Take Me (Enslaved #1)

CHAPTER 4

I wake to the sound of screaming. The shrill wails of a desperate woman.

At first, I think it’s a nightmare, or maybe a TV somewhere. The sound is too anguished to be real. I’ve never heard anything like it.

But as the noise approaches, the sound takes on a resonant quality a TV can’t produce. It seems to bounce off walls and become even more obtrusive as a big, empty space prolongs the sound in horrid echoes.

No, this is not a TV. Someone is in real distress.

I jerk to sit up straight but fall back on the mattress with a thud as my arms catch on something. Something that rattles.

Chains, I realize. Chains connected to heavy weights around my wrists.

I fumble through the darkness, trying to make sense of it all. My hands slip over a thick blanket, onto a sheet that covers a foam mattress, and up onto rough, cold stone, where I find the attachment point for the chain.

I pull my hands away like I’ve been burned and clutch the teddy in my arms.

No! This is not real.

Closing my eyes, I try to conjure memories of my week with Nikolai—late nights of talking and laughing, fear and pleasure mixing together and exploding in earth-shattering orgasms, him holding me as I processed through tears. The promise to see each other again at the train station, the red fox, and finally getting on the train.

The train.

The memory gives rise to nightmarish images that flash before my inner eye and blend with the keening sounds in horrific harmony.

Except, it’s no nightmare. The memories are as real as the screams that resound outside this dark space that is my cell.

Turning onto my side, I press one ear into the mattress and lift my chained hands to cover the other. It only takes the brunt of the sound, but I keep them there until the scream fades into the distance and finally dies with the loud clank of a heavy door.

Carefully, I lift my hand from my ear. The silence around me is jarring, and the sound of my shallow breaths adds a new layer of desperation as they become the only sound to fill the darkness.

I have no idea how long I lie there, frozen in place, my heart pounding with the speed and weight of a freight train.

Finally, I hear movement in the hall again. This time, there’s no screaming. Just the clicking of shoes. Fancy shoes, I think, but the sound is foreboding, nonetheless.

The lights come on to confront me with the full vision of my situation, and then the green metal door squeaks as it slides open.

Holding my breath, I stare stiffly at the wall as the clicking steps approach behind me. A shadow moves at the edges of my vision, and a tall figure crouches by my feet to free my ankles from the shackles.

Then I’m confronted with Mikhail’s deceptively polished face as he rolls me onto my back and shoves a key into each of the wrist manacles to free my arms too.

“Sit up,” he orders in a clipped, business-like manner, and I get the feeling that he’s neither here to toy with me or comfort me.

Gingerly folding my legs, I push up to sit, keeping the teddy firmly wrapped in my arms.

“How are you feeling?” Mikhail grabs my chin and turns my head from side to side as if inspecting an animal up for auction. “Any headache, fever, or”—he waves his free hand—“how do you say… nausea?”

I shake my head in his grip and train my eyes on the floor, where I see his shoes. Expensive ones, indeed. Brown, polished oxfords with decorative perforations.

“Good. Then we can get on with business.”

“I need to pee,” I say.

Grabbing me by the arm, he hauls me to my feet and points to the toilet. “Then pee.”

I stare back and forth between him and the toilet, but he makes no sign of leaving or even turning around. “Can I please have some privacy?”

“No.”

I gulp past the growing knot in my throat and sink onto the toilet, burrowing my head in my hands as I empty my bladder.

Once I’m back on the mattress, Mikhail shoves a bowl of porridge into my hands. “Eat.”

I lift the spoon and flatten my lips with disgust as thick, gray porridge drips from the steel.

“Kasha,” Mikhail explains. “Very healthy.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, having lost all appetite at the sight of the sticky mush.

He sinks to his haunches in front of me and levels me with an unforgiving glare. “Eat your kasha, or I’ll have Dorin shove it down your throat.”

I lift the spoon and try not to wince as I take it into my mouth. The porridge isn’t as bad as it looks, but after eating half a bowl of the sticky stuff, it’s hard not to feel a little sick at each mouthful. But I continue anyway, not daring to disobey. After all, I have a feeling that worse things are to come. Pick your battles, I guess.

“What is this place?” I ask as I eat. I already think I know, but I need to hear it even though the idea of hearing the words out loud scares me shitless.

“An old, forgotten castle, tucked deep into the woods where no one can see. Only people who are explicitly invited find this place.”

“Someone must come here,” I say, needing a bit of hope. “Hikers or people interested in historical buildings.”

“Only if they’re dumb enough to trespass. Even so, the few people dumb enough to explore have quickly gone again when they realized the place is inhabited, or because there’s not much to see. Half the building was in ruins when I bought it. Quite unremarkable, really. Still is from the outside. But the dungeon”—he makes a chef’s kiss—“just what I was looking for and in surprising condition. All I had to do down here was add a few upgrades.” He rubs his scruff as he comes to think of something. “There was this couple who decided to explore further. I’m not sure how much they saw, but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

I gulp. “What happened to them?”

“Well, the man ended up in the incinerator, and the girl got her own private cell.” He smiles as if he did her a favor, setting her up in a luxurious hotel room.

I shove the spoon into the remaining porridge, unable to get any more down as my stomach twists. “And then what?”

“I sold her to an Italian mobster. Made quite a lot of money on that one.” He nods at the bowl in my hands. “Now eat up. I don’t have time for this.”

There are so many questions I want to ask, but I’m afraid the porridge will come right back up if I do. So I force the nagging worries away and finish the rest of the sticky mass.

Once I’m done, Mikhail sets the bowl on the floor and grabs my arm. “Let’s go. Dax is waiting.”

He leads me through the door and down a long wide corridor, around a corner, and into a room with a polished stone floor that feels smooth beneath my feet. But that’s the only reassuring quality about the room. Except for the old stone walls, which are the same as all the other parts of this place, this might be a doctor’s office. Cabinets line a wall along with a flat exam table, a large desk full of various equipment, documents, and a laptop stands to the side, and another exam table fills the center—or rather, a gynecologist’s chair. Full of leather straps.

A beefy guy with long blond hair, who I suppose is Dax, greets Mikhail with a nod but doesn’t spare me a glance. He’s sitting on a rolling stool, his booted feet planted solidly on the ground, and his biceps bulge menacingly as he crosses his arms over his chest. My eyes trail to the snake tattoo that runs up the length of his left arm. I quickly look away again, afraid to provoke him by staring too hard.

“Get on the table,” Mikhail orders, and when I shake my head and take a step back, the bulky guy gets up, grabs me by the waist, and hoists me onto it.

Shock locks me into place as he straps me down. My arms go into leather cuffs on each side of my head, my legs into stirrups, and a long belt across my belly has me gasping as he tightens it with a hard yank.

“I take it you want her rinsed out before we proceed?” the long-haired guy says with an American accent that has me turning my head. I guess I thought all men down here would be Romanian—or Russian like Mikhail.

The surprise snaps me out of the paralysis, and I start moving my arms and legs, testing the restraints.

No give.

So I fumble with my fingers to reach for the buckles on my wrists. But the leather is too wide, too tight for me to reach, and I pant with desperation as I strain my arms and back, lifting my head to see what’s going on.

And that’s when my composure snaps.

Dax, who has moved to sit between my legs and donned rubber gloves, is holding a huge syringe into a bowl, filling it with clear liquid. Maybe water.

I have no idea what he’s doing; I just know I don’t want that syringe anywhere near me. It’s big enough to hold at least half a gallon. Its only forgiving feature is that it has no needle at the end.

“What are you doing?” I say in a shrill voice. I turn my head back and forth between Mikhail and Dax, begging with my eyes, seeking some kind of explanation.

For the first time since I entered the room, Dax looks straight at me. “Showing you that you no longer own your own body.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” I beg as he smears clear gel on the tip. The guy doesn’t even flinch. He’s cool composure incarnate as he drips a dollop of gel between my ass cheeks. Icy panic flares through my system at the cool feeling on that hole. “No one’s ever touched me there,” I squeak, fumbling blindly to find anything that will stop this guy from proceeding.

“I’m happy to be the first, sweetheart,” he says without looking at me and presses a finger against my opening.

This can’t be happening. It just can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut to block it out, but the feeling of his prodding finger is too obtrusive. He’s not even inside yet; he’s just smearing lube around the rim, yet the sensation is devastating.

The finger leaves within seconds, but only to be replaced by a long thin tip that easily glides inside me, intruding upon my body in the worst kind of way.

“No, no, no, no,” I chant as if the word could somehow erase this warped reality.

I clench and unclench my hands as my breaths stagger past my lips.

Then the strangest, most humiliating sensation of my life fills me. Water seeps in through my rear hole and fills my stomach.

Wrong. It’s the only word I can find to describe it. Shameful, devastating wrongness.

I keep my eyes closed as I try to drift away to my happy place, surrounded by trees and bird song, a gentle breeze billowing through my hair. I succeed for a moment when the syringe disappears.

But then it returns, and more fluid seeps through that narrow canal, forcing all my attention to the sensitive place as more water fills my stomach unnaturally. Panic becomes nauseating flashes of neon colors in my mind, and I whip my head from side to side in a hopeless effort to expel the sensation.

“Relax, Koshechka. ” A warm hand covers my forehead. Mikhail’s hand. I’m not sure if it’s meant to soothe or restrict, but it pulls my focus out of the alarming flares of red. “Breathe.”

Opening my eyes, I stare into a magnetic gaze. There’s no sympathy, but somehow, the compelling intensity I find there is enough to steady me.

I follow Mikhail’s breaths, in and out, as water continues to distend my stomach. The fixed connection keeps me from crashing into panic, but the calm comes at a price. Because I can’t hide anything as I stare at Mikhail. All my emotions—pain, grief, and shame—are exposed in my watery eyes, my wincing features, and tiny whimpers.

When they finally unstrap me and lift me out of the chair, I feel raw and exposed. It’s like one of those bad dreams where I’m walking down the street and suddenly realize I’m naked, and there’s no place to hide.

I stagger on unsteady legs and cling to the two men as they lead me across the room. The water presses to get out, and I’m so focused on holding it in that I don’t realize where we are going before they lower me onto a toilet in the far corner.

“This might take a while,” the American guy says as he snaps a collar around my throat. The metal band is connected to pins sticking out from the wall, I realize to my horror, forcing me into an upright position when all I want to do is curl into a ball and hide.

I try to clench my ass and hold the water in to avoid the degradation of spilling it in front of these men, but I fail miserably. There’s just too much water, and once again, I lose control over my situation.

The two men don’t watch overtly but don’t leave the room either. The American guy comes to check if I’m done several times, and when his patience runs dry, he simply presses down on my stomach, forcing the rest of the water out.

The shame knocks the wind out of me, and my legs are shaking, barely able to hold me up, when he shoves me into another corner and hoses me down.

My only consolation is that the water isn’t cold.

***

“Do you want me to start training her ass?” Dax holds up a butt plug made of clean steel.

“I’ll do it myself,” Mikhail says, keeping his eyes trained on me as if I’m a flight risk.

But that’s surely not the reason. I’m back in the chair, strapped down even tighter than before—two straps on each arm and leg and two over my torso. The only movement I can manage is wriggling my hands and feet and turning my head. Escape is as likely as trees growing out of the sky.

No, I think he’s just bored, and I happen to be the most interesting thing in the room.

His gaze is unnerving, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. It’s not worth precious energy to fight right now. So I just lie there, shifting my gaze across the room as I try not to think about what Dax will do next as he puts the butt plug away and rummages to retrieve other items. I’m sure whatever it is won’t be any better than the plug.

In the brief moments of shutting my eyes to my circumstance, I find a certain rest in the strict restriction. The tightness of my bonds dispels any thought of escape, and when I let my mind drift off to better places, the snug fit is almost comforting. Like a tight hug.

But then I open my eyes and remember that there are no good intentions in the bonds. They’re meant to keep me still as the two men violate me, take away my most basic rights, and subject me to more degradations.

So I quickly snap out of the illusion and don’t allow myself more respites from this predicament, afraid it will only lead me back to that same warped place.

“The usual treatment? All gone?” Dax asks, snapping on new latex gloves.

“All gone,” Mikhail confirms.

“All what?” I ask, speaking something beyond desperate pleas for the first time since Dax stuck the syringe into my ass.

“All hair.” Mikhail takes a clipboard that Dax hands him and turns his bored gaze to the attached paper. “Well, everything but your wavy locks.” Scanning the paper, he twirls a finger at the side of his head.

A small gush of relief eases the weight on my chest. My long auburn hair is one of my best features. Losing it would be like losing a fundamental part of my identity.

Dax rolls up between my legs on his stool and proceeds to smear hot wax on my private parts and rip off my hair with strips of fabric.

I wince and whimper through the pain, but I don’t have much more reaction in me. If it had been last night, I would have been mortified to the point of a breakdown. But in the wake of the enema, waxing seems like a trivial matter.

Dax barely even looks at my face as he goes about removing every single hair on my body. I think I’m merely an object to him. Merchandise, like Mikhail called me.

It scares me. If I’m not a person to him, there are no limits to what he might subject me to.

But at this very moment, his clinical approach is a relief. I can almost pretend I’m at the doctor’s, getting an exam.

Almost.

Mikhail disrupts the illusion with his authoritative presence that hovers close by. I constantly feel his gaze on me, and it makes me jittery and nervous. Like having a hungry wolf staring at you.

Apparently, I’m not the only one unnerved by his intense observation.

“You’re freaking me out over there,” Dax says at one point, glancing up from where he holds my ass cheeks spread to apply more wax. “Go shoot a deer or some cans, or whatever it is you do.”

“Never mind me. Just do your magic.” Mikhail takes a relaxed pose, spreading his legs to fill the space around him in that confident manner powerful men do. “Special delivery, this one.”

“Aah, one of those.” Dax goes back to work, and silence prevails until my pussy, ass, legs, and armpits are all free of hair.

“What else do you want?” Dax gets up and tosses the latex gloves aside.

Mikhail scans the paper on the clipboard as if it were a menu. “She needs birth control. I’m thinking an implant.” His finger moves over the paper and stops as he speaks again. “A harness maybe. Cuffs. Or chastity belt. Something to keep her fingers from her pussy.”

“Sure thing. I have a couple of options. How about piercings?”

I’m too preoccupied with trying to catch a glimpse of the items Dax retrieves to hear Mikhail’s response. But he must have gestured to something on the board because Dax gives a nod, saying, “Good choice.”

My eyes dart back and forth between the men as if one of them is supposed to keep me updated. But neither one spares me a glance, and I forget about the piercing when Dax rolls a metal table with two needles up beside me.

One is small, one is huge.

When he frees my left arm, I immediately pull it down and grab onto the table as he flips up a flat armrest with straps.

Mikhail steps up to my side and easily pries my arm free, handing it to Dax. “Did you see the game last night?”

Dax huffs a laugh and inclines his head with incredulity. “You mean that thing you call football over here?” He presses my arm to the padded surface, and I jerk to get it back, but he’s too strong. He barely puts in effort as he holds my flailing arm down with one hand and fastens two straps with the other. “I’d rather go golfing than watch that shit.”

Mikhail makes some smart comeback, but I don’t hear it. All my attention is on the needle coming straight for my arm. It’s only a thin one, probably a local anesthetic—I know how inserting a contraceptive implant works. But it doesn’t matter. I hate needles with an intensity verging on phobia, and I whimper pathetic pleas.

But neither of the men hears it, and the needle goes into my skin without a second’s delay.

The sting isn’t bad—really, I barely feel it. But the pounding panic in my chest is more than I can take, and when Dax lifts the big needle, I can’t hold it in any longer.

“Stop!” I yell, filling the room with my desperate wail.

I expect them to at least pause their conversation and look my way, but Mikhail simply slaps a hand over my mouth to kill the noise as he says something about Liverpool, and Dax shoves the syringe into my arm, not even reacting to the sound.

It’s only when Dax turns to clear the equipment away that Mikhail faces me.

“Relax, it doesn’t hurt,” he says, shaking his head like I’m a silly child.

My nostrils flare in time with my rapid breaths as I try to gain some modicum of control over the panic that’s about to swallow me whole.

“Just a needle,” he adds, releasing my mouth to slip his hand over my forehead, where he smooths away the hairs sticking to my damp skin.

I want to tell him that nothing is just a needle, but I’m too wound up—too shocked by their indifference—to say anything.

“Which way do you want to go with the no-touching thing?” Dax asks. “I could simply block the holes, but it might be better to restrict her hands, now with the piercing and all. I’ve had more than one girl ripping the wound when she tried to take it out.”

Mikhail keeps stroking my hair with deceptive tenderness as he discusses ways to keep my hands from my pussy. Genuine or not, his touch keeps me calm. So I accept the small comfort, desperately needing it as they bounce words like chastity belt, butt plug, and muzzle back and forth.

When Mikhail removes his hand to go look at equipment, I feel lost. I stare at him as he stands at the other end of the room with his back to me, turning leather items in his hands and discussing something my ears don’t register.

Again, I think it would be much easier if he’d let up the pretense of caring. It hurts too much when he walks away like he doesn’t care. It hurts too much when I realize how lonely it is without him.

Without warning, tears spring to my eyes as I’m overcome by it all—the humiliation, the loneliness, the confusion.

I can’t control it, and when Dax comes back to my side with a tray full of new items, tears are trailing down my cheeks, wetting my hair, and dripping onto the smooth leather surface. I want to lift my hands and swipe the moisture away, but my arms remain trapped, and the vulnerability shines bright on my face, baring my feelings in the same devastating way they’ve bared my body.

But as with everything else, Dax remains impassive, unaffected by my reaction. This time, though, it hurts more than I care to admit when he grabs my chin and looks me straight in my eye, seeing every little nuance of vulnerability on display there without showing a flicker of emotion. “Open your mouth,” he says with the same clinical indifference he has displayed since he put me on his table.

I shake my head against his calloused hand. I have no idea what he intends to do; I just know I won’t do it willingly.

And as with everything else, he doesn’t need my cooperation. He simply digs his fingers into my jaw, sending jolts of pain through my bones until my jaw gives in to the pressure and goes slack. My mouth pops open, and he’s quick to shove three digits inside, holding it wide ajar while he reaches for a device with two metal prongs that he shoves into my mouth.

He works the sidebar to make the prongs part, forcing my mouth open to the point where my jaw aches. The moment he retracts his fingers, I try to shove the thing out. But the metal is lodged behind my teeth, and there’s no way for me to get it out.

A new surge of humiliation wrenches through my gut, making my stomach turn. I badly try to hide it, but I can’t control the tears that trickle from my eyes, and with my hands bound, I can’t even reach up to dry them off. I’m forced to lie there with all the despair and humiliation on full display.

I sniffle continuously, but soon snot trickles from my nose, and spit drips from my open mouth when I turn my head to hide the shame.

The air grows scarce in my lungs as helplessness becomes a vise around my chest. I heave to get in air, but none of it sticks. My hands clench and unclench at my sides as I whip my head from side to side, gasping for air and trying to process. I’m lurching straight for a panic attack, and I don’t know how to stop it. Every time I move the slightest, some restrictive sensation reminds me of the nightmare I’m stuck in.

Wheels scrape against the polished stone floor as Mikhail takes a stool and rolls up behind the exam table. Cupping my head between his hands, he aims his sharp stare at me, taking it all in. A pained whimper escapes me as he swipes at my spit-drenched chin.

“Do you have a sedative?” he asks, glancing up at Dax.

“Sure.”

“Just enough to calm her down, nothing drastic.”

“No!” I cry through my distended mouth as Dax retrieves a new syringe and disinfects the hollow of my arm.

“This will help you,” Mikhail soothes, but his words don’t register.

All I see is the needle coming straight for my arm. It sinks into my vein with the ease of a spoon in melted ice cream, and there’s a slight pinch as Dax presses the butt, emptying the contents into my bloodstream.

The effect is instant. My vision blurs, and lethargy drapes over my body, making me sag in the restraints. A building scream dies in my throat as my head falls to the side, into the cradle of Mikhail’s hand.

Blinking my heavy eyelids, I try to hone my focus on the calloused hands that pick up new items from the tray. It’s all I can do. I can’t even see which item he takes. I don’t realize what it is until he clamps forceps around my tongue and pulls it out of my mouth.

Fear hovers somewhere at the back of my mind, potent and threatening. But it remains in the shadows, unable to penetrate the heavy blanket of fog that keeps my mind in a drowsy state of thoughtlessness. Not even when a thick needle approaches my tongue does the fear break free.

I vaguely register a hand moving over my hair, gentle and warm, coaxing me to let go. So I do just that. I let my heavy eyes fall shut and focus on the faint sensation—the calm heaviness weighing me down.

When a dull pain spears my tongue, all I manage is a small mewl. Then I slowly drift into a hazy place where nothing matters—nothing but the soothing hand and the floaty sensation.