Chapter 34

Grace curled up on the cell bench, clutching her stomach. “I’m so hungry...” she moaned. “Where is he? Maybe something happened.”

“I hope something happened,” Leila said, her voice sharp. She touched her bruised cheek, remembering how he had struck her.

Grace recoiled at her words. “Don’t say that! You should never wish harm to the Master! Leila, I don’t want to see you get hurt again?”

“Well, you’ll be disappointed.” said Leila flatly. She touched her bruised cheek absent-mindedly. “I’m going to get raped soon, unless something has happened to that bastard. Or he never comes back, and we starve. Which do you prefer?”

Both naked girls were in the cell, freshly showered, reflecting. Leila could not find any more blood in her vagina and knew that her virginity would soon be taken. Maybe the monster had been arrested? Maybe this was a last minute reprieve for her? Or maybe he was dead, or disappeared. What if no one found them?

Grace pressed her hands over her ears. “Stop it. Stop talking like that. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll come back. He always comes back.”

Leila looked at her with pity.

Pembroke stirred awake in his bedroom, the rays coming in through the windows, just a few meters above the dark basement. His hand was sliding over the curves of the warm body beside him, thirty years younger, so different from his captives downstairs. His fingers traced the rise of her hips, the slim dip of her waist, then cupped her soft breast, rolling the long nipple between his thumb and forefinger. How mature, how womanly ... nothing like her teenage daughter. Only the hair was the same ... long, fine, and blonde.

Charlotte’s skin was tanned from the sun, and dotted with freckles. Pembroke knew he should feel grateful that a woman in her thirties would choose him, but having enjoyed the bodies of two pubescent girls for months, he found fault with the creases in Charlotte’s eyes, her dry skin, the slight hint of cellulite.

Grace’s skin had turned alabaster, almost translucent, after nearly a year underground. No freckles there. He vowed again that Grace would never, ever feel the sun on her skin.

Charlotte yawned. She felt a rough hand between her legs, and opened her thighs, smiling, enjoying the sensation. Then she jolted awake, her mind foggy, her throat dry. Not again, she thought, whose bed am I in now?

Her fingers brushed against a strong arm, then grey hair, scaly, liver-spotted skin—and then she felt the hirsute body, the bald head pressed against her shoulder.

It was Edward Pembroke. She suddenly remembered the drinking last night at home, the impromptu drive to his house, blurred flashes of talking to him about her dreams of Grace ... and then ... letting him strip her, and defile her ... She had humiliated herself again. This man must think she was a complete slut.

“Morning, Charlotte” Pembroke bit her earlobe gently, remembering how Grace lost control when he did that to her, and ran his fingers along her wet slit, finding her prominent, fleshy clit and stroking it.

Charlotte felt like such a whore, this man was old enough to be her father! And she had relied on him to look for her daughter? How had they ended up in bed together?

“Edward ... I ... sorry I never expected this...”

Pembroke had to stop himself from mocking her drunken state, he was so used to dishing out post coital abuse to his two sex slaves. Instead, he withdrew his fingers from her pussy, and rolled back across the bed.

“I’m sorry too Charlotte, you rocked up at mine late last night, we both had some alcohol, one thing led to another...”

Charlotte buried her face in her pillow. “I know, I know ... it’s my fault. I just—” She broke into sobs. “I can’t do this.”

She turned toward him, and the sight hit her like a slap. Grey hair bristling at his chest, skin mottled with age spots, the bald dome of his skull and the stern, grandfatherly face lined deep with years. Now, in daylight, she saw him for what he was: an old, haggard man she would never have wanted when sober.

What had she done? She had degraded herself, sleeping with a man old enough to have raised her. Worse, a man she had paid to search for Grace. She had believed for nearly a year he was a sexless stalwart figure, the kind you could lean on when the world fell apart. She now realised he was just like the rest of them.

“Can I get you a coffee?” Pembroke asked, baring a smile that showed his yellowed teeth.

Charlotte pulled the sheet tighter across her breasts. The thought of spending a second longer than she needed with this man now made her skin crawl.

“No ... I...” she stammered, “I really should get going.”

She swung her legs to the edge of the bed, avoiding his eyes, fighting the urge to gag as the smell of sex filled the air.

Pembroke propped himself up on his elbows admiring her naked figure. Charlotte fumbled for her clothes. She slipped into her stockings, feeling his eyes poring over her backside as she leant over. She snapped on her bra, grateful she could cover her tits, and then pulled on her black dress. God, she really had dressed for sex last night, how much had she been drinking?

Pembroke got up, not bothering to hide his nudity. “I’m just going to take a piss,” he said casually, as though they were any ordinary couple. He glanced over his shoulder with a smile. “I do hope you can stay for coffee.”

Charlotte’s stomach lurched. The sight of him was bad enough, but then came the hiss of urine from the open bathroom door. She shuddered.

Her eyes darted around the room. She needed her panties. The floor, nothing. The chair, empty. She up the pillow, and saw them; two pairs of knickers. One yellow. One black ... The black pair washers, she thought. But the yellow? Whose were they?

She snatched up the black panties and pulled them on, quickly yanking them up her crotch. She yanked her skirt down, then hurriedly dropped the pillow back into place as a flush echoed from the bathroom.

Pembroke walked back in, his large, hairy frame on display, his cock swinging between his thighs, his balls sagging like a grotesque pendulum, making him look so different from the sober, kind gentleman she had known and looked up to. He looked cruel and disgusting.

“Edward,” Charlotte mumbled, as she fumbled with her shoes, avoiding his gaze. “I really have to go, I’m afraid ... just need my phone ... my handbag...” She could not get out this place fast enough.

Pembroke watched the now clothed woman smoothing her blonde locks, head down in her handbag, and felt a surge of irritation. He hated that a female he had just fucked now had the gall to tell him what she wanted to do, and he could not as much as slap her for it.

A sudden, sweet thought came to him. He wondered if she had told anyone where she was going last night? She would have been too embarrassed to tell anyone, surely. Maybe even lied about her plans. She wasn’t working, perhaps she wouldn’t be missed for a few days.

She could join her daughter in the basement right now, he mused.

He remembered the weight of her tits in his mouth, the way her fleshy rear had wobbled as he’d ravaged her doggy-style, too afraid to spank her properly—not like downstairs, where he could use a cane, where he could carve horizontal lines into that wide, jiggling flesh. He imagined her howls—not the drunken sobs about Grace’s videos, but the real thing, dialled up to eleven as the whip bit into her skin. And Grace ... he could force her to sit on her daughter’s face, give the little girl a taste of the cunt that had birthed her.

That would teach this bitch to try to dictate her own life to him.

But reality seeped in, souring the fantasy. Her phone would have tracked her, there would be records of her being at his house and spending the night. CCTV cameras had caught her car. Some friend, some cop, some nosy neighbour might know.

He exhaled, watching her yank on her shoes, her shoulders hunched, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. She was desperate to escape him, to pretend this never happened.

He would let her go, for now, he thought.

---------- Grace and Leila devoured their food like starving cats. He ran his hands over their small, bony bodies, savouring the contrast with Charlotte’s curves.