Page 76 of Make Me Scream

“Spread your legs,” he says, tapping the inside of my thighs until I comply. “You’re not going back in the box, I need you where I can see you.”

He smacks my ass, earning a throaty moan from me. Despite the sting, pleasure emanates from my rear until my whole body tenses, hungry for more. Lane obliges, slapping each cheek until I’m bouncing on my heels. With his free hand he grips the chains against my back, holding me steady.

“What do you say to show your appreciation, pet?” he asks, giving my backside a hard swat.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, letting out a deep breath.

I’d express my appreciation in other ways, if he’d let me.

“Again, pet.”

He spanks my ass again, harder.

“Thank you, sir!”

He alternates sides, peppering every inch of my ass, and I keep thanking him, trying to steady my voice throughout the session. To finish, he pulls me up straight, pats my legs together, then spanks me one last time.

“Do you know why I’m doing this, pet?”

Am I being punished? I don’t see how. This must be a warm-up to something, but what?

“No, sir.”

Lane rubs his hand up my leg, along my stomach, between my breasts and up to my chin.

“Today your body is my canvas, and I wanted to paint your ass a little pink.”

I twist on my heels, my damp thighs pressed together.

“Yes, sir.”

He locks one last length of chain to the ones behind my back, then pulls the chain up through my legs.

“Come on, move,” he says, pulling me along.

The chain catches against my swollen folds, urging me to obey him without hesitation. If I don’t match Lane’s pace, the metal digs into me. I got my wish to walk around in these chains, I suppose, but my pussy was already sore from having the rod inside me for so long.

Lane walks backward and gazes down between my legs, smiling as I hurry to avoid the chain’s pinch. He leads us to the studio and connects my leash to a hook hanging from the ceiling. It’s loose enough that I have a couple inches of give: enough to not need to stand on my toes, but too little for me to take more than a step or two in any direction. A hum emanates from the vents, cool air blowing around me.

“Cold?” Lane says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Try and bear it. This won’t work if you’re sweating.”

“Yes, sir.”

I don’t know how that’s supposed to work, but whatever. He drags over a table and sets out an array of paint brushes and bottles, cluing me in to what Lane meant by my body being a canvas: I recognize the case of Mehron Paradise-line face paint. He squirts some black paint into a cup and then dips his first brush.

“Hold still,” he says, then begins.

Sweeping the brush over my skin, Lane traces dark lines across my collarbone, ribcage and pelvis. The bristles tickle, but I resist the urge to shy away. I stop noticing it quickly, fixating instead on Lane’s work.

“Sir?”

“Yes, pet?” he replies, pausing from painting.

“Did you get this idea from Joel? Did Mundell tell you?”

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