Amazing Grace
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 9
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 9 - 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
Pembroke leaned back in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel as he glanced at the back of the van. The black bin bag shifted slightly, Grace’s bare legs poking out, pale and slender, kicking ever so slightly in the air.
He couldn’t believe he had done it. Not the grand plan he’d imagined, no elaborate blackmail, or convoluted abduction. Just a snatch, a grab, a desperate act born of panic. But needs must, as they say.
He had faith in what he had done. No traces left behind. No evidence. No reason for Charlotte to suspect her daughter had been taken from her own bedroom. Kidnapped in minutes? Ridiculous. Unthinkable.
And Willowbridge had its secrets—stories of bodies washed away by the tide, of troubled girls who disappeared into the sea. Grace’s erratic behavior, her suicidal tendencies, they’d assume the worst. Assume she’d run. Assume she’d jumped.
It was out of his hands now, he had done everything he could.
As he calmed down, he thought more about his prize, and the sweet young flesh that was now his. Should he pull over, and rape her now? If the police showed up at his door in the next few hours, he would be finished. Perhaps he might as well enjoy the spoils of his risk now, right?
But no, he had his plans to slowly break Grace, and he was prepared to be patient.
Grace lay curled in the hot plastic, her body aching from the hogtie, her neck burning where her hair had been yanked back. The gag, her own underwear, filled her mouth, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
She had been Kidnapped. By a burglar? No one would have expected her to come home at that time, surely it could not have been planned. She could only hope that this man was not crazy, and she could reason with him. Or, that he would be caught.
But she could not shake off the terror of her predicament as well as the pain. The word “rape” floated in her head, foreign, terrifying. She didn’t even fully understand it what it would mean, but she knew it was bad.
Please, she prayed, please, don’t let him do anything to me. Please, let me go home. Please let mummy find me.
But the van kept moving, and the man up front stayed silent.
---------- Charlotte though she was going crazy. She listened again and again to the voicemail. Grace had said she was at home. She called the school who told her she had been suspended and stormed out when they told her she could wait for her mother to pick her up.
Her phone was switched off, which it never usually was. Charlotte felt sick, surely she could not call the police yet? Instead she sat on the sofa and prayed that he baby girl was safe and sound.
---------- Pembroke pulled his van into the quiet layby, the engine ticking as he cut the ignition. Nothing but cows watching, their dull eyes uninterested in the horror unfolding before them. He exhaled sharply, checking the surroundings one last time.
He moved from the van to his own parked car. He opened the back door, grabbing the bag of cameras and empty coke cans, tossing it into the back seat of his car.
Then the black bin bag. Grace’s bare legs kicked weakly out of a hole in the plastic, her struggles muffled, desperate. Pembroke hoisted the bag out, his muscles straining as he nervously glanced around again.
He lowered her into the boot, her body curling in on itself. One final look, her terrified eyes staring up at him, wide and pleading. Grace looked for any sign of humanity from this ugly powerful old man, but none was forthcoming. Instead, he reached for a black hood, and pulled it over her head. Grace mewed in panic as she realised what was happening, and felt tape being applied around her head, sealing the cotton mask tight around her head, and stopping any sunlight from getting to her eyes. Then, she heard the slam of the boot door. Darkness, and even greater difficulty breathing as she desperately tried to fill her lungs with each breath.
Pembroke stripped off the uniform and cap, balling them up and shoving them into another plastic bag. Edward Pembroke, respected retired policeman, slipped back into his expensive car, adjusting the rearview mirror to check his appearance.
He turned the key, the engine purring to life, and pulled away from the hired van in the layby.
---------- After what seemed like hours, Grace heard the engine stop. Then, she felt the sunlight’s sudden glare against her face, burning through the tape and cotton mask that smothered her. Air rushed over her legs, her buttocks, exposed and vulnerable as she was lifted into the air, slung over a broad shoulder. Cold fingers pressed against the back of her thighs, lingering, tracing the curve of her skin in a way that made her stomach twist. No one had ever touched her there, especially not a man, with the desire she knew men had.
Where was he taking her? What was he going to do?
She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of it. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mummy.
But the man’s grip only tightened, his fingers digging into the soft crease of her buttocks. She flopped uselessly as he carried her, her body limp with terror.
The sunlight vanished, and the air seemed colder. The man’s footsteps echoed around her, bouncing off walls she couldn’t see. She felt herself being lowered, face-first, her body still bound—feet to wrists to ponytail, her neck stretched taut, her breath still coming in short, panicked bursts.
Then, the tape around her mask was ripped away, tearing at her skin. The cotton mask was pulled off her head and air finally rushed against her face.
She looked around but couldn’t’ make much out other than shapes in the darkness. But above her, she could clearly see the same man.
The same granite face, furrowed brows, cold coal eyes. Bald. Massive. His arms were huge, veined, and powerful.
But her pupils dilated further when they locked onto what he had in his hands. A knife.
Grace stared at him, her body locking up, trying to scream, desperate, pleading through the shorts stuffed in her mouth.
The knife moved behind her head. Snap! The tension was released, and her ankles flopped forward and her legs fell straight. Then her wrists were freed and her ponytail loosened. Her face planted hard against the ground, her cheek pressed into a cold, tiled floor.
Grace scrambled to her knees, her hands still numb. The man stepped back, framed in the glass doorway, his massive silhouette blocking the exit.
The darkness slowly unclouded and she noticed she was a in a cell. Glass walls on four sides, cold and unforgiving, reflecting her own terrified face back at her. Black tiles underfoot, a drinking fountain, a bench, a toilet, a shower head—nothing else.
She pulled her pink shorts out of her mouth, and finally was able to breathe, a long line of saliva trailing out from her underwear. She pressed her hands against the glass, her palms smearing the surface as she stared out into the larger room beyond.
She was in a larger cavernous space, currently lit only by a single, dim overhead light above a distant door. Shadows clung to the walls, hiding things—shapes—that made struck fear into her.
Other cells. And cages. Metal bars, tables covered in straps. A dentist’s chair, its armrests lined with restraints.
“Who are you? What is going on? Please, you have the wrong person, I need to go home—”
Pembroke pressed a finger to his lips, his expression cold, impassive.
“Silence, child,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerously calm. “No talking for now.”
Grace froze, her knees pressed into the cold tiles. She didn’t know what to do. Plead? Fight? Scream? None of it seemed to matter.
His eyes flickered down her body, a slow, sick smirk spreading across his face.
“Now, child,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “I can see—and smell—that you’ve pissed yourself.”
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