Take Me (Enslaved #1)

CHAPTER 6

My days morph into a warped routine of constant humiliations, violations, and twisted moments of comfort in my captor’s embrace. Time drags on at a dreadfully slow pace, and it’s a struggle to keep count of the days. My only indicators of time are the artificial lights that seem to follow the pace of the day, coming on in the mornings and shutting off at night, and the three meals that seem to occur morning, afternoon, and evening.

Besides the trips down the hall to be washed in the evenings, I spend my days confined to my cell, hands in mittens and chained to the collar. Mikhail only frees my hands for a short while in the mornings, allowing me to eat my kasha and use the toilet, then again in the evening when I’m hosed down.

I’ve never been claustrophobic, but having my hands and arms trapped like this does things to my mind. I’ll pace the small space of the cell until the soles of my feet hurt and the cold bites deep into them, then lie down on the mattress where I’ll struggle to pull the blanket over me and try to lie still.

Moving around seems to be the only thing that will keep the panic at bay. When I lie down, it creeps up on me like a serpent, slithering around my chest and infiltrating my mind with terrifying images and thoughts.

So I shut my eyes and try to think myself away to a better place.

I think about the woods and the mountains I was supposed to hike in. The scent of pine trees, thick moss beneath my feet, and the sun glittering on a forest lake.

But then I remember where my last attempted hiking trip got me. The thick forest that seems to surround this place, holding out anyone who might try to find me.

I think about my friends back home instead, my cozy apartment, and reading a good book in bed.

But then I remember that I’ll probably never see them, my apartment, or a good book again, and the terror slithers right back in.

The only thing that will bring me some kind of peace is thinking about Nikolai.

I imagine him holding me in his arms, peppering soft kisses over my hair, and rocking me with gentle movements of his chest. I imagine that he’s the one who traps my arms against my chest while he fucks me. Sometimes, I’ll even try to convince myself that it’s his basement I’m locked up in and that it’s all just a game.

But even as these thoughts provide momentary relief, they also stir up a wealth of shame and other harrowing emotions. Bringing this dungeon into my fantasy about Nikolai is like blasphemy, and I feel wrong and dirty every time I do. I shouldn’t taint those beautiful memories with the sickness of this place. And I sure shouldn’t get wet thinking about anything involving this place, but that’s what happens whenever I think about Nikolai. So I try not to imagine that he’s the one holding me trapped here, but sometimes everything is so bleak I need the escape no matter how wrong.

So I let myself go, imagining Nikolai coming down here, stringing me up to the ceiling and having his way with me. Spanking me, fucking me, and taking my breath. Sometimes he’s sweet about it, sometimes rough. Either way, it always gets me soaking wet, and I find myself straining to reach between my legs. But the chain won’t allow it.

It’s almost a relief, not having to deal with the shame of rubbing myself to an orgasm in this place. But at the same time, it’s a special kind of torture, not being able to find relief from the intense pounding at my core.

It feels like I’ve barely been here for a week when Mikhail discovers my dirty little secret.

I’m far off in dreamland, thinking about how Nikolai choked me and made me come, when Mikhail comes in with the second bowl of kasha of the day. He studies me with narrowed eyes as he sits down in front of me, about to remove the mittens. But he changes his mind, picks the bowl back up, and scoops up a spoonful of porridge that he holds to my mouth.

“Can I please eat on my own?” I ask.

“Open,” he demands with a sharp tone.

Casting my eyes down, I part my lips, shame heating my cheeks as I succumb to another degradation. The only plus is that the embarrassment might hide the fact that my cheeks were already rosy when he came in. But I think he has already noticed. Every time I peer up at him, he has this look like he’s privy to some dirty secret of mine.

Once the bowl is empty, he shoves the blanket in my lap aside. “Spread your legs.” He slaps my thighs to make me open up for him, and I bite down on my molars as I see the stickiness glistening on my inner thighs.

Suspicion knits his brows as he pulls at my wrists to test how far down I can reach. But they don’t go farther than my waist—not even when he bends me into an awkward position.

Grabbing my cheeks, he spears me with a stern look. “What have you been rubbing yourself on?”

“No—nothing,” I stammer as fear rushes through me and collides with my embarrassment.

“Then why are you wet like a shlyukha ?”

“I don’t know.”

He searches my face for an answer, and then a slow smile spreads across his features as he grabs the chain and tugs, making me jerk from the force. “You like this?”

“No,” I deny.

He tugs a few more times, jerking me back and forth, easily taking control of my body.

Heat spreads to my core, sending more moisture between my legs. I can’t help it—I simply can’t. Being tied up and helpless has always been a fantasy of mine. Apparently, it doesn’t matter how or with whom it happens.

I lower my head to hide the shame, but Mikhail won’t allow it. Grabbing my chin, he forces me to face him as he gathers the chain links in his hand, pulling my hands up to the collar.

“Try to bring them back down,” he challenges, and when I shake my head, he lowers his voice to a dangerous command. “Do it.”

I give my wrists a tug. No give.

“Harder,” he growls.

I try again, a little harder. When it still doesn’t work, I put in more strength until livid energy pulsates through me as I jerk and writhe against his unbreakable grip.

I’m determined not to let him win, and I keep yanking until my breath is stuttering past my lips with heavy pants. Even so, I continue, pulling my legs out from under me to kick at him, twisting my lower body as I groan with the effort. But no matter what I do, my hands remain in place, caught by a single hand.

He just sits there, staring at me with hard eyes. Not even a bated breath reveals a little effort.

It’s devastating. But as I keep struggling, the devastation morphs into something else. I’m not sure when or how the change happens, but when Mikhail moves his free hand between my legs to stroke my inner thighs, my skin hums beneath his touch.

“You like to struggle.” He flicks a finger through my pussy lips, and I freeze on the mattress as I realize just how soaked I am. My breaths crash in and out through my mouth as I stare at him in horrified silence.

He slides his finger a bit farther in, and I can’t help the moan that slips from my mouth. I press my lips shut as mortification tightens my muscles. But I lose control when he shoves two long digits straight into me.

“Aah.” I buck over his hand as electricity shoots through my body.

He gives the chain a tug so hard that it shoves the air from my lungs—and feeds the pulsating sensations around his fingers.

He holds me dangerously close, his hot breath fanning my ear as he drags his fingers in and out at a maddeningly slow pace. “You know, most girls here would hate this. Right until the moment I break them. But you. You truly are special. You don’t need no breaking to become a good little shlyukha. ” He lets out a groan that rumbles in my ear and sends shivers coursing down my spine. “Such a shame your hands are caught. You’d love to feel how hard my cock is.”

I deny ardently with a headshake, but I’m not sure I mean it. I’m not sure about anything at this moment.

“No? Luckily, there’s another way to find out.”

With a sudden motion, he grabs me by the arms and flips me over. I gasp as I land stomach-down on the mattress with my head trapped in the vise of his hand around my nape. I flail my legs on each side of him as the scratch of a zipper intrudes upon my senses with a foreboding warning.

“Dorin,” he calls out as he drags his hard length over my opening.

“Stop,” I gasp, writhing to break the contact, panting louder with the knowledge that he’s about to force himself upon me.

The creak of iron and heavy steps announce Dorin, and a crackle of violence thickens the air.

“Hold her head and lube her ass.” Mikhail releases my nape as a rough, calloused hand presses down on my head, pinning me in place.

Dorin must have come prepared. A second later, a plastic lid pops open, and I squirm at the horrible sensation of cold lube trickling down between my ass cheeks.

There’s a swoosh in the air as Mikhail pulls off his belt. Lifting me by the waist, he makes quick work of strapping it around my hips—a simple harness that keeps me suspended. He hands it to Dorin and presses his huge erection against my pussy. I think he’s going to push right in, but instead, he slides the head up and down between my slick lips, spreading my juices over my clit, taunting me with my own need.

Electricity crackles through my nerves, building and building until I’m bucking and moaning like a cat in heat.

A thumb at my ass has me going wild. “No, no, no!” I jerk against the strap and shove forward to break the mortifying connection. But I remain stuck—ass in the air, arms trapped under my chest, and head pinned to the mattress. Every tiny movement drives my helplessness deeper into my mind until it’s all that exists. And fuck if it doesn’t feed the crazed desire even more.

Mikhail holds his thumb at the edge for a while, letting me feel every little nuance of my defeat. And when he begins to rub the sensitive rim at my narrow opening, I can’t resist the sudden burst of sensation.

My moans grow longer, my movements more jerky as the need to come blasts through my body with a force that threatens to burst something.

“Beg for my cock,” Mikhail rasps. He pops the tip of his thumb inside and holds it there as he rubs his full length back and forth against my other opening. I think he’s struggling not to take me, and a thought flickers through my mind. I could refuse just to let him suffer.

But whatever little capacity to think I have left dies a quick death the moment he shoves the head of his cock inside, sending a maddening burst of sensation straight to my core.

“Do it,” he demands, clamping a hand onto my hip.

Groaning, I push back, but his grip prevents even the slightest movement. I’m stuck in this torturous position, aching to feel the full length of him slide against my walls, filling me to the brim. There’s only one thing I can do—only one thing that will put an end to this maddening desire. So I do just that. “Please, take me,” I beg.

“Not good enough.” He withdraws, removing both his cock and his thumb, and desperation has me hurling out the words he wants to hear without a shed of care for my dignity.

“Please, Sir, please fuck me. Please let me feel your cock.”

“The bitch is learning,” Dorin mocks, but all I hear is Mikhail’s deep growl as he slams into me.

I let out a moan from deep within my stomach, but Dorin muffles the sound as he shoves my head deeper into the mattress. I gasp for air and push my head against his hand as I only manage a small breath through the side of my mouth. But Dorin only pushes harder, snuffing out my breath entirely as my head sinks into the mattress.

I don’t know what’s happening. I’m desperate and scared, writhing and struggling with panic, yet my desire keeps building with each futile jerk.

Mikhail positions his thumb at my ass, and I scream into the mattress as sensation bursts through my system, sending me straight to the edge.

“Come!” Mikhail demands as he shoves his thumb into my ass, and I convulse and jerk as I come apart in the most intense orgasm of my life. I scream into the mattress and buck so hard my legs lift into the air, leaving me suspended in the strap. Dorin eases the pressure just enough to let me draw in a sliver of air, and I keep screaming between staggered inhales.

Mikhail picks up speed, pounding into me so hard that he has me jerking back and forth against the belt. He grows painfully thick inside me, stretching my sensitive walls around him as he slams deep into me. I’m not sure if he prolongs my orgasm or sends me exploding into another. The pleasure keeps rolling, shooting through my nerves, sending my entire system into overdrive as I strain against the mittens, desperate for something to grab onto as he shoots his load inside me.

When he pulls out, I’m a sweaty, panting mess, jerking and twitching as the final currents of the orgasm settle down.

As the pleasure draws back, I become aware of other sensations in my body. The strap biting into my skin, the sharp ache in my twisted neck, and the fatigue. The burn in my tongue and in my ass. I wince as I adjust my legs on the mattress, trying to take some weight off the strap, and I push against Dorin’s hand to turn my head. But I remain stuck, and claustrophobic panic creeps under my skin, clutching my lungs and infesting my brain.

“Please,” I beg, but the mattress takes the word, and Dorin just presses harder, drowning my mouth in the foamy material. “Please,” I repeat in a frail voice as I gasp for precious air.

“Leave,” Mikhail orders, and I heave to access oxygen the moment Dorin releases my head. But the air won’t reach my lungs. It just keeps dragging in and out of my mouth in shallow gasps.

“Take these off,” I beg, struggling against the chains and the mittens as Mikhail rolls me onto my back. “I can’t breathe.”

Grabbing my jaw, he forces my attention to him. “Say the right words.”

I scramble through the flaring red lights in my mind, searching for the right words. “Please, Sir,” I blurt the moment I find them. “Please take them off, Sir.”

A small smile tips up his lips. “Good girl. You are learning.”

He makes quick work of unlocking the padlocks and unbuckling the mittens.

The moment I get my hands free, I roll onto my side, flopping my arms above my head as I drag in deep breaths that finally fill my lungs.

I feel Mikhail staring at me for a while, and then his hand moves to my back, drawing big circles. It feels slightly detached, like the comfort isn’t quite genuine. But I don’t care. I let the warmth of his hand seep into my frazzled nerves and let the motions lull me into a rhythm of deep breaths and empty thoughts.

***

The sexual abuse in my cell becomes another part of my daily routine. Some days, it’s just fingers; some days, Mikhail will add a small butt plug; and sometimes, he’ll let me have the full length of his cock. He may detach my hands from the collar and string me up to the ceiling, or he’ll have Dorin come and hold me down—or simply do it himself.

The only constant is that he always makes me beg for whatever degradation he forces upon me and always tells me when to come. His timing is perfect, always giving me the order just as I’m about to fall over the edge, and I get a feeling that he’s conditioning me. But I don’t allow myself to linger on the idea. My mind is too full of shame, once Mikhail is through with me, to consider his motivations.

“Don’t worry, Koshechka. You’ll come to accept that this is who you are. A good little slut who loves to be subdued, ” he says one day when I begin to tense up under his comforting hand sometime after he has made me come. It’s always like this. I accept his comfort as long as the post-orgasmic haze lingers, but once my brain clears up, I reject him.

“You’ll have to break me for that to happen.”

Grabbing me under the shoulders, he hauls me up to sit between his legs, pulling me back against his chest. The position is deceptively intimate, but there’s no intention to comfort behind the gesture. This is to make his next task easier.

“We’ll see about that.” He drapes his legs over mine and grabs one of my wrists in a steely grip, predicting my struggle. My obedience has vanished in the devastating defeat, and the moment he picks one of the mittens off the floor, I begin to writhe against him. It’s not a conscious decision; it’s instinct, knowing what panic will descend upon my mind when he encases my hands in leather and takes away my autonomy.

But my struggles are as useless as ever. It only takes Mikhail a minute to drag the leather over my hand and force my fingers into a constant fist.

“I won’t ever accept this,” I say in a hoarse voice as my chest constricts under the weight of the building claustrophobia. “You’ll have to break me.”

“Hm.” He expels a half laugh. “Breaking someone is easier than rewiring their mind. Most clients don’t care what they get—they just want a girl who’ll spread her legs and open her mouth upon order—so I usually take the easy way. More profit. But even if you weren’t a special order, I’m not sure I’d break you.”

I shake my head and open my mouth to say something, but the sick depravity of his words has rendered me speechless.

“Because you, Koshechka, ”—he grabs my chin to turn my face—“you don’t need much rewiring. You just need to accept who you are and learn some manners . ” He releases my jaw to grab my other hand. “And a few tricks.”

“It’s never gonna happen.” My voice breaks at the feeling of leather sliding onto my other hand.

“No? Just like you’re not gonna lean into me and take my comfort in a minute?” He snaps the padlock shut, connecting the glove to the collar chain, trapping my hands.

I want to deny it, but all I can manage is a small shake of my head. I don’t want to accept his comfort, but he always makes me. And with each time he does, his terrifying competence becomes a bit clearer to me, making me believe a little more in his promise to make me a good whore.

“Stretch your arms and open your hands.” The taunting order is the same every time, and I whimper as I try to obey, knowing refusing is pointless.

The effect is instant. The moment I tug at my arms and the chain stops them, tears well in my eyes, and when I press my fingers against the leather in a fruitless effort to uncurl them, powerlessness drags me under.

“Harder,” he commands.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my head falling forward in defeat as I tug with more force.

“No, no, no, you know how this works. Open your eyes.” With a hand on my forehead, he pulls my head back, forcing me to watch the horrible sight of the leather-bound stumps of my hands.

The tears break free from my eyes as he has me struggling against the restraints twice more.

Finally, he lets off. “Good girl. Now close your eyes and relax.” He smooths his hand over my forehead in soothing motions as he drapes an arm around my waist.

I try to fight it—I really do. The intimacy is a cruel joke after the things he’s done to me. Tears stream from my eyes as I sniffle and whimper. I try to tense up and reject his touch, but as my grief grows, so does my need for comfort. Finally, I’m so broken I sink back into him and give in to the false safety of his touch. All I can do is hope he hasn’t broken me for good this time.