Amazing Grace
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 12
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 12 - Cute young schoolgirl Grace Perkins feels that life cannot get any worse. She is bullied at school and hates her awkward young teenage body. But she reckons without the evil intentions of a vile pervert who decides to make her his target for his plan of abduction and enslavement.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Teenagers Blackmail NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Heterosexual Fiction Crime BDSM MaleDom Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Anal Sex Analingus Enema Facial Masturbation Pegging Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Voyeurism Water Sports Small Breasts Violence
Pembroke whistled a cheerful, jaunty tune as he strolled down the supermarket aisle, his basket swinging easily in his hand.
He paused in the women’s section, his fingers drumming against the plastic handle of his basket. Shaving razors—pink, delicate, the kind designed for smooth skin. Shaving cream, lavender-scented, something he would enjoy. His slave needed to be smooth, all over.
Then, the Vaseline. He picked up the tub. Crucial, this. Grace was going to be so tight, after all, in all her holes.
He could almost hear her whimpers already, the way she’d squirm when the paste was pushed into her, to make her ready. His cock twitched, and he dropped the Vaseline into his basket.
A movement caught his eye.
A young girl, bending over in tight leggings, her ass perfectly rounded as she reached down for something on the lower shelf. Pembroke paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his gaze lingering just a second too long. She was young—maybe fourteen, fifteen—her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, her shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin of her back.
His fingers wagged as he realised how easily he could touch her. Touching Grace had made him realise how easy it was, how pleasurable, to reach out and touch these beautiful young things.
“Hi, Edward.”
Pembroke stiffened, his spine snapping straight as the voice cut through his thoughts. He turned, forcing a smile as Mrs. Morton—his neighbor, a plump, cheerful woman in her late forties—stood there with a basket of her own, her daughter now standing upright beside her. The same girl he’d just been staring at.
“Oh— Molly,” Mrs. Morton said, her voice bright, oblivious. “This is Mr. Pembroke, our neighbor. He’s a retired police officer.”
Pembroke swallowed, his smile fixed, his breath catching up from the shock. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Morton,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced. “And you too, Molly! What a beautiful day, ladies!”
The girl—Molly—offered him a shy smile, her cheeks flushing just a little. “Hi,” she murmured.
Mrs. Morton’s expression sobered, her voice dropping into something more serious. “Oh, Edward, I’m so glad I ran into you. Have you heard about that poor Grace Perkins? The girl who’s missing?”
Pembroke swallowed hard, but his face remained calm, concerned. So she had finally made the news. “No, what’s happened?”
Mrs. Morton dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue, her voice thick. “Oh, Edward, it’s just awful. This young girl—Grace—she’s vanished. No trace, nothing. The police don’t have a clue what happened. She’s the same age as Molly—fourteen—can you believe it?”
“Well,” he said slowly, his tone thoughtful, measured, “perhaps she ran away. Boyfriend? Who knows? I haven’t seen it on the news.”
Mrs. Morton shook her head, her voice tight. “Oh, no, no—she’s gone, Edward. Vanished. And the poor mother—Charlotte—she’s a cousin of my husband. The family’s in pieces.”
Pembroke felt the weight of her gaze, the expectation hanging in the air. He shifted again, trying to angle the basket behind his back, but the damn thing was too obvious. A 62-year-old man with ladies’ shaving supplies and Vaseline. What the fuck excuse could he give for that?
“Oh, I’m ever so sorry,” he murmured, his voice smooth, his mind scrabbling for an out. “Terrible business.”
Mrs. Morton brightened suddenly, her grief shifting into something eager, hopeful. “But you’re retired now, Edward! You were going to do all those investigations—you told me yourself—maybe this is one for you!”
“Well,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, “I don’t want to get in the police’s way—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Mrs. Morton waved a hand, her voice bright, insistent. “It’d make me—the family—feel so much better if someone like you was looking into it too. Just to give an opinion! There’s loads of volunteers—”
“Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, fatherly. “I’ll look into it. If there’s anything I think I can do, maybe I can help. But really, Mrs. Morton—I can’t see how I can—”
“Oh, thank you, Edward!” She clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. “It’d mean the world—I’ll tell Charlotte you’re helping! I’ll give you her number—”
As I say,” he repeated, his voice smooth, his grip tightening on the basket, “I’ll let you know if I can do anything.”
And with that, he turned, leaving Mrs. Morton beaming behind him, completely unaware of the monster she’d just recruited to the search.
Mrs. Morton sighed, her voice warm with gratitude. “Honestly, Molly, with men like Mr. Pembroke around, I don’t worry half as much about you walking home alone or playing out late. He’s such a good man.”
---------- Grace sat on the bench in her cell, fingering the edges of her sailor dress, trying and failing to pull it to cover the tops of her socks pulled over her knees. She felt ridiculous, like a doll. She knew that soon the man would be back. Would he go further? Despite the shower, she felt dirty. Her mouth still tasted of his fingers and the memory of his rough brushing. The feelings of his hands over her legs still clinging to her. And the fear. She wished he would just get it over with, and prayed that whatever it was, it would not be too painful.
She looked down at her mother’s discarded knickers on the ground. The filthy pervert, how had he got them? How had he come to be under her bed? She thought of the old man who had helped gather her books on the ground after being knocked over by her bullies, some weeks ago. Was this the same man? It still made no sense.
Suddenly, with a loud creak, the door opened, and the basement flooded with light. Grace shuddered. He was back, dressed—if you could call it that—in nothing but trainers, socks, and a pair of obscenely tight red briefs. The fabric stretched taut over his hairy, muscular thighs, the waistband digging into the soft sag of his belly.
“I saw you sleeping on the monitor,” child he crooned, his eyes raking over her as she shrunk back against the wall. “You looked so peaceful, so nice in your little dress.”
He unlocked the door with a wrench of his hand, his cock straining against the fabric of his underpants as he took another step closer. “Now, it’s time to come out and spend some time with your master.”
Grace did not say anything, just sat there, praying that he would find some reason to go away.
“Come now, don’t make me ask twice.”
Grace got up, and tugged at the hem of her dress, trying to make it as long as possible, and walked forwards, trying not to brush against his bare skin.
“Walk tall, girl,” he ordered, his voice sharp, commanding. “No slouching, remember?”
Grace flinched, her spine snapping straight, her shoulders pulling back as she forced herself to stand and walk the way he wanted.
“Good,” Pembroke murmured, his gaze raking over her once more, lingering on the way the dress clung to her small frame. “Now—to the armchair again.”
Grace felt his hand on the small of her back as she walked ominously to the red armchair of doom. She stood obediently while he sat down and sprawled back, his hairy, muscular body on full display, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, his belly sagging just enough over the waistband of those obscene red briefs. His thighs were spread and showcased his bulge in his pants, his cock pressing upward, a monstrous promise of what was coming.
“Now,” Pembroke purred, his hand patting his thigh with a slow, deliberate slap. “Sit on my knee.”
Grace tugged at the hem of her dress, trying to stretch it down as far as it would go—just past the backs of her thighs—before perching herself sideways on his knee, her spine ramrod straight, her hands clenched in her lap.
Pembroke chortled, his hand already sliding between the top of her socks and the hem of her dress, his fingers rough against her skin. “I’m keeping to my own rules for now,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. “Only touching what little flesh I can reach.”
It didn’t matter that she’d glued her thighs shut. The dress had ridden up, the white panties—snug, with their little ribbons—fully exposed beneath his gaze. His thumb brushed the elastic edge, tracing the line where skin met fabric.
“Such a good girl,” he purred, his fingers sliding along her impossibly smooth skin next to her panty gusset. “Sitting so pretty for me.”
Grace didn’t respond, and he moved to her forearms inspecting her self harm scars.
“No sharp objects for you down here, Grace. I suggest you throw your energies into pleasing me rather than hurting yourself when you feel down. I will be doing all the hurting, from now on, not you.”
Grace cringed as she felt him trace he jagged lines on her frail forearms, the only blemishes on her otherwise perfect skin. Then, back to caressing her face. Pembroke could not believe his fortune, that he could touch this beauty, with no repercussions, no pushback.
“You know,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “out in the real world, if I so much as touched your face, I could be arrested. Hell, if I stared at you too long, someone might call the police.”
“But down here,” he continued, his voice dropping into a guttural growl, “I can do anything. I can touch you for as long as I want. Anywhere on your body. And there’s not a single fucking thing stopping me.”
His other hand slid down, his palm spreading over her thigh, his fingers inching toward the hem of her dress, where the white panties peeked out.
Grace began to shake slightly, her eyes turning to glass, desperately trying to disassociate from the moment.
“Now” Pembroke broke off his caresses to reach for a remote control. “Why don’t we see what is happening in the outside world?”
A screen flickered to life. A news report played—grainy footage of her own face staring back at her. Her school photo, the one with the pigtails and the too-big smile, the one her mum had framed on the mantel. The caption read:
“MISSING: Grace Perkins, 14, last seen Friday morning. Police urge anyone with information to come forward.”
Her mother’s voice cracked through the speakers, raw and broken—”Please, if anyone knows anything, if you’ve seen her, just— bring her home—”
“Look at that,” Pembroke murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “The whole world’s looking for you, Grace. And here you are.”
His other hand slid down, palming her thigh, his fingers creeping under the hem of her dress again, tracing the edge of her panties while her own face stared back at her from the screen.
“No one’s ever going to find you,” he whispered.
Grace took another look at her mother on screen. She looked so different, bags under her eyes, traces of tears, choking as she pleaded with the interviewer that someone must know what had happened to her daughter.
Then the voiceover ominously added.
“Willowbridge cliffs have been notorious in recent years for a spate of falls, suicides and disappearance. Many have argued that the cliffs should be fenced off and monitored to prevent such incidents occurring.
“Oh dear” taunted Pembroke. “Looks like you fell into the sea. Oh well, maybe the fishes will have eaten that delightful little body of yours, and that’s why no one will ever find you.” He giggled at his own joke.
Grace couldn’t help it, she began to cry, cupping her face and heaving her shoulders.
Pembroke laid back, his hands still stroking her arms and thighs. “That’s it, child, let it all out. I know this must be a huge shock, to have to adapt to this new life. To know your mummy is out there, devastated, but it’s something both of you will have to come to terms with.” He traced his thumb over a river of tears falling down her cheek. “At least your mother will think you are dead, for now. You are going to have to focus on your new life, down here, serving me.”
Grace’s voice cracked, a broken, desperate whisper that barely left her lips. She half hoped he would not even hear it.
“P-please...” Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress. “Can’t you just—let me go...?£ Pembroke let out a low, amused chuckle, his breath hot against her ear. His hand, still resting on her thigh.
“Oh, child,” he murmured, almost tender—like a father disappointed in a naïve daughter. “Firstly, I will never let you go. Secondly, you forgot to say, ‘sir.’ So that means you must be spanked.”
Pembroke’s hand slid up her back, pushing her up, and spinning her around, and before she knew what was happening, pressing her down until her chest was flush against his thighs, her dress riding up to reveal the small, pert curve of her ass—pale, smooth, barely covered by the white panties he’d dressed her in.
These panties look lovely on you” he smiled as he traced the edge of the waistband. “Now, let’s see if we can drill this into you.”
SMACK.
The sound echoed through the room, sharp and obscene, his hand connecting with the softest part of her ass, the sting blooming instantly into a burn. Grace gasped, her fingers clawing at the armchair, her body jerking forward only for his other hand to press down on her back, holding her in place.
“One,” he counted, his voice pleased, his fingers already moving around the reddening mark he’d left. “Four more!”
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
The final smack landed with a sharp crack, the sting radiating through Grace’s ass like fire. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, her fingers clawing into the armchair as she fought to stay still,
“There, hopefully you have learned your lesson child.” He grinned, allowing her to stand up again.
Grace scrambled up, her legs unsteady, yanking down her dress. She rubbed at her sore bottom, the skin hot and tender beneath her touch. Tears dripped off her cheeks, silent and uncontrollable, her chest heaving with the effort of holding back sobs.
Pembroke watched, his eyes dark with amusement, his cock still straining against the red fabric of his briefs. He leaned back in the armchair, sprawled like a king, his hairy belly rising and falling with each slow, satisfied breath.
“Good girl,” he purred,. “Now—let’s see if you remember your manners next time. Because the next punishment will have to be a little more severe.”
Pembroke rubbed her legs up and down consolingly, then heaved himself up. His fingers closed around Grace’s tiny hand, his palm swallowing hers completely. He tugged her forward, his voice bright, almost cheerful, like a father showing his daughter around a new house.
“Now, my child,” he said, his tone mockingly warm, “I think I should take you on a tour of your new home!”
Grace looked at the walls with dread. Now, close up, she saw what was stocked on the walls, whips—leather, braided, some with metal tips—candles of all sizes, restraints made of leather and chain, masks with gags attached. A table held an array of dildos and vibrators, some thick as her wrist, others small and delicate, all gleaming under the harsh light.
“You are probably wondering where those things go” he laughed. “Don’t worry, you will find out, and your body will adapt.”
Further down, another shower area—tiled, drain in the center, chains bolted to the walls. Beside it, a restraint bench, padded but stained, with cuffs for wrists and ankles. And then—the St. Andrew’s cross, leather straps hanging ready, the wood polished to a shine.
Pembroke stopped, turning her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t really care if you never get used to this Grace. You won’t be able to end your own life here, so you will just have to persevere. I advise you to try and enjoy it as much as you can.”
Grace nodded, her eyes large and bewildered. When would it start? She knew something was going to happen, she still wasn’t sure, but knew it would involve that bulge between his legs, and her own private parts still hidden in her white panties.
Now, let’s see how you fit on the kneeling bench,” Pembroke murmured, as he guided Grace toward the padded structure. Its polished wood and leather straps gleamed under the light, the restraints already positioned—waiting.
His hands pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her down until her knees met the cushioned surface. “That’s it,” he cooed, “just like that. Such a good girl for your master.” His fingers traced the curve of her spine as she tried to get comfortable.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.