Page 43 of Make Me Scream

Relax, Gwen.

I’ll go insane if I keep this up. Lane wants me to accept giving up control. I’m naked and bound, so I literally have no control over anything, at the moment. When Lane returns, he’s going to draw, so I’m going to be stuck like this a lot longer. I need to find a way to be patient.

When I pose for Joel, and I have to remain fairly still and quiet, I let my mind wander — sometimes aimlessly, sometimes focused on art. The only difference between then and now is being chained up.

So, I turn to my art. How will I expose people to their own unspoken darkness, like Alistair Rat? How will I do it without getting caught? What if I stick with the viral video aspect, but without the public spectacle? Film scenes that aren’t real but release them online as though they are… get people to react without knowing for sure…

I’m still brainstorming when Lane’s footsteps rouse me. He’s carrying a metal briefcase, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Without a word, he sets the briefcase down, sets up a portrait-sized sketch pad and begins drawing.

The first time I posed, I hated not being able to see the work in progress. Gradually that feeling went away, and I learned to enjoy the surprise of seeing a completed project. Now, however, I’m desperate to catch a glimpse of whatever Lane’s doing.

Fuck it.

“Can I see?”

“When it’s ready.”

Figures.

“What were you doing before?”

He smirks.

“What wereyoudoing?”

I swing in my bonds, sneering.

“What do youthinkI was doing?”

“You seemed to be in a good place when I got back, so I’m not sure,” Lane says.

“I was thinking about my art.”

“That’s good. Keep doing that.”

“Fine.”

I try to do that, but it’s harder with Lane in the room with me. My arms have started to tire from being held up for so long, stealing my concentration. The question of how long he needs me to maintain this position tingles on my tongue, but I don’t let it out.

At least Lane’s remained quiet about the glisten on my thighs. There’s no way he’s not aware of it. He’s seen me squirming as I languish against the cuffs and chains. If Lane knew the things he could be doing right now instead of drawing…

Clearly, I’ve gotten over being naked and exposed to him. It helps that he doesn’t stare while drawing. In fact, he hardly even glances my way. He works at a high tempo — never pausing or even slowing down. The scribbling sound fills the room until, after what seems to take hours, Lane finally stops.

He stands up and steps back to view his sketch. After a minute, he tears off the sheet and turns it around to show me.

It’s the Eiffel Tower. He’s done an excellent job capturing its grandeur, but it’s the fucking Eiffel Tower. Not me.

“What the hell, Lane?”

“A warm-up sketch. And from here on in, you’ll address me as ‘professor’ or ‘sir.’ Both are fine.”

No fucking way.

“Do you think this is funny?” I snarl as Lane opens the briefcase. “I’ve been standing here for-fucking-ever, being as patient as I can-”

As I speak, Lane takes from the case a large, red ball attached to a belt of some kind. Before I can react, Lane slips the ball into my mouth and buckles the straps behind my neck.

“Hey!” I whine through the gag.

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