Page 60 of Make Me Scream

We have work to do, and trouble to make.

Chapter 13

It’s a good day not to be needed at the cafe. The last thing I need is to try and work a shift with a plug in my impossibly sore ass. Lying flat on my stomach has helped: I can draw, or scroll my phone — just as long as I don’t get up or go anywhere.

Just like with yesterday’s rope, I consider taking the plug out. I’ve had it in for so long. I’ve only removed it twice, and then only for a minute at a time. I even kept it in while showering. Of course, having it inside isn’t all discomfort: the fullness keeps me always primed for pleasure. While I do struggle to contain my need for relief, I try learning to enjoy it.

Thinking about Lane makes it easy, especially when the alerts start coming in about a new Alistair Rat mural found painted on an electronics store in lower Manhattan.

Someone was busy last night.

The project must have taken at least a few hours. When did Lane have any time to sleep? I barely got any myself, considering how hard it was to get comfortable for the night with the plug constantly reminding me of its presence.

Where did this project come from? Lane didn’t say anything about wanting to revive Alistair Rat, or that he already had an idea for his first new piece in years. Did he do this to somehow help me, or was he just in the mood?

As I wait, I draw myself the way I felt since Mundell threatened my scholarship for my art: thrown in jail, locked away, hands shackled to the ground, gagged with duct tape, eyes blindfolded. I’m totally in the dark, unable to speak or see or free myself.

Next, I draw how I felt after Lane offered to help: still bound, but walking forward, on his leash. Duct tape still covers my mouth, but another pair of lips have been drawn on. Looking closely, though, reveals an outline of my smile under the tape. I may not be fully free, but I have a plan and someone who will guide me through it.

I’m just about finished drawing when Lane texts me to come over, so I leave right away. It’s the first walk I’ve taken after wearing the plug for so long, and every step raises the temperature within me. I don’t dare sit down while riding the subway and instead lean against one of the walls. The sways and jolts of the car still resonate through the plug, but I manage to not yelp or groan. New Yorkers mind their own business, but only to a point.

“We need to talk,” Lane says as he lets me into the studio.

I wait until he shuts the door behind me to ask, “You mean about the mural? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were doing that. I would have come with you!”

“It was a spontaneous decision. You had me feeling inspired and I didn’t want to waste it. Don’t worry, you’ll be at the next one, because you’ll be helping.”

I can live with that.

“Okay then. Great.”

“Are you still wearing the plug?” Lane asks, eyes tracking down to my waist.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can take it out. Then we’ll talk. This is serious.”

Huh. I assumed he’d want to fuck as soon as I got here. Whatever is going on, it’s important.

While he watches, I ease the plug out slowly, allowing it to stretch my hole a little at a time. I whine as the pain spirals through me, but then relents as the toy escapes. Seeing it, I can’t believe how small it appears in my hand despite feeling so large. I don’t even want to think about going up to the next size… or having to sit down again anytime in the next forty-eight hours.

Lane leads us upstairs so I can lie on the mattress. He sits on the floor across from me.

“I got a call from Rush Mundell earlier,” he begins. “He wanted to talk about the mural. He was a little suspicious, thought it might be someone pretending to be Rat. Like you.”

I actually laugh.

“That’s insane. How the fuck could he think that? It’s so obviously yours. How can he not tell the difference?”

Lane shrugs.

“Yeah, that’s never been his strongest skill. Thankfully, he believed me when I said it was definitely Rat. After that we talked about you. I tried to get him to back off on Enmity Jane, but he wasn’t having it.”

Figures.

“Thanks for trying,” I mutter.

“There’s more, Gwen. When we last talked about Rush, I didn’t tell you everything. I’d hoped it could be avoided, because I knew it would make you hate him even harder and make your time at this school more difficult.”

---