Chapter 34

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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