Chapter 22

Edward Pembroke slouched in his seat at the shopping centre café listening to the festive music, his thick fingers drumming against his lukewarm coffee cup, his gaze raking over the bustling crowd of Christmas shoppers. All these happy families, these smug parents dragging their bratty kids from store to store, their arms laden with gifts they didn’t deserve. His own daughter and granddaughter in Australia wouldn’t even bother sending him a card this year—not that he gave a shit.

He had everything he needed in his basement. Fourteen years old, and her body was already changing, ripening, under his hands. Her hips were filling out, thickening just enough to give him something to grip when he fucked her from behind.

He smiled at the memory of Grace that morning, forced to dance for him in that ridiculous cheerleader outfit, her small but developing tits bouncing with every humiliated twirl. He took another sip of coffee.

He had done it. The fantasy that festered in the minds of every sniveling, pathetic pervert—the one they jerked off to in the dead of night, the one they’d never dare act on, he had made it real. A teenage sex slave. A pretty, blonde little thing with a cunt so tight it still made his cock twitch just thinking about it. He could do anything to her, fuck her raw until she bled, piss down her throat till she gagged. Whip her until her pale, trembling body was crisscrossed with red welts, her screams echoing off the basement walls.

“Hi there, sir! Would you like another coffee?”

Pembroke’s dark reverie was shattered by the chirpy voice of a waitress—a bright, speckled, curly-haired brunette in tight jeans that hugged her ass, her shirt clinging to her chest just enough to tease the outline of her bra. His gaze flicked up, taking her in. For a moment, he let himself imagine bending her over this very table, yanking those jeans down to her ankles, his hand fisted in that curly hair as he rammed his cock into her unprepared cunt. Or maybe he’d take her in the ass first, just to hear her scream ... He smiled warmly, shaking his head. “No, thank you.”

He watched her hips sway as she walked away, and thought again about Grace. It had been six months. Six glorious months, but there was something nagging him.

It had been too easy. Grace Perkins had vanished from the news like she’d never existed. No nationwide manhunts. A few initial tearful vigils. No outraged mobs demanding justice. Just a few half-hearted searches, a few sad articles, and then—nothing. The world had swallowed the lie whole: suicide. A sad little girl who jumped off a cliff.

Pembroke wanted the world to know about his glorious crime. He imagined the headlines, the panic, the way parents would clutch their daughters tighter. He watched the happy parents in the shopping center, and thought of the terror, the violation, the sickening realization that their precious little girls weren’t safe. That their daughters could be next.

A group of teenage girls passed by him. Their tight leggings clinging to their legs, as if they were naked. Disgusting how these girls flaunted themselves, Pembroke thought to himself.

One of them—a brunette with a ponytail—bent over to adjust her shoe, her ass rounding out under the thin fabric, the outline of her thong visible through the stretchy material. Pembroke’s gripped is coffee cup tighter. He could smell her from here—sweet, young, untouched.

God, he wanted to take them. Not just Grace. All of them. He could wait outside, watch the pretty brunette separate from her friends, then yank her into the alley outside the center. His hand clamping over her mouth before she could even squeak. Rip those leggings off, shove his fingers into her dry, virgin pussy, surely she had to be a virgin. He supposed you couldn’t tell with girls these days. Little sluts.

But he couldn’t do it here. There was CCTV, witnesses, police. The world was watching them. Their mothers were right there, chatting over coffee, their fuller asses spilling over their chairs, oblivious to the predator in their midst.

The taking of Grace had gone perfectly. Too perfectly. He wanted to instill fear in these innocent girls, and perhaps spread inspiration among less salubrious members of society.

He finished his coffee, stood, and left the café.

---------- Grace sat on the familiar stool, her body arranged in the same humiliating pose as always—her feet perched precariously on the lower rung, her ass balanced just at the edge, her legs spread wide enough to reveal the white panties beneath her plaid school skirt. The uniform was the same one she’d been wearing the day she was taken, six months ago. Only now, she was slightly taller, her breasts a little more swollen, her hips ever so wider.

She faced the camera, her fingers trembling in her lap.

Pembroke adjusted the lens, his face completely hidden. His voice came out from underneath an inhuman black gimp mask.