Chapter 52

Pembroke could not help but feel sympathetic and sad about the scenes in the cell as Cassie and Gal made their tearful goodbyes to the other girls. They all held onto hope that they could be rescued, making promises that anyone who escaped would come back to help the rest as soon as possible. The thought irked Pembroke somewhat; he hoped that Kamal Abdelrahman would not let them out, but had faith in the old man. Mr. Abdelrahman had a great deal to protect in his reputation as a philanthropist, and these girls were to be his private, naughty secret in his old age. If anything were to happen to him, automatic instructions would be sent for their cellar to be blocked off, only to be reopened after a minimum period of three months by Pembroke himself.

It was a nice little legal formality devised by the old man, his lawyers, and Pembroke for an additional fee. Abdelrahman was very keen that his girls would not be reused or subjected to anything so vulgar as being second-hand goods, and thus the three-month period had been specified to prevent Pembroke from trying to recycle his old stock. He would be collecting emaciated corpses of skeletons, to be disposed of. Pembroke had smiled at the old man’s business acumen and demanded a good price for the administrative death duty.

Abdelrahman laughed and said he had planned to live for a good few years yet. “What would you want with some thirty-something women anyway? They would be of little value, and the poor girls, I fear by that stage, they would be lost without me anyway. The kindest act would be to let them pass away peacefully.”

Pembroke had thought that wasting away for weeks in a dark dungeon with no idea of the outside world was not the kindest fate the old man could have selected for his slaves, but reasoned that he had paid for them and they were his property.

Cassie had a touching, almost supernatural belief that her father could rescue her. “He must know that I am not dead. They must be looking for me. My father will not rest; I know he won’t,” she declared with unwavering confidence.

Pembroke, reading the AI-generated summaries of their conversations, couldn’t help but chuckle. Cassie had said this right after the Moroccan girls tearfully exclaimed that they would surely be presumed dead after their misadventure at sea, cursing themselves for trusting that ‘idiot’ American who had sailed them, all in front of Cassie.

Cassie had no idea that her father was dead, nor that Pembroke had killed him. Not only was it kinder for Cassie not to know, but it was also useful for Pembroke to have this threat hanging over her to prevent any disobedience or naughtiness in her new life. The threat would be so easily carried out, he laughed to himself.

Two black boxes were packed up in front of the girls’ cell and carried away. Each girl was then given the now traditional warning, accompanied by photos of their loved ones. They were reminded of how they were expected to behave in their new lives as trusted products under the warranty of Pembroke’s facility. Obedience and compliance were to be expected for the rest of their lives.

Holly Streatham was also set to be packed up soon and delivered to Mr. Han at his complex in Malaysia. Mr. Han’s final demand had been that a large tattoo be made across her back, depicting a lotus arising from a sunset. It was quite a pretty picture, but Pembroke baulked at putting it on Holly’s back and insisted that half the money be paid upfront. If Han backed out after a permanent marking of his product, her resale value would be seriously affected.

While Pembroke did not want to offend his customers, he also did not want to deal with lower-class tattooed girls. His tattoos on their wrists were brands of quality, not tattoos, he told himself.

He had also demanded an additional cost to the purchase price, far beyond what a tattoo would normally cost. Despite their reputation, Pembroke could not find a tattoo artist degenerate enough to take part in his enterprise.

Pilots, despite their much better reputation, had always had a more degenerate side, Pembroke had found. Nadim Darwish was someone he now trusted to fly his products without question. Having looked into him more, Pembroke considered Nadim might be even more useful if brought in closer to the organization.

Nadim had been disowned by his family after being outed as bisexual early in his life, but had somehow made it into the Syrian Air Force. He had taken part in the war but then sold details of army personnel to rebels for money, enabling him to escape Syria and the conflict. He had gone to Germany and tried to make it as a pilot there, but was sacked after failing competency and drug tests.

Nothing lit up his CV, in Pembroke’s eyes, more than his conviction in Belgium for enticing a boy in changing rooms to have sex with him. He had fled Belgium before sentencing and had been working somewhat crazily under the proviso that he just needed to avoid flying back there.

“Nadim,” Pembroke invited him into his office in the complex.

“Yes, Mr. Al-Khatib.”

“I am sure you know by now that our business here is a little, shall we say, illegal. And so are you, in fact—you filthy degenerate pervert!”

“But...” Nadim felt awful, his color draining from his face.

“No matter,” Pembroke waved it away. “This just makes you more ideal. As long as you can fly a plane, you can keep working for us. Now, I feel sorry you are estranged from your family in Damascus.”

Nadim bristled at the mention of his family. He had no care for them, but he was starting to realize this Mr. Al-Khatib was a very, very bad man.

“My family, they do not accept me,” said Nadim. “I just have weaknesses. I try and control them.”

“Not very well, though. As long as you fly well, that is the main thing.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Well, well. I think that maybe you want to surrender to your weaknesses. Tell me, when you gave up the lives of your men for money, how did it feel?”

Nadim went even whiter. “I did what I had to do. Anyway, they bullied me in that training center, they deserved it.”

“Look, Nadim, I think we have established the content of your character. I am happy for you to fly us anywhere but Belgium,” Pembroke smirked at him, “but I think I may have another position opening up for you deeper in the complex as well. I need to know if I can trust you.”

“How?” Nadim was curious but also frightened.

“I deal with the trade in beautiful young livestock to gentlemen of distinguished taste. Oh, and my name is not Hassan Al-Khatib; you can think of me as Edward Pembroke, but ‘Sir’ will do.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Nadim, his eyes now curious.

“To work with me carries many rewards. In the long term, a lot of money; in the short term, access to some of the most succulent flesh that the continent has to offer. At the moment, only the female gender is present, but I understand you enjoy that too?”

“Yes,” said Nadim, almost ravenously.

“Well, it’s a tough business. Clandestine, risky, and not for the faint-hearted, and certainly not for those restricted by ordinary morals. For your probation period, I would like you to help me with two tasks. I will explain them to you, and if you are willing to help, then I can be sure you are the right fit for our organization.”

Pembroke did not say what would happen if Nadim turned him down. He hoped it would not come to that; finding replacement pilots was difficult.

Emre Aydin loved his life in Antalya. The tattoo parlour was booming with tourists making regrettable choices, and in contrast to his life in rural Turkey, he had a great sex life with men on the dating apps, tourists and locals alike.

He thought little of matching with and meeting up with a blank profile, a man who said he was married and could not show his face. Just a body picture was enough to turn Emre on, who himself was nothing to show off in body and face.

His date, Abdullah, was much more handsome in real life, and Emre could not wait to follow him to his hotel room. Abdullah, however, was not so attracted to Emre and was relieved when the date rape drugs finally had their effects, causing Emre to slump unconscious on the ground.

Abdullah, aka Nadim Darwish, drove Emre to the complex overnight. Part of him could not believe he was doing this, showing up to his boss with an unconscious, tied-up gay tattoo artist to win his approval.

But his boss was delighted. Emre was much less so. He awoke to find himself naked in a sterile room with just a hospital bed and the naked figure of a young woman, tied and gagged face down on her stomach, securely strapped, with her back exposed.

On the side was a wide range of tattooing equipment, and a video camera loomed in view. The door was locked.

There were a series of paintings and pictures of the Lotus Flower disappearing into a sunset. The beauty of the picture contrasted with the grim, evil state of the room, including the frightened face of the woman on the bed, her eyes looking at Emre in terror as he looked back in confusion.

“Don’t try and release her binds; only we can do that,” said a man, entering. It was Nadim. “You have been recruited for a very special task. Perform it, and you will get ten thousand dollars and get back to Antalya. If you refuse or screw it up, well, you won’t leave here at all.”

Pembroke watched Nadim give the directions in a cool, calm, calculated manner, approvingly. It was a big way to go just to get a tattoo done but might well double as a crucial recruiting tool for a much-needed extra pair of hands.

Emre tried his best, with all his ten years of experience. He knew his life, and that of his family, were at stake. He did not want to know about this poor girl. Who was she? Why was she being held down to be tattooed?

“She is a mental patient. Don’t worry about her, Emre, just do your job!” Nadim told him.

The whole process took over two days. Emre had been ordered to provide his social media account and put out a message that he was going on an impromptu hike without any distractions for the next few days.

When it was finished, he was held in another area while Pembroke and the others inspected Holly’s back. “Not to my tastes,” said Pembroke, “but this is what Mr. Han wanted.”

He turned to Nadim. “Now, time to show you can do something for the enterprise.”

Nadim nodded. He went into Emre’s room, looking at the camera watching them. Emre was in tears of nervousness.

“I did what you asked, now please, can I go home?” he thought of the brief frisson of excitement he had felt when he had gone with this handsome man to his hotel room; that felt like a lifetime ago. Now, he was a monster, approaching him with what seemed like a string.

“Sure, you can go home...” Nadim said.

Pembroke put his finger to his nose pensively as he watched Nadim slowly strangle the poor Emre. He detected some enjoyment in Nadim’s face but reasoned that he could not hope to hire well-balanced people for this type of work.

Holly spent that night in bed with Pembroke, her body moving rhythmically as she gyrated on his cock. She arched her back, sliding her hips back and forth, feeling his cock deep inside her, pressing against her stomach. Facing away from him, she was lost in the sensations, her movements slow and deliberate, working him inside her still tight pussy walls.

Pembroke lay back, watching Holly’s back, ordering her to pull her hair forward over her shoulder. He traced his fingers along her back, following the paths of her sweat and the intricate patterns and colors of the large tattoo that adorned her skin. He liked how it rippled as her back muscles contorted with her movements, but he wondered if Mr. Han would eventually get tired of it. Pembroke would have decried it as a waste of good, firm young skin if he hadn’t had well over a dozen pristine, blank bodies waiting for him in the cell.

He sighed, a mix of pleasure and contemplation, as the sensations rocked his cock and the sight and touch of the nubile teenager on top of him intensified. His thoughts drifted to the darker aspects of his business. He had always insisted to his clients that these girls were slaves for life, not mere temporary amusements. However, if clients like Mr. Han grew bored of Holly or tired of her tattoo, they might be tempted to prematurely end that life, becoming more frequent customers in the process. Encouraging such early disposals was not something he openly advocated, but he couldn’t deny the sinister appeal of the monetary benefits it would bring.

Holly was close to climaxing, hating every moment of it, but the sheer power of her captor and his massive manhood was enough to drive her over the edge. She could almost feel the ink coursing through her veins, the tattoo on her back a grotesque reminder of her captivity. As she reached her peak, a haze of pleasure clouding her mind, she resigned herself to a life marked as a slave forever.

The Darwish family was having an extended dinner in Damascus, and the mood was angry as the men and women furiously discussed how Nadim had shown up.

“I thought that perverted faggot was dead. It would be better if he was,” spat out Selim, his cousin. “I wanted to kick his ass. How dare he turn up? His mother doesn’t want to see him anyway, he knew that!”

“I agree,” said Nadim’s sister, Aliyah, eating olives. “He was always disgusting. The whole street is talking about how they saw him. We cannot have any contact with him.”

“Well, if he really is living in America, let’s hope he stays there. Though God knows what he does with himself,” said another cousin.

There was one family member who felt differently. Sixteen-year-old Rania, Nadim’s niece, was bored with the stifling family life in Damascus. The only future she saw was as a conservative Muslim housewife, which left her yearning for something more. She wore a hijab every day and prayed like a good girl, but her dreams were far from the life laid out for her. Rania was fascinated by the adventurous side of her uncle Nadim, whom she had met only briefly. She found it hard to believe the stories her family told about him. To her, he seemed mysterious and perhaps misunderstood, living an exciting life abroad, far from the constraints she faced.

Her father was Nadim’s older brother. They hated each other with a passion so intense that her father had sworn to kill him if he ever saw him again. This animosity was due to Nadim’s lifestyle, the shame he had brought to the family, and his betrayal during the war.