Page 18 of Taking Me

I do as I’m told, my body stiff and trembling. I turn and place my hands in front of me. Marklov roughly kicks my feet apart and pushes my head onto the counter.

The sound of his pants unzipping made me quiver and push my legs together again. He pulls out a gun from inside his vest and places it against the back of my head. My eyes sting with the tears that I am fighting back.

“Don’t show weakness.”

“I told you to address me as Master and to obey every order I give you; if you didn’t, you’d be punished. I am a man of my word.”

He drags my underwear down to my ankles roughly, causing them to rip. He spreads me apart with no mercy, spitting on his hand and rubbing it along his length.

He forces himself into me, causing a surge of pain that makes me gasp. His gun presses cold and hard to my head, and his eyes are locked on mine. I can’t control the yelp and cry that slips from my mouth. The swelling from him fuckin’ me mercilessly in the bathroom adds to my agony. His hands clamp down on my hips with a vice-like grip, sending a deep bone-aching pain that radiates through my body.

I just want to turn around, grab his gun, and shoot him in the face until he is unrecognizable. He is pumping in and out fast and hard, moaning with satisfaction while I am pleading to be let go. He punches me in my ribs, making me gasp for air as he chuckles darkly, silencing me. When his thrusts begin to slow down, I try to glance down at my legs because I feel a warm gush of liquid begin to trickle down. In confusion, is it blood or his seed?

As he grunts and moans in his release, I am bent over, gasping for air with what feels like a broken rib. He stands up, pushing me to the ground.

“Fix yourself and hurry the fuck up. You don’t want to miss the show.” He said in a cocky voice.

Show? What show? Marklov never said anything about a show.

I grab the damp paper towels and attempt to clean myself. Then, I pull my underwear back up, trying to salvage what’s left of them.

I can’t move without a sharp pain sending waves to my brain, telling me something is wrong with my body. I wince out, putting pressure on my ribs where the blow left me altered.

Marklov roughly grabs me by my hips, forcing me to stand straight and walk next to him as if nothing had just happened. His face is serious this time instead of painted with false happiness. I limp, barely able to contain my pain.

Seventeen

“Show’’ Time

Marklov gathers everyone into a side room. The sound is unmistakable, a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine despite my aching rib cage. A familiar noise echoes through the walls, making me think about my baby, my black beauty. I widen my eyes, hoping to see a familiar face walk through those doors.

Marklov senses my excitement, and anger spreads across his face like wildfire. His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches tightly. With a swift motion, he beckons one of his guards over.

“Keep a close fucking eye on her,” he snarls, his voice dripping with fury. “Let me see who the fuck these uninvited guests are.” He practically spits out the words, his rage palpable.

He then gives a sharp whistle to two other guards, who immediately fall in line behind him, their faces tense with anticipation, ready for whatever may come.

As Marklov strides towards the door, his heavy footsteps echo ominously against the floor, each step deliberate and ready.

The guards flank him; their expressions are stern and alert. He pauses briefly, his hand hovering over the door handle, casting a final, threatening glance back at me. My muscles tense. The room falls into silence, the air thick with anticipation.

The door creaks open, and the noise grows louder, echoing through the room. My mind races back to the open road, the freedom, and the power I had with my black beauty. I can almost feel the engine’s vibrations beneath me, the wind against my face, sending shivers down my spine.

The memory of gripping the handlebars, feeling the raw power of the engine roaring beneath me, floods my senses. The sleek, black chrome glistening under the sun, the smell of gasoline and leather, and the rhythmic thrum of the tires on asphalt all come rushing back. I remember how the bike responded to my every command, a perfect extension of my will, as we tore through the open landscape. The wind whipping past, the horizon stretching endlessly ahead, and the sense of absolute freedom and control—it was intoxicating.

But reality quickly snaps back as the first figure steps through the door, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if somehow someone knew where I was and decided to rescue me today.

As the door swings open wider, the rumbling noise intensifies, filling the room with a sense of impending confrontation. The bike’s silence and I can feel the throbbing of my heartbeat mix with the clock ticking on the wall near me.

Marklovs eyes narrow as he steps aside, allowing the men outside to come into view.

My heart skips a beat, but as they step into the house, they are strangers, clad in similar leather jackets but with unfamiliar faces.

The leader of the group steps forward, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of confusion and determination. He seems to be looking for someone.

He looks at Marklov, then at me, and back to Marklov.

“Where is she?” he demands, his voice tinged with frustration.

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