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Authors: Maren Smith

Holding Hannah (3 page)

BOOK: Holding Hannah
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CHAPTER FOUR

 

The Sanctuary was an innocuously named S&M club
that met once or twice a month, in the rear of a senior member’s old cow pasture and under the cover of the fully decked-out barn. It was poorly lit, had a dirt floor and was barely big enough for the fifty some people who showed up like clockwork every weekend. Although no livestock had called this place home for almost a decade, amazingly, the faint aroma of manure and straw could still be detected—particularly when someone was bent bottom-up over the spanking bench in the far corner. Compared to the Castle, this place barely ranked, but unlike the Castle, the Sanctuary was open and so here Sam came.

He waited
in the shadows beyond the bare-bulb light gathering bugs just above the hayloft doors. Inside, the low beat of Marilyn Manson’s Personal Jesus thumped through the rafters, setting the mood for those already organizing their scenes and coaxing meetings out of shyer members. Sam could feel the thump of the bass through the weathered boards at his back, and the heady reverberations amplified his anticipation. He was excited. That in and of itself was not unusual; there was always a measure of excitement to be felt in the meeting of a new play partner. He loved women—old or young, thin or heavy, flat or curved, it honestly didn’t matter. All were beautiful in ways as varied as the women themselves. But, without a doubt the most beautiful of them all was the willing submissive.

Like Hannah—
his gut tightened, heated. Already, his cock was beginning to throb in time to the beat at his back and she wasn’t even here yet.

She might not come at all, a little voice whispered in his head.

No, she’d come. He’d heard the determination in her voice when she’d called. His eyes followed the car lights moving up and down the distant road. One set slowed down and turned into the pasture, following nothing more than the well-laid ruts of all the cars that had wandered the grassy hills before it. After so many years of meeting here, some of the grass had become discouraged, leaving twin dirt paths running parallel all the way to the barn. Sam rolled, propping his shoulder against the wall as he watched the car come. He remembered how she’d looked at the carved wall sconces and the images on the panels of the Wardrobe door. He had known that look—that glint of reluctant fascination, shadowed by equal measures of denial and need.

Hannah was a submissive,
but she was trying to hide it and that made him curious. He had walked beside her for more than an hour, every inch of him so in tune with every flinch, every blush, every averted gaze that resulted in her dragging her eyes reluctantly back again within seconds to whatever had embarrassed her. Every vibe he got from her suggested she was inexperienced, but captivated; drawn, but resisting it; aroused, but fighting the allure.

She had secrets
; had she followed him down into the basement dungeon, she’d not have left again before he’d coaxed them out of her. His cock throbbed harder, hotter. Well, that was what tonight was for then, wasn’t it?

A
nticipation rocked him as he watched the car come. It had reached the impromptu parking lot now. Finding a space in one of the outlying rows, it stopped and the lights went out. A car door opened and closed, kicking his anticipation even higher, and then…there she was, walking toward him out of the darkness, in sweltering ninety-six degree Midwest summer weather and yet dressed in form-hugging but long-sleeved black shirt and jeans. Her clothes weren’t just covering—like wearing a parka to go swimming at the beach, they were going to make her stand out. She was presenting him with a challenge, and everything that Sam was rose to take the bait. He rubbed his chin, his mouth actually watering as he considered how best to divest her, not just of her clothes but of all those tantalizing secrets he could feel churning just under the surface of her.

He pushed off the b
arn and stepped out into the light. She actually stopped walking when she recognized him. He put on his most unassuming smile; she still hesitated, albeit only for a few seconds, before venturing closer.

“You fo
und us,” he offered by way of a greeting.

“I have a
GPS.” She didn’t smile back. Twin spots of pink (was it the start of a soft blush or the result of the heat and a too-warm shirt?) colored her cheeks, but her face was a quiet mask to the emotion her hands revealed. She gripped them tightly before her, wringing at her fingers until her knuckles whitened. Ah, but her face—it was a perfect lie, striving hard to hide the swell of nervous emotion roiling underneath.

Sam held out his arm, letting his hand rest lightly upon her shoulder as she preceded him
to the barn. He got the door for her, his hand dropping to the small of her back as he nudged her on inside. That she did not flinch from his touch encouraged him; it wasn’t he that she was afraid of, then. She drew up short just inside, rubbing and rubbing at her arm—the left, he noted—as she paused to look around. It didn’t seem to be the other members she feared either, which left only one thing left: she feared herself.

It was a fight not to immediately back her into the nearest corner.
Patience
, Sam told himself.
Patience
. He watched her closely, seeing the way her gaze bounced from one scene to the next, neither disturbed or particularly titillated, simply taking it all in.

Nearly all the stations were taken.
Straight in from the doorway in the first old horse stall, a couple was practicing shibari—the submissive held her arms straight out at her sides while her Domme knelt behind her, adjusting the lie of the silken ropes as she brought them twisting down her torso and looped them between her legs. Both St. Andrew’s crosses were in use, the flogging taking place on one having a slightly larger crowd watching than the whipping on the other. Marshall was in fine form—a snake whip in each hand and all of his attention fixed on the woman arching and writhing into every snap of the tips against her back and buttocks. A man was relaxing facedown on a padded table while Tabby, in her usual kitty clothes (including ears and tail) administered a fire-cupping massage. In the very back, spitfire subby Nattie was just stripping down for her first spanking of the night. Her Dom, a relative newcomer to the group, was getting the restraints ready and laughing at something she’d just said. She was a playful handful; she was also a scene-hog. By the night’s end, he’d probably see Nattie bending herself for the attentions of half a dozen men or more. She loved playing with the newer, less experienced Doms. That way, she got away with more.

Hannah turned in a slow circle,
her wide-eyed gaze bouncing from scene to scene, couple to couple, and suddenly stopped, arresting in open fascination on a nipple piercing taking place on a spanking bench across the barn. One breast had already been done. Jackson was getting ready to pierce the other and was just rechecking his marks when Hannah took that first hesitant step toward them.

“Do you have any piercings?”
Sam softly asked her as she very quietly joined the outskirts of the watching crowd.

Hannah shook her head
, riveted in watching Jackson work, enraptured, as if she could not tear her gaze away.

Sam watched her the same way. “Pity,” he said for her ears alone. “I can imagine how good your body would look
dressed in a few extra pieces of jewelry.”

Sam heard the sub catch her breath, but he knew
exactly when that second piercing happened by Hannah’s reaction alone. She shivered, her soft puff of an exhaling breath barely more than a sigh. When she caught her forearm, her nails dug into her own flesh as if inflicting punishment. Just like at the Castle, he suddenly realized, every time she’d looked at something that attracted her, the erotic wall sconces, the costumes, the restraints still neatly packaged in all their clearly marked boxes.

Sam moved closer, close enough to see
(even in this dim lighting) the soft flush of arousal rising to paint Hannah’s pretty face, neck and chest. Her breaths had turned to pants, quick and shallow, forcing the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts. They were the perfect handful—his palms itched; his mouth watered—tipped with taut little buds that strained at the fabric of her shirt, refusing to be hidden, begging to be kissed and sucked.

He tried to resist
—she struck him as sheltered, very new to all of this, and she didn’t know him at all—but still he could not stop himself from slipping up behind her. His chest brushed against the heat of her back, his hands found the alluring curves of her hips and rested lightly there. She could so easily have pulled out of his reach, but she didn’t and so he leaned into her, feeling the wisps of her hair tickling at his cheek and the corner of his mouth as he whispered in her ear, “Are you wondering how that will feel, Hannah—the cold impersonal grip of the clamp, the touch of the pen as it makes each tiny mark? You’ll feel a slight pressure, the startling puncture followed by a little pain, and when it’s done, you’ll look down at the perfection that is your beautiful little breast and the glitter of the ring catching in the light will steal your breath away.”

Her whole body sh
ivered against him; Sam smiled, liking the feeling, and breathed his hot seduction into her. “Oh, but then the burn will set in and your wounded nipples will throb…and throb…until it’s not just your breasts now, but your pretty pussy throbbing along in time. Aching. Empty.” She trembled all over; he tightened his hold, securing her in the wrap of his embrace while he whispered, “Your piercings will hurt too much to touch, but you won’t be able to resist, will you, Hannah? Because even the smallest caress will kick the throbbing up higher, then another notch hotter, and already all you can think about is how good it would feel to hurt like that while the caress of strong hands push your thighs apart. A man’s hands. My hands—” Her breath actually caught at that. “—holding you open to the hungry stab of my tongue an instant before you are engulfed in the heat of my mouth.”

Her knees wobbl
ed, her legs buckling just a little as his hands on her hips began to knead, rocking her hips and bringing her soft, shapely ass back into contact with his cock. He knew she could feel it. She clutched her arm all the harder, pinching and squeezing at her flesh in punishing time, and yet she made no effort to break away.

“Have you ever
played before?” He asked.

Hannah’s trembling
became a full-bodied quaking. “No,” she mouthed. There wasn’t even sound enough there to be a whisper.

A couple exited the horse stall not eight feet behind them. There was little inside—a chain and hook suspended from the loft rafters and a simple
, padded sawhorse. He rubbed her hips, her lovely ass bumping against his rock-hard cock again and again, and looked back at the hook, then at a length of yellow rope hanging on one wall, then Hannah, soft and trembling in his arms, her moist lips parted, her breasts rising and falling, her eyes staring helpless out at nothing while she waited for what he would whisper next.


Give yourself to me.” It was the wrong thing to say, but Sam couldn’t stop himself. He had never come on this strong with such a novice before. He knew he ran the risk of scaring her so badly that she simply left, and yet when he let go of her hips and took that first sliding step back toward the waiting stall, she didn’t flee. She looked as if she wanted to. Her eyes were wide and wet, teary almost, but she turned and—a near-electric thrill rocked him—began to follow. They were such tiny baby steps, but she took them.


What do I have to do?” She asked.

Already a crowd was gathering, finding positions around the low stall walls from which to watch them. For Sam, they might as well have been the only two people in the barn. He kept his eyes locked with hers; he held out
his hand, coaxing her to come. “Submit.”

“To what?”
Her words were barely above a whisper.

His were stronger. “Everything.”

He saw it when her fragile thread of courage frayed. Her steps faltered. She caught a nervous breath and gripped her arm, clawing her nails into her skin. “I-I don’t know how,” she stammered.

But he
knew differently. He reached for her; his fingers slid around her captured wrist and dislodged her fingernails from out of her abused arm. She tried to pull away; he was not having it.  His face went still as he held her eyes.  She flinched and tried to pull away again, this time a bit more forcefully, but Sam wasn’t about to let her go. He held her eyes for one more moment, then dropped his gaze to her arm, peeled her shirt sleeve back almost to her elbow… revealing row after uneven row of healing cuts. Most were pink, rubbed raw from all her nervous scratching, one—still scabbed in patches—was bleeding again, a single crimson pearl that beaded up against the pale blush of her skin.   Hannah gasped and thought she might throw up.

 

A flash of heat, a shot of eureka, zipped like static electricity up Sam's back and lodged under his skull. It came down again a heartbeat later, trembling into his arms, his legs, his hands.

And now, h
e knew her secret.

He raised her arm, only just managing to keep from fastening his mouth over that tiny scratch
and drinking her into him. The intensity of his hunger shook him. The need to simply throw her up against the nearest wall and shove his throbbing cock all the way up inside her was damn near overwhelming. By only the barest margin did he refrain. The look on her face had melted into one of deep shame as he cradled her arm in his hands. Again, when he pressed the softest kiss upon the first pink rung on that ladder of healing scars, she tried to pull away. This time, he let her go, but her timid defiance roused the dark need in him. He would not be escaped.

BOOK: Holding Hannah
14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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