Hansel, Part One

by Ella James

  “I thought there was another one today? Besides this late girl?”

  “Dyed hair,” he says.

  I nod. I don’t do fake blondes, not because I have anything against them, but because I’m looking for a certain thing.

  I skim the hand-written application, scowling as I do. When I finish, I shove it back at him.

  “Whatever. But you have to have her here in ten—or no dice.”

  “Sir—”

  “Ten minutes.” I look down at my watch. “That’s all the time I have before I have to call a fucking escort.”

  I clench my teeth, because I want to lash out at Raymond. Instead, I take a long, slow breath and before walking back into the room. There I wait with my eyes shut, aching for someone I’ll probably never see again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Leah

  Ten Years Ago

  The room has a cot, a small closet stocked with all-brown clothes, a desk stocked with paper, markers¸ and paint—but nothing sharp like pens or pencils—and a few paperback books. I find the markers are dried up, and so are the paints. All part of the game, I guess.

  At the bottom of my door, there’s a hole about the size of a school text book where she puts a plate through once a day. The food is good enough, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really eat it. When I’m finished, I toss the plate outside the door. Sometimes, I can hear other people’s plates clatter against the hardwood hall. Occasionally I hear screaming, sometimes faint sobbing, and from the room to the left of mine, sometimes a sawing sound.

  It’s been thirteen days now. Thirteen days I’ve spoken to no one. Three days since Mother pushed a sheet of stickers through the hole in my door. I thought I was finished crying, but today, I’ve cried all day.

  All of a sudden, I hear a sound, and I look at the bottom of the wall that divides my room from the one on the left. A small square of Sheetrock falls out, revealing a sort-of jagged hole about the size of a CD.

  I sit there for a second, still crying, and wonder what kind of game this is.

  Then I walk slowly over.

  I get on my hands and knees and peer through the hole.

  I see a hazel eye, a dark eyebrow, and then, as he backs up just a little bit, a set of lips.

  “Gretel?”

  When his voice vibrates the air, I feel it deep down in my belly. It’s low and…nice.

  I look into his eyes, and he looks into mine, and I feel warmer. Literally, warmer. Even though I can only see a little of his face, I can read the sympathy there.

  “Gretel,” he says softly. “That’s what she’s calling you?”

  I nod a little. Tears have started up again; they flow down my nose, dripping onto the rug.

  “You’re crying,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

  I sniff loudly. “Are you Hansel?”

  “I am.”

  I nod, and cry some more. I was hoping he was here to rescue me, but I guess I should have known better.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks again. His voice is gentle, prompting me to cover my face and sob into my hands.

  “I miss my sisters…and my mom and dad!”

  He nods a little, his head still sideways, like he’s lying on the floor the same way I am. “I’m sorry.”

  I pause for a second, and determine that he sounds sincere.

  “Hansel and Gretel,” I murmur to myself. I wipe my eyes. “How long have you been here?”

  I stare into the yellow flecks of his hazel eyes, and he moves slightly away from the wall, so I can see a little more of his face. He’s dark-haired and attractive. Cuter than any guy in my school. I watch as his luscious mouth goes serious.

  “A long time,” he says, shifting his eyes away for just a moment.

  “Long like years, or long like months?”

  “More like years,” he says quietly.

  My heart skips a few beats, and I watch his face—what little I can see through the hole he carved out. “Are you serious?”

  He presses his lips together, creating a dimple on the left side of his mouth. “I’m afraid I am.”

  I start to sob again, dropping my head down on my arms. A moment later, I jump lightly when I feel something warm on my elbow.

  His hand.

  He’s stretched his hand through the hole in the wall, and is lightly stroking over my forearm. I study his fingers as his soothing voice says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you more upset.” Silence blooms around us as I examine his muscular arm; his big, gentle hand.

  “I could hear you,” he says softly, “through the walls. I’ve been digging my way to you since you got here.”

  “Thirteen days ago,” I tell him.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I sniff, and nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

  He’s folded his hand into a partial fist, his knuckles resting against my arm.

  “How ya holding up? You scared? Feeling okay?”

  “I miss my sisters,” I choke. “I’m a triplet.”

  His fingers start to stroke again, and I forget to breathe.

  “That must be pretty cool.”

  “It was,” my voice cracks, “but now they’re gone! I’m gone! They probably think I’m dead.”

  He stops stroking for a moment, then picks up, even more gentle than before. “I’m really sorry. That sounds…really hard.”

  “What about your family?” I murmur.

  “I don’t have a family.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” he says.

  His fingers are still stroking, so I figure the conversation isn’t over yet. My throat is sore from the little bit of talking I’ve done, and that bothers me. I’m afraid of how lonely I’ve been, so I keep talking. I decide to try a question, even though I’m nervous if I ask the wrong one, he’ll stop touching me.

  “How did you get here?” I finally manage.

  There’s a little pause in his stroking; then he starts again, and answers in his deep voice: “Mother took me from a family who didn’t want me anymore.”

  I wonder why they didn’t want him. That’s so sad.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “I’m sixteen or seventeen now, I think.”

  He doesn’t know? I take a deep breath, and try to imagine what scenario facilitated this boy’s capture. I look down at his fingers. Maybe I could ask.

  “How did she do it? How did Mother…get you?”

  His thumb traces a line on the inside of my forearm, the motions gentle, slow, deliberate. I can almost see him thinking. Finally he says, “The other family helped.”

  “They did?” I move my arm out from under his stroking fingers, and clasp his fingertips as a sob builds in my throat. “It’s just…so hard to believe that things like this happen, you know? How did they…how’d they help her?” I dare.

  He turns his hand over, and I see a thick scar running along the inside of his wrist. Oh, no. My stomach aches, and for a moment I can’t speak. “That’s when it happened?” Silence rises up between us, and I rush to fill it. “I’m so sorry. That must have been…so horrible.”

  “Not your fault,” he says after a second. His hand is in a fist again, lying against the rug, away from mine. He starts to pull it away, and my fingers touch his knuckles. I don’t want him to leave yet. For the first time since I got here, I feel…better.

  “What happened?” I whisper. “To…your arm?” I’d normally never ask this sort of question, but in this scenario, it just pops out.

  His answer is simple, and delivered in a quiet tone. “I got tired.”

  My fingers fold his hand open. I allow one to tremble over it. “It looks painful,” I whisper.

  “I didn’t feel it.”

  “How did you dig this hole?” I ask. I’m holding his arm with my hand, so he can’t move it. I want to stroke the scar, to show him that he’s not alone, but I think he’ll definitely move if I do, so I restrain myself.

  “Are you worried ab
out sharps?” he asks with a rough-sounding laugh.

  “I guess so.” I smile a little. “That’s smart, right? If I’m going to be your sister, I need to watch out for you.”

  “I’m okay, Gretel.”

  “My name is Leah, not Gretel.”

  “Leah,” he says slowly. “That’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well Leah, I’ve got some stuff tucked away inside my room. If you ever need anything, let me know. I might have it.”

  My fingers tighten over his hand, because I’m worried he will move it now. I can’t stand to be alone. “Please don’t go! I’m…so alone in here! I’m all alone, every day! I can’t stand it!” I start to cry again.

  His strong, smooth fingers intertwine with mine. His thumb strokes the top of my hand, gentle and rhythmic. It’s the nicest thing a boy has ever done for me.

  “You’ll be okay,” he says. He turns my hand over, so the palm is facing up, and runs a finger over it. “You’re strong. I can read palms. You’re going to have a long life, mostly good. You won’t be here for very long.”

  “I won’t?” I whisper.

  “No.” His hand folds over mine and squeezes. “Leah, would you like to hear a story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me tell you about a princess renowned for her fair hands…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Leah

  Present Time

  I know it’s a long shot, but on Monday morning, as my family leaves Vegas, I take a cab to The Forest and tell the man at the front desk I’m there for sub tryouts.

  I’m not sure what I’ll do if I’m told that it’s too late.

  More than anything, I want to see and talk to Hansel, but I’m not so sure that there’s a point. If he’s in a BDSM relationship with someone else…

  I bite my lip as the man at the desk makes a call.

  I’m just not sure what I would say to him. If I could talk to him without losing my shit.

  Turns out, I don’t have to figure out quite yet. A man named Raymond comes and takes a look at me. I start to sweat in my black jeans and plain white t-shirt.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Lauren,” I lie. I’m not sure why, I just can’t be Leah—not at this second.

  “How old are you, Lauren?”

  “Twenty-five.” That part’s the truth.

  He nods, then looks down at his watch. He waves me toward the massive foyer-like area, through which my sisters and I entered the other night. “Come on with me. We’ll see if we can work you in.”

  I follow him through the foyer, then the hall, and then we go through a little door marked ‘private’ and start down another hall.

  We stop first in a small room with a table, where I sign an NDA. I initial where it’s highlighted and hardly look at it. I would never say a word to anyone about Hansel. Or Edgar, as he’s calling himself now.

  Then I follow Raymond down the hall a little ways, and into an apartment. He hands me a black velvet bag and points me toward a bathroom.

  “Change into this. The mask is important, like the NDA stated.”

  I nod slowly. Mask? Maybe I should have read the NDA, because that’s kind of strange.

  “Will do,” I tell him quietly.

  As I change into the royal blue teddy and thigh-highs, I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. If I should end this ruse right now and tell Raymond who I really am and see if he would see me—Edgar. I can’t imagine he’d say no.

  Unless he was embarrassed.

  I think he maybe would be.

  The guy I knew wasn’t kind, and conscientious. True, he was Type A and restless… Drive. But he was kind. And though I know his life before I met him took a toll on him, I would never have guessed how much.

  Maybe he was being made into this by the experiences of The House, but he wasn’t like this. Not yet.

  My stomach hurts as I brush my hair. I leave it down because it kind of shields me. Then I remember the mask. I peek into the little bag and find something delicate and silky. It looks like it came from an old-time masquerade ball, made of silk and sequins. It’s royal blue, like my getup, and all it leaves exposed are my eyes, my mouth, and my chin. I feel ridiculous wearing it. But it’s also kind of beautiful.

  A few seconds later, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Just a minute.”

  I smear lip gloss on my lips—watermelon, still my favorite—and walk out with my clothes in the little bag, feeling about as self-conscious as I did at my last OB appointment.

  “See that door?” he asks me, pointing to a glossy wooden door across the well-appointed living room. “Knock three times and wait for him to let you in.”

  I knock, and start to tremble as I stand there at his door. Seconds later, I hear his low voice say, “Come in.”

  I can barely walk without falling down as I step into a room with an enormous king-sized bed, covered with crimson silk. He’s propped up on a mountain of pillows, wearing nothing.

  He’s…so beautiful.

  Dark hair, tanned skin, dark-lashed hazel eyes. One look into his eyes and I start sucking my breaths back.

  “Do you have an anxiety problem?” he says flatly.

  Tears spring up in my eyes. Oh, Hansel. Somehow, I shake my head.

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  I nod.

  “Why did you come here?” He spreads his legs a little and wraps his big, familiar hand around his shaft.

  My voice trembles as I tell him, “I wanted…a shot at being…” deep breath, “your submissive.”

  His eyes narrow a little, and I wonder at first if he recognizes my voice. He would know it better than most, having interacted with me so much when he couldn’t see my face.

  “You’re a trained submissive?”

  I lick my lips. “I-I’m not sure. I guess…well, no. I don’t have a certificate or anything.”

  I freeze, my heart throbbing, waiting for him to recognize me. To call me out. To get up off the bed and run to me.

  How could he not know me, even in this outfit?

  He leans back a little on his pillows, and I notice he’s not actually naked. He’s wearing a blue silk robe that matches my clothes.

  “Come here,” he tells me as he shifts so he’s sitting with his muscular legs hanging off the bed.

  I walk over to him. Stop there beside him, looking up at the face I barely knew, although I know the soul behind it better than almost anyone. Tears start to fill my eyes. My lungs forget to breathe.

  Snapshot: one dark wave, falling over a hazel eye.

  His hand comes up under my chin, stroking the skin there until a fine shiver covers my whole body. I suck back a breath and lick my lips again.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  His fingers press into the bottom of my chin, tilting my face so our eyes meet.

  I start to tremble harder.

  I press my lips together, because I’m not entirely sure I can keep myself from whispering his name.

  How many times did I look into these eyes? I know the yellow flecks in his hazel irises so well, looking at them feels like coming home.

  How long have I waited to see him again?

  How much have I wanted it?

  My mouth opens of its own accord. Words line up on my tongue. They are desperate to fall out, just as my hands—lax, by my side—are desperate to reach up and touch the hardness of his chest. The dark wave of his hair.

  He drops my chin and frowns slightly.

  One word dives off. “Please…”

  *

  Lucas

  Looking down on her from my perch on the side of the mattress, I cock one eyebrow in a light challenge. “Please what?”

  Her lower lip catches in between her teeth. She quickly lets it go and rubs those moist, pink lips together.

  This fifth girl, with her mask covering her face so perfectly, and her body clad so nicely in my clothes, is making my dick hard. It throbs ag
ainst my belly, standing straight up for her, begging for her small, smooth hands.

  She seems exactly the right size. Right height. She’s got a nice, lyrical voice the way my Leah did. I wonder idly if she can sing before her lips part once more.

  She shuts them, to my disappointment. “Nothing,” she whispers, with a little shake of her head.

  I stroke down her arm and take her hand. “Come up on the bed with me.”

  Rather than wait for her to climb up, I close my hands around her waist and lift her onto the silky duvet.

  “Kneel,” I order.

  I watch her hands tremble as she kneels in front of me. I can feel my lips tuck up into a small smile.

  “Very nice,” I tell her. “Now lie down.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, as if she wants to ask me how, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lies on her back with her pretty legs together and her arms by her sides.

  Damn, she’s perfect. Her arms are lean and lightly muscled, the skin of them soft and lightly tanned. Something about the shape reminds me of Leah’s.

  My dick pounds.

  I spread her knees apart and move between her legs. The trembling I saw before is rampant now, as I bring my hungry mouth down on her cunt.

  I slide my tongue between her lips, flicking hard from her core up to her clit. A little gasp escapes her mouth. Her hips buck off the bed.

  “That’s right.” I press a chuckle against her plump pussy and stretch my tongue out, delving inside, parting her gently. I point the tip of my tongue and tease her up and down, stopping sometimes at her center, where I plug her sweet entrance, then drag my tongue back up, so I can skate around her clit.

  Her hands reach up and grab my shoulders; one of her fingers catches a sore spot, and I have to swallow back a moan. I didn’t tell her she could touch me. She should be punished.

  I flick my tongue over her clit, and she moans, jumping so high, her entire body lifts off the bed.

  I roll my tongue around her swollen clit, then down, then up. She’s panting hard. I grin.

  “How does this feel?”

  I lick my finger, then position it at her center, and she moans a little as I sink inside her. “Good,” she whispers. “Really good.”

  I slide my finger out and tell her, “Put yours in. Finger yourself while I decide what to do with you.”