The Price of Hannah Blake (13 page)

When the voice came it was casual, conversational. It seemed gentle. “The girls got you this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Was it rough?”

She hesitated. “Not…not really. Yes, for me. But not…”

“Did they whip you, though?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Myra.”

She saw him nod. “She hit your cunt, that’s what she does.”

“Almost,” said Hannah. She placed a hand at the top of her pubic hair, and said, “Here.” Her hand moved to the bottom of the triangle and she felt the soft lips. “And here, once.”

She added, “And across my titties.”

“But they didn’t take your cherry, of course?”

“What?”

“You’re a virgin, you have your hymen?”

“Oh. No one ever has been in me.” She hesitated, wondering how much to say. He asked everything so directly. “But up my arsehole, tonight; it didn’t hurt much.”

“You are quite amazing to be standing here talking like this.”

She felt hope. Just say it. “Charles, I need you.” How did a woman say it? Didn’t men just seize women and take them? Charles did not answer, but he looked up at her. His prick had become straight! Like the thing they used on her! He must want her!

Charles saw her gaze and his hand moved down and took the penis. It was longer than Hannah even imagined, and thicker. He moved his fingers up and down, as though thoughtfully. Hannah wanted to do that; she
had
to do that! She leaned over and placed her hands on his hard chest, feeling the hair. She moved her hand, seeking his nipples, and she squeezed them. She hoped it was the right thing to do. Still Charles did not move. Hannah began to panic, to flush furiously. He couldn’t see, though; not in the dark. If only he was like the women, ravenous.

She leaned over, took his face between her hands, and kissed him. It was awkward; she had not kissed a man. She had been raped, or practically raped, but not really kissed! As she kissed him, the surging thrill of the afternoon came back. “Charles,” she whispered desperately, “Charles.”

Her body already was seething. It all came back; perhaps it never had gone away, really. She was capable of anything, driven by this rush of heat and the demands of her body. He said softly—with amusement?—”And they teased you half to death? They teased you out of your mind—like we did last night, but worse.”

Hannah nodded, still holding his face, gazing at him. She realized he might not see the nod, so she said, as with a sigh, “Yes. It was wonderful, then awful, and I was crying like a baby. Like a baby when you take its sweet away.”

She let her cheek rest on his chest; she was half-kneeling beside the bed. She started to cry. Suddenly, she feared that would make him reject her. His hands came over, gripped her beneath her arms, and lifted her. He must be hugely strong, to do it from that position. She felt her body lifted, dragged onto the bed, and lowered on top of him—or mostly, her breasts on his chest, her belly against his thigh, her face so close to his.

His hand smoothed her hair. This isn’t what she wanted. Her nipples were so stiff that they ached. She rolled off his body, onto the bed beside him, lying on her back. This was the side of her she wanted him to touch. His hand slid down to her breasts, round each nipple very gently, making them bend and turn under his palm. Then, his hand moved on, down over her belly. She felt a finger slide down between and realized her opening was slippery, flowing. As he touched her there, she moaned. His fingers traced the lips of flesh and she knew that they, too, were stiff.

And then he touched that spot. She moaned again, softly; she couldn’t help it. She pressed her hips against him She whispered, “You can do whatever you want, Charles. Anything.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t.”

For a moment, the blow deflated her whole body; she plunged from the place she was trying to go. “But why?” she asked. Nothing ever taken away from her had felt like this.

“Don’t you see that the boys stay mostly with the boys here, and the girls keep together, too? He stopped moving his hands on her; she longed for him to start again. She tried to squirm against him.

“Didn’t the girls tonight act like men, with your body?”

What could he mean? How could she know? “I…I don’t know,” she said.

“And you liked it, you wanted more, and they wouldn’t let you come?”

“Come?”

“They stopped before it was wonderful for you, stopped just before that, and you felt let down?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Now you want me to put my prick in you?”

She couldn’t believe she had to say it. “Yes, yes.”

“I can’t.”

Tears came to her eyes. Was this thing, this frustration, going to go on forever? He said, “You are a virgin and the duke and the others will want that. For them, that is the great prize. If I put my prick in you, I take your virginity, and they will know it. And they could do anything to me, anything. Castrate me.”

“What is..?”

“Geld me.”

She gasped. “No!”

“I don’t know, but I would be punished and it would make what happened to Myra, at the guardhouse, seem like fun.”

“You know?”

“We all know.”

She rolled against him, leaning on him, and put her lips to his nipple. Her hand stole down, hesitantly, looking for his prick. Then her fingers brushed it and her hand closed around it. She whispered, “Charles, I don’t
care
about any of that.”

“Then you have no idea what I’m talking about. Don’t you get it? Didn’t I say it right? You are the duke’s: your cunt is the duke’s, your hymen is the duke’s. Not mine. Not yours.” He reached down and gently pulled her hand off his penis. He said, “My prick is the duke’s.”

“But then, no one…?”

“Mostly, the girls with the girls. They can get away with that. Don’t you realize that’s why they fucked your arsehole, this evening? You expected it in your pussy, right?”

Oh, God! She understood. One more thing made sense. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. Her hand tried again to close on his prick. He said, “Get out of here, Hannah. Go to your room.”

She scrambled off the other side of the bed, avoiding his body. She stood up so fast she almost stumbled. Her hand swooped down and seized the shift from the floor. She dragged it over her head—inside out? She didn’t know or care. For a moment, she looked around the moonlit floor, searching, but then realized she had no sandals. She had come barefoot.

She already was at the door, and caught herself in time. She had been about to fling it open. She paused, pressed her ear to it. Nothing. She stealthily twisted the door knob, opened the door just enough, slipped out without glancing back, and noiselessly shut it.

The only acknowledgment she gave of what happened was to take a long, deep breath. She passed her hand over her hair. Okay, hurry. Curfew. Enough trouble for one night. She ran on tiptoe, silently, down the stairs, pausing to peek around the corner, then to her door. Open, go in, close.

Only when she had locked the door, ripped off the shift, and flung herself on the bed, did she weep. And then she went on and on, helplessly, until she no longer even knew why. For everything. For losing a world—limited, hard, exhausting—but one she understood—and being trapped in a world where she understood nothing. And so much hurt.

Her last thoughts were that she must be ready tomorrow morning, for the workout, and whatever came. So she must sleep. And as she was thinking that she never, ever, could sleep, tonight, she did.

At breakfast, she promptly filled her tray, sat down alone, and began to eat. She hadn’t taken too much; she couldn’t be sluggish: juice, an egg, a piece of salted fish, and tea. To live until she could plan—know enough to plan. Perhaps there was no escape—perhaps—but certainly not from a slave ship. Or from a master somewhere in the world of which she had never heard. She groped for the idea—a Turkman, a huge, dark-visaged, cruel man with a swagger and a scimitar, like in plays at the country fair, caring for Hannah less than a favorite hound. To openly rebel was a dead-end.

She had sat alone because she loathed the boys and barely could stand to glance at Charles. She hated the girls—Myra, Charlotte, Darlene…

Wrong, she told herself, now. Who were her allies, here? Not Cara, not Maria. Not the guards! Her mind veered from the thought. Who? The others who were prisoners like her, who had information, and who could help her or sabotage her. They acted confident, assured, but Myra’s actions yesterday were rage at what had been done to her. And Charles ordering her from his room—fear.

Two girls came in and Hannah looked up at them and smiled. They had been there yesterday, of course; but now they smiled back as though overcome with relief, delight, that still she might be a friend. She thought: a chum just like girls everywhere.

When they had filled their trays they came and sat with her and seemed unable to contain their pleasure. She recalled that one had rouged her nipples, the other tied one of her wrists before she was hoisted up to be whipped. She smiled back at them and for a few moments, they all gossiped about nothing—the food, what the boys might be saying. Like girls everywhere, Hannah thought, and she admitted she felt less lonely. Then, one of them lowered her voice, and said, “
Please
don’t be angry, with me, but I got so excited when Myra whipped you in front. I never saw that.”

She added, quickly, “She shouldn’t have, of course. No one wanted her to do that. It’s wrong.” Hannah wondered why this girl never had seen what happened to her. Charles implied it happened to everyone. The other girl nodded, assenting to a shared morality, but leaned forward and asked, quietly, “Was it awful when she hit you there?”

“It hurt, of course.”

They nodded, awaiting details, so Hannah obliged by saying—also leaning forward to whisper—”The one across my titties hurt more. My tits are still really swollen.”

She still did not know their names. One asked, wide-eyed, “Did you hear about Myra and the guards?”

Hannah nodded. “Charlotte told me.”

“Oh…”

“Who was the new girl before me?”

They both started to speak, but the bells rang twice. Hannah couldn’t be last, today; the others were crowding out the door. “Bye,” she said, and shoved back her chair.

“Want to coming swimming with Rachael and me after classes?”

“Sure!” called Hannah cheerily. Swimming? She had no time to consider it, except for one thought: I will see more of this place, know more. And she found herself shoving through the dressing-room door and had her blouse off before she reached a bench. She fired it over a hook, stooped, shoving down the trousers, and remembered to line up her sandals with the others under the bench. She ran naked for the door to the great hall. She had no time to notice it; the excruciating shame of just the day before had been cauterized. She could spare no attention for modesty. To live…

Only when standing in the middle row, looking at the nude, muscled bodies ahead of her, did it occur to her that those behind were looking at her pale, symmetrical buttocks, perhaps what showed in her crease. Perhaps she was as beautiful as the rest. And the young men ahead of her, standing at ease, legs parted, were much more interesting to her.

Maria ran into the hall from another door, dressed in the same tight black skin, and stood in the front. Her eyes swept the class, seemed to note Hannah, as though making a checkmark, perhaps to say, “Well, that looks like progress. We shall see…”

“Ready!” she called, and it began. That day was different. Not that she did not think, toward the end, that no act of savage will could keep her going till the end. She only realized how truly much sweat rolled off her body, her chin, from between her breasts, down her thighs, when the floor beneath her became so slippery she feared she might fall. Her hair flapped, heavy with moisture. At each jump the cheeks of her buttocks slid slickly against each other. How could just taking a breath hurt so much?

“Halt!’ Maria seemed to bounce one more time, as though to ease herself to earth. Today was different. They “took 15”—Hannah had thought of it with fierce longing for the past half hour—and she joined those sprawling on the floor. One of the two girls from breakfast came and stood over her, smiling down; she had a small, compact body. When Hannah looked up, smiling, she saw proportions that made one forget the girl’s size, as though nothing could be changed without diminishing her. Her hair was blond, almost white; from her angle, Hannah could see right through her triangle to the pale skin beneath. Up between Lilly’s legs, she caught a glimpse of the palest pink.

“I’m Lilly,” she said. “The beautiful girl is Rachael.”

“I’m Hannah.”

“Oh, I know!” said Lilly emphatically, as though Hannah were a celebrity. She added, “You did so well, today! So soon! You must have been a country girl.” She added, quickly, “you aren’t supposed to tell me from where.” Hannah noticed that when Lilly spoke her blue eyes kept looking upward, sparkling, as though she saw stars.

“Very country,” said Hannah. Lilly was looking at Hannah’s body and Hannah recalled Lilly had sucked her nipples, yesterday. And how wonderful it had felt. A woman. The girls with the girls.