Abducting Heidi

Edward Pembroke stepped off the business class flight in Munich, the sun casting a warm glow over the tarmac. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored Brioni suit. As he ran a hand through his wavy black hair, streaked with distinguished specks of gray, his dark sunglasses reflected the brilliance of the day. He approached the airport security checkpoint with a confident stride, flashing a charming smile at the young security officer who handed back his passport. She smiled in return, unaware that the man before her held many passports, many with a different identity.

Glancing at his Patek Philippe wristwatch, Pembroke adjusted the knot of his bespoke silk tie before striding through the bustling Munich airport. Every movement was calculated, every gesture refined, yet beneath this polished exterior lay a mind as sharp as it was twisted.​He then took another look at his targets. Heidi Weber-eighteen years old, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slim athletic figure standing around five feet six, as far as could be judged from photographs. And then there was her mother, Frieda Hasanov-also blonde and blue-eyed, with the same figure, just a little fuller and more buxom at forty-three years old. Frieda was married to Eldar Hasanov, the Azeri oil multimillionaire, though some whispered he might even be a billionaire

Pembroke had done his homework since first being contacted by his client, Mr. Hasanov himself. Hasanov had married Frieda five years earlier after a whirlwind romance, but the initial passion had quickly soured. After a series of affairs with younger women, Hasanov found himself increasingly unhappy in his marriage. A divorce, however, would likely cost him a fortune-tens of millions, if not more. By employing Pembroke's services, Hasanov was ensuring that his wealth remained intact, and Pembroke couldn't help but think that he was worth every penny Hasanov would save. He almost felt he should be setting his price even higher. Were it not for Mr. Hasanov having contacted him, Pembroke might have assumed that the family was happily reunited, with no hint of the dark undercurrents that lay beneath their polished exterior. He was due to join them all for dinner that evening at Mr. Hasanov's insistence. While some in Pembroke's industry might have baulked at this, he relished the opportunity to observe his targets in such intimate, unsuspecting settings. There was a certain twisted pleasure in getting to know them up close, seeing their smiles and hearing their laughter, all while knowing the horrors that awaited them later when they would become his prisoners. He could only imagine the quiet thrill Hasanov might feel, sitting across from his wife and stepdaughter, knowing that the man who would soon orchestrate their abduction was sharing a meal with them. Before his dinner engagement, Pembroke had a less pleasant meeting scheduled, one that required a different kind of preparation. He had changed into a casual disguise-jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap-transforming himself into just another unremarkable figure in the city. His destination was a dingy bar in a slum area, the perfect setting for the kind of encounter he had planned. His contact was Barazan Sherhad, a man Pembroke had carefully manipulated and blackmailed from a distance. Barazan, the nephew of a local Kurdish crime boss, had unknowingly become an invaluable asset in Pembroke's schemes. Barazan had a secret, one that Pembroke held over him with cruel precision. ---------- When Pembroke entered the bar, he noted with satisfaction that Baran had taken similar precautions. The young man sat in a corner, dressed in a tracksuit and baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, his posture radiating anxiety and fear. His once confident demeanor had eroded over the past month, replaced by the hollow look of someone being crushed by the weight of his secrets

"Hello, Barazan," Pembroke greeted him in Arabic, his voice laced with a sinister undertone as he smiled at the smaller, younger man. "Please, just tell me what you want," Barazan replied, his voice trembling. The once vibrant young man had been reduced to a shadow of his former self, plagued by anxiety, depression, and overwhelming misery since the day Pembroke's gang had ensnared him. They had discovered Baran's secret-that he was gay-and had secretly recorded him during a visit to a gay brothel. The threat of those videos being sent to his family, particularly to his wife, parents and uncle, hung over him like a sword, ready to sever his ties to everything he held dear. The mere thought of his family's reaction, of being cast out and disgraced, was enough to keep him firmly under Pembroke's thumb. Pembroke leaned in, his smile widening as he saw the fear in Barazan's eyes. "You know exactly what I want, Barazan. Your cooperation. And as long as you continue to be useful, your secret remains just that-a secret." Barazan nodded, defeated, knowing he had no choice but to obey the bizaare plan Pembroke set out to him. The encounter left him feeling even more trapped, while Pembroke walked away, pleased with how easily he controlled yet another pawn. ---------- While Pembroke was touring Munich, indulging in the luxuries of travel and the freedom it offered, a very different scene was unfolding back at his complex in southern Turkey, near the Syrian border. Hidden behind its unassuming exterior, the compound held dozens of prisoners captive, each one being trained and prepared for eventual sale to the highest bidder.​

Among these prisoners were Zeynip Yildiz and Clare Carnot, relatively recent additions to Pembroke's inventory. Both women were strikingly beautiful, each in her own way. Zeynip, nearly 22 years old, had wavy black hair and classic Turkic features that complemented her slender figure. Clare, at 18, had fiery red hair that spoke to her French Celtic heritage, with bright green eyes that betrayed her independent spirit. Their captivity had been far from easy. Both women had strong wills and had resisted the dehumanizing process they were being forced through. Their defiance had not gone unnoticed, nor unpunished. Mrs. Al-Haraz and Mrs. Parker, the cruel trainers responsible for breaking them, had taken it upon themselves to discipline Zeynip and Clare personally. Pembroke, who had anticipated making a substantial profit from these women, was growing increasingly frustrated with their slow progress and rebellious attitudes. Earlier that day, all girls had been subjected to a grueling mass training session designed to push them to their physical limits. The session combined elements of yoga and Pilates, intended to tone their bodies and maintain their immaculate appearance. But the exercises were far from therapeutic; the women were drenched in sweat, their muscles aching, all while under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Al-Haraz. The trainers paced between them, canes in hand, ready to "encourage" any sign of weakness or mistake with a sharp tap. Following this the prisoners were forced to split into pairs and perform degrading oral s*x on each in the sixty nine position sideways. Each girl squeezed her face between the sweaty thighs of their partner and stuck their nose and tongue into the salty flesh of the p*ssy lips and began licking and lapping, as they had done dozens and in some cases hundreds of times before with each and every one of their fellow captives. Clare and Zeynip had been deliberately paired together. Mrs Al-Haraz ran her hands over the flank of Clare appreciatively and took in the angry green eyes of the French girl between the olive thighs of her Turkish partner, while Mrs Parker watched from the other side and saw the enmity in the black eyes of Zeynip, staring at her between the snow white thighs and buttocks of Clare as her tongue worked its way lazily against her p*ssy.​

Clare and Zeynip exchanged a terrified glance, their hearts sinking as they realized there would be no respite, no mercy