The Price of Hannah Blake (4 page)

She could see again; she looked down at her breasts, the nipples that always had embarrassed her were on display. For, atop her swelling, round breasts, the pink aureoles, too, were raised, puffy, as though swollen, and the nipples stood up like thumbs. It all seemed to Hannah to call attention to her bosom. Her hands could reach her breasts, but barely, because her upper arms were gripped by the two women. How were they so unimaginably strong, these two lean women? With her palms she could just cover her traitorously lascivious nipples, but already the quick, merciless fingers were at her knickers, untying them, dragging them down. She screamed. It was impossible! Now her very belly, and the dark-brown hair that rose from between her thighs and spread up it, were bare. Her body convulsed, bending far over to try to shield herself.

Suddenly, instead of holding her, the women shoved her—hard—and she sprawled on the floor, a naked thing curling upon itself to defend its soft underside. The woman in the chair asked, “Hannah, do you hear me?” Hannah heard, but did not answer, she was protesting, over and over. After a moment, the woman stated, “You do hear me.

“If you do not stand up, now, you will be hung by your wrists and your legs pulled apart and tied.” A pause. “Do you hear me?”

Perhaps if she did not answer… Hannah curled in upon herself still tighter. The implacable voice said, “Then tie her.”

“Wait,” cried Hannah, in a small, hopeless voice.

“Very well.”

Slowly, Hannah learned, again, how to rise and stand. She was shaking all over, but she stood, now, naked, head bowed. The voice said, “Hands by your sides.” It added, almost kindly, “We are all women, here, Hannah.”

She lifted her head, lowered her arms. She could not look at the women. “She is very beautiful,” said the one in the red chair. “In a few months, the rude discoloration from the sun should fade.”

“Yes,” said one of the women beside Hannah, her hands now behind her, but at the ready. “But her skin is wondrously white and clear.” It was true. Standing completely naked, Hannah appeared to have been stained, like the fine wood of the mansion, on her lower arms, her face and neck, and her chest down to her cleavage. Otherwise, she had milky white skin. “Her breasts are good,” said the woman in the red chair. Hannah almost raised her hands to cover them, but stopped herself.

“Quite fine,” said one of the women beside her. “See how her whole nipple is raised and it swells?”

“All right,” said the woman in the red chair. “Turn around, Hannah.” Hannah turned almost with alacrity, relieved to shield her most private parts from view.

“Her arse is fine,” said the woman in the red chair. “Hannah,” she said, “step outward with one foot and then bend to touch your toes.”

Hannah’s hands flew behind her to cover her intimate crack. She had imagined quite clearly what this woman wished to see! “Do you wish to be tied?” asked the woman. “It will come to the same thing. But you will be left, tied and spread, for a day to be seen and examined. Is that what you wish?”

Hannah began to sob, but she stepped to the side with one foot. “More,” said a woman beside her, and she complied. Then, she bent from the waist, very slowly, till she could touch her toes. Nothing, nothing was hers any longer. Was she a fallen woman, a fallen woman, a fallen woman? The words kept slapping her with all the force of the catastrophe hinted but never quite defined. At last, she opened her eyes and saw through the triangle of her legs, heavily fletched at her breech, with even the fleshy lips visible, the expressionless scrutiny by the woman in the red chair. “Even her arse is exquisite,” she heard her say. “Her pussy is delicate, I see only the suggestion of the lips…”

After that Hannah knew nothing until she opened her eyes from a dream of unbearable anxiety—to see it was not a dream. The woman in the black skin, the first one, knelt over her, wiping her forehead with a cold cloth. When Hannah opened her eyes, the woman said, “She has come round, now.”

Hannah murmured, “I dreamed I had died. It was wonderful…”

“I felt that, once,” said the woman, speaking softly. “But it is not so bad to have a beautiful body that is seen.”

Hannah started to rise; the woman let her. She thought she would be given her clothes and looked around for them. “They are gone forever,” said the woman. “Trash.”

Hannah looked up; the red chair was empty. Only the first woman with the black skin, not “Lucile,” was with her. Hannah’s mind started to work again. She was some kind of prisoner with other young men and women, all beautiful—far more beautiful than she,. She would be naked whenever the people here wished. She had fallen, and now she would be ruined—when or how she could not guess. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming fast.

At least she would never see her family or anyone she had known. No one would know how far little Hannah Blake had fallen, and how pitifully. She thanked God. Then, her brief reverie dissolved and she became aware of her surroundings, again. Unbelievably, for a moment or two she had forgotten that she was naked in front of this woman. She realized the woman still examined her. “You are shivering,” she said, “come stand where sun falls.”

The sun was good. Hannah looked down at herself, so white in the sunlight, but with her weird garment of brown, a garment that covered nothing. She saw her nipples stiff with cold—or fear—and on the aureoles were goose bumps. Could she cover them? But now the sunlight did its work and the crinkles and goose bumps began to smooth.

“When will I be violated?” she asked. She did not look at the woman.

“I don’t know. You are a virgin?”

Hannah nodded, blushing. With no further answer from the woman, Hannah asked: “Where am I?”

The beautiful voice sad: “You will discover what this building is; it is elegant and complete and will be your home. You never will learn where it is...” Again, Hannah had forgotten for a few moments that she was naked with this woman. Hannah’s mind was a headlong rush of questions, protests, arguments—but none of it mattered. These people didn’t care. They did with her what they wanted—anything. Talk she had heard all her life of what “was done,” was “not done,” was “sin,” was “virtuous,” was “permitted” —that had been another world, now ended.

A man from the anti-slavery society once came to her village. She had gone to hear him. She remembered his voice booming, full of righteousness: “It is a monstrous crime to take away the freedom of any person, it is against God, the work of the wicked—and they shall be damned.”

She was among the wicked, but somehow they was not as she imagined, though what they were was unthinkable. They would not care what the righteous man had said; but God might see. She blushed.
Everything
? Surely, God had averted His eyes when she bent and her whole womanhood was obscenely on display? Did God think that Hannah had “a beautiful arse?”

Hannah had sinned to think such a thing. In spite of herself, she giggled, but quickly wrenched her mind away from the image. She might go insane; she knew that people did. They had to go away and never returned. She noticed the woman looking at her, head cocked. Had she seen Hannah giggle? Hannah felt sickness churn her stomach. She had stood stark naked, giggling aloud, as though nothing mattered. How could she protest anything, after mocking God?

Suddenly, she had to do something. To stand here any longer would lead to madness. She asked, “Where is Cara?”

“Coming soon. We can walk to the door. She will bring a shift for you, and sandals. It is a cotton shift, white, soft, and with frills. Have you ever worn such a garment?”

Hannah shook her head. The woman said, “You will have a silk chemise and silk drawers.” Hannah couldn’t believe her ears, but, after all, those clothes last night in the closet…

“That is Cara,” said the woman when they heard a rap.

“But why should I be given such things? I don’t want them. I can’t pay for them.”

“Because you are beautiful.”

Hannah thought: Because that is the way men wish to see me. But she would have donned motley and bells—or Satan’s scaly black cape—to cover her nakedness.

Corridors, courtyards bright with blooms and with fountains jetting against blue sky: Hannah thought this must be the palace of a prince. But no one related to the revered, virtuous queen would countenance such depravity. Dressed now in the finest clothes of her young life, she felt confidence creeping, but only creeping, back.

Walking ahead, Cara wore a light-gray dress, well-cut to her figure but its severity suggesting a uniform. Cara stopped and unlocked the door to a long, narrow room; along its walls were benches, and, above them, rows of hooks. It was deserted, but clothes hung on the hooks—clothes draped helter-skelter. Beneath the benches were sandals in a neat row, like the footprints of soldiers lined up for inspection. Hannah smelled sweat—not heavy, not stale, but noticeable.

At the other end of the room, a door opened and a woman, dressed like Cara, entered. “All right,” said Cara to the new woman, and turned and left. Hannah’s only acquaintance in this place—and from the outside world—left without a word or nod. Her new wardress said, “Take off your clothes. I will be back,” and opened the far door. “Wait!” Hannah called at the closing door. They wanted her naked and would have her so. The wardress returned with two loose white garments. She said, doggedly, “Take your clothes off. Hurry.”

She held out the garments. “You will wear these.” She repeated, “Hurry,” and shook the garments. “You will watch, so you may wear this.” Hannah took them, put them on the bench, and glanced once at the woman: Her expression was set, unyielding, her hair wound about her head in a bun. “Watch what?” asked Hannah quickly.

The wardress froze as though caught in an illicit exchange and became furious. She actually stamped her foot. “Hurry!”

“Oh, please,” Hannah pleaded. “I can’t.”

“They will beat you,” said the woman.

“Who?”

“I’ll call them,” she said, as though “who” was self-evident.

“No,” said Hannah. “They” might be men. She reached behind her and took hold of the shift, pulling it over her head. Her breasts were naked, again. She tossed the chemise on the bench. She wore only drawers, now. She hesitated a moment, bent, and pushed them down. Naked again—a little easier this time.

The matron seized the clothing. Hannah snatched up the new garments and put them on. Now the wardress turned and trundled away. “Come,” she called.

Hannah followed. At the end of the dressing room, the wardress opened the door and stepped through. Hannah was following and, almost immediately, gave a gasp, almost a cry, but quickly stifled it. The room was huge, with soaring ceiling, high windows admitting sunlight—and covered, it seemed to Hannah—almost walled—with mirrors. It frightened her; mirrors, even tiny mirrors, were expensive. Who could afford the fortune just the mirrors in this one room represented? But that was not why she had gasped.

She backed against the door behind her and started to turn. There was a steady, low pulse in the room, like a drum. And they were all there, the beautiful ones. Their calisthenics were coordinated to perfection, or so it seemed to Hannah, as they moved with the rhythmic beat. The tall, straight bodies—the gods and goddesses—leaped, legs and arms flung wide. They were in three perfect rows, sunlight streaming down on them…all as in some fevered dream.

For as she watched, she saw the bare breasts of the girls—some firm, compact, others larger, bouncing and swaying with the leaps. She turned to the door, seizing the knob to turn it. It was locked, had locked automatically, it seemed. The men, their bodies more perfect than Hannah saw even in dreams—hair on their chests, legs, curling down their belly from the navel—were swaying, flopping, and jouncing, too.

Hannah never had seen a naked man. Her little brothers, sometimes; she knew a man’s anatomy. Her mother sometimes made coarse jokes about the farm boys, walking home shirtless, sweating, their bodies compact, strong—and Hannah had liked to imagine them swimming at the river although she never had seen it. And here were men’s parts, rooted in thick hair on their bellies, so large! Hannah had not realized that. Why not? Her little brothers would grow up. At the thought of them, her family, her cottage, the reassurance of daily routine, she began to weep. And the women danced
beside
them! And nothing was covered. Every man could see every woman—all of her, the triangles of hair, some light—almost flaxen—some black against pale bellies.

Hannah had spent her whole life guarding her modesty in the presence of men, concealing the growing beauty of her body against their desire. And suddenly, she recalled, “Today, you only watch.”

Today! And then?

It was impossible and obvious, inconceivable and apparent. These women were not goddesses. They were girls, like her. And someone, somehow, had seen Hannah as a girl like these. She would be there, tomorrow, or soon, stark naked, leaping, her breasts jouncing, her arse spreading and closing. She took a quick look, again. And, yes, the thick hair on her lower belly would grow darker with sweat. And if she refused, “they” would beat her.

Would she faint, again, and have that beautiful dream of dying? The wardress had taken her arm. The grip was not hard, but Hannah was drawn into the room along the wall to a bench. The wardress half-eased, half-pushed her down. Hannah closed her eyes; now that she was seated, she could do that, she could drop a black curtain over this scene for which she had no comparison—none at all.