The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  She pushed open the door and stepped through, pulling it shut behind her. She twisted the key. Thank God! Relief made her knees weak. She almost sobbed because, all day, evil had swirled around her, but God had kept her safe.

  She turned from the door and decided to turn up the gaslights, as she had been shown. And then she gasped and almost cried out in fear.

  Chapter 8

  “‘They Are the Duke’s Titties,’ Said Charles.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she backed against the door, already breathing hard in her panic. Around the shadowy room—on the bed, chairs, even the window sills and perched on the dresser—were young men. Ten? They sat silent, but they grinned at her. In the sticky evening, some wore no shirts, so the light played on muscled bodies, smooth chests and arms, and on their handsome faces.

  Sprawled in an easy chair, his leg thrown over one arm, his slender torso naked above the waist, was the bold man who had stared at her at breakfast. In the soft light, his curly, coal-black hair shone. His white teeth showed in a broad grin, like a predator. Hannah stared at his stomach and chest, covered with the same jet-black hair; it clustered around his dark nipples.

  “I’m Charles,” he said. Hannah backed against the door. Charles had risen and come toward her, but, when he stood close, he did not touch her. He merely pulled the key from her fingers. When she felt him take it, she closed her fist, but too late. He dropped the key into the pocket of his trousers. Then, he returned to his seat. She was trapped. They sat watching her, saying nothing.

  She put her hands over her face. “Please,” she said. “Please, no.”

  Maria had said, ‘Never, ever, show your modesty. It is an intoxicant. They will become drunk on it. And then, watch out!’ Hannah forced her hands down by her sides. She lifted her head and walked to the middle of the room. Inside she shook, but she stood within the circle of men.

  “I am Charles,” said the young man in the easy chair, again. “You had your interview with Maria, didn’t you? But you don’t believe her. You hope she is lying. But she is not lying, and that puts you in danger. You are one of us, and we must help you.”

  “I am Hannah,” she said.

  Charles said, “Before we leave this room, you will be naked. There are enough of us to ensure that. We don’t care if you scream or cry. Do you want to do it, or do you want us to do it?”

  He was the most beautiful man she ever had seen. For fully half a minute, they held each others’ gaze. ‘Never, ever show your modesty,’ Maria had said. Hannah reached back and took hold of the blouse. She held her breath, glanced at Charles, and pulled it over her head. There seemed to be no place to put it. She dropped it on the floor. And then she bent to push down the trousers, and was naked. It was the strangest and most frightening feeling. The beautiful man looked at her nakedness and she felt quaking fear—and a hint of excitement.

  She had the arms and shoulders of a farm girl, strong, and a waist lean with muscle from bending, lifting, and because there was not enough food. The tiny waist flared up to her breasts, the breasts with raised aureoles and nipples now stiffening. On her shoulders and chest were freckles, but the flawless white breasts seemed to pop out at the viewer, tender and saucy. She held her head with a natural poise, so the sandy curls swirled about her neck. In fascinating counterpoint was a lush, full bush of sandy hair at the apex of her long leg and slim thighs.

  The men were studying her with the professional appraisal of connoisseurs who spent their days with some of the most beautiful young women of the realm. Charles gazed at Hannah so long, so openly, that finally she found courage to return his stare. He nodded slightly, rose, and came toward her. She held her ground. When he stood only a few inches from her, his powerful chest almost touching her breasts, she could feel his heat. She could smell his sweat. Charles looked down at her, examining her, then walked around her. Hannah was trembling, but stood still. Charles did not touch her, but, at each moment, she expected that he would.

  “You are very beautiful,” said Charles. “They never make a mistake, do they? I wonder what prince of prurience spotted you.”

  “The duke,” said Hannah. “He looked from his carriage. I was at the market with a baskets of carrots. We grow carrots.”

  “Yes, he always comes here,” said Charles.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the performances.” Charles was silent for a moment. Then he said, thoughtfully, “He sits close to the stage. Not in his box, usually. He wants to be able to see if your nipples are stiff.”

  Hannah almost raised her hands to cover her breasts.

  “Yes,” said Charles. “Like yours are now.”

  Hannah blushed, but somewhere within her, traitorous and insistent, was a spurt of pleasure and excitement. Even Charles found her body beautiful and desirable. She cried to herself, silently, “Be careful, Hannah!”

  Charles looked around at the others. “She stands so beautifully, as if showing the whole world her titties.” Her hips are strong, like a man’s. She holds her chin like the Countess Morat—but with more justification, I venture.”

  All around her, like a pressure on her body, she felt gazes. Each time Charles complimented her, impersonally, like a man commenting on a fine steed, she felt the forbidden pleasure break through her defenses. She fought it, but it came. Charles said, “She is only 18 and already a beautiful woman. It takes your breath away, doesn’t it? A hateful, hot blush came to Hannah’s neck. Charles said, “I feel my prick getting stiff? Don’t you?” Laughter all around her.

  “You fainted today, didn’t you?” asked Charles. He waited, demanding an explanation. Hannah said, simply, “Yes. I must have.”

  “You never had seen naked grown men?”

  “I never saw anyone naked,” said Hannah, in a whisper. “Just my brothers, little boys.”

  “All right, lads,” said Charles, glancing around. “Light the gaslights. We have work to do.” At each moment, as the light in the room increased, as though to illuminate every part of her nakedness, Hannah expected them to attack her. But they seemed almost lethargic.

  “Now,” said Charles, “I can have one of these eager young men hold you, while I give you your lesson or you can cooperate. But you already have heard that, today, and know what I mean.”

  Hannah said, only, “Please.” She had begun to shake. “Please.” But then she thought, Maria’s advice had worked so far. And she said, as calmly as she could, “I will hold still, for you.”

  Charles frowned. “You already have changed,” he said. “You learn, don’t you? That will help you, here.”

  Then Hannah gave a brief cry, and shrunk back. Charles had lifted his hands and placed them over her bare breasts. No man had touched her breasts, ever. He said, “Are you cooperating, Hannah?”

  With all her willpower, Hannah forced herself to straighten up. She felt her breasts pressing against his hands. And that unspeakable excitement ran through her. His dark, strong hands covered her breasts; she felt her nipples pushing against his palms. He opened his fingers and let the stiff nipples peek between them.

  Could she fight 10 men? With what ally? Her hands had come up, but slowly, to cover his. Then she remembered Maria’s story of the night her body was destroyed. She lowered her hands to her sides.

  “Look at me,” said Charles, and Hannah realized she had closed her eyes. She opened them, and Charles’s dark, beautiful eyes looked right into hers. “These are your breasts,” said Charles pedantically, and his hands molded them, squashed them, so the nipples pouted forward. “We call them your ‘titties” or ‘boobies’ and they are for the pleasure of the duke.”

  The men around the room laughed.

  Charles went on, “They jiggle for the duke’s pleasure, they are lifted for the duke’s pleasure…” His hands pushed her breasts upward. “They are separated, thus, for the duke’s pleasure…” and his hands pushed her breasts apart. “In fact, Hannah, they are not your titties at all, do you understand? The
y are the duke’s titties.”

  Laughter, loud giggling, mocking sounds. “The duke has lovely titties, he does,” said Charles. Now, he released Hannah’s breasts, but his forefingers began to trace circles around her nipples. Hannah squirmed. It was a tender, titillating motion, round and round, that made her whole nipples swell. “And these titties get hard for the pleasure of the duke,” said Charles. Her nipples were puckering fiercely, betraying her. They all watched.

  Finally, Charles ceased the terrible titillation. He slowly walked around behind her. Hannah braced herself for whatever would come. The strong hands seized the cheeks of her buttocks and, in spite of herself, she gasped and clenched them. She felt the outrageous, precise fingers part her and her legs began to tremble. She noticed the boys around the room were studying her face intently. To smile was unthinkable; she tried to show nothing.

  The pedantic voice went on, “This is the duke’s arse, Hannah. It is one of the most heartbreakingly lovely arses I have seen.” The fingers squeezed, hard. “It delights the fingers to mold it. To lift it, spread it,” and his hands followed his words. “It is the arse of Venus, divinely heavy. But it is the duke’s arse, for the duke’s pleasure.”

  They laughed, easily, good-naturedly. What kind of place was this?

  “When you shit, you are borrowing the duke’s arsehole.”

  The boys roared.

  “I am sorry I must do this, Hannah,” said Charles, “but it is my duty.” One bold forefinger traveled down the cleft of Hannah’s buttocks. Her buttocks clenched fiercely, her hips pulled away. But the finger did not stop till it pressed on the bud of her anus. Then, it gently insisted, finally driving from Hannah a cry she had vowed not to make. “Oh, my dear God, please!”

  She bent at the waist in anguish, her hands over her face, weeping. She had failed. “Show no modesty,” Maria had said.

  “This is the duke’s arsehole,” said Charles, gently, probing her. “He will wish to see it, you know. Your arsehole could be seen by the princes and princesses of several countries, next summer, you know. Do you believe that?”

  Finally, the outrageous finger withdrew, but Hannah still felt the burning. Charles said, “And the duke’s prick is much, much bigger than my finger, Hannah.

  “Straighten yourself up, Hannah, you are displaying yourself most immodestly, back here. Are we priests to resist such temptation?”

  With a sudden, ferocious blush, Hannah straightened.

  “You know what’s next, don’t you, Hannah? Here…” he guided her over to the vast bed, and gently pushed her back; she let herself fall. A young man sat on either side of her. In sudden fear, Hannah tried to rise, but they gently restrained her.

  “You are cooperating?” asked Charles. Hannah forced herself to lie back. But she pressed her thighs together, and that was not to be. The young man on either side of her took her knees and pulled them apart. “No,” whimpered Hannah. Now, it would come.

  “Hannah,” said Charles, again. “Your eyes are shut. You cannot make things go away just by refusing to see them.”

  When she opened them, Charles was standing between her forcibly parted thighs. Now, he began to stroke them, gently, persistently, with just his fingertips. His fingers moved high up, where the flesh was silky, sensitive, and quivering, now. “You are beautiful, Hannah,” he said. “Who would hurt you? You are beautiful here, Hannah.”

  Slowly, he wooed and calmed her. She was desperate to believe him. But something inside her cried, “Oh, Hannah! Be careful!” When she had stopped shaking, Charles reached out and covered her pubis with his hand. His grip possessed it, owned it. He said, “I am sorry to tell you this, Hannah, but this is the duke’s pussy.” He squeezed her mound. “Is that what you call it? It is the duke’s cunt. When the duke wants it, he will have it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Hannah whispered. Her eyes were open, gazing at him. Her belly squirmed. Was it fear? Pleasure? Both?

  He said, “If you had any idea how beautiful you are, Hannah, you would be more frightened, I think.” Again, she felt the traitorous pleasure.

  Charles’s finger strayed downward, caressing the lips there. Hannah could not believe it was happening, but she was excited. The finger traveled up the other side, the other lip, possessing every centimeter.

  Charles said, “Until they brought you here, this was Hannah’s cunt. Now it is the duke’s cunt. It is royal pussy.”

  The fingers by imperceptible degrees stole into the silken flesh, slicked with Hannah’s wetness. Her hips began to move, a little. Charles smiled into her eyes, as though he knew, knew everything. The invading finger halted, but it pressed a single spot. He asked, “Do you know what this is, Hannah? I venture that you don’t.”

  There was laughter. She blushed furiously. “I must have an answer,” said Charles. His finger made agonizingly slow, exquisite progress around the spot.

  Hannah stared up at him, saying nothing, giving him nothing. “What do you want?” she asked. She could not concentrate; what Charles was doing made her feel she was losing her mind. Her whole belly felt hot and now she caught the odor of herself. Still Charles looked at her and still the finger moved.

  “What is this?” asked Charles again. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “No,” Hannah gasped. “I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know! Stop!”

  The skin of her belly twitched and her hips began to grind. She squirmed on the bed, her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She was transported and terrified. She closed her eyes. She simply did not care anymore. She wanted to feel, not to talk. All her courage had been unavailing because her body had betrayed her. She was wanton. She was sinning.

  She began to weep, overwhelmed by the confusion, gripped by the rising, surging, scalding feelings between her legs. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “Oh, I can’t.” Now, her hips moved without restraint, heaving. She writhed on the bed, and sobbed with her writhing.

  Suddenly, Charles stopped, withdrew his hand. It was as though Hannah had been soaring, without weight, higher and higher, toward some golden orb, and the soaring brought all the pleasure and promise of release. Just when she might reach the golden orb, so that nothing, ever, would matter, the finger departed and she plummeted in bitter, cold disappointment, falling back forever from the sweet prize.

  Charles said, “You will survive, here, Hannah. You are one of us. Welcome to the duke’s troupe.” The hands that held Hannah’s thighs released them. They were leaving, all of them, silently, like a jury that had pronounced its verdict. Someone tossed the key back to her. It struck Hannah’s leg and fell to the floor. The door shut and she was alone.

  Slowly, she rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees. She wrapped her arms around them, hugging herself. Then she shut her eyes and wept uncontrollably, with such a confusion of feelings that she did not know what she mourned.

  And then she slept, naked, alone.

  She dreamed that she lay back gazing up at a naked man. He was a tall, dark, impossibly beautiful man. He kept leaping above her, and each time he leaped, she saw that thing, his sex, go flying upward—huge, dark, and utterly supple. It mesmerized her. And each time he came down, his feet landed on either side of her naked, supine body, and the flailing, mesmerizing thing would come down toward her. It was wonderful; if only it would strike her! Each time it came down, she wanted to seize it, pull it to herself, but she never did. Still, it was wonderful, to crave, to feel the rising pleasure.

  Then, at last, it hit her, the dark, sensual thing brushed across her belly. It was thrilling! It left a scar of pleasure on her flesh. But then she became terrified, because, every time it brushed across her, it left a white scar. It lashed her again and again, now across the breasts, the stomach, the very delta of her belly. She felt no pain only pleasure, but she would be scarred, her flesh lashed away by the thing.

  “Stop!” she cried. “Stop him, please!” But the watchers, men and women, would not help her. The swinging, lashing sex went on whipping her bo
dy. When would it start to hurt, when would the agony come?

  And then, it hit her squarely on her sex, her cunt—the name was odd, but somehow she knew that was what it was called—the whipping sex hit her across the cunt, and the pleasure was unbearable. She didn’t care about the scars. The pleasure kept rising in its intensity; she wanted it to keep striking her cunt. A little higher, a little harder—yes, there! But the maddening whip would not hit her hard enough, often enough. She thrust her hips to meet it, but it denied her need.

  “Hit me!” she cried. “Hit my cunt! I can’t…not yet…hit it!”

  But the wonderful, jumping jack naked man seemed not to notice her, to hear her. He bounded unawares, higher and higher, oblivious to her need for the lashing whip to strike her.

  She felt a terrible disappointment. “Oh! I am not good enough even to be whipped in the cunt!” And the dream ended.

  Chapter 9

  “They Just Devour You, Every Crumb”

  Sun from the high windows touched her legs and moved up her body. When it shone in her face, her eyes opened. Her body felt full, almost swollen, and her skin, especially on her breasts and belly, felt sensitive, stimulated even by the soft coverlet. She closed her eyes and passed a hand over her body, touching each place Charles had touched, but brushing, not probing. As she did, it all came back.

  Charles had owned every part of her, her woman’s body, her emotions. And yet, here was that body, intact, rested, full of an odd energy—an impulse to run or climb. Hannah sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Beautiful”—it had a new meaning, now, after what Charles had said and done.

  At the big marble basin she looked up into the mirror. Her breasts were pale and heavy, a little creased from pressure of the wrinkled coverlet. Her bush looked flatter, mussed by sleeping on it. All the unthinkable things that Charles had said came back to her and she flushed. How had it ended? As he touched her, at the end, she had squirmed her buttocks against the bed, opened her mouth, made a soft cry. But perhaps they had not heard. Men never had seen her body before, now many had seen every private part of it. She had not died of shame. But now, this morning, she would see them—how soon? Would she be naked? Leaping, breasts jouncing, for all to see?