Chapter 20

The afternoon sun blazed down on the neighbourhood barbecue. Pembroke was in a too-tight polo shirt that strained over his belly, his khaki shorts riding up to expose his pasty, hairy thighs.

His lecherous eyes followed the local teenage girls like a starving man at a banquet he couldn’t touch. There was Lily, sixteen and blossoming, her sundress riding up as she bent to grab a soda from the cooler, giving him a flash of white panties. His fingers twitched around his glass of rum, imagining biting into her tanned thighs. Then there was Sophie, her younger sister, all long legs and sun-kissed skin, twirling in her denim skirt, the fabric flaring just enough to tease, or so he imagined, a glimpse of the pale blue cotton underneath. She laughed, her skirt riding higher, her friends too distracted to notice the old man’s gaze burning into them all.

“Little sluts”, he thought, his cock stirring in his shorts. “Teasing me like this. They know exactly what they’re doing.”

His grip tightened on his glass. They did know. Oh, they knew all right. The way they giggled and swayed their hips, the way they let their skirts ride up just so—they were begging for it. Begging for a man to put them in their place. And yet, here he was, trapped in this fucking polite society, where a man of his standing couldn’t even look too long without some busybody glaring at him.

“Hello Edward...” It was Mrs Peadbody, one of the women from the neighbourhood watch. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Er ... yes, lovely day isn’t it?” Pembroke regained his composure.

“They grow up so fast don’t they” Mrs Peabody smiled in the direction of the young girls oblivious to any evil intentions. “How is your granddaughter out in Australia?”

“Oh she is loving it, she sends me lots of photos!” laughed Pembroke. That was lie. His daughter and granddaughter never contacted him. Fuck them, he thought. He just wished he could have done to his granddaughter what he had done to his daughter, and what he was doing to Grace.

As he and Mrs Peadbody watched the laughing carefree teenage girls chase each other, it struck him: these girls would scream if he so much as brushed against them. They’d run to their mummies, to the police, to anyone who’d listen. And yet, they flaunted themselves like this, knowing full well what it did to a man. Knowing he couldn’t touch.

Pembroke was just grateful he had his own thing at home he could hurt, and fuck, any time he wanted. He just wished he could do the same to these girls, who were laughing innocently.

Here at the barbecue, he was a respected member of society, a retired policeman, widow and grandfather. But his growing erection in his shorts told him that he needed to get home, and give Grace some attention.

Unlike the lucky girls above ground enjoying their lives in the sun, Grace was in her cell, watching the lesbian pornography on the screens outside the cell glass walls. The girls on screen were her only company other than her master. These mysterious blondes, brunettes and redheads, in their pneumatic adult bodies, licking and sucking on feet, asses, pussies, tits and mouths, were her only human contact. She watched their ecstatic faces, wondering who they were, wishing she could talk to them.

Sometimes the footage featured her own mother, naked in the shower, or naked in her bedroom, masturbating, or crying in her living room while talking to her master. Grace would press her forehead against the glass, whispering “Mummy” to the image, imagining the taste of her skin, the warmth of her embrace.

The only thing to do in her cell was to practice blowjobs on the dildo, or play with herself. The women on screen became her fantasies - their laughter, their freedom, their obvious enjoyment. She imagined joining them, being one of them, her tongue exploring their bodies as they explored hers. Even her mother featured in these fantasies now.

Today, she was dressed in a French maid’s outfit: frilly white knickers, black stockings held up by suspenders, a short black dress with a tight bodice, a crisp white apron, and a white bonnet, black nude shoes.

She was watching a video of two women, both blonde, eating each other out, in a 69. She wished she could be with them, rather than her master. They looked fun, kind, nice, hot and both seemed to love what their mouths were doing to each other, smiling wide.

She had her hands under her dress, inside her French knickers, and massaging her pussy lips, her index finger rubbing her little clitoris, licking her lips as she imagined sucking on the impossibly big tits of the women on screen.

Suddenly, a booming voice interrupted her reverie.

“Child.” The single word carried the weight of a judgment. “I see you’ve been using my precious time for your pleasure.” A pause, heavy with disappointment. “Your time is my time. It should be spent productively - making yourself a better slave for Master.”

Grace’s fingers froze mid-motion, her face looking guiltily up at the cameras.

“Selfish girl,” he tsked, the sound magnified through the speakers. “All that energy focused on your own little cunt when your mouth should be on that dildo. Well...” Another pause, this one laced with anticipation. “We’ll see if you can make up for your disobedience with that mouth of yours now. Be ready. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Grace was suddenly no longer horny. She was scared. Yet she knew sex would be on the menu for the next few hours.

A few minutes later Pembroke waddled into the basement, in a dressing gown falling open revealing his pale, hairy body - his half-hard cock already twitching with anticipation. He was carrying a bottle of rum and looking jolly and drunk.

He opened the cell door easily with the strength of his thick wrist and forearm. Grace watched, envious. Her own small hands and arms were too weak to even move it. The entire basement’s security relied on the fact that she couldn’t unlock the doors that he could with his strength.

“Come out, child.”

Grace obeyed, back straight, trying to be the perfect slave, while Pembroke flopped down into the armchair.

“Now, I want to see you dance. Sing your favorite song and dance to it. Make it sexy—you know the drill.”

Grace did know the drill. She chose a song in her head—Hotter Than Hell by Dua Lipa. Humming the tune softly, she closed her eyes, then began to step exaggeratedly around the basement, her arms sweeping through the air as she turned and spun.

She remembered watching the pop star Dua Lipa clad in lingerie dancing in front of thousands of fans, and the memory flickered as she felt the pull of her own stockings, stretched taut along her thighs with each movement.

Her voice wavered when she sang, but she pushed through it, tilting her chin higher, arching her back, and doing her best not to meet Pembroke’s gaze. She tried to imagine herself in her bedroom, dancing for fun instead of obligation. The object now was simple: avoid punishment.

The young teenager was still clumsy, still uncoordinated, but not mortifyingly shy anymore. For the first time she allowed herself to move more boldly, swaying her hips, shaking her ass in ways she would never have dared before. When she had been drinking piss, eating his ass, and fingering herself in front of him, what was a little twerking?

Pembroke watched with pleasure, though he missed the shame that used to color her movements. Oh well, he thought, you can’t have everything.

“Now child,” he said, taking a swig of the rum, “after that performance, let’s play a game of ‘Master Says’.”

Grace immediately clasped her hands behind her back. Just obey, she told herself, her mind retreating to that safe, empty place where she didn’t have to think.

“Master says ... act like a chicken!” Pembroke ordered, sniggering.

Grace tried to compose herself while also reminding herself, shame was no friend here. She flapped her arms like wings, skipping around in a circle. “Bwok bwok!” she clucked, trying to concelal her inner indignity. The sound was pathetic, nothing like a real chicken, but Pembroke’s delighted chuckle told her it was exactly what he wanted.