Edward Pembroke – Slave Procurement Part 1

#Abuse #Rape #Teen #Threesome 34 seconds ago

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By Edward Pembroke Edward Pembroke is entrusted with kidnapping and training various beautiful women for a Middle Eastern harem

Eduard Benaïssad sat slumped at the corner of a dimly lit London bar, the low hum of chatter and clinking glasses serving as a constant backdrop to his spiraling thoughts. Now in his mid-forties, Eduard’s once sharp features had softened over the years; his overweight frame a testament to his inability to curb his vices. The pungent scent of alcohol clung to him, a chronic companion that had only deepened his depression.

His bloodshot eyes, partially obscured by greasy, thinning hair, stared vacantly at a group of young women in their twenties. They laughed and chatted animatedly, their youthful energy a stark contrast to his own depleted state. There was a lecherous glint in his eye as he watched them, but it was dulled by the knowledge of his impending fate.

Nearly bankrupt, Eduard’s financial ruin was just another weight on his shoulders. But he no longer cared about the money. The looming prison sentence occupied his mind, a grim specter following his every step. He had spoken to his lawyers earlier in the day, the reality of his situation sinking in deeper with every word. The crime he had committed would soon see him behind bars, and his lawyers could scarcely conceal their disgust at him.

Eduard raised his glass to his lips, taking a long, bitter sip of whiskey to ease the pain. It was at that moment that there was a tap on his shoulder. A well-built, handsome, authoritative, ambitious Arabic man in an expensive suit surprised him. The two men’s eyes met, and they hugged in recognition.

“Eddie, you old dog!”

“Ahmed, what are you doing here?”

Eduard was not stupid. He knew Ahmed Al-Masri from working with him in Saudi Arabia. Ahmed was a (very) minor member of the Gulf royal family but had risen on merit. Eduard had worked as one of his lieutenants in his security team, dealing with pirates in the Red Sea. Both men were far from human rights devotees, and the pair had worked well together.

Ahmed grinned, pulling back from the hug to take a good look at Eduard. “I could ask you the same thing. Last I heard, you were neck-deep in some security contracts in Iraq. What brings you to London?”

Eduard let out a humorless chuckle. “Let’s just say my luck ran out. Bad investments, bad choices … and now, I’m facing the consequences.”

Ahmed’s eyes narrowed slightly, his sharp mind quickly piecing together the unspoken details. “Prison?”

Eduard nodded, the weight of his situation evident in his weary expression. “Yeah, for something I’m not proud of.”

Ahmed’s demeanor shifted, the casual reunion taking on a more serious tone. “I might be able to help. You know I have connections.”

Eduard shook his head. “Appreciate it, Ahmed, but this is the UK, not the Middle East.”

Ahmed smiled, he knew the charges. Eduard Benaïssad had drugged and raped a young university student. He had been caught by security cameras and his efforts to blackmail the girl with sharing her naked photos had backfired. The girl had insisted on bringing the charges even after the leak of the photos and now Benaïssad was looking at five years minimum.

“Eddie, I am going to be honest. You do deserve it” he smiled.

“What? So … you know…”

Ahmed laughed. “Of course I do, it’s my job to know everything. But to be honest, you have done a pretty good job of staying out of prison for so long.”

Eduard Benaïssad knew something was up. This was no coincidental meeting. He switched to flawless Arabic to speak to Ahmed.

“You and I have both done things that are far worse than what I am going to prison for. I’ve raped so many women over the years, I got unlucky and I got stupid. But I’m going to pay the price for it now. Why did you come and see me?”

Ahmed responded in Arabic, “Eddie, you’re still sharp despite the circumstances. Bad luck doesn’t change that.”

“Do you have a job for me or not?” Eduard suddenly recognized there might be a way out of his current malaise, or if not, maybe a chance to make some money.

“That depends, Eddie. I have risen since we last worked together. I now work for … well let us keep that a secret for now. But I Have been given a specific project to carry out and if it goes well, I will be richly rewarded, politically and financially. I need the right man.”

Eduard was intrigued. He was far from the “right man” for almost any project he could think of.

“First, Eddie, why don’t you show me, what you can do, that other men cannot, or, let’s face it, won’t do.”

Ahmed’s attention was drawn to the group of vivacious twenty-something women. Among them were two blondes and two brunettes, each exuding an aura of joy, radiance, and youthfulness. Dressed in strappy dresses, they were enjoying their drinks, their infectious laughter resonating with a sense of carefree abandon. Their beauty was undeniable, accentuated by their long, slender legs visible under the table.

“I want to fuck one of them, can you make it happen?” asked Ahmed nonchalantly.

“Thoughts like that are why I am going to prison, Ahmed.”

“Come on Eddie, use your initiative, show me something, that you are the right man for the job.”

“What job?”

“I will tell you after this. But it could be your ticket out of prison and into riches, trust me.”

Eduard thought long and hard. There was no reason why Ahmed would want to incriminate him further. He had seen Ahmed commit the most unspeakably cruel and inhuman acts on men, women, and children in Yemen. Eduard’s main skill had been to acquiesce in these, all the other mercenaries had quit in disgust.

“OK. Fuck it. But you have to remember there are cameras all over London.”

“For the job I have to offer, they will be an occupational hazard.”

Eduard reasoned to himself. He was already going to prison for rape. He had raped dozens of women, why not try one more? He would be in his fifties when he got out of prison.

Eduard regarded the four women with a hunter’s eye. They would not be interested in money nor the looks, or lack thereof, of he and Ahmed. He thought of where in London he was.

“Give me ten minutes, Ahmed, wait here.”

Ahmed sat by himself, a solitary figure amidst the bustling atmosphere of the bar, patiently waiting for his “friend” to return. He had known Eduard for years, understanding all too well the depths of his character—sleazy, morally bankrupt, devoid of any ideology. Yet, amidst Eduard’s lack of conscience, there existed a twisted form of reliability, a trust that extended only as far as one could rely on someone without morals.

He knew Eduard Benaïssad’s file top to bottom. Born in 1977 to a French Algerian oil engineer and a Russian nurse, he had grown up around the world, and by the age of eighteen was fluent in French, Arabic, Russian and English. But he had been a tearaway and spent time in prison in France as a teenager for dealing drugs and a brutal assault on a boy who could not pay his drug debt. At a loss, his parents had enrolled him in a military officer training school in the UK when he was released from the French prison.

He had initially seemed to fit in, the military life suited him as a young man, especially forays with prostitutes in east Africa and the Far East. He had been disciplined for an unfortunate incident with a Kenyan hooker, which had seen the young woman close to dying.

He would have faced dismissal from the army had it not been for the events of 9/11 and the subsequent War on Terror. His exceptional proficiency in languages made him a valuable asset, sought after for his ability to navigate complex linguistic landscapes. However, his aptitude as a soldier fell far short of excellence, and civilian deaths always seemed to be more likely when he was part of a patrol on the streets of southern Iraq.

Thereafter, Afghanistan proved to be a playground for Eduard. Afghan villagers were not as worldly as the Iraqis and Benaïssad and some renegade soldiers managed to exact intelligence, revenge, and pleasure on isolated villages in some brutal raids.

Yet again, lady luck shone on Benaïssad in Afghanistan. One comrade who accused him of what were war crimes was blown up before the investigation could be taken further. Other Afghans who accused him of crimes also mysteriously died in an air strike.

He was eventually discharged from the army, after not suffering a scratch, mentally or physically, but having committed dozens of outrages. His skill at languages made him a useful recruit for western mercenaries in Iraq, Syria, and around the world. But he was still not popular among his comrades after committing several crimes including bank robbery, rape and extortion of locals.

When Ahmed Al-Masri was tasked with dealing with rebels in Yemen, he hired some of the toughest military he could find. But it was not miliary skill he was short of. He needed men who would do what he knew needed to be done, and few westerners, or locals, wanted to do it. He had been recommended Eduard Benaïssad by one such ex soldier, who then quit, lacking the stomach for the kind of fight Ahmed wanted.

Benaïssad was not a very good soldier, but he was a great linguist, and he was not shy of using every method banned by the Geneva convention. Ahmed had grown so comfortable with this British/French/Algerian/Russian hybrid that they would often ride around isolated villages, picking women from houses, raping them together, and murdering anyone who objected.

Ahmed Al-Masri’s strategy succeeded, and he soon was promoted to the head of security for the Gulf Prince Al-Qadim of Azmaria. In the affluent Gulf state of Azmaria, there was little tolerance for the likes of bloodthirsty rapist soldiers like Benaïssad and his cohorts. Generous payoffs were offered to rid themselves of such unsavory characters.

As Ahmed had settled into his new role, his aspirations soared higher. Could he ascend even further, perhaps to the position of Prime Minister? The possibilities tantalized him, fuelling his ambition.

Meanwhile, Benaïssad squandered his wealth on hedonistic pursuits, indulging in vices across Europe with prostitutes, drugs, and alcohol. Ahmed was well aware of the dark cloud of criminal charges hanging over Benaïssad’s head—a warrant for rape in Bulgaria, allegations of assault in Italy, and a robbery in Spain conducted in a drug-fuelled haze.

Ahmed pondered the situation carefully. It was a risky game, but he knew the importance of plausible deniability. If Benaïssad posed a threat to their operations in Azmaria, he would be swiftly dealt with. But for now, despite his flaws, Benaïssad remained the best man for the job.

Eduard Benaïssad returned, smiling, full of verve. “I just bought a little something on the street corner. I think the young ladies might love it.”

Ahmed watched him, like a master at work, as he wandered over to the women. He chatted amicably to them, laughing, then made his way to the bathroom. Returning, he sat opposite Ahmed and winked.

“Give it a few minutes, it’s pretty strong.”

Ahemd’s eyebrows shot up. “I did not see you do anything! I was watching!”

“You see Ahmed, it’s all in the wrists, haha”

About ten minutes later, the atmosphere in the bar shifted abruptly. The group of women, previously filled with laughter and joy, suddenly grew louder, their voices tinged with drowsiness and agitation. Concerned, the bartender approached their table.

“Don’t worry,” Eduard interjected, stepping forward. “I’ve called a taxi for the ladies. I’m their manager and we have just got our bonuses. It’s truly regrettable; they’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

The bartender nodded, relieved to see the situation being addressed. “Thank you, sir. It’s best to ensure they get home safely.”

“Wait a minute,” Ahmed said, “what taxi?”

“I texted a friend, a drug dealing scumbag I know. He is a taxi driver, and is nearby. He can pick these girls up and bring them anywhere. Where should he bring them to? The girls should be unconscious in a few minutes, by which time they will all be safely in the back seat of the taxi.”

“Now, girls,” he addressed the slurring women with a forced geniality, adopting the facade of a friendly father figure. “Gather your things. The taxi is outside.”

The barman watched, and the security guard saw the girls being escorted outside and into the waiting taxi while the two good samaritans walked away elsewhere. All above board, they thought.

Eduard got a call as soon as the taxi pulled away. “Haha, Dennis you scumbag! Yes, they are all so hot. Look, there are four of them, do you have any friends who want a late night delivery? I gave them some good doses, they should be out of it for a few hours at least, just make sure they don’t swallow their tongues.”

Eduard paused and turned to Ahmed. “Would you like some of them? We could take two, and have them in a hotel room for a few hours, then we should pass them on to Dennis and his friends. It would be good to have some … other men inside them afterwards, to get rid of our own evidence.”

Ahmed couldn’t help but chuckle at Eduard’s enthusiastic embrace of their nefarious scheme. “Yes, I quite liked the blonde in the green dress. I have my own limousine parked nearby. Why don’t we follow the taxi, and get some girls into my car for a bit…”

“Excellent idea” Eduard beamed. He had really come alive. They followed the taxi, and Eduard marvelled at the luxury of the inside of the limousine. The driver was a monotone Arab, who obeyed his master’s every command. The dark windows hid the inside from the prying eyes of London.

Ahmed and Eduard drank champagne as they looked at the gorgeous young girls walking the pavements, until Dennis made another call to them.


Eduard turned to Ahmed. “Dennis knows a place without CCTV. The girls are all passed out in the back of the taxi, we can get out and drag two of them into the limousine. But it depends, how long do you want to spend?”

“Not long” Ahmed wanted to fuck one of them and move on. He had only been here tonight to test Eduard, and had promised his wife he would be back at the hotel before midnight so that they could take the kids out for a full day of sightseeing tomorrow.

Both cars slowed to a halt. Ahmed winced as he saw the taxi driver, ‘Dennis’ a sixty year old Jamaican with dreadlocks, tracksuit, and several missing teeth. He hoped he had not touched the girls … yet.

“You guys want a few of them?”

“Just the two, Dennis, can you keep the other two in your taxi for now? Then you can bring all four on elsewhere. I am sure you know somewhere? Remember, they will be out for hours, I will give them something more, just to give you a good night with them, they won’t remember a thing!”

“Haha, sure thing boss! I can entertain myself with the other two in the back of the taxi here!”

Ahmed and Eduard maneuvered the two chosen ladies out of the taxi, their bodies slumped like dead weight between them. Drool trickled from the corners of their mouths, their eyes glazed over with intoxication. Soft moans and stuttered words escaped their lips, betraying the depths of their inebriation.

After bundling them into the back of the limousine, both men were free to play with their victims. Eduard’s girl had brown wavy hair, blue eyes, and a made up face like a doll. He guessed she could be nineteen. Her skimpy dress was open at the back, and so short, he could hardly avoid the sight of her knickers. He ran his hand over her breasts, marvelling at how perky and firm they were.

Ahmed played with the blonde’s hair and enjoyed her vacant dead green eyes. He slipped off her tiny black dress, and ran his hands under her white thong, enjoying her moist pussy. Respecting his wife, he put on a condom, and began fucking her on the seat.

Eduard pocked his girl’s green knickers, keeping them as a souvenir, and took several photos of her as well as keeping her ID, a note of her address, and her house keys. It was always good to keep a copy of a girl’s address and keys, he smiled. The phone he left, for now. It would surely be stolen by the gentlemen this young lady would soon be fucked by. Eduard also wore a condom, mindful of DNA evidence.

Soon, both men had cum. Dennis came around after a call, and he dragged the girls one by one out of the limousine and into his taxi again.

“Dennis, make sure each of the girls swallows one of these pills, it will keep them knocked out for longer!”

Dennis grinned and thanked Eduard for the great find. “The boys are gonna love these girls. I am making 500 for selling them!”

“Now Dennis” Eduard chided him good naturedly “these lovely young ladies are nice and clean, so you know what means?”

Eduard quickly gave his own joke the punch line. “It means no need for condoms, OK!” He and Dennis laughed at the joke.

“Don’t worry man! I’ve already cum in one of the girls already, and I’ll cum in the other before I hand them over!”

The two cars departed from each other. Ahmed felt good about the release, and the adrenaline, but now wanted to go back to his family and away from this place of sleaze. But Eduard had passed the test.

“See, Ahmed? I still have it” Eduard was beaming. “Those girls are going to get gang raped tonight and they won’t remember a thing. They will be full of cum from about six guys each, maybe a few pregnancies among them, likely some STDs. You will be out of the country, and me, well, I live dangerously.”

Ahmed smiled. “Thanks, Eduard. I’m heading home now, but you can continue enjoying the night. Here’s 500 pounds for you to treat yourself.” He handed over the money, a token of appreciation for Eduard’s cooperation.

“But tomorrow,” Ahmed continued, his tone shifting to one of businesslike efficiency, “we can meet again. I’ll go through my proposal in a more professional format. There’s much to discuss, and I believe we can both benefit from what I have to offer.”

Eduard smiled, and agreed. The night was still young, and with cash in his pocket, he planned more hours of debauchery.

The following morning, Eduard Benaïssad woke up with a thumping hangover. He just about remembered the meeting with his old friend, Ahmed, the fund with the four girls, the night at the casino, and the liaison with the prostitute which had cost him more than the 500 that Ahmed had given him. He laughed ruefully. He had paid 20 pounds for the drugs which had knocked out and delivered the four pretty women to him, Ahmed, and countless other lowlifes for the night, but one savvy hooker had wrangled him out of nearly a grand.

He was no good with money. He checked his phone. Several texts, including from Dennis, who had sent him several photos of the girls at a house party full of men, with the girls half naked, then fully naked, assuring him that each girl had been pumped full of semen on many occasions and had all been kicked out onto the street in the early hours of the morning. Another text was from Ahmed, inviting him to a meeting at the Embassy of Azmaria later that afternoon.

He shaved and got himself into his best suit, and made his way to the embassy. He reflected on the recent meetings he had with his sisters, and mother. They had all been disgusted with him, not just for the current accusation against him, but the unspoken reality they all knew, that Eduard had raped his younger sister when young, scarring the family and ensuring they could never be happy together. His father had died, having been ashamed of calling Eduard his son. He was without friends and family, and had thought of killing himself rather than going to prison. What was there to live for? Well, maybe this meeting might show him something.

Eduard strolled into the glamorous embassy of Azmaria, where a picture-perfect young Arab woman, dressed in a sleek black skirt and high heels, with a flawless face, greeted him with a polite smile. With practiced grace, she led him through the elegant corridors, her presence adding to the aura of sophistication that permeated the surroundings.

Led into an office, Eduard found himself face to face with Ahmed, a secret smile passing between them, acknowledging their shared exploits from the previous night.

“So, Eddie, some formalities,” Ahmed began with a hint of apology in his tone. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to frisk you for wires and ensure your phone and watch are switched off.”

“Not a problem, Ahmed,” Eduard replied casually. “Can’t have any spies, can we?”

Ahmed conducted a perfunctory check, ensuring no electronic devices were present, before they settled down to business.

“Now, you can probably guess who my boss is,” Ahmed continued, his tone shifting to one of seriousness. “The Crown Prince of Azmaria. He has a secret passion for the old way of life, and he has entrusted me to make it a reality for him.”

Eduard listened intently, his curiosity piqued.

“My boss wants a harem of beautiful women. Now, of course, he already has one, and he has access to many of the most beautiful prostitutes and sluts of the world. But, he wants something a little more, thrilling and illicit, with better pedigree.”

Eduard thought of Crown Prince Yousef Al-Wedesdah. An old, fat man who preached strict Islamic values but was known to indulge in every possible vice.

Ahmed continued. “He wants to start off with seven western women. These girls will be permanent members of his harem. They will not be invited or bought, or hired. They will be taken, against their will, and kept in his harem, as slaves to his will.”

Eduard grinned. “I like the Crown Prince’s ideas!”

Ahmed smiled back tersely. “Of course, the attraction for him is the difficulty of it. He does not want drug addicts or poverty-stricken illiterate peasants. Indeed, it’s crucial that they come from good breeding, and well-educated backgrounds,”

“I think perhaps your boss just wants revenge against western whores” grinned Eduard. He did not care, particularly as he was half Arab himself.

“Yes, well no need to be racist Eddie” laughed Ahmed. “Once these girls are taken, they will not be heard from again. Their families will have to deal with the fact they have disappeared off the face of the earth. The girls will spend the remainder of the lives entertaining the Crown Prince discreetly and, well, in a very harsh manner.”

“Oh, really?” Eduard was intrigued.

“Yes, you see he already has a harem. Arab girls, Ethiopians, Filipinas, and they stay hidden away, kept from their families, and nobody knows what happened to them. They are very beautiful, but some do not last very long … you see” Ahmed swallowed a glass of whiskey. “One of my rather unpleasant tasks as his head of security has been to dispose of their bodies. I can only assume they have displeased him in some way. I have also had the regrettable task of going all the way to the Philippines just to have some poor old woman murdered. It seems she was the mother of one of his slave girls who was misbehaving. It seems the girl could withstand any torture herself, but once her family back home started dying, she grew more … compliant in her duties towards the Crown Prince.”

“Oh,” Eduard remarked with a tinge of regret. “That is a shame, but I suppose the girl must have been given fair warning.”

Ahmed nodded in agreement. “Oh, indeed,” he responded solemnly. “She was. Fortunately, she still had a father and three siblings. I hope I do not have to make a return visit to the Philippines again, so for her sake I hope she does whatever the Crown Prince wants.”

“Poor girl” said Eduard “he is not very handsome, is he? Still, he has money, I am sure they have some luxury.”

“Well, no one is allowed to see them apart from some eunuchs, who still exist believe it or not! Even I have not seen them, apart from the girls I have taken out to dispose of, who are already dead. One thing I can say is that they have all been beautiful, it is such a waste.”

“Yes, well, it is the way of the world, is it not?” mused Eduard, his tone reflecting a blend of resignation and acceptance. “Rich men get all the girls.”

“Indeed,” Ahmed agreed with a knowing nod. “Well, I am in the business of helping the old man expand his portfolio.”

“And you want me to help?” winked Eduard, enjoying the whiskey and warming to the idea.

“Indeed,” Ahmed responded, his tone businesslike as he delved into the details of their operation. “As I say, we have some definite targets and some are suggestions of the type of girl we want. I am prepared to front you some capital for the venture. What we are talking about here is, for each target, surveillance, information, procurement, transport, training, and finally onward packaging to Azmaria.”

Eduard thought about the suggestion. “Wait a minute. Training?”

“Yes, the Crown Prince wants the girls to at least know what they are in for. He does not expect or want zombies, they must already be versed in the ways of pleasing men when they really don’t want to, although quite a few of these girls will be virgins and will remain so until they reach the Crown Prince.”

“Ahmed, I have a one bedroom flat, and this sounds like a lot of work for one man.”

“Eddie, in a bar in London, at a few minute’s notice, you organized the drugging, kidnapping, and gang rape of four women, the type my boss is looking for. The fewer people who are involved in this the better. The world is crumbling but there will still be a lot of police involvement in these disappearances.”

“Well, kidnapping girls and transporting them halfway around the world … and training them?”

“There are facilities you can use” interrupted Ahmed. “In various locales, I will give you a list. They are secure and can hold a screaming female captive without any issue. Money is no object to my boss, but we do not tolerate failure.”

Eduard suddenly realized that he could not back out of this. He knew too much. Ahmed might be his ‘friend’ but he would not hesitate to have him killed.

“And Eddie, we are old friends, but we cannot tolerate foolishness. You have seen what I can do, in Yemen. I went to the Philippines to murder an old woman because her daughter perhaps refused to lick an old man’s asshole. I know about your sisters and your mother. I really, really hope it does not come to that, but please, Eddie, do not let me down.”

Eduard nodded, pretending to care. But he did not mind if his family were murdered, if anything it would be freeing.

“Good,” Ahmed smiled, his expression unwavering despite the gravity of his words. “Now, I can go into the plan in more detail with you. But first, I’m afraid that Eduard Benaïssad needs to die. A new persona must arise.”

With that, Ahmed retrieved two passports from his desk, a silent confirmation of the finality of his decision.

Eduard knew that he could not turn back. He took both passports, both had the same passport photo, of himself. He wondered how Ahmed had got it. The name on each passport was “Edward Pembroke.” A new life was afoot!

The air crackled with aristocracy at Wimbledon. Ladies with impossibly long legs and hair like spun gold flitted about, each a walking trophy wife boasting about their offspring’s genius. Valerie Spencer, a vision in a crisp dress and pearls, surveyed the scene with a practiced smile. Her own daughter, the apple of her eye, Charlotte, was a blonde bombshell currently dominating the U18 court. This wasn’t just any tournament; it was a stepping stone to Oxford and the perfect life Valerie envisioned for her daughter.

“Goodness, Valerie, how does Charlotte do it all?” chirped Emma Bradley, a diplomat’s wife whose children built bridges instead of lobbing tennis balls. “She must have no time for those pesky boys!”

Suddenly, a voice cut through the social chatter. A dark-haired man, all sharp suits and movie-star charm, leaned in from the next table. “Bravo, Madame! Your daughter plays with the grace of a gazelle!” Beside him, a striking young woman with a pout and a hint of a Russian accent offered a strained smile.

Valerie, momentarily thrown by the man’s French accent and the undeniable tension between the couple, managed a reply. “Thank you, kind sir. We appreciate that.” Her gaze flicked to the woman, a spark of competitiveness igniting within. “May I inquire, do you follow the tournament often?”

“Alas, no, Madame,” he replied, his French now tinged with a hint of amusement. “Business brings me here, but I confess, a good match is hard to resist. This is my wife, Maria.”

Valerie offered a polite nod to Maria, then turned back to the Frenchman. “And you are…?”

“Clémence Carnot,” the woman beside him surprised them both by speaking up. “A lawyer, at your service.”

A thrill shot through Valerie. Married or not, Clémence exuded a certain je ne sais quoi. “Why don’t you join us, Clémence?” she purred, a mischievous glint in her eye. “There’s always room for another sophisticated mind at our table.”

Valerie basked in the awkwardness radiating off Maria. The younger woman seemed lost in the conversation, a nervous flutter behind her forced smile. It was a delicious opportunity for Valerie to flex her social muscles, to be the undisputed queen of this little gathering. Little did Valerie know, Maria was merely an expensive escort and clueless to the elaborate game unfolding.

Clémence, on the other hand, was a captivating enigma. His conversation flowed effortlessly, peppered with insightful commentary on the game. He would seamlessly switch between French and English, then conversing with Maria in fluent Russian that left the ladies at the table wide-eyed.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Charlotte Spencer. At eighteen, she was an English rose in full bloom. With her blonde hair and cheeks still flushed from her victory on the court, she entered in a crisp white skirt and t-shirt, a picture of youthful athleticism. A wave of congratulations washed over her from the table, causing a rosy blush to bloom on her cheeks. Valerie, overflowing with pride, leaned over and enfolded her daughter in a hug. Clémence watched the young athlete with a flicker of intrigue in his dark eyes.

The conversation naturally turned to Charlotte’s future. Valerie, ever the proud mother, eagerly fielded questions while Charlotte bashfully swatted them away. Finally, Charlotte, gaining some confidence, surprised everyone. “Actually,” she said, “I want to be a lawyer. That is my passion.”

“A lawyer!” Valerie exclaimed, perhaps a touch more surprised than necessary. “Why, of course, darling! And speaking of lawyers, we have one right here at our table.” She gestured towards Clémence with a flourish.

Clémence raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Indeed, at your service, Miss Spencer. Though perhaps a more … noble career might tempt you? I confess, I always harbored a secret desire to be a tennis star myself.”

Charlotte, still slightly flustered, found herself blushing again. “Well,” she said in her posh voice, but with newfound determination, “to be honest, I’ve always admired lawyers. International law, that’s my thing.”

“International law,” Clémence repeated, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips. “Well, Miss Spencer, it seems we have a connection then. I work for a firm in Paris. Perhaps your mother and I can discuss some … networking opportunities.”

Valerie, pleasantly surprised at this unexpected coincidence, beamed. “Oh, Clémence, that’s wonderful! What good fortune. You seem like just the right chap to know, with Charlotte’s aspirations.”

Charlotte couldn’t help but steal another glance at the intriguing Frenchman. He certainly seemed clever, and the idea of a connection in Paris sent a little thrill through her.

Just then, Sheila Johnson, a woman at the table whose husband was a criminal lawyer, interjected, “Well, I don’t know about law.” She cast a sideways glance at Clémence. “My husband sees some dreadful cases. I don’t know if they are suitable for decent people to work on.”

“Oh really?” Clémence inquired, his voice maintaining a casual tone. “I deal with mergers and acquisitions, but criminal law sounds fascinating to me.”

Sheila hesitated, then mumbled, “Well, I … sorry I shouldn’t raise this at this table, it’s disturbing amid all this happy talk.”

Charlotte, however, leaned forward, her youthful curiosity piqued. “Oh, do go on,” she urged.

Sheila sighed. “Well, my husband told me about a case,” she began, lowering her voice. “They had to represent this utterly repugnant, vile fiend of a man. He … had his horrible way with this young girl, and then … took photos of her while she was unconscious and threatened her with sharing them. The poor girl was so strong and he was prosecuted, but my husband, he had to act for him! He said the man was such a creep.”

Clémence cleared his throat, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “Oh dear,” he murmured, trying to mask his sudden nervousness. “What happened to the man?”

“Well, I hate to say it, but my husband doesn’t have to deal with him anymore, he seems to have either disappeared off the face of the Earth, or … topped himself. He was this former soldier, with lots of debts, an utterly vile man from what I heard. And my husband had to act for him … it gave me the shivers just hearing about him secondhand…”

“He just disappeared? But surely they can find him?” Valerie was incredulous.

“We think he threw himself off a cliff or something. His passport was still in his flat. His family hadn’t heard from him in years. A few months gone now, and frankly, I’m relieved. Justice, perhaps, even if it wasn’t served in a courtroom.” Her voice hardened. “But believe me, there are plenty more like him out there that my husband has to defend.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air. Clémence, his earlier charm dimmed, offered a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Valerie, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, attempted to lighten the mood. With a strained smile, she turned to Clémence. “Well, Clémence, I’m sure your clients in Paris are a far cry from such … unsavory characters. All international law and high-stakes mergers, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ha of course, though I think, ladies, that our clients can be just as demanding and sociopathic!”

Giggles erupted around the table as the chat turned back to tennis and other children’s exploits and the ladies’ husbands.

“Oh, speaking of husbands,” Sheila chimed in, “mine should be here soon. Maybe, Charlotte,” she added with a laugh, glancing at Clémence, “he can talk you out of this law business altogether!”

Clémence’s forced laugh was a touch too terse. The mention of Sheila’s husband, the one burdened with defending monsters, seemed to prick at him. Suddenly, the idea of lingering any longer lost its appeal.

“Well, ladies, this has been delightful,” Clémence declared, a touch too brightly. “We must terribly apologize, but Maria and I have another engagement.”

Maria found herself being cajoled along quickly by her ‘date’ this mysterious French lawyer with perfect Russian.”Where on earth are we headed now?” she breathlessly inquired.

Clémence Carnot, aka Edward Pembroke, aka Eduard Benaïssad, was just eager to get away from the tennis club before he ran into Jack Johnson, his former lawyer. Edward Pembroke had dyed his hair jet black, adopted a slicked-back hairstyle, and was dressed more snappily now he had access to Ahmed’s funds but he knew he would be recognized straight away. He was pleased that he had been assumed dead but had to remember that technically he was a fugitive from justice.

In flawless Russian, Edward responded, “We are going back to my hotel, Maria. Remember, you’re getting paid handsomely for your services. Time to earn your keep.”

The playful facade had vanished, replaced by a cold efficiency that sent a shiver down Maria’s spine.

A few hours later, Maria was tied up over a bed in a plush central London hotel. She was being spanked hard by this man wondering what she had gotten herself into. Gone was the charming facade of Clémence Carnot, replaced by a stranger with eyes like cold steel. The sharp crack of his brute hands against her bare skin sent a fresh wave of pain through her.

Edward Pembroke watched the growing red imprint on her buttocks enlarge with twisted satisfaction.

“Bite into the pillow, and don’t scream, or you will not get a fucking penny of your money, you little peasant bitch” he snarled in Russian at the poor girl.

Edward Pembroke was thinking of Charlotte Spencer and her mother Valerie. Charlotte was first on the list of the Crown Prince. He had to kidnap her. He had an inroad, a taste for her, and was sure he could do it. She was a lovely, trusting girl, full of promise, and he was looking forward to taking her. He only regretted the instructions that she was to remain a virgin, however she would require severe training to be obedient to her future master.

As Maria sobbed into the pillow after another hard spank, he thought of that bitch Sheila Johnson. She had definitely been talking about him, her husband Mr Johnson had been his lawyer, who had looked at Pembroke like he was a piece of trash, subhuman. He was pleased that Eduard was assumed dead, but knew that the new Edward had to be careful.

As he stared at Maria’s bare ass, he pulled his cock out, and slid it into her pussy, as she grunted in pain and surprise. He remembered Charlotte’s stunning physique, her toned calves and thighs leading up to her knickers under her skirt as she played, her flat midriff as she rose to smash balls overhead. Her blue eyes and blonde hair. The Crown Prince was a man of good taste, indeed.

He thought of Valerie and noted the loving looks between mother and daughter. He remembered Ahmed’s comments about the need to discipline the girls in the harem. As he pummelled the Russian girl, he imagined that Ahmed might send him to take action against Valerie if Charlotte refused some vile act for the old decrepit Crown Prince. He hoped he would, it would be fun to play with Valerie for a while, before dispatching her.

Charlotte was stunning, but she seemed very timid and shy, she would need good training to be a perfect sex slave slut for an old man. Edward Pembroke knew that he would need to put in time and effort for this as well as just kidnapping her. He needed to find a good assistant.

Dilan Talebani, a 21-year-old influencer based in Beirut, was a striking figure in the world of social media. Known for her daring videos and outspoken political views, Dilan had made a name for herself by fearlessly challenging societal norms and advocating for women’s and LGBTQ+ rights.

An embodiment of Arabic beauty, Dilan had long, flowing black hair and captivating dark eyes that reflected her bold spirit. With her penchant for wearing bikinis and other revealing outfits, showing off her stunning figure, Dilan unapologetically showcased her beauty, pushing the boundaries of conventional fashion in Lebanon.

Her outspoken nature and daring fashion choices drew the ire of religious conservatives, who criticized her for challenging traditional values. Despite this, Dilan remained undeterred, continuing to use her influence to promote progressive change. She was a vocal participant in local protests and activism while wearing the likes of denim cut-off shorts, mini skirts, and crop tops. She had a huge following among young girls and lecherous old men.

Dilan Talebani was more than just a social media personality; she was a symbol of modernity and progress in a conservative region. She had a busy schedule but was happy to meet with Mr. Karim Al-Faraj. Dilan had received numerous offers from charities, but there was something raw and pure about Karim. The social media presence of him and his charity had significantly grown in the last month or so, and she was deeply moved by the plight of the children around Europe he was helping—gay Arab kids and Palestinian children affected by the recent wars in the region. Some of the videos had brought her to tears, and she shared them, amplifying their impact.

She met Karim in an upmarket restaurant in Beirut. Karim was obviously gay and very camp, but he had an infectious sense of fun that helped the beautiful young woman relax in the presence of this flamboyant forty-something man.

“You know, Dilan, you are so beautiful,” Karim said with a warm smile. “I think it’s a testament to God’s will that with great beauty he gave you such a strong heart as well.”

Dilan was used to flattery but still blushed. “Men here think I am a brainless idiot,” Dilan replied, her eyes reflecting both determination and frustration. “But I want to change the world.” She placed her hand on Karim’s. “It must have been so hard for you growing up, especially back then, being gay.”

“Yes, it was tough” Karim’s eyes watered. “Some of my friends, in Syria and Egypt, they…”

Karim leaned back in his chair, wiping his eyes behind his glasses. “I’m sorry Dilan, but it is thanks to young people like you that the world is becoming more tolerant.”

Dilan’s smile erupted, a full bloom revealing a dazzling array of white teeth. Dimples punched into her cheeks, her eyes crinkling at the corners with unrestrained delight. It was a smile that radiated pure joy, fuelled by the knowledge that she was making a difference.

. Her smile, like a beacon, drew attention around the restaurant. Husbands stole shy glances, their wives pretending not to notice. Young women, usually radiating confidence, couldn’t help but cast envious looks. Even the children, wide-eyed with admiration, were captivated by the minor celebrity’s infectious joy.

Karim Al-Faraj, also known as Edward Pembroke, smiled back. He had often used the trope of the flamboyant gay man to lure cute young women into a false sense of security. It hadn’t cost much to buy the Reddit, Twitter, and Facebook social media accounts of an old Arab charity and spruce them up with some heart-rending videos—some stolen, some staged, and some made up with AI—to engage with social media followers. A little bit of artificial cash injection made it seem like a going concern.

The beautiful young woman opposite suspected nothing. She was a fool, to fall for his virtue signaling and the apparent safety of a genteel gay man. She had no idea she was having lunch with a predator with orders to kidnap her.

Pembroke gazed at her short, snappy leopard skin halter neck top and her denim skirt, detecting a sliver of white cotton between her legs as she crossed and uncrossed them excitedly, talking about local politics. His predatory instincts kicked in, and he couldn’t help but imagine how easy it would be to slip some drugs into her lemonade in front of her, escort her to his hotel to take a call from children eager to talk with her, and instead have his way with the intoxicated girl. He imagined taking photos and videos, which he could use to utterly ruin her reputation in the still conservative region. He imagined running his fingers and tongue all over her tight, taut physique, plundering all her holes, and leaving the country and destroying all traces of Karim Al-Faraj while she was still picking up the pieces of her ruined young life.

But, alas, this was part of a longer game. Young Ms Talebani was being drawn into a spider’s web, and very soon she would no longer be showing off her body and her opinions to the world, or anyone for that matter, save for the Crown Prince of Azmaria. Even Pembroke bristled at her tirade against Arab conservative rulers, and got an insight into why the Crown Prince was so keen to have her in his harem. This rebellious young woman would soon be leading a life of pain and subservience, and quite right too.

The housing estate in Sunderland, in the North East of England, was a far cry from downtown Beirut or the gentility of South West London.

Rebecca Parker was 40 years old, with two kids who wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Neither did anyone else in her circle of friends and family.

She had become addicted to porn to deal with the stress of being a single working mother but cursed the day she met, online, Stan Bridgerton. She had fallen for the pervert, who had drawn her into a

depraved fantasy world of child pornography and even used her own children as material for him.

She had never even met him, but was eventually found out when material surfaced which she had made when completely drunk and which she did not even remember making. Thereafter followed years of misery; prison, having her kids taken away, occasional violence from others happy to take it out on the local paedo, and having to constantly move.

She was blonde, blue-eyed, with a buxom figure, and still harbored hope for a happy life with someone who would love her. But who could, with a past like hers? With children who might never see their mother again?

She was so despondent, she had made one mistake while drunk on the computer, and now it felt like her life was over. She drank every day to ease the pain, and often found herself contemplating why not end it all?

She made her way home to her bedsit in the rough council estate, praying there would be no new graffiti. She wore a hood to disguise herself, in case local louts pelted her with stones again.

That night, she cried herself to sleep beside an empty bottle of vodka. She did not notice an intruder who had forced open a window, and who was prowling around her bedsit, looking around.

The intruder was wearing a dark hoodie and gloves. He was well-practiced in this sort of thing. He gazed at the drunken woman on the bed, thinking that with a few weeks of being weaned off alcohol and some fitness training, she would have a much better figure.

Rebecca woke up through the fog of alcohol in her system. A figure loomed above her, a horrifying silhouette. Terror pulsed through her veins as a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that rose in her throat.

“Don’t say anything, Rebecca,” a voice rasped, devoid of warmth. A glint of serrated metal flashed in the dim light. Panic surged through her as a wad of fabric was shoved into her mouth, muffling her cries. Expert hands swiftly secured her wrists and ankles with restraints.

Blind panic surged through Rebecca. Were these the ones to finally end it all? She had long wondered when the youths and vigilantes torturing her would take their actions to the logical conclusion. Was this the end? Her gaze darted to the masked figure, a silent plea for mercy forming in her widening eyes. “Please,” she choked out, the muffled word a desperate plea. “I’m not a bad person. Please…” Her voice hitched, the words dissolving into a choked sob. Don’t kill me, she pleaded silently, the raw terror a primal scream echoing in her mind. Forgive me…

Anna Petrova was a stunningly beautiful young influencer from Moscow at just 20 years old. She had luscious brown hair, and captivating brown eyes, and stood tall at 5 feet 9 inches, with an impossibly slim figure. Despite her striking appearance, she was not just a pretty face; Nina was also a student of International Relations at Moscow State University.

Combining her studies with her passion for modelling, Nina seamlessly balanced academia with her thriving social media career. On her platforms, she showcased not only her intellect but also her confidence and beauty, often sharing snaps of herself in bikinis and other stylish ensembles.

Yet, despite the allure of luxury and the offers from wealthy businessmen, Anna remained steadfast in her principles. She refused to compromise her values or virginity, much to the annoyance of the men who sought to exploit her. She remained committed to saving herself for someone who valued her for more than just her outward appearance.

With a strong sense of conviction, Nina was unabashedly anti-war and unafraid to criticize her government’s actions. This bold stance often set her apart in a society where dissent was often met with scrutiny.

Yet all young girls have some longing for fame and fortune. One day, a message arrived from Nikolai Sokolov, a war veteran and vocal critic of the Russian government. He was spearheading a clandestine film project. The project aimed to raise awareness and aid those fleeing the tightening grip of conscription. Nikolai believed Anna, with her public image and passionate voice, was the perfect protagonist for the film.

As Anna Petrova sat across from Nikolai Sokolov in a cozy Helsinki cafe, she listened with rapt attention to his passionate vision for the film.

Nikolai spoke animatedly about his aspirations to make a difference through cinema and how Anna would be the perfect fit for the lead role.

Thrilled at the prospect of being involved in such a meaningful project, Anna eagerly agreed to participate. She was captivated by Nikolai’s sincerity and determination to effect positive change in the world.

“You know Anna, young women like you are the future of Russia, not those fake influencers and the militarists in Moscow! Thank you for coming to see me, I long for the day when I can get back to Russia, and see my family again.”

Anna felt so sorry for this man, a proud Russian patriot, who had sacrificed so much for his country and only wanted peace.

“Nikolai, I can help your wife and children. My family has some influence, maybe my father can get your mother a new flat and some money for the kids over in Blagoveshchensk. I hate the fact that your children are going hungry, while those bastards in Moscow just sit around continuing the war and threatening to arrest you.”

“Family’s fine, Anna, don’t you worry,” Nikolai said with a smile that flickered just a touch too quickly. “Safer if they stay out of the limelight for now. Maybe later, I might need your help with something there.” He pivoted the conversation with practiced ease, returning to the passionate details of the film, the project itself starting to feel as ephemeral as his supposed family.

Anna, caught up in the whirlwind of the offer, found herself blurting, “Turkey sounds exciting! Never been.”

“Ah, yes,” Nikolai replied, a hint of something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “But listen, there’s a large Russian exile community there. Only place somewhat close to home where we can film securely, you see. Tragic, isn’t it? My colleagues, all with such talent, they can’t display their real names. Such a shame to live in fear.”

“I hope one day, that you and your colleagues will be famous, Nikolai. You deserve it, after what you have been through. One day, justice will prevail in Russia!”

Unbeknownst to Anna, the man sitting before her was not the real Nikolai Sokolov. The true Nikolai had tragically passed away months ago, his death quietly swept under the rug by Russian authorities. In his place stood “Edward Pembroke,” who had assumed Nikolai’s online identity and persona to execute his nefarious plans.

Under the guise of Nikolai Sokolov, Edward Pembroke spun his web of deception, skillfully convincing Anna that the film project was legitimate and that he was a genuine peace campaigner and war veteran. With his mastery of the Russian language and clever manipulation of social media accounts, Pembroke maintained the illusion, preying on the gullibility and impressionability of the young woman.

As plans were made for the secretive filming location in Turkey, Anna’s excitement only grew. Enthralled by the prospect of starring in a meaningful project and oblivious to the danger lurking beneath the surface, she was venturing further into his trap.

Nikolai bid Anna a platonic goodbye, waiving a kiss by explaining that he reserved such gestures solely for his wife back in Russia. Anna marvelled once again at this stoic, virtuous man, and couldn’t help but feel safe in his presence.

Edward Pembroke wasted no time, heading straight for Helsinki Airport, his next target already in his sights. Alone, a genuine, chilling smile finally bloomed on his face. Anna was such a naïve young fool. Even with her woolly jumper and jeans, he could see she had a great body. He laughed at her concern for his fictitious family and her apparent admiration for his faithful devotion to his ‘wife.’ Soon, if all went to plan, Anna would be on video, but of a very different kind to what she had dreamt of, and he would soon be doing a lot more than just kissing her.

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By Edward Pembroke #Abuse #Rape #Teen #Threesome