The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  All right. It was useless, all useless, the pleading, the fighting. She had fought; she was naked, for all to see. It was no good weeping; they had no pity. With the greatest effort of her young life, she straightened up, squaring her shoulders. She felt her breasts push out. She forced her arms down by her sides. Little Hannah, pretty peasant girl from Devon, stood naked among queens, and tried not cringe.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  She addressed it to all of them, but looked right at Charlotte. It was Myra who answered. “Because I wet myself every time I see you.” The others laughed. But then, a tall girl with chestnut hair that seemed even darker in the shadowed room, and who seemed older than the rest, stepped toward Hannah. She was beautiful—if possible, more beautiful than the others. It took Hannah’s breath away.

  She wore a white gown that left her shoulders bare and lifted her breasts and squeezed them so Hannah saw a deep cleavage. She approached Hannah gracefully, but warily. She said, “I am Darlene, Hannah. I am dressed in honor of your wedding night, which is tonight.”

  When Hannah just stared, all her energy used just to remain still, calm, Darlene said, “Surely you are excited? You’ve waited your whole life for your wedding night, haven’t you?”

  “No,” said Hannah. Then, she said, “This is all a play of some kind. Please let me go. Give me my clothes.”

  Darlene turned to the others. “Prepare her,” she commanded.

  They came at Hannah and this time she did not resist. What was the use? Any one of them was stronger, quicker. And they didn’t care, at all, what Hannah felt—not at all. She let them lead her to a side door. Hannah stepped through, her captors behind her. “Why are you doing this” she asked, again.

  “To prepare you for your husband, silly,” said one of the girls, and they giggled. “Hurry!” said another. “He’s waiting!”

  “And he’s so excited,” said another, and they burst into laughter.

  How could Hannah think? But she had to think. She had to understand. These girls, women, had no future—no husband, ever, and no wedding night—only “requests” to be brought to strange men, or women, or both, who took them as by right. It was all an absurd, wicked game, with no possible escape. So they made it all into a play, a satire, a comedy that was, for them, the tragedy of their lives.

  They ushered Hannah into a small room with a dresser, a mirror, a little closet. Hannah stood, docile, as the girls carefully piled her long hair on her head and pinned it up in an elegant coiffure that exposed Hannah’s long neck and the shape of her face. They traced her eyes, darkening them, enlarging them. They painted her mouth a deep, sensual red.

  Nor did Hannah resist, now, as they traced her nipples in rouge, carefully darkening and enlarging the puffy aureoles until they were purple and almost three inches across. Then, a girl turned to Hannah’s pubic hair; for an instant, Hannah jerked back, then forced herself to be still. They brushed her until the swatch of hair became full and fluffy, flaring upward on Hannah’s pale belly. They even used some paint to darken and enlarge Hannah’s navel until it seemed side-swayed and open, like a loose-lipped, wanton mouth.

  Then, as one girl lifted and parted Hannah’s breasts, another tied a velvety black band beneath them, lifting them, holding them outward, so the obscene purple nipples pushed up. This done, they both bent simultaneously and planted soft kisses on her nipples. Still, Hannah did not move. Another soft band went around Hannah’s loins, and through her legs, forming a figure eight, but leaving bare and thrusting her perfectly coiffed pussy and the furrow of her buttocks.

  Then, each taking an arm, they helped Hannah to step into six-inch heels, holding her so she wouldn’t fall. When they finally turned her to the mirror, she gasped. She was completely dressed and completely naked. She looked at least 10 years older. She was at once beautiful and obscene, like some goddess of gross sensual temptation. The whole costume called attention to her face, her dark and thrusting nipples, and her luxurious pussy hair. Out of her face gazed dark, smoldering eyes, pouting lips—scarlet in the fresh young face.

  One of the girls patted Hannah’s bound breasts and breathed, “Beautiful!”

  Was she? Before Hannah grasped that this was her wedding dress, the mockery of a wedding dress, the loveless offering of a woman to men who demanded her only for sex, they had seized her arms, pulling them behind her. “No!” Hannah cried. Not this, to be helpless, unable to resist, to cover herself. But they already were binding her wrists behind her. Hannah heaved herself away from them so violently that she would have fallen if they had not held her.

  For a moment, the hands that caught her lingered on her naked body, sensually “You’re so delicious!” whispered one and in her voice Hannah could discern all the regret and sadness of their prison. But the girl recovered, quickly, and said to the other, winking, “Look at that darling cunt! Her husband is a lucky man!”

  “Right this way,” one said, and they steered her out to the larger room, where the others waited. Their applause was wild. Hannah was left in the center, alone, and for a moment swayed and tottered on the high heels. After few moments, she learned to move slowly, her weight well back, her hips thrust forward, her buttocks tight. The posture threw forward her already brazen cunt, so she looked more wanton still.

  “What a little whore!” someone cried excitedly.

  One of the girls, seated in the corner of the room, raised a flute to her lips and began to play. It was a lilting, infectious, woodland melody, forlorn and beckoning. With astonishment, Hannah saw that in her absence they had set up a bed in the center of the room, covered with a thick, rose-colored quilt and strewn with flowers. Above it, supported on its four posts, a canopy billowed, bridal white. It must have been just outside, in the woods! How long had they all planned this? Impossible! Like stage hands, working quickly and expertly. Of course. She swayed on her heels, tilting.

  Her body had been made a plaything, printed and stamped to arouse lust. She felt terrified. There was nothing they could not do to her, now. And yet, as they gazed at her so intently, she felt an insidious pride, the little girl dressed in her mother’s finery. They had dressed her this way because her body excited them—or because they had learned that it excited men, this mockery of the female body. She felt a weird power, it was an exhilarating sense of a woman’s power. Helpless, she sensed some part of these women craved her. She was the victim, but the star, the cynosure, of whatever ritual they had planned so painstakingly.

  Suddenly, there was applause, louder now, and she turned. She gave a cry. Through a door had stepped a tall, coal-black, grotesque figure that now did a jangling dance. It was a bizarre and fearful apparition, almost six-feet tall, and it wore a wooden mask, carved into the savage totem of a face. From the top sprouted luxuriant white feathers. The rest of the figure was naked, as naked as Hannah, and she recognized Myra’s body, the big breasts thrusting and ending in the yearning, assertive nipples. But the conical breasts, painted white, except for the nipples, which were crimson, pointed at Hannah like glowing eyes from the jungle night. From the deep bed of hair between Myra’s powerful thighs thrust a long, ivory-colored rod, jutting up at a 45-degre angle. Hannah could see it was supported by black straps around Myra’s waist and running between her legs. It was fully 10 inches long and glistened slickly. There could never, ever, be any mistaking what this was thing was supposed to be!

  “No!” cried Hannah. The figure was mounted on heels far higher than Hannah’s but stood with easy balance. The height of the heels swayed the loins far forward, thrusting up the white thing as though it were a battle flag.

  Chapter 12

  “I Pronounce You Maiden and Monster”

  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 bell
y 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.