Chapter 11

Grace drifted in that hazy, unsettling space between sleep and wakefulness, her mind clinging to the edges of exhaustion.

Then the screens died instantly, the glow vanishing. The sudden absence of light jolted her awake. She bolted upright, blind.

“Hello?” she called out in a small voice.

Then, a sound. The door creaked open slowly. The dim light came on, and a figure approached.

Grace recognised him, he was the same man as before. But whereas before he had been in a shirt and jeans, now he was in ... something different.

Black leather strapped his torso, tight and gleaming, crisscrossing over his hairy, muscular chest, the grey curls matted. His arms and legs were bare, thick with corded muscle, veins bulging beneath pale, aged skin. A black jockstrap clung obscenely to his groin, the fabric stretched tight over a bulge so large, so unnatural, it looked evil Boots laced up to his knees, heavy and ugly, completing the monstrous picture.

His face looked different than before. The domed bald head gleaming under the dim light, his jaw granite, his brows thick, furrowed, casting shadows over his beady eyes. His nostrils flared, and his teeth were bared like a wolf.

The men she had known were all polite, friendly men who treated her kindly. None of them had dressed like this, she never even imagined what they might look like naked, no even boys her own age. This man looked like he could be her grandfather, but he was dressed like a beast. A pervert.

Weird. So weird, a freak.

Grace collapsed onto the bench, her knees snapping together like a vice, her hands clutching at her skirt, pulling it down as if it could somehow shield herself. She pointed her chin down, but her eyes were up and watching, terrified.

The beast moved toward her cell. His hands swung at his sides, clenched into fists, the leather straps across his torso twisting with the shift of muscle and sinew beneath his hairy, aged skin. His eyes gleamed at her black and glittering, locked onto her like a hunter sighting prey.

Pembroke had waited for this moment. He remembered the one and only time he had worn this outfit before. He had hired a prostitute, a young woman, who had laughed at him in he outfit. He had felt deflated, wanting to punish her, hurt her, but he couldn’t and had to bear her own giggles as she stripped naked and made fun of his bondage outfit.

But the young girl in the cell was not laughing. She looked petrified, and it flooded his blood with power.

Grace watched, her mind reeling, as Pembroke turned away from her, while he wheeled the screens away. His back was a twisted landscape of hair, muscle, and leather. The black jockstrap cut up between his buttocks, the thin strip of fabric disappearing into the crack of his ass, just like a thong.

She remembered seeing her mother wear one once—the way the string had dug into her skin, how uncomfortable it had felt when Grace tried it herself, the string cutting up between her cheeks. She’d hated it, ripped it off after five minutes.

But a grown man, this monster, wearing something so obscene, so sexualized, it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t ridiculous. It was terrifying. Sick. It made her skin crawl.

The door clicked open, and Pembroke stepped inside, his massive frame filling the entrance. His eyes locked onto Grace like a hawk.

“Come out, child,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerously calm as he held out a hand.

Grace stood slowly, her shoulders hunched, her body trembling. She obeyed, not because she wanted to, but because disobedience felt like death. She sidestepped past him, desperately trying not to brush against his skin, her head barely reaching his chest.

“Sit on the stool over there, child, he pointed lazily toward a tall, narrow bar stool—the only thing in the room that looked innocent. Everything else was metal, leather, and restraints.

Grace gripped the edge of the stool, her legs dangling helplessly, too short to reach the ground. The position forced her thighs apart, just enough for the thin, white fabric of her panties to stretch tight between them, fully visible to Pembroke who smiled at the exposure of the triangle of cotton.

“Now, child,” he said, adjusting a camera on its tripod, the red light blinking to life. “Before we begin, I am going to carry out an interview of you. Just sit there, and answer the questions.”

Grace watched, confusion wracking her mind as he fussed with the equipment.

Then, he pulled a black mask over his face, a thin layer of gauze stretched over his eyes, rendering him unrecognizable.

If Grace did not have to concentrate so much on keeping upright, she might have vomited, her stomach was so unsteady. All she could do was grip the edge of the stool, her legs still dangling, her balance precarious.

Why the mask? Why the camera? Why the keyboard he now placed in front of him, as if this were some twisted examination?

Pembroke’s gloved fingers hovered over the keyboard, and suddenly a computerized voice emerged from the keyboard, weird, emotionless, male, monotone

“First question,” the voice droned, emotionless, inhuman. “What is your name?”

Grace flinched, her fingers digging into the edge of the stool. The beast stood behind the keyboard, his masked face unreadable, his hands poised over the keys, ready to type.

Grace’s voice rose barely above a whisper:

“My name is Grace.”

The keyboard chimed again, the synthetic voice unfazed.

“Your full name and date of birth.”

She hesitated, then mumbled, “Grace Perkins. I was born on 1st June 2011.”

A pause. Then—

“When were you taken?”

Grace’s breath caught.

Taken? The word hit her like a blow. Not missing. Not lost. Taken.

She stammered, “I—I don’t know ... A few days ago?”

Pembroke’s fingers tapped slowly over the keys, the mask hiding his expression.

The voice continued, relentless: “Wrong. You were taken on June 16th, 2025, which was yesterday.”

Grace swallowed. It had only been a day?

The keyboard let out another chilling chime, the synthetic voice unmoved by her fear.

“Are you a virgin, Grace?”

Grace closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She mumbled back. She tried to calm her nerves in her stomach at the direction the questions were going.

“Yes.”

“Next question, Grace—do you understand why you’re here?”

Grace’s thighs twitched, trying desperately to close, but the stool kept her legs spread, her skirt riding far enough that she knew the camera had a clear view up her skirt.

Her voice was like a small bird: “No. No, I don’t understand. What is going on?”

Pembroke’s fingers hovered over the keys, the mask hiding his smirk. The computerized voice responded, cold and mechanical.

“You have been chosen to be a sex slave. A possession. A toy for pain and pleasure. Can you understand what that means?”

“Wh-what??”

Grace’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving as if she were drowning, she nearly fell off her stool. Her legs dangled helplessly from the stool, one hand went between her legs desperate to cover herself now. She understood that this beast wanted to do something unspeakable to her.

“You are now a pretty little pet, you will provide pleasure and you will experience pain. You will be a living doll, all soft skin and tight holes, made to take what will be given to you.”

A pause. Grace could not say anything, her eyes were wide, and instead she squealed as the nearly fell off the stool, unable to focus on anything but the disgusting shocking words the computerized voice had just delivered.

“You will never leave here, slave. You are here for life. How do you feel about this?”

The voice continued. Behind the keyboard, the beast loomed large, his broad shoulders rolling with the promise of violence, of domination.

“Please ... Please let me go home ... I ... I didn’t do anything ... I ... I want to go home.”

Grace’s voice cracked, small and broken. Tears streamed down her face, her body shaking violently on the stool, her legs still dangling helplessly.

The voice responded, cold and monotone.

“Do you miss your mother, Grace?”

Her breath hitched, raw and painful.

“Yes!” she sobbed, desperate, clutching at the words like a lifeline. “Yes, she does! Please— please let me go, they will be looking for me!

The synthetic voice cut her off, its volume rising.

“You will never see your mother again. Your mother is searching for you as we speak, but she will never find you.”

Silence.

Grace’s world shattered. The camera whirred, capturing the exact moment her face crumpled, her soul breaking on screen.

“Why?” she mewled, her voice a broken croak, her body folding in on itself like a wounded animal. “Why me?”

The voice responded.

“Because you were born for this, Grace.”

A pause. Pembroke savoured her trembling lips, her tear-streaked face, the way her small hands clutched at her skirt, as he typed.

“You were made to be bullied—to be taken, to be raped, to be abused. It’s what you are. It’s why you exist.”

Grace’s eyes opened wide, as if she believed the cruel word.

“And now,” the voice finished, “you finally belong to someone who understands that.”

Grace did not respond. She just looked at her hands, trying to avoid the camera and the beast. Maybe he was right. Maybe she deserved what was coming to her. But she shuddered at what that something might be.

Pembroke reached out and stopped the camera, the red light winking off like a dying eye. He set the keyboard aside, then pulled off the mask, revealing his face—his cruel, granite features now twisted into something almost cheerful. He began whistling, a jaunty, discordant tune.

Grace shut her eyes. She tried to think of something else, thinking of what she did when she was being tortured by her bullies. But this was far more serious...

“Now child, the interview is over. I will be less formal ... now get off the stool and come over here, and sit on my lap.”

Grace’s head snapped up, her body locking instantly at the sight of him, sprawled in the armchair like some obscene king, his thighs spread wide, the black jockstrap stretched tight over his groin, the bulge proud and unhidden. His belly rested on his lap, the hairy, aged skin a sharp contrast to the leather straps cutting into his flesh. He smiled and patted his hairy thigh.