The Price of Hannah Blake (11 page)

The flute lilted on, mocking and melancholy. Now, the girls closed in, forcing Hannah and her “groom” together. Hannah saw their gaze, the excitement without warmth, only the glitter of lust. Through the mask’s slits, fierce eyes fed on Hannah’s body. The mask’s carved mouth seemed to leer at her. Her belly felt cold, bare, vulnerable. The brief bands of black only made her breasts and bush seem to beckon. Because her arms were pulled behind her and bound, her breasts and nipples were held high and seemed to shudder when she breathed. She tried to balance on the heels, which pushed her bush forward.

The elegantly coiffed hair left her face bare and pure, its lines perfect, chaste, young. She stood like all the sacrificial maidens of all times, desirable and helpless in the grip of passionate violence. The grotesque groom was only two feet away, now. The ivory phallus almost touched her, as though yearning to nuzzle the her fluffy pubis like the snout of some questing animal. As Hannah gazed down on it, her inner thighs began to quiver and panic wormed at her belly.
This
was what life held in store for her? This soulless impalement? “Sweet little cunt,” they had kept saying, and she knew what they intended. She told herself at least this was no fiend from the Pit—just Myra. And then recalled, “The women are so cruel!”

Darlene stepped forward, now, embracing the couple with a smile in which her extraordinary eyes, huge beneath her broad forehead, fixed Hannah intently and her lips puckered a little as though with a soft whistle. She turned to one of the girls, “The wine?” A girl came forward with two heavy goblets, the liquid golden in the gaslight. The groom seized one, and, tossing back her head, drained it by pouring the stream through the carved slit of a mouth. Some of the wine missed and slopped down; it glistened wetly on the jutting ebony breasts and flat belly.

Darlene raised the other goblet to Hannah’s lips, which had tasted alcohol only a few times. Hannah swallowed, but the cool wine seemed to burn. Darlene steadily tilted the glass, feeding her, until the excess wine splashed down on her bare breasts and the brief leather bra, then dripped to the floor. Finally, Darlene lowered the goblet and Hannah gasped for breath. On the goblet’s crystal edge, she saw the ruby smear from her lips. Someone refilled the glass, and, although Hannah tried to turn away, the goblet pressed her lips and, again, she drank. She was forced to gulp until the wine again ran from her lips and splashed her so that she shivered. Suddenly, she felt a soft tongue on her belly, licking the wine, and heard laughter.

She jerked back, but hands held her. Darlene lowered the goblet and delicately wiped Hannah’s lips and chin with a lacy handkerchief. She daintily patted the wine from Hannah’s breasts. As she did, she stared right into Hannah’s eyes and Hannah stared back. Hannah felt a rising heat, loosening her tension, dissolving the frightful thoughts and images that pressed her mind. It was odd, her panic was receding. She was scared, but the ceremony, more attention than she ever had known in her life, seduced her. The fear was there, but as though at a distance, blurring. Wide-eyed, she blinked at Darlene and Darlene smiled as though she knew exactly what Hannah was feeling.

Hannah heard Darlene say, “A bit more,” and Hannah began to protest. But someone gripped her hair and tilted back her head. The hard crystal come to her lips and the chill wine flowed. She swallowed as long as she could. It was sweet, as tantalizingly sweet as anything that ever had passed her lips. And it didn’t burn her throat anymore. It didn’t matter, did it? She took a step or two to steady herself on her high heels. Every eye in the room was on her, flattering her; she must be very, very beautiful, her nakedness, for these elegantly dressed women to stare at her so.

Then, a tingling coursed through her breasts. “No,” she gasped. Myra had leaned forward to lick the wine from her nipples, the long tongue protruding from the mask’s slit mouth to circle round and round. The shock of tickling seemed to shoot down to her belly, as the tongue gently pushed her nipples. Hannah looked down and saw that the nipples were swollen, jutting like little thumbs. “No,” she moaned softly, but now she did not move. She almost fell, but someone caught her. Little shocks were lancing down into her belly.

Suddenly, another tongue was on her left breast and the wonderful sensations started there, too. There was no escape. She could only struggle to stand up; she felt a sudden terror of falling, of being
down
among these women. By now, she saw, they had licked some of the rouge off her nipples, which had become distorted, crinkled pink buds, rigid and shiny from the wet kisses.

Hannah felt her neck and face flushed, so warm—in embarrassment, pleasure? She no longer could distinguish the two. A voice said, excitedly, “Look, they’re like pink candies!”

Why wouldn’t they stop? Her whole belly and thighs tingled, as though darting stabs of pleasure ran through them. She stood on the high heels, squirming, restless, as though her body demanded to move.

From out of Hannah’s bush a single, elongated drop appeared, glittered, and dropped. She did not see it as it touched her thigh and clung there. But several girls were pointing, laughing. Hannah did not know why. One of the girls darted forward, knelt, and her tongue flicked out to claim the drop. At the feeling of the tongue, high on her thigh, almost to her sex, Hannah gave a violent start.

“Enough!” Darlene’s voice said sternly. “This is an unmarried lady! You have to wait!”

She turned. “The book.”

Someone handed her a small black book. Darlene turned to include both Hannah and Myra in her glance and opened the book, holding it just below her bosom, and began to read. For a moment, Hannah was left alone, her body lost in new sensations—lightness, power, daring?

Darlene solemnly read, “Hannah, do you take this monster as your lawfully wedded husband, just because you are a woman and he tells you that you must?”

Laughter.

Darlene glanced up at her, but Hannah kept her face lowered, refusing to meet the eyes.

From behind the grotesque mask, Myra said, “Yes, she does.”

Darlene nodded and intoned, “Hannah, do you agree that your cunt and your titties and your arsehole belong to this monster because he is a man and you are a woman?”

“She does,” replied the monster.

“Monster, do you take possession of this woman?”

“Yes!”

“Wait!” said Darlene, “do not respond until I have completed the question. Do you take her body, by right of manhood, to use in any way you wish?”

“I do.”

“Do you take over all her father’s rights, dominion, and privileges to punish and violate this bitch as you please, forever and ever?”

“I do.”

“Bitch, do you realize that you are changing one master, and monster, for another in holy matrimony, surrendering your cunt and your cherry, if your father has not already taken it?”

Hannah wasn’t listening, not trying to understand. This was blasphemy, some invention of the Devil. There were sounds, but no sense.

“She does,” said Myra.

“Then,” intoned Darlene, “I pronounce you maiden and monster, whether she likes it or not.”

There was applause, whistles. The flute rose, floating ever higher, toward some climax. Many hands fell on Hannah, lifted her, hands on her shoulders, waist, knees, and ankles. With a cry of alarm, Hannah felt herself lifted from the floor. She heard chanting, “To the marriage bed! Bring the maidenhead to the marriage bed!”

Maidenhead. She knew the term, heard it through all the wild nonsense. So this would be the moment? The moment about which her girlfriends whispered, her mum spoke in guarded terms. She had waited for this and now, her body painted, helpless, it would happen to her. She felt herself thrown and screamed, but she landed on the bed, her body striking and bounding. She sat up abruptly, though her arms were bound behind her. She saw the “groom” execute the same brisk, grotesque jig, the ebony body light in its movements, even on the stilting heels.

“No!” cried Hannah. She heaved her loins, twisting, and threw back her head. Hands seized her and held her down. “Oh, please!” she cried, but knew, immediately, it meant nothing to them. She tried to kick out with her legs, but powerful hands held her. She forgot her resolve not to weep, to plead. “Don’t! Don’t do this to me!”

They had untied her hands and just as quickly, efficiently, wrapped the rope around her ankles, her wrists, and run it around the four bed posts. She felt her arms and legs pulled wide. She lay, a naked “X” on the luxurious bed. She could only heave her hips, thrusting upward as though wantonly.

On either side of the bed, the girls gathered, silent, now, witnesses.

The monster figure clambered onto the bed. Now, Hannah would be raped: at least she knew what that meant. For a moment, the huge black figure loomed over her. The strong hands took Hannah’s knees and pushed her legs apart; Myra was much too strong for Hannah. She felt her sex part and knew she soon would feel the inhuman thing enter her. They caressed her thighs, tickling the most tender skin.

Hannah managed to say “Myra? Myra, please?” She tried to connect with the eyes behind the cut slits. “Not like this, Myra?”

The looming dark figure slowly reached up, removed the mask, and Hannah saw the exquisite face, intent now, but still without expression. Hannah closed her eyes. She felt fingers parting her, down there. She tried to breathe slowly. She was aware of an intense, tingling sensation as the fingers opened her. But a shock of vulnerable fear shot up her body. Inwardly, she cried: “Do it! For God’s sake, do it! Whatever it was to be! Get it over with!”

Something wet and soft travelled around her opening. She felt so dizzy, now! Even the persistent, thrilling sensation in her belly made her dizzy. She felt a fullness and stiffening, down there, that was almost unbearable—the same overpowering feelings she had felt the night before, with Charles.

Now, she would go mad. It wasn’t just that spot, it was everywhere! It shot into her belly, like cramps, making her want to bend double. She moaned; she could not help herself. The pleasure ran down each thigh almost to her knees. Her toes curled tight. She was panting, now, breasts heaving. Suddenly, at the same moment, lips closed over each of her nipples and began to suck softly, drawing up the little buds, elongating them. Hannah pressed her eyes shut. This was a dream, in a summer woodland, the flute calling—part of sleep, not waking—and the racing flute barely kept up with the pleasure in her whole belly.

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!”