The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  She stared. Soft lips had closed over her own. They commanded her mouth, using it, and a tongue entered. Hands and lips were everywhere. She began to cry softly, and it felt wonderful; she let herself cry harder, her chest heaving. All the hands and lips were caressing her, but from so far away. She could heave her hips, grind them into the bed; here, no one would know. She tossed her hips in an ancient, atavistic rhythm. The flute had married her motions and raced on with her, just as did the impossible pleasure. They were racing together to some paradise Hannah never had known.

  It entered her, sliding in, but it didn’t hurt as she always had been told it would. Then she knew. She cried out because this was so wrong. “No, not there.” But it was there and amidst the rising excitement it felt like the blade of some sweetness. Jesus! Mary! Stop! She couldn’t bear it! No! No longer!

  Then, the lips, the hands, lifted away, and the smooth intrusion into her arse slid out. And yes! The flute stopped, signaling the end. For a few moments, Hannah rocked her hips, pursuing a retreating delight, the ecstatic, rising rhythm that almost—almost!—had carried her to a place she never imagined. But without the lips and hands she couldn’t catch the fleeing prize. She burst into tears, rolling her head from side to side, denying that now she ever would find it. Her body contracted upon itself in disappointment. She was naked, wet, smeared, penetrated—but for what? Because they had done this to her as part of the bitter drama.

  “She made me lose it!” lamented Myra’s voice, but it was mocking. Hannah heard them laugh. She forced opened her eyes. Someone behind Myra had unfastened the belts that held the ivory rod, and it now pointed downward, defeated. Myra said again, “She made me lose it!”

  It was mockery, parodying her disappointment. It was all a cruel skit.

  “We must punish her,” said Myra.

  Fear dashed the last meager pleasure retreating from Hannah’s body. Swift fingers untied her wrists and ankles. But hands grabbed her and hauled her to the foot of the bed. Her arms were pulled upward, her wrists tied; then she was hauled upward as the other ends of the ropes were drawn over the strong frame of the bed’s canopy. She was on tiptoe, wrists wide apart toward the base of the pineapples atop either bed post. Her body was stretched, arms reaching beyond her grasp. She dangled there, the muscles of her back drawn. Her hips and legs were left free to twist and her belly to squirm in terror. They weren’t finished with her.

  Then, pitiless hands tore off even the tiny bands beneath her breasts and around her crotch. Her breasts were separated by the pull of her spread arms and her buttocks and belly were completely exposed and vulnerable. She hung there, almost beyond mortification, her mind turning and turning but able to focus on nothing. It was the wine; she pressed shut her eyes, trying to dispel the wooziness.

  “Hannah,” said Darlene’s voice from somewhere. “Hear your accuser!”

  “She made me lose it!” said Myra’s indignant voice. All around, girls were laughing.

  “Your crime is unforgiveable,” Darlene pronounced. “There is no defense. Hubby lost his hard-on. It is your fault, do you agree?”

  It sounded like the racket of crows. Hannah said nothing, she tried to reach the bed with her toes to take the strain off her arms.

  “Speak!” snapped Darlene.

  “Husband,” said Darlene, “by right of the outraged man, who lost it, you may punish this woman.” Hannah heard her say, “Charlotte! The whip!”

  Hannah thought she was shrieking but from her mouth came only a strangled, “No!” She saw, in a lurid inner flash, Maria’s ruined back and belly. “No!” sobbed Hannah, and she recalled, “The women are so cruel!”

  “Charlotte?” she cried. “Charlotte? No! Darlene?” She glanced down the full length of her body. She only could squeeze her thighs together. “I didn’t do anything,” she pleaded. “I was tied up!”

  She babbled, “This is a play, isn’t it? Just a play?”

  Charlotte ceremoniously held out to Myra a braided black whip about a foot long. From its end, like a serpent’s tongue, forked two rawhide thongs about six-inches long. Myra bowed and took the whip. She snapped it, lashing the air. Then she cracked it across her palm and yelped, “Ow!” They laughed.

  With great deliberation, she scrutinized Hannah: the sweet face with scarlet lips, breasts drawn high by the stretched arms, purple nipples smeared by kisses, belly ending in the fluffy pussy, and the long legs twitching in fear. Myra grinned.

  Hannah said, softly, “No, Myra, please? Please, no?” But her voice was uninflected, without hope.

  Myra said, “If you turn that way, sweetie, I won’t whip your arse.”

  Hannah didn’t understand, but she squeezed her thighs together. She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. All right.

  “Only three,” said Darlene. “And you can’t mark her, you know.” Hannah barely understood anymore.

  The first one cracked across her belly at her navel because she had twisted her buttocks away to protect herself. She screamed; the pain was impossible. Like burning your finger in fire, but then you couldn’t pull it away, the agony went on. She knew she could not stand this. On her belly was a light line of pink.

  She was pleading. With convulsive energy, she jerked her knees up almost to her chest, bouncing in her bonds, so her whole weight dragged on her arms. Myra was quick. The flames shot across Hannah’s exposed arse leaving pink stripes across the full white cheeks.

  She shrieked. Later, she never could remember why it was unbearable; she knew she would rather die than feel it, but later her body refused to imagine the pain. Now, she cried continuously, and babbled, “No, no, no!”

  “One more!” Darlene warned sternly. “One.”

  This came across the cheeks of her buttocks, much harder, much more violently. It lashed her plump twin globes and her body twirled. She loosed a long, ignominious fart. There was loud laughter.

  Myra raised the whip on high. Hannah shrieked, “Stop! Enough!”

  She made a violent twist, and, as a result, the bright pink line appeared just over the top of her bush. She spun in her ropes, screaming. She was dancing now, in the air, lifting her thighs in agony.

  “Stop!” Darlene commanded, but two new fiery lines seared Hannah’s stretched breasts. Almost in the same instant, the forked lashes made lines across Hannah’s thighs, so high that one disappeared into the hair at the base of her belly.

  “I told you I’d whip it for you!” said Myra softly, but the other girls had seized her arms, her wrists, one throwing an arm around her neck and jerking back her head. Myra seemed indifferent. She dropped the whip, and said, “Fine.”

  They left Hannah there; she could not stop crying, head hanging so that her hair hid the contorted features. Her breasts shook with the sobs. She heard Darlene’s voice, enraged. “You’re crazy, you bitch!”

  Charlotte had jumped nimbly onto the bed, with a full goblet of red wine, and was feeding it to Hannah as she hung in bondage. Hannah drank, her head back. At last, she could get her breath and asked, “Why did they do it to me?” It was more a sob than words, but even now, she had to know. Charlotte was tenderly stroking Hannah’s breasts, her belly, her thighs. “I’m sorry, puss,” she murmured.

  Finally they untied her, holding her so she didn’t fall. Then she lay on the bed taking deep breaths. She thought, after awhile, she heard the heavy door open and close. She looked around; the room was almost deserted; only Charlotte stood there, watching her. Charlotte said, “You have to hurry, puss. Curfew. Big trouble if you miss it.”

  At that, Hannah abruptly sat up, getting her legs over the side of the bed. Charlotte was there with a warm, wet towel, wiping Hannah’s face. Hannah looked around, confused. Yes, there was the little heap of her clothing, dropped where they tore it off her. How long ago?

  When she stood, she almost fell. Charlotte caught her. Charlotte held out the clothes, but Hannah ignored them. She stepped into the little bedroom and stood before the mirror. It was the urge to
examine the damage to the body, see and understand the pain. With the cloth Charlotte had given her, she wiped her face, wiped the last smears off her breasts. She let down the hair they had pinned up, shaking it, arranging it around her shoulders.

  She barely could discern the stripes on her body, although they still seared her. Then, she walked from the room and held out her hand. Charlotte passed her the blouse and pants and Hannah put them on. Then her sandals. She walked to the door, opened it, and, at first, drew back. The woods seemed impenetrable, now. How would she find her way? And what if they were waiting there, to ambush her? But what else could they do to her?

  She turned to Charlotte. “Take me back.” They walked side by side along the path. When her eyes grew accustomed to the light, it was less inky. At the little door into the mansion, Charlotte stepped up and opened it. Faintly, Hannah heard talking, laughter, and realized what it was. She was starving, now. Drained, exhausted, burning with the hot stripes. And still woozy from wine. So what?

  She turned to Charlotte. “Is that dinner?”

  “You want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  She followed Charlotte up a flight of stairs, along a corridor. In spite of the sensations and thoughts that tried to blur her mind, Hannah was memorizing the twists and turns. Ahead was a wide door, lighted, and she heard the voices. She stepped through and saw that a few girls and boys still were there, sitting at different tables as they mostly did.

  “You’ll have to hustle,” said Charlotte. “Almost over. Get your food right way before they clear it. You can take it to your room if you have to.” Immediately, Hannah was crossing the room to the food table. A few of them looked up at her. Maria was there, sitting alone; she studied Hannah for a moment, then looked down. Charles watched her with a rueful smile.

  Hannah filled a tray and went to a table, alone, like Maria. Charlotte seemed to understand and did not follow her. Hannah thought of Maria’s body, with scars of the whip deep, permanent, all across her breasts, low on her belly, on her inner thighs. Like an interwoven net on the strong, white body. She remembered the smudged, partly obliterated nipples. The awful crisscrossing over the pubic hair. Tonight they had been toying with her—no, staging a play. But something in Myra had wanted more, to hurt Hannah.

  Hannah ate slowly. Just ate, nourishing herself, deliberately taking care of herself. She had responsibilities; there was a lot to do. She looked forward to the next morning’s exercise class; she knew she could keep up. It was essential to be strong, as strong as anyone, as tough. Nobody had pity for anyone; no one knew mercy. Her plans would begin tomorrow, but tonight she had business to finish.

  When Charles rose, the other boys did, as well. Hannah heard them, but did not glance up. Only after they passed, she rose, also, pushing aside the tray. Apparently, none of the troupe had to do the slightest housekeeping, unless they chose to do so. Prisoner princesses. By then, the boys were out the door, and Hannah hurried. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Maria looking after her.

  The boys had reached the end of the hall, and were splitting up. Charles climbed the stairs, trotted up, and Hannah followed. By the time Hannah reached the top, he was disappearing down the corridor. But then he stopped at a door, opened it, and went in. Hannah noted the location and turned away to find her own room.

  Chapter 13

  “You Can Do Anything You Want, Charles”

  She dropped the two white garments, soiled now, onto a chair. She washed herself in the fresh-filled basin, the water warm (who slipped in to do these things?), and it turned a little pink with her blood. As she dried herself, she watched in the mirror to remove all lipstick, mascara, and rouge. The tips of her breasts were puffy and reddened; she dabbed them. The nipples stung from the soap and water, but she saw no mark. She tentatively drew a forefinger through the furrow between her thighs; she never would have done that before, not with her bare finger. She even reached farther back and found the bud of her anus; it was a little sore, but no blood came off on her finger.

  Like any girl preparing for a date, she appraised herself in the mirror. She knew little about making up her face, because she never had had much to do it with, but she tried a little of the various things on the dressing table, experimenting. Did you really color your nipples as the girls had colored hers? She thought not.

  Out of the closet, she selected a plain black shift of silk that felt like a caress as she slipped it over her head and let it drop. Then, she took it off and hung it up. She went to the bed and lay down naked. She had an hour or so to wait. She lay rehearsing the initiation scene by scene. She did not call it that, but she felt that she “belonged,” now. They might leave her alone. Her memory lingered on moments when she was rising weightless toward that place that promised more pleasure than she ever had imagined.

  And that drink they gave her. It was spirits; she knew about them. Everyone one, however poor, seemed to find spirits they could afford, usually gin. Under the influence of wine, she had surrendered to titillation. As she recalled it, she drew her fingertips over her breasts. That first faint shiver. Her hand slid down, hesitated in the nest of hair, and then continued. She shivered again. Perhaps that was the spot they touched, Charles, Myra, when they lifted her higher, higher, then let her crash into bleak frustration. It felt good to touch herself, but not like when the others did it.

  Suddenly, she was sure she had found that spot; you had to brush it very gently, almost by accident, or the feeling didn’t happen. She kept her fingertips on it, wondering, and once brought two fingers to her mouth, wet them, and went. That made it nicer. She let her thighs loll open.

  She jacked up to a sitting position and swung down her legs. To hell with waiting! She pulled on the cool, sensuous shift. No underwear, same as during the day. Then, she stepped out of her room and by inches pulled shut the door. Charlotte had said that if you broke “curfew” it was serious. Was curfew when you had to be back in the mansion or to stay in your room? She might be risking new trouble.

  She walked quickly, on bare feet, along the corridor, down the stairs, along another corridor to Charles’s door. She stopped and smoothed her hair. She was aware of the silk against her nipples and her thighs, her buttocks. But now her heart bound in her chest, that slightly sick feeling. It was dread. Of what?

  She was beautiful, desirable, wasn’t she? Today, the girls couldn’t stop gazing at her, touching her, commenting, and kissing. She lifted her hand and rapped on the door; it had to be loud enough for Charles to hear, not loud enough to carry to the next rooms. Please come, Charles! And hurry.

  She heard nothing. Someone could appear around the corner any moment. Well, Charles and the others had walked into her room and made themselves at home, ambushing her. She turned the knob, pushed open the door, quickly stepped in, and pulled it shut. Moonlight fell in bright slanting streams from the windows. She wondered if she could make herself move forward; her heart wouldn’t behave. What was more terrible than the whipping? Why did she feel dread?

  Then she had crossed, bare feet whispering on the carpet, and stood beside the bed. Would he suddenly yell, challenge her, cry out in fear? No, he was asleep, flung down on his back, naked. She stared at his penis and the black hair, now a darker shadow among shadows. The penis was so strange; it looked soft, curled on his leg; it looked so tender. Then she looked up at the handsome sleeping face, again the frame of dark hair, and her heart tried to bound away in flight.

  She lay two fingers on his arm and called softly, “Charles, Charles.” The body gave a brief jerk and he sat up abruptly; his hands came up to protect himself. His eyes stared at her. “No, no!” she said. “No! It’s Hannah. No one to hurt you.”

  Charles drew a ragged breath and fell back. “So,” he said, and somehow, she thought, he already understood much, much more than she could have imagined. Standing in the moonlight, Hannah drew the shift over her head and dropped it. She was pale, as white as the white moonlight that fell on her. She was naked,
looking down at him and trying very, very hard to shape a smile. She had thought, after this evening, she never would feel such fear again; this was different and yet it made her tremble. Please, please, please let him be as excited, greedy, as the hands and lips that helped themselves to every part of her body, insatiable. She stood straight, an offering, and her nipples stiffened. Let him speak! Seize her! Even hit her!

  When the voice came it was casual, conversational. It seemed gentle. “The girls got you this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it rough?”

  She hesitated. “Not…not really. Yes, for me. But not…”

  “Did they whip you, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Myra.”

  She saw him nod. “She hit your cunt, that’s what she does.”

  “Almost,” said Hannah. She placed a hand at the top of her pubic hair, and said, “Here.” Her hand moved to the bottom of the triangle and she felt the soft lips. “And here, once.”

  She added, “And across my titties.”

  “But they didn’t take your cherry, of course?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a virgin, you have your hymen?”

  “Oh. No one ever has been in me.” She hesitated, wondering how much to say. He asked everything so directly. “But up my arsehole, tonight; it didn’t hurt much.”

  “You are quite amazing to be standing here talking like this.”

  She felt hope. Just say it. “Charles, I need you.” How did a woman say it? Didn’t men just seize women and take them? Charles did not answer, but he looked up at her. His prick had become straight! Like the thing they used on her! He must want her!

  Charles saw her gaze and his hand moved down and took the penis. It was longer than Hannah even imagined, and thicker. He moved his fingers up and down, as though thoughtfully. Hannah wanted to do that; she had to do that! She leaned over and placed her hands on his hard chest, feeling the hair. She moved her hand, seeking his nipples, and she squeezed them. She hoped it was the right thing to do. Still Charles did not move. Hannah began to panic, to flush furiously. He couldn’t see, though; not in the dark. If only he was like the women, ravenous.