Slave Procurement Part 9 –

#Abuse #BDSM #Incest #Teen

By Edward Pembroke

Edward Pembroke continues his brutal operation of preying on and kidnapping training and selling beautiful young sex slaves

Pembroke had spent a week at sea piloting the Zephyr, meticulously researching and devising new plans, all while indulging in horrific sexual abuse of the two female captives. His actions, though vile, paled in comparison to the depravity Konrad had inflicted upon them.

Hours stretched infinitely in the tight darkness of the compartment where the girls were kept in strict bondage. Unable to see, they could only feel the warm flesh and heartbeat of each other, trapped for hours and hours in the sticky, hard-to-breathe atmosphere.

Konrad’s nervous demeanor had melted away when faced with the vulnerable girls, revealing a chilling cruelty that shocked even Pembroke. There were moments when Pembroke had almost intervened to prevent the girls from being thrown off the boat or seriously injured by Konrad’s brutal actions.

Pembroke first witnessed Konrad’s depravity when he saw him lifting Sophie off the deck, holding her upside down with her legs spread apart and forcing her exposed sex to his mouth. He bear-hugged her waist, pinning her against the cabin wall, and shoved his penis into her mouth as she struggled to breathe in her inverted position.

“Careful Konrad” laughed Pembroke, with a little concern, “that piece of ass is worth a lot of money!”

Pembroke had also been startled to find Kasia, after pulling her out one morning, to have quite an incredible amount of bite marks over her body, her feet, legs, thighs, back, torso, everywhere, even her arms. She was bleeding from some of them, and Pembroke had to swab her down with antisceptic, before putting her back into the darkness.

“Sorry, boss” Konrad sheepishly explained “I had so many years without seeing any girls, I just got over excited with Kasia, I will control myself, I promise!”

But the long boat trip was, Pembroke mused, a useful induction of terror, violence, and sex for new stock.

Pembroke carefully explained Kwame’s demise to the men and the ladies at the complex. By now, Kwame’s death had been reported, with French police informing the media that they believed he and Amir had killed each other in a gangland spat. They also speculated that the disappearances of Kasia Kowalska and Sophie Candelema were likely related to a sex trafficking ring centered on Amir’s club. Pembroke hoped that the numerous suspects would keep him safe from suspicion.

Kasia and Sophie were curtly informed of the complex’s purpose. Pembroke had brought them here to be trained and redesigned as sex slaves. They would be held alongside other females already in advanced stages of training, while they underwent their own conditioning and were marketed to buyers.

Their introduction to Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Al-Haraz was shocking, but what truly rattled them was the sight of fifteen naked, collared females in the cell where they would be joining them. The space seemed overcrowded, with just enough room to lie down on the ground on the mattresses and sit on the benches. In one corner, there were two shower heads and two toilets, offering minimal privacy and highlighting the grim conditions they would have to endure.

The smell of female flesh filled the air inside, a mix of metallic period blood, other vaginal secretions, sweat, and soap. The cell was crowded with a sea of naked bodies, some sitting, some standing, others lying down. There were few places to go where they were more than an outstretched arm from touching another girl’s body. The oppressive lack of personal space only heightened Kasia and Sophie’s sense of despair and claustrophobia, even after days of being squeezed against each other in an even tighter space.

“Hey, hairy girls,” smiled Camille, approaching them and speaking in French. She noticed the stubble between their legs. “Did you guys get here on the boat?”

“Ye-yes,” Kasia responded, shocked by the girl’s whimsical, cheerful, and nonchalant demeanor.

“Oh, me too. It sucked, squeezed up tight! Of course, it’s tight here too, but you get used to it. No privacy, you know … hope you’re not an introvert or have any hang-ups about going to the toilet and … hah, hope you’re okay with sex, a lot of it.”

“The boat trip? Is that what you call it? It was horrific—they raped us!” Kasia exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Camille stretched her arms above her head as if daydreaming. “Yes, they do that. They do it … a lot.”

“How long have you been here?” Sophie asked.

“I don’t know, months I think, maybe half a year. Time is … strange here, you know. But I will be going soon. I’ve been booked, ordered. I have a buyer, and I will be going with six of the girls here.”

“You are bought? This is so fucked up,” Sophie said, her voice filled with disbelief and anger.

“To be honest,” said Camille, “I just want to see my new owner now. I’ve been here too long … too long! I mean, I’m sure I’ll be having lots of pussy there too, but this place is like living in a vagina. My owner will be rich, I hope it’s nice there and he can treat me better than … well, you know…”

“Are you mistreated here?” Sophie asked.

Camille suddenly burst out laughing and couldn’t stop, sitting in another corner giggling her head off. Sophie and Kasia looked at each other in puzzlement, unsure of how to react to Camille’s bizarre response.

Sophie and Kasia tried to mingle, feeling awkward and exposed, their attempts to avoid touching anyone only adding to their discomfort. Fatima and her two cousins stared at them suspiciously, their three pairs of dark areolas gazing at them like a small gang, making Sophie and Kasia feel even more out of place. Two Russian brunettes who looked like sisters held hands and turned away from them, as did two blonde sisters. Three girls seemed to have a group—Elena, Holly, and Dilan.

“Where were you taken from?” asked Dilan.

“Marseille,” Sophie replied. “This bastard kidnapped us. He murdered my boyfriend in front of me. He and the long-haired man—they’re animals!”

“The long-haired man is new. What about the black man?” Dilan inquired.

“I don’t know,” Kasia said. “He didn’t come with us on the boat.”

The girls exchanged worried glances. Neither Sophie nor Kasia had any new information about other girls kidnapped over the course of the year.

“This place is hell,” said Dilan. “You just have to … adjust yourself.”

“Do what you have to do to survive. They have killed people here. They have also killed girls that defied them,” added Elena, stifling a cry as she remembered Vitaly.

“Have you been … bought?” asked Sophie, nervously.

“Not that we know of,” said Dilan, clearly disgusted at the mention of the word.

“Not yet,” said Elena. “But it makes me sick thinking some perverts out there are looking to buy us.”

“I just need to get out,” said Holly, her voice trembling. “We cannot escape from here, and it is hell. It can send you crazy. I can’t stay sane here much longer. It’s just torture and sex and this. I can’t even remember my family. I just want to be away, even if some millionaire keeps me.”

Kasia and Sophie were still surprised at how comfortable the girls all seemed, sitting naked next to each other. The casual intimacy and lack of shame among the captives was a stark contrast to their own discomfort and unease. It was clear that the girls had adapted to their circumstances in ways that Kasia and Sophie had yet to comprehend.

The hall door opened, and Mrs. Parker, Konrad, and Pembroke entered. Konrad moved towards the cell like a fox approaching a chicken coop, drooling at the sight of the recoiling naked girls. His eyes roved over all of them with a predatory gleam, savoring their fear and discomfort.

Both girls tried to shrink back into the crowd, their hearts pounding.

“Ladies, allow me to introduce Konrad,” commanded Pembroke. “You will always refer to him as Sir! You will obey him as you obey me!”

The girls exchanged fearful glances, Konrad looked like he was, a weird, dangerous psycho.

“Yes, Sir,” the girls mumbled in unison, their voices barely audible.

Konrad’s eyes lingered on Freja and Miriam, his expression darkening with sadistic anticipation. Both girls tried to shrink back into the crowd, their hearts pounding.

“Konrad,” Pembroke said with a friendly slap on the back, “why don’t you go into the cell, have a taste, a smell of all that lovely pussy in there?”

Konrad’s grin widened as he stepped closer to the cell door. As Konrad entered the cell, the atmosphere grew even tenser. He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the terror in their eyes, as the girls each tried to hide behind the other.

Konrad held his hands out, brushing against their skin, grabbing breasts and buttocks, as if he were in heaven. He approached Freja and Miriam first, his gaze predatory. “Don’t be shy,” he taunted, leaning in to inhale their scent.

“The blonde girl, I am afraid, is to remain a virgin. Trust me, these last few months it has been hell, but I have fucked her ass many times. If you want all holes, the other girl, the Arab girl, Miriam, she’s a lovely girl!” Pembroke announced.

Miriam burrowed into Fatima’s embrace, the older girl’s protectiveness a flimsy shield against the towering figure of Konrad. His long, messy hair hung limply around his gaunt face. His body, all sharp angles and knobbly bones, ended in massive, gnarled hands that looked like they could crush her. The ragged smile that stretched across his face did little to hide the unsettling glint in his eyes that seemed to ooze with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

“My dear Miriam,” Mrs. Parker spoke up with a sickening sweetness. “Don’t be shy, child. Stand apart, and let the gentleman admire you.”

Miriam took a deep breath while the other girls shrank away from her. With a choked sob, Fatima also retreated, leaving Miriam utterly alone with the monstrous figure before her.

Konrad still thought he was dreaming as he brought his hands up to her breasts, massaging the pert C-cup tits jutting out, so perfect and soft. He reached behind her and stroked her ass, smiling at her lack of resistance. This really was heaven! He put his hands between her legs, savoring the silky smooth skin and the dry flesh not yet responding to his fingers rubbing her labia.

“Can I spend a night with her, boss?” Konrad asked hopefully.

“Of course Konrad!” smiled Pembroke. “Just remember, don’t get too excited! No permanent marks, but as a special treat…” he winked “You can bite her as much as you want tonight! She is one hell of a tasty treat” he giggled.

Konrad took Miriam out by the hand, smiling as if bringing a date to the prom, and walked out of the hall with her. Miriam turned back briefly to the cell, her face a picture of fear. She still didn’t understand all the English and for all she knew she was being sold off and would never see her cousins, who looked out of the cell forlornly at her, again.

“I trust you girls are making Kasia and Sophie feel welcome,” Pembroke said, his voice smooth as polished marble. “It must be quite an adjustment, arriving in a new place, remember how you all felt on your first day?” He never stopped enjoying the flicker of fear that crossed their faces.

“Kasia, perhaps you’d like to go first?” Mrs. Parker chirped, her voice a sickly sweet counterpoint to the tension in the room. “We need to get you up on this table for some electrolysis – laser hair removal.”

Pembroke Walked to the door. He didn’t speak, but the single, cold glare he leveled at Kasia spoke volumes.

Kasia’s mind reeled. Just weeks ago, this same man had offered her a kind smile and a listening ear, a beacon of hope in a world that felt increasingly cold and confusing. But he had revealed himself as the devil.

“Come out, Kasia,” Pembroke finally spoke, his voice devoid of warmth. The simple command felt like a physical blow.

Kasia shuffled forward, her head bowed and every step heavy with dread. She allowed Mrs Parker to strap her down, face up.

“This little procedure is simply to help you feel your best, just like all the other girls.” she smiled at her.

Pembroke’s gaze turned towards the Russian sisters.

“Natalia and Tatiana. Come with me.”

The sisters had been patiently waiting for him to leave, and this request was like a bullet. What had changed? What did he want from them now?

They knew better than to resist, and walked out, following him out of the hall.

The girls in the cell sat morosely as Mrs Parker set about her task. Kasia shouted in pain as the first zaps were applied to her armpits. She wondered how this middle-aged woman, wearing a sexualized mini-dress, could have ended up here.

Sophie watched nervously at the hair removal. She knew she was next. She was also a discomforted at the change in atmosphere. No one wanted to talk while the blonde lady was out there.

Natalia and Tatiana showered in Pembroke’s room before slipping into some lingerie. They were grateful to have a stitch on them for the first time since their kidnapping. They both bitterly remembered being fed up with wearing nothing but sexy lingerie every day, but now it felt like a nun’s costume compared to their constant nakedness.

“Now girls, I want to see a show. Imagine I am your owner, I don’t want to have to order you around, just give me a show to make me happy…”

The two Russian girls, tenderly ran their hands through each others’ wavy brown hair as they locked eyes and moved their bodies. Natalia wore a delicate black lace bralette paired with matching high-waisted panties that accentuated her curves. The intricate floral patterns of the lace contrasted beautifully against her fair skin.

Tatiana was dressed in a deep red satin camisole, trimmed with black lace around the edges, paired with matching lace-trimmed shorts. The satin shimmered softly in the light.

As they danced, their lingerie clung to their forms, moving with them as their hands gently explored each other’s bodies, their lips eventually meeting in a tender kiss.

Pembroke lay naked on his luxurious bed, his body comfortably stretched out against the soft, opulent sheets. His hands were behind his head, propping it up slightly as he surveyed the scene before him with a satisfied smile.

He thought back to the little brothel in Istanbul. All he had wanted was a rather expensive thrill. The benefits of deferred gratification! He had not fucked the girls there, instead listening to their concerns and gaining their trust, and pretending to help them.

And now, he was reaping the rewards! He wished their former pimps or their families could see them now! Too beautiful incestuous sisters, snogging each other, exploring their bodies, wanting each other!

“Come on girls, come on top of me … Natalia, sit on my face, and Tatiana, you sit on my cock!”

He munched between Natalia’s legs through her black panties, enjoying the feel of the material after so many months of bare pussy. It made the sudden taste of her pussy juices as his tongue slipped inside feel all the nicer.

Tatiana slipped off her underwear and lowered herself onto her captor’s large cock, gripping it in her hand. As she did, she couldn’t help but think that this piece of meat was the source of all their travails.

Tatiana gasped as it filled her insides, her body shuddering as she slid down. She glanced at her sister’s face, seeing it contorted with sensations from the tongue exploring her depths. Their eyes met again, and each had a flash of their lives before, playing as children, as young teenagers, doing everything together. Now, they would do this together, and without the stigma of outside life intruding, were getting used to it.

They leaned across Pembroke’s body, enjoying both his appendages inside their respective orifices, and kissed again, their tongues fighting inside their mouths, feeling their breasts, touching them as if they were their own. Having spent hours exploring the other girls’ bodies, the familiarity of their sibling’s bodies, the texture, the smell, the same reactions to the same touches, felt so comforting.

The ambience of the moment was disturbed somewhat by the soudn of screams and shouts in German. As Pembroke sucked on the succulent flesh between Natalia’s buttocks he wondered what on earth Konrad was doing to poor Miriam. But he didn’ stop.

Later, Pembroke lay back with his legs spread wide. Natalia was sucking on his cock, her lips moving rhythmically along its length, while Tatiana bathed his balls with her tongue, her movements gentle and deliberate. He had already cum inside both their pussies, unable to help himself earlier, but this moment felt different—comfortable and heavenly. As he looked down at the pair of blue eyes gazing up at him with a hint of worship, a sense of power and satisfaction washed over him.

“Maybe you girls are happier here than in Istanbul?” Pembroke mused aloud. The girls did not answer nor break eye contact, continuing to use their mouths to pleasure him. “You were wasted there, two sisters, working apart, serving the trash of the city. I have converted you to a pair of lesbian sisters, the ultimate male fantasy! You will be sold to the wealthiest; there is a rich but delicately small market for sisters like you. I’ll make more money from you than your pimps ever did. And I didn’t even get anything when I paid for you the first time!” he laughed.

The girls had almost lost hope in humanity by now; if they had ignored ‘Geoff,’ what might have happened instead? Their old life, even being sold in the brothel, had been bad, but this was so foreign. The life they had dreamed of as little girls now seemed like a cruel joke. Their experience of men over the last few years had made them wary of hoping for anything better.

Natalia just hoped her son was safe and that somewhere. She clung to that hope, imagining him playing in a park with her parents, going to school, and living a life free from the horrors she had endured. Perhaps it would be better for him to only dream of his mother and not know what she had become, entangled in a sordid life of perversion with her own sister.

Pembroke took in the eyes and the sleek bodies of the sisters who were worshipping his genitals. He felt a pang of guilt about withholding the news from them. Their parents had recently been brutally murdered in Russia, found with signs of torture. Whoever had killed them, he guessed them, had been seeking information from them.

He felt a tinge of guilt, offset by the feeling of a finger sliding up his asshole to massage his prostate. The killings and tortures had probably been the work of the Chechens, desperate to know not just the whereabouts of their stolen prostitutes, but what had happened to their mother and aunt. The girls’ parents had suffered brutally, but Pembroke reveled in the knowledge that his operation remained invisible to them all.

As Natalia and Tatiana continued their ministrations, Pembroke’s thoughts briefly flickered back to the gruesome fate of their parents. His more pressing concern was that he still needed leverage over the girls and would have to look into their wider family, in particular Natalia’s son. For now, it was better to hide the sad news about their parents from the girls, for one thing, it would ruin this excellent blowjob he was getting.

Elsewhere in the complex, Freja was buried in the breasts of Mrs. Parker, hugging the older woman in bed. Mrs. Parker was gently stroking Freja’s body, trying to offer some comfort. Freja trembled, scared by the inhuman screams coming from where Miriam was staying with Konrad.

“It’s okay, darling,” Mrs. Parker whispered, her voice soft and soothing. “You are safe here with me.”

Freja’s body shook as she clung to Mrs. Parker. “Why is this happening? Why can’t they stop him? he must be hurting hr so badly, it has gone on for hours” she whispered, her voice quivering with fear.

Mrs. Parker continued to stroke Freja’s hair, trying to calm her. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But you have to remember, girls were put in this world to suffer, so try and have fun while you can, and make men like you and not want to hurt you. I’m afraid I can’t give better advice than that.”

Freja buried her face deeper into Mrs. Parker’s chest, her tears soaking the older woman’s breasts. “I can’t stand the screams. It’s too much.”

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Parker murmured, her voice tinged with sadness. “It’s a cruel world we live in, and sometimes it feels unbearable. But we have to find small moments of joy where we can, and hold on to them.”

Edward Pembroke was enjoying Prague and had booked an exclusive table at “Zlatá Koruna,” the city’s most prestigious restaurant. He was meeting his old friend Ahmed Al-Masri.

Both men were impeccably dressed in tailored suits and were savoring the finest cuisine the restaurant had to offer.

With them were two beautiful young Czech women, young enough to be their daughters, dressed in elegant long dresses. The women, whose company was clearly paid for, engaged in light conversation, enhancing the atmosphere with a touch of sophistication. As the parties clinked their glasses, toasting to a night of luxury, Edward and Ahmed complimented the women on their stunning looks.

One, a brunette in a dress just a little too low-cut for such a high-class establishment and with lips glossed to an almost comical sheen, dangled a pair of diamond earrings for all to see. “Ahmed gave me these!” she exclaimed, her voice saccharine sweet and almost childlike in its excitement.

“Isn’t he incredibly generous?”

The other, a blonde whose dress clung strategically to her body, flashed a designer handbag.

“And Edward,” she purred, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly, “just gifted me this little beauty!” She giggled, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

Pembroke and Al-Masri smiled paternally, though their intentions after the meal were anything but paternal.

“You girls deserve some fun!” Pembroke smiled and stroked his date’s thigh under the table, looking forward to another night of passion with Milena. He could have any woman he wanted back at his complex, but there was something oddly indulgent and exhilarating about paying for the privilege of having the company and body of this sweet girl for a few days.

As they progressed through their meal, Ahmed excused the ladies and asked if it would be okay if Pembroke and Al-Masri switched to Arabic, his mother tongue, to discuss business.

“So sorry to talk business over dinner,” he added with a charming smile, “but after a few minutes, we can talk in English again!”

“I love the sound of Arabic,” Milena said, her voice soft and alluring. “I don’t mind listening, it’s so exotic,” she mewed into Pembroke’s ear, placing her hand on his knee.

Pembroke smiled and laughed. “So Ahmed,” he began in Arabic, “how was your date last night?”

“This whore? She is expensive, but worth it. My God, the things she did,” Ahmed shook his head in disbelief. “You would not think it to look at her.”

“Ahmed, she looks like a whore.”

“Haha, trust me, I don’t want to tell you the details. It will put you off your food!”

“What are you guys talking about?” asked Ahmed’s date, Hana.

“Some political things in Egypt,” Pembroke lied smoothly.

“It’s affecting our project.”

“Oh, how boring,” said Milena mockingly. She started a parallel conversation with Hana, talking about their holidays in the Czech Republic and discussing how much money they could get out of these two clients they were with.

“So, the Crown Prince is progressing with the stock transfer?” Pembroke inquired, a hint of eagerness in his voice. Ahmed laughed.

“Yes, we just need to make some space, clear out a few things, and then arrange a transport by plane.”

“All in one go then? I must say, it will be sad to see the girls go,” Pembroke said with a touch of melancholy, taking a sip of his wine.

“Yeah sure, not like you have plenty more squirreled away,” Ahmed replied, his tone turning sinister.

“Ahmed, what can I say? These girls, they just get lost, and I am their pied piper,” Pembroke grinned, stroking Milena’s shoulder.

“Just remember, Eddie, it’s the Crown Prince who is your main benefactor.”

“He cannot have every girl in the world.”

“No, but he can take objection to loose practices and exposure of human trafficking, which might lead back to him,” Ahmed warned, his voice low and serious.

“Ahmed, I am serious about this. All the abductions went perfectly, even Dilan! The CIA or Mossad could not have pulled that off as well!” Pembroke declared, a note of pride in his voice.

“That was very well planned, I must say,” Ahmed responded, nodding appreciatively. “Who was the person who was buried?”

“Oh, some poor unfortunate soul, tragic really, but eminently useful,” Pembroke said, looking at his glass. He knew he shouldn’t show such pride in such an evil action, even in front of a murderer like Ahmed. Ahmed smiled.

“Just remember, Eddie, the Crown Prince values discretion above all else.”

“Well, then I should be discreet about my other stock.”

“We will come to that. Meanwhile, I will send you details of the flight that will take the girls. There’s a private airstrip outside Adana we can use.”

“And the rest of the money?” Pembroke asked.

“Yes, in fact, the Crown Prince even offered an extra 10%—he loved the videos so much!” Ahmed’s grin widened. “He cannot wait to get his hands on Charlotte and the Swedish girls in particular.”

“Excellent, I could use the money!” Pembroke was serious, he had spent most of the advances.

“Yes, I am sure that handbag cost a pretty penny!” Ahmed glanced at Milena.

Pembroke sighed. “Well, we all have our indulgences. But this is business, and I intend to see it through perfectly.” He took a sip of his drink.

“Oh, and this might amuse you. That poor girl Elena, the Crown Prince told me, he watched the video, and she was not the girl who he wanted. It was a different girl who slapped him at some dinner when he grabbed her ass.”

“Oh…” Pembroke stopped sipping. Would the Crown Prince not want Elena?

“Oh, don’t worry!” Ahmed smiled.

“He is very happy to welcome Elena as well. That mysterious girl seems to have gotten away with it!”

Pembroke let out a relieved chuckle. “Good to know. I was worried for a moment.”

Ahmed’s smile widened. “The Crown Prince is particular, but he appreciates variety. Elena will fit in nicely.”

“Very good, and I hope the Crown Prince might want more in the future.”

“Well, for now, I have the unfortunate task of clearing the spaces, like I told you,” Ahmed said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “A pity, some beautiful girls, you should have seen them! Again, I only see the bodies, such a waste, having to slice them up like that,” he spoke nonchalantly, carving his meat with his knife.

Pembroke’s smile remained fixed.

“Yes, quite a waste,” he agreed, taking another sip of his drink. “But necessary, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Ahmed replied, his tone eerily casual. “All part of the business, Eddie. All part of the business.”

“The circle of life,” Pembroke grinned and kissed Milena on the cheek as she played with his tie.

“You guys are boring, talking about business,” the girls chimed in, acting like little kids vying for attention. Pembroke laughed, turning his attention back to Milena.

“Alright, ladies, just a few more minutes!”

“So Eddie, who are you selling your other stock to?” asked Ahmed, trying not to show too much interest.

“Discretion is my name, Ahmed,” Pembroke smiled. “You must respect that.”

Ahmed looked at him with heavy stare.

“As long as they are serious, it’s not like lending from a library, if you know what I mean.”

“Don’t worry,” Pembroke reassured him. “They are men of means, but also men of … ruthlessness. They have skin in the game too.” Ahmed nodded, satisfied with the answer.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. No room for amateurs in our line of work.”

“I am happy to pay finder’s fees if you have any proposals,” Pembroke said with a sly smile.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Ahmed replied, “why don’t you come down to Azmaria while the girls are delivered? You can see the place again. This time, you’ll get into the most exclusive spots with some very exclusive people who I happen to know would be very interested in talking with you.”

“Great!” Pembroke smiled broadly. He had been making progress with his potential buyers so far, but he wouldn’t mind having more competition and sources. He believed he was close to making a sale on some of the other girls and welcomed the opportunity to expand his network.

“Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements,” Ahmed said, satisfied.

“You’re going to love it. The opportunities there are endless.” Pembroke nodded, already anticipating the connections and deals to be made.

“Looking forward to it, Ahmed.”

“And Eddie, I have another proposal,” Ahmed said, pausing as the waitress approached to clear a dish. She had slightly dark hair, and both men exchanged a cautious glance, wondering if she might understand Arabic.

“Are you afraid that gypsy is an Arab?” drawled Milena, recognizing their fear of being overheard.

“This is James Bond stuff, my dear,” smiled Ahmed, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially. “We have to be careful.” Milena and Hana giggled, enjoying the intrigue and the sense of being part of something clandestine. Pembroke, still smiling, turned to Ahmed.

“So, tell me?”

“The Crown Prince’s nephew, like many young men, had some fun with this Pakistani girl in London. It got a little out of hand and well…” Ahmed waved his hand dismissively, as if to brush away the seriousness of the situation.

“Go on,” Pembroke urged, his curiosity piqued. Ahmed leaned in closer.

“She made some threats, then went to the authorities, and the long and short of it is he’s facing a rape charge in the UK. It’s a bit of a mess. They need someone discreet to take care of it, to make sure she … disappears.”

“Oh, I sympathize. The poor man must not be able to travel,” Pembroke said with a hint of sarcasm.

“No, in fact, he is holed up in Azmaria. Such a shame, the young man cooped up at home, just over some slut.”

“I agree,” said Pembroke, his thoughts drifting to his own charges in the UK under his old identity.

“I can take care of it.”

“Of course, we could do this ourselves. If we paid a hitman, it would cost a hundred thousand dollars. For you, twenty thousand.”

“What? That’s not quite fair,” Pembroke retorted. Ahmed sipped his wine again, his eyes gleaming with a calculated glint.

“This girl is beautiful. Instead of killing her, you can take her and sell her.”

“And I suppose you keep eighty thousand dollars, and then ask me for a commission on the sale on top?” Pembroke asked, smiling slyly. Ahmed chuckled.

“Think of it as a business opportunity. You get the girl, make a profit, and we both win. Besides, it’s a better use of resources, don’t you think?”

“What about this girl? Where is she?”

“Studying medicine in Poland. Next time she goes to the UK, she might take the charges further, so we need it done pronto.”

“I like to meet my girls first,” said Pembroke, chewing thoughtfully on his filet mignon,

“but I suppose it will be the first time I get paid just for the kidnapping. And a doctor, or medical student, does fit my market. I do aim to market my girls as classy, middle-class, well-groomed.”

“You see, Eddie, it makes sense!” Ahmed said with a knowing smile.

“Any other details?”

“I have something,” Ahmed replied, his voice a low rumble.

“But discretion is paramount.” He tapped the screen of his phone twice.

“It’s a video. Highly sensitive – CCTV footage from the Crown Prince’s nephew’s flat in London, the night of the incident.” Pembroke’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Can you show me now?” He cast a sideways glance at Milena, who was animatedly chatting with Hana, completely oblivious to their exchange. A sly grin spread across Pembroke’s face.

“I will tell her it’s a spreadsheet. Numbers tend to put her to sleep faster than a lullaby.”

“What’s that?” Milena was suddenly interested in the phone. Pembroke quickly thought of a story.

“Oh, just some financial data, Milena dear. Spreadsheets and boring numbers,” he said, flashing a reassuring smile.

“Nothing that would interest you.” Ahmed added,

“Yes, very tedious stuff. Just projections and market trends.” Milena pouted slightly but then giggled.

“You two are always so secretive. Must be why you’re so successful.” She rubbed Pembroke’s arm affectionately. Pembroke smiled and patiently waited for Milena to lose interest and turn back to Hana. Once she did, he focused on Ahmed’s phone and the soundless video. Pembroke maintained a dispassionate look of interest, carefully masking any hint of surprise as he watched the shocking scenes unfold on the screen. A beautiful Asian-looking girl with long black hair, naked and visibly distressed, was running through a flat, screaming and crying, banging on windows in a desperate attempt to escape. Various cameras tracked her movements. She was slim with toned buttocks and full breasts that bounced as she ran. Her narrow waist and flat stomach were highlighted as she moved from the kitchen to the living room. Despite her panic-stricken features, her beauty was evident—stunning cheekbones, straight narrow eyebrows, and full lips.

“How old is she?” Pembroke asked, his tone neutral.

“Twenty-two,” Ahmed replied.

“And would anyone be overly annoyed if she just disappeared or must we go through a charade of disappearance.”

“To be honest” Ahmed drained the last of his wine, “we would have been happy with a knife across her throat. We don’t mind a few hints to people that it is unwise to try and go to the police against members of our Royal Family.

“Excellent … excellent,” Pembroke said, handing the phone back to Ahmed. He took another swig of his wine, then poured more into each of the four glasses.

“You know, I don’t think the Crown Prince’s nephew has anything to worry about. My conclusion from that video is that the girl is beautiful and the charges against him will soon disappear, along with the accuser.” Ahmed smiled, pleased with Pembroke’s assessment.

“I’m glad to hear it, Eddie. Your expertise is invaluable in these matters.” Pembroke raised his glass, the dark red liquid catching the light.

“To smooth operations and successful outcomes.”

“To smooth operations,” Ahmed echoed, clinking his glass against Pembroke’s.

“Are you guys done yet?” giggled Milena.

“Just one more thing,” Ahmed said, raising his finger apologetically to the girls.

“Eddie, I was just wondering, what about these girls? They are already trained in bed, they are young, beautiful. What do you think?” Ahmed’s eyes gleamed, half-joking but also serious and intrigued. He was envious of the operations Pembroke was involved in. Pembroke raised his eyebrow, considering Ahmed’s suggestion.

“Well, they certainly fit the profile. But I must say I don’t like to recruit prostitutes; it feels like cheating! I prefer to market middle-class respectable girls, the kind of girls a wealthy man meets at the office or sees in the home of one of his employees or rivals, playing the piano, going to ballet.”

“Eddie, these girls go to university. They do this for money. In a few years, they will be professionals. Hana here can speak three languages but not, thank goodness, Arabic.”

“Thank goodness indeed,” laughed Pembroke.

“You are talking about us,” teased Milena.

“I know it!”

“No, I promise not,” grinned Pembroke.

“But I’m sure that in Czech you ladies had a few gossips!”

“Hana was telling me about your yacht. It’s such a shame there is no sea here,” Hana pouted.

“Ah, the yacht,” Pembroke mused, shifting the conversation smoothly.

“It’s a beauty. Perhaps one day, when we’re all in a sunnier locale, you can see it for yourselves.” The girls giggled and Milena went back to brushing his legs under the table. Pembroke adopted a serious tone as if talking business and returned to Arabic Pembroke adopted a serious tone as if talking business and returned to Arabic.

“But Ahmed, you have to remember, we have both spent the last day with each of these girls. We would be immediate suspects if they disappeared. Either I carefully plan an operation, or if I do take someone opportunely, I make sure there is no trace back to me. So you see, I am careful!” Ahmed nodded thoughtfully, understanding the caution in Pembroke’s words.

“I see what you mean. Such a shame, though, but I understand it takes a particular skill to pull off your line of work.”

“It does,” Pembroke replied, his tone serious.

“It’s not just about opportunity; it’s about precision and planning. One wrong move, and everything can unravel.”

“Well said” Ahmed agreed.

“Tell you what, though,” Pembroke said, tapping his finger thoughtfully on his nose.

“I’ll keep an eye on them. Perhaps a move could be made in the next few months. Prostitution is a dangerous game, and that’s what attracts me—the unpredictability. One strange client, and a girl could just disappear, perhaps end up in the river or buried.” Ahmed’s eyes gleamed with intrigue.

“You must have a little black book of targets.”

“Oh, I do,” Pembroke replied with a sly grin.

“And rest assured, these girls are going in it. In fact, one of the girls here says she likes to travel. Who knows, she might win or get a cheap trip to the Middle East, somewhere dangerous for women. It would be terrible if something were to happen to her there,” he laughed.

“You’re always thinking ahead, Eddie. That’s why you’re the best at what you do.”

“Always,” Pembroke nodded.

“It’s all about staying a step ahead and making the most of every opportunity.”

“Well,” said Ahmed, draining his wine,

“here’s to the arrival of the seven girls, the easing of the Royal Family’s legal troubles, and to new contacts in Azmaria!”

“To the future!” smiled Pembroke, draining his glass. Milena and Hana, sensing the shift back to lighter conversation, re-engaged with the men, drawing them back into a more relaxed atmosphere.

“You two look so serious,” Milena teased, placing a hand on Pembroke’s arm.

“Come on, no more Arabic, let’s enjoy the night!”

“You are right, Milena!” Pembroke laughed.

“No more business talk, Ahmed!” Ahmed grinned, refilling the glasses.

“Agreed. Let’s enjoy the rest of the evening.” With the business discussion set aside, the group immersed themselves in the vibrant ambiance of the restaurant. Laughter and lighthearted conversation filled the table, masking the evil plans lurking in the minds of the two men.

Edward Pembroke enjoyed traveling around Europe in his new role, seeing the sights, and scouting out various talents. However, life at the complex could be amazing as well.

Konrad had been a wise addition to the team, Edward thought. The collars the girls now wore were wired with microphones that picked up every word they spoke, even whispers, and matched them with their voice patterns. Every 24 hours, their entire speaking history was uploaded to a central database and recorded in both voice and text form. An AI app analyzed their words and provided a detailed summary each day.

Separately, interactive conversations between the girls were recognized, captured, and stored in databases. The AI analyzed these conversations as well as individual speech patterns to provide detailed summaries of both individual and group interactions. The AI app was impressive, Pembroke realized. It understood and translated every language, including the Swedish of the Johansens and the Darija dialect of Arabic of the Libyan girls.

While drinking a cup of coffee, Pembroke could read a summary of everything he needed to know, a task that in years past would have required dozens of hours of Stasi-like employees laboriously listening to conversations.

The AI had even highlighted specific instances of insubordination raised in conversations by the girls and had flagged Sophie Candelema as a particular concern, citing specific examples.

As a reward for his work with the software, and to test Sophie’s spirit, Konrad had been given a night with Sophie to “let loose.” Sophie had tearfully confessed to the other girls what had happened and had even prayed by herself, the app picking up her whispered pleas for her mother and father to rescue her from this hell.

Pembroke’s eyebrows had been raised at what Sophie claimed she had endured. The biting was Konrad’s signature move, he chuckled, though even he was taken aback by the choking, and some rather gross interest in forcing her to throw up.

As Pembroke was reading summaries of Sophie’s chat over the last few days on his phone, the girl herself was lying in his bed, between his legs, licking his balls and cock. She was covered in bruise marks from being bitten, and her dark purple neck was a testament to Konrad’s powerful hands having strangled her. Pembroke reminded himself to caution Konrad; it was a dangerous game, and he did not want wasted stock.

Sophie had repeatedly urged the others to kill him if they got the chance, to seize any sharp object and stab him, and she promised that she would do it herself the first chance she got. She had even accused the others of cowardice.

Now, she quietly lapped at his privates, avoiding his eyes. The tall, imposing man who had stolen her life represented absolute power and fear, and before him, all her brave talk was forgotten. She had meekly followed him from the cell, obeyed him in a quiet voice, and done everything he had told her.

Pembroke eased back with his hands behind his head, sighing as if totally relaxed. He closed his eyes, apparently dozing off. “Move your tongue down to my asshole, give me a rimjob, Sophie. Good girl, that’s it.”

His eyes remained closed, and it was as if he were asleep as he felt her tongue poke at his anus.

Next to him on a small table was a sharp, gleaming knife. He had placed it there deliberately, secretly daring Sophie to try and grab it. It was within her reach if she just extended her hand about half a meter to her left, took it, and stabbed him.

While Pembroke appeared relaxed, he was ready to pounce like a cat if she did.

He felt her tongue stop licking and sensed the air between her tongue and his asshole, but he did not react. He wondered if Sophie was testing the waters, seeing if he had fallen asleep or dozed off. However, soon her tongue returned to his anal ring, pushing in. For Sophie, the paralyzing fear of punishment overrode any fleeting thoughts of rebellion.

Later that day, he picked Sabine for a few hours of pleasure. For Sabine, sucking a cock was a complete anathema to her sexuality. The forced worship of the very weapon used by her tormentor-in-chief, the architect of her misery, was utterly humiliating.

“Sabine, Sophie has been telling me you have been forcing yourself on her. Is this true? She says you always take a shower next to her and wait to go to the toilet when she is on it. Consent is important, you must know that, right?”

Sabine was confused. “Master, I am sorry, I have not forced myself on Sophie. This is not true!”

“Well, I hope not, Sabine. I won’t tolerate my girls being sexually harassed,” he giggled at the utter ridiculousness of that statement. “Now, as punishment, based on what Sophie said to me, come over my lap for a spanking.”

Sabine swallowed her pride yet again, for the millionth time since her kidnapping, and brought herself over his lap, presenting her bottom to the air. She squeaked with each slap to her cheeks. For some reason, the fact that she was a lesbian made the other girls uncomfortable, despite the fact that they were all forced into lesbian sex with each other regularly, and often voluntarily did so among themselves. She had seen many of them give her dirty looks, including Sophie, and had tried to stay away from them, as much as she could in such a small confined space where just moving from place to place meant touching breasts, buttocks, and hips.

Pembroke had been reading short summaries of Sophie’s conversations in French with Camille. Sophie had told Camille that Sabine had done those things to her. However, another conversation summary between Sabine and Sophie showed that Sabine had warned her against repeated defiance, to which Sophie had responded by calling her a coward and a dyke.

Pembroke had been driven to investigate by Sophie’s mention of an incident “five minutes ago” about touching in the showers. Upon reviewing the video footage at that time, he found that it had never happened; Sophie had lied to Camille.

or the next snippet of deceit, Pembroke had ordered Mrs. Parker to bring Camille into the treatment room for a check-up, giving her specific directions. Mrs. Parker knew that Pembroke would be able to view the recorded data of the conversation.

“You have an amazing athletic body, Camille. I really envy you,” Mrs. Parker said cheerfully. “It must be genetics, I guess, what with your cousin being the same.”

“What … what do you mean?” Camille jumped up, her heart racing.

“Careful, dear,” Mrs. Parker cautioned as she monitored Camille’s blood pressure.

“What do you mean about my cousin?” Camille’s voice trembled with panic. Her cousin was sixteen, beautiful, and a promising young gymnast. She knew that this made her the perfect target for Pembroke and his sick gang, especially given their propensity to target relatives.

“Oh, I just meant she must be as athletic as you are. I’ve heard she’s quite the gymnast,” Mrs. Parker said with a smile, pretending innocence.

Camille thought furiously. The only person she had mentioned her cousin to was Sophie. They had been discussing their fear of their relatives being kidnapped and brought here, as Pembroke had done with others, to perform sick games.

“You know, dear,” Mrs. Parker cautioned her, “the Master is always on the lookout for new talent, and there are a lot of gentlemen out there who like girls who are … related.” She sighed with distaste at the disgusting implications.

Sophie had been paranoid that they would go after her older sister, Betty. She loved her sister but did not want her kidnapped and forced to perform with her. She had begged Camille for advice on how she could possibly avoid Pembroke targeting her. Betty was such an obvious target—a lingerie model, beautiful, and living openly. Camille had responded to her by saying she was thankful her own cousin was not on social media.

“Well,” said Mrs. Parker, “you girls can always offer up alternative targets. It is so very difficult to recruit young ladies like you in today’s age of CCTV, technology, and international police cooperation. I am sure they would be grateful if you could give them something they can use, but you all seem so reluctant,” she sighed.

Camille’s heart sank at the implication. The suggestion was abhorrent, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if some of the girls might be desperate enough to consider it. The added burden of fear for her cousin and the growing mistrust towards Sophie weighed heavily on her mind.

Pembroke delighted in reading the following day’s summary. In the time it took to drink one cup of coffee, he had read the main events of 24 hours in the lives of fifteen girls in the small cell. He was pleased to read that the Libyans were further resolved to enjoy sex together so that they might be sold together. He was delighted to read about the angry confrontations between Sabine and Sophie, with various girls backing both sides, raising tension in the cell. Additionally, Camille had quietly spoken with other girls, including Sabine, about Sophie’s duplicity and had noticeably been colder to her in their own conversations.

The technology was also being used in other ways. ‘Mawaa Atfa’ and Firas Rahma, despite their completely disastrous venture in Istanbul—which had resulted in three deaths, arrests for drug trafficking, and deportations back to poverty in Libya—were back with a big presence on social media, now concentrating on the Polish-Belarusian border.

Near the town of Grodno on the Belarusian side of the Polish-Belarusian border was a sprawling refugee camp, a makeshift settlement of tents and temporary shelters. It was a stark representation of the desperation faced by those seeking refuge. The camp was crowded, with narrow pathways winding between the various makeshift structures, and the air was filled with a mixture of cooking smells, smoke, and the chatter of multiple languages.

Amidst this chaos, Mawaa Atfa had managed to install a mobile facility specifically for women refugees to change, shower, and sleep in. This facility, resembling a large, well-equipped caravan, stood out in the camp. It provided a small haven of privacy and hygiene in an otherwise harsh and dangerous environment.

The caravan had been ordered from a specialized manufacturer in Germany and then later adapted by a builder booked by the charity, a certain Dmitri Voskov. Once completed, it was discreetly transported across the Polish border into Belarus, near Grodno, thanks to well-placed bribes to Belarusian officials.

Inside, the caravan was divided into sections: a small area with shower stalls, another with changing rooms, and a few compact sleeping quarters fitted with bunk beds. The facilities were basic but clean, offering a rare opportunity for the women to maintain some dignity and comfort.

Just 50 miles from the camp, in the mid-sized Polish city of Białystok, Afshan Malik, a Pakistani medical student, was working hard towards her dream of becoming a doctor. She was entering her final year of study on a student visa. It had been tough living and studying in this small town where she was usually the only brown person anyone saw, but she persevered.

Out of boredom, Afshan had traveled around Europe and was seduced by its nightlife. A very beautiful girl, she had foolishly agreed to go back to the apartment of a member of the Azmari royal family while in London. After the unspeakable cruelty and violence he had inflicted on her, she had vowed never to go out again until she qualified. She also vowed to press charges. The entitled man had tried to buy her off, but she was determined to see justice done. The only thing holding things up was her studies in Poland. Soon, she would go back to London to help with the police investigation and make sure that arrogant bastard was put away for his crimes.

Despite her trauma and the stress of her studies, she allowed herself some breaks and tried to stay positive. One day, she received a direct message from the charity Mawaa Atfa, asking for her help as a medical student in assisting with the refugee camp on the Polish-Belarusian border. The request intrigued her, and she considered it a worthwhile cause to break the monotony and give back to those in desperate need.

The staff at the refugee camp had allowed the charity’s maintenance man, Dmitri Voskov, to live onsite. Despite his intimidating appearance, he kept to himself and was solely responsible for receiving and distributing parcels from his small caravan and maintaining the women’s quarters respectfully.

The person most nervous about him was his remote boss, Pembroke. Pembroke was paranoid that Dmitri might give himself away or lose control. Dmitri, however, was terrified of being so close to Russian soil and encountering Russian speakers, which made him keep a low, discreet profile.

Afshan had volunteered twice now at the camp, and been able to change at the woman’s caravan after the long days. After the second time, she was happy to talk online with the representative, Firas Rahma.

She practically vibrated with exhilaration as Firas Rahma’s face filled the screen. “Mr. Rahma!” she gushed, a wide grin splitting her face. “Chatting with you is the absolute highlight of my week! Honestly, the work you’re doing for the refugees is like something out of a superhero comic!”

Firas Rahma chuckled, a hint of bashfulness creeping across his features. “That’s awfully kind of you to say, Afshan. We just try to do our bit, really. But honestly, the real heroes are volunteers like you. You give up your precious study time to lend a hand – that’s the true magic here.”

Afshan’s eyes lit up like sparkling coals, her black hair tumbling down her shoulders and over her hoodie. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched and natural-looking, framing her fresh, makeup-free face. Her high cheekbones creased with her infectious smile as she enthusiastically spoke about helping the poor migrants.

Rahma/Pembroke smiled. He could see why the Crown Prince’s nephew could not control himself around her.

“I have shared your charity all over social media,” Afshan purred. “I hope you guys get more donations; it’s so needed there!”

“Money is always tight,” Rahma conceded with a sigh.

And he was right. Some of Mawaa Atfa’s funds had come from enthusiastic donors spurred on by their social media profile, testimonials from fictional refugees, and pictures of their work in the camp. But they were still largely dependent on the 50% down payment for the disposal of Afshan herself. The remainder of the $20,000 would barely break them even if the operation was successful.

“Honestly,” she sighed, the weight of the situation suddenly changing her expression, “I don’t know what the women here would do without you guys. There’s a constant sense of danger hanging in the air here. The Belarusian police turn a blind eye, happy to push them towards the Polish border, while the Polish just want them to stay out. It’s heartbreaking.”

As Afshan spoke, Firas Rahma, his face etched with apparent concern, moved with quiet efficiency. A click of the mouse, a tap of the keyboard, and another screen flickered to life, displaying the recordings from the women’s center.

He brought up the footage of Afshan in the shower and admired her body while she spoke about how more and more women were arriving at the camp from even more dangerous locations. She praised Mawaa Atfa’s work and highlighted their women’s center as a reason why these vulnerable people were coming in.

Firas Rahma signed off, stating he hoped that soon he could visit the center. Afshan thanked him again. She then made the short trip back across the border into Poland, flashing her visa at the suspicious Polish border guards. They eyed her warily, suspicious of this Asian woman, and she cursed the racist system that would not let those poor people in.

Pembroke then went back over the recordings, data, and summaries from the women’s center. The Large Language Model really was fantastic, he thought. Each individual voice recording was matched by comparing it to the voice recording of each interview with Dmitri, in which they stated their name, age, and brief details. From that voice pattern, all other recordings were linked to it.

While the AI was able to summarize all the voice recordings into concise summaries, Pembroke still had to go through the laborious process of viewing the hidden camera footage in the showers and changing rooms to identify any suitable targets. The majority were young children or women in their forties, thirties, and even twenties, whose bodies showed that they had far too many children to be suitable for Pembroke’s exclusive menagerie.

When Pembroke did notice an attractive female, he had to follow her through the footage until she spoke, which could be twenty or thirty minutes later in a different room, in order to obtain the voice sample and identify her. “This really is Stasi-like drudgery,” he moaned to himself, but there was no other way around it.

He consoled himself with the thought that he was able to do this from a thousand miles away and had the luxury of having a girl under his desk, gently licking his cock and balls to ease the passing of the boredom.

Of the few candidates remaining, two stood out. Pembroke had initially believed them both to be young women of around eighteen. However, one was matched through voice recognition to a girl named Farah Khattak, who was fifteen, and the other to Amina Khattak, who claimed to be her mother and stated she was thirty, according to the interview notes and their statements. Their passport-style photos on their IDs corroborated these details.

Their bodies were similar and both beautiful, standing about five feet five, with orb-like breasts, slim concave stomachs, hourglass figures, and graceful long limbs.

They each had raven hair cascading down their backs and prominent aquiline noses that wrinkled when they smiled or brushed their teeth, showing gleaming white teeth. Their honey-brown eyes gleamed under dark black brows.

While Pembroke was not interested in women in their thirties for his brand, a mother-and-daughter pair who looked so alike presented a unique selling point. However, he had misgivings about their lack of documentation, which would be necessary to prove their relationship to prospective buyers. He also worried about their possible lack of class and education, which went against the cultivated image he wanted to project. He doubted any of these refugees were educated or middle class.

The voice summaries supported the pair’s story, with Farah referring to Amina as “mama” throughout. They spoke about Amina’s ex-husband as being a “bastard,” clearly not Farah’s father, and expressed relief at being away from him, having separated somewhere between Iran and the camp. They mentioned “papa” a few times in the past tense, leading Pembroke to believe Farah’s real father was dead. Amina also expressed a wish she could have more children, which explained why she had only one daughter with her. Pembroke thought it plausible that Amina had been married very young and had Farah at 14 or 15, which would explain the narrow age gap.

Other than that, their conversations were filled with mundane topics: music, grooming tips, and plans to get to Germany where Amina’s sister lived. Despite his concerns, Pembroke calculated the potential in their story and appearance, meticulously considering how he might market them to his clientele. He had invested too much into the camp, he needed some reward.

After hours glued to the screen, Pembroke took a break to inspect how things were progressing in the hall. He had devised a new branding strategy: all his girls would be permanently stamped as his product when they left his control. This mark would serve as a constant reminder of their duty not just to their new owners, but to him as the original owner of the brand. It would symbolize their obligation to obedience and guarantee their quality, obedience, and lifetime warranty to their future owners.

He had spent days refining the design, finally settling on a representation of his adopted name, Pembroke. The letter ‘P’ would be tattooed on the girls forever in Arabic, Russian, and English, signified as “ب П P”. The chosen color was deep black. Pembroke planned to expand his operations to include black girls eventually, and for them, he might switch to white ink depending on their skin tone.

As he walked in, Pembroke saw Sabine outside the cell, strapped to the table usually reserved for electrolysis or other more sinister routines. Jamal sat beside her, meticulously tattooing her wrist. The straps were so tight that Sabine feared they might cut off her blood circulation, but Jamal needed her perfectly still while the tattoo was being stenciled on.

She stared up at the ceiling, a sense of dread washing over her as the ink was drilled into her skin—the ultimate, irrevocable mark of ownership.

She stared up at the ceiling, a sense of dread washing over her as the ink was drilled into her skin—the ultimate, irrevocable mark of ownership.

In the cell, a handful of girls were rubbing their wrists, staring at the black symbols now forever etched into their skin. The tattoos served as constant reminders of their enslavement, a haunting symbol that their bodies were no longer their own. The others looked at their bare wrists, knowing that soon they too would be forever marked accordingly.

“Ladies, soon some of you will be going on to your owners, and ultimately all of you will be sold on. Unless sold together, you will never see each other again, but this mark of slavery should bind you in spirit. Remember, you will forever be owned. Your first duty will always be to obey your owner, but when you see this mark, always remember that your second duty is to uphold my brand, to be the perfect slave, rendering complete obedience, for the rest of your life.”

Pembroke smiled at them, then down at the ashen face of Sabine. Her eyes were wide and vacant, fixed on the ceiling. The more Jamal branded her, the more she seemed to lose her sense of self, vanishing into the depths of her own despair.

Amina Khattak got up and made her way to the communal bathroom. Reaching for her toothbrush with the Afghan flag symbol, she began brushing her teeth, naked. She examined her reflection, concerned about her crow’s feet and wrinkles, but she couldn’t help but admire her firm breasts and toned stomach. Despite the trials she had faced, her figure remained slender and youthful. She hoped she could find a decent man in Germany, not a scumbag like her ex-husband, whose only use had been accompanying them out of Afghanistan and away from the Taliban. Life with her ex-husband had been awful, but life without him in Afghanistan had been impossible.

In the nearby city of Grodno, Dmitri Voskov was having tea with Ivan Kozlov. Kozlov had worked as a versatile laborer and driver for twenty years along both sides of the border, with family ties in both countries. Even after the border was militarized, he managed to cross using a special work truck for agricultural farms. Known for his humanitarian efforts, he hadn’t engaged in such activities for months, but Voskov was persistent. Kozlov didn’t trust this rough Russian and insisted that he would only help if he could personally meet the refugees and confirm they weren’t being trafficked.

“I have my standards,” Ivan stated firmly. “I won’t transport anyone unless I can meet them first and ensure they’re not being trafficked.” “Of course,” Voskov replied, “you will. We just want to have options in case we have an emergency.”

Pembroke remained at the complex but wished to go out exploring and spreading his wings again. However, before venturing out, he felt the need to tighten his grip on the girls. Recently, the AI reports had brought troubling signs of insubordination and rebellious murmurs, even from the most apparently compliant ones. This prompted Pembroke to consider leveraging the technology embedded in the collars, which they were now accustomed to wearing.

Pembroke stood solemnly before the cramped cell, his gaze sweeping over the assembled, morose figures of the naked girls. He allowed silence to reign, heightening the tension before he finally spoke. “Ladies,” his voice rang out, calm yet commanding, “I’ve been informed of troubling behavior among you. Talk of insubordination and rebellion, even from those I trusted. This cannot continue,” Pembroke declared, gesturing towards the collars encircling their necks.

“These collars serve a purpose beyond mere adornment. They monitor and control your actions. I will not hesitate to use them to enforce compliance. I don’t wish to be harsh, but order must prevail. Merely thinking rebellious thoughts is as unacceptable as acting upon them. Obedience is expected unceasingly—24/7.”

The girls exchanged uncertain glances, their thoughts churned with questions about who among them might have spoken out, and what exactly had been said by whom about whom. “Now, you are all pretty little things, and I, as well as your future owners, firmly believe in the mantra that such pretty little things ‘are to be seen and not heard.’ Prolonged chatter serves no purpose here. You girls don’t seem to have anything of value to say, do you? Certainly nothing of interest to me. And I will not tolerate any suggestions of disobedience or thoughts of escape from any of you, starting from now.” The girls exchanged fleeting glances, silently contemplating how Pembroke might enforce his strict decree.

Pembroke’s voice sliced through the silence, authoritative and unyielding. “These collars can count, approximately, every word you speak, even if it’s a whisper. Each of you is allotted 1500 words per day. That’s all. It equates to about ten minutes of talking. You’ll need to manage your time wisely within that estimate. The limit resets at midnight, so it’s from midnight to midnight.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the air. “Once you reach your limit, your collar—and everyone else’s—will receive a little zap. If you continue speaking beyond your limit, the zapping continues for all. If you find it unpleasant, you’ll need to ensure that any excess chatter stops, even if you have to take drastic measures like gagging or restraining the offending girl.”

The girls traced their fingers over the cold metal of their collars. They were now not only confined physically but also controlled in their ability to communicate with each other. “Frankly, I don’t see the point in whatever it is you think you need to say,” Pembroke’s voice echoed coldly through the cell.

The girls’ throats felt dry, now just saying a word felt like a breaking of the rules. “Tell you what, girls,” he chirped, “if there’s an improvement in behavior, you might find yourselves with an extra 500 words soon. In the meantime, make every word count!”

As Pembroke strolled away, his voice softly hummed a tune, seemingly to mock the girls’ enforced silence and rationing of speech, even in their most private moments. In the heavy silence that followed his departure, the girls exchanged solemn glances. No words were spoken; instead, some of them drew closer to each other, seeking comfort in silent embraces and shared gazes.

The following day, Mr Rahma messaged Afshan to tell her he would soon be at the camp to see the progress personally. Afshan was delighted, her exam timetable was still clear, and now was a good time for more volunteering. She agreed to come and meet him as soon as possible there. Before leaving, Pembroke looked at Amina with satisfaction. She was naked again, admiring her own body while looking in the mirror. He watched her showering and brushing her teeth. He could not wait to meet her.

Farah noticed her mother was pale and wouldn’t eat her breakfast. “Are you OK, Mom?” “Yes, dear … I just feel a bit faint, that’s all. I just wish we could get through the border and to Germany.” “Don’t worry, Mom. Something will come up.” Farah smiled at her mother but was concerned. Perhaps it was something she ate? The two women, looking more like sisters than mother and daughter, continued to worry about their uncertain journey.

Edward Pembroke flew into Warswaw International Airport, rented a large truck, and left it near the Belarusian border. Then, he became Firas Rahma. Rahma was able to travel into Belarus and into the camp where he was greeted by the camp staff, who thanked him for the charity’s largesse. He was also greeted by Dmitri Voskov, the charity’s only employee in the camp. In contrast to Dmitri, Rahma’s charisma charmed the staff inmates along with his knowledge of Russian, Arabic and basic Pashto, his explanation for the latter being having engaged for many years in charity work in Afghanistan. The following day, he was thrilled to meet Afshan Malik, the enthusiastic and charming medical student volunteer.

“Ms. Malik, it’s such a pleasure to meet you in person! You were wonderful online, and I can’t thank you enough for your help. I’m just about to make my rounds among the men in the camp. How have things been going in the women’s camp?” Afshan’s face lit up with a bright smile. “It’s been fantastic! Thank you so much for asking. The women here are incredible, and I’m so happy to be able to assist them. It’s truly rewarding work!” “That’s wonderful to hear,” he replied warmly. “Your enthusiasm is truly inspiring. Keep up the amazing work!” A few minutes later, he spoke with Dmitri who confirmed that the women’s complex had been completely cleaned. Rahma was nervous, a few things still had to fall into place.

Later that day, Afshan was called to treat an Afghan woman, Amina Khattar. She had been suffering from nausea, fatigue, and heart palpitations. Her daughter, who looked more like her sister, was terrified. These symptoms had come on very suddenly. Afshan could not speak Pashto, and the women could not understand her Urdu. Fortunately, Firas Rahma was on hand, fluent in Russian, English, and Pashto, ready to help bridge the communication gap. Amina could barely speak, her heart was jumping in her chest. Her daughter Farah was in tears. “Mr. Rahma, my mother always had good health. The last few days she just got worse, I don’t understand it!” Rahma spoke to Afshan, “Afshan, Amina’s condition is critical. She has a history of arrhythmia. Her daughter told me she has been having symptoms over the last few months. Unfortunately, the facilities here in Belarus lack the advanced electrophysiology labs and specialized cardiologists needed to handle such complex cases. It’s one of the reasons these women wanted to get to Poland.”

Afshan was shocked. She was well-studied, but this felt out of her ballpark. She did not say anything.

“Afshan, I think we need to get her to Poland very soon, or she will die,” Rahma pleaded. “Białystok has the facilities that could help her! It’s only 50 miles away, damn it! But we would need to get across the border.”

Afshan couldn’t understand it. A history of such heart trouble, how had she made it so far? She remembered this woman seeming the healthiest woman alive last week when she was last here. Something didn’t add up, but the urgency in Rahma’s voice made her hesitate. The fear in Farah’s eyes was real, and Afshan knew she had to act quickly. “I … I can look after her, but we need to get her to a hospital,” Afshan said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Please, doctor, I think maybe she has been poisoned!” Farah begged in Pashto, her eyes pleading. Afshan turned to Rahma for a translation. Rahma’s expression turned grim as he translated, “She says the Belarussian doctors just chased her away and told her to go to Poland.” He shook his head in disgust. “Afshan, we can’t leave her like this. We need to get her to Poland immediately. It’s her only chance.”

Afshan felt the weight of the decision pressing on her. The urgency and desperation in Farah’s eyes were undeniable. “Alright,” she said, determination setting in. “Let’s get her to Poland.” Conveniently, Dmitri appeared and said something in Russian to Rahma. “There is a driver nearby who knows the roads,” Rahma informed Afshan. He then turned to the Afghan women and assured them that they were going to a nearby hospital. Afshan tried to calm Amina and helped her breathe, but she felt helpless without proper medical equipment and a doctor’s expertise.

The camp doctor had been called away for an emergency an hour away and couldn’t assist; he would later curse the mystery pranksters who had sent him on a wild goose chase.

Within fifteen minutes, Ivan Kozlov appeared in his truck. “Mr. Kozlov, I wouldn’t ask you this if this woman’s life wasn’t in danger,” Rahma spoke earnestly. “But I understand you might be able to help us get across the border. We need to get this woman to the hospital in Białystok for specialist treatment. We can’t rely on the border police’s kindness or the distant Belarussian hospitals. No offense.”

“None taken,” Ivan Kozlov said grimly. “I completely understand. Don’t worry about money or anything. We can leave immediately.”

“I will come to translate,” Rahma said, looking at Afshan with a searching look. “Of course, I will come,” said Afshan. She couldn’t bear to leave Amina in such a dire state and was determined to do her best to care for her. The party of five set off, with Amina in the back, sweating, moaning, and sobbing. Her daughter and Afshan caressed her, trying to do anything to calm her. Afshan knew that without specialist care, this woman could die.

As they left, Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. He went to the women’s center, politely made sure no one was in the shared bathroom, and took out the little toothbrush with the Afghan flag, pocketing it. Every morning for the last few days, he had been applying a film of digitalis to the brush, and it had paid off. Now, he got in his car and, unlike his co-conspirators, drove legally with his ID into Poland to the agreed meeting place where the rented truck was parked.

Ivan Kozlov had been wary of Dmitri, but the suave Mr. Rahma, the earnest Pakistani medical student, and the panicked young Afghan women appeared entirely believable. As the conversation went on, Farah eventually got the word “poison” out, which Afshan understood. Rahma pretended to be baffled, but Afshan had no reason to think this was an elaborate trick. Nothing had prepared her for confronting the symptoms of a few days of steady digitalis poisoning.

Amina suddenly made the motion to brush her teeth. She remembered the strange taste in her mouth. Farah repeated the word, and everyone understood: “brush.”

“I think she is saying she thinks her toothbrush was poisoned,” Rahma turned to Afshan, gently raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps she is hallucinating, I don’t know.”

Afshan didn’t know what to think, but the main thing was to get this woman to a hospital.

“Ivan,” Rahma said, “when will we get to the border?”

“We already got there; we are in Poland now! Just half an hour and we will be in Białystok.”

Rahma swallowed hard. This had gone quickly, a little too quickly. The road was surrounded by houses; where was the damn wilderness?

A few moments later, they seemed to drive through a deep forest. Rahma, or rather Pembroke, realized this was his chance.

“Ivan, we must stop. Amina has to go to the toilet! Otherwise, she will go in the van!”

“Are you sure? If it is an emergency, I don’t mind driving through it!”

“No, she is getting a bit better. It would be best if she goes here, and we continue straight to the hospital thereafter.”

“Very well.” Ivan stopped the truck and pulled over to the side of the road next to the trees.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Farah.

“Your mother needs some air. Don’t worry, we have time. It’s important she gets out and has some air for a minute, then we continue and we’re in the hospital in half an hour, OK?”

He then spoke to Afshan. “I think the woman is embarrassed; she needs to go to the toilet. I think she is stable. She can get out here, have some air, and go, then we can go straight to the hospital.”

Afshan and Farah looked at each other, as if trying to reconcile the contradictory statements given to them in two different languages. Nevertheless, they helped Amina out.

“Mum, you need air, just a minute!” Farah said reassuringly.

Amina nodded weakly, grateful for the fresh air. As they helped her out, Afshan kept a close eye on her, ready to assist with anything she needed.

Rahma felt as if he had more palpitations than Amina. The three girls were hobbling along towards the treeline while the men stayed inside the truck respectfully. The road was deserted.

“What do you think is wrong with her?” asked Ivan.

Rahma, keeping his voice steady, replied, “It’s hard to say without proper medical equipment. But I think she should be OK once she gets to a good hospital.”

Rahma watched anxiously as Afshan and Farah helped Amina, who was leaning over as if being sick, trying to catch her breath. They all had their backs to the truck. Rahma took a deep breath, glancing at Ivan, who was sitting right in front of him. Ivan nodded, his face serious. “Let’s hope this stop helps her a bit. But then we need to get on!”

Rahma/Pembroke, seized the moment. With a swift motion, he pulled a serrated blade from his jacket pocket. Grabbing Ivan by the chin with his left hand, he drew the blade across his throat. A sickening spray of blood splashed all over the inside of the windscreen. Ivan gurgled, eyes wide in shock, as he slumped forward, lifeless. Rahma quickly glanced back to ensure Afshan, Farah, and Amina were still facing away, unaware of the grisly scene unfolding behind them.

He wiped the blade on Ivan’s jacket, his heart pounding as he grabbed his shoulder bag, full of cuffs, restraints, and gags, and brought out his baton. Afshan had only been out of the truck for a minute, she thought, and wondered if Amina could be brought back in without having to go to the toilet. She turned to ask Rahma what he thought and was surprised to see him approaching her, a bag around his shoulder and a stick in his hand, his expression very different from the kindly, compassionate man he had seemed earlier.

“Firas, what-what are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with confusion and fear. ‘Firas’ did not say anything. Instead, he bared his teeth and whacked her in the stomach with his baton, making her double over, then struck her twice on the right leg, causing her to collapse.

Farah turned and screamed. As Rahma turned to strike her, Amina brought her weak arms up to protect her daughter, and Rahma struck her instead, allowing Farah to spring away onto the road. He sprinted after her. Farah was screaming at the top of her voice, looking imploringly for other cars, but there were none. She was then unceremoniously rugby tackled to the ground. Rahma wrestled her, and right in the middle of the road, cuffed her ankles and wrists and then placed the ball gag in her mouth.

He watched helplessly as Afshan got up and started to limp into the forest. He carried Farah towards the truck and dumped her in, before whacking her several more times on the legs to prevent her from escaping. Her mother, Amina, was crawling towards the truck, screaming. Rahma ran towards her and, frustratedly, stopped to cuff and gag her as well, watching as Afshan limped into the trees.

He carried the Afghan woman back to the truck and threw them both in together, slammed the door, locked it, then sprinted back towards the woods as he heard a car approach. He could not believe this had happened; he had been an idiot trying to grab two fit girls at once. If only Dmitri had been here.

Afshan tried to run, but every step on her leg was agony. The animal she had thought of as a good man had likely broken her bones. She pushed forward, desperate to get away, even as pain shot through her with every move. She stopped and tried to listen for any signs of pursuit. She could hide, scream for help, or keep moving. She sat on a log, then tried to fit underneath it, hoping it would provide some cover.

Desperately, she reached for her phone in her pocket, but there was no internet reception in this remote border area. A lightning strike of pain hit her as her hair was violently pulled from her scalp.

Pembroke had found her and was dragging her by her hair. Afshan screamed, her cries piercing the stillness of the forest. “Help! Someone, please!” she shouted, hoping against hope that someone nearby might hear her.

Pembroke tightened his grip, his face twisted with frustration. “Shut up!” he barked, yanking her even harder. Afshan struggled against him, her heart pounding with fear and desperation. She knew she had to fight back, no matter how hopeless it seemed. Kicking and flailing, she tried to break free from his grasp. “Let me go!” she screamed, her voice raw with terror.

The forest echoed with her cries, but there was no immediate sign of rescue. Pembroke, growing more agitated, pulled out a gag from his bag, trying to gag her. Afshan bit his hand, causing him to yelp in pain and momentarily loosen his grip. Using the opportunity, she clawed at the ground, trying to pull herself away. Pembroke, now furious, kicked her between the legs, causing her to fall to the ground, then kicked her in the stomach, driving all the fight out of her. Afshan gasped for air, the pain overwhelming her senses. She lay there, helpless, as Pembroke grabbed her by the arms, cuffed her behind her back, then her ankles, and carried her back towards the truck. Her vision blurred with tears and pain, she could barely comprehend what was happening.

As they neared the truck, the sound of an approaching vehicle could be heard in the distance. Pembroke froze for a moment, glancing towards the road, his grip on Afshan tightening. Seizing the brief distraction, Afshan mustered the last of her strength and tried to moan through the gag. Pembroke dropped to the ground behind a tree. The car went past, and just as it did, Pembroke saw the door of the truck open and Farah fall out. She had managed to escape from the back and open the door.

Pembroke swiftly carried Afshan to the truck, threw her in, and grabbed Farah again, whacking her in the stomach with his baton, forcing her to collapse once more.

Pembroke’s mind was spinning. He took off his jacket and wiped the blood off the windscreen, then looked at his three female captives. He quickly frisked them, taking their phones and hurling them as far as he could into the forest. Then, he took Ivan’s body, dragged it as far into the woods as possible, and hid it behind some trees.

He sprinted back to the truck. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, glancing in the rearview mirror at his captives huddled together, terrified and bruised. Pembroke knew he had to get out of there quickly before anyone else came by.

He drove off, the truck bouncing along the rough road, adrenaline making him ignore the frightened pairs of eyes behind him. Twenty minutes later, Pembroke arrived not far from the hospital, but at a very different destination. He cursed as he realized Dmitri was not there yet. He parked beside the larger destination truck, noting the other motorists in the car park. Pembroke didn’t want to move the girls without help. Instead, he brought his knife out, holding it over the three females. “Any wrong moves, or noise, and I will kill all three of you!” he said in English and Pashto, leaving no doubt about his intentions.

After ten minutes of indescribable tension, Dmitri’s rented car appeared. “Dmitri! Finally! That was a mess, but I have all three. Let’s get them into the lorry and get the hell out of here!” Pembroke exclaimed, his voice a mix of relief and urgency. Dmitri quickly got out of the car, his eyes scanning the area before nodding in agreement. Together, they moved swiftly, transferring the terrified women from Ivan’s truck to the larger lorry. Pembroke kept his knife visible, ensuring they remained silent and compliant.

“Let’s move!” Dmitri urged, glancing nervously at the other motorists in the car park. Pembroke slammed the door shut, securing their captives inside. Dmitri went to the cab of the lorry. “I will follow in this truck, then ditch it a few miles down the road somewhere discreet,” Pembroke told him.

True to his word, a few miles down the road, Pembroke turned the truck into a wooded area and left it among some trees. He then ran to the waiting lorry and climbed in alongside Dmitri.

“All set?” Dmitri asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah, let’s go. We need to put as much distance as possible between us and that mess,” Pembroke replied, glancing back at the truck they had abandoned. Dmitri nodded and moved off.

“The old man Ivan is dead,” Pembroke said, wiping his brow. “The body is barely hidden, about fifty meters off a road among the trees. People will be looking for him soon when he doesn’t come back. Same with Afshan. We just have to hope they will be blaming the Belarus side before they find anything in Poland.”

Afshan lived alone, so no one immediately raised any alarm about her being uncontactable. Ivan’s wife had expected him home earlier but had been weary when he had called her, saying he had to bring a sick girl to the hospital in Poland. That was all she knew. A few hours later, when he had neither called nor returned, she started to worry and went to the camp. When she asked around, she revealed that he had tried to smuggle people across the border. She was advised that he might have been arrested and held for people smuggling and got little sympathy.

“If this man Rahma was a terrorist and so are the Afghan women, then maybe he deserves to be locked up,” someone commented, adding to her distress. Ivan’s wife was left with a mix of fear and anger, unsure of what had truly happened to her husband and whether she would ever see him again.

Meanwhile, Pembroke and Dmitri pressed on, and by nightfall were grateful to be in Slovakia. By early morning the next day, Afshan’s friends were worried that she had not come to class, and no word had been heard from her phone since her trip to the camp across the border the previous day. Ivan’s wife had angrily demanded the Polish border police tell her what had happened to her husband.

Pembroke and Dmitri barely stopped, taking turns driving, pausing only for toilet breaks and to buy basic food supplies. By the end of the lecture day, a group of Afshan’s co-students set off to the camp to find out what had happened but were not allowed in. By now, there was a huge argument brewing about a missing woman and a missing old man. Suddenly, no one wanted to take responsibility as to who knew Firas Rahma or had anything to do with Mawaa Atfa.

Just as the Belarusian police were breaking up huge arguments in the camp about the missing persons, nearly 36 hours after the kidnapping, Pembroke and Dmitri held their breaths as they approached the Bulgarian/Turkish border. The lorry was full of cheap textiles, carefully placed over boxes containing the girls. Pembroke felt a wave of nausea from the stress, but lady luck shined on them, and they were through with no more than a cursory glance from the customs officials.

Dmitri let out a long breath of relief. “I can’t believe we made it,” he said, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Pembroke nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “Firas Rahma needs to retire, as does Mawaa Atfa. No more lorry journeys for me!” As they drove through Anatolia, Pembroke allowed himself some indulgences finally. He stroked the faces of the terrified captives, who had barely moved for days now. “Don’t worry, Amina,” he smiled, holding up her toothbrush. “You will be very healthy from now on, I will make sure of it!”

The Polish police were baffled by the murder of Ivan Kozlov and the disappearance of Afshan Malik. His body was found miles from where his truck was later located. Meanwhile, the Belarusian police tried to wash their hands of the affair and refused to cooperate. The two Afghan women were untraceable, their papers had somehow disappeared from the camp file, and Firas Rahma was a ghost. The charity was unresponsive to any inquiries, and the frustrated Belarusian police eventually shut down the whole camp.

Anonymous sources called the police, claiming responsibility for killing Ivan Kozlov due to his involvement in people trafficking and stating they would not accept more foreigners into the country. Suddenly, the case turned into a race and immigration issue. Others pointed out that Afshan had been pursuing a criminal claim in the UK against the Amari royal family, fueling conspiracy theories.

Amina, Farah, and Afshan reacted to their induction as poorly as the other girls. That is to say, not good.

Amina, now that her poisoning had stopped, was ironically the best off physically. The other two had severe bruising from the beatings, and Pembroke worried about where he could place a captive with a broken bone. Fortunately, they didn’t have any fractures. Amina, though weak and exhausted, could move more freely than the others. Farah and Afshan bore the brunt of Pembroke’s violence, their bodies marked with painful bruises, making every jolt and bump in the road unbearable. Finally, they were let out when they arrived at the complex, but only to be stripped fully naked and ordered to kneel in front of the man they had a few days earlier thought of as a man of compassion.

“I am Edward Pembroke, you will call me Master.” Pembroke repeated each command in Pashto for the petrified mother and daughter. “You were all taken as part of a carefully planned operation. You were chosen specifically for your physical beauty, to serve men. Here you will be trained. My job is to procure you, which I have done, to train you, which I will do, and then sell you to wealthy men who want to own sex slaves. That is now your lot in life. You will not see your families ever again; your old life died when I took you.”

Afshan screamed that he would not get away with this. She could not believe that the Polish or Belarussian police would not be able to trace Faris Rahma, though had not bet on the lack of co-operation and interest on the Belarussian side. The Afghan mother and daughter were just baffled, and knew they had no hope. They had seen the dead body of Ivan, and knew this man was a vicious killer.

The girls were led into the hall, where the other fifteen watched in stunned silence. The three newcomers looked around, their eyes wide with shock. The sight of Jamal, Mrs. Al-Haraxx, Mrs. Parker, and Konra only heightened their fear and confusion. Pembroke himself had lost touch with normality and forgot how a year ago this sight would have made even him faint.

The two Afghan women were pushed into the cell, while Afshan was immediately strapped in for electrolysis and tattooing. The sudden and brutal feeling of the electrolysis searing into her skin, combined with the penetration of the tattooing marking her forever, was too much for her to bear. She looked at the strangely comforting face of Mrs. Parker and kept repeating, “What is going on? I don’t understand. I want to go home.”

Almost all the girls had cried for their mother at some stage, and for Farah, this appeal was granted, albeit her mother was naked and beside her in her misery.

The girls in the cell were still restricted to their ten minutes of speaking time. Therefore, they met the eyes of the Afghan girls with stony silence, for what was there to say anyway? This scene had been repeated many times now; they had all experienced it. There was no good explanation that would satisfy them, no way to calm them down or make them feel better. And of course, none of the girls understood what the poor Afghans were saying anyway.

Amina and Farah soon gathered in what little space was available and hugged each other, whispering reassurances. However, their whispers were picked up by the collars of the nearby girls. As the speaking limit was reached for each of the collared girls, they began getting zapped, causing them to wince in pain. Amina and Farah, not wearing collars themselves, were unaware of the harm their whispers were causing. The girls in the cell couldn’t stand it and tried speaking themselves to explain, but they were zapped as they talked and couldn’t be understood anyway. The cell filled with the quiet agony of the zapped girls, while Amina and Farah clung to each other, oblivious to the suffering around them.

Eventually, the Libyan girls lost it and launched themselves at the Afghan women, wrestling them to the ground and holding their mouths closed with their hands. The other girls joined in, furiously gesturing to them with fingers to their lips.

The poor Afghan women were clueless and scared—why were they being attacked, what was causing the pain, and what did these girls want from them? The chaos and confusion only added to their terror, leaving them bewildered and desperate for answers.

Pembroke and Dmitri had been watching from the other side of the hall into the cell, and were doubled up in laughter. After the stress of the kidnapping and the tortuous journey, they had needed a laugh.

Afshan stretched her neck to look behind her at the crazy scene unfolding in the cell. Naked asses, breasts, and legs jostled in the tiny space as the girls pounced in silence on the Afghans. The surreality of it, along with the strange nature of the woman lasering her privates and the ogre with the missing face working on her tattoo, made her feel like she was in a parallel world where nothing was out of bounds—only more and more crazy cruelty, no rules, and no protection.

That night, eighteen girls occupied the small cell originally designed for six. The walls were condensed with sweat and breath, more than the air could be pumped out. There was barely any space on the ground and the bench for them all to lie apart. The eerie silence from the word limit being exceeded made it all the stranger.

Afshan found herself lying sandwiched between two other girls, who had not said a word to her. It was made clear to her, even though she was collarless, that she should not speak. Instead, she lay down with her face against Camille’s red hair, her arm involuntarily falling over her waist. Behind her, Ingrid had her hand over her hips and her mouth breathing into her neck. With the intense intimacy, the pain, and the shock, Afshan could not speak. The smell, which she was not used to, was overwhelming.

The two Afghan women, mother and daughter, just embraced, with Farah lying on top of her mother, both women lying on their stomachs.

Just the sound of breathing filled the cell, and the movement of bodies. Each girl could almost hear and feel the heartbeat of the girl next to them. Occasionally, a word spoken in sleep or in cursing woke everyone up with a zap.

Afshan looked at her tattooed wrist and prayed she would eventually fall asleep and awaken to find that this ha After months of captivity and training at the Complex, time was running out for the seven girls purchased by the Crown Prince of Azmaria. As a sort of “graduation,” Pembroke had arranged a performance by the seven, designed to showcase their obedience and sexual skills developed during their time in the Complex.

Pembroke was nervous. This was not only to illustrate the girls’ obedience and talents learned at the Complex but also to impress the girls still left behind, setting a standard to be feared, reached for, and matched.

The girls had been drilled for countless hours, fueled by a potent cocktail of fear and punishment. Pembroke wouldn’t settle for anything less than flawless; this performance had to be exemplary.

The eleven spectator girls, freed from their cells for the event, were positioned in front of the cell wall, lined up in a row. They knelt in the nadu position, maintaining perfect posture with their backs straight, shoulders back, heads held high, breasts thrust forward, bellies in, and legs wide apart. They were expected to sustain this stance for the entire performance.

In stark contrast, across the hall and on the other side of the main event, sat the men in comfortable lounges, observing both the performance and the disciplined kneeling girls.

One man not watching was Konrad. He was keen to be the main star of the event, while the other men observed with a mix of humor and incredulity, finding it strange that their eccentric companion was so willing to perform with the girls in front of them.

The center of the hall held just a bed with a bare sheet and mattress, stark and empty. The spectator girls watched in strict attention, maintaining their disciplined nadu posture.

In a corner of the hall, the seven girls were gathered with Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Al-Haraz. They were dressed in various costumes, marking a rare occasion where any of them were allowed to have any attire on them.

A hush descended, and the performance began. Camille was the first to make an entrance from the corner. Wearing a scandalously high-cut leotard, she somersaulted and vaulted into the center, dancing daintily around the bed. With a graceful spin, she announced, “Master, I am yours. My body, my will, and my soul are devoted to your pleasure and command. I exist to serve and obey.” She stated this while holding a poised arabesque, her elegance, and balance underscoring her submission.

The next girl was Charlotte, who ran on holding a tennis racket and bouncing a ball with the racket against the ground as she ran. She had her blond hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a tennis cap, a small sleeveless white vest without a bra, a tiny frilly tennis skirt with a flap at the side showing off the white panties underneath, white socks, and white trainers. She circled the bed, ran her hand across Camille’s torso suggestively, then took her place next to her and said, “Master, I too will serve you with my body and soul. I exist to serve and obey.”

Following this was Anna, who ran on in her ski suit and trainers and performed a dance. Though not as dramatic as Camille’s, it was expressive and captivating. Her ski suit was very thin, revealing her lack of undergarments; it was white, with her nipples visible through the fabric and the material hugging the crack of her bottom. She declared, “Master, I too will serve you. I will obey and perform any task you ask of me!” She stood with her legs apart, hands behind her head, and licked her lips as she looked at the men.

Elena ran on as soon as Anna stopped moving. She wore a short, tight white cropped blouse with a deep neckline and puffed sleeves made of sheer fabric, and a short flared skirt with layers of ruffles, stopping well above the knee, that had a slit on the side showing all of her thigh up to her hip. She spun around and danced in a circle around the bed in her bare feet, putting her hands on her hips and kicking her legs high in the air, revealing the bright red panties she was wearing. She stopped after slapping Anna on her ski suit-clad bottom, stood, and bowed to the men, proclaiming, “I am your slave, Master, yours forever. I will obey and exist only for you!”

Pembroke held his breath as Dilan entered next. She was adorned in a tantalizing belly dance costume, with only a sheer thong beneath veils that hinted at her midriff and bare breasts. A delicate veil covered her face, and a headdress crowned her head. Moving with graceful fluidity, she undulated her belly, rippled her stomach, and swayed her hips, her bare feet gliding across the floor. Her arms were raised, her movements mesmerizing, as she chanted sensually in Arabic. Holding an evocative pose, she wailed, “My Master! Only you command me. I have no existence outside of your desire!”

Pembroke smiled and relaxed, the most difficult girl had done well! Now, for the Swedish sisters!

Freja and Ingrid entered together, their coordinated movements capturing everyone’s attention. Both wore schoolgirl outfits. Their white, short-sleeved blouses fitted snugly around their torsos, tied just above the belly button to reveal their toned midriffs. The top buttons were left open, showing off their cleavage, their nipples showing through the material, aided by icecubes having been rubbed on them just before they went on.

Each sister’s pleated plaid skirt was short and flirty, swishing just below her hips and emphasizing her long, shapely legs. The skirt had a playful slit on one side, and as each sister moved, the fabric occasionally lifted to reveal glimpses of their white panties. The movement of their skirts also revealed the edge of their thigh-high stockings. The stockings were pristine white, held up by delicate garter straps. Completing their legwear were classic black Mary Jane shoes with a modest heel, clicking softly with each step they took.

Their blonde hair was styled in two high pigtails, tied with bright red ribbons that bounced with every movement, enhancing their playful and youthful appearance.

The sisters danced around the bed in perfect harmony, their movements synchronized as they twirled and posed provocatively. Freja ran her hands sensually down her body, her eyes locking with the men watching, while Ingrid spun around, her skirt lifting just enough to reveal the cute underwear beneath.

Together, they ended their performance with a dramatic flourish, standing side by side with their legs apart, hands on their hips, and their chins held high. In unison, they proclaimed, “Master, we are yours to command. Our bodies and souls are devoted to your pleasure and will.”

The girls then all chanted in unison. “Master, please let us serve you.”

It was this which prompted Konrad to come on stage, grinning, and completely naked.

The spectator girls kept their gazes rigid. Among them, Afshan watched her tormentor from last night, now happy and naked, lounging on the bed like a king, while she tended to her bruises and bite marks.

On the sidelines, Mrs. Al-Haraz and Mrs. Parker observed intently, like parents and coaches eager for their girls to succeed.

One by one, the girls stripped off. Anna and Camille were fully naked having worn no underwear under their costumes. Dilan was down to just a black satin thong, Elena to her red panties, Charlotte to her white panties, and the Swedish girls were in their short school ties, white thongs, and white stockings.

Freja and Ingrid began kissing passionately, while Camille squatted over Konrad’s face and he eagerly began eating her. She arched her back and moaned, her red hair cascading back down her hair, shaking as her body vibrated gently.

Anna and Dilan dropped to their knees, ostentatiously moving their tongues all over his giant feet as they began sucking and licking. With their free hands, they stroked each other’s backs, rubbing their breasts and sliding their hands over their ass cracks while keeping their mouths on his feet.

Charlotte began masturbating in her panties, tweaking her nipples. She then bent over and started sucking on Konrad’s huge erect cock, making sultry eye contact with each of the men.

Elena moved in front of Camille and kissed her as she gyrated on top of Konrad’s face. Camille responded by clutching Elena’s face and sliding her hand inside Elena’s red panties to finger the Russian girl.

Minutes passed, filled only with the sound of sighs and the noises of sucking and licking.

As if responding to a signal, Charlotte removed her panties and climbed on top of Konrad, straddling him. She straightened up, then gradually lowered herself, letting his giant cock slide into her wet pussy.

Dilan and Anna left Konrad’s feet and moved their faces up between his legs. As Charlotte began to gently rock up and down on his cock, Konrad spread his thighs. Dilan went lower, sticking her tongue out to probe his asshole, trying to insert herself inside him with her mouth. Anns went slightly higher, sucking and licking on his balls, their faces melded together as both their tongues worked between his legs as they watched the pale ass of Charlotte move up and down on his cock above them.

Freja and Ingrid stopped kissing each other and took the other girls’ places at Konrad’s feet, licking and sucking the insoles and toes of the German.

The girls were all engaged, using their hands and mouths to grope each other and Konrad, with both hands fully occupied.

Charlotte slid off Konrad’s cock, and Anna immediately took it into her mouth. Meanwhile, Charlotte moved behind Freja, the young Swedish girl, and pulled her ass cheeks apart. She buried her face in Freja’s ass crack, her blonde locks shaking as she vibrated her face, licking and sucking on her exposed privates through the narrow string of her thong, while her other hand fingered Ingrid’s pussy.

Elena now moved to sit on Konrad’s cock, while Camille athletically spun around while still sitting on Konrad’s face. Now facing each other, they kissed passionately, their pussies filled with cock and tongue.

Anna moved her tongue up to lick Elena’s asshole, just above where Konrad’s manhood speared the Russian’s pussy. As Konrad spread his legs further apart, Dilan had greater access to his asshole, allowing her to slide her finger inside while she licked and gently sucked his balls.

Unlike the girls, for Konrad, this was completely a labor of love. He had some instruction, but there was no question of him being punished for lack of performance. In any event, all he had to do was keep his dick hard, his legs spread, and his mouth busy eating the delicious pussy in his face.

The men cracked open beers as they enjoyed the show. For Pembroke, the lack of any kind of reticence and the enthusiasm shown was gratifying.

Elena and Camille both got off Konrad and moved to his feet, taking over that task. The Swedish sisters replaced them on Konrad’s torso. Ingrid pulled her thong to one side and sat on his cock, letting it slide into her pussy. Freja sat facing her, while Konrad worked his tongue around the string of her thong to explore her folds and her wet holes.

Charlotte moved behind Ingrid and crouched down, running her tongue from Konrad’s balls, up the part of his cock that was exposed as it plunged into Ingrid’s pussy, then up the girl’s crack, and lingering on her asshole, trying to keep up with the up-and-down movement of the Swedish girl.

Anna moved down to the German man’s asshole, using her tongue and finger to pleasure him as she pushed his thighs far apart. Dilan moved off Konrad and positioned herself behind Freja, bringing her face to Konrad’s forehead. She then began sucking and licking the Swedish girl’s asshole while Konrad concentrated on her pussy.

The performance continued, with added lesbianism, as girls split into pairs, kissing, 69ing, and sucking and licking each others’ feet, breasts and buttocks. The men were amazed and often applauded some particularly lewd displays.

The spectating girls could not believe what they were seeing. It was impressive in all the wrong ways. The enforced silence over the last few days meant many no longer knew what each other were thinking. It looked like these girls were enjoying it and were certainly enjoying themselves! Was this what they would ultimately all become?

Konrad was happy to watch now, feeling frustrated that he could not cum and feeling fit to burst at the sight of these beautiful girls.

Freja and Ingrid stopped, stood up, and loudly pronounced, “We are so thirsty. If only Master could provide us with something to drink!” Konrad grinned, knowing this was his part.

He got up, walked over, and motioned for the girls to kneel side by side. Everyone watched as Konrad pissed on their faces and into their mouths. The girls impressively managed to swallow most of it, quickly reopening their mouths to let more piss in, the liquid tinkling at the back of their throats. When Konrad finished, they spat into each other’s mouths obscenely and kissed aggressively, tasting the rancid piss from each other’s mouths.

“Master, if you wish, may I supply your slaves with a drink?” Elena asked. She had struggled with the tasks because she had to drink a lot of water and had a full tummy of liquid during all the sex. Now, at last, she could relieve herself.

“Yes, slave, do it!” Konrad laughed. Elena squatted down as the other girls gathered between her legs, their mouths open like chicks in a nest eager for their mother bird to plop food into their mouths.

The only two girls who hung back were Freja and Ingrid. Ingrid began sucking Konrad’s cock while Freja went behind him, prising open his ass cheeks with her hands and pressing her tongue against his anus, while the other five girls continued their piss games.

Elena sighed as the piss escaped her body into the eager mouths of the four girls jostling between her thighs. The girls stuck out their tongues, their mouths gaping open, trying to taste Elena’s piss as if it were the fountain of youth.

Pembroke smiled; he could see no reluctance or hesitation, even though he couldn’t see their faces from his position. He could tell from their enthusiasm and the way their heads vied for a position that they were eager, almost fighting to get the piss into their mouths.

They sloppily kissed one another. As soon as the stream of pee stopped, Camille and Anna clamped their mouths to Elena’s two holes between her legs, prompting her to gasp even more, almost collapsing. Two other girls got up and sucked on each other’s breasts while another kissed her, letting her taste her own sweet urine.

The show continued until Mrs. Parker called a halt to the proceedings. Like performers in a theater, she led the seven girls to approach the men in a line, take a bow, and then announce:

“Thank you, Master, for allowing us to live and serve you. We hope we will not disappoint or shame you when we go to our future Master.”

The men stood up and applauded. The girls reflexively smiled, feeling proud of themselves. They were slaves and had not wanted this, but they had achieved it. They knew they were on their way to their new lives, and this was their preparation for it. Months here had taught them that a life of sex was their fate, and enjoying it was the best path since all other options had been exhausted.

“Well done, ladies. You are a credit to Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Al-Haraz! That was incredible! Total obedience!”

Pembroke turned to the spectators, still in the Nadu positions. “That is what you have to aim for! I want to see that from all of you! Let that be your inspiration!”

The girls took showers and then were given mops and cloths to clean the floor. The stench of urine was everywhere.

Later, Pembroke gave a further speech. The seven performers had their collars removed for their performance, and now it was removed from the other eleven.

“Ladies, tonight you can talk as much as you want. For the seven girls, this will be their last night at the Complex. It is their graduation.”

“Tomorrow, my girls, you will all be transported to your new owners. You will not see your families again, and you will almost certainly not see the girls here again, so make your last goodbyes count! If you do see me again, well, that will probably not be a happy occasion,” he laughed. “I will make more speeches tomorrow, but for tonight, enjoy your last night here!”

The girls were all forced together for one last night. Mrs. Parker gazed wistfully at Freja as she walked out, who looked back at her with sadness. The older woman had been kind to her. Who would show her kindness in their new home? Would her new owner be even worse than Master?

The seven girls spent a restless last few hours in the cell that night. They had already marked themselves out as a group, forming bonds in the face of their shared fate. Though they were leaving, the ability to talk freely among themselves allowed them to express their emotions more openly.

Holly, one of the checkers, meticulously examined her assigned girl, Dilan. “I’m sorry,” Holly whispered as she ran her fingers over Dilan’s arms and legs, searching for any imperfection. Dilan nodded, spreading herself resignedly. She did not want Holly punished.

As Holly’s fingers moved along Dilan’s body, she felt a few small bumps alongside her labia. Her heart skipped a beat. “I think I found a few,” she whispered urgently. She marked the spot in her mind and continued her search, finding a few more bumps along Dilan’s arms.

Mrs. Parker immediately came over, her face a mask of stern efficiency. She inspected the spots Holly indicated and, finding the tiny hairs, swiftly applied the electrolysis treatment. The sharp smell of burnt hair briefly filled the cell as the machine buzzed, and Dilan winced but remained silent. Once Mrs. Parker was done, she gave a slight smile, signalling that Dilan had passed inspection.

After more electrolysis and careful frisking, the girls eventually gave up, their silky smooth skin no longer showing any more sprouting stubble. Despite their efforts and the meticulous inspections, the fear of the Master inspecting the girls in the morning meant they could not totally relax. However, the drama of the moment, of the goodbye after months of being cooped up together, overtook it.

In the sweaty cell filled with flesh and emotion, shy glances, heartfelt talks, and tender embraces took over. The reality of their impending separation added a layer of poignancy to their interactions.

Sabine and Anna sat close together, their foreheads touching. “I’ll never forget you,” Sabine said, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry you are here because of me.”

“No, it is me they were after,” Anna replied, her voice filled with remorse. “In fact, I am the only girl here who actually caused my own problems. I stuck my nose in my dad’s affairs, and that’s why I was targeted, and they picked you because of me.” Anna cried, her tears mingling with Sabine’s. “I’m sorry I blamed you.”

Sabine held Anna tighter, her own tears flowing freely. “We can’t change the past, Anna. All we can do is look out for ourselves. Do your best, and I am sure you will get out of here. I am not planning on being a slave. This place is hell; maybe the future will be worse, but at least one of us will get out. If I do, I swear I will do everything to bring these bastards down and find you.”

The other girls talked amongst themselves, making solemn promises to look out for each other’s relatives and friends if anyone managed to escape. Messages were pledged to be relayed, and strategies for escape were discussed in hushed tones. Despite their determination, they all had to acknowledge the harsh reality that, in all their time there, the chances of escape had seemed minuscule. The only girl who had made even a basic attempt was Zara, and she was presumed dead.

The following morning, Pembroke was meticulously preparing for his own departure. He put on a finely tailored, lightweight linen suit, perfect for hot weather. The suit, a pristine white with a subtle pinstripe pattern, exuded elegance and sophistication. Underneath, he wore a crisp, sky-blue cotton shirt, paired with a sleek, silk tie in a complementary shade of blue.

His shoes were handcrafted Italian loafers, polished to a high shine. On his wrist, he sported a luxurious, gold Patek Philippe watch, its face gleaming in the morning light, which he had purchased with the profit made from Afshan’s abduction as a celebration.

Entering the hall, his hair slicked back, Pembroke commanded authority and respect. His ensemble and polished shoes clicking against the floor were a striking departure from the norm, and the girls stared, a mixture of fear and curiosity in their eyes. Several remembered with regret this same impressive figure when they had first met him, thinking him harmless, compassionate, and impressive, to their severe detriment.

“Mrs. Al-Haraz, have the girls cleaned, inside and out, and put into the suits,” Pembroke ordered, his voice cold and authoritative.

Mrs. Al-Haraz moved swiftly to carry out his instructions. The seven girls were taken to the corner of the cell where they were scrubbed clean and given enemas. The process was humiliating and uncomfortable, but they endured it silently.

As they were being prepared, Dilan mustered the courage to ask, “Can we have something to eat?” She directed her question in a whisper to Mrs. Al-Haraz, speaking in Arabic.

Before Mrs. Al-Haraz could respond, Pembroke interrupted, having overheard. “No,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. He then relaxed, like the chameleon he was, and adopted a friendly, cheerful smile.

He switched to English. “Your new owner may want to have sex with you, even anal, within minutes of meeting you. First impressions count, and I don’t want his first experience of my products to be marred by any unpleasantness, so you will stay on empty stomachs.”

The seven girls were fitted into black bodysuits that clung to their bodies like a second skin. The thin material covered them from head to toe, with fingerless glove ends that restricted their finger movements. Their hair was tied into buns, and the suits were pulled up into hoods over their heads and faces, zipped up at the back like gimp suits. Their mouths were gagged with material that filled their mouths, allowing moisture to pass but preventing any sound. Their eyes were covered with goggles, and as they were pulled over them, the girls exchanged fearful glances, taking in a last look at their fellow prisoners and the cell that had been their home for months.

Mrs. Parker sighed at Freja as the last of her blonde hair disappeared from view and her blue eyes were covered for the final time.

Their hands were cuffed into a single glove attached to a collar around their necks. Their ankles were cuffed together, and their thighs were cuffed to their necks and ankles, forcing them into a tight, immobile ball. They were then placed on the ground, unable to speak, see or move.

Seven black boxes were wheeled in. The girls, now curled into tight balls, were lifted and placed into the snug spaces, like spare tires. A heavy seal was placed over them, cocooning the tightly packed figures. On top of each box were small containers filled with cheap plastic jewelry.

The ruse would not fool any serious customs agent, but fortunately, this time it was not necessary. The boxes were lifted out and carried by men on dollies. The remaining girls in the cell watched in tears as their friends and cellmates disappeared from view forever in a completely dehumanizing way.

Pembroke glanced at his watch. Losing products in transit was a worry after all this time of careful preparation. He would have balked at transporting laboratory rats in such a horrific way, but necessity overrode his scruples, he told himself.

The boxes were loaded onto a truck, which drove for about an hour to a private airport outside Adana. Awaiting them on the tarmac was a luxurious private jet, its polished exterior gleaming under the morning sun.

The boxes were wheeled into the cargo hold with practiced efficiency. The pilot, a retired aviator with a history of alcohol issues and a previously revoked license, had been discreetly hired for this mission. His only concern now was the hefty paycheck promised at the end of the flight. He turned a blind eye to the nature of his cargo, his conscience dulled by years of moral compromise.

The only other passenger was an air stewardess named Katalin, a Hungarian woman around forty. Her once vibrant looks were now marked by the signs of a life spent in service, her eyes betraying a weariness that spoke of too many years spent in the skies and too many disappointments on the ground.

Katalin moved with a practiced grace, her uniform immaculate. Her platinum blonde hair was perfectly styled, framing her elegantly proportioned face. Her brown eyes were expertly made up, giving her an air of professionalism mixed with a touch of allure. She was tall and slim, her figure a testament to years of maintaining the poise and elegance demanded by her profession. As Pembroke boarded, she offered him a sultry smile, her eyes briefly flicking to the sealed boxes before returning to their practiced politeness.

Her flirtatious smile and confident demeanor were part of her charm, a mask she wore effortlessly. Katalin did not care what the cargo was; in fact, it suited her to be indifferent. However, she couldn’t help but be attracted to the handsome businessman on his private jet.

As Pembroke settled into the plush leather seat of the jet, Katalin’s practiced smile never wavered, though her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. Pembroke smiled back, his gaze lecherously lingering on her hips as they swayed beneath her narrow waist. Her form-fitting blouse was neatly tucked into her skirt, accentuating her elegant figure as she glided up and down the aisle. The slit in her skirt tantalizingly suggested, or had he imagined, a hint of stocking top and suspenders?

The jet took off smoothly, ascending into the clear blue sky. Pembroke sipped a glass of fine whiskey, his mind already calculating the next steps. In the hold, the sealed boxes lay silently, their human cargo rendered immobile and voiceless. He hoped all the contents of the boxes would stay alive until the flight touched down; the products were much too valuable to lose at this stage.

As the jet roared off to its destination, Pembroke savored his whiskey, delighting in the luxury of his surroundings. He had finally made it, he thought. Yes, he needed to be careful, and his life was probably more in danger than the females wrapped up tightly beneath his feet. He needed to keep his wits about him in Aamzaira, but until then, he thought he should enjoy himself.

Katalin had little to do other than serve him. After a few glasses, he invited her to join him. “Don’t you want to know what’s in the boxes, Katalin?” he grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Katalin smiled, taking a seat opposite him. “Well, my motto is that a lady should not be nosy about what a gentleman is carrying,” she purred, her voice dripping with flirtation. She sipped the whiskey he offered, crossing her legs slowly and deliberately, allowing the slit in her skirt to part just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her thigh above her stockings.

Pembroke’s eyes lingered on her exposed skin, his cock growing in his trousers. Katalin leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto his with a sultry intensity that promised more than just polite conversation.

“Is that so?” Pembroke replied, his voice low and suggestive. “Perhaps we can find something to keep us both entertained during this flight.”

Katalin’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned back, maintaining eye contact while letting her legs fall open slightly. “I’m sure we can think of something,” she said, her tone dripping with seduction. She took another sip of her whiskey, her eyes never leaving his.

A few minutes later in the cockpit, the pilot chuckled to himself at the sounds coming from the back. “That slut Katalin,” he thought, thinking of the money-grabbing Hungarian always throwing herself at rich men.

Katalin had her black panties off, her air stewardess blouse open, and her bra discarded. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist as Pembroke pummeled her from behind over the seat.

Laughing in ecstasy at finally joining the mile-high club, Pembroke spanked her ass loudly, making her scream. He relished the thought that the noises might reach the anonymous black boxes in the cargo hold, filling the ears of their immobilized contents—the sources of his newfound wealth.

Pembroke’s movements were forceful and unrestrained, a manifestation of his dominance and control. Katalin caught up in the moment, responded with fervent cries, her body arching with each impact.

The pilot, indifferent to the scene playing out behind him, focused on the flight, his mind only on the payday awaiting him.

Pembroke never actually saw the contents of the boxes again. The flight landed smoothly, and as he disembarked, he gave Katalin an affectionate pat on the ass, promising to meet again soon, as she had been great fun. The boxes were taken by an official party and loaded into a limousine to be taken directly to the Royal Palace.

Pembroke was handed an envelope by a distinguished representative. Inside, there was a reservation at the most expensive hotel in Azmaria, $5,000 in cash, an invitation to the Azmarian Refugee Charity Dinner the following day, and keys to a car.

Pembroke was amazed when the grinning servant brought his car over. It was a sleek, midnight-blue Bugatti Chiron. “His Royal Highness wishes you to enjoy your time in Azmaria and hopes you can make the most of your stay here,” said the man, smiling and bowing.

Pembroke’s eyes lit up as he took in the stunning vehicle. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction at the royal treatment he was receiving. As he settled into the car’s luxurious interior, Pembroke’s thoughts briefly drifted to the contents of the boxes and the wealth they represented. But for now, he was ready to indulge in the pleasures of Azmaria, reveling in the opulence and power that his ruthlessness had afforded him.

Driving through the streets of Azmaria, Pembroke felt untouchable. The city, a captivating blend of ancient grandeur and modern luxury, seemed like the perfect playground for someone with his ambitions. As he navigated the opulent avenues, he marveled at the signs of wealth and prosperity—extravagant mansions, high-end boutiques, and luxurious cars.

He felt that he now had a real chance to be part of this elite world, finally. In the days ahead, he looked forward to attending lavish parties, making valuable connections, and finding his way into the world of the wealthy, ready to seize every opportunity.

Ahmed Al-Masri entered the Royal Palace, once again envying the incredible wealth that royalty offered. The world’s press and human rights organizations tolerated a lot in the name of tradition, never questioning why the staff never seemed to be allowed out, or the rumored eunuchs who ran the place, or how they had become eunuchs in the first place.

Ahmed thought that soon, modernity would overtake this place, and he needed to position himself to take advantage. For now, though, indulging the Crown Prince’s disgusting and highly illegal appetites was too lucrative and beneficial to his ambitions to turn down.

The Crown Prince, Youssef Al-Wedeshdah, was a rotund man in his sixties, with a hooked nose and a graying beard that did little to soften his stern expression. His small, calculating eyes glittered with perpetual greed. Known for his immense wealth and unquenchable thirst for pleasure, every inch of him spoke of excess—rings with rare gems adorned his fingers, and his robes were trimmed with the finest gold embroidery.

Raised in luxury and spoiled from birth, he had a childlike demeanor, indulging in his every whim without concern for consequence. He had no interest in politics, seeing the world as his playground, where power only served to fulfill his hedonistic desires. His fondness for dark, illicit pleasures, particularly those of a sexual nature, made him a figure of both fear and disgust. Yet, he was first in line to the throne.

“Your Excellency, is everything alright?” Ahmed greeted his boss, the Crown Prince. “How are your new toys?”

“Yes, Ahmed, you serve me well, much better than I expected. These girls will entertain me for years! So much variety. My congratulations to the man you employed,” the Crown Prince said.

“Thank you,” said Ahmed.

“Now, I hope he is discreet, and perhaps, Ahmed, you can make sure he stays silent? For now, I might want more products from him! But be ready to terminate his retainer permanently. I do not want any trail leading back to me. I don’t like uncertainty and having to worry,” the Crown Prince continued.

“Of course, Your Excellency. Do not worry, your wish is my command. He is enjoying the money for now,” Ahmed replied.

“Well, keep an eye on him. For now, he is useful, but as soon as my need for him ends, so does he. Understand? I hope he enjoys the money in the meantime, however he earned it!” The Crown Prince licked his lips. “For now, I need to get back to my girls!” he concluded, turning away with a satisfied grin.

Ahmed left the Palace after reviewing the security, frustrated that even as head of internal security, the greedy Crown Prince would not let him glimpse his “toys.” The imposing black servants, hidden from the outside world, owed their loyalty to the Prince and wordlessly guarded the inner sanctum where the harem lived. Despite his high-ranking position, Ahmed was kept at a distance from the Prince’s most intimate indulgences.

He knew patience and cunning were required as he navigated his role, all the while positioning himself for the inevitable changes that progress would bring. The future income he expected from Pembroke’s other ventures, which he planned to keep secret from the Crown Prince, was an added incentive.

Ahmed realized that ending Pembroke might eventually be beneficial to both the Crown Prince and himself. For now, he would bide his time.

Back at the complex, Pembroke was beside himself with enthusiasm, making plans and excitedly plotting new ventures. He was therefore somewhat frustrated this excitement was not rubbing off on Sabine, whom he was filming for his commercial.

Sabine wore a summery light blue dress that hugged her tall, athletic figure snugly at the top, accentuating her large breasts without the need for a bra. The dress flared out playfully at the hem, stopping halfway up her long legs. She paired it with white trainers and socks. The dress featured a strappy top with a plunging neckline, giving her look a daring, flirty edge. Her makeup-free face glowed with natural beauty, and her wavy brown hair and blue eyes complemented her dress perfectly.

“You are really ruining the vibe with all this stuttering and forgetting your lines, Sabine. Have a bit more life in you! I thought you had practiced this thoroughly with Mrs. Parker!” Pembroke cast a frustrated look at the blonde overseer, who nervously feared she might be punished along with Sabine for her poor performance.

“I’m … I’m sorry, Master … but please, … can I ask, is this … really what I will be doing?” Sabine’s eyes began to water.

“I do not want to see any tears again, Sabine! I don’t want makeup, and I don’t want tear-rimmed eyes on film. If you are going to cry, I might as well make it worth your while again. What will it be this time? The rats? The water torture? The whip?”

“NO! NO … please…” Sabine pleaded, her voice trembling. “I can do it … I can…” She started breathing heavily, like she was having a panic attack. “I can do it … I can remember the lines, please, Master, just no more…”

“Well, I look forward to a successful take then,” said Pembroke scornfully.”Action!”

Sabine shook her head and tried to pull herself together, forcing herself into the right frame of mind—the mind of a slave. This wasn’t just for the movie; it was for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, focusing on the camera. She reminded herself: she was a slave.

Sabine smiled at the camera, swishing her skirt as she twirled and giggled, flashing her teeth in a playful, carefree manner.

“Hi,” she giggled, placing her finger to her lips suggestively. “I’m Sabine! You may have heard about me. Don’t worry! I’m not really at the bottom of an alpine lake, I’m still alive, but a little … different now.”

She paused, then shyly lifted the hem of her skirt, teasingly revealing a pair of pristine white panties before quickly pushing her skirt down and squealing with laughter.

“I’ve been trained to serve, to be the perfect slave for you. Your wife may annoy you, other girls may talk back, reject you, cause trouble. But I never will. I will be obedient, always! My wishes are your desires.” She licked her lips and winked provocatively.

Sabine turned around and bent over, letting the skirt ride up over her buttocks to reveal her white panties. She playfully wriggled her hips and looked over her shoulder, smiling provocatively. She gave her ass cheek a playful spank and sighed, her eyes widening with a mix of pain and pleasure.

“You can beat me, you can torture me, you can do anything to me! I’m not going to cry to the police or to my parents. I will be your personal property, your own toy, to play with as you wish!” She licked her lips again, her eyes narrowing in a sultry way.

She pulled her dress up over her arms and threw it down, exposing her svelte athletic figure, and rubbed her hands over her breasts.

Sabine glared into the camera, her eyes burning half with anger, and half with frustration. “It is the greatest privilege to own another human being,” she declared. “To control her life, play with her, dispose of her as you wish!”

With a swift, almost defiant motion, she slid her hands into her panties. She kicked off her trainers, then dexterously peeled her socks off using only her toenails.

“I was Sabine Muller,” she continued, her voice taking on a softer, almost pleading tone. “But whatever and whomever I will be in the future depends entirely on you. You can own me and take possession of my life and soul, for the rest of my days.”

She turned around slowly, her movements deliberate and provocative. Bending over, she slid her panties gently down her legs, arching her back and exposing herself completely. Her eyes never left the camera, staring intently from her position on the ground, a mix of defiance and submission in her gaze.

Turning around, her hands on her hips, now completely naked, she said, “To whoever my new master will be,” she declared, “he will have my complete obedience. My body, my mind, my very soul—all are yours to command. From this moment until my final breath, I am entirely and irrevocably yours.”

“And … cut!” Pembroke exclaimed, jubilant. “That was amazing, Sabine! Absolutely perfect!”

Sabine’s face crumpled, her suggestive, alluring visage giving way to a look of utter despair. Her eyes filled with tears as she brought her hands to her face, her body trembling.

“Now, now, Sabine,” Pembroke said gently, coming up to her. He took her hands away and cupped her face, staring into her eyes with an admiring gaze, as one might look at an expensive vase, and wiped away her tears.

“Remember, Sabine,” Pembroke said gently, his voice carrying a sinister edge, “you must perform like this every day, for the rest of your life. The quality of your life, and the length of your remaining life, will depend on how good your performance is, OK?”

“But Master, what kind of a life am I going to have? How can you do this to human beings?” Sabine’s voice trembled as she spoke, desperation evident in her tone. “This would not be done to animals. I cannot endure this life.”

“There are other things you cannot endure, Sabine,” Pembroke replied, his voice cold and calculated. “I have found out what they are. Remember? The life of servitude and obedience, of sexual slavery, that you can endure. It will be hard, but you must and you will.”

Sabine’s eyes widened with fear and resignation as Pembroke’s words sank in. Her body stiffened, and she seemed to shrink inward as if trying to escape from the harsh reality he described. Finally, with a shaky breath, she whispered, “Yes, Master. I understand.”

“Now, that was an excellent performance you just gave on camera,” Pembroke cheerfully remarked, smoothly transitioning to a more pleasant tone. “I think you may have just added 10% to the sale price your buyer is willing to pay with that little vignette, which alone far exceeds the costs of your capture!”

Pembroke began running his hands along the flanks of Sabine’s body. “With the money I get from you, I promise you I am going to enjoy spending it, and the rest I will reinvest in the business.” He began kissing her, and she obediently responded, exchanging tongues in their mouths.

He broke off and took her by the hand. “God, I want to fuck you so hard now! Come to my bedroom. Mrs Parker, you better come along too.”

He was too impatient to lock the blonde Englishwoman up, it was quicker to bring her to his room, where Mrs Parker was ordered to strip and observe, waiting for any directions, but Pembroke only had eyes, and hands, for Sabine.

“After making out on the bed, Pembroke explored every inch of Sabine’s body with his tongue. ‘You taste so delicious, Sabine. I’m going to make the most of you while I still have you.’”

Sabine surrendered, or tried to, to the carnality of it all. Despite her reservations, she attempted to find pleasure in the male body and the touch upon her own. She felt she had to find solace in this, or else she would go crazy. She was a slave, she told herself, she had to get over it, and embrace it.

Pembroke lay back and allowed Sabine to ride him, cowgirl style. Sabine couldn’t help but enjoy the sensation of his hard cock rocking inside her.

“Mrs Parker, make yourself useful, get your face between our legs, lick around behind Sabine and my balls.”

Mrs Parker obediently clamberd on the bed behind Sabine’s back, and brought her tongue to Pembroke’s balls, and her finger to his anus, massaging it before gently piercing hisring. She occasionally ran her tongue up his balls, and cock and up Sabine’s bouncing crack and onto her asshole.

Mrs. Parker obediently climbed onto the bed behind Sabine, bringing her tongue to Pembroke’s balls and her finger to his anus, gently massaging it before exploring further inside. She occasionally ran her tongue over his balls and cock, then up Sabine’s backside and onto her throbbing asshole.

Sabine looked down at the face of evil, the smiling visage of the man who had robbed her of her life and thrust her into a role she could not have imagined months ago.

Pembroke ran his hands over Sabine’s body, admiring the taut skin of her torso, hips, stomach, and thighs, trying to find fat but finding barely any, delighting in the firm flesh.

You’re worth so much money, Sabine. You wouldn’t have believed it when I first saw you in your short business skirt, those tights, damn. But I saw the opportunity in you and I took it.”

Sabine closed her eyes, trying to focus on the pulsations of his cock inside her. Pembroke grabbed her breasts, feeling the flesh bounce within his grasp, wanting to explore her degradation further.

When you took your clothes off to go into that lake, I wonder if you could ever have imagined you would never put a stitch on your body again without being directed to. You looked so happy coming out of the water, naked like now, soaking wet. Maybe something told you that you were entering into a new life, hmm?” Pembroke grinned at her, trying to detect any change in her eyes.

Sabine thought to herself, maybe she had drowned in that lake, but didn’t know it? Maybe she had entered purgatory or even hell. She just had to endure this; perhaps it would pass, but she had to play her part in it. She bent down and kissed Pembroke, slipping her tongue into his mouth, moaning as his rigid cock pushed against the walls of her pussy, and feeling Mrs. Parker’s tongue working its way into her asshole from behind.

Later, Mrs. Parker, back in her short flowery dress, escorted Sabine naked back to the cell. “Madam,” she said, “do you think any of us will ever get out?”

“Sabine, you just have to trust in fate. If it happens, it happens. But don’t try anything to push it. Trust me, it will only end badly for you … and your family.”

Sabine nodded sadly as her collar was clipped back around her neck, and she was placed back among the other morose, naked girls sitting around, leaning against each other.

She sat by herself, wondering what kind of life lay ahead, what horrors awaited her. She gazed up at the posters adorning the tops of the cell walls. They displayed the family members of the girls, a grim reminder of the consequences of breaking the rules. Sabine looked at the pictures of her parents, imagining their grief for their only child. She stared at the photo of her thirteen-year-old cousin, Isla, recalling Pembroke’s cruel remarks about how Isla might become a future acquisition for his stock. It was so cruel how he used Sabine’s own compassion against her. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to remember her duty: to stay alive and remain obedient to her captors, whoever they may be.

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By Edward Pembroke
#Abuse #BDSM #Incest #Teen