The Con Artist

by Kitty Thomas

  The first week he’d been content with—or at least tolerated—her dark photocopies as she’d begun to think of them. She didn’t know why she couldn’t let the things inside her out. It was what he wanted, and all she wanted was to please him. She couldn’t even fight with that thought anymore. It was too exhausting.

  She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to fuck her. She wanted to sleep in his bed. She wanted him to look at her paintings with pride and satisfaction. She wanted him to think her work was brilliant.

  Saskia felt as if at some point she’d jumped onto the wrong train, pulled into the wrong station, and then just decided to stay at the new destination, scrapping every other plan she’d made for her life—such that they were.

  Quill was the wrong train. But he was the train she so desperately wanted to ride.

  She wasn’t sure she had the heart to beg him anymore. She couldn’t handle more rejection.

  He sighed again. “No. Why am I wasting this time on you if you’re not going to give me anything?”

  He took the canvas off the easel and flung it across the studio until it hit one of the glass walls, flinging tiny specks of still-wet paint onto both it and the floor.

  Saskia slid to the ground and started to cry. “I’m sorry, Master. Maybe it’s not in me. I was kidding myself to ever think I could create like you.”

  In a rare shimmering moment, his expression softened. He sat on the ground beside her, pulling her into his arms. He petted her hair and rested his chin on the top of her head. It was familiar in a way he never allowed himself to be with her.

  “If I didn’t believe in you, I wouldn’t bother. I’m frustrated because I know it is in you. But this isn’t working.”

  He got off the ground and picked up the painting to put it with her others. She stayed there, still crying, while he cleaned the mess he’d made as well as the mess she had. He was so particular about his tools and paints that she was almost afraid to ever help him with the clean-up process, afraid he’d snap at her when she put the tube of burnt umber next to the cadmium yellow. He had a system, and even though she’d watched him, she didn’t fully understand it or want to do yet another thing wrong to disappoint him.

  “I’m sorry this is so hard on you... that I’m so... intense,” he said.

  Intense. Or abusive. But he was the typical temperamental artist, and no one had ever bothered to rein him in. And it wasn’t as if she had the power to. Or the will.

  He hadn’t mentioned her theft in a while. It had only been a rationalization to do what he would have done anyway. They both knew that. But with her running all over the world throwing around millions of his dollars, he’d been able to more easily pretend this was some sort of justice he was meting out. As if she deserved it. As if stealing a human being and stealing mere money had moral equivalence.

  “If I hadn’t conned you, would you have still found a way to have me?”

  Quill looked up, his head whipping around so quickly, it seemed as if it might pop right off. He’d been standing by the sink, cleaning the brushes.

  “Where is this coming from?” he asked, back to practiced indifference.

  She shrugged. “I just wondered if this was really all something I brought on myself or if you would have let me go if I’d stolen the painting for you like I promised.”

  “It makes no difference now, does it? You’re here. You picked your course. I picked mine.”

  But it mattered to her.

  He let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Saskia. I’m sure I would have found a way to get what I wanted. You always had a price. I just had to figure out what it was.”

  He washed his hands with the artist soap and returned to her. He offered a hand, and she took it as he pulled her to her feet.

  “I think we need to go out.”

  “To the club?”

  She wasn’t sure if she was yet prepared to be back at the club with him. They hadn’t returned since that first night. They hadn’t even left the house. If she were being honest, she’d developed some cabin fever. And while she was sure Quill had gone out a few times, if he had, he hadn’t gone far or been gone very long. He must be as ready to do something else as she was.

  “Not the club. Something much better.” He took an envelope from his back pocket and gave it to her.

  It looked like an invitation to a ball. When Saskia removed the crisp linen card from the envelope, she found her speculation wasn’t far off. Another fancy party at a museum in the city.

  “It’s an opening for a new exhibit. All the top donors will be there, including most of my friends.”

  It felt as if there was a hidden meaning there, one Saskia thought she knew but decided to pretend she didn’t.

  Quill continued, “I want you to wear that dark purple gown you wore that night.” He meant what she’d worn to Eric Raine’s twenty-first birthday party.

  “It’s been stuffed in a box and hasn’t been cleaned...” It was silk. It needed to be dry-cleaned.

  “I took care of it earlier today. It’s hanging in the bathroom. We all need a night out.”

  “We all?”

  “Marcus is coming.”

  Of course he was. Why did she have to feel so jealous of and attracted to Marcus at the same time?

  ***

  Saskia jumped as champagne flutes clinked and raucous laughter filled the large open space in the museum where the party was being held. The new exhibit was just down the hall.

  She was so jumpy. She hadn’t been around this many people in a while. But it wasn’t as if she’d been isolated from all human contact. There was Marcus and Quill and the servants who drifted in and out at the periphery—most whose names she still didn’t know and likely never would at this rate.

  They avoided her—probably on direct order from Quill. He might keep secrets from the rest of the world. He might have endless social groups and various aliases within each, but inside his home, there were no secrets. And it was understood no one would cross him there.

  Saskia began to wonder if he had horrible secrets on all of those in his employ. Or did he just pay them an astoundingly large sum of money—plenty to keep their mouths shut? Or did he keep them in an orgasmic stupor, falling all over themselves trying to please him like she and Marcus did? Even though Marcus would never fully admit to it.

  She took a glass of champagne off a passing tray and glanced around for a sign of Marcus or Quill. One moment they’d been there with her, the next... gone. She knew what they were probably doing, somewhere in some dark corner of the museum. And the jealousy tugged at her again.

  She was still surprised he’d brought her out into the open like this among the normals. Didn’t he worry she’d say something? Run away? Find a police officer to have him arrested?

  But despite Quill’s current downplaying of the situation, she knew he could bring out the trump card of her theft at any time. And she was sure he’d meticulously preserved all the evidence. He was smart like that.

  And she’d walked on that plane voluntarily. And it wasn’t as if she was dirty or had physical signs of damage. She certainly wasn’t chained down or locked in a closet. Who would believe her? Wandering around in a fancy dress at a fancy party?

  A stranger caught her eye from across the room. He was tall, athletic, blond. He reminded her in a way of Eric Raine, except that his eyes weren’t the same guileless blue topaz. They were slate gray, older, wiser, more shrewd. They’d seen things. And she didn’t have to use much imagination to figure out what types of things they might have seen—if the way his eyes slid over her curves were any indication.

  She looked away, flushed and suddenly very concerned with finding Quill, but this man had long powerful legs and smart but sensible dress shoes, while she was encased in ridiculous heels. They matched the dress perfectly, but good luck escaping any hungry predators. It wasn’t as if she could stun them with her impressive color matching and then escape to safety.

  “Hello,” he said w
hen he reached her. His voice was even more cultured than she expected. Somehow hello felt stuffy and formal after the way he’d just visually undressed her. It already seemed they were beyond that. “You belong to Andrew Drake, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry?” Unconsciously she touched the black diamond collar at her throat. She’d convinced herself no one could tell or possibly know what the collar meant.

  Amusement lit his eyes at her confusion. “He goes by Kane at our club. Has he not even told you his name? And yet he put that collar around your throat? How intriguing.”

  Oh. Another name of Quill’s to file away. He was moving dangerously close to his own basketball team of fake identities. Drake must be the real one. Marcus’s words about the dragon tattoo jumped to the front of her mind.

  “I-I was just caught off guard. Excuse me, I need to go find him.”

  The stranger smirked. “I’m sure that you do. And I’m equally sure that you and I will have another encounter later. Perhaps one that involves less fabric.” Another glance down the length of her dress. But he didn’t dare touch her because, as he’d put it, she belonged to Andrew Drake.

  This was news to her.

  It was somehow horrifying that she’d belonged to a man for so long without knowing his real name. Even so, Quill was the only name she could mentally attach to him. It wasn’t as if she would start imagining him as Andrew or Mr. Drake. Or even just Drake.

  Saskia couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say to the blond man, so she just turned, flustered, and escaped down the long hall away from the party.

  As she passed the new exhibit and moved into the echoing silence of the main part of the museum, she chanced a glance behind her. But he hadn’t followed.

  A rope blocked the rest of the museum, but she knew her two escorts were somewhere behind it. She found herself angriest at Marcus for the abandonment. Wasn’t he supposed to guard her? The moment someone appeared that she might like to be guarded from, he was nowhere to be found.

  She wandered through darkened exhibit after darkened exhibit. The main lights of each room were off, leaving only a dim recessed light above each piece. It felt spooky, haunted. If she were watching this on a screen, she’d ineffectually shout, “Don’t go down that hall!”

  Yet down it she went.

  Saskia opened door after door after door with nothing but dim spotlights and paintings and sculptures to answer her search. Finally, tucked away toward the back of the museum, she came upon the final door. It opened into a grand gallery which would have been framed in an overwhelming amount of natural light if it were daytime. One entire wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The room was filled with hand blown glass art in all different colors. She imagined many of the colorless pieces prismed into rainbows across the white walls when the sun hit it just right. This room must be lovely in the day. Outside the window, the bustling city below was lit up by street lamps and car headlights and decorative storefront lighting.

  She turned, about to give up and go back to the party, when she saw another door at the end of the gallery—almost hidden—tucked away behind a large red glass piece.

  Even before she turned the knob, she knew this was the door. Yet she still wasn’t prepared for what she found when she walked through it.

  It wasn’t so much the activity being engaged in, as the fact that both men were entirely naked. Sure, they’d gone off the beaten path, but anybody could wander down that same path—as she had.

  Marcus was on his knees in front of Quill, the black dragon on his back seeming to ripple as he moved, sucking Quill’s cock with such an expert finesse she had no idea why Quill bothered even trying to teach her how to take his full size. It seemed Marcus was fully on top of that task.

  She forgot to be jealous, as she took in the electric eroticism in front of her. Quill’s fingers were tangled in Marcus’s hair while Marcus’s hands gripped Quill’s ass, pulling him closer and closer as if he couldn’t go deep enough for either of their tastes.

  Quill looked up, not taking his eyes off Saskia as he came. Marcus’s throat continued to work, swallowing until Quill pulled out of him.

  When Marcus stood, he sported his own raging erection.

  This room was dimly lit like the others, but nothing seemed dark enough to cover the nudity on display. Though, as she glanced around, she realized it wasn’t just Marcus and Quill who were unclothed. The walls were covered in nudes. A few of them were Quill’s work. The sculptures in the room were nudes as well.

  Along one wall was a sofa so fancy and frilly, she wasn’t sure if it was art, or if one could sit on it. It wasn’t roped off, but still she didn’t dare chance it.

  “W-what about the cameras?” she blurted. She couldn’t tell if they were on or off. Nothing blinked.

  “The museum director turned them off for me in this room.”

  Quill must donate a lot and must know the director well for such a large and dangerous favor. It had to violate insurance agreements and employment contracts. She wondered how many millions it had cost to secure that donor perk. It probably wasn’t listed on their yearly membership drive pamphlet. ...And if you donate ten million you can fuck in front of the art with the security cameras off.

  “Come here,” Quill demanded.

  Saskia’s heels clicked against the hard floor as she tentatively approached the two men.

  “Turn toward Marcus.”

  When she did, Quill began to unzip the long plum gown.

  “Master, please,” she whispered.

  “Shhhh. You chose to come back here. You chose to interrupt and watch like a naughty little voyeur. Don’t you think you should be punished for that?”

  She didn’t reply because there was no reply that was acceptable. A no would earn her more punishment and the word yes contained far more masochism than she did.

  “W-what if someone comes in?”

  “Then they’ll get to see a wide variety of lovely nudes in erotic poses. You among them.” He pushed the straps of the gown off her shoulders and the dress fell, causing the silk to pool in a pile at her feet. “Step out.”

  She did, and Marcus led her a few feet away from the dress. Quill ran his hands over her black lace panties and bra. “Very nice.” Slowly he removed those as well. “I want you to leave the shoes on.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Marcus, hold her.”

  Marcus took one wrist in each of his hands, and held them up to eye level. His grip was strong but not painful. His eyes locked with hers. Quill had no implement to whip her with, but he didn’t need one. His hand was plenty strong enough.

  She didn’t cry out when he started to spank her, but the tears slid down her cheeks all the same. Marcus watched her cry with only mild interest in his eyes.

  The sharp, hard smacks against her ass rang out in the room. It felt so loud she was sure it would call the whole party back there, even though the music on the other end of the museum was loud, and most wouldn’t venture beyond the ropes even if they heard a disturbance.

  When he finished, he rubbed some of the sting out, then dipped a finger between her legs. He chuckled at her wetness.

  “Get on your knees and take care of Marcus.”

  “But I thought you said...”

  “You can do it if I’m here and directly order it. I want my fantastic cocksucker serviced. So service him.”

  Marcus released her wrists, and Saskia dropped to her knees in front of him. As she took Marcus into her mouth, Quill began to kiss him.

  Then the door opened. She jerked away from Marcus and looked up, startled to find the blond athletic stranger smirking at her from the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude.” he said.

  Quill laughed. “Of course you do, Phillip.” He gestured to the sofa against the wall. “Sit. Enjoy the show.”

  He nodded and sat on the sofa, his legs spread wide, as if inviting Saskia to crawl over to him and blow him next. She wa
sn’t sure that wasn’t on the menu of options at this point.

  “Miss Roth?” Quill said. “He can watch you blow Marcus, or he can watch you get punished again and then watch you blow Marcus. Your choice.”

  She wasn’t sure where the resolve to obey him came from. Maybe it was that no matter how wrong and fucked up it all was, the pulsing need between her thighs only pulsed stronger with each successive minute inside this room and each degree farther they all fell into depravity.

  Saskia dragged her tongue along the shaft and took Marcus back into her mouth. She used her hands to help her, but she was getting better at going deeper, longer, relaxing her throat like Quill had taught her even without the aid of something cold. Quill went back to kissing Marcus.

  When Marcus came, she didn’t even think about not swallowing. It would be too mortifying for Quill’s friend to watch her get punished for that. And she knew exactly what her master wanted from her—though the why of the sharing still eluded her.

  She scooted away from Marcus as he put his pants back on and zipped up. For now, he didn’t bother with the white linen shirt or jacket or shoes.

  “May I have a look at her?” Phillip asked.

  “Of course,” Quill said. He helped Saskia to her feet. “Go to him,” he whispered.

  She looked at her master, uncertain, her eyes begging. The man on the sofa was not without his charms, even though she’d sought to escape him earlier. She hadn’t been repulsed, just uncomfortable and partly afraid that she might get in trouble for appearing to flirt with someone else. Quill giving him some level of approval softened her to the idea.

  She moved on shaking legs to Phillip. He held out both hands to her, and she took them when she reached him. He held her steady.

  “Spread your legs, petal,” he said.

  Saskia looked over her shoulder to Quill. He nodded and she widened her stance.

  Phillip slid his hand between her legs. He looked past her to Quill. “How much?”

  “I’m not ready to share her yet.”