Chapter 10

Pembroke lay sprawled across the massage table in the dim basement light, his large, hulking body sinking into the padded surface, fat yet muscular, his broad chest carpeted with coarse hair that spilled down to his protruding belly, which rose and fell rhythmically with each labored breath. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, pooling in the deep folds of his double chin that crept up to his ears and gathering in the cavern of his belly button. His flaccid penis rested limply atop his sagging scrotum, exposed and unashamed. A faint, almost serene smile tugged at his thick lips as he gazed at Lola, approaching with baby oil.

Growing bored of her constant nakedness, he had ordered her into sheer white tight shorts and vest top for the massage. He had a long day of leering at girls in cafes and shopping malls after doing nothing at work besides stare at the receptionist and watch Lola on his secret screen, and felt he deserved a reward.

Lola was getting used to his physical presence, other than the constant threat of violence. As she took in his bald head and horeshoe fringe of thinning gray hair at the sides, and his large red veined nose, she no longer wanted to throw up. Now, she felt only a hollow, trembling unease.

“Start at the feet, Lola,” Pembroke instructed, his voice a low rumble.

“Yes, sir,” she replied softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her fingers.

She began to work her slender fingers through his toes, pressing into the calloused soles of his massive feet. After several long moments, she dared to glance up. His eyes were closed, and his expression was one of indulgent satisfaction.

“Sir...” she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did you hear anything about ... my mother?”

“Your mother is alive, Lola,” Pembroke said, his voice soft. “You see, before she sliced herself open, she had caused such a racket that the police were called. They broke in, found the place turned upside down, and your dear mother lying in a pool of her own blood. They took her to the hospital, patched her up. She’s OK now, from what I’ve gathered ... through work.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Lola’s fingers continued working over his feet.

“But,” he continued, his smile thinning into something sharp, “they’re already working on having her thrown out of that flat as soon as possible. So yes, she’s alive—for now. But she’s attracting far too much attention for my liking. It has been enormous fun fucking with her life, but now I think I’ll have to put some serious thought into where she’ll go once she leaves that apartment.”

“Maybe ... sir ... have you thought that she might just leave town and disappear? She might forget about me...” Lola’s voice wavered as she forced the words out, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Careful, Lola. Don’t lie to me. You know as well as I do that she won’t forget about her loving daughter.”

He shifted slightly on the table, his enormous belly rippling as he adjusted his weight. “Now, do my legs. Be a bit more forceful with those hands of yours.”

Lola obeyed, her slender fingers pressing into the thick, hairy flesh of his calves, her knuckles whitening from the pressure.

“And don’t think I don’t know what’s going on in that little head of yours,” Pembroke continued. “You’d bolt out of here in a heartbeat if I didn’t have you kept down in this basement.”

He paused, while Lola kept working on his legs, unwilling to say anything that might get her punished.

“No, Lola. Your mother won’t just disappear. She’ll need ... dealing with.”

Lola’s hands trembled slightly as they moved up his leg, but she kept her head bowed, her face hidden from his predatory gaze.

“Now hop up on the table,” Pembroke instructed. “Face away from me, knees on either side of my waist.”

Lola hesitated for only a moment before obeying. Nimbly, she climbed onto the table with a quiet grace, straddling his massive frame as she positioned herself as instructed. Her knees settled on either side of his wide waist, her thin arms reaching down past his distended belly to his thick, hairy legs.

From this angle, Lola’s view was dominated by the expanse of Pembroke’s rounded stomach rising beneath her. She began working her hands along his thighs, kneading the dense muscles and flesh.

Pembroke let out a satisfied sigh, his head sinking deeper into the padded table. “That’s better,” he murmured, as his hands lazily strayed over her bottom through the thin white fabric, fingering over her crotch and the faint outline of her pussy.

Lola got higher and higher and now his cock and now erect penis was in her eyeline. She knew what to do. She brushed her hair back, and pointed the cock in the air, and licked it tepidly before plunging her mouth down on it to the hilt, while massaging his balls with one hand. As Pembroke raised and spread his legs, she got the message, and with the other hand, slipped an index finger into his asshole.

“Uuuuughhh, that is amazing,” Pembroke sighed. Lola was just glad her mother was alive, and so she allowed herself to even enjoy herself a little. Before, his touch had been something grotesque—a trigger for icy fear and revulsion. But now, they no longer made her stomach churn or her muscles lock with dread. Instead, the slow drag of his fingers across her butt felt almost ... teasing. Even his cock felt somehow tastier in her mouth, like it belonged there, and she was finding it easy to focus on the steady rhythm of her work and the sensations of his fingers as they moved insider her panties and towards her pussy.

Pembroke’s gaze lingered on the slender, compact frame of Lola. His eyes traced the narrow hips, the slim thighs, the minimal curves, accentuated by the crisp white panties clinging to her bottom. The fabric stretched neatly over the small, high, and firm curves of her pert buttocks.

He thought of Lisa, and compared the asses of mother and daughter in his mind. He was so fortunate having fucked both already, but he really wanted them side by side.

Lisa was desperate now, but her determination burned through the fog of exhaustion and regret. Fuck building a career in tech. Fuck San Francisco and its empty promises. All she wanted was Lola. Ohio—that must be where Lola had gone. That’s where Lisa would go too.

She just hoped she could scrape together enough for a lawyer, because her court date for the DUI—and the potential criminal damage charges to her employer’s apartment—were fast approaching. Then there were the mounting medical bills: the sexual health clinic, and the treatment for her suicide attempt.

She needed money, and fast. After everything she had endured over the past week, she figured she might as well finally cash in on the only thing left she had to sell: her ass. If Edward Pembroke had been willing to offer her fifteen hundred dollars to fuck her, she figured she could make a go of it.

Lola stood in the dim basement light, her thin legs trembling in pale white stockings. The dress—if it could even be called that—was short, buttoned-up, and childlike in its design. The fabric clung awkwardly to her frame, stopping high on her thighs, the stiff collar pressing against her neck. Each button running down the front felt like a tiny weight that could come undone at any moment.

Pembroke lounged in his beanie bag, in just his thong, one hand resting lazily on his vast, heaving belly, the other swirling a bottle of beet. His small, watery eyes glistened as they roamed over her, lingering on the hem of the dress and the pale skin beneath it.

“Turn around, Lola,” he commanded softly.

She hesitated for just a moment before obeying, pivoting stiffly on her heels. The dress flared slightly as she turned, revealing the creases of her buttocks.

“Good girl,” Pembroke murmured. “Now then, Puppet on a String. I hope you have practiced hard”

Lola had spent the last 12 hours on her own, watching a video on a loop, of the performance Pembroke wanted her to perform. It was the 60s song “puppet on a string” and she had to learn the choregraphed dance with it.

The speaker filled the silence, the tinny opening chords of the song bleeding into the air.

Lola’s stomach twisted into knots as she began to move. Her arms lifted awkwardly, her elbows locked in imitation of invisible puppet strings. She took small, jerky steps across the basement floor, the dress swishing against her thighs with each uncertain motion.

“I wonder if one day that, you’ll say that, you care...”

Her voice was thin, trembling, barely rising above the music. Pembroke’s lips pulled into a sharp smile, and he leaned back, his heavy body sinking deeper into the beanie bag, his cock starting to rise through the material of his thong.

“Louder, Lola. Sing.”

Her voice rose, cracking on the higher notes, but she kept moving—stiff-limbed, doll-like. Her dress fluttered with each clumsy spin, the fabric rising and exposing her pink panties underneath as her body tried to keep up with the awkward choreography he had drilled into her.

Pembroke chuckled. “Keep going. Don’t stop until the music does,” he said.

The dress felt suffocating now, its buttons too tight, the stiff collar a chokehold around her neck. Her knees wobbled, but she didn’t dare falter.

“But I’m just a puppet on a string...”

The final line came out barely more than a whisper, her voice cracking and breathless. As the music crackled to an end, Lola froze mid-pose, her arms outstretched, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to steady her breathing.

Pembroke began to clap—slow, deliberate, mocking.

“Well done, little puppet,” he said with a satisfied smirk. “Now, the second version.”

Lola’s shoulders sagged, her dress sticking to her clammy skin. She had more freedom to dance to this one, but she knew how Pembroke wanted her to dance and how she was to end it.

Lola swallowed hard and began to move to the song a second time. Her hips swayed cautiously at first, side to side, her hands sliding down her thighs and then back up, fingertips grazing the hem of her dress. She twisted her body in time with the music, her movements fluid but stiff with hesitation.

“Loosen up,” Pembroke’s voice cut through the music like a whip. “Make it sexy, get my cock nice and hard!”

She obeyed, forcing herself to relax, belting out the words again, holding her hair up, closing her eyes. Her hips rolled in slow, deliberate circles, the dress lifting with every sharp turn, making sure that Pembroke got a good long glance, this time, of her underwear.

Her arms rose above her head, fingers splayed, mimicking movements she’d seen performed on TV.

“That’s better,” he drawled, finishing his beer.

Lola’s face burned, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of exertion and humiliation. As she sang and opened her mouth, she felt Pembroke’s stare burrowing into her, dissecting every flick of her hips, every lift of her arms. She could not help but watch as he took his cock out of his thong and started playing with it.

Lola began bending over, letting the dress ride up and over her buttocks as she sang the chorus, now hopelessly out of tune, but Pembroke didn’t care. He was getting up and dancing with her.

He came behind her, his huge naked frame rubbing against her, and his hands came to her hips, then to he buttons and he undid each one. Lola stepped out, now just in her pink panties and white stockings, wriggled her hips, took a deep breath, and turned around.

She now looked up past the grey matted hair of his chest at his double chin and fleshy grinning mouth, taking in for the thousandth time the bulbous nose and the overhanding eyebrows, the bald dome of his head. She smiled, surprising herself with how easy it now felt, and brought her hands around his neck, still moving her hips to he music as she felt his hands clasp his waist, and brought her mouth to his and kissed him.

The song continued on a loop. Pembroke returned the kiss passionately, his hands moving cautiously, almost modestly, skimming the curve of her back and the slender line of her neck. His thumbs brushed over the ridges of her spine, and the line of her panties and for a brief moment, his touch felt disarmingly tender.

“You’re learning, little puppet. Every day, you learn a little more,” Pembroke said, tapping her nose with a thick finger as his yellow teeth stretched into a crooked grin.

Lola said nothing, she allowed herself to be lifted, wrapping her legs around him, as he carried her to the bed. She let him kiss her some more, and then lay back resignedly on the bed as he kissed every part of her body, even licking along the material of her stockings. She allowed herself to enjoy the feeling as he peeled her panties off her legs and threw them across the basement and plunged his mouth onto her pussy.

“Oooooooo” Lola could not stop moaning as his firm strong tongue turned her clit over and over until she shook with orgasm. She ran her fingers over his bald head, playing with the tufts of hair at the side as his face continued licking between her legs. “Oooo, master,” she said, her voice a fragile mix of habit, fear of disobedience, and a faint, unsettling gratitude for the fleeting sensation and an acknowledgement that she was his slave.

Pembroke moved up, his head towering over hers, and clumsily stuck his tongue to kiss her. He did not feel like a rapist and kidnapper, but as a lover, despite the bizaare age and looks difference between them. Lola kicked back her legs as high as she could to welcome his cock, which slid right inside her as they kissed.

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stretch between them. Lola knew she couldn’t fake love or raw animal desire—those emotions were beyond her reach now. But she could surrender. She could embrace the role he had carved out for her, lean into the fragile safety of obedience.

“Master ... take me,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “I am yours.”

Pembroke said nothing and was lost for words and kept pumping inside her. They orgasmed together and kissed, Lola’s ankles over her wrists as she held his hairy back, amid the pleasure, feeling that she might be able to endure being a slave.’

Pembroke watched her with weary suspicion, as she slept peacefully on his chest. He knew better than to trust the quiet obedience of a slave—escape was always nestled somewhere in their thoughts, no matter how well they performed. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite name, when he secured her neck collar before bed, the leather strap wasn’t drawn as tight as usual.

The following morning, Pembroke commanded her to suck his cock. He was surprised by the strength of suction her young mouth now mounted against his cock, and began to groan and almost stop her from going too hard. But after half an hour of sucking, licking and fingering, he had flooded her mouth with cum, as he lay back in ecstasy.

For breakfast, Lola assumed her usual position - knees pressed into the floor, elbows planted firmly as she leaned over the metal tray. The same colorless, tasteless mush awaited her. She began to eat, her hair hanging limply around her face, like a pet. But then she was surprised to see, dropped to the floor beside her after she finished, a small bar of chocolate.

She looked up at Pembroke, her eyes travelling up his tree trunk legs, over the horizon of his belly and his smiling face.

“A little treat, my dear. Good behavior will get rewards,”

Lola lifted her head slightly, her eyes wide and glassy as she looked up at him. “Thank you, Master,” she said softly.

With slow deliberation, she lowered her face to the floor where the chocolate had been thrown. Lola opened her mouth and carefully pressed her lips against the bar, her teeth grazing the edge as she began to chew. Her hands remained firmly planted on the floor, unmoving. She still knew not to use her hands. She licked at the chocolate, breaking off small pieces with her teeth, the sweet taste flooding her mouth—a sharp contrast to the bland mush she had been eating for what seemed like weeks.

Afterwards, Pembroke leaned down and kissed her again, his thick lips pressing against hers. He lingered, his tongue tracing the lingering sweetness of chocolate on her mouth.

Afterwards, Lola was placed in the largest cage—a sprawling metal enclosure that felt more like a confined room than a kennel. It had its own small toilet in the corner and a drinking fountain built into the bars. He even gave her a green and black Scottish plaid kilt skirt, red and black lace-trimmed panties, a matching frilly blouse in the same colors, crisp white frilly socks, and a pair of black sandal shoes to wear.

Lola dressed in the cage, her thin fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons of the frilly red-and-black blouse and smoothing down the pleats of the Scottish kilt skirt. She looked up at Pembroke, with a hopeful smile.

He let out an appreciative whistle, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. “Well now, don’t you look precious.”

Lola hesitated, then twirled for him without prompting, letting the skirt rise up, displaying her panties for him. When she stopped, she tilted her chin up and met his gaze.

“Thank you, Master,” she said softly.

Pembroke leaned closer, pressing his large hands through the cold metal bars. One thick finger traced along her cheek, the gesture almost tender. “Good slave.”

He stepped back, with a contented sigh. With a flick of a remote, Taylor Swift’s back catalog began to play over the speakers. He then left without a word.