Lucy's Predicament
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 3
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Lucy is a shy, awkward and innocent red headed schoolgirl, struggling to deal with school bullies, puberty and becoming the prey of predatory perverts. This is a tale of evil, please do not read if you are after something light and fun.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft ft/ft Fa/ft ft Mult Teenagers Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual FemaleDom Sadistic Spanking Analingus Oral Sex Teacher/Student
Lucy was getting ready for school and rummaged through her mother’s underwear drawer, fingers brushing against silk and lace until she found the plain white panties she wanted.
“Lucy, what are you doing?” Samantha McSworley stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her gaze flicking from Lucy’s face to the drawer. “Don’t you have your own knickers?”
Lucy blushed. “Sorry, I ran out.”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed. How could a young girl run out of knickers ... unless...
“Young lady,” Samantha’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper, “I hope you haven’t been up to anything ... improper. Soaking through them like some ... some wanton little slut, touching yourself in ways no decent girl would even think of...”
“No...” Lucy’s face went beetroot red. “It’s not that ... I just...” How could she tell her mother that she was looking for her sensible white panties because her headmistress, the woman her mother, for some reason, worshipped as a beacon of conservatism in a changing world, was sexually abusing her?
“This is a respectable family.” Samantha shut the drawer, sealing the sight of the skimpy lingerie she wore herself. “I will not keep a harlot under my roof! Now off to school with you,” Samantha snapped. “And no naughty doings between your legs, you hear? Or so help me, I’ll...”
“It’s not fair!” Lucy cried. “I just wanted some knickers for fucks sake!” She stormed out, the underwear bunched in her fist.
Lucy felt disoriented as she made her way to the school gates, her mind spinning. Her parents were such hypocrites. So quick to lecture her and preach about decency. They would never believe her if she told them that Headmistress Trunchbull had done something ... naughty. She was their paragon of virtue.
Maybe they were right. Maybe she should go along with what the headmistress would do to her, after all, her parents would always take the old woman’s side, not hers.
“Hey Lucy!” It was pervy Ed, of course it was. Lucy sighed. Another grim addition to the litany of pricks making her life miserable.
Ed Pembroke was with his black labrador, enjoying the schoolgirls, and had been looking forward to seeing Lucy. It was nice to see a girl in the flesh, and not just the girls on screen he had been up all night ruining.
“Been a few days since you flashed me, Lucy,” he grinned, his lips stretching stupidly over yellowed teeth. “I hope we’re still on for the cinema?”
Lucy’s face burned with shame and revulsion. “S-sorry ... I—I have to go,” she stammered, marching ahead. Even though she was a virgin, she felt like a walking sex doll, attracting eyes everywhere. She hated it.
Ed Pembroke was soon back in his bedroom, leering over the stolen photos on his phone—surreptitious snapshots of Lucy, his newest obsession. He was glad he lived so close to the school, Willowbridge High. So many pretty girls. A pity, though, that the girls he blackmailed so effortlessly lived hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles away.
He grinned as a notification flashed on his email. A query from a German tourist in Izmir, Turkey. He smiled as he read the email and translated from German.
In a secondary school in Izmir, the students of Zeynep Yıldız had noticed something troubling in recent weeks: the light had faded from their beloved teacher’s eyes.
At forty-seven, she was a striking woman with a fine figure, dirty blonde hair, warm brown eyes, five feet five and a warm smile. She had always been cheerful, inspiring, someone who made learning feel alive. But lately, she had grown distant, her face haggard, her movements sluggish. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her mind seemed to drift mid-sentence, as if she were trapped in a nightmare even while awake.
Even her teenage children had noticed the change. Her husband, too, was deeply worried.
Because Zeynep was hiding a terrible secret.
A few years ago, anxious about her fading youth, she had taken some pornographic photos of herself—daring, reckless snapshots she never intended to share. She had hidden them in a secure folder on her laptop, where not even her husband could find them. At the time, she had giggled at the images—her own body, her full breasts, wide hips, and hourglass figure, the intimate angles exposing her pussy and asshole. She had blushed but couldn’t help admiring how hot she looked, even touching herself as she stared at the screen. But she had long since forgotten about them.
Until a few weeks ago.
A monster calling himself Ranjit Sandhu had begun messaging her relentlessly. Somehow, this beast had gotten hold of her photos. Just as bad, he had her contacts ... her school, her husband’s company, his boss, her friends, her students, their parents, even her children and their friends. He threatened to send the photos to all of them.
The first message had sent her into a nervous breakdown. She had lied to her husband, claiming she’d fainted in the sun. If her husband ever found out about the photos, he would be humiliated, possibly lose his job and his standing in the community. She would be labeled a whore, her reputation destroyed. She would lose her job, her livelihood. But it was her children who broke her heart—the thought of them seeing their mother like that, of their friends whispering, of their lives unravelling, all because she had taken a few private photos of herself years earlier!
The deeper she spiraled into despair, the clearer it became: there was no way out. Not for her, and not for her family. They would lose everything, their stability, their future. Would her children ever speak to her again?
Through tears of anger and despair, she had agreed to a naked online “chat” with Ranjit, forced into increasingly compromising positions in exchange for a week’s grace. But the demands never stopped.
Ed Pembroke, the man behind the alias, had taken one of the photos and uploaded it to an escort website in Izmir. When Zeynep saw the link during their last call, she had collapsed, hyperventilating in horror. He had reassured her calmly that her face was blurred. But her tits and ass were on full display for anyone to see.
Ed explained to her in Turkish and English text what was going to happen. She was now a prostitute, and he would control her bookings from an unspecified location in the world. He understood she had a husband, a family, and a career, so he would “only” book her a maximum of two clients a week locally. It was her responsibility to take care to hide her activities from her family and everyone else.
Zeynep had slammed the laptop shut at that point, tearing at her hair as she screamed in rage and despair. Her neighbors must have wondered what was happening—her family was out, and she was alone with her agony.
The images would ruin her life, and her family’s life, for years to come. Even if she took her own life ... which she had contemplated ... Ranit Sandhu had sworn the images would still be released. They would haunt her memory, and her children would only know her as the mother of the slut, the whore, defined forever by those dirty, filthy pictures.
Eventually, she came to the same horrific conclusion so many other victims of Ed Pembroke had. She had to do what he told her.
And so here she was, forced to lie to her family about “taking on outside tuition,” even as she drained the household coffers to cover the costs of traveling to seedy hotels and buying the lingerie he demanded. Not a penny of the proceeds of her sex work went to her. It all went to “Ranjit Sandhu.”
The website he had posted her on was a nightmare. A disgusting forum where strangers dissected her like meat, leaving reviews that made her stomach churn. Some praised her “MILF figure,” while others sneered at her “poor oral skills” or complained that she would break down crying in pain during anal.
Zeynep had married her husband at twenty, a virgin bride. She had only ever known him, only ever loved him. And now? Now at forty seven she was being forced to learn how to be a whore.
In the school changing room after class, she cursed through sobs as she pulled on the stockings and suspenders Ranjit Sandhu had ordered her to wear. He would know, from client feedback, what she had worn, and what sex acts she had performed. She had to make the customer happy.
Izmir was a magnet for horny tourists, and Hans, a tall, pot-bellied sixty-year-old German, was eager to escape his wife and kids for a few hours. He wanted to fuck some local woman. He was a little disappointed when the “thirty-year-old” turned out to be older than advertised, but the tasteful lingerie and Zeynep’s well-kept body quickly erased his doubts. His eyes raked over her curves, lingering on her tits, her thighs, her ass. He barely looked twice at her face.
“Blowjob first,” he ordered, sprawling back on the bed naked, hands laced behind his head, legs spread. His flaccid cock emerged from a tangle of unruly gray pubic hair. He hadn’t showered all day, and the stench filled the room. Still, he didn’t look at her. “And take the bra off.”
Zeynep said nothing. She wondered how a man could live with himself. It must have been obvious she was being coerced. But Hans didn’t care. She was just warm meat for him to stick his cock into.
She crawled onto the bed, her knees sinking into the cheap mattress, and took his cock in her hand. She thought of her husband, of how she had only ever done this for him, on special occasions, with love and trust between them. Now, she was on her knees for this anonymous, ugly tourist. She steeled herself, sniffed back her disgust, and took him into her mouth, her lips sealing around him as she began to suckle.
Hans groaned in satisfaction, his fingers lazily tracing the damp sheets beneath him. The only sounds in the airless room were the distant honking horns, the laughter of patrons at a nearby café, and the sucking sounds from Zeynip’s mouth.
After a few minutes, Hans yanked her into a different position like she was nothing more than a doll, his hands rough as he pulled her knees to either side of his head. He wanted the full view of her crotch hovering above his face, drinking in and touching her stockinged thighs, black French knickers and firm fleshy buttocks. His fingers slid under the satin panties, probing into her pussy without warning. She felt his stubble against her inner thighs, as he watched his own fingers disappear inside her.
“Nice,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. His other hand squeezed her ass. “Keep sucking.”
His cock twitched in her mouth. Zeynep’s tears dripped onto his hairy balls as she worked desperately to make him cum, just to make it end. She could feel his fingers inside her, his palm grinding against her clit, while another set of fingers probed at her asshole, stretching her open.
“Fuck in the pussy first,” he grunted, his voice thick with entitlement, “then the ass. Got it?” His hands gripped her hips, dragging her up his body. “Now. Cowgirl. Put my cock in your pussy.”
Zeynep avoided his gaze, her fingers fumbling as she slipped off her suspenders and knickers, baring herself fully bar her black stockings. She reached for the condom, her only small act of defiance.
Hans scowled. “Why condom? You got a disease? You’re too old to get pregnant.”
“Condom. Always,” Zeynep said, prim and hollow, her expression frozen. She rolled it onto him with mechanical precision.
She straddled him. One hand parted her vaginal lips, the other held his cock upright, and she lowered herself onto him. She gasped as he breached her, his large cock so much bigger than her husband’s. She had sadly realised that most men had bigger cocks than her husband.
She lowered herself slowly, her body swallowing his cock inch by inch, the slick heat of her cunt, stretched and reshaped by the births of three children, closing around him like a vice. She took him deep, all the way to her cervix, the pressure a dull, familiar ache. Then she began to move, rising and falling, her heavy tits bouncing with each motion. The bedsprings squeaked in a sickening rhythm. Outside, a street vendor shouted prices for figs.
Hans’s hands clamped onto her breasts, his fingers digging in as he kneaded and twisted her nipples, rough and possessive. She kept her face blank, her breathing steady, even as the pain flared bright and sharp.
“Fuck ... FUCK—” Hans groaned, his gaze glued to her swaying tits, his eyes glazed with lust. He didn’t even look at her face. “Now,” he barked, shoving her off him with a sudden, violent jerk, “I cum in your ass. Get on all fours, bitch.”
Hans’ rough hands flipped her onto her belly with no warning, the cheap mattress springs groaning under their combined weight. Zeynep caught herself on her elbows, as he positioned her like livestock. She felt his spit, warm and thick, smear between her asscheeks before his thumb breached her with no preparation.
“Tight,” he grunted, working his digit in circles within her rectum while his other dipped into her sopping pussy and spread her cunt juices around the opening anal ring. Outside, the call to prayer began to echo from a nearby mosque, as Zeynip grunted and tried to breathe. It was so unfair, she had practiced this so much by herself in the bathroom with her own fingers, but every time with a client, it was like her butthole just seized up in fear.
Zeynep bit into the sheets to suppress a scream as his cockhead bullied past her resisting muscle. Her knuckles whitened around the sheets when he bottomed out with a satisfied groan, his pubic hair scratching against her buttocks. He didn’t wait for her to adjust before setting a brutal pace, each thrust knocking her forward as his balls slapped against her swollen labia.
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