Amazing Grace
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 17
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 17 - 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
Grace jolted awake, her body stiff against Pembroke’s barrel chest, his coarse gray hair scratching her bare skin. His snores vibrated through his double chin, the scent of sour wine and sweat clinging to her. She hated that she was getting used to it.
His furrowed brow twitched in his sleep, and the deep lines of his aged face were grotesque to the fourteen year old up close. His thick arm pinned her against him, heavy as iron, his hand resting possessively between her buttocks, fingers snug against her still-sore holes.
Grace held her breath, sliding out from under Pembroke’s deadweight arm like a mouse trying to escape a cat. She tiptoed to the door, her fingers trembling as she grasped the handle.
Locked. She yanked, twisted, shoved, but the door didn’t budge, the mechanism mocking her with its unyielding resistance.
“Good morning, child.”
Pembroke’s voice rumbled from the bed, amused, lazy. Grace whirled, her back slamming against the door.
He stretched, his muscles rippling beneath his aged skin, and swung his legs off the mattress with a grunt. “You’re such a weak little girl,” he taunted, strolling toward her with the ease of a predator. “All these locks, these handles—” He grasped the door and twisted the handle with one hand, the mechanism clicking open with a mocking ease. “So simple for a strong man like me.” His other hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “But for you? Little twiglet girl is too weak for any of this. Best you know your place little girl.”
His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Let’s take a shower, and then continue our games, and your training.”
Pembroke’s hand settled across Grace’s bottom with a gentle possessiveness as they walked toward the shower. Grace yearned for him to leave, to give her some space, to recover. Her asshole and pussy were still sore, just from his fingers.
Pembroke plopped onto the toilet, pissing loudly, then shitting without shame. Grace gagged, her face burning, as the stench filled the confined space.
She’d never seen a man do this—never wanted to—but here he was, grunting, unashamed, his thighs spread, his cock still dangling as he finished. He didn’t care. He just wiped himself, flushed, then stood, his cock still half-hard, glistening with drops of piss.
“Need to piss or shit, child?”
Grace gulped, her face burning as she squeezed her thighs together. “H-hhh—I—I need to pee...” she stammered, her voice cracking under the weight of his gaze. “I can’t do the—the other...” she whispered, her eyes darting to the toilet, then away, as if looking at it would make it real.
Pembroke chuckled watching her squirm. “Such a shy little thing,” he murmured. “You will, soon, trust me.”
Charlotte perched on the toilet seat, her thighs pressed so tightly together they ached. Her eyes burned straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing—anywhere but at him. A thin, hesitant stream tinkled into the toilet.
When she was done, she flushed, and stood up. She was so tired, she just wanted him gone. She wanted him gone. Instead, he turned on the shower.
The water roared to life, steam billowing around them as Pembroke yanked her under the spray. His hands mapped her body, palming her tiny breasts, gripping her hips, spreading her thighs—soaping her like she was livestock being prepared for slaughter. She flinched when his fingers probed between her legs, but he ignored it, working the lather into every fold, every crevice.
Then came the razor. He bent her over, her palms pressed on the tile floor, her ass exposed. The first drag of the blade against her asshole made her gasp, his fingers spreading her cheeks to expose as much flesh as possible. “Stay still” he murmured, as the razor glided along her perineum, then lower, stripping the stubble from her lips, her mons, before he moved to her armpits, whistling—cheerful, unbothered, like this was nothing.
“Nice and smooth, child,” he purred, running a hand over her bare skin. “Just like you should be.”
Then his tone shifted. “Now, let’s teach you how to properly clean your ass.”
Grace’s stomach dropped. Pembroke produced a douche showerhead, screwing it onto the pipe. “From now on,” he said, “every shower, you will clean the inside of your ass.” His fingers tightened in her hair, forcing her to look at the nozzle. “As you’ve learned, I like to lick, finger and eventually will fuck your asshole. I don’t want any nasty surprises in there. You need to be clean, always.”
Grace took the douche in her hand, water now spurting out, looked up shyly at the beast, then arched her back, and carefully brought it to her anus, her other hand pressed against the wall for support. She pressed it inside her ring, feeling the water flood her insides.
“Push it in, deeper.” His command was casual, almost bored, like he was reminding her to tie her shoes. “Get your insides clean, child. All the way.”
Her stomach heaved as she obeyed, forcing the nozzle further, the water sloshing inside her, churning in her bowels. She felt her stomach expand, could this kill her?
I think you need the toilet now, don’t you, slave?” His fingers tapped the nozzle still buried inside her, jostling it just enough to make her gasp. “Hmmm? Toilet?”
“Y-yes, Sir—” her voice cracked, desperate. “Yes, please—it hurts—”
“Pull it out,” he ordered, “and sit on the toilet.”
Grace yanked the nozzle free with a wet pop, and immediately, her asshole clenched—violently, desperately—as the water fought to escape. Her hand slapped over her ass in a pathetic, useless attempt to contain it. But it was too late. The pressure was unrelenting.
She stumbled to the toilet, her legs shaking, her face burning, and collapsed onto the cold seat. The moment her ass hit porcelain, her body betrayed her. A rasping, guttural evacuation tore through her, her bowels emptying in humiliating waves. The sound was worse than the act—wet, sloppy, uncontrollable.
“Flush and repeat, Grace” he said. “I am going to stick my finger right up your ass and you will suck it to the knuckle, so make sure you are clean.”
Grace endured the humiliating cycle—again, and again, and again—her eyes locked on the cold tile, her asshole raw and burning from the relentless flushing.
“May I?” Pembroke’s voice was almost polite, as he held a finger up to her face.
She turned, slowly, her hands clutching her buttocks, and presented her ass to him.
“Always arch your back in these poses, child,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the dip of her spine, pushing her deeper into the pose. “It’s more ladylike.”
Grace briefly remembered how this pose would have made her die of shame just a week or so ago, just the thought of someone seeing her like this. But now this was her life. Her wonderings were interrupted by his finger pushing against her sphincter, breaching her ring quite easily.
She grunted as she felt her inner rectum walls burn as his finger scraped along her insides on its journey into her intestines, before probing around her inflamed tissue. It pulled out with a cool burn as she felt the air rush into her blinking asshole.
Pembroke brought the finger to Grace’s mouth and pushed it past her teeth and down her throat. The taste was musky, but thankfully she could not taste any of her own waste.
“Good girl” Pembroke pulled his finger out of her mouth. “Now wash me, all over.”
Grace tried to steady her stomach as she took the soap, and confronted the wall of flesh in front of her.
“Everywhere,” he ordered, turning slightly to give her a better view of his backside. “And I mean everywhere.” His laugh was a dry, cracking sound. “You’ll be licking my asshole later. Better make sure it’s spotless.”
She swallowed bile. The soap was slippery in her fingers as she started at his broad, hairy shoulders, scrubbing in slow, mechanical circles. His skin was leathery, the hair matted in places. She moved lower, over the knotted muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, where the hair grew denser around the dark, puckered hole between his cheeks.
“Don’t forget in there,” he murmured, reaching back to spread himself open with one hand. The gesture was obscene, casual. “Use your fingers. Get it clean.”
Grace hesitated. His other hand snapped out, gripping her wrist. “Now.”
She obeyed, her fingertip breaching the tight, dry ring of his asshole. He grunted, his thighs flexing. “Deeper, slave.” She pressed harder, her nail scraping the rough inner walls, and he sighed in pleasure.
“Good,” he rumbled. “Now the front.”
He turned, his thick, veined cock already half-hard, swinging heavy between his legs. The sack beneath was loose, hairy. She lathered him methodically, her fingers slipping over the ridged head, the thick base, the heavy balls that tightened under her touch.
Eventually, it was over. Please, she thought, let it be over, surely she would not have to ... to lick ... lick him there. It was a nightmare scenario, worse than anything else so far, surely not?
“Now, lie on your back.”
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