Chapter 35

The computerized voice—smooth, synthetic, maternal—spoke with words that cut to Grace’s very being.

“Well done, Grace. Look at the camera. Now smear it all over you.”

Pembroke leaned against the wall, naked save for the rubber mask and smoking a cigar, to disguise the horrible smell in the basement ... Leila pressed herself into the far corner of the cell, to the side of the basement, eyes shut, curled up in a ball and fingers pinching her nose.

Grace knelt in the center of the basement, naked, convulsing. Her body heaved from sobs and from the violent defecation she had been forced to endure for the camera.

Her mind screamed and her eyes watered. Behind the camera, Pembroke waved a cane, and Grace felt again the red marks on her hands and forearms, just from half an hour ago, for pleading with him not to go through with this.

Pembroke didn’t want to repeat this take. Not because he cared about Grace’s feelings, but because it disgusted him. He exhaled smoke, and waved the cane again.

“Now,” the voice purred. “All over your face. And now ... eat it.”

By the end, she sat in the corner, power-hosed clean, her skin raw from the jet of cold water, her soul hollowed out. Leila was dragged forward, a toothbrush shoved into her hands, mouthwash sloshed into her cupped palm. Pembroke was prepared to break his own rule and let her brush her fellow slave’s teeth. He didn’t want to look at Grace right now, let alone touch her.

“Disgusting,” he muttered, lighting another cigar. “The things I do for money.” He kicked the sleep sack toward her. “I don’t want to look at you anymore. Get in. You’re spoiling my evening with Leila.”

Grace didn’t resist. Her limbs—lined with red welts from the cane’s kisses—folded into the black cocoon, the zipper sealing her into silence and darkness as she was mummified.

Pembroke pulled the naked figure of Leila towards the bed and bent her over, spreading her pert little buttocks and fresh and clean butthole and pussy.

“You’re lucky, Leila.” You get cock, not shit.”

He took her fast—no finesse, no foreplay, just the wet slap of skin on skin. He finished in minutes, spilling inside her with a grunt, then pulled out, indifferent to the cum dripping out of her.

Grace was pulled back out of the sack, disorientated and desolate, and thrown back into the cell with Leila.

“God, I need some fresh air after that.” Pembroke exhaled, lip curling as he raked his gaze over them—not with rage, not with lust, not even with the usual cruel amusement. Just disgust.

Grace’s throat tightened. This was worse. Far worse. She could bear his cruelty, his cock, his violence, even the torture. But this? The way he looked at her now, as if she were nothing. Less than nothing.

Grace pressed herself into the corner, knees drawn to her chest, skin prickling with humiliation. Leila huddled on the opposite bench, arms wrapped around her legs, rocking. Neither spoke.

An hour later, Pembroke was in a better mood, sat in a café, sipping his espresso with the leisurely entitlement of a man on top of the world. Around him, a gaggle of schoolgirls laughed, their voices bright and lively, their uniform skirts riding high on slim, tanned thighs. His eyes lingered with lust and the cold calculation of a collector appraising new pieces.

What would they look like, he wondered, after a month in the basement? The laughter would disappear. Their shining eyes would go dull. Their tight little holes would soon be opened up, and their gorgeous bodies would be covered in marks. Their friends would soon giggle over the videos he would spread online of them. He smiled at the youngsters as he left the café, reminding himself that if he wanted more victims, he could take any one of them.

Afterward, he strolled through the summer-baked streets, the sun warm on his bare arms, a pleasure his slaves would never know again. He paused outside the pub. Life was good.

The scat video would bring him six figures. Who would’ve thought so many men, respectable men, family men, would pay premium prices to watch a fourteen-year-old sobbing, choking, reduced to something less than human?

He pushed the thought aside and ordered a pint, settling into a wrought-iron chair in the beer garden. A father two tables over laughed, ruffling his daughter’s hair. Pembroke watched, smiling faintly, wondering if the man was one of the customers.

A shadow fell over his table.

“Hi, Ed.”

Pembroke didn’t look up. He knew that voice. Jeff. The man was a nuisance, the husband of Charlott’s cousin, the bitch who’d stormed out yesterday, leaving his bed (and his messages) unanswered. Served her right. Soon, she’d be watching her daughter weep online along with millions others, eating her own shit.

“Hi, Jeff,” he sighed, finally glancing up, smiling thinly.

Jeff pulled out a chair, uninvited. “You heard about Charlotte?”

Pembroke’s fingers tightened around his glass. Goddamn it.

“Car accident,” Jeff continued, oblivious. “Yesterday. She’s in a coma.”

Pembroke took a slow sip of his beer. Could it have been his fault? He didn’t care.

“They don’t think she’ll make it.” Jeff said sadly.

“Goodness,” he murmured, forcing his features into the appropriate shape of shock. “I am ever so sorry, Jeff. Please give my regards to your wife.” He paused, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “What happened, where was it?”

“Hit a lorry, head-on, just outside Willowbridge. They don’t think she’ll make it.” He repeated.

Pembroke exhaled, shaking his head in exaggerated sorrow. At least she was nowhere near his house, there was no reason for anyone to wonder where she was driving from. “The world is just not fair, is it?” He was thinking how annoying it was that the bitch would never now see her daughter’s ultimate degradation online.

Grace couldn’t stand watching Leila ... sitting there, calmly untangling her hair, smooth arms unmarked, skin unscarred but for her healing facial bruises. No cane lines. No welts. And no disgusting taste in her mouth, which Grace could not get rid, the taste of vomit and her own shit still in her mind. She remembered the looks from the master and Leila, of disgust, just for doing something she had been beaten into doing.