Slave Procurement Part 10 –

Latest sex stories about Slave Procurement Part 10 – added for who looking to read new experience of teenager narrative Slave Procurement Part 10 – story.
Read from here : 👉

#Abuse #Group #Rape #Teen

By Edward Pembroke

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

The last thing Sabine saw before the blacked-out goggles were placed over her eyes were the pictures of her family.

“Remember, Sabine, you are my product, and you belong to your owner as a slave before anything else. Think of what happened to Zara and her family. I’m sure your new owner will have their own methods to enforce discipline, but I hope they won’t need to resort to that. You must obey without question; this is your life now.”

The darkness deepened as Sabine was compressed and packed into a ball shape, just like she had seen done to the other girls. Silence and pitch-blackness were her companions for the next hours or days as she wondered if she might die. If she did die, would Pembroke still seek revenge against her family? Perhaps an accidental death would be the best outcome for everyone, except him.

A few weeks later, Faisal Khemdi celebrated his wedding to another extended member of the large Azmari royal family. It was a dull affair, and he was far from thrilled with his docile new bride. Their wedding night was boring, and Faisal hoped there would be plenty of available opportunities for excitement during their honeymoon in Cambodia.

The morning after the wedding, he looked at the plump, dark Arab woman beside him. He knew he would be in a world of trouble if anything were to be complained about to her parents, and he felt irritated by her presence.

He was intrigued by a wedding present from his father and wanted to try it out. He journeyed from his penthouse room in the family house to the basement, using the ring on his finger and his eyeball to gain access to the most secretive of rooms in the family’s secure underground bunker.

In one of the rooms accessible only to his father and himself, there was a sex dungeon filled with bondage equipment: whips, dim red lights, black and red walls, shelves lined with sex toys, and crosses, chains, racks, and cages adorning the walls.

A screen played a video on a loop, accompanied by soft Arabic music. It showcased a collage of photographs depicting a young woman across various stages of her life: school photos, family snapshots, professional portraits, and moments with friends relaxing and having fun. These were interspersed with press photos, audio and visual news reports about a missing girl named Sabine Muller, along with heartfelt interviews with her parents pleading for her safe return. The video then transitioned to the footage filmed by Pembroke, showing Sabine in a blue dress declaring her obedience. This haunting montage had been playing non-stop for days, as the occupant of the dungeon patiently awaited her new master to receive his wedding gift.

The occupant knelt within a small cage, built into the wall like a grotto. It measured just ten feet by four feet and included a toilet, basic shower, foldable bench, and small cupboard. Faisal held his breath as he observed her: she knelt on her heels, palms facing up, back straight, and eyes downcast.

“Stand up, slave,” said Faisal.

Sabine stood up, her eyes still downcast. She was resplendent in black stockings and suspenders, a red and black basque highlighting her bosom, and lacy black knickers. Her dark hair fell down her shoulders. “Look at me, slave.”

Sabine glanced up at her new master. She recognized him as the son of the man who had already bought and used her. He had the same vicious eyes, cruelly arched eyebrows, and an evil grin. He was shorter than her but well-built. He enjoyed her blue eyes, large and sad and vacant.

Remembering the wedding card instructions, he opened her cage with his family ring. This would be a fantastic respite from having to spend time with his wife.

“Slave, choose a whip from the wall with which I will strike you.”

Sabine wordlessly walked in her high heels, towering over her owner, and pondered which of the menacing whips to choose. Uncertain of their differences in pain, she hesitated, unwilling to appear to take an easy path. Finally, she selected one with a sturdy wooden handle and a slim leather lash, feeling its weight in her hands before handing it to him. She then stood at attention, her eyes once again cast downward.

“Thank you, slave. Now tell me how many times I should strike you.”

Sabine swallowed nervously and thought quickly. Too few and he might get angry; too many…

“Master, this slave suggests fifteen strikes to start.”

“Good. Stand against the wall, take off that basque, and present yourself.”

Sabine unhooked her basque and carefully placed it at her feet. She turned to face the wall, arched her back, pushed her butt out, and placed her palms flat against the wall. Softly breathing, she prayed she could endure this.

Faisal played with her first, gently swinging the whip through the air before letting it land softly on her skin. He took his time, allowing the whip to glide gently over her body, relishing the tension in her back and leg muscles with each teasing slide of the whip.

“Now, slave, it begins. Count each stroke and say ‘thank you, sir’ after each one!”

Faisal exercised some restraint; he didn’t want to damage her pristine skin before he had a chance to taste and enjoy it. However, upon seeing the taut, strong body of this woman, his initial impulse was to inflict pain and test her resilience.

He struck her across her upper back.

“AAAAHHHH … OOOOO … one, thank you, sir! Eeeeee!” Sabine hopped slightly on each foot, her hands slapping the walls in agony. She resisted the urge to move her hands to her back to comfort herself, even though she desperately wanted to.

Faisal moved to her back and ran his finger across the pale red line he had just created, satisfied at her obedience. It had not gone around to her breasts, just crossing her upper back.

He moved back and struck her again and again on the same spot.

“Two … thank you, sir. Three! Thank you, sirrrrrr … Four! AAAAGHHH, thank you … SIRRRRR! … AAAAGHH NOOO … Five! THANK YOU SIR, AAAGGHHH!”

Faisal smiled at the shaking, vibrating, screaming woman who maintained her position despite the pain. The marks were neatly layered across her upper body. He couldn’t wait to inflict similar marks on those juicy buttocks, but it would be a sin to immediately mark that sweet flesh. Just marking one little spot would be enough for now.

When he reached fifteen, he reached over and ran his hand over the messy red space on her back, feeling the heat and the sticky bloody fluid that stuck to his palm.

“Slave, taste your juices on my hand, you see how I can make you juicy from the whip? Taste it, clean my hand.”

Sabine turned around, tears flowing from her eyes, and licked her blood from the evil Arab’s palms.

“Now, clean the whip with your mouth. I want it spotless!”

Sabine took the cruel whip and ran her tongue over the lash which had just ripped her skin, tasting the blood and sucking it off.

She maintained her posture as Faisal brought his face down to her buttocks. He pressed his face into her lacy knickers, nestling between her cheeks, breathing in her scent. Her buttocks felt wonderful on his fingers, barely any spare fat or overhang just a gentle firm swell over the top of her thighs as they met in a strong meeting point at her ass crack.

He bit deeply into her ass cheek, sucking the flesh into his mouth, his eyes closed as he savored the feel and taste. He moved his mouth around, twisting the flesh as if wanting to tear a chunk off.

Sabine tried to stay in the moment, but the experience was awful. She sucked hard on the lash of the whip, hoping he wouldn’t find any blood or falsely claim that he did. She bit down on the lash in pain as she felt his teeth clamp hard on her ass flesh.

Faisal took a step back at the beautiful figure in front of him, running his hands over her stockings, and over her pussy mound still covered by her panties. She was still obedient, still sucking on the whip and presenting her bottom obediently despite the pain. He ripped his own clothes off, and with his bare hands, tore her pretty lacy knickers apart and drove his tongue into her vagina, delighting in her fresh taste.

“Tell me slave, do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes Master, I only desire that you enjoy my body, and fucking me is the ultimate in the use of my body.”

“Good slave!” Faisal drove himself into her, with a passion far exceeding that of his deflowering of his wife. As Sabine continued to bite and suck on the lash of the whip, desperately hoping for no more pain, Faisal rubbed his hands all over her Amazonian body, her breasts, her taut tummy, and thighs, and pulled on her soft wavy hair, licking and biting on her ear. Yes, he thought to himself, he would restrict himself to his wife for duty and this slave for fun for now.

Back at the complex, Fatima was outdoors, training intensely. The sun shone brightly, but she was focused on her exertion. She was dressed in nothing but high heel boots and a collar around her neck. Her knees rose above her waist with each step as she ran in circles, hands clasped on her head. Sweat poured down her face, her breaths came in ragged gasps, and every muscle strained with effort as she pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion.

The collar was attached to a rope, the other end of which was tied to the wrist of Mrs. Al-Haraz, who stood in the middle of the circle. Mrs. Al-Haraz was dressed in a black gimp bodysuit and high-heel boots. Her entire head and face were covered in a black mask, with only her black hair sprouting out in a ponytail at the top. Her eyes were covered by goggles, through which she could just about see.

Despite her restricted vision, Mrs. Al-Haraz could monitor Fatima. With one gloved hand, she held a light cane, gently tapping Fatima’s back and bottom as she circled her, encouraging her to keep going and not lower her steps.

Four cameras were set up to capture the performance. Just out of view, Pembroke and the other men watched on a monitor. Fatima was tied to Mrs Al-Haraz who would not run away anyway but they were still ready to pounce in case Fatima got any ideas.

Fatima’s heart burned with pain from moving so much. The cursing of Mrs Al-Haraz, muffled by her mask, did nothing to motivate her, but the sting of the cane and the threats from Pembroke did. She wanted to throw up, and feared she would go over on her ankle any minute now.

“And … stop!” Pembroke appeared in view and clapped as Fatima halted, then dropped to her haunches, breathing hard.

“Excellent Fatima. “Mrs Al-Haraz bring her inside.”;

Fatima stumbled inside, her knees about to buckle, gasping for breath. As they entered and the door shut behind them, Pembroke approached with a white screen and another camera.

“Now, Fatima, a fine physical performance. But I will be very angry if you mess up this next part. I need you just like this—sweating and shaking! If you mess up your lines, I will punish you, then bring you back out for another 20 laps to get you sweaty and breathless again, and we will do the take again, OK?”

Fatima nodded, licking her lips, her breasts heaving.

“Action!” Pembroke said, giving her a thumbs up.

Fatima breathed deeply, swallowed, and spoke in halting English, her eyes fixed on the camera, determined to get the lines right despite her exhaustion.

“Master, as you can see, I am a very good animal—strong, fit, and completely obedient. I have been trained for your every desire, and to not have any thoughts of my own. You have the right to hurt me, to train me, to fuck me, to dispose of me. Your wish will be my desire until the day I die.”

Fatima turned around, spread her legs, and arched her back. She ran her fingers up and down her pussy while licking her lips at the camera, praying she would get this next part right.

“You will have years of pleasure with my body if you wish. Take me as your animal, your perfect toy.” Fatima continued her voice steady but with a hint of desperation.

“And … cut!” Pembroke smiled. Fatima relaxed slightly, relief washing over her as she hoped her performance had met his expectations.

Her relief was short-lived. Pembroke launched himself at her, eagerly sucking on her tit, pouring it into his mouth and savoring the taste of the sweat he had seen dripping from her body as she ran. Fatima groaned as she felt his mouth on her, the intensity of his actions blending with her exhaustion.

Pembroke, like an animal, feral and driven, moved down to bite and suck on her pussy, using his tongue and teeth with fervor. Fatima’s body tensed as she felt his aggressive attention. Pembroke did not mind the sweat nor even the sand, the sight of her glorious toned body moving around outside had been driving him crazy.

He got up and took off Mrs. Al-Haraz’s mask. “Bring her to my room, and bring yourself as well. I will clean both of you there. I want you both in my room NOW!”

Mrs. Al-Haraz took Fatima by the hand, and they moved quickly ahead of Pembroke as he ordered Konrad to take away the cameras and get the footage prepared. Konrad winked, understanding his boss’s urges.

Later, Pembroke was enjoying the attentions of Fatima, now clean, who was licking and sucking on his cock as Mrs Al-Haraz sucking and licking on each of Fatima’s feet.

“You deserve a nice foot massage after your exertions,” Pembroke smiled, brushing Fatima’s hair out of the way so he could enjoy her face.

Fatima said nothing, her mouth fully occupied by his length inside it, her eyes closed in concentration.

“Get up, and ride my cock, cowgirl style,” Pembroke commanded, eager to enjoy the full glory of her body as she rode him. He wanted to see the look on her face with no place for her to hide her emotions.

Pembroke enjoyed the sight of her dusky body moving up and down, the sinews of her inner thighs working hard as she rode his cock. Her full breasts jumped with each motion, nipples bouncing up and down, mesmerizing him with every movement. Mrs Al-Haraz waited kneeling on the floor, obediently.

“Fatima, tell me, are you happy with how this has turned out? Do you wish you hadn’t met me on the sea that night? You and your child might have drowned. Instead, you and your daughter are alive, but you are a slave. Is that not a reasonable and fair trade?” Pembroke asked, his voice filled with a twisted sense of justification.

“Yes, Master, I am just happy to serve you,” she spat the words out as she moved and gyrated, her eyes closed.

“Open your eyes and look at your master!” Pembroke spoke chillingly.

Fatima’s eyes snapped open, locking onto his with a mixture of fear and resignation, her movements never ceasing.

“You would have either drowned or been nothing even if you survived. But I have made you into a unique product. I will make a small fortune from you. Some of it might even find its way to help your daughter,” Pembroke said, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction.

Fatima felt his dick grow even harder inside her at the mention of her daughter.

“Master, I will always obey you. You have nothing to fear.”

“I know I don’t!” snarled Pembroke, suddenly reaching up and grabbing Fatima by the throat. Mrs. Al-Haraz smiled malevolently at the sudden grip, relishing the control Pembroke exerted over the girl, her anger simmering at being placed below her for this moment.

Fatima choked, and Pembroke delighted in the sensation of her pussy twitching around his cock, mirroring the grasp of his hand around her throat.

“Master, I will always obey. You, and my new Master!” Fatima gasped, her voice strained.

“Good,” Pembroke replied, releasing her throat. “Just remember, you have seen the lengths I will go to target your family and I will not hesitate to do so again. You have many beautiful cousins and sisters, and your own daughter is at my fingertips!”

Fatima swallowed and tried to remain calm. “I will always obey, Master. I am a slave.”

“Good,” smiled Pembroke. “Now show some respect to your lady. Mrs. Al-Haraz, come up on the bed and let Fatima pleasure you!”

Mrs. Al-Haraz climbed onto the bed, positioning herself as Fatima prepared to follow Pembroke’s command, her eyes filled with a mix of submission and resolve.

Pembroke enjoyed the sight of the girls pleasuring the Yemeni woman between her legs, a twisted smile on his face. He idly ran his fingers along the melted flesh of his cruel employee’s face, savoring the moment and the power he held over them both.

Jack Harris had been eager to buy a pony slave, fulfilling a sexual fetish he had always harbored. He had a spacious subterranean complex built, along with a discreet outdoor track on his ranch that he could use from time to time. The beautiful and athletic Fatima, a “raghead,” as he derogatorily referred to her, was an ideal candidate. Money had yet to change hands, as they were still haggling over the price, but Pembroke couldn’t help but luxuriate in the calculation of how much profit he would make from picking her up from the desperate waters of the Mediterranean and training her.

He expected that by next week, the price would be agreed upon and paid. Harris’ military contact could then arrange for a discreet shipment to the US, hidden among a small portion of livestock destined for his ranch.

Pembroke’s eyes met the dark black eyes of Fatima as they appeared over the top of Mrs Al-Haraz’s mons, her cheekbones visibly moving as she ate her pussy below. For a brief second, he detected a flash of anger, then fear, and finally something else, perhaps worship.

Gal Avraham had enjoyed a hedonistic few days in Málaga. Dancing, partying, drinking, and making friends, she was just so happy to be free. Two years in the Israeli Defense Forces in mandatory conscription had been tough. She had seen some horrible things. Now, at the age of twenty, she had savings, and she could explore the world.

Gal stood out in any crowd with her vibrant energy and striking appearance. Her dark, wavy hair cascaded down her back, framing her sun-kissed face. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with mischief and excitement. She had spent another evening dancing her heart away. Her sun-kissed skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, highlighting her toned body as she moved effortlessly to the music. Dressed in a vibrant, skimpy top that accentuated her curves and a short, flowing skirt that swirled around her legs, she was the embodiment of carefree happiness.

One lone man looked on, angry at her happiness. Muhammed Zuad, a local barman, had been conversing online with a Palestinian cleric based in southern Spain. Zuad’s mind had been twisted by his anger at the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. He had begged the cleric, Hassan Al-Khatib, for guidance on how to help.

Now, Al-Khatib had told him of a plan they could pull off together. To aid Palestinians, Zuad should kidnap a veteran of the Israeli army in Málaga and force the international community to intervene, potentially leading to the release of prisoners.

Zuad had been nervous, and despite his initial anger, extremely reticent about actually hurting anyone, including any prisoners. Al-Khatib had assured him the hostage would never be hurt. “Our victory will be to show our compassion,” Al-Khatib had told him.

Gal Avraham had been silly enough to both display her pride at being an Israeli military veteran and share detailed plans for her travels. Zuad was not the brightest but smart enough to follow Al-Khatib’s directions to the letter. He used a phone and laptop, which he was careful to prepare for destruction, and communicated through encrypted messages. However, he wanted to meet Al-Khatib in person and not just over a webcam.

Just as Gal had arrived in Málaga, a small yacht had moored in the harbor, the “Zephyr.” Its captain, a Russian man named Dmitri, met with Edward Pembroke, who had flown in on a flight from Istanbul.

“OK, Dmitri,” Pembroke told him. “Hope you enjoyed sailing across the Mediterranean. Unfortunately, my time is far too precious to be sailing around for weeks anymore. Hopefully, this will be a quick snatch, and off we go. Be sure we leave promptly!”

Later, Al-Khatib met with Zuad in a café. Zuad was surprised at how clean-cut and westernized Al-Khatib looked.

“You see, I cannot wear a beard when doing things like this. You don’t look too Muslim yourself!” Al-Khatib laughed. He then went on to mourn his exile from Palestine, explaining his upbringing in North Africa, which accounted for his accent, and his desire to move back to a fully liberated Palestine.

“I have been thinking of nothing else for the last few months, sir. I just want to help!” Zuad was eager to impress this man, who seemed worldly and charming and much more intelligent than he.

“OK, well I have transport arranged,” replied aL-Kittab. “You’re ready for this, remember, I swear to God, we will not harm this girl. We will just keep her for a few days, that’s it!”

“And take her to Morocco?” queried Zuad. This seems more permanent than just a few days.

“Yes, it’s too dangerous here. The police will search the place, and Tangiers will be more favorable to our cause. Anyway, you are trusted at this place?”

“Yes, I have worked there for three years. Everybody respects me. I don’t drink, I don’t chase or harass the women.”

“Excellent. Well, of course, in this case, we will respect this lady’s autonomy completely. She is a prisoner, but we will respect her humanity.”

“Of course,” said Zuad in admiration. “We will release her even if our demands are not met.”

“Absolutely, Muhammed, unlike the Israelis, we are not murderers or rapists!”

Gal thoroughly enjoyed her stay at the hostel; everyone was incredibly friendly and fun. That evening, she eagerly attended a Flamenco class in a tight top and long frilly dress with slits that showed off her legs as she danced. A glistening sheen adorned her skin as beads of sweat traced the contours of her spine and trickled between her buttocks.

After dancing so much, Gal felt exhausted. She shared a room with three other girls, who were all out. She promised herself just half an hour of rest, but instead, she fell into a deep sleep. Unbeknownst to her, the drinks she had been served were spiked, and Muhammed Zuad, the barman, used his staff card to enter her room and gaze upon her sleeping form.

Zuad had modified a cleaning trolley, hollowing it out to conceal Gal inside. Silently maneuvering through the hostel’s back exit, he carefully wheeled her to his car and drove towards the harbor.

Close to the vibrant nightlife of the nearby bustling streets, Zuad and Al-Khatib met outside the Zephyr.

“Did you bring your phone and laptop?” asked Al-Khatib.

“Yes, sir. They won’t be traceable. They might suspect me and arrest me later, but I’m ready to face the consequences here, or in Morocco,” Zuad replied.

“Excellent,” grinned Al-Khatib. “You have nothing to fear. Come on, we’ll be in Morocco before anyone notices she’s gone!”

Zuad was eager as he boarded the yacht, nodding to the captain—a stern, taciturn man who didn’t speak Arabic, but whom Al-Khatib assured him was a Caucasian Muslim.

Gal was barely conscious, but Zuad ensured she was securely but respectfully bound. Soon, they were well away from the harbor and out at sea.

“I want to assure her, when she wakes up, that we won’t harm her!” Zuad said, feeling the weight of guilt on his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” chuckled the man he was speaking to.

“What do you mean…?”

Hassan Al-Khatib, also known as Edward Pembroke, produced a gun from his pocket and aimed it at Zuad’s head.

“Thank you for your assistance, but I have far more entertaining and profitable plans for young Gal here.”

In the wilds of the sea, there was no one to hear the gunshot. Zuad fell with a bullet hole between his eyes. Pembroke and Dmitri tied his ankles to a rock they had brought onboard and threw him and his laptop and phone into the sea.

“Well, that will probably go down as a terrorist attack!” laughed Pembroke and their attention turned to Gal. Pembroke had been frustrated by the need for the false gallantry around Zuad and now could reveal his true self.

Gal’s skirt and top were ripped off her, and she was exposed to just her black panties and bra. Pembroke smiled, gently cupping her heart-shaped face. Her nose ring glinted in the moonlight, and her wavy chestnut hair swayed softly in the cold sea breeze. The cold night air made her nipples stiffen through her bra, and Pembroke was pleased to run his hand over them. They were small, about an A cup, but firm and perky. Her breasts contoured down into a toned abdomen with a concave stomach disappearing into nice boyish hips. She looked like a runner and a dancer. She could be a lot of fun in bed, he thought. He could not wait to look into her eyes when she awoke.

Gal woke up expecting to find herself in her dorm bed, ready to return to her dance class. Instead, she found herself tightly bound, confined in a small compartment. Darkness enveloped her, a blindfold covered her eyes, and a gag stifled her mouth. She sensed from the air that she was naked.

The next morning, the hostel staff remained unconcerned. Muhammed Ziad had informed them he would be leaving after his shift and then embarking on a mountain hike for a few days without any phone. Gal had retired early, and since no one knew her well enough to notice her absence from the dorm room, there was no cause for suspicion.

Gal felt a wave of terror as she was led out of the cramped compartment and into a slightly more spacious room below deck. She realized she had been kidnapped and was now being held naked by these two dangerous men, one of whom brandished a gun.

“Now, Ms. Avraham, you’re probably wondering why you’re no longer dancing Flamenco in Malaga,” Pembroke said slyly. “Well, you may dance again, in fact, I hope you do. But you’ll never be free again. You’re going to remain here for the next few days while I attend to some business. In the meantime, you’ll stay naked, quiet, and out of sight.”

Dmitri leered at her. “Boss it has been a while since I fucked a new girl.”

“Indeed Dmitri, one must always explore new experiences” winked Pembroke. “Feel free to use all her holes, she needs to get used to her new life as soon as possible. There will be a strong market demand for this one. Just be careful and keep out of sight here.”

Dmitri smiled, and when Pembroke was out, he shut the windows and blinds and stripped naked. Gal wailed helplessly into her gag, this Russian thug meant business.

Dmitri rubbed her small breasts, massaging them up and down roughly, stretching the undersides of her tits. He could feel the firmness of her nipples pressing into the palms of his hands.

“You like this, bitch, don’t you?” he grinned into her face, taking in the large brown pools of terror in her eyes. He spat on his fingers and moved them between her legs. She was wet, not from being turned on, but from having pissed herself.

Dmitri just laughed and smeared the piss all over her face and up her nose. “Your wet pussy is just getting ready for my cock” he gloated, and stood over her, pulling on his throbbing manhood and plunging it into her vagina. Gal bucked and arched her back, screaming quietly into her gag as his large cock carved its way up into her cervix like a knife.

Dmitri barked and grunted like a dog over her, gripping her breasts like stress balls as he fucked her. Gal could do nothing to resist except wave her head in pain and fear, wondering how on earth this had happened to her.

Just a few hundred meters away from the brutal rape, Admiral Herbert Johnson lay awake in his hotel bed, his mind swirling with memories and regrets that had profoundly altered the course of his life.

It had all begun with a fateful speech in Gothenburg, Sweden, where protests against NATO policies had spiraled into a tragic incident. Three teenage girls, driven by their fervent convictions against military intervention, tragically lost their lives during a perilous protest against Johnson’s impending strategies. Although he wasn’t directly responsible for their deaths, the weight of the incident bore heavily on his conscience.

Months later, fate dealt Johnson another devastating blow: his beloved wife and teenage daughter perished in a sudden and merciless forest fire while vacationing in Cyprus. The shock and anguish from these losses were unbearable, pushing him to a breaking point. It was then that he made the monumental decision to resign from the military, feeling that he could no longer continue under the weight of grief and perceived responsibility.

In search of redemption and a renewed sense of purpose, Johnson turned to charitable work. He threw himself into aiding migrants attempting perilous crossings of the Mediterranean from Morocco to Spain, driven by a deep-seated desire to mitigate suffering and perhaps find a way to atone for what he saw as his past failings.

One aspect of the refugee crisis that drew his passion was caring for female refugees and children as if to atone for the three girls who had drowned at sea. The dangers and perils of life at sea, including threats from unknown refugee men, had discouraged women and children from making the voyage.

In Tangiers, he was volunteering and helping with many charities and organizations aiding refugees, their primary aim being to reach Spain across the sea to claim asylum.

The presence of a former American military man had reassured many of the women, alongside other charities, including one called “Mawaa Atfa.” The latter had been viewed with suspicion by the others, given its shady past and rumors of disasters and irregularities involving migrant deaths in Belarus and Turkey, as well as drug smuggling in Yemen. But Admiral Johnson refused to believe them, dismissing it as likely a conspiracy to tarnish the good name of refugees, just like all the other lies he had believed in before waking up to reality after the tragic deaths had affected him deeply.

The Admiral had had an impassioned conversation online with Mr. Firas Rahma of the charity and had eagerly vouched for him to the other organizations, accusing them of believing the lies of corrupt governments. He was eagerly looking forward to meeting Mr. Rahma soon in person in Tangiers.

When they finally met, Admiral Johnson extended his hand with a warm smile. “Ah, Mr. Rahma, a pleasure to meet you in person,” he said. “Good afternoon, Admiral, such an honor to meet you,” Rahma replied, dressed casually in an open-necked suit with no tie.

“Oh please, no Admiral anymore! I’m just plain Herb Johnson now,” Johnson insisted with a friendly chuckle.

Rahma smiled warmly. “I think it’s very noble of you, Admiral, to invest all your money and time in this venture. You’ve given up your career and your resources to help others. But tell me, what about your family? How do they feel about all of this?”

Johnson’s expression grew somber, and he wiped a tear away. “My family … I lost my wife and daughter in a tragic accident. They’re gone now, and it’s partly why I’m here. I needed to find a new purpose, a way to honor their memory by helping those in desperate need.”

Johnson pulled out his wallet and showed Rahma a photo of Sheila and Cassie Johnson, two blondes with radiant smiles. “This is Sheila, my wife, and Cassie, my daughter. She was my world,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

Rahma looked at the photo and then back at Johnson with deep empathy. “I’m so sorry, Herb. They were both so beautiful.”

Inside, Rahma remembered Sheila with great fondness; she had been a lot of fun while it lasted. And Cassie … he wished he could keep the photo. It would have been a great addition to her collage and perhaps add a few percent to her selling price.

Johnson nodded, oblivious to Rahma’s true thoughts, his eyes misty but resolute. “Thank you, Firas. I just want to make a difference, to help those who can’t help themselves, and maybe find a bit of healing along the way.”

Rahma placed a comforting hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “Your dedication is truly inspiring, Herb. We’re grateful to have you with us, and together, we’ll make a real impact.”

As a military man, Johnson had devised a comprehensive plan. Mawaa Atfa had been heavily involved in the marketing efforts and had persuaded several female refugees to participate, claiming they had vetted their asylum claims with a purported internal legal team.

The boats had been paid for and deemed seaworthy. The plan was simple: sail from Tangiers to a town just north of Tarifa, avoiding the coastguards.

“I’m a naval man, and I’ve sailed all my life,” Johnson boasted to Rahma. “The Spaniards won’t be able to intercept me. Once the women and children reach Spain, they’ll be safe.”

Rahma nodded, his expression a mix of admiration and hidden calculation. “Your experience is invaluable, Herb. The refugees are fortunate to have someone as skilled as you leading this operation.”

For the next few days in Tangiers, Dmitri “relaxed” with Gal on the Zephyr, moored in the harbor, while Firas Rahma resided in a seafront hotel. From the hotel lobby, Rahma interviewed several of the women, advising them on their asylum claims and coaching them on what to say.

Meanwhile, the operation commenced and was a complete success. Herb Johnson was in his element, expertly piloting a small boat across the narrow stretch of water. He dropped off small groups of women and children, with only up to four able to be safely carried at any one time.

Rahma’s charm had won over the other charities present, and they began to dismiss the horrible tales about Mawaa Atfa. Perhaps, they thought, it was just the authorities killing migrants and blaming the charities.

Johnson’s skill and dedication were evident as he navigated the treacherous waters, ensuring each group reached the Spanish coast safely. The women and children, guided by Rahma’s advice, were able to present their asylum claims confidently upon arrival.

Three individuals in particular had responded to Mawaa Atfa’s rather aggressive marketing campaign on social media and were intrigued by the offer of free passage for genuine claimants. However, all three were rather wistful about their chances as they did not think they would have decent claims.

Yasmina Benyoussef, nineteen, worked part-time as a fashion model and clothes store assistant. A high school dropout, she dreamed of living in Europe but lacked the experience or skills to find a decent job. Her social media presence showcased her in swimsuits, party attire, and enjoying life, reflecting her desire for a different lifestyle.

Nadia Mansouri, eighteen, worked in her family’s bakery. Conservative and religious, she wore a hijab and did not want to leave her family. However, she also did not want to agree to an arranged marriage with her second cousin. She felt that leaving the country, even for a while, might persuade her family to drop the idea, allowing her to return home. While Nadia’s social media reflected her piety with photos of her family and herself in modest dress, her much less conservative sister’s profile, who was a close online friend, was full of beach scenes and nightlife attire.

Efua Agyeman, twenty, from Ghana, was a computer science student at the University of New England Tangier campus but had failed all her exams. Struggling to secure funds for her tuition and with no prospects for the future, she faced either returning to Ghana in shame for wasting her family’s money or trying something new in Europe. Like Yasmina, Efua’s social media presence showcased her in swimwear, nightlife outfits, and enjoying life, adding to her narrative of seeking freedom and new opportunities.

Rahma, using his expertise, assessed their situations carefully. He was adept at identifying the key elements that could strengthen their cases, offering them tailored advice to bolster their stories. Through patient coaching, he had been able to transform their initially weak claims into compelling narratives. For the three girls, he devised a story that necessitated that they travel together and make their claims as a group.

All three girls arrived at the same time at Rahma’s hotel in central Tangiers. The early morning freshness of the city, a place they knew so well, brought a mix of nostalgia and excitement for the future. Inside, they found Rahma looking distinguished in his makeshift office and smart suit. They were ready for the change they had long anticipated.

“Ladies, please take a seat,” he said.

The girls, each distinct in their backgrounds, got to know each other for the first time, aware that they would embark on this journey to a new life together.

Rahma reiterated that he had carefully considered their cases and proposed a unified claim they must make together. He stressed that sticking to the story was crucial for a successful asylum application, warning that any deviation could result in all three being denied and deported immediately.

He handed them their statements to memorize.

“Oh my!” Nadia said, her black jilbab modestly covering her body. Her face was pretty and makeup-free. “I’m sorry, this is rather embarrassing.”

Yasmina and Efua giggled nervously.

“So we are all prostitutes, part of a gang, and we are fleeing this pimp together?” Nadia frowned.

“Yes,” Rahma said, smiling apologetically. “I understand this is difficult, Nadia, but I had to come up with a compelling reason for your asylum claims. This story gives you the best chance to stay in Europe. The proof of your claims will be your consistency in backing up each other’s story.”

Rahma noticed Nadia’s discomfort given her religious beliefs. “I don’t mean to offend you, Nadia. I respect your piety,” he said, then addressed the others, “and I respect all of you. I certainly don’t believe you are prostitutes!” He laughed apologetically before turning serious.

“But if you want to make the trip, this is the best narrative for your success. If you hesitate or refuse, it could jeopardize all your claims. I understand if you wish to back out, but please think carefully about it.”

He sat back, hands clasped, inviting them to consider their options.

The girls exchanged glances. All three had already made up their minds—they wanted to get to Europe no matter what and use this opportunity to start anew.

“Will Mr. Johnson be piloting the ship?” Yasmina asked.

“And will it be just him and us girls?” Efua added.

“Yes,” Rahma confirmed, “if you agree to it.”

The girls felt reassured by the involvement of the other charities and Mr. Johnson’s recent notoriety for successfully piloting refugees across the waters. They knew it was only a matter of time before he was arrested, making this one of the last opportunities, especially with the passage being free for women and children, funded by charities and Mr. Johnson’s sale of all his assets.

The girls looked at each other once more, a silent agreement passing between them.

Two days later, Herb Johnson came into Rahma’s office.

“Hi Firas, great work you’re doing,” he smiled, glancing at the paperwork on Rahma’s desk.

“Oh thank you, Admiral—sorry, just plain Herbert,” smiled Firas. “You are the hero; we couldn’t do it without your seaworthiness!”

“Thanks,” Johnson’s face dropped. “Firas, I have a bad feeling about tonight.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rahma.

“The three girls … Sorry, it’s just superstition on my part. But last night I had a nightmare about those three girls that drowned in Gothenburg again. It was like they hadn’t drowned, they were in hell. I even saw those two blonde sisters. It was like they were chained up somewhere in a dungeon as if they were in hell.”

Rahma smiled sadly. The dream was probably accurate, based on what he knew of Crown Prince Yousef Al-Wadesdah.

“Herbert, it was just a dream. What you are doing honors their memory. Think of their bravery, making that trip by themselves. You can do this. As for these three girls, well, it’s just three girls! It’s just a coincidence; you’re overthinking it!”

“You’re right, of course. God, I’m not thinking straight. It’s just, well … it’s my Cassie too … sometimes I have the same dream about her. She had the same blonde hair as those girls. It’s like she is in some hell somewhere, all because of me!”

“Herbert,” Firas said, embracing him. “The deaths of your daughter and wife were not your fault. They were a tragedy, a way of God. It’s understandable to grieve, but what you are doing now will make the world a better place for these three girls. I’m sure if your Cassie could communicate with you, she would want you to help bring these three girls to their destination.”

Johnson took a deep breath, feeling a bit more reassured. “Thanks, Firas. I needed that. I’ll get them there, I promise.”

“I know you will, Herbert. Stay strong and keep their memory close to your heart. You’re doing something incredible here.”

A few nights later, Herbert Johnson was once again making his nighttime trip from Tangiers to the north of Tarifa. He had no radio, ensuring the coastguard wouldn’t have the opportunity to warn him to turn back. To avoid obvious coastguard patrols, he took a longer route, staying well into Spanish waters to guarantee his passengers’ entry into Spain. His three passengers, nervously sitting together in the back of the small boat, were Nadia, Yasmina, and Efua.

“Don’t worry, girls! Just another hour and I think we can land!” he assured them. The only thing that did bother him was another boat sailing nearby but not intercepting them. It didn’t seem to be a coastguard, but who else could it be?

The girls, though anxious, took some comfort in Johnson’s calm demeanor and expertise. The sea was relatively calm that night, but neither Yasmina, Nadia, nor Efua could swim. They had no phones with them, nothing that could identify them other than their stories prepared for the Spanish police when they would be picked up.

Suddenly, a dull loud thud was heard under the deck.

“What was that?” Efua panicked.

Nadia screamed as she saw a hole appear on the deck and water bubbling up.

Herbert’s heart raced. “Stay calm! Grab the life vests!” he shouted, trying to maintain control of the situation. He hurried to inspect the damage. The boat was taking on water fast, and the situation was dire.

“We need to signal for help!” Yasmina cried.

Herbert knew that using a signal could alert the coastguard and complicate their entry into Spain, but the safety of the girls was paramount. He made a quick decision.

“Get the flares from the emergency kit,” he ordered, as he started to patch the hole as best as he could with the limited resources on board.

Efua scrambled to the emergency kit and opened it. Her face went pale. “Herbert, the flares … they’re empty! There’s nothing here!”

“What?” Herbert exclaimed, turning to look. It hit him like a punch in the gut. Sabotage. Someone had tampered with their emergency supplies.

The nearby boat that had been shadowing them seemed to notice the commotion and started to approach. Johnson’s mind raced with possibilities. Who were they? Pirates? Traffickers? Or perhaps another rescue operation?

Realizing that their boat was sinking and there was no other option, Herbert made a quick decision. “Girls, we need to get on that boat! It’s our only chance!”

The girls looked at him, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

“Trust me,” he urged. “We don’t have a choice. We need to get on that boat before we go under.”

The approaching boat drew closer, its intentions still unclear. But Johnson knew that staying on their current boat was not an option. He motioned for the girls to grab their life vests and prepare to transfer.

As the other boat came alongside them, Johnson shouted out, “We need help! Our boat is sinking!”

To his relief, the crew of the other boat threw over a line and helped them aboard. As they clambered onto the new vessel, the girls clung to each other, their fear slowly giving way to a glimmer of hope. Johnson thanked the crew and turned to the girls.

“We’re safe now,” he said, trying to reassure them and himself. “We’re going to make it.”

One of the crewmen, who had a strong Russian accent, shouted instructions to the girls. “Have a seat, we will get you some towels!”

The other crewman, wearing a jacket and cap that partially covered his face, tidied away the rescue line, his features hidden in the dim light.

As the four sat exhausted, cold, wet, and shivering on a bench on the yacht, the Russian-accented crewman spoke to them, his expression stern but not unfriendly. “You are safe now. We take you to Spain, yes? But you follow our rules.”

Johnson nodded, thankful but still wary. “Thank you for rescuing us. We will follow your rules.”

The other crewman, with the cap, approached Johnson with a large towel, seemingly to offer comfort. As he drew closer, he suddenly dropped the towel, revealing a gun in his hand.

The Russian crewman stood beside him and also drew a gun.

The girls screamed, their cold and exhaustion preventing them from reacting too much.

“Don’t move and no one gets hurt,” said the Russian.

Johnson’s heart pounded as he shielded the girls with his body. “What do you want from us?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’ll do as you say. Just don’t harm the girls.”

The man in front of Johnson took off his cap.

“Firas! What the hell? What is this?” Johnson was baffled.

The girls gasped, unable to comprehend the sight of Mr. Rahma, their supposed ally, now holding a gun.

“You may know me as Firas Rahma, Admiral Johnson. But your wife knew me, rather intimately, as Edward Pembroke. As did Cassie, though she now refers to me as Master, which is what these girls will also call me,” Rahma sneered.

Johnson’s eyes widened in horror and disbelief. “What are you saying? What have you done to them?”

Pembroke tightened his grip on the trigger, sensing the tension in Johnson’s body ready to spring at him. “I am sure you noticed your wife Sheila had a lovely birthmark on her right butt cheek, but did you know…” Pembroke’s voice dripped with malice, “that Cassie has the exact same birthmark, just on the other butt cheek?”

Johnson’s face twisted in anger and disgust. “You sick bastard,” he spat, and he got up to launch himself at the evil man facing him. As soon as he did, two shots rang out in quick succession.

The girls screamed, their terror echoing across the dark waters. Johnson stumbled, falling back against the bench, clutching his stomach, watching blood pour out through his fingers and dripping from his mouth.

He looked back at the man who had shot him, his eyesight fading.

“You know, Admiral, if you hadn’t fucked that whore—Jessie, I think her name was—none of this would have happened,” Pembroke grinned evilly before pointing the gun at Johnson again. “Your wife told me everything.”

Admiral Johnson’s world fell apart just as he watched Pembroke raise his gun again, and then it was over.

The girls screamed in horror as Johnson slumped to the ground lifelessly. “Shut up, girls. We are not going to kill you. Take your life jackets off now,” Pembroke commanded.

Pembroke collected their life jackets along with the one from Johnson’s body, pleased that there were no bullet holes, and threw them all into the sea near the now nearly completely sinking wreck of their boat.

Dmitri brought out cuffs. “Don’t worry, girls. We are not going to hurt you; we just need to restrain you.”

“No, please,” Nadia screamed, “I don’t want to die!”

“Nobody else is going to die if they do as they are told. Now keep still and let him cuff you all,” Pembroke barked.

The girls, trembling and teary-eyed, reluctantly complied. Dmitri efficiently cuffed their wrists behind their backs and then secured their ankles, ensuring they couldn’t make any significant movements. Then, they were gagged with ball gags.

Both Pembroke and Dmitri put their guns away and looked at each other with sly grins.

“Now, let’s see what we’ve got,” Pembroke said menacingly, reaching for Efua’s clothes with a pocket knife. The girls’ eyes widened in terror, muffled cries escaping their gags.

Pembroke sliced Efua’s clothes off, revealing her bare ebony flesh underneath. Ruthlessly, he ripped off her bra and panties, throwing all the scraps into a bag. He ran his hands over her generous DD breasts, kneading them, rubbing them up and down and in circular motions, marveling at the way the flesh stretched in different directions. They were large but perky the nipples jutting out in cold night air as he took one into his mouth and chewed.

“Hmmmm” Pembroke sighed as he ran his hand between her legs and then looked into her large frightened doe eyes, and played with her braided hair. He reached behind and slapped her hard on the ass, gripping the firm flesh. “Great body” he breathed into her mouth “Perhaps you could be another pony girl.”

Pembroke moved along to Nadia, who was shivering with fear and cold, praying to herself out loud through the gag. “Let’s see that hair you have hidden away,” he sneered as he took off her hijab, letting her straight black hair fall down over her tear-stained face, her mouth stretched obscenely by the gag. “That’s better, a lady’s hair is one of her nicest assets!” Pembroke then took the knife to her jilbab, cutting the wet fabric away until she was in panties and bra.

Pembroke gazed in wonderment at her large, perky, and firm breasts as he removed the bra. He tweaked her nipples gently and weighed them in his hands, feeling their softness.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “I don’t blame you for being so modest. The boys would never have left you alone if they saw these.” He took a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard. “You can blame your slut of a sister. I could see on her Instagram she had the tits of a cow and the hips of a whore and figured it must run in the family.” He ran his hand down her smooth stomach, and down each thigh and felt the thin straps of her pink thong.

“Look at this!” Pembroke dropped to his knees and kissed the thin nylon fabric, running his fingers around the edges, and the insides of her thighs, noticing that she had shaved herself down there. “A nice girl like you, wearing a thong like this? What kind of thing were you hoping for in Spain eh?” Pembroke laughed as he kissed her pussy through her thong, eliciting a loud groan from the girl. Even with her prayers, she struggled to sense how to ask for guidance from God on dealing with this.

“Tell you what, because those panties are so pretty, and because you are so pious, I’ll let you keep them on. It’s a privilege! You would be the first girl staying on my boat who has got to keep a strip of clothing on her!”

Leaving Nadia bent over sobbing, he approached Yasmina, who seemed to be hyperventilating. “Let’s get those wet things off.”

Yasmina was tall and lithe. Her ribs were visible beneath her smooth skin, and her stomach was flat and toned from years of dancing and physical activity. She had small, firm breasts and narrow hips that complemented her streamlined physique. Her curly dark brown hair cascaded around her shoulders, framing a face marked by high cheekbones and expressive brown eyes that stared out in terror.

Pembroke ran his nails up and down her skin, watching with satisfaction as red lines appeared with each scratch, along with a gasp from her gagged mouth.

“Excellent girls, you are all beautiful. I took a risk on you all, with only Instagram photos, but you are all stunning young ladies. You will be excellent additions to my stock. For now, we need to get you out of here!”

He motioned to Dmitri, and together they brought the girls to the compartment. There, the girls were forced to watch as Gal Avraham was pulled out, naked, with bruises covering her face and body, tears streaming from her rapidly blinking eyes. All four girls were squashed together, facing one another, their bodies pressed tightly, breasts forced against each other like balloons. The door above them was sealed shut, leaving them in complete darkness.

The girls’ remaining luggage was thrown overboard and the Zephyr took off. They took a wide looping route back to Tangiers, and two miles from the sinking site, Johnson’s body, tied to masonry, was pushed off to sink to the bottom of the sea. Dmitri cleaned the blood from the deck, and soon they were heading back into Tangier’s harbor as the sun came up.

Pembroke, now disguised as Firas Rahma, made his way to his hotel and had breakfast before beginning his work for the day. In the late afternoon, Sarah, a middle-aged Moroccan-Spanish woman, entered his office, her face etched with worry. She was a project manager for one of the main charities partnering with Johnson.

“We should have heard from Herbert by now,” she said, her voice trembling. “He didn’t come back this morning, and we haven’t heard from him in Spain, nor any of the girls! We’ve called the coastguard and the Spanish police, and they’ve found nothing. We also contacted the local police and coastguard, but still nothing!”

“Oh dear,” Rahma said, combing his hair nervously. “My God, maybe something happened to the boat.”

“This was bound to happen. We were so stupid to do this. If anything has happened to those girls!”

“Well,” said Rahma, “I think the police will probably want to question us if they know Johnson is missing.”

“Yes,” said Sarah nervously. “I think maybe it’s best if we lay low for a while…”

No one could blame Firas Rahma for skipping town that evening. He had done what he could to help people; it was Admiral Johnson who had made the mistake. The Moroccan police would likely just seek to punish a poor refugee charity that had only been trying to help people.

A few eyebrows might have been raised if they knew he was departing in a private jet, flown by a pilot who was barely cleared to fly and barely sober. They might also wonder about the cargo of four black boxes, each one containing copies of the Quran on the top layer but hiding something more secretive underneath.

As Pembroke sipped on the whiskey he had expediently confiscated from his pilot, he toasted to the memory of the Admiral while looking at the disappearing city of Tangiers below. It was unfortunate what had happened to him, and he had not meant to taunt him so, but he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the schadenfreude. “All in all, another successful venture for Mawaa Atfa,” he smiled as he gazed at the four ominous black boxes.

The girls’ short-lived relief of living in a less cramped cell was interrupted by the shocking arrival of four new captives.

The girls were paraded in after a brief introduction in English and Arabic by Pembroke in which their new life was broken down for them. For Gal, the reality had been a little clearer after days of sexual abuse and rape at the hands of Dmitri in Tangiers. For the other three, several hours of private time with Konrad and Jamal had left them in no doubt about the depravity of their current situation.

The four girls were connected by a chain linking the collars around their necks. Each of their mouths was gagged with a bit between their teeth. Their hands were tied behind their backs, with a small chain securing their wrists to their necks, preventing any movement beyond the small of their backs. Though their legs were free, they were completely naked. Their eyes flashed with shock as they were forced to kneel submissively at the back of the hall, opposite a cell that contained twelve other naked female prisoners.

“Welcome to your new accommodation, slaves,” declared Mrs. Al-Haraz, her disfigured face and gleaming black PVC dominatrix outfit amplifying the terror in the room and the purpose for which they were here.

The girls in the cell were prepared, having spent the last few days being drilled for this ‘show.’ Inducting four new slaves simultaneously required a meaningful and memorable introduction.

The star of the show was Fatima, who would soon be packaged and sent to Jack Harris’ ranch. She was the first to be let out of the cell. While the others knelt obediently in a row, backs straight and eyes fixed ahead at the new arrivals, Fatima danced gracefully across the hall, performing elegant and alluring moves though even the new arrivals could see the dead eyes betraying the misery within her.

Pembroke watched, always reveling in the sight of these displays, pinching himself to believe these girls were truly his. Fatima’s body was a masterpiece, her sensual curves perfectly proportioned. Her slim waist tapered elegantly from her full, flowing breasts, down to her toned buttocks that swayed rhythmically as she twerked obscenely. Her movements were mesmerizing, her flesh soft yet taut, with barely any overhang over her strong, supple thighs.

“Well done, Fatima,” pronounced Mrs. Al-Haraz. “Now, Cassie, Holly, Samira, and Miriam, come forward!

The four girls emerged and walked past Fatima towards the new arrivals, each one of the latter disconcerted by these pretty, nubile young women approaching them. Nadia tried to stand up, but Holly roughly pushed her down, keeping her on her knees, and began kneading her breasts while staring into her eyes.

The other three followed suit, their gazes devoid of warmth but disturbingly intense, maintaining unbroken eye contact with their partners as they fondled their breasts. This same-sex interaction, seemingly forced and in full view of everyone, was not violent but even more unsettling than what had happened before. The girls winced behind their gags, desperately trying to look away from the unnerving stares, feeling profoundly uncomfortable and helpless.

“Now, the rest of you girls, come worship the performer for your Master’s pleasure.” The other girls moved in a choreographed fashion, bringing a yoga mat and laying Fatima down on her back.

The four girls stopped their intense eye contact and breast massages with the new arrivals. They turned around and lay on their backs, sliding themselves back until their faces were positioned between the arrivals’ legs, staring up at their undercarriages.

The arrivals had not been cleaned properly in days and had barely been able to use their own hands for anything. Therefore, the sights and smells for the four girls were not pleasant, a far cry from the smooth well-maintained pussies they were used to eating. The instructions had been clear, however, they must make the girls cum and they must keep eating for the duration of the ‘performance.’

Each arrival now had to contend with the sight of the beautiful bodies of each of the four girls lying underneath them, stretching out into their impossibly stunning breasts, torsos, and legs, while feeling their tongues and lips kiss lick and suck on their pussies. Every one of the arrivals had been a virgin before being taken, and none had any same-sex experiences. This was their first experience of being eaten by a girl, though any pleasure was tempered by everything else about their situation.

In front of them, Fatima was now on her back, legs akimbo and pushed back, ankles in the air. The mother and daughter pair of Amina and Farah were sucking and licking at her feet, their tongues dancing over her soles and sucking playfully on her toes.

Fatima’s ass was slightly off the ground, and the sisters Natalia and Tatiana were licking on her asshole and pussy, their tongues running over the crack and occasionally sliding over and into their sibling’s mouth.

Afshan and Kasia each took one of Fatima’s breasts, sucking on her nipples and pulling gently with their teeth as if they were suckling for milk.

The four arrivals could not believe what they were seeing. The girls were plainly in captivity yet seemed to be doing things to each other, and the arrivals, which appeared so repulsive and unnatural that it blotted out the memories of their own brutal rapes by the men.

One by one the arrivals climaxed under the skilled tongues of their partners. Poor Miriam had to work the hardest with her tongue working on the underside of Gal. Gal’s sexual assaults had been the longest and most brutal and she was on her period. The blood and other unpleasantness pouring into Miriam’s mouth made her retch but she knew she had to get her to cum and that she could not stop until she was told to.

Amina and Farah switched their tongues to either of Fatima’s holes as they tortured her sexually, bringing her to orgasm countless times. Finally, on a signal from Pembroke, Mrs Parker called a halt to proceedings, leaving Fatima lying prone on the ground, exhausted and weeping from the sensations.

Mrs. Parker stood out in her lurid red dress that clung to her curves, its low cut revealing her buxom figure. The hemline was so high that the tops of her black stockings and suspenders were clearly visible. None of the three girls taken from Tangiers had ever seen an outfit like this in real life before. The sexualized outfits of the women in charge appeared even more provocative than the nudity of the young women.

“Ladies, let this be your introduction to our little stable here. Here, you will stay while you are trained and buyers are found for you. We will make sure you become true obedience objects of desire for the pleasure of the men who will pay good money for you. As you have witnessed, there is no reason why you cannot have some pleasure in this life. So please, follow the rules, always obey, and remember you are simply objects owned by your masters for their pleasure.”

Each of the new arrivals then had their own fully charged collar clipped around their necks. Once collared, they were untied and herded into the cell with the other girls. Pembroke smiled with satisfaction. Sixteen pieces of female flesh were now packed into the cell. It was a reassuring sight for him. Stock was flowing in, while he was starting to make sales.

This would be Fatima’s last night. Pembroke had even delayed the product transfer because he wanted the four new girls to see and hear from the inmate who had been there the longest. Her trauma, the murder of her husband, the punishment and murder of her cousin, the holding of her daughter, the revenge kidnapping of her cousins, and her own torture and training, would all provide invaluable insights to the new arrivals to prepare them for their own life.

Gal, Afua, Nadia, and Yasmina were packed in with the others now. The cacophony of girls chattering and of the four sobbing along as breasts, thighs, and bums rubbed against each other in the sweaty cell was just another layer of confusion for them. Gal had not spoken to anyone who was not violently raping her for nearly a week while the three others had not spoken since boarding in panic the boat which they thought had been their saviour.

Pembroke had kindly done away with their speaking word limit for the night, mainly out of keen interest in their conversations. And so the four girls were appalled to learn, in unending detail, of their fate and what future lay before them.

Pembroke sat in his office the following morning, cursing the quality of his coffee. The complex housed seventeen of the most beautiful girls one could imagine, whose bodies he could access at any time for anything. However, in many other respects, it was like living in an industrial estate, far from the material trappings Pembroke was starting to enjoy. “Well, one cannot have everything all the time,” he wistfully thought to himself as he dealt with messages from interested potential buyers and the details about Fatima’s departure.

He then read through the AI-generated summary of the girls’ conversations throughout the night. Once again, he noted who was cursing him the most and who was the most defiant. Sophie, in particular, needed some sterner training.

He was pleased to see that the new arrivals had, on the whole, been given the overwhelming impression that it was hopeless. They believed they would not see their families again, that he was a monster, and that if they valued their families (which they all did), they would have to obey him. The idea that being sold quickly was probably their best option had taken root. There was now a strong contingent who even looked forward to hopefully being placed with a “kind master.”

Pembroke couldn’t help but smile at the last bit. The type of man who had enough money and the will to possess a slave taken from her family, to subject her to ongoing degradation and keep her prisoner for the rest of her life, would not pass most dictionary definitions of “kind.”

He was eager to read about Cassie. He was relieved to find that the arrivals had mentioned their nighttime sailor as an American named “Johnson,” with Nadine mistakenly calling him English, who had tried to sail them from Morocco to Spain, and nothing else. Cassie would not have guessed that this man had been her own father. As far as she knew, Admiral Herbert Johnson would have been back stationed in the US, not sailing illegal immigrants in the Mediterranean.

He felt conflicted about Johnson’s death. It had been purely business; Johnson needed to die for the girls to be taken, let alone for it to be covered up. It had just been an incredible coincidence how all Pembroke’s actions had impacted the Johnson family over the course of the year. However, he couldn’t help but admit that he had taken a frisson of pleasure in killing her father, just as he had done in strangling her mother months earlier in Cyprus.

He had promised the girls that their families would only be targeted if they misbehaved. If Cassie found out, how could he convince her that it had just been business and nothing personal? He sighed to himself. Eighteen-year-olds were irrational creatures at the best of times. It would be better to hide it from her for now and seek out other family members for potential blackmail.

He thought the same about the Russian sisters, whose parents had been murdered. Satisfyingly, he had found that Natalia’s daughter was living with her aunt in Dagestan, presenting a nice juicy target. However, the sisters were coming along very well anyway in accepting their new life as lesbian sister slaves and looked very promising in terms of sale value.

Mr Han was very interested in Cassie and whyever not? A beautiful blonde blue-eyed American girl with a surfer girl figure and a US admiral as a father, she was a dream acquisition for certain nationalists. Mr Han still loved his country and had been looking forward to not just enjoying her supple body but taking out every frustration on US foreign policy against his country of China on her pretty white body.

For now, it was time for Fatima to say goodbye. Once a girl was sold, other than the agreement that she never be released or shown to the public (which any buyer with common sense would agree to) then the buy was free to do whatever he wanted. Pembroke was intrigued by Harris’ desire to train her and have her live 24/7 as a ponygirl and did wish he could see it happen.

Pembroke’s interest in Fatima necessitated wrapping her up in a small container, akin to a spare tire, and transporting her via a hired helicopter to Cyprus. Upon landing, Pembroke drove the container to a small town outside the military base of RAF Akrotiri, as requested by Harris, using a rented Kia Picanto.

Pembroke sat calmly in a nearby taverna, enjoying a meal. The scent of grilled meats and fresh herbs filled the air. Pembroke, with an air of nonchalance, savored his food, periodically glancing at the entrance.

Harris entered the taverna, his presence immediately noticeable. He scanned the room briefly before his eyes settled on Pembroke. With a purposeful stride, Harris made his way to Pembroke’s table. Pembroke looked up, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and gave a slight nod, indicating the seat opposite him. Harris sat down, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange of understanding before any words were spoken.

“Hello, Firas, or should I say, Edward Pembroke,” smiled Harris. “So, I take the merchandise from here.”

“You are fortunate you have the ties to get military transport for your livestock feed, Mr. Harris,” Pembroke replied, ignoring any introductions.

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky to be alive, Pembroke. Now how do I know I’m not transporting a bunch of sawdust and not the product we talked about?”

Pembroke leaned back in his chair, his demeanor calm and unflustered. “If you’re still in doubt, feel free to check the contents yourself. Just remember, this was your request, and I’ve fulfilled my part of the deal.”

Harris stared at Pembroke for a moment, his expression a mix of suspicion and reluctant trust. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it this time. But remember, any deception, and it won’t be just your business at stake.”

Pembroke smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “My friends will be happy to hear it! They just like transactions to go smoothly. There is no reason business cannot be conducted pleasantly.”

Harris tried to gauge what was going on behind Pembroke’s eyes. He was paranoid about not finding out more about him and was still sure he had seen him somewhere before. But he had already paid the money, and his desire for that stunning Libyan girl in his stable drove him.

“Who do you work for, Pembroke?” he asked.

“That’s private, Mr. Harris. My key value is discretion. I want you to enjoy this product without fear of publicity or betrayal, which is what we want all our clients to enjoy. There is no reason why this cannot be done. You have paid a lot of money, we had the product, we sold it to you, and now we want you to enjoy it. That’s it. No need for any of us to pry any more into your business. We only request that you don’t do anything silly like fall in love with the product…” Pembroke looked sternly at Harris.

Harris had contemplated killing Pembroke after taking the product. It wasn’t the money; he didn’t want anyone alive to know he had a sex slave, including the seller. But something told him there was a lot more to the organization than just Pembroke.

Pembroke gave Harris the keys to the Kia Picanto and watched him drive to the base, past any security, towards his own private plane with the container of animal feed. Pembroke hoped Fatima would survive the trip and was relieved that the transaction had gone smoothly.

He thanked the taverna owner, who returned the items Pembroke had hidden behind the counter. Pembroke then took a taxi to Larnaca International Airport. From there, he boarded a flight to his next destination, traveling in considerably more comfort than Fatima, who remained in darkness, contorted and immobile, as she journeyed to her new life.

Pembroke arrived at Geneva Airport in Switzerland, blending in seamlessly with the tourists returning from Cyprus. Upon arrival, he headed to a high-end boutique within the airport, where he purchased a new suit. The transformation was striking—gone was the casual tourist; in his place stood a sophisticated banker, exuding an air of professionalism and authority.

With his new attire, Pembroke made his way to a nearby café in the heart of Geneva. He found a quiet corner, ordered a coffee, and settled in with a newspaper and his reports. The café buzzed with a mix of languages and conversations, but Pembroke remained focused, absorbing the latest news and analyzing the detailed reports in front of him.

Gal Avraham’s disappearance had ignited a massive manhunt in the hills outside Malaga as police hunted for Muhammed Ziad. The stolen car he had used to bring Gal to the harbor was still, presumably, sitting there unnoticed. The situation sparked a significant political controversy, with demonstrations and counter-demonstrations leading to diplomatic fallout.

Meanwhile, the deaths of three migrants barely made any news outside of Morocco, appearing only as a minor accompaniment to the coverage of the tragic disappearance of a U.S. admiral. The admiral, who had apparently gone mad following the deaths of his wife and daughter, had turned into a do-gooding people trafficker. Despite being a skilled sailor, his risky ventures had ultimately cost him and his unfortunate passengers their lives. Many people attributed the tragedy to his mental state, the illegal nature of the journey, and the dangers of transporting illegal immigrants. There seemed to be little sympathy for him and none for the poor young women.

No one seemed to guess that at that moment, the four young women were undergoing the painful process of electrolysis to remove their body hair and having their new status as sex slaves tattooed on their wrists with Pembroke’s brand.

As Pembroke sipped his coffee, luxuriating in its superiority to the coffee he endured at the complex, he smiled at the confirmation of payment for Fatima. The message accompanying the payment was particularly satisfying: “Terrific nature of the product, should give long-lasting relief haha!”

After exchanging further messages with potential customers, checking the summaries of his captives’ conversations, and reviewing updates on their behavior and the security at the complex, Pembroke moved on to the main item of business.

He made his way into the most exclusive restaurant in Geneva, La Réserve, and was ushered to a private table where none other than Mr. Brad Watkins was sitting. Pembroke took his seat, the luxurious ambiance and discreet service underscoring the importance of their meeting.

“Hey Edward, you know so many famous people and politicians beg to get to know me, and you, you ignore all my attempts to sit down with you. You really are a hard man to get hold of,” said Watkins, grinning.

Pembroke leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Well, Brad, I suppose that’s part of the charm. But here we are now, so let’s make the most of it.”

The waiter approached, discreetly pouring wine into their glasses before retreating, leaving the two men to their private conversation.

“What do you know about Charlotte Spencer, Camille LeClerc, Sophie Candelema, or Kasia Kowalska?” whispered Watkins with a hungry edge in his voice.

“Oh, everyone has heard of Ms. Spencer. I do hope the police find her soon; I have been very disappointed in their efforts,” said Pembroke nonchalantly. “The other girls, who are they?”

“I know you work with the Belhadj family,” said Watkins, trying desperately to detect any flicker in Pembroke’s face.

“Who are they?” asked Pembroke, maintaining his calm demeanor.

“Haha, OK, I’m just teasing, Edward. I’ve been using my own software to find out who you are, and even to find out what happened to the girls I mentioned, and it seems it needs more work!” he laughed.

Pembroke tried to remain calm. Staying anonymous and mysterious was difficult.

“What is the nature of our business here, Brad? I am sure you are a very busy man.”

“I had a little too much to drink at that event in Azmaria, Edward. I dismissed all our talk as fantasy. But then when I tried to look into you … I found … nothing.”

“Well, I suppose that should be reassuring,” said Pembroke.

“If you are a nobody, then why the hell were you invited to that event and talking to so many important and, dare I say, ruthless people?” smiled Watkins.

Pembroke leaned forward slightly, his smile unwavering. “Perhaps because in this world, the most important and ruthless people value discretion and results over visibility and fame. Now, shall we get to the heart of why you wanted this meeting?”

“Wise words,” said Watkins, raising his glass and looking into Pembroke’s eyes. “I want a girl, a very particular girl.”

“We have an excellent cellar, very well stocked. I’m sure you can find something in there,” Pembroke replied smoothly.

“OK, I will buy one of your girls, but I want a discount,” Watkins said, leaning in. “And I’ll pay a lot more over the odds if you can get me the second girl.”

Pembroke took a measured sip of his wine, considering the proposition. “A discount for the first girl, and a substantial premium for securing the second. Interesting terms. Who exactly is this second girl you’re so keen on?”

“Well,” said Watkins sadly, “you know I hated high school. I got bullied really badly.”

Pembroke wondered where this was going.

“There was this one girl who was nice to me. Her name was Annie Barzini. Really pretty, brunette, cheerleader, Italian,” Watkins seemed lost in memory. “I had a real stupid crush on her. She was so nice to me, not like the others. But then…”

Watkins took his glasses off to clear his eyes, and Pembroke wondered if he was going to cry.

“She started going out with this jerk, the guy who bullied me, Tony Seratova. The high school quarterback and all-around asshole. He used to give me wedgies, put my head down the toilets, all that stuff. To see her end up with him … well, it killed me.”

“I’m sorry, Brad, but surely you’ve come out on top now!”

“You’re right! That humiliation drove me on, made me start my own company. But I’ve never forgotten her, or how much it hurt to see her with him.”

“So you still want … revenge?”

“Yeah! Against both of them! They married, and that idiot Tony somehow became a bank manager. Nothing high level, but even so.”

“They have children?” Pembroke asked, warming to the direction of the conversation.

“Yes, they do,” Watkins replied, a dark look crossing his face. “Three kids. I want to hit them both where it hurts the most. But I’m merciful, so I only want their youngest daughter, Lucy.”

Pembroke nodded, understanding the depths of Watkins’s vendetta. “I see. This is more than just pleasure. It’s personal.”

“Very personal,” Watkins confirmed. “Can you do it?”

Pembroke leaned back, considering the task ahead. “Where do the Seratovas live? We don’t operate in the United States, unfortunately, we only export there.”

Watkins handed Pembroke a USB. “She’s a college athlete, doing the pole vault. Ridiculous sport, if you ask me, it’s just so those athletes can show off their booty! She’s going to be at some junior athletics meet in Italy in a month or so.”

Pembroke accepted the USB. “It will require delicate handling and substantial resources, but it might be possible. I’ll need every detail you have on them—addresses, routines, any vulnerabilities.”

Watkins smiled. “It’s all in that USB! I’ve done a lot of the groundwork for you. I just need someone of your … expertise.”

“Well, Brad, we will do our best, and you are placing your trust in the best in the business. But there is no guarantee,” Pembroke cautioned. “I will have to check the logistics first.”

Watkins nodded. “I hope so. I really want this girl.”

Pembroke leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to a more persuasive one. “In the meantime, what about one of my other products? You could have it sealed and delivered to you to enjoy before we even get to Ms. Seratova.”

Watkins smiled. “Yes, I was coming to that. I am really warming to the idea of a harem. What do you have?”

“I have a few exceptional options in our current stock. I assure you, they are of the highest quality and could provide the … distraction you need while we secure your primary target,” Pembroke suggested smoothly.

“Can I see pictures?” asked Watkins.

Pembroke took a sip of his wine, contemplating whom to propose. “Well, rather than go through the vulgar process of parading girls as if they were pieces of meat on display at a butcher’s, perhaps we should take a moment to think on the sad fates of missing women everywhere. For example, that poor girl Sophie Candelema you mentioned earlier. I just remembered seeing her on the news—a very sad case. I would invite you to lament her disappearance. Perhaps if we put our heads together, she might make a … reappearance.”

With that, Pembroke brought out his encrypted phone and showed Watkins some social media photos of Sophie. The images depicted her in a bikini, in short skirts, and in gym outfits, all freely available and taken before her disappearance.

Watkins’s eyes lit up as he scrolled through the photos. “She’s stunning. But … what kind of sick bastard would be interested in a fifteen-year-old girl?”

Pembroke held his gaze as he smirked slightly.

“Haha, Edward, with you I can be open about what a sick puppy I really am! If you can make her reappear, we have a deal.”

“Her family would be very interested … if they ever came to hear of it!” laughed Pembroke. “Now, I do wonder how much of a price they would put on their daughter.” He raised an eyebrow at Watkins.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” said Watkins, swigging back his wine. Pembroke was a little put out. “Brad, that figure barely covers the operational costs. Considering the risk and the expertise required, I’d expect a more … generous offer for a unique case like Sophie.”

“I checked out Sophie before this meeting. I had a warm feeling she might be one of the girls in your stock. I’m sure another buyer might offer more but here is my offer…” He leaned in closer. “One hundred thousand for Sophie now,” he paused, “and two million for Lucy Seratova if you can get her to me. If not, I keep Sophie for the 100K and we leave it at that.”

Pembroke mulled this over in his head. Sophie’s abduction had been relatively inexpensive, but given her attractiveness, he knew she could fetch a much higher price. Nonetheless, the deal proposed by Watkins appeared lucrative.

The waiter returned to take their orders, and as they selected their meals, both men were preoccupied with thoughts of the transactions and the intricate logistics involved.

Pembroke ordered a medium-rare steak, his thoughts still on the financial aspects. Watkins, choosing a seafood dish, was already savoring the anticipated satisfaction of his revenge and the girl he had spent years lusting after. The elegant atmosphere starkly contrasted with the dark nature of their thoughts.

“Brad, I need to know, are you the kind of man who falls in love with your servants?”

“Edward, you asked me this in Azmaria. Trust me, you don’t get where I am without being ruthless. On top of that, well, I know what’s at stake. And what makes you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“I just need to think of my brand. I wouldn’t want it vulgarly displayed to the world; it should be privately treasured. For example, if it were to find its way back to its family, it would not only stain my brand but also complicate the nature of my discretion, on which I am most prized.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m buying bodies, not servants. I’m not going into details about what I’m going to do to them. All I do know is that they won’t see the outside world again.”

“Good,” smiled Pembroke. “It’s the mark of a man of culture that he knows how to treat his prized possessions.”

“Absolutely, Edward. I look forward to seeing how adaptable these things are when I get them. Can’t wait to have a body I can really order around and not have to pay for.”

“Can I ask about mailing addresses?” asked Pembroke.

“My place in California. Tell you what, I can handle the transport from Europe. Just let me know the best location for the pickup. That might help ease the pain of the discount for Sophie.”

“Just one more thing before I give you my decision,” said Pembroke. “This is a personal matter for you, whereas our success has relied on maintaining an impersonal approach to avoid the scrutiny of overzealous regulators. Is there any chance that Lucy Seratova’s disappearance could lead back to you and raise suspicions?”

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t spoken to her mother for thirty years, and I’ve only seen Lucy on social media and videos of her athletics…” Watkins faltered. “Okay, I confess I have stalked them a little, but only me personally, not any employees, and I’m pretty sure they suspected nothing. Just following them on picnics and school and stuff from a blackout van.”

Pembroke sighed. “Well, let’s hope no one saw you. Or suspects anything.”

“Is that not what you are good at?” asked Brad.

“Indeed,” Pembroke replied smoothly. “We will do our best to ensure that the sudden intervention in Lucy’s life leads in different directions away from our own. Our expertise lies in misdirection and ensuring that no trace comes back to us.”

Watkins looked relieved, and Pembroke seized the opportunity.

“To assuage your fears, how about $250,000 for Sophie and $2 million for Lucy? Consider the extra money as funds to be well placed to secure Lucy’s departure from this world to your world with the utmost discretion possible.”

Watkins considered the offer, then nodded. “Agreed. I want this done perfectly, Edward.”

“Well, on the understanding that Lucy will be in Europe in the next few months, it’s a deal for Sophie, and hopefully for Lucy,” Pembroke said, extending his hand.

“Deal!” said Brad, already desperate to Google Sophie Candelema again, looking excited.

They shook hands firmly, sealing their dark agreement. At that moment, their food was brought in, the waiter placing the medium-rare steak in front of Pembroke and the seafood dish in front of Watkins.

Pembroke took a deep breath, inhaling the savory aroma of his steak, and picked up his knife and fork. “Enjoy your meal, Brad,” he said, his tone casual, as if they had just concluded a routine business deal.

Watkins nodded, a glint of excitement in his eyes as he began to dig into his meal. “To new ventures,” he said, raising his glass.

Pembroke raised his own glass in response. “To new ventures,” he echoed.

The pair tucked into their food, engaging in lively conversations about art, politics, sports, and business. Pembroke, well-practiced in the art of flattery, skillfully navigated the topics, making Brad Watkins feel valued and respected.

As the wine grew on Brad Watkins, he made some rather vulgar comments about what he intended to do with Sophie. Pembroke found himself somewhat perturbed and a little disappointed at the implication that Sophie’s time at Watkins’ convenience would be rather short and possibly rather painful. Despite his distaste for Watkins’ crude remarks, Pembroke maintained his composure. He reminded himself that, on the upside, this could mean Watkins might prove to be a lucrative repeat customer.

Brad Watkins’ generous insistence on paying for the very expensive meal, along with Pembroke’s focus on the broader potential for profit, helped cleanse his palate of the guilt over what fate might befall Sophie. Both parties left feeling very content, their appetites whetted for darker desires.

Pembroke spent the night with a Romanian escort who was new to Geneva. She was charmed by Pembroke, who appeared to be an excellent and attentive lover. Throughout their time together, he showed genuine interest in her life, asking about her family and how she ended up in her current situation.

As Pembroke stroked the girl’s thighs and her breasts, which commanded a price of $1,000 a night, he admired her shy, youthful smile. He examined her like a rare diamond displayed in a museum, currently accessible to the public but coveted and with the potential to be spirited away and sold.

While she kept his details, hoping she might have secured herself a sugar daddy, Pembroke quietly put her name in his own black book of potential abductees. He mused that ladies of the night, away from their families, embarrassed and hiding the nature of their lives, and traveling frequently, were very tempting targets. Their ability to disappear mysteriously with no explanation into the ether made them ideal candidates for his darker operations.

The next day, Pembroke took a train journey through the scenic landscapes of Switzerland and Italy. Seated comfortably in first class, he immersed himself in reviewing reports on the complex, examining notes on his girls’ behaviors and conversations, and scrutinizing ongoing negotiations for their futures.

As Pembroke arrived in Milan, he took the time to walk around, admiring the historic architecture and vibrant atmosphere of the city. As he walked by the Milan Cathedral, he noticed two young backpackers. They wore short shorts and tight t-shirts that accentuated their bronzed thighs and youthful figures. Their sandals slapped lightly against the pavement as they strolled, their faces framed by the carefree smiles of young women enjoying an adventure.

Pembroke listened in, trying to establish where they were from, leering at their bare skin and their butt cheeks peeking out from under their shorts. Sensing his gaze, the girls suddenly turned around and clutched their bags. However, seeing how cultivated and accomplished he looked in his suit, they felt relieved, recognizing he was not a threat but rather a sophisticated passerby.

He smiled, knowing how safe he must appear. None of the girls, entranced by the beauty of the art around them, could sense the danger they were in with him nearby. The thought of how effortlessly he could blend in and carry out his plans without them ever suspecting filled him with dark satisfaction.

A group of schoolgirls walked past, shrieking and giggling with each other. Their navy blue plaid skirts and white blouses, paired with white socks and black shoes, highlighted their youthful innocence. They skipped and laughed, their joyful energy filling the air. Pembroke could not help but smile at their carefree sense of happiness and vibrant youth, but they also gave him more sinister ideas.

In a few days, Dmitri would reach southern Italy with the Zephyr on his long ride back from Tangiers. Pembroke pondered whether he should stick around in Italy and further investigate some targets he had so far only scouted on social media and online. He had a few days before he had to get back and prepare Sophie for export, trussed up and ready for her journey.

Weighing the benefits of staying in Italy against the urgency of his responsibilities back home, Pembroke knew he had to balance his curiosity with the practical demands of his work.

At that moment, one of the schoolgirls screamed loudly as another playfully pulled her hair, causing both of them to stumble to the ground, wrestling and laughing. The other schoolgirls laughed along, their giggles echoing in the air. One of the schoolgirls on the ground was heaving with laughter as her friends helped pull her up. Her legs were shaking with mirth and splayed wide apart, displaying her white knickers between her legs as her plaid skirt rode up her thighs.

Pembroke grinned and thanked the schoolgirls for making up his mind. He would stay in Italy for a while and see if he could source some delightful product such as this.

Pembroke had many reasons to be grateful for employing Konrad Fischer. The applications he developed were not only incredibly efficient and useful for controlling product security and behavior, but they also required only a small, efficient team of employees despite the growing and bountiful number of products being procured.

Additionally, he was able to plan ahead for his holiday in Italy efficiently. He gleaned several promising leads from an AI-generated app that analyzed social media posts while Pembroke enjoyed himself.

And so Pembroke made his way to Sicily and Catania, playing the role of a global nomad. Mixing with the hipsters in Catania, he stayed near the harbor, working on his laptop in cafés. While others watched the well-dressed man, wondering what he could be doing, he was poring over his reports and negotiating hard deals, while others worked on their novels.

Meanwhile, Sophie was being put through her paces in preparation for the transfer, which Pembroke hoped to oversee in time. The girls were once again restricted in their communication due to Cassie’s growing closeness to Efua and his fear that she might divulge the full name of the captain of the hijacked boat.

Pembroke had rented a Fiat Ducato and drove around the hinterland outside of Catania. He visited the abode of Salvatore Greco, who had recently been released from prison for a brutal attack on his ex-wife that had nearly killed her. Since being released, Greco had found a job as a lowly operative in a chemical processing plant. He now lived alone on the edge of town in a shack resembling a trailer. Pembroke was pleased to see that it looked exactly as it did on Google Maps.

Francesca was embarrassed by her mother picking her up from school. Maria Greco, with her brown hair and brown eyes, was covered in tattoos on her throat, breasts, arms, and neck, looking a bit too old for such a daring look at 37. She worked in a local factory and was anxious to take Francesca straight from school, worried about her father, who had been released from prison after eight years for trying to kill her.

“Mama, come on, can you dress in something less revealing? At least cover up your tattoos!”

“Ha! Come on, Francesca, your friends think I’m cool.”

“Yeah, right,” Francesca replied. Her mother was hardly a perfect model as a parent. A local drama queen who posted non-stop about her mundane life in small-town Sicily, her tattoos and piercings made her look like a middle-aged woman seeking cheap thrills all her life.

At fifteen, Francesca was a little more conservative than her mother. With her brown hair tied in a ponytail and wearing a black plaid skirt, white blouse, and tie, she contrasted sharply with her mother’s short denim shorts and skimpy red top.

“Let’s go for an ice cream, Francesca. Just keep an eye out for your father, OK? That bastard will be around, I know!”

Francesca was not looking forward to visiting her father in a few days. He had tried to kill her mother, and despite his promises and professed love for his daughter, she was a little scared.

“Mom, is that a new tattoo?”

“Shut up, Francesca. What do you care?”

“My skirt is too short because you say we have no money. All the boys harass me over it there are upskirt photos of me all over the internet now!”

“Yeah, well, your father never paid any support for ten years. Try being a single mom. And why not get a boyfriend Francesca? When I was your age I was being driven everywhere, I never had to pay for anything.”

Francesca sighed and adjusted her skirt. She couldn’t wait to grow up and leave Sicily and her dysfunctional family.

Later that evening, Francesca was busy studying at home in her bedroom, hoping that her studies might be the ticket to get away from this place. Her small room, filled with books and school supplies, was a sanctuary from the chaos of her daily life.

Meanwhile, Maria was on a date with an engineering consultant from France, Philippe Papin. Philippe was new in town, interested in the local chemical industrial processing plant, and had met Maria online. Maria was intrigued by his jet-set lifestyle, handsome looks, and his desire to live in Sicily.

“Oh, she is so pretty!” Maria smiled at the photo of Philippe’s grinning daughter that he showed her. The faces of Edward Pembroke and Samira Al-Tayeb gazed out from the photo—a happy image of a father and daughter in matching white and green t-shirts, set against a background of files in his bedroom at the complex.

Pembroke had selected Samira to be his fictional daughter because she bore the most resemblance to him. Maria watched with interest as Philippe gazed lovingly at the photo. This man seemed like a loving father, so handsome and charismatic in person, and quite generous so far.

As they continued their conversation, Maria found herself increasingly drawn to Philippe. His stories of travel and his plans for the future captivated her, making her momentarily forget the worries that plagued her daily life. Philippe’s charm and apparent sincerity made her feel special, and she couldn’t help but hope that this relationship might bring some positive change into her and Francesca’s lives.

In reality, Pembroke was remembering what had happened after Mrs Parker had taken the photograph. He, Mrs Parker, and Samira had embarked on an hours-long threesome in which Samira had finally lost herself in sexual ecstasy. He had seen genuine lust in her eyes as she had ridden his cock and hunger in her eyes as she drove Mrs Parker to multiple orgasms with her tongue/

“Unfortunately, I don’t get to see my daughter much,” Papin said, sighing. “Her mother doesn’t let her. But…” he brightened, “soon she will be eighteen, and then she can make up her own mind!”

Maria pressed his hand. “I understand. I wish I had an ex-husband like you,” she laughed. “I have custody of my daughter, and I would love to have a father in the picture, but my ex…” She sighed deeply. “He is a terrible person. I wish we could be rid of him.”

Papin looked at her with sympathy. “That sounds tough. I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard enough raising a child without having to deal with someone like that.”

Maria nodded, appreciating his understanding. “Thank you, Philippe. It’s been a struggle, but I do my best for Francesca. She’s my world, and I just want her to have a better life.”

“You’re doing a great job, Maria,” Papin said sincerely. “And who knows, maybe things will get better from here on out.”

Pembroke enjoyed the ravishing attentions of Maria Greco in bed that night. Running his hands over the intricacies of her tattoos, he felt as if he was appraising artwork rather than her intimate areas, and kissing a painting rather than her skin.

“I bet your tattoos tell a life of passion,” he smiled at her. “Haha! You bet! I don’t regret a single one; they were all what I wanted to do at the time!” Maria replied, gyrating on top of him, grinning, and flickering her pierced tongue.

Her movements were hypnotic, and Pembroke found himself captivated by the contrast between her wild exterior and the vulnerability she occasionally showed.

Later, they lay together, exhausted. “You sure your daughter is okay by herself?”

“She’s a big girl,” Maria said defensively. “She’s shy, not like I was at that age, but then I’m too hot-headed. My daughter, she’s clever, not like me. She’s going to be educated. Which is why…” She suddenly became sad and clung to Papin. “I am so frightened about Salvatore. I am afraid of him and what he might do to us.”

“Maria, I have only known you a short time, but … there is something about you … something free. You are so different from my ex-wife,” he laughed. “Every time I’ve been coming to the plant here, I’ve wanted to move to Sicily! My daughter, when she is free, could finally leave Marseille and get away from my ex! I don’t know, maybe I’m crazy, but I’d love to see if we have more than a few nights of passion together…”

Maria looked into his eyes, a mix of hope and uncertainty. “Do you really mean that, Philippe?”

He nodded, taking her hand. “I do. There’s something special here, Maria. Let’s see where it leads.”

Maria kissed him and closed her eyes. So many men over the years had betrayed her. Would this one be any different? She was a born dreamer and thought she might as well try with this guy. At least he was rich, had a respectable career, and, for one thing, this mild and gentle man would never harm her or her daughter.

“I hope you’re right, Philippe,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both hope and caution. “Maybe we both deserve a fresh start.”

“Come on, Francesca, why don’t you put on that red bikini I got you? I would kill for your body, that flat stomach…”

“Mama!!” Francesca cursed at her. “I’m not wearing that; it’s like dental floss!”

“Suit yourself,” Maria shrugged, slipping into a red and white thong bikini and throwing a sarong over her waist.

Francesca scowled as she watched her mother, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “You know, not everyone wants to show off like you do.”

Maria laughed lightly. “Oh, honey, it’s not about showing off. It’s about feeling good in your own skin. One day, you’ll understand that.”

“I understand just fine,” Francesca muttered, grabbing her towel and book. “I just don’t want to walk around like a whore in front of this date of yours.”

Maria rolled her eyes as her daughter appeared in a blue swimsuit adorned with white butterflies. The swimsuit had a conservative cut, barely reaching her hips, and at the back, it covered her buttocks modestly, displaying just a hint of a crease below the white frilly hem. The suit hugged her curves snugly and provided ample coverage for her cleavage.

“Boys are never going to go for that!” Maria teased.

“Mama! I am not looking for boys and anyway, isn’t it weird we are meeting this guy at the beach and you are showing me off like a piece of meat?”

“He could be your new stepfather, Francesca, so he should know we come as a package! I have seen his daughter, she’s a little older, and you could be friends if Philippe and I get serious…”

“Mama, you barely know this man…”

“Well, he seems nice and definitely a lot better than your dad! It’s good to have options now that he is out of the picture. Honestly, are you looking forward to seeing him again?”

“No, I guess not,” said Francesca sadly. She realized she had no good options in her life; both her parents were deadbeats and crazy in their own ways. How bad could this new man be?

Philippe Papin and Maria Greco flirted and canoodled like a lovestruck couple on the beach. Maria’s nearly see-through sarong flowed around her as she danced playfully around the ever-amusing and conversational Philippe.

Francesca had brought a book, hoping to use it as an excuse to ignore them, but she couldn’t help being drawn into their lively conversation. Philippe’s entertaining anecdotes and tales of his travels around the world as an engineer captivated her. Later, they splashed around in the water, throwing a ball back and forth. Maria, having lost her sarong, proudly showed off her tattooed body with loud and extravagant gestures. Francesca giggled, unable to resist enjoying her mother’s exuberant mood. She felt safe and warm with this charming Frenchman, especially in contrast to her upcoming and dreaded meeting with her father.

“Francesca needs a boyfriend!” Maria danced with her daughter in front of Papin who laughed.” Maria please, you are embarrassing poor Francesca haha” Francesca blushed, and laughed.

Papin secretly appraised Francesca’s body. She was slightly less bashful on Instagram and despite the modest nature of her swimsuit he could see her breasts were developing into the fine firm melons that her mother had, she was about five feet five, and her swimsuit clung to her derriere in the water and could not hide her perky firm bottom and youthful thighs and flat stomach.

“Francesca,” whispered Maria. “I want to bring him back to our place tonight.”

“What? Mama, I have to see Dad tomorrow. Is this really a good time?”

“Look, it will be a test for this guy, to see if he can stand up for us. If he’s with us in the car, it will show your dad he can’t just push us both around.”

Francesca winced in embarrassment, but a part of her felt grateful for the potential distraction from the awkward meeting with her father tomorrow. Or would it make things worse?

Francesca sighed, listening to her headphones in her room, trying to block out the noises from her mother’s bedroom. She chatted online, telling her friends she was home and her mother was watching TV, not daring to reveal the sordid truth.

Maria told herself that she was making sure to keep her new man entertained, to make him want more. Secretly, though, she desired this herself even more.

Papin smiled and climaxed repeatedly inside her, gazing at her beautiful inked body and marveling at her howls and moans. “Shhh,” he giggled, “we don’t want to wake up the neighbors or Francesca…”

“Haha,” she smiled at him lustfully, sweat glistening on her skin, her eyes wild with desire, her teeth gnashing like a feral animal. “Francesca is asleep, trust me. I don’t sleep, not when I have a gorgeous man like you in my bed…”

Papin raised himself up and kissed her passionately, his hands digging into her skin as she bucked in response, feeling his cock harden. “Fuck me, Philippe,” she snarled, “fuck me as hard as you can!”

Papin took her from behind, thrusting hard, resisting the insatiable urge to spank her cheeks as he plunged himself back and forth, his balls slapping against her. He could do this all night. If only his girls could see this, they might learn something!

A sudden thought crossed his mind: Maria, alongside Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Al-Haraz, instructing his girls. She would be perfect! But alas, he doubted she would take up the offer.

He realized it was getting late. He ran his hand over the Aztec symbols plastered across her back, dragging his finger along her spine, and raising it to his mouth to taste her sweat.

“On your back, Maria,” he demanded, his voice husky with desire. “I want to look into your eyes as I cum inside you!”

Maria smiled wickedly as she pulled away and lay on her back, raising her legs to obscenely display her sweaty holes to him, her eyes ablaze. “Finish me, Philippe!” she commanded.

Papin buried his face between her legs again, savoring her taste, trying to memorize it for comparison later. He raised himself up and pressed his lips to hers as his cock entered her again.

“Philippe, cum inside me!” she begged him, her nails digging into his back.

Papin kept his eyes on hers as he emptied himself into her womb. Maria gripped his buttocks, holding him inside her, secretly praying he would impregnate her, while she gasped and cried in orgasm.

“Oh, Philippe, that was amazing,” she whispered, her eyes melting with affection and satisfaction.

Post-coital clarity hit Papin, or rather Pembroke. He would love to spend another night wrapped in this woman’s warm embrace, but time was money, and unless he struck now, his chances of a good procurement would pass.

He gently caressed Maria’s throat with his hands, the sweat greasing them, as he fingered the snake tattoo climbing her neck.

“You know, Maria, you have an amazing body,” he cooed. “But not quite as good as Francesca’s. And my clients are quite particular about tattoos like yours. I think Francesca is more suited to the life I’m going to give her. For you, well, it’s goodbye…”

Maria, still blinded by lust and dreams of a future with this man, couldn’t make sense of his words at first. But as she began to understand, she felt his hands tighten around her throat. Before she could react, her windpipe closed off, and the face of the gentle Philippe Papin contorted into one of rage and evil glee.

She pawed weakly at his back and tried to kick him with her thighs, but it was no use. As the light started to fade from her eyes…

Pembroke took his hands off her throat, her mouth open, her tongue hanging out obscenely, and her eyes still wide open. He let his fingers slide over her still-sweating body, tracing the inkwork, admiring it while also lamenting the spoiling of an excellent body.

He had indulged himself, however, he cursed, it was late. He needed as much time as possible, but that damn woman had been just too good in bed. He went through his bag and took out his equipment.

Francesca was asleep in her Barney the Dinosaur pajamas, her favorite childhood sleepwear, almost like a protective cover shielding her from the adult sounds emanating from her mother’s room next door. She was still wearing her noise-canceling headphones, so she did not hear her door open slightly or even sense the man approaching her bed.

By now, Pembroke was very well practiced in the art of approaching sleeping girls in bed and subduing them. He was naked, his cock still erect with Maria’s juices over it, as he gazed at the sleeping girl. Francesca’s dimples softly showed as she smiled in her sleep, snoozing and snoring gently. Her brown hair fell softly over her face, framing her perfect fine eyebrows and long-lashed eyes. He savored the last vestiges of her peaceful happy existence before he brought his hand down over her mouth and his other around her neck.

Francesca felt an alien sensation of pressure on her throat, the desperate lack of oxygen making her lungs burn. In the suffocating darkness, she could barely make out the figure looming over her. Panic surged as she finally managed to open her mouth to gasp for air, but a large, foreign object was brutally shoved inside, filling her mouth and pushing to the back of her throat. Her jaw was forced wide open, and she felt straps being tightly secured around her head, locking the device in place with no chance of escape.

Pembroke, straddling her waist, attached her wrists to cuffs and secured them with cords tied to the legs of her bed. “I finally have you alone, baby girl” he grinned at her face through the darkness.

He turned on the bedside lamp, savoring the terror in her brown eyes—a stark contrast to the shy, indifferent, or bashfully happy expressions she had shown throughout the day. He delighted in how softly she moaned through the gag, which mimicked a penis in her throat, as he brought out a thick serrated blade, and began slicing off her childish pajamas until she was in just a pair of pale blue knickers with a Superman logo.

“Superman eh?” he grinned as he parted her thighs and leaned in, pressing his nose against the material. “Mmm” he bit into the soft succulent flesh of her inner thigh, then ran his tongue along the edge of the gusset working its way inside until he met with the tangy taste of her pussy lips. He grabbed his knife and ran it under the fabric while delighting in the look of terror in her eyes.

As the flimsy panties came apart, he dove down into her pussy licking and sucking and comparing the taste and smell to that of her mother. Her lips were narrower, and less meaty, and had no tattoos around it, but unlike her mother, she did have some downing hair on top of it.

“You taste just like your mummy,” Pembroke told her, her juices glistening on his lips.”Now, my darling, I have to test that gag to see just how effective it is, so forgive me but I am going to inflict some pain on you.”

Pembroke twisted her nipple roughly, listening to her squawk past the gag, bringing a secondary covering over her mouth to further muffle the sound. The room fell even quieter as her desperate noises became barely audible.

You’re right, it’s not an arch if her back is hunched. Let’s correct that.

He then slipped his hands under her butt cheeks, lifting her bottom into the air until her feet flew over her head. He cuffed each ankle and attached a cord to the same bedpost as her corresponding wrist, forcing her into a tight, inverted position. Her body was contorted, with her back hunched and her legs pulled taut, her feet near her hands, all secured firmly to the bedposts.

“Marvellous,” said Pembroke. He had things to do, but wanted to test just how effective the gag was and how it would cover up the world of pain Francesca would soon be in. His cock had remained rock hard, still lubed up with Maria’s cum and now leaking again with the excitement of assaulting and tying up her daughter. He positioned his cockhead against the now fully exposed anus of the poor girl tied in front of him.

Francesca’s mind was in a frantic whirl. She had been sleeping peacefully, but now this man, who had always been gentle and kind, had transformed into a violent nightmare. Terror and fear gripped her as she struggled to comprehend the sudden, horrifying shift in her reality. She was now naked, and exposed as she could never have imagined, and touched in the most intimate way, where was her mother?

She struggled to breathe past the gag pushing at her tonsils and her attempts to move her body were useless at stopping the feeling of his wet, hot cock at the surface of her asshole.

“I would normally give you some tips, Francesca, but I’m afraid I really want to hear you try and scream,” said the man. His hairy chest and sweaty body, which had seemed so different and harmless on the beach, now appeared terrifying and menacing.

All the sensation in her body now concentrated on a single spot of searing, burning pain at the fissures of her anal ring. The irresistible force of his penis pushed against it, expanding it despite her desperate efforts to resist. This unnatural act barely seemed real to her, but the pain in her anus soon spread to her insides as his member filled her completely.

As Pembroke kneaded her breasts and watched his cock disappear inside her, he saw her eyes expand into saucers. He noted with satisfaction how quiet she still was, the gag stifling her screams and rendering her nearly silent despite the intense pain and fear radiating from her wide, terrified eyes.

“Thanks for being quiet Francesca, I will soon introduce you to sex more thoroughly but for now, Daddy has some work to do.” Pembroke withdrew his cock while placing her torn pajamas under her bottom to catch the blood and detritus from her anal rape.

Happy that she was immobile, Pembroke went back to Maria’s room and put on his clothes. He then carried the lifeless body of the mother out of the house, checking to ensure no one was around, and placed it into his Fiat Ducato. He couldn’t help but smile as he recalled the two Greco females earlier laughing on the way to and from the beach, each wondering about the large barrel inside, which he had told them was related to his job as a sample from his processing plant.

Pembroke dumped Maria’s body in the back of the van. He then donned a chemical protective suit and got to work. He carefully secured the barrel and opened the top, revealing a highly concentrated solution of sulfuric acid and hydrogen peroxide.

With great care, he lowered Maria’s body into the barrel, watching as her tattooed skin slid from his grasp into the acidic depths with a hiss. He sealed the top tightly, ensuring no dangerous fumes could escape, and let the grim process begin while leaving the van windows open.

He glanced around at the deserted semi rural setting and returned inside, He glanced around at the deserted semi-rural setting before returning inside, ready to savor his time with Francesca. “Now that your mother is more comfortable, allow me to give you your first orgasm,” he grinned, his voice dripping with anticipation. He began by gently flicking his tongue over her labia, teasing and exploring. Finding her clit hood, he exposed it with his fingertips, then sucked it with his teeth, alternating between soft jabs and firm strokes with his tongue.

He ran his hands over the backs of her thighs, which loomed over her face, trembling with sensation. Her eyes started to cross and lose focus as waves of pleasure coursed through her body.

“You don’t make much noise but I can tell from your wet pussy you enjoyed that, you are just like your mother, you are going to love sex, so I hope for your sake that you embrace your new life.” Pembroke wanted to fuck her in her pussy so badly but was thinking still of her sale price as a virgin.

He reached into his bag for a medical kit, bandages, antiseptic, and a small wire cutter. “Now, after all that pleasure, a bit of pain for Francesca!” he grinned, holding up the medical kit and bandages. Francesca’s terror intensified as he allowed the anticipation to build.

He leaned over her, took her right hand, and roughly yanked her little finger, pulling it painfully out of alignment. Placing a towel underneath, he brought the wire cutter and fitted it around the base of her little finger. With a swift, brutal motion, he sliced through the flesh, cutting it clean off. The soft moans escaping from her gag did not do justice to the vibrations of her whole body, which truly illustrated the intense pain reverberating through her.

He carefully placed the amputated finger into a test tube with a small amount of acid at the bottom. The acid began to bathe the cut part of the finger with a gentle hiss.

Making sure Francesca was properly cauterized, he went back to Maria’s empty room and enjoyed one of her cigarettes to cover up the smell of the acid, blood, and rape. When he returned, he found Francesca had passed out with shock. He took the time to clean the bed and change the sheets under her while wiping away any blood or telltale signs of violence from either bedroom.

Salvatore Greco was seething with frustration as his ex-wife Maria continued to ignore his calls. Desperate to see his daughter, Francesca, he longed to explain that Maria had lied about him being a bad man. He had changed, but Maria refused to give him any chance to prove it.

He had to wait until 11 a.m., the agreed time for Maria to drop Francesca off at his house. He had cleaned everything and was waiting with bated breath. At 10:59 a.m., he held his breath—she was here! Her car was approaching and parking outside his front door. He came out, smiling nervously, but his heart sank when a man in a suit stepped out of the car. A lawyer? Her new man?

“Who the fuck are you?” Salvatore roared, his thug-like demeanor evident as he stormed toward the man. His frustration boiled over at not seeing his daughter or Maria. The man, gentle and non-threatening, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, Mr. Greco, do not be angry. I have a message from your wife,” he said calmly.

“Where is my daughter, you fucking coward!” Salvatore spat, jabbing the man in the chest. His eyes blazed with fury, ready to tear him apart. He didn’t notice Pembroke raise his hands, aiming a taser at him.

Suddenly, a sharp jolt of electricity surged through Salvatore’s body. He convulsed violently, his muscles locking up as he collapsed to the ground, stunned and immobilized by the taser. The man in the suit remained calm, watching as Salvatore lay there, gasping and struggling to regain control of his body.

Pembroke looked around, ensuring no one was watching. Satisfied, he congratulated himself for picking targets with few neighbors. He cuffed Salvatore’s wrists behind his back and secured his ankles, dragging him into his own trailer and gagging him. As Salvatore regained his senses, he strained, bucked, and raged, his eyes bloodshot with fury, but he couldn’t do anything.

Pembroke calmly returned to Maria’s car, extracting a large, heavy barrel from the back. He rolled and maneuvered it inside his trailer with practiced ease.

“Now, Mr. Greco, I actually brought your wife with me, though she’s quite quiet for once, which I know you might prefer,” Pembroke taunted, laughing at the helpless bound figure of the muscular brute. “I must say, she was excellent in bed. I can see why you married her! Although, I can also sympathize with your wanting to kill her too. Haha!”

Salvatore was a loner, he had surmised, and so he felt comfortable lounging around in his trailer watching TV, smoking his cigarettes for the next two hours, while Mr Greco could do nothing but stare at the barrel and his stranger who spoke bad Italian lounging in his trailer. What had he done with Maria? With Francesca.

Pembroke inspected the sluice leading to the drain in his backyard, which he had meticulously researched online and on Google Maps. It seemed perfect for his purpose. He then carefully planted some hairs from Francesca and Maria around the trailer, and spilled some of Maria’s blood from vials around the trailer, ensuring to leave incriminating evidence.

After four hours of smoking and drinking his whiskey, Pembroke had enough of the glum surroundings. He moved the barrel to the sluice. Maria had now been marinating for well over 12 hours in a mixture of sulfuric acid and hydrogen peroxide, ensuring thorough decomposition.

He heaved at the disgusting smell and fumes, realizing that they might soon be detected by neighbors. He had to move fast. He brought out a syringe and injected a drug into the hogtied figure of Greco, then discreetly carried him out to his own car, placing him in the trunk.

Pembroke removed his suit, put it in a bag, and changed into Greco’s clothes, including a cap and sunglasses. He then took Francesca’s severed little finger and placed it in the drain grid, wedging it into a small hole.

Leaving the empty barrel in his backyard, Pembroke placed his old clothes in the passenger seat of Greco’s car and fitted a small step ladder he had found. He then drove the car to a nearby wooded area, parking it at a pre-arranged spot. Pembroke pulled out the barely conscious body of Salvatore Greco and carried him about a hundred yards into the woods.

He was relieved to see the noose he had placed earlier was still hanging over a branch. He clambered up and let it fall naturally. He looked down at the dazed figure of Greco, who barely knew where he was.

“Such a shocking crime, Salvatore. It’s hardly surprising you would kill yourself!” he snarled, almost to himself. He pulled the man under his shoulders, lifted him up the step ladder, and placed the noose around his neck. He then yanked the step ladder away, satisfied to see him swinging from the rope, his ankles and wrists still tied. But he noticed Greco was still breathing.

He grabbed Greco by the waist and pulled down hard, holding for several minutes. After checking the pulse and being satisfied he was dead, Pembroke allowed himself a brief moment of relief. He took the cuffs off and made sure traces of acid and blood were still on Greco.

He went back to his car, wiped his prints off, locked it, then sprinted back to the swinging corpse. Pembroke put the car key in Greco’s pocket before jogging to his next location, the parking place of his Fiat Ducato.

The van now had only one occupant: a black box containing the quiet but alive Francesca Greco. Pembroke drove to the harbor, pleased to see the Zephyr docked, and greeted Dmitri warmly.

“How was the trip?” Pembroke asked with a smile.

“Excellent, boss, just me and the sea!” Dmitri replied.

“Haha, well, we’ll have company for the rest of the journey. You must meet Francesca; she’s delightful. Help me board her, then I just have to return this van, and we can leave!”

Later in the evening, Pembroke enjoyed the winds of the sea, now chilly as the sun sank behind the horizon. He was growing fond of this old boat and the adventures he had experienced on it.

The only sounds on the wide open sea were the muffled squeals and moans coming from Francesca. Her gag allowed a bit more leeway than before but not enough to let her fully unleash her lungs.

Twenty-four hours ago, he had been lounging on the sofa with her, watching a romantic comedy with her mother. They had all laughed at the same cheesy jokes, her giggle, just like her mother’s, filling the room. Now, he sadly thought, he would never get to hear that carefree laughter again.

On the other hand, he was now finally seeing her as he had fantasized about since investigating her social media profiles months ago. She was naked, on tiptoes trying to stay grounded on the deck, bent over the railing of the boat. Her wrists were tied behind her back, her head flopping over the open sea helplessly, and her body shaking from being pounded back and forth by Dmitri.

His bulky frame covered her slim hips as his cock zipped in and out of her bloody tortured asshole and his hands gripped her soft breasts, feeling them jiggle with the movement.

As Francesca watched the salvia fall from her gagged mouth into the dark waves below as her hair fell about her, she felt impaled by this shaft inside her. The pain, the fear, she thought she might be killed at any moment. How had this happened? What had become of her parents. She had feared her father, now she desperately hoped he would rescue her, but how? She was in the sea, sailing somewhere, naked, a captive, raped, with no idea who these evil violent animals were.

“Be careful with the merchandise, Dmitri,” Pembroke called out. “That’s a couple of hundred thousand dollars worth of flesh you’re handling there!”

He hoped that laying off her vaginal virginity would be worth it when it came to negotiations over her sale. As he took another look at her sweet young body, he could not wait to get his cock back inside her.

He was eager to get Francesca to the complex, move Sophie out, and proceed with the next stages of negotiations, sales, training, and procurements. Though he felt a twinge of guilt about Francesca’s missing finger, he rationalized it as a unique characteristic, like a birthmark. It provided a morbid link to her disappearance, something any buyer could recognize from the news reports about the acid-seared finger found in a drain after the horrific double murder of her mother and herself, supposedly committed by her own ex-convict father, who then took his own life.

Edward Pembroke now felt like he could not return to the complex without at least one teenage girl in bondage, such was his pedigree. He almost felt as if Mrs. Al-haraz and Mrs. Parker were a little disappointed they just had one crying fifteen-year-old nubile young Italian nymphet to discipline and accommodate now.

Francesca had been well raped by now, albeit only in her asshole and mouth and despite her previous lack of experience was completely aware of what her life was going to be like going forwards. Pembroke was cagey as to what had happened to her parents although this tortured Francesca even more.

Being told about how she would spend the rest of her life first being trained for, and then living, a life of sexual slavery was bad enough for Francesca even with the physical abuse that had gone on before. The sight and smells of being surrounded by over a dozen other naked young women who wore the baggage of months of disgusting sexual training and captivity and unrelenting attention to the details of being a sexual servant to a master’s needs.

Mrs. Parker felt sorry for the young girl as she placed her under the electrolysis, gazing at her bruised and bleeding anus as she worked on the tiny hairs surrounding it, and worked the tattoo gun on her wrist while caring for her cauterized little finger stump.

“What will happen to us? What about my family? What is he going to do with us?” Francesca asked Mrs. Parker. Despite being helplessly strapped to the table while the blonde woman performed the painful process of tattooing and electrolysis, Mrs. Parker’s vaguely kind demeanor and feminine wiles, in contrast to the other brutes, gave Francesca a glimmer of hope.

“Francesca, darling, please,” Mrs. Parker sighed. “It’s hard to accept, but all the other girls felt the same way. I can only tell you that, for months now, none have escaped. Many girls have been taken and sold to rich and powerful men. That is your destiny. I recommend you pay attention, speak as little as possible, and be as good as you can. You might end up with a kind owner.”

“But … I cannot be a slave. Surely, not in this day and age. That’s ancient history!”

“I’m afraid I thought the same thing,” Mrs. Parker replied, her voice tinged with regret. “But here we are. Wealthy and powerful men always get what they want. You must know, despite your youth, that men desire you. So why wouldn’t a few rich men pay for the ultimate ownership?”

“But I am so young, I don’t know anything, I never experienced anything, Why would they want me?” Francesca wailed.

“Francesca…” Mrs Parker could not help but let her eyes, and her hands, linger along her thighs and pelvic bones “you must know that you are so pretty, surely all the boys and the men looked at you…”

“Yes,,, but that wasnt’ right!”

“It’s not about right and wrong, it’s about power “ Mrs Parker savored her own power over the helpless girl … running her fingers along the inside of her thigh “They want you, and they can have you. And there is nothing you or I can do abut it”

Pembroke sells Sophie “I’m afraid I thought the same thing,” Mrs. Parker replied, her voice tinged with regret. “But here we are. Wealthy and powerful men always get what they want. You must know, despite your youth, that men desire you. So why wouldn’t a few rich men pay for the ultimate ownership?”

“But I am so young,” Francesca wailed. “I don’t know anything. I’ve never experienced anything. Why would they want me?”

“Francesca…” Mrs. Parker couldn’t help but let her eyes, and her hands, linger along Francesca’s thighs and pelvic bones. “You must know that you are so pretty. Surely all the boys and men looked at you.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t right!”

“It’s not about right and wrong, it’s about power,” Mrs. Parker said, savoring her own power over the helpless woman. She ran her hand along the inside of Francesca’s thigh. “They want you, and they can have you. And there is nothing you or I can do about it.”

Francesca whinnied as Mrs Parker ran her finger alongside her pussy lips, and the older woman smiled at her as she drew it to her own mouth and tasted it. “I can be your friend here Francesca, darling. I like you too, I won’t hurt you, just be obedient, and cute.”

Francesca stopped talking laid her head back and tried to breathe steadily as Mrs Parker’s fingers toyed with her privates. She tried to imagine her mother, and her father, looking for her and how she might be rescued.

Meanwhile, Pembroke was enjoying sex with Kasia and Gal. Mrs. Al-Haraz was on hand, naked, at the side of the bed, partly cajoling the girls and also minding them as her Master wanted to relax and was at times in a vulnerable position.

Now, he was in such a position, lying on his back, Kasia was straddling his face, her pussy on his lips and he hungrily chewed on her labia, savoring his favorite tasting pussy in the complex. Meanwhile facing her, Gal was riding his rock-hard cock in her pussy, enjoying the sensations and looking into her friend Kasia’s eyes, while being mindful of the awful Mrs. Al-Haraz’s eyes on her, looking for any misbehavior. The Master was underneath both of them, his lean, hairy torso so vulnerable, if either of them had a weapon or the guts to stroke their evil overlord.

Like a piece of delicious chewing gum from which he had extracted all the flavor, he pushed Kasia’s buttocks off his face and squeezed her skin tightly until he heard her gasp with pain, and spanked her.

“Come on Gal, you are only twenty, work that tight pussy, I want to cum up inside you, you should be like a vice at your age, come on.” He brought his hands to Gal’s athletic torso, gripping her sparse fat with his fingernails, until he clawed at her nipples and got a nice grasp, as he felt his cum shoot up inside her.

“Yes! Good girl Gal, now get off and clean my cock like a good girl!”

Gal had wanted to climax herself, but his voice was like a command of ice, and she lifted herself off, feeling her pussy clench as her juices mingled with his semen. She pushed herself back so her mouth was around his cock.

He pulled Kasia by the hair and brought her lips to his mouth and kissed her, his hands playing with her breasts, more generous and round than Gal, as she lay on her side by him while Gal’s face stayed between his legs.

“Kasia, both your lips taste delicious. I swear you are the tastiest girl I’ve ever had,” he teased her. He looked down his body at Gal. “Keep sucking, gently! Mrs. Al-Hraz, get your face between Gal’s legs and kiss her, taste your Master in there!”

Mrs. Al-Haraz almost saluted him and went to Gal’s bottom and parted her ass cheeks, and brought her tongue to her crack along her pussy and asshole, secretly loving the taste of her dear Master’s semen as she found it with her busy tongue among the tangy folds of the Israeli girl.

“You know, Kasia,” he said to her between kisses, “I do have a fondness for you … and you too, Gal!” Gal knew better than to remove her mouth from around his cock, though Kasia risked his wrath with a question.

“Master, does this mean you might not sell us?” Kasia did not dare to ask her real question—would he ever release her?

“Oh, my dear Kasia, I am a salesman. Of course, you will be sold! As will you, Gal. Both of you girls are in huge demand. You should see the messages. Some very respectable gentlemen are willing to pay a lot of money to do some very naughty things to each of you!”

“Master, I am scared…” Kasia thought of how different this beast of a man had initially appeared to her, as a vulnerable man in her strip club.

“Well, Kasia, there are some customers who just want a sex slave but are otherwise busy. You could spend most of your life in a nice subterranean gilded cage, with books, movies, pretty clothes, and even nice food! But there are others…” Pembroke sighed wistfully. “Some are not gentlemen, frankly. My goodness, some of the offers, and that’s just what they’re willing to say to me! Of course, what they want to do is up to them, not me, and certainly not you! But some of the talk … well, I cannot let it cloud my business. Oh, Kasia, you are such a pretty girl. I would not want to see you be…”

Kasia’s brow furrowed, and she tried to stop herself from slapping her tormentor.

“Master, what do you mean?”

“Well, can either of you girls imagine having sex with a gorilla?” Pembroke giggled as he said it. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, after all. it may be your reality.”

“Master, please,” Kasia said, her voice trembling, “don’t, please do not force me to have such a horrid end. I can do better for you!”

“Now, Kasia, know your place and kindly do not raise your voice or speak out of turn,” Pembroke said harshly. “What you can do for me is be sold for the highest price a buyer is willing to pay. If a man offers me a million dollars for you to appear in a snuff movie with a gorilla and that is the best option, then that is what will happen to you!”

Kasia did not speak; she almost choked.

“However,” Pembroke continued, turning on the charm, “as I said, you are one of my favorite girls, and I would like to place you with a generous, kind owner who will give you a reasonable life and a reasonably long life expectancy.”

“Please Master, what can I do?” Kasia was used to horrible men, she knew she had to be practical, even with the Master.

“Well … Kasia, I was wondering if you could let me know about any other girls you know, back home in Poland or in Marseilles, who might be ideal candidates. Not necessarily for cruel owners, but just to increase my stock in general. You see…” he ran his finger over her perfect Slavic cheekbones, “you were an ideal candidate. I didn’t have to fake your death for the authorities not to care about you. You were a loner, a dreamer, a lost little girl who thought she didn’t need her family, and so here you are.”

Kasia tried to look, stoically, at Pembroke’s mouth, then his large, cruel hands. She hated this verbal torture.

“I know I shouldn’t linger too long at the same watering hole, but a strip club full of degenerate and silly whores like you and Sophie is a goldmine! Even better if they’ve moved away since, though. Maybe you have a grudge against someone? Or perhaps there’s a prim little miss perfect out there,” Pembroke smiled lecherously, “and you’re thinking—why me and not her?”

He looked down his body at Gal. “You too Gal. I am afraid that you are very much in demand as an Israeli and a former soldier. I am afraid that you have many admirers who are keen to have you and wish to inflict pain on you for reasons far beyond having such a cute spankable bottom. I am sure you know this, so it is best for you if I have more Jews and Israelis in my cellar to satisfy the demand out there for nice Israeli flesh.”

Looking at both girls with a smile he continued. “Help me help you, girls. Not just recommendations for girls but ideas for procuring them. Gal, you have several sisters, if I could market you as siblings you would have a lucrative attraction far beyond your nationality and you might have a gentle pervert and not a violent anti-Semite for an owner.”

“Please Master” Gal brought her face up above his crotch “they can do what they want to me, I can accept it, but please don’t harm my family”

At that moment, Gal cried in pain as behind her Mrs Al-Haraz bit into her buttock and intervened. “Do you not stop sucking the Master unless you have something he wants you to say!”

“Quite right, Mrs Al-Haraz,” said Pembroke. “Gal, get your mouth back down on me again. If I want to target your family, I will. If you don’t want to cooperate with that or with any of your old friends, fine, but just remember, while your stay here might not have been pleasant, you have not seen the worst of humanity … yet.”

Gal and Kasia continued to pleasure Pembroke, both silently wondering if and how they could improve their situation by potentially condemning other girls they knew to the same life of hell they endured.

Kasia was back in the cell with the others, looking out through the clear walls into the hall and feeling sorry for Sophie. It was a grim moment; they had been taken together, and while they had not liked each other in the “old world”—Sophie had been a brat and had looked down on the dancing girls while wanting to be one herself—she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her now. Sophie looked terrified.

She was heavily cuffed, her arms behind her back and encased in a single glove cuff. Further confined in a black rubber gimp suit, with her face barely visible and about to be sealed over for the last time, she had to look at Pembroke and the black box container she would spend the next half a day in before being delivered to Brad Watkins.

Pembroke loved the thin material, feeling her breasts through it. Each girl was different, and he believed he could identify each one merely by touching their figures, sculpted not just by youth and genetics but by his punishing dietary and training regime.

“Now, Sophie, this is going to be a scary experience traveling to your new owner, and it will be challenging to be alone without the other girls for comfort. But you have to remember, you are a slave and you are my product. High standards will be demanded by your owner and expected by me.” Pembroke tugged her cheek affectionately. “And while you can be a mischievous little brat, I think you have had enough training to be able to satisfy your owner.”

Pembroke brought his phone screen to her face, as he was about to put on her goggles and seal her face with the mask before bundling her up into a ball and placing her into the container.

“Remember your family, Sophie. Such a shame you did not follow in your sister Eloise’s footsteps; she’ll be in university soon, studying dentistry. And your brother Max, now in the school rugby team! And your parents … such a shame for them, and you. What might have been a short rebellious teenage streak for you has turned into all that your life will ever be!”

Sophie could not speak with a gag in her mouth, but her short breathing and tears falling down her cheeks told her story of regret and fear.

“Now, you must remain focused as a slave, focused on satisfying your owner. I expect nothing short of glowing reports from him. Our reputation is at stake with each of you girls,” he said, glancing back at the cell. “And with you, Sophie, I will be eager for feedback. Remember, I know where your sister Eloise lives and studies, and I would love nothing more than to have her in the cell, getting prepped for sale!”

Pembroke paused, thinking to himself how insatiable he had become. The girl in front of him was beautiful, but now all he wanted was her sister, too!

“Of course, it would be a lot easier for me, and quite cheaper, to just…” Pembroke clicked his mouth and drew a hand across his throat, “deal with your family members, one for every report I get of insolence or disobedience.” He patted her gently on the bottom through the material. “But I hope it does not come to that. I hope you will make your new owner a very happy man! Just remember, Sophie, it’s not just about you.”

Sophie’s pupils darted around furiously as the goggles came down and enclosed her in darkness. Her last sights were the smiling faces of her family and the concerned faces of the naked girls in the cell. Pembroke wondered, other than Brad Watkins, might she ever see another human again?

Pembroke’s desk, chair, and coffee pot indicated his attempt to create an ideal working environment, but the uninspiring coffee and the hall filled with the barking orders of Mrs. Al-Haraz broke his focus on working in a corporate-like manner.

He had to confess that he had the option of going to his office, but there was something irresistible about the view of fifteen naked girls in a conga line, each on all fours with their faces between each other’s ass cheeks, that compelled him to stay and keep them in his sight as he managed his workload.

He had queried why Afshan’s dusky South Asian skin had turned black and blue and had been informed by Mrs. Al-Haraz that she had made a rather impassioned outburst at both her and Jamal when forced to perform oral sex on him. Mrs Al-Haraz was quite apologetic about the state of Afshan but reminded her Master that there was no permanent damage, no broken nose, scarring or broken teeth as had happened with Zara.

Pembroke was pleased that discipline was being upheld; even the occasional outburst and the discipline applied thereto served as a good reminder that the girls were still human.

Today, the girls were ‘playing’ the familiar game where they had to eat the pussy of the girl in front. Every three minutes, Mrs. Al-Haraz would shout ‘GO,’ and the girl at the very back would run to the front, get on her hands and knees, and park her cheeks in the face of the girl who was formerly at the front of the line. Thus, the line slowly made its way from one end of the hall to the other. The whole game took several hours, during which the girls would become intimately acquainted with the taste of the girl in front and cope with the expert tongue of the girl behind.

While no exemptions were made for eating girls on their periods, two girls were allowed to lick the feet of the girl in front instead of their privates. Both Farah and Nadia were suffering from thrush and no one wanted that to spread, so both had underwear on.

Pembroke allowed himself to admire Holly Streatham, on all fours, her bottom in the air, back arched, and licking at the feet of Farah. Her firm breasts hung directly down, vibrating gently as her jaw worked up and down on the Afghan girls’ soles. Her abdomen could be seen clenching at the sides with each swallow of saliva.

He would be sad to see her go but was close to sealing a deal with her. The video had been a great idea, prompting buyers to go even crazier with their bids. Like the others, off-camera beatings and threats had been necessary, but the finished video of her playfully stripping and fingering herself while recounting her disastrous night out with friends on Diafthora had been both revealing and titillating to the underworld figures bidding for her.

He was also pleased to see Farah constantly burrowing her tongue into her mother, Amina, with gusto. Despite, or perhaps because of, teir conservative background, they had thrown themselves into the depravity of their new life and Pembroke considered it a crime if he could not sell them as a pair at a good price. He also noticed Natalia also licking out her sister with ease and wondered how common incest would be if societal rules around it were abandoned.

The girls had now been on all fours eating for hours when Yasmina had an unfortunate bathroom accident in Afshan’s face. Afshan’s cursing and screaming filled the hall as she erupted into a violent frenzy, pulling her hair, thrashing around, and running in circles with uncontrollable rage and despair. Pembroke tensed himself to react if she came near him, though did not want to visibly lose his cool. Jamal got up and lumbered towards her, and Afshan’s angry face turned into a jibbering wreck.

She looked back at the twisted face of Mrs. Al-Haraz and, at an utter loss, decided to appeal directly to the Master. Remembering the kindly Firas Rahma, she fell to her knees in front of him in sheer desperation.

“Please, whoever you are … show some humanity. Don’t treat us like this, I’m begging you…” she pleaded.

Pembroke stared down at her tear stained face. He could not blame her for being upset, her body was covered in welts and bruises, and the unpleasant smell in the hall, which must have erupted right in her face, was enough to make Pembroke want to leave the hall. But he could not show mercy.

“Jamal, I think Ms. Malik here needs to spend some time with the rats, then the snakes, and then the spiders. Afshan, you can scream if you want; I don’t mind the other girls listening to you. But just so you know, begging or screaming or showing such naughty behavior as you just did will only get you into more trouble.”

Pembroke remained casually cross-legged as he watched Afshan’s eyes widen and her mouth fall open. She barely audibly screamed “No…” as Jamal lifted her by the shoulders.

“Mrs. Al-Haraz, I expect you to control your girls and prevent such outbursts,” he said casually as he sipped his coffee.

“Yes, Master!” Mrs. Al-Haraz angrily composed herself. “Right, Samira, move up to Yasmina’s ass! Eat it! I don’t care if it smells; I will clean it later. For now, just do as you are told! All of you girls, shuffle up!”

The girls shuffled forward and got their tongues working, not daring to look as Afshan was manhandled, whimpering and cuffed by the giant Jamal. With her ankles and wrists tied and connected to her collar, she was carried to one of the clear glass coffins in the hall—the first housing the spiders—and placed inside.

The initial screams soon gave way to desperate cries and ongoing pleas, mingled with frantic prayers, whimpers, and hyperventilating. Terrified, she called out repeatedly for her mother and for God, her voice a constant echo of sheer terror.

Pembroke took another sip of his coffee. A part of him deeply sympathized with Afshan, feeling uncomfortable with her cries and the sight of the spiders crawling over her body, and wanting to look away. Yet, another part of him was entranced, not just by her terror but by the motivating effect it had on the other girls, as evidenced by the increased volume of sighs resulting from the increased vigour in licking.

Another part of him reminded him that this was business, not sadism. Afshan had to learn to control herself, both in training and in a real slave environment with her owner. Examples had to be set, and threats had to be seen as real and inevitable.

Speaking of business, Pembroke reviewed his recent procurement initiatives. Procurement was the one aspect of his operation he did not want to outsource or delegate, even though it limited the number of potential abductees. No matter, he told himself, the whole point of his business was the scarcity of the girls; this was not a mass-market venture.

He had set up a website targeting young women considering suicide, aiming to obtain their details and potentially arrange a mutually beneficial agreement. They would agree to end their lives in a remote location, leaving behind plenty of evidence. He would then swoop in and provide them with a ‘second life,’ although the girls would be unaware of this plan. Instead of their mysterious suicides being carried out as they believed, they would end up as sex slaves, much to their surprise.

Pembroke had been quite miffed that, while the site seemed to have actually encouraged some very attractive girls to end their lives, his intended outcome had not fully materialized, and he had not been able to stage any intervention. He tried to look at the positives: it had been a relatively cost-free venture for him, and it was a numbers game when it came to entrapping these girls. He noted one promising girl, a young Motenegran who was struggling with depression and had already attempted suicide multiple times. Having recently failed her exams, she lived near where his future targets might be.

His next target was Lucy Seratova, Brad Watkin’s dream sex slave. She was scheduled to compete at the World University Games soon in Munich, but before that, there was a meet scheduled in Sarajevo. Given the receipt of funds for Sophie and the money at stake for Lucy, he felt it befitting that air travel should be a fixture in this adventure and that the Balkans were a good location for illegal operations.

He watched videos of Lucy on his laptop. She had a captivating beauty with long, flowing brown hair. Her body was a masterpiece of athleticism and femininity. Clad in skimpy athletic pants and a fitted top, her toned physique was on full display. Lucy’s muscles were well-defined yet she maintained a curvy and sensual silhouette. Her presence was mesmerizing, a pretty face paired with a body that was both beautiful and capable.

He raised his eyes a few inches from the screen and back at his girls, also toned and beautiful, who were engaged in a display of obedience and intimacy, naked and submissive. He smiled at the thought of the captivating Lucy being transported from her world of safety and athletic acclaim to the depraved world of his complex and ultimately Brad Watkins’ filthy fantasies. She had no idea that thousands of miles from her comfortable family home, plans were being made to change the course of her life forever.

Pembroke decided he had enough of the hall environment. He packed up and walked out, nodding to Mrs. Al-Haraz, who bowed back in obedience. He quickly calculated that the girls were half an hour from reaching the other end and completing their task. As he looked at Afshan, her face contorted almost to insanity, with the snakes and spiders to look forward to, he thought of the reports of her disobedience and considered that he had found a good candidate for his gorilla owner buyer.

🔞 Candy.AI 🔥 AI Sex Chat – Roleplay, Erotic Stories, Try for Free 🕹️

By Edward Pembroke
#Abuse #Group #Rape #Teen