he could take her to, a place so dark that could erase any feelings of reverence she had toward the artist. But so far, her tolerance for his whims seemed bottomless.

  Quill stripped off his clothing and draped it across the couch then joined Saskia in the bed. He pulled her against him, holding her close.

  She barely breathed. She could hardly believe they were wrapped up in his bed, skin pressed against skin in something that almost looked like an affectionate embrace. Marcus was kind to her. Why was it so important to her to have Quill’s affection as well?

  So he was a great artist. So what? There were a lot of great artists. He was an arrogant rich asshole who wasn’t worth the tears she’d shed for him or the admiration she’d felt, but as he held her, Saskia was sure there must be something deeper in this man worth knowing and being connected to.

  He pressed the button on the remote, and the screen came to life with footage from the party.

  It was jolting to see herself this way—as disconnected pieces rather than a whole. At the same time, not having to watch her own facial expressions allowed her the distance she needed from it. It was like watching porn with decent dialogue. As long as she didn’t think too hard about who all of this was being done to, it was as exciting watching it as it had been experiencing it.

  “We’ll fast-forward to the best parts, but even during the fast forwarding, you will count every orgasm.”

  “But if we’re skimming through part of it, how will I know?”

  “Trust me, you’ll know.”

  He was right. She did know. Even while moving fast, she started to see a small jerk she always made to the right. Like a poker tell. She hadn’t realized she did that. She wondered if she’d done it with all her lovers in the past.

  He slowed the footage and pressed play to let her see a part with Nolan.

  Quill’s hand slipped between her legs. Saskia tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go.

  “I knew you liked him,” he said.

  She tensed, waiting for that to turn into an issue, but it didn’t.

  Quill skimmed through most of the film, stopping for each turn Nolan had taken. He’d drilled her with various toys a total of five times. Each of those times, he’d dropped more money into the glass jar. How much would he pay for a private session with her? Would he pay more so Quill could maintain a defense of his territory, or would he get the friends and family discount?

  The only other part of the film Quill slowed down for was the women. Saskia was surprised three women at the party had actually engaged in this. The women were different, though. They giggled at doing something naughty and forbidden.

  She’d heard their laughter at the time, but had thought they were only standing nearby. She’d known it was nervous laughter and had wondered if they just didn’t want to piss off the men they were with by objecting. Now she wondered if they’d somehow been coerced to join in. Perhaps they’d thought it better to be the aggressor than the one lying naked and vulnerable in the box. And yet, everyone had watched them do what they’d done.

  The women had hesitated. The men hadn’t. The men, by contrast, showed no shame. They’d felt entitled. Of course, if a woman was spread-eagled near them, ready and waiting, it was practically their birthright to plow that field.

  In the film’s background, Saskia watched couples slip behind the large Greek columns together—not quite brave enough for an orgy, but far too bold for a polite gathering.

  Quill skimmed through the last three sessions and then shut off the video.

  “I plan to watch it at my leisure, later,” he said as he stroked between her legs, giving no doubt as to what he planned to be doing while watching. “How many, Saskia?”

  She didn’t bother playing dumb. “T-twenty-two, Master.”

  “That’s an insane number of orgasms for four hours,” he said. “You’re insatiable. Unfortunately, that also means you’ll be paying for them with twenty-two cane stripes. If only you’d kept count like I asked, you could have had them for free.”

  “I’m sorry, I just lost track. Please...”

  Quill shook his head. “No. You know when I lay down a law, that’s it. You have no excuse. I’ll spread them across your thighs, and ass, perhaps a few over your breasts. And I won’t go harder than you can take. Let’s get this done.”

 
“You don’t sound like you want to. If you don’t want to, I sure as shit don’t want you to.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Watch your mouth, little girl. I never want to punish you, but I want your defiance even less.”

  He turned off the video and pressed the appropriate buttons to make the screen slide back down into the floor. The paneling closed over it. He set the remote on the night table and crossed to the other end of the room. His fingertips skimmed the cane as if it were a dear friend he’d lost touch with.

  Of course he wanted to punish her. Just like he’d wanted to entrap her and enslave her, and all the rest of it. He wasn’t possessed. No one pulled his strings. Who could possibly pull this man’s strings?

  “Saskia?”

  She reluctantly unfolded her limbs and climbed out of the bed, following him to the corner. Quill secured her arms over her head and then stepped back to look at her, circling her a couple of times as if he were imagining this on a canvas. Abruptly he came back to himself.

  He nudged her legs apart with the tip of the cane.

  “You will count them out loud.”

  Saskia jerked in the chains as the cane sliced the air—before it even struck her. When it did, it seemed to send ripples of pain that vibrated across the room. The sharpest sensation was the cry it tore from her throat.

  “O-one.” Her lip trembled when she spoke. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been this afraid of him before. Even the time he’d been angry. The idea of even surviving twenty-two lashes of the cane, especially a cane wielded by Quill was more than she thought she could cope with. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “I told you that doesn’t affect me,” he said.

  Of course it didn’t. He was heartless and soulless. A fucking sociopath with pretty things.

  “I know, Master.”

  Somehow, despite his lack of anything approaching compassion, the remaining lashes were lighter. They still hurt like hell, but it was a hurt that one could cope with. She counted each one dutifully, each one getting her closer to the end of her punishment.

  In between each strike she mentally berated herself. Why couldn’t she just remember to keep track of the orgasms? At least she hadn’t lied and made up a number. That would have been worse when Quill watched the feed and counted them himself. And she didn’t think she was a good enough actress to feign a counting error.

  Finally, the word “Twenty-two” fell from her lips. Quill let the cane slip from his hand onto the ground. His special precious cane with its own spotlight rattled against the hardwood like a viper.

  He unchained her and led her to the bed. “Lie on your stomach.”

  He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a first aid kit. “I didn’t break skin, but I’m going to put a cream on the welts to take the sting out.”

  Saskia barely breathed as he sat beside her and began smoothing the cooling cream over each mark he’d left across her skin. She could hardly believe he was doing this. He never took care of her after. It was always Marcus who’d been tasked with the comfort side of things. It had made everything with Quill feel incomplete, as if Saskia couldn’t get herself to fully bond with him because he never directly offered her the comfort she needed.

  “Sit up, and let me get the ones on your breasts.”

  Saskia scooted to a sitting position. She remained silent as he rubbed the cream into the welts on her chest. He screwed the lid back on and dropped the container back into the first aid kit. She watched as he crossed to the other end of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a short cotton nightgown. Saskia could tell from across the room that the fabric was soft and cool and breathable. He helped her into it and then pulled back the covers on the bed.

  “Get in.”

  She slid under the covers, and Quill turned out the lights and joined her. Saskia drifted off to sleep in Quill’s arms, certain something had changed between them for the better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  But nothing changed. It was as if Quill had let his guard down with her for one beautiful moment and then pulled it right back up again. Almost immediately, he’d pushed her away, back into the gallery, isolated from him. As if she’d never spent a night in his bed. Or as if it didn’t matter that she had, or maybe he’d found her in some way lacking the same way he seemed to find everything she put on canvas lacking.

  Anyone else who didn’t meet his expectations, he could have sent packing, but she knew too many things that could ruin him, she hadn’t signed an NDA, and well, what were the odds he trusted her not to report him for what was essentially kidnapping? Despite his feigned confidence on the matter.

  He’d at least started painting with her again, but that same distance permeated the work between them. The only sign of intimacy was the accumulating stack of finished paintings in her image. It was the only real connection between them, the only sign that he felt something deeper when he looked at her.

  Beyond that, he’d grown even more distant than before. The only sex or kink they shared was in preparation for a new painting. He was willing to fuck her to capture her on canvas but not for the experience itself. What did that say about her? What the hell did it say about him?

  It was even worse with her work. With his, at least there was a sign of life in the finished piece, but when she painted, Quill maintained his distance. He gave no sign of either pleasure or disappointment. And no longer did he give her any direction. No tirades. No pep talks. Just a gaping void of nothing, a space she couldn’t seem to fill with anything to regain his interest in her as an artist.

  Quill glanced at her newest painting. A still life. BDSM furniture, but still she was regressing. She kept moving farther from the material instead of closer. She wondered if some part of her did this intentionally, to force his hand, to force any extreme reaction out of him. Anything that felt alive like his paintings. She was baiting him.

  But he gave no sign that he cared one way or the other about her creation. Instead, he said, “Nolan will be here in an hour. You should probably get ready.”

  Saskia flung her brush down, but still he didn’t react. “Do you really want me to fuck him?”

  Why? For what possible reason could he want this? He’d seemed weirdly jealous of Marcus. How could passing her around more help anything? She was perfectly happy to just be his. To truly deeply be his. Why couldn’t she just be his? Why couldn’t he just let her in? She’d only agreed to sleep with Nolan because Quill seemed to want her to. She grasped onto anything he wanted like it would be the last raindrop before an endless drought.

  Quill moved closer, the whisper of intensity peeking around the edges of his features. “Yes. I want you to fuck him. And I’m going to watch the whole thing on the cameras. I want you to give yourself to him in any way he demands. I want you to be my whore. It’s the only investment that’s paid off.”

  She flinched, unsure which stung more, the words themselves or their icy delivery. Once again, she wanted to hate him. Saskia was sure if he were anyone else in the world, she’d hate him. But no matter how much easier it would be and how much she wished she could flip a switch and be done, Quill continued to loom large in her mind, and the hope of something real with him lingered on.

  “He wants you to meet him out on the terrace. You can wear a swimsuit. Lacy left one in the bathroom for you. There will be drinks waiting by the pool.”

  Quill turned to leave.

  “Wait. Does he know who I am yet?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  An hour later, Quill was nowhere to be found. In fact, everyone at the main house had made themselves scarce. A red bikini had been left in the bathroom and a matching sarong.

  Nolan was in the pool, a piña colada in one hand, when Saskia arrived. She’d taken advantage of the sarong for as much cover as possible. Which was ludicrous. He’d seen everything in excruciating detail already.

  It seemed almost comical for someone with such strong male features to be holding a yellow girlie drink w
ith a pink straw. And yet there he was. He’d already downed one and was working on his second.

  “Saskia,” he said, his eyes widening in surprise.

  She couldn’t believe he’d actually remembered her name. When she’d met him at the fund raiser, she’d been sure that if she were to meet him again the very next day he would have scrambled to remember it and likely wouldn’t have even gotten the first letter right.

  “Nolan,” she said in reply.

  “Great, we both remember each other’s names. We’re off to a fabulous start. Join me.”

  Nolan wasn’t wearing swim trunks. They floated forlornly in the deep end of the pool like a tragic accident. His erection was visible even from above the surface of the water. He made no comment on the bikini or the fact that she was getting into the pool with him still wearing it.

  He handed her a piña colada when she reached him.

  Saskia took a sip. “Wow. That’s strong.”

  “It’s a lot of rum, very little mix. I imagine that was for your benefit.”

  As if drunk drowning in a pool could ever be to her benefit.

  “So, how’s the honest reproduction business?” he asked. “Or are you done with that now that you’ve landed a sugar daddy?”

  Saskia cringed. He’d seemed genuinely interested in what she did the night of the party, or was he only interested in getting her out of her gown? She gestured to the upper corner of the building at the security camera over the pool. “You know he’s watching this, right?”

  “Our host is a bit of a freak,” Nolan said, already forgetting the topic of reproductions. “But then, you knew that already. How did he ever convince you to get in the box at the party? Or are you a bit of a freak yourself?” He winked.

  She felt the heat come into her face and took another long sip from her drink. An alcohol buzz rippled over her face, slipping down over her shoulders, wrapping her in a warm hug of slight inebriation.

  Nolan’s fingers slid beneath her bikini bottoms, pushing slowly inside her. She let out a gasp, not prepared for things to move so quickly, despite knowing the reason she was there.