Chapter 23

It was a new year, but Grace could only tell the passage of time by the growth of her body.

Her chest had started to fill out, her breasts small now noticeable now, the nipples darker, the aureoles swollen like fresh bruises. She still only reached Pembroke’s nipples, but her skin had bleached to the color of milk, having had over seven months without sunlight. “They love that,” he’d murmured once, tracing her collarbones with a proprietor’s pride. “Pale as a ghost. Like you’ve been buried alive.” Her fans apparently agreed. The knowledge that she was caged, never seeing the sun, made her more popular, more authentic as a sex slave.

Her hips had widened, her ass softened. She could cup the new weight of herself, feel the way it jiggled slightly when she walked. But the fuller her ass grew, the more excuses he found to punish it. A stray hair in her crack, the faintest shadow under her arms. “Look at this,” he’d cluck, rolling the stubble between his fingers like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “Careless. Guess we’ll have to remind you.” Then came the paddle, his open hand, the electric taser—his new favorite. He loved the way her flesh bounced now, the way her cheeks rippled with each strike, the way she danced on her toes to escape the current. “Such a pretty jiggle,” he’d croon.

On screen, she barely recognized the girl staring back: mouth stretched around his cock or a rubber toy, face contorted into pain or pleasure.

She did sometimes appreciate the beauty of her changing body. The bikinis and lingerie fitted her better now, but again this just drove her master crazier. “Soon you’ll have cleavage, child” he would say, sucking her nipples raw. “Means you’re ripening.”

---------- Now that Pembroke had exposed her on the dark web, she had to spend a lot of time in front of his camera, performing. Dancing, dressed in barely there outfits, shoving fingers and dildos inside her, being fucked by machines, pissing in cups and drinking it. Performing elaborate scripts. Everything had to be checked, nothing was live.

Today’s performance had been commissioned. Some faceless wallet had paid in untraceable cryptocurrency for a custom show, and Pembroke had spent hours preparing her. She wore a Miami Dolphins crop top—too tight, the fabric straining over her swelling breasts—and her cheeks still ached from the slaps he’d given her during rehearsal. “You look like a fucking cheerleader now, child,” he’d sneered. “Time to act like one.”

The request was simple: a routine. Pom-poms, splits, the works. And then, the grand finale—three cobs of corn. One in her ass. One in her vagina. One in her mouth.

“Now,” Pembroke said, holding up the cobs like a chef presenting a dish, “this gentleman paid a lot of money. So we’re going to do it right. You’re going to take every inch, you’re going to smile, and you’re going to cheer while you do it. And if you fuck it up? We will just keep doing, another take, until you get it right.”

More worryingly for Grace, punishment was a commodity now. The whip, the cane, the rack—those were reserved for paying customers. The red welts they left on her skin sold well. Pembroke had been delighted to learn that torture, rather than having to be hidden away, as a private motivational method, was actually in great demand. Waterboarding. Toothpicks under her fingernails. In many cases, this was now the main event.

Grace almost preferred today’s task. The cobs would hurt—God, they’d hurt—but it was better than the alternatives. Pembroke had mentioned, offhand, that another buyer had requested a glass box. Just her, naked, trapped with a dozen starving rats. “Turned it down,” he’d said, shrugging. “Offer was too low.”