Page 17 of Take Me

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 onthathole. “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.

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