Amazing Grace
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 25
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 25 - 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 moved like a well-trained ballerina, her slender fourteen-year-old body bending with practiced grace. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back as she danced in the leotard, the fabric clinging to her small but developing tits, brushing against Pembroke’s face as she gyrated in his lap. Her tiny waist twisted, her small hands tracing his hairy chest before dropping to his throbbing veiny cock.
“That’s it, my little dancer,” Pembroke rumbled, his thick fingers tangling in her hair.
She kissed him deeply, her busy tongue exploring his mouth before dropping to her knees to suck his cock with eager obedience. Her lips stretched around his girth, her blue eyes watering as she took him to the back of her throat.
“Mmm, that’s my good girl,” he groaned, his hand pressing down on her head. “You love this, don’t you? Love being your master’s little fucktoy?”
She moaned around his cock, her small hands massaging his heavy balls. When she rose to straddle him, her tight pussy stretched around his thickness, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he grunted, gripping her hips. “You still feel like a virgin, even after all the cock and dildos you’ve taken in your little cunt!”
After, as reward, Pembroke tossed a chocolate bar onto the floor. Grace dropped to her hands and knees, her small tongue lapping it up like an animal.
“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dark with amusement. “Now come here and show your master how much you love his piss.”
She crawled back bto him, and he grabbed her hair, tilting her head back as he unloaded his warm stream into her open mouth.
“Swallow it all, you filthy little whore,” he growled, watching her throat work. “Every. Last. Fucking. Drop.”
She obeyed, tears mixing with the salty fluid as it trickled down her chin, gargling it and swallowing.
“Perfect,” he murmured, fingers tangling in her damp hair as she licked the last drops of his piss from her lips. “I’ve trained you well.”
He leaned back in the armchair, his massive belly shaking with a dark chuckle. “Your mummy was found in the middle of the street yesterday,” he said, casual as if commenting on the weather. “Drunk. Off her face on drugs. Completely naked.” His laughter boomed, thick and mocking. “Haha! There’s video footage, you know. Can you imagine?”
His grip tightened in her hair, yanking her head back so she had to meet his gaze. “I had to kidnap you, break you, torture you just to get you to perform naked for me,” he sneered. “But your mummy? She does it for free—like the worthless bitch she is!”
Grace remained impassive. Pembroke loved this, he loved probing, taunting her especially when she was so defenceless.
“I can’t blame her, I suppose,” Pembroke mused, his voice dripping with false sympathy as he twisted a lock of Grace’s hair around his finger. “She sees your videos all the time, doesn’t she? Watches her precious little girl getting fucked in every hole, taking cocks up the ass, the cunt, getting beaten until she screams—” His grip tightened, yanking her head back. “—cumming in your panties like the filthy slut you are, dancing like a fucking freak.”
His breath was hot against her face. “Nakedness isn’t really a big deal in your family anymore, is it?” A cruel laugh rumbled in his chest. “A family of freaks—that’s what you are now. Mummy’s a drunk, naked whore in the streets, and her daughter’s a world famous trained fucktoy who swallows piss like it’s champagne.” His free hand slid down to grope her breast, squeezing hard enough to make her whimper. “Tell me, Grace—when she watches you getting whipped, do you think she gets wet? Do you think she touches herself, imagining it’s her getting used instead of you?”
“I—I don’t know, Sir,” Grace wailed, her voice cracking as tears spilled down her cheeks. How could he keep doing this? How could he have no humanity left?
Pembroke let out a derisive snort. “Such a fat mess now, your mother,” he harrumphed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I was going to bring her here, you know. She could’ve lived on as a slave. Just imagine it, child, you and your mummy, tongues deep in each other’s assholes, pussies, mouths...” His voice dropped to a dark chuckle. “Might’ve been fun. But no...” He sighed dramatically, as if lamenting a missed opportunity. “She’s too far gone. Useless. If I take another slave, it’ll have to be fresh meat. Somone young, like you.”
Grace was put back in her cell. Her only diversion for the next few hours was to learn a dance routine, another sick request, she could only pray that it would not involve either rats, or some of the torture equipment, though she had heard Pembroke discuss both. She prayed that the dance routine would be enough...
Pembroke relaxed in his local pub, swirling a glass of whiskey as he scrolled through the latest forum threads. Grace Perkins was still everywhere, her name on the news, on social media, on conspiracy forums. People thought the royal family had her, some thought it was Albanians, others thought the Saudi royal family. He chuckled as people tried to analyse his cock from the videos. Nobody seemed to think she might be in a basement in suburban England.
He reflected on the change of mood the news had brought. Schoolgirls still wore their short skirts, but now they walked differently—heads down, shoulders tense, eyes darting at every shadow. Good. Let them be afraid. The world was changing, and he had set it in motion.
His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he read the latest reports of copycat abductions.
Lucy Han—abducted outside a sixth-form college, raped in a nearby room. Stupid girl escaped. Her attacker was already in custody. A waste of potential.
Fatima Ahmed—a university student, her charred remains found two weeks after her disappearance. Now that was a job done right. No arrests. No leads.
Mia Gadorksy—kidnapped, held for a week, repeatedly violated before she managed to escape. Her captor was behind bars now.
But the most interesting case was Aliyah Usman, the seventeen-year-old shop worker who had vanished without a trace. Weeks had passed, and still—nothing. No body. No arrests. Just silence. Now that, Pembroke thought, was a professional.
The police were stretched thin, scrambling to keep up with the surge in abductions, the copycats inspired by his little project. And Charlotte—poor, clueless Charlotte—was still paying him to “investigate” Grace’s disappearance, completely unaware that her money was funding his next hunt. He had been looking a quiet towns and rural villages, places where CCTV was sparse, where witnesses were few. He was looking to make a new acquisition.
“Oh, hello Edward!” Mrs. Annette Giles called out, her voice warm and motherly. Beside her stood her daughter—about twenty years old, with a heart-shaped face, full lips, and a body that filled out her tiny ra-ra skirt and black top in all the right ways. Brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, and dark, curious eyes flicked toward Pembroke.
“I hope you’re not still involved in that awful Grace Perkins business?” Annette clucked her tongue. “God, what a horrible, thankless task.”
Pembroke adjusted his tie, his gaze lingering just a second too long on the girl. “Oh ... well, I try. But as I said from the start, the police have the tools, not me.”
“Quite right!” Annette nodded firmly. “A man your age should be enjoying his retirement, not getting tangled up in missing girls’ cases.”
Her daughter, Janine, shifted uncomfortably, her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. “Do you think they’ll strike again, Mr. Pembroke?” Her voice was timid. “It seems to be ... catching on.”
Unlike Grace’s slender, barely-there frame, Janine was a woman—full hips that would jiggle with every strike, tits heavy enough to wobble deliciously under a whip. Pembroke’s fingers twitched at the thought of a cane biting into that soft flesh, watching the way her ass would ripple and bounce as she danced to avoid the next blow.
He could already picture the welts rising on her darker skin, the way her muscles would tense and release as she fought the pain. She’d be stronger, sure—but that just meant he could hit harder. This one would scream differently than Grace. Deeper. Richer. A woman’s voice, not a child’s.
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