Chapter 3

Nadim Darwish had lived a long, twisted life steeped in depravity and violence until he was recruited by Edward Pembroke. After fleeing the Syrian civil war, where he served as a military pilot, he spent time in a German prison for heinous sex crimes. Following his release, he became Pembroke’s personal pilot and ruthless enforcer. When not transporting high-value human cargo across Europe and the Middle East—whether by kidnapping or trafficking them to waiting clients—he was deeply involved in the dark operations at Pembroke’s slave training compound. Situated in the desolate, sun-scorched badlands of southern Turkey, near the Syrian border, Nadim played a key role in the brutal imprisonment, “training,” and punishment of the captives, breaking their spirits in preparation for sale.

Nadim’s loyalty to Pembroke was as unwavering as his cruelty, a twisted bond solidified by Nadim’s willingness to betray his own family in Damascus. He plundered his extended clan, delivering fresh “merchandise” for Pembroke’s dark enterprise. This act of ruthless, incestuous perversion filled Pembroke with a disturbing mix of delight, surprise, and morbid admiration.

Nadim’s first acquisition had been his own niece, Rania Darwish. She vanished shortly after a visit from her outcast uncle, whose reappearance had stirred unease within the family. Known as the perverted black sheep, Nadim’s presence alone was enough to raise suspicions. Her disappearance devastated the family, and Nadim’s brothers, including Rania’s father, were tormented by the belief that Nadim was involved. Yet, they were powerless, as Rania seemed to have vanished without a trace, leaving no word for months. Nadim, too, disappeared as quickly as he had reappeared, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions.

To protect his remaining family, Rania’s father relocated them to a remote village, hoping to avert further tragedy. He became fiercely vigilant, allowing his daughters only to attend school or visit trusted friends’ homes.

However, Rania’s sister, Saffea, began receiving messages on Instagram from an account claiming to be Rania. The messages alleged that she had fled to Germany and was now desperate to return but was terrified of how the family would react. Missing her sister deeply, Saffea didn’t immediately inform her family. Instead, she kept the messages to herself, longing to reconnect with Rania.

What happened next was grimly predictable, as Pembroke’s well-oiled machine moved into action. Rania continued messaging Saffea, even leaving voice notes, claiming she had returned to Syria but was too nervous to face their family. She hinted at a compromised honor, suggesting that their father might not welcome her back at all. Rania insisted that she could only confront their father if Saffea accompanied her.

Apprehensive and emotional, Saffea agreed to meet her sister, determined to reunite Rania with their father and plead for his forgiveness. Her thoughts were consumed by the reunion, her mind racing with how she could convince her father to accept Rania back into the family. In her emotional turmoil, Saffea failed to consider that Rania was not in Syria at all. In reality, Rania was still imprisoned in Pembroke’s Turkish complex, coerced into sending those messages.

As Saffea made her way to the designated meeting spot, bustling with people, she chose a familiar, isolated route to avoid attention. This made her an easy target. A van appeared out of nowhere, quickly and efficiently abducting her. In moments, Saffea was spirited away, taken across the Syrian border into the arid badlands, and eventually delivered to Pembroke’s slave training complex, just a few hours from Adana.

Saffea was in utter shock as the horrifying reality of her situation set in. Bound and helpless, she watched in terror as her phone was destroyed, severing her last connection to the outside world. The brutal induction at the complex began without mercy. She was coldly informed of her fate—what had happened, what would happen, and exactly how it would unfold.

From the earliest moments of her abduction, Saffea had been kept naked, her pleas for mercy met with either chilled silence or sharp slaps to the face. At the complex, her horror deepened when she was forcibly branded with a tattoo on her right wrist, a permanent mark that sealed her fate as a slave. Strapped down and powerless, she sobbed uncontrollably as every hair on her body was ruthlessly lasered off, leaving her skin raw and vulnerable.

The matron, Mrs. Parker—a buxom English blonde—administered this cruel “grooming” with a disturbing blend of tenderness and cruelty. As Saffea lay trembling, Mrs. Parker’s hands roamed over her exposed body, lingering on her small breasts, marveling at her soft skin, tiny waist, and newly smooth, tender slit.

“Welcome to your new life, darling,” Mrs. Parker purred, her voice dripping with a chilling mix of pity and condescension. “I’m sorry you were taken before you had a chance to truly live, but perhaps, not knowing the joys of a full life might make this easier on you,” she murmured, her eyes reflecting a twisted sadness. “I do wish the men would spare those as young as you. Men are such brutes, really. But I will do my best to help you come to terms with your new life,” she added with a soft, unsettling smile before leaning in and pressing her lips to Saffea’s.

Saffea, still strapped down and immobilized, had slipped into a state beyond shock, her mind numb to the horrors that were unfolding. She barely resisted as she was unstrapped and roughly turned onto her stomach, her body positioned with legs and arms spread out in an X shape on the table.

Mrs. Parker resumed the lasering, now focusing on Saffea’s backside. Her slim, narrow buttocks made it easy for Mrs. Parker to part the delicate flesh, exposing her most private areas with clinical precision. With practiced hands, Mrs. Parker lasered along the cleft, ensuring every inch was meticulously treated. When the procedure was complete, she ran her fingers over the slim, pink line of Saffea’s vagina and the tightly clenched rosebud of her anus, admiring her handiwork. She bent down and traced her tongue along Saffea’s pussy and asshole, delighting in the sudden clenching of the buttocks, as Saffea vainly tried to close them to prevent the oral invasion.

Mrs. Parker then moved up to Saffea’s face, gently brushing back her dark hair. She brought her face close to Saffea’s, running her hand over the blank, terrified expression, the brown eyes staring out into space, dissociating. She kissed her on the cheek and softly asked, “Has anyone kissed you in that place before?”

“No,” Saffea shook her head, still barely able to speak since she had been brought here.

“Well then, young girl” Mrs. Parker said, slapping her upturned rump, “you’ll be getting plenty of kisses in naughty places here, and you’ll be kissing a lot of naughty places too! Both men and women! So you’d better get used to it!” She giggled and then turned Saffea’s face, kissing her on the lips. Saffea tried to turn her head back toward the table, but Mrs. Parker slapped her bottom again, more harshly this time.

“Saffea, darling, you must never turn down any kind of advance here. I’m a nice woman, and I won’t punish you for it, but if any of the men catch you doing this, or if Mrs. Al-Haraz does, or if you refuse during a task in training—well, you think it’s been tough so far, but you will soon experience pain like you wouldn’t believe. It’s best to obey and try to avoid it.”

Saffea had rarely seen strange, unrelated men before, and the sight of the hulking, grotesque figures who had kidnapped her and now guarded her at the complex petrified her. Their hands had already explored her, and with what little she knew of sex, she feared she would soon lose her virginity. The other female overseer, Mrs. Al-Haraz, was cruder and more obscene than Mrs. Parker. Her face and head were half a mass of twisted, burned flesh, with hair only growing on one side of her scalp. But what terrified the naked Saffea even more were Mrs. Al-Haraz’s sexual outfits—constantly dressed in PVC thongs, boots, and basques in bright colors.

The other slave girls had shown some sympathy toward Saffea. She had been held with them in a large, clear perspex cell that opened out onto the main hall, where they could see the overseers and guards moving about, preparing for and cleaning up after various tortures and sessions. Her fellow prisoners were all morose, collared, and reluctant to speak to her beyond offering pitying eyes and sad faces.

One girl, however, proudly told Saffea that she had already been sold and would be leaving soon. An East Asian girl with an American accent, she introduced herself as “RedRum” and advised Saffea to be obedient. “Females are made to obey males,” she said. “The outside world gave women too much power, and now we must suffer to correct the balance. We’re not really human; we’re toys. Embrace your life as a toy, a thing, a slave for your future owner’s pleasure. Have you orgasmed yet?” the girl asked, her eyes gleaming with a messianic fervor, her mouth open in anticipation. She was beautiful, like all the others, and completely naked.

“Leave the poor girl alone, Grace,” another tall blonde interjected.

“Do not call me Grace! My name is RedRum; that’s what my owner has already named me!” the Asian girl responded proudly.

“You’re a slave. You’ll be beaten, raped, and tortured no matter how loyal you are, Grace. Leave this poor girl be...”

“That’s what we were made to be,” the Asian woman said matter-of-factly, with a touch of pride. She turned her back to Saffea, proudly displaying a line of red marks. “I was beaten a few days ago, for no reason other than our Master wanted to. But it means he loves me. Being beaten isn’t just punishment; it means you are truly a slave to be used. I hope my owner whips me all the time,” she added with satisfaction, “even if I am obedient.”

The blonde woman reached out to Saffea. She had a perfect model’s figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with large, full breasts and wide hips, her body just as smooth as the others. “You’re Rania’s sister, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, who are you?” Saffea replied nervously.

“I’m Samantha. I’m Danish, and I’ve been here a few weeks now. I was at university in Copenhagen. I was running on the beach, doing my normal early morning routine, and then ... well, some guys came out of nowhere, forced me into a van, and here I am.”

“Oh ... I’m sorry,” said Saffea sadly. “Where is Rania?”

“She’s somewhere ... she’s being sold soon too,” Samantha said with sorrow. “Saffea, I agree that you need to be obedient,” she continued, showing Saffea the marks all over her side, thighs, and breasts. “The bastards here will hurt you over everything. But remember...” she pointed to her collar. “They hear everything.”

“But ... surely they can’t listen to everything?”

“I don’t know,” said Samantha, “but they seem to. They always pick up on ‘important’ things people have said, no matter what language they speak. Just be careful.”

Grace, or RedRum, sat beside Saffea. The cell was crowded, a mass of tits and ass everywhere. She put her hand on Saffea’s thigh. “Are you a virgin, Saffea?”

“Yes,” Saffea whispered.

“Perhaps you’ll be sold as one. But I expect you’ll soon be with the Master, alone. I envy you,” she said sadly. “I hope we’re paired together for pussy licking practice soon. I find you really cute.” Grace’s eyes met Saffea’s, and she leaned in to kiss her.

Saffea leapt back, and Samantha quickly embraced her. Saffea buried her face in the blonde’s large breasts, seeking comfort. “Leave her alone, she’s new!”

“Ha-ha, okay,” Grace said, hungrily eyeing Saffea like a piece of meat. “But I still hope I get to eat your pussy soon. And if you’re as reluctant as you are now, you’ll soon get a good beating,” she smirked.

Saffea had been in a state of dread for hours, sniffling and praying in the cell, surrounded by the other girls. The need to use the toilet eventually became unavoidable, despite her desperate attempts to resist. Humiliation washed over her as she tried to keep her legs pressed together, feeling utterly exposed despite the nakedness of everyone around her. She focused on her legs, the floor—anything to avoid meeting the eyes of the other girls or, worse, the guards and overseers outside the cell, who occasionally leered at their helpless prey with casual, predatory interest. The shame and horror were almost suffocating, trapping her in a constant state of anxiety, exhausting her, but she dared not sleep.

She had fervently hoped she might be forgotten, but deep down, she knew that was a false hope. After what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Al-Haraz, with a simple, casual command from outside the cell, ordered two of the girls to force Saffea under the shower. There, she was subjected to a dehumanizing and brutal cleansing, stripping away the last remnants of her dignity.

As they held her down and bent her over, Saffea felt a surge of panic when the showerhead was forced up her anus. The sudden rush of water into her rectum was a shock like nothing she had ever felt before. Her stomach began to expand unnaturally as the water filled her insides, the pressure inside her building until it became almost unbearable. The sensation was frightening, foreign, and intensely uncomfortable. She was forced to expel the water, watching in humiliation as the dirty water splashed messily around her feet before swirling down the drain.

This process was repeated over and over, each time more painful than the last, the relentless expansion of her stomach leaving her terrified and disoriented. The enema was not just physically agonizing but deeply humiliating, carried out in full view of her fellow captives. With each forced noisy expulsion, Saffea felt her dignity being utterly destroyed.

“You’ll need a good, clean ass before you see your Uncle,” Mrs. Al-Haraz purred, her voice dripping with sadistic pleasure as she watched Saffea, shivering from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, fear, and the dread of what was yet to come.

The dried-off, shivering wisp of the young Syrian girl was escorted barefoot out of the cell, through the hall, and down a dim corridor by Mrs. Al-Haraz and a hulking brute with only one eye and half of his lower jaw missing. The cold air and rough floor only added to her terror as they led her to a heavy door. It opened slowly, and with a sickening sense of dread, she recognized the grinning figure of her uncle, Nadim, standing inside in a dressing gown. She had only seen him at a family gathering just a few months ago, around the same time her sister had disappeared, and then again as one of her kidnappers in the van outside Damascus.

“Sweet Saffea, welcome! I hope you’ve settled in well. I see your hair is gone...” he sneered as his hand aggressively cupped her between her legs, feeling the lasered smoothness of her mons. She instinctively gripped his wrist, but he only laughed, grabbing her wrist in return and noticing the fresh tattoo imprinted there.

“Thanks, guys,” he winked at her escorts, then yanked her inside the room and shut the door behind them.

As the door slammed shut behind her, Saffea took in the bawdy bedroom—a stifling, windowless space. The room was cluttered with drawers, a wardrobe, and a large red double bed that dominated the scene. The mere sight of the bed filled Saffea with dread, conjuring up terrifying visions of what was about to happen.

But what truly chilled her to the bone was the sight of another naked girl in the corner, positioned at the foot of the bed. She was kneeling on her haunches, hands resting on her thighs, her head bowed. A cascade of black hair fell forward, covering her face and flowing down over her breasts and stomach, hiding her entirely from view. A shiver ran down Saffea’s spine as she guessed who it might be.

Suddenly, a hand gripped her shoulder, and she heard the dreaded sound of Nadim’s dressing gown falling to the floor behind her. A sharp, wet sensation pressed against the small of her back—a soft, pointed thing. Deep down, she knew what it was—a weapon, a horrible male weapon. “Rania, say hello to your little sister, Saffea,” Nadim whispered, resting his chin on Saffea’s head. His hands snaked around her chest from behind, crossing over her body and clasping possessively over her gently swollen breasts. The touch sent waves of revulsion through her.

“Welcome, little sister,” Rania murmured, lifting her face as her hair fell to the sides, revealing her pale, gaunt features. The lack of sunlight had drained her complexion, leaving her with dark shadows under her eyes, and the weight of her suffering made her look years older. Her mouth was a sad line, and her eyes, filled with sorrow, watered as they met Saffea’s terrified gaze.

“Welcome to your life of slavery,” Rania continued, her voice quivering. “You are now a thing, just like me. We are the property of our Master, soon to be sold. My role is to help you become accustomed to this new life. We exist only to serve our Masters and men, sexually.” Her words were heavy with resignation, perfectly memorized and spoken with the threat of severe punishment if she had mangled the words.

Saffea recoiled within Nadim’s strong grasp as Nadim leaned down to lick the side of her face, his rough, wet tongue dragging from her jawline to her eyebrows. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the disgusting sensation as his tongue almost forced her eyelids open.

“See, your big sister here has been waiting for you,” Nadim sneered, his breath hot against her skin. “We train and sell girls here, Saffea. Rania already has a buyer. She is, and will always be, a slave—just as you are, and will be. She’s going to spend her last few days here helping to train you.”

Nadim’s grip tightened on Saffea’s shoulders as he turned to face Rania. His voice dripped with cruelty as he gave his next command. “Slave, come here and give your little sister a great big sloppy kiss on the mouth.”

Rania hesitated for just a moment, her body quivering as she received Nadim’s command. Slowly, she pushed herself up from her knees, her movements sluggish and filled with reluctance. She approached Saffea, who stood frozen in place, her eyes wide with disbelief.