Take Me (Enslaved #1)

CHAPTER 10

The days blur together. I have no idea how long I’ve been here—if the two months are coming to an end, or if I still have weeks to go. But as things slowly change, I begin to sense the end closing in. It begins with more time in the workout room and Dorin drilling me to practice cardio and strengthen my muscles—especially my legs. Then my time spent in the chair escalates as Mikhail ramps up the training to make me into the perfect little slut that can come on command, hold back orgasms under intense stimulation or get them despite severe pain, then take a cock deep into my throat and give a good blow job even though I’m about to pass out from exhaustion.

I ask Mikhail how much time I have left here, but he won’t grant me an answer. I’m not sure I really want one. I’m not sure I want to know anything about my impending life outside these walls. Yet I can’t help probing.

“Who is he? The man who has bought me,” I ask one morning when Mikhail waits for me to finish my breakfast.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“What is he going to do to me?”

Mikhail smirks. “That’s up to him.”

“Is he going to hurt me?” I clutch the bowl between my hands.

“Depends on what you mean. By your definition, I’m sure he will. But compared to what most girls here experience, I don’t think so.”

I gulp. “What happens to the other girls?”

“Sold to the highest bidder, usually on auction, and then we’ll train them to their liking. A special training regiment is expensive, though, so some buyers choose a girl from final auction—that’s for girls who have finished their training.”

“And how does he want me?”

Mikhail smirks. “Pliant and obedient. Ready to please. A good little shlyukha, who can come on command, handle pain, and give good head.”

I gulp, and the movement makes my tongue piercing click against my teeth. I still have no idea what it’s for. A few days ago, Dax told me it has fully healed and I don’t need the mittens anymore, but he wouldn’t tell me what the piercing is for. They don’t even chain my arms anymore, arrogantly confident that I won’t disobey and touch my pussy without permission. And even though I sometimes consider doing it anyway to retain some kind of autonomy, I can’t. I’m not sure if it’s the threat to repeat my first devastating, lonely time in the chair that holds me back or if it’s because the mere thought of disobeying has my stomach all twisted up in knots.

“Is he the one who wanted the piercing?” I ask, hoping Mikhail will grant me some answers.

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Clenching my molars, I look off to the side. Once the worst of the frustration settles, I return my attention to Mikhail and change my direction of questioning. “What happens to the girls who don’t get sold?”

“Dorin takes care of them.”

My eyes must grow wide as teacups as I consider what that means. “How?” I don’t want to know, but I can’t not ask.

“Dorin might seem like a brute, but he’s really quite merciful in his way of getting rid of girls.” Mikhail sinks to his haunches in front of me and wraps a hand around my throat. “Do you remember how I made you faint on the train?” He moves his fingers a bit as if searching for something, then presses into the sides of my neck. “If I block the oxygen supply to your brain—closing off your veins—you’ll lose consciousness.”

A dizzy sensation begins to drag me down, making my body feel heavy.

“Then he snaps their neck.” A sharp sound makes me jump as he snaps his fingers. He releases me, and the fog clears, although slowly. “They don’t feel a thing. Well, at least not physically. They usually know what’s coming when he takes them away.”

My pulse pounds so hard that a wave of nausea rises at the back of my throat, and I set the bowl aside to press my head into my hands.

“Don’t worry, Koshechka. ” He moves onto the mattress and lifts me into his lap. “I told you. You’re special. That won’t happen to you.”

“What if he decides he doesn’t want me anyway?” I burrow into his shoulder, so used to the contradictory coexistence of his cruelty and tenderness by now that I easily seek his comfort.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I know him. And he keeps calling me, wanting updates. It’s bloody annoying. I keep telling him to let me do my job, but he won’t let up.”

I breathe a bit calmer at hearing this. I probably shouldn’t, though. This man just might want me for all the wrong reasons, and obsession can be a dangerous thing. But these days, I find comfort where I can—rational or irrational.

“Now, get on all fours so I can get your ass ready for your master.” Mikhail retrieves a butt plug a size bigger than the one he used on me yesterday from his pocket. He has been doing this every day after breakfast for a while now, shoving a plug inside my ass and making me wear it until he brings me the next meal. They slowly get bigger, and I’m achingly aware of where this is going to end.

But I don’t want to think about it, and as I get on all fours and succumb to Mikhail’s devastating will, it’s easy to forget. I shut off my brain and all the thoughts of my new master, the piercing, and the girls that Dorin gets rid of.

But once Mikhail has fucked me into oblivion with the plug seated deep inside me, fed me kasha, and held me until I stop shuddering and shaking and leaves me alone, it all filters back in.

It takes me days of nightmares and crawling anxiety to get the image of Dorin snapping a girl’s neck out of my mind, and I can’t stop wondering and worrying what my master will do to me. So I don’t ask more questions about him or this place. Instead, I start fantasizing about Nikolai again. Sometimes, the thoughts are so vivid that I fear I’m going mad. But worrying about things that actually will happen might just do the same. And I’d rather that my insanity be full of hopefulness than misery.

As I immerse myself in hopeful fantasies of fairytale-like rescues and Nikolai sweeping me away into kinky realms that are scarily similar to the one I’m stuck in, I grow convinced that I’m losing my mind.

My fantasies about Nikolai escalate to a point where they are so vivid I can barely tell reality from dream anymore. Mikhail may say he’s not supposed to break me, but I think he has actually done it.

When I’m in the chair, bound and blindfolded, I can almost sense Nikolai. I keep catching these small drifts of his fresh, earthy scent, thinking he’s there. But another inhale only fills my nose with the scent of dry basement. Then I think I feel his hands on my body, smooth and strong, stroking my skin and grabbing my throat. But every time the hood comes off, it’s Mikhail’s long fingers on my skin, freeing the straps and carrying me back to my cell, where he holds me until the shaking settles and I fall asleep.

One day, the feeling becomes so strong I can’t contain it.

“Nikolai?” I say as smooth hands run over my body, driving me insane with the mix of pleasure and pain that I first came to know as Nikolai’s special brand of affection. But now the combination has become tainted by the cruelty of this place.

“Nikolai,” I repeat as fingers tweak a nipple while a hand gently strokes my thighs.

Still no response.

“Please, just tell me if it’s you,” I beg as tears leak from my eyes. “I can’t take this anymore. Please, just talk to me.”

“Quiet,” Mikhail demands.

But I keep sensing the scent of pine trees—feeling his strong presence hovering above me.

One week with Nikolai has branded the juxtaposition of quiet calm and demanding authority so deep into me that I can conjure the sensation with vivid precision.

My mind knows it isn’t real, but my body can’t feel it. So I keep pressing, tears trickling down my cheeks and wetting the fabric as I jostle in the restraints. “Please,” I beg as panicked urgency builds inside me. “Just one word. I need to know it’s you.”

The dildo stops buzzing inside me, and two strong hands curve around my shoulders, thumbs stroking back and forth along my sensitive skin.

“Nikolai, is that you?” I say, and when I don’t get an answer, the insanity breaks loose.

I scream at the top of my lungs, jerking against the restraints so the leather digs into my skin. If my head wasn’t strapped in so tightly, I’d be banging it against the wood. But not even the choice to hurt myself is mine. So I keep screaming and jerking, hurting my throat and chafing my skin.

Long fingers wrap around my neck, flexing at the sides. Mikhail squeezes, shutting off the blood flow and dulling my senses.

I think the strong hands on my shoulders are still there, trying to calm me. But they can’t be. They’re not calloused enough to belong to Dax or Dorin, and Mikhail’s fingers are on my throat, draining the strength from my body, shutting off my system.

My mind blurs, and I sag in the chair as someone works on the straps.

I’m barely cognizant when someone hoists me up—the hood still over my head—nestling me against a strong chest as he carries me back to my cell, places me on the mattress, and chains me to the wall. Then I’m pulled into a strong chest, being rocked with a gentleness that hurts my hollowed-out mind.

The scent of pine trees keeps pervading my senses, and I cry like a child, for everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve endured, and all the things I won’t regain. The loss of the man, my mind, and my free will.