Marge In Chains Novels & Stories

“If I was a murderer, I’m not sure I’d use this place as a hide out. It’s way too creepy.” I peered around, trying to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I scanned the shelves, the table, and reinspected the footprints on the floor. I snapped a few pictures on my phone, then returned upstairs with Kira. “Find anything?” Mark asked, putting his phone in his pocket. “Not sure,” I said. “But I have a few questions for Marge.” ** Marge hadn’t had any more of her tea, but was now rocking back and forth slowly in the large chair. She looked even more troubled than before.

If only I could obtain that medication. The kitchen exuded warmth and welcome, with aromas of herbs and bread baking. Marge, the chef, was present, singing softly while slicing vegetables. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked up at my entrance. "Hello, how are you?" She greeted me with a subtle grin on her face. "Seeking a way to unwind?" I agreed without speaking, unable to trust myself to communicate even telepathically. Marge had a certain quality that made me feel vulnerable, as if she could easily see past the mask I put on.

"You know what, Aregolli, you should stop calling me Mau. I’m not your screen partner anymore. I don’t see any reason for you to continue calling me that way. And I was umbrage because they brought it all the time." Mau is the name of my character in our first film. And yes, we made a lot. For a year of being an on-screen partner, we rose to fame as people loved to see our tandem. To be honest, I nearly puked when I saw the edits of the fan, misjudging the situation. "I see. The director is looking for you, Gaylene. Leina said that she wanted to talk to you first before the shoot. She’s in the waiting room. I think you can find your way, right?"

He reaches for my wrists. He produces a small silver key. He inserts it into the cuffs. The locks click. The weight falls away. I rub my wrists. The skin is pale and bruised. I feel lighter. But I feel more vulnerable. The chains were a cage. but they were also a barrier. "If I hear the doors open. I will come for you myself." Vane warns. He exits. The heavy oak doors thud shut. I hear the bolt slide into place. I am alone in his space.

“I know that too.” The chair scrapes harshly across the floor as I stand. Across the kitchen, Marge immediately looks up from the counter. The second she sees my expression, concern flashes across her face. “Corbin,” Marge says carefully as she sets down the towel in her hands. “What happened?” “Traci linked me,” I answer quickly as I grab my jacket from the chair. “She’s in trouble.” Marge instantly stiffens. “How bad?” “She said Travis dragged her into the dungeon.” My voice darkens immediately. “Apparently he chained her up and used silver again.”

Malcolm wanted Margie to apologize to Marilyn. Margie didn't want to apologize to Marilyn at all. Margie despised Marilyn. Margie felt Marilyn owed her a lot. However, as Marilyn Chapman refused to admit that she was Marilyn Chambers, Margie could do nothing. After all, Margie knew nothing about Marilyn Chambers except Marilyn Chambers's appearance. However, Margie knew that Marilyn Chambers was allergic to mango and pineapple. Margie decided to verify it if she had the chance. But today Margie had to get herself out of trouble first.

ROONEY The room was meant to be quiet and peaceful—if not for the deep, steady breathing coming from the bunk above me. I lay there, eyes fixed on the underside of the top bunk, as naughty thoughts slowly crept into my mind. Marge was out cold. I knew the signs—the way her breath hitched slightly before falling into a low, rumbling snore. She’d been at a frat party since noon, coming back smelling like cheap tequila and sweat, stumbling just enough to let me know she was toasted before she climbed onto her bed.

I murmured, but received no answer as darkness swallowed me whole. ... I found myself in a neglected, vacant room, layers of dust thick, and spiderwebs clinging to every corner. My wrists were bound tightly with a zip tie, leaving me feeling vulnerable and trapped. Margo lay nearby, her wrists bound in chains that glinted cruelly in the dim light—probably silver, judging by the pained marks on her skin that would linger for weeks. She was remarkably resilient, a testament to her strength. Seeing her in this predicament, all because of my actions, filled me with overwhelming guilt.