The Price of Hannah Blake (20 page)

If she had not been tied, Hannah would have fallen, because her ankles were dragged apart and fastened to the bedposts at the bottom. The stretch was so great that the tendons stood out in the softest part of her inner thighs, her hips ached, and the furrow between her legs felt stretched. She was helpless, on display, and she began to tremble. A whipping? So be it, damn them!

Myra had climbed onto the bed, now, and stood at Hannah’s back, pressing against her. Hannah glanced over her shoulder, angrily, to confront her. Myra murmured, “Beautiful, beautiful Hannah.” Hannah felt fingers slide down her back, over her buttocks, and then they were moving slowly from her public hair. Hannah felt the menace in the gentle caress.

And then Myra’s hands slipped around Hannah’s body and began to toy with her nipples, pinch them, flick them, snap them with her fingers. Once, she flattened her palms on Hannah’s breasts and pressed them, squashing them, massaging them in hard circles. Hannah began to squirm in spite of herself. Myra whispered, “You’re going to like this, if you’re a faggot.”

Myra dropped her clothes, now, and stood behind Hannah, tall, with long muscles that shone in the light. Someone said, “Here it is.”

Hannah looked back, then turned away. Her legs began to tremble and low in her belly she felt a quiver of dread. She demanded of herself, “So what? So what, Hannah?”

Myra belted the dildo around her loins and tightened the straps, but this was not the slender ivory dildo. It was shorter and shone like black pearl. It was immensely thick. Hannah glanced again; she could not help it. God! The thing could not possibly fit into her! It was as thick as the biggest carrot! And it’s head was worse: a great, bulging glans penis, but such a one as no man had ever boasted! With the monster secured around her hips, Myra gave a sharp jerk or two; the phallus barely moved.

I am not a virgin, said Hannah to herself. I never have had a man, but I am not a virgin.

“Wait!” called Charlotte. She walked to the side of the bed. She held a small jar. She dipped two fingers into it…” She would not meet Hannah’s accusing stare. She bent her head, peering into Hannah’s buttocks, then her fingers slipped in, positioned themselves, and thrust. Hannah yelled, jerked her hips forward, trying to close herself. She could not. The fingers were inside her, turning round and round, slick, pushing deeper. Hannah groaned. Charlotte’s brusque fingers in her arsehole felt indescribably intrusive; she strained to expel them.

And then Hannah realized, fully, what this meant. “No Myra!” she cried. “Not up there! No!”

She jolted violently in her bonds. “Lilly!” she cried. “Rachael! Not there! Not with that!”

Myra moved deliberately. When the thing touched the cheeks of Hannah’s buttocks, she swayed forward, trying to escape. Myra reached around with one hand, crossing her breasts, and held her. Now, Hannah looked over her shoulder, desperately, but could not see what pressed into her.

Myra’s firm breasts pressed Hannah’s back, crushing them luxuriously against her. She put lips close to Hannah’s ear. “I prayed to God you would refuse to fuck that girl, Hannah. I wanted to do this to you. I thought about it!”

Hannah closed her eyes. “Don’t, please,” she whispered. “Not there.”

“Why? You know you have to be virgin for the duke, dear.”

And then, a jolt shoved Hannah’s loins forward, swinging in her bonds, and she yelped. And then she screamed. It was blunt, impossibly huge, chill. “No, Myra!” She glanced around in panic for friends, allies.

“Oh, God!” moaned Hannah, in despair, and her head fell forward. Her face felt blazing hot and sweat formed on her upper lip. The bed frame squeaked with her weight as she was bucked, then partially dragged back. She wanted to beg Myra, again, but couldn’t get her breath. If she could speak, she would say it. She would offer to kill Miranda, if she must.

When would they ever stop!

“All right,” said Darlene, “stop.” Then she said, again, “Stop, Myra, or you never will do any of this again. Do you hear me? Stop, bitch!”

Hannah gave a final cry as the impossible sensation slid from her, stretching her ring of flesh outward. And then she hung, weeping.

She heard Darlene’s voice. “Will you do it, Hannah?”

Hannah made no answer. She could not. She couldn’t think!

But she heard Lilly’s voice, now, alarmed, tearful. “Hannah, do it! Please!”

Her chest heaved, panting. Slowly, very slowly, she shook her head.

“You refuse?” It was Darlene’s voice, sweet, coaxing.

“Hannah!” cried Rachael’s voice, urgent, shaking, “Do it!”

Now, it would start again, Hannah thought. She felt someone behind her, and hands encircled her. But it was to hold her up. They were untying her wrists, her legs. Had she not been held up, she would have fallen. They half-lowered her, half-slid her to the floor. She felt her wrists pulled behind her, held together, and then the rope circled, then tightened. Someone rolled her over, so she lay on her back, bound arms beneath her.

She looked up. They stood around her, the petticoats billowing, swaying, lovely, and she could see the beautiful, slender legs disappearing up beneath them. Charlotte and Lilly took her arms and lifted her to her feet. Lilly whispered, brokenly, “Oh, puss! Why didn’t you do it?”

Hannah opened her eyes. She was facing the bed and on it lay Darlene. But Darlene had hiked up the glorious skirts and petticoats above her waist and below she was naked. The long legs were perfect, smooth and creamy, and now they were spread wide.

Hannah stared. She struggled to make sense of this.

Darlene said, her voice almost bored, “Anytime, Hannah. We have all evening, you know.”

“What?” And then they were pushing her forward. At the bottom of the bed, they shoved her forward and down, forcing her head lower. For a moment, she glanced to the side. Myra stood there, grinning; she held her gown and petticoats high, baring herself. And Charlotte sat in a broad chair, legs over the arms, naked to the waist because she had lifted her clothes and held them.

Lilly whispered, just behind her, “You have to suck her pussy! And then the rest! They won’t let you go, no matter what! Suck her, the way Rachael did for you. Pleasure her!”

Hannah tried to rise, struggling. The hands held her. Suddenly she felt the blunt, insistent intrusion between her buttocks. She yelled, “No!” Myra’s voice said, “We can put it there, dear, until you finish us all. Is that what you want?”

“No,” whispered Hannah, “no,” and she bent her head forward.

Without weeks of strenuous conditioning she would not have lasted through morning exercises. Her arsehole ached and burned, so that to jump, stretching her legs to either side, made her gasp—but mostly she was exhausted. Thank God for curfew! Or when would they have stopped shoving her from girl to girl, pussy to pussy? Each one had waited with a smile and legs invitingly spread and Hannah’s face was pushed down, and held down if she tried to pull back, until, at long last, the girl began to stir her loins, then thrust them, breathing hard and then gasping, and finally cried out and pushed Hannah’s head away.

She would lift her face, lips and chin and nose smeared, and draw breath, glancing around. The whole room seemed to smell of a woman’s sex. She did not get to choose her next mistress; they pushed her. Well, now she knew about that “spot” from which such thrills had shot through her own body when Rachael’s gentle tongue teased it. It was not a spot; it was a sort of soft lump that appeared, a swelling that rose, in a girl’s pussy. And when Hannah concentrated her tongue and lips there, things happened faster. Some of the girls had hissed, “Do my clit!” so now Hannah knew what a “clit”—some said “clitty”—was and how it worked.

Still, if curfew had not neared she would have spent at least another hour, desperate to “do” each girl and move on. She had closed her eyes with relief and murmured, “Oh!” when Darlene’s voice said, “She’s done,” and added, when the still-waiting girls protested, “Bring out Miranda. Don’t you want to do Miranda before curfew?”

They were ready for fresh meat and assented. Myra archly said, “Shall we let Hannah walk back tied up just like that? She’s a bitch.”

Darlene said, “Untie her, she paid.” And Lilly and Rachael were first to jump up. Hannah felt strong fingers at the knotted rope. When they had freed her, she stood gingerly moving her arms, turning her wrists, and shrugging her shoulders to release the stiffness. Lilly had leaned close and said, “Oh, puss, I’m sorry!”

Hannah only nodded, not looking at her. Now, they were bringing Miranda; she had stopped weeping and struggling. She had sat over an hour in the adjacent room, watching Hannah’s ordeal through the open doorway, hearing her cries. She seemed in shock, hopeless; her eyes gazed ahead but seemed not to focus.

They had prepared her for her “wedding night,” her face heavy with mascara, rouge, and lipstick. Below, her big, pendulous breasts were bright pink with rouge and the broad, flat circles of her aureoles at the bottom were scarlet with lipstick. They had powered her impressive pubic covering so that it was whitish, not black. The long hair had been teased out around her head and shoulders like a luxuriant black curtain, glinting in the light.

Hannah looked once, then walked to where her gown lay on the floor. She picked it up; it seemed ridiculous to put it on, but she had nothing else. It was soiled, now; out of habit, she tried to brush it off. Then she drew up the petticoats and struggled with the gown until she felt hands helping her and turned to see Rachael. Rachael did not smile; her expression asked no forgiveness, acceptance. After a moment, Hannah formed her lips in the shape of a kiss and Rachael’s eyes began to blink rapidly. Whatever courage her friends had—or lacked—Hannah needed friends.

Would they try to stop her? She glanced once more, to see Miranda spread-eagled on the bed, motionless. The lute began to play. Hannah went to the door, took the knob, and paused. She was half-expecting a command, for hands to seize her. Then she opened the door, stepped out into the shadowed woods, not quite impenetrably dark, and pulled it shut. She also shut from her mind what would now occur in the cottage.

Next morning she managed to hear the wardress’s sharp rap as she strode the corridor, rousing the students, and she struggled up. She glanced at the gown she had flung onto the chair last night. What was Miranda feeling this morning? No time for that, Hannah already was washing, splashing her face and breasts, rubbing a washcloth through and over places she had barely rinsed when she returned, exhausted, last night.

This day, she no longer had to wonder if David looked at her in a special way. Hastening into the breakfast room, she glanced around and met his eyes first, watching her intently. She tried a reassuring smile, but he looked grim. Lilly and Rachael beamed up, pleasure and relief in their faces, when Hannah plopped down with them as she usually did. “Not now about Miranda,” she said, forestalling Lilly. “And not about last night.”

“But
puss
…”

“Now I know what a clit is, that’s all,” said Hannah. “And I know that my arsehole is magical; it makes carrots disappear.”

“How does it feel?”

Hannah shrugged, she started eating; she had taken quite a bit of food. And then came exercise and Hannah drove herself through the pain, weariness, amazed at her own new stamina. And every time she glanced at David, he was looking at her. Suddenly she recalled, like a blow striking her, that tonight was the “cock fight” with Charles. How could she have forgotten! She whirled her head to look at David and her glance, in spite of herself, went to his groin, his prick jouncing and swaying as he moved. When her eyes rose to his face, he smiled for the first time that day and it was reassuring.

They didn’t speak all day, but, when final bells chimed, and Hannah plodded to the dressing room, weak with relief, he managed to be next to her in the showers. Under cover of hissing water and the sighs and giggles of the others, he said, “You’re all right.” It was not quite a question. She nodded and he said, “Come to my room right after.” She shaped a silent “yes,” on her lips, nodding, and went back to soaping her breasts and letting the shower’s patter work on her sore shoulders.

He said, “I know what happened, Hannah.” She had stepped into his room, and was pushing the door closed, when he spoke. She turned. He was in the middle of the room as though waiting for her.

“But which of the girls…”

“I was watching.”

It felt as though she had been lifted up and dropped, her body fighting to regain balance. Her arms fell to her sides as though too heavy to hold up. She was shaking her head, refusing entrance to the ideas. “What?” she managed to say.

“Hannah, I was at the window, outside. I had to be. I had to see for myself.”

It staggered her. She stared at him, uncomprehending. “You wanted to
watch
?” Images shot past her mind’s eye as though falling too fast to more than glimpse. And he had
seen
it?

“I can guess what you went through,” he said, a catch in his voice. He blinked. “But if it had gotten, I mean, somehow worse… What you did and accepted was incredible; I couldn’t believe it, even seeing it. I would have come in, if… but for me to rescue you—that would have been all over this place ringing alarm bells. I didn’t want to watch; I had to watch.”