Page 22 of Taking Me

“Sorry, Master…” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.

I tell myself that this is all part of the act, trying to maintain my composure despite the growing tension in the room. I know I have to play the part convincingly. I just have to keep reminding myself of that, repeating it like a mantra in my mind.

He grunts, and I can’t decipher its meaning. Is it a grunt of approval, signaling I’ve done enough? Or is it the ominous “That’s not going to be enough,” hinting at further punishment? Maybe it’s the “I will show you sorry,” promising torment.

“Lie down and put this on,” he commands again, his voice dripping with authority.

I left the military to escape this exact kind of control, and yet here I am, facing someone who thinks he can dominate me like I’m a P.O.W.

One thing is for sure: I am his prisoner, but the only war that will take place will be my wrath. My mind is already plotting, every fiber of my being ready to unleash a storm he won’t see coming.

He throws me a black cloth that I can only assume needs to be placed over my eyes—a blindfold. I can see nothing but pure darkness once I get it tied. His footsteps begin to close in on my position. I can’t help but want to yank this blindfold off and run like my life depended on it. Because, well, it does.

I hear him set the case down at the foot of the bed, and with my only other way of knowing what’s happening around me—listening—I try to pick up on every little sound.

The latch clicks softly, fabric rustles as he moves, and his breath hums faintly. Each noise offers a clue, a piece of the puzzle I need to understand my surroundings and anticipate his next move. The tension is palpable, and my heart rate quickens with every passing second. The quiet rustle of his movements fills me with dread, making me hyper-aware of every sound. I focus intently, trying to piece together the sequence of noises to predict his actions. My breathing becomes shallow, matching the rhythm of his, as I brace myself for whatever comes next.

He begins tracing my leg with what feels like a rope. “Tonight, you were extravagant. You fed fire to my soul thatcannot be tamed. However, your disobedience needs to be worked on, but I have more plans for that later.”

He continues tracing up my bare skin onto my stomach, the rope brushing my breasts and causing my nipples to stand at attention. I hate my body for responding this way; my brain tells it to retreat, but it does the complete opposite.

His touch is both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. The rope’s rough texture against my skin sends shivers down my spine, heightening my senses and making every touch more pronounced.

He pauses momentarily as if he is savoring my reaction before continuing his slow, deliberate movements.

“Your body betrays you, Little Sinister,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“It knows what it wants, even if your mind resists.” His words are a cruel reminder of the power he holds over me, a power that extends beyond physical control and into the very core of my being.

I try to steel myself against the sensations, but it’s a losing battle. The line between fear and desire blurs, leaving me trapped in a web of conflicting emotions.

I whimper. “Please stop, I don’t want to do this.” My breath is shaking.

He chuckles darkly.. “Oh, Little Sinister. You’re loca to think that you have any say on what I do to you. You’re mine, now and forever.”

He begins to tie my hands above my head on each side of the bedpost. His cologne is intoxicating, but I can’t let that distract me. The cold metal of his necklace drags lightly across my chest as he reached over to tie my hands up above my head. He pulls the restraints tightly. The rope bites into my wrists, a reminder of my current situation.

As his fingertips trace a path back down my body, I can feel the goosebumps rising on my skin. The sensation is both chilling and electric, a clear difference from the warmth of his touch. I can hear him rustling around, the sound of metal clinking and fabric shifting filling the otherwise silent room.

He forcefully grips my ankles, his fingers digging into my skin with an unsettling intensity. With chilling precision, he repeats the same binding process he used on my hands, the restraints biting into my flesh. The room feels colder, the air heavy with a sense of impending dread as he secures my legs, leaving me completely at his mercy.

I am stretched out like a star, my limbs pulled taut and vulnerable, each joint aching from the strain. My body trembles uncontrollably under Marklovs touch, each shiver a testament to my helplessness. I despise myself for this reaction, feeling a deep sense of betrayal by my own flesh.

Every sound is magnified—the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of fabric, the slow, deliberate rhythm of his breathing matching mine. My mind races, a chaotic whirl of fear and anger, as I struggle against the bindings that hold me captive.

“There are many things in this world that you can be. The main two are either dead or alive,” he said, his tone a haunting enigma that I can not decipher.

“I bet you wish I were dead. After all, I’m the one responsible for your mother’s death.”

My ears start to ring, and the room seems to close in around me, making it hard to breathe. I feel my body shake from the sheer anger coursing through me. My hands clench into fists so tight that my nails dig painfully into my palms. The walls seem to press in, suffocating me with their crushing weight. Each breath feels like a struggle, my chest tightening with a mix of rage and grief. Thankfully the blindfold holds up my tears preventing Marklov from seeing them fall. I can feel the heatrising to my face. The overwhelming desire to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he’s has ever caused, eats at me.

Marklov’s words hang in the air, each a dagger piercing my heart.

“You had no idea, did you?” he says, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Your mother defied me, she lied and tried to steal, and now you’re entangled in the consequences of her past mistakes, not to mention owing me for the loss of my finger.” I knew he’d bring that up sooner or later.

I try to process what he’s saying, but the shock is overwhelming. My mind races, flashing back to memories of my mother. They may not have been perfect—there were moments of struggle and pain—but she was everything I ever wanted in life. I remember the nights she held me close, whispering promises of a better future, even when her eyes were filled with tears. We didn’t have much, but her love was the anchor that sometimes kept me grounded.

---