Page 48 of Make Me Scream

I’m not going anywhere.

Chapter 11

Lane and I stay up for hours talking aboutDeath of a Salesman. Why he picked that play, how he practiced putting the pieces in place, his contingency plans if things went wrong… The major takeaway is the need for extensive planning and troubleshooting. Looking for points of failure, both practically and symbolically. I could have guessed that it took months of work to pull off, but I never would have imagined all the more intricate factors.

When the evening gets late, and we haven’t eaten in hours, we decide to go out on what neither of us dares call a date. First, we take turns showering in a small stall left over from what used to be the news studio’s wardrobe and makeup rooms. Lane goes first, and he’s there when I finish to towel me off. My body still aches with every move, but it feels good to be clean.

Lane’s also brought my clothes, though he stops me as I bend over to pick them up.

“One more thing,” he says, holding out a short length of rope.

Oh no.

What now?

“Hands on your head, Gwen. Spread your legs.”

I do as instructed and watch as he ties the rope around my waist, then pulls a line down between my legs and up the back. He tightens it until it digs into me, exerting an intoxicating pressure on my still-tender pussy.

“Do I even want to know what this is for?” I ask.

“It’s to remind you of the day’s lesson. Think of it as homework, if that helps.”

“Oh.”

“Now get dressed.”

Stomach rumbling, I hurry to put on my clothes. However, the movement causes the rope to shift around. The resulting sensation revives my need — I can already feel my panties dampen between my legs.

How long does Lane expect me to keep this thing on? When he called it homework, did he literally mean I’m supposed to wear it home? That would be… a problem. The idea of wearing it around with no one besides us knowing already goes straight to my pussy. Add to that the stimulation it’ll cause when I walk… This will be interesting, for sure.

Considering what else he could have in that briefcase, maybe I should be glad a little rope is all he’s having me wear.

Mercifully, the eatery Lane has in mind is only three blocks away: a Vietnamese noodle place about as big as a shoebox, little more than a serving counter and a cooler full of drinks. There are only two tables, and both are empty. It’s not much to look at, but if there’s one thing non-art-related I’ve learned since moving, it’s that in New York these kinds of places often have the best food. Surely enough, the excessively large bowls of pho we order are nothing short of delicious. I keep eating long after I should stop, unable to get enough of the thin slices of delectable beef, crunchy shoots and hot, spicy broth.

While we eat, we talk about our top influences. To my surprise, he’s read two of my favorite graphic novels: Marjane Satrapi’sPersepolisand Neil Gaiman’sSandman.

“What about you?” I ask him. “Who influenced…” I mouth,Alistair Rat.

“Banksy and Sacha Baron Cohen, obviously.”

I laugh.

“Obviously.”

“And the Marquis de Sade.”

Of course.

I bite my lip, picturing Lane reading an antique copy ofJustinein a grand armchair, a tumbler of whiskey at his side…

The food and conversation almost manage to get my mind off the rope between my thighs, but there it is again, pressed into my tender skin.

“So, what do we do next?” I ask after leaving the restaurant.

“Rest. Relax. Get a good night’s sleep. Come back to my studio tomorrow and we’ll continue.”

Oh.

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