Chapter 1

Cambridge – 1996

Julia Duncan and Victoria Bennett lay entwined on the narrow bed in their cozy dorm room, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths mingling as their noses brushed against each other, their eyelashes so close they nearly touched. Outside, the distant hum of the university faded, leaving only the intimate sounds of their shared space.

Victoria’s fingers traced languidly along Julia’s curves, savoring the smoothness of her dark skin beneath her touch. “You know,” Victoria murmured, her cut glass voice a teasing whisper, “if you were a man, you’d be Heathcliff, I think—dark, mysterious, sexy ... and maybe just a little bit evil.”

Julia’s lips curled into a smirk, her dark eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Moi? Evil?” she echoed, her working class London accent dripping with mock innocence. She brought her fingers between Victoria’s arms, letting them dance lightly from her clavicle down the delicate line between her breasts.

Julia’s hand continued its journey, tracing the contours of Victoria’s body, gliding over her concave stomach, pausing just above the curve of her hips. She held Victoria’s gaze, her own eyes locked onto the brilliant blue of Victoria’s. With deliberate slowness, Julia’s fingers found their way between Victoria’s legs, cupping her with a possessiveness that made Victoria’s breath hitch.

As her fingers found Victoria’s warm, wet insides, Julia’s other hand tangled in Victoria’s fine blonde hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers like water. She tugged gently, pulling Victoria closer, their lips touching, their breaths mingling as their bodies pressed even closer together, their nipples rubbing against each other.

Julia smirked, her dark eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and desire. “And you’d be the wily scheming vixen that gets the fortune,” she replied, “the one that marries the rich landowner, has his son, then burns him alive in his mansion.”

“Yeah, well, I would, wouldn’t I?” giggled Victoria. “I mean, who needs men, right?” She pressed her lips to the sensitive skin of Julia’s neck. She delighted in the way Julia’s body responded, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“God, Victoria,” Julia delighted as Victoria’s blonde head moved lower over her breasts, gently kissing both her nipples, running her hands over Julia’s wide hips, and bringing her face against Julia’s fleshier stomach, enjoying her curves, her dark musk, and moving down between her legs as Julia opened her thighs, allowing Victoria a glimpse of her bright red petals emerging from between her black legs.

As Victoria brought her mouth close, steam seemed to rise from her sticky labia. Victoria stuck her tongue out and brought the flat of her tongue against her pussy and ran it along the lips from top to bottom, delighting in the tangy taste. Her friend’s hips began to move to the same rhythm. The blonde circled her friend’s clit, then plunged her tongue as deeply as she could into Julia’s vagina.

Julia was in another world. “Oh god ... Oh my god ... Oh please, Victoria,” she begged, “I’m almost there...” As her pelvis moved faster and faster, Victoria hooked her arms around Julia’s thighs and spread her labia with her fingers, pulling the hood back from her clit. She lapped at the little pink pleasure button as Julia’s hips rose off the cushion, pressing herself urgently into Victoria’s mouth.

Enormous waves of pleasure crashed over the North London girl, lifting her up, higher and higher, as it seemed every nerve ending, her very being, was at the mercy of her friend’s talented tongue. She came with a strangled cry, her hands grasping fistfuls of Victoria’s wispy blonde hair. At last, she fell back to earth, limp and exhausted.

Victoria grinned and brushed a lock of hair from Julia’s sweaty face. “Was that okay?” she asked.

“Oh my god, yes!” said Julia. “Victoria, you’re the best. I never thought the best thing about Oxford was going to be having hot lesbian sex in the afternoon!”

“You’re awesome!” Victoria said, kissing her friend, her lips wet with girl juice. “We’re going to have so much fun this summer.” The teens smiled at each other.

“Promise?” Julia asked, her eyes wide with hope and wonder. The thought of spending a summer in Italy with Victoria was ... heaven.

“Of course, you just have to promise me you’ll learn Italian.”

“Tutti frutti,” smiled Julia. The two began sliding each other’s tongues into each other’s mouths, enjoying the wet, slippery sensations in their mouths. Until they had kissed each other, having only kissed men, they never knew kissing could be so lovely.

“I want you to do me now,” Victoria giggled. She kissed her again. She got up, knelt, and straddled Julia’s head. The skinny blonde cupped her breasts as she sank down on her friend’s face, feeling the hot breath and then the tongue, and looking down at the dark chocolate eyes leering up at her.

Julia nudged her nose against the inner lips, folded together, and she worked them apart with a finger, finding the slippery channel between them. She used the juice to paint Victoria’s vulva and pulled back the folds to expose her clit, tickling it gently.

“Mmm, that’s good,” Victoria said.

Julia found Victoria both tangy and sweet, and she began to kiss her pussy much as she French kissed her pretty friend’s other lips. Encouraged by Victoria’s girlish cries of pleasure, she explored the shapely blonde’s lavish pink womanhood with her tongue, probing the crevices, tracing the edges of the thick flaps, and even sucking them into her mouth.

Julia was moving her hips and Victoria tried to match the rhythm. “Yes, like that!” said Victoria. “Right there! Lick my clit!” Julia grabbed her friend’s bouncing backside and held on as she rode her face. Holding her tongue flat, she let Victoria slide her vulva up and down on it, spreading her pussy cream on her friend from her nose to her chin.

“Oh fuck yes!” Victoria squealed a moment later. “Oh Julia, I’m cumming! Don’t stop! I’m cumming!” Her high-pitched shrieks were music to Julia’s ears. She drank up the flowing nectar and held onto Victoria’s hips as the blonde’s muscles shook spasmodically.

Victoria sighed and moved her bottom off Julia’s face and lay on top of her, kissing her and tasting her own pussy in her mouth. The two giggled and laughed and remained naked for hours more.

The next morning, Julia and Victoria dressed in their favorite jeans and cozy sweaters, bracing themselves against the frosty Oxford air. They walked side by side through the ancient stone pathways of the university, holding their books in one hand and each other’s hand in the other.

“Victoria,” Julia began, her tone curious but gentle, “yesterday, you said I would be evil. What did you mean by that?”

Victoria hesitated for a moment, her cheeks flushing slightly as she recalled the passionate words she had whispered the day before. She had compared Julia to Heathcliff, a character who was dark, brooding, and yes, a little evil. Why had she said that?

She squeezed Julia’s hand a little tighter, her voice soft as she replied, “He is sexy, you know, that’s all.”

“Your parents sent you to a ten-thousand-pounds-a-year school and Oxford to study English, and that’s the best you can come up with?” smirked Julia. “Come on.” She stopped, her tall, athletic five-foot-ten Caribbean figure bearing down on the slim and petite five-foot-five wisp of a blonde.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It was just ... in the moment, I was thinking about how intense you are, how passionate. Heathcliff is someone who loves so deeply that it consumes him. I guess I love you, but sometimes you are so intense.”

“But...?” Julia stopped holding her hand. “Maybe you don’t love me that intensely then,” her eyes hurt.

“No!” Victoria grabbed her hand again, her voice filled with affection. “Just someone who loves fiercely, who won’t let anything stand in the way of that love. I like that in you.” Victoria brought her head against Julia’s sweater, gave her a bear hug, and kissed her.

Julia nodded, her smile widening as they continued walking, their fingers still intertwined. “I can live with that,” she said, leaning in to kiss Victoria’s blonde head. “You’re just my special little girl I’ve found.”

---------- 2026 - Undisclosed Location

The female was naked, save for a collar around her neck. She was on all fours, her back arched, her knees spread wide. Her East Asian features were fixed straight ahead into the distance, her black hair falling down either side of her face. She was lithe, smooth all over, with light skin. Barely any fat, other than the toned buttocks and inner thighs, and the small globes of flesh of her breasts hanging down.

“What is the slave’s name?” The voice came from a male circling her, dressed in trousers, shoes, and a shirt, his hand moving over her pert, upturned posterior, running his hands over it like marble.

“The slave’s name is RedRum,” the female answered, robotically.

“Does the slave have a human family?” asked the man, tracing a finger along her back, through her smooth hair, and along her bony spine, into the hollows of her arch at her lower back, and down into the smooth crack between the valley of her toned buttocks.

“This slave had a human family, though they exist separately. The slave has feelings for them but knows she will not see them again. She loved them and wishes them well in the outside world and knows her performance in her world ensures their happiness in their world.”

“Good slave,” the man patted her bottom appreciatively, before running his hand down her thighs, the crease of the back of her knees, and along her calves. “And what is the purpose of the slave’s existence?”

“The slave’s purpose is to ensure the happiness and pleasure of its owner, to serve them and make them happy, and to sacrifice its own wants, needs, and life for the owner, for the rest of its life.”

“Good girl,” the man moved to the front and cupped her chin, crouching down. “I am proud of you, of the progress you have made. You are well on your way to your true purpose.” He looked into her eyes. “You may look at me.”

The female stared into the cold, masculine, strong face looking at her. Part of her remembered the first time they met, in wildly different circumstances—a hotel bar late at night in Munich months ago. Since then, her character, desire for freedom, and belief in herself had been destroyed.

The man recognized the loss of spirit in her eyes and smiled. He, too, recalled the playful, cheeky girl he had met, his instant desire to drain the spark from her, to take her and sell her. He had achieved it—the fire had gone, but the beautiful body was still there. She was just another notch in his belt, another six-figure sum in his bank account. He ran his hand over her face, relishing the lack of resistance, placing his fingers in her mouth.

Another hand ran over her back, just the subtle trace of raised welts on her back, along with the earlier remarks about her family, gave clues as to how her submission had been obtained so successfully. But the man was a practiced molder of women, and time and technique, fashioned from years of practice, had ensured this female would render no threat to her future owner, who could still enjoy the possibility of snuffing out her life every day of ownership while taking pleasure from her body...

“RedRum, you will soon be transferred to your new owner. I will expect your highest performance, every hour, for the rest of your life.” He took her right wrist and turned it over, revealing a branded tattoo. “This says I own you now, and I own a piece of your soul forever,” he said. “This is also a guarantee that the slave will submit and obey all her life, a slave rather than a real human. Remember it, and remember your greatest joy and pride will be pleasing me and your owner.”

“Yes, Master,” the female said firmly but submissively.

“Good slave,” the man said, patted her again on her bottom, and walked out. He motioned for a female overseer to bring her back to her cage.

London 2026

On a cold, blustery afternoon in 2026, Julia Duncan stood on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The wind cut through the square, but it did nothing to diminish the strength of her voice as she addressed the crowd that had gathered to hear her and others speak. At 49, Julia was a figure of both admiration and controversy—having transitioned from a high-powered banker to one of the most vocal anti-slavery campaigners in the UK.

“Slavery may have been abolished in name, but its shadow still looms over us,” Julia’s voice rang out, her words carried by the microphone. “Statues that honor those who profited from human suffering have no place in our streets. We must confront our past to forge a better future.”

The crowd erupted in applause, their signs and banners raised in fervent agreement. Julia had become a central figure in the movement to remove statues of historical figures linked to slavery.

To the public, she was a fierce advocate for justice—an image that the media often amplified, painting her as the relentless, angry black woman unafraid to challenge the status quo. But behind the polished exterior, few knew the real Julia Duncan, the complex web of desires and ambitions that drove her. Her meteoric rise in the banking world, where she had become one of the first Black female CEOs of a major bank, had ended abruptly in a bitter dispute with her partners. A lawsuit had left her with a fortune, but also with time—time she now poured into new passions.

Yet, there were passions Julia indulged in privately, far removed from the public eye. To those closest to her, it was clear that her drive for power, money, and even justice was entangled with something darker, more elusive—a hunger that gnawed at her from within.

As the rally continued, Julia surveyed the crowd, her eyes landing on a young woman who stood out among her admirers. Jess Soniya was petite and striking, with dark hair tinged blue, olive skin, and an air of youthful innocence. Her crop top and cargo pants, along with her nose and belly button piercings, gave her a rebellious edge, yet her eyes sparkled with admiration as they locked onto Julia.

“Hi, Julia,” Jess greeted her warmly, her voice trembling with excitement. “I admire you so much! That was an amazing speech!”

Julia smiled, but there was something in her gaze, a flicker of something deeper as she looked at Jess. “What’s your name, darling?” she asked, her tone smooth, almost predatory. “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks,” Jess replied, blushing under the attention of a woman she had idolized from afar. “I just wanted to say how much I loved what you said to John Callaghan on the BBC the other night!”

Other young women gathered around, all eager to bask in Julia’s presence. But it was Jess who held Julia’s attention, her youthful energy, and innocent enthusiasm igniting a yearning in Julia that she knew she shouldn’t entertain, yet couldn’t resist.

“Can you follow me on Instagram?” Jess asked, her voice small, almost shy. “I’m on Twitter too...”

“Of course, darling,” Julia responded with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Are you a student?”

“Yeah ... drama at St. Martin’s,” Jess said, her excitement bubbling over. “I’m an actress. You should come see my play! I’m playing Lady Macbeth ... I can give you the details...”

“That sounds wonderful—better still, give me your number,” Julia said, her voice lowering, almost intimate.

Jess hesitated for a moment, feeling a thrill at the prospect of Julia Duncan, the woman she admired so much, taking a personal interest in her. She let Julia scan her QR code to take her number and bit her lip in excitement.

Julia pocketed her phone with a smile, but her thoughts were far from innocent. As she gazed at the young woman before her, she felt a dark desire stir within her. Jess, in her innocence, had no idea what kind of attention she had drawn.

Julia’s public persona was one of wealth, political intrigue, and social reform, but in her private moments, she craved something else entirely. Jess, with her youthful beauty and naïve admiration, had unwittingly become the object of Julia’s hidden, more dangerous desires.

Meanwhile, Victoria Carter was furiously fielding calls from journalists about her husband’s financial affairs. Her husband, Manfred Carter, was nearly seventy, twenty years her senior, and Victoria was his third wife—though she hoped to be his last. At 49, Victoria was still fit and attractive, her hair still almost all naturally blonde, her breasts surgically still pneumatic and firm enough to please her husband. Hours on exercise bike meant she still turned heads and looked twenty years younger than she was.

She slammed down the phone after the last call, and she turned on the car radio. The news blared out a report about the ongoing protests over statues, and Victoria’s anger boiled over. “Fucking bastards want to destroy our country!” she shouted at the radio, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. The rage within her simmered as the report continued, until a brief interview with one of the activists, Julia Duncan, came on. At the mention of Julia’s name, Victoria felt a chill run through her, her stomach twisting in knots.

That bitch.

Victoria’s mind raced back to the past, to a time she had long tried to bury. Julia Duncan—the woman who had once nearly ruined her life. Victoria shuddered, recalling the intense and confusing feelings that had once consumed her at Oxford. She had been in love with her, a love that had spiraled into something weird and dangerous.

The past and present collided in Victoria’s mind as she thought about how Julia’s corporate career had seemed to consist of targetting her husband’s businesses, so successfully for Julia as she climbed the ladder, and how her ruthless legal actions had targeted Manfred’s bank and company, causing immense trouble for her husband.

“Fucking black dyke,” Victoria muttered under her breath, a mixture of shame and anger flooding her. She had never told her husband the real reason behind Julia’s relentless pursuit, never confessed the truth of their past. She was too ashamed to admit that she had once been involved in a passionate, secretive relationship with Julia at Oxford, and too afraid of the repercussions if it ever came to light.

Years ago, Victoria had taken out a restraining order against Julia, desperate to put an end to the madness that had consumed them both. Since then, Julia had kept her distance physically, but financially she had almost ruined her family over many years.

Victoria clenched her jaw, trying to push the memories away. Her mind cleared as she arrived at her daughter’s school.

Victoria perfected the mother’s stance, standing languidly at the school gate with the other parents in her yoga pants, perfectly tight and accentuating her figure, her slim stomach evident beneath the fleece she wore as a gesture of modesty

“Hey there, Mummy,” Alice beamed as she approached, her plaid skirt riding up just enough to reveal her long legs and the beginnings of a figure to rival her mother’s.

“Hello, darling,” Victoria replied with a warm smile. “How was your day? Ready for some piano practice?”

Mother and daughter drove away, Victoria’s thoughts of Julia forgotten as they headed home.

Switzerland - 2026

Hans Keller was very curious about who this Edward Pembroke was, but he knew better than to pry. As a lawyer to the wealthy in Swiss society, discretion was paramount, and he had built his reputation on knowing when to ask questions and, more importantly, when to remain silent.

The estate of the late Heinrich von Altdorf, a prominent figure in Zurich’s financial circles, had been relatively easy to administer. He was a man of considerable wealth and influence, with a well-organized estate that left little room for surprises. But the sudden appearance of Edward Pembroke as a beneficiary had piqued Hans’s interest. What intrigued him even more was a stipulation in von Altdorf’s will that stated his chalet in Gstaad could only be accessed by Edward Pembroke before it could be released to the estate. The chalet, worth millions, would remain inaccessible until Pembroke personally assessed it. Von Altdorf’s instructions had been clear, and Pembroke had been notified immediately upon receipt of the news of his death.

Hans Keller was impressed when Edward Pembroke walked into his Zurich office a few days after being notified. Pembroke, a tall man in his late forties, exuded an air of quiet authority. He had dark hair, wavy and swept back, with a strong jawline that accentuated his features. His ethnicity was indeterminate—he could be Arabic or purely English, a blend that only added to his enigmatic presence. Pembroke was dressed impeccably in an expensive tailored suit with a waistcoat, polished shoes, and a silk tie, each detail speaking to his wealth and taste.

“Such a shame to hear about Heinrich,” Pembroke said, his voice measured as he extended his condolences to Keller. The lawyer, a man with owl-like glasses, white hair, and a balding head, wore a suit and waistcoat, embodying the old-world professionalism of Swiss legal circles.

“Yes, indeed,” Keller replied, studying the man before him. “Heinrich will be missed by many”. A well-loved politician, philanthropist, and television personality—his presence was everywhere.