All the grassy, winding paths sloped downward. The mansion must sit on a hill. They were heading down in the direction of the sea. Finally, the cultivated shrubbery and paths yielded to woods, but woods groomed, tree trunks wide apart, between them no undergrowth. There were soft leaves under foot. Above, the trees swayed and murmured. How could there be danger, here?
She had escaped once, but for how long? The infuriated boys would not give up. Tomorrow, next week… she could not hide forever. And when they caught up with her, what would they do in their frustration?
Charlotte whispered, “We can stay, here, Hannah.” They stood before a small stone house beneath the trees. It was dark and silent, like a chapel, with a peaked roof, heavy shutters, and shadows woven on its tiled roof from the sun through the trees. Charlotte said, “You can relax. No one would think of looking here.”
“Charlotte?” Hannah asked. “Why did you do this, for me?” She felt frightened but moved in this silent, shadowed place.
“In here,” whispered Charlotte, pushing open a heavy wooden door and stepping in. Hannah pressed in after her, crowding her. Charlotte took Hannah’s hand in a tight grip.
“I’m coming,” said Hannah urgently.
As if she had stepped into an enchanted place, lights went on, flaring, casting skinny black shadows up the walls. Hannah glanced around, shocked, and then she moaned and put her face in her hands. They were applauding, a dozen standing in a semi-circle. Behind her, Hannah heard the door bang shut and a lock turn. Girls from the class, laughing. Charlotte lifted the keys aloft with a grin of triumph.
“No!” said Hannah. It was a whimper. “Oh, please…” She said it not to Charlotte or the others, but to a plunging feeling in her chest, a sudden fathomless betrayal, where nothing was what it seemed and there was no bottom.
How had Charlotte..? No, all of them! Actresses! Trained in every expression of emotion, in drama! A skit to trap Hannah! So easy. And she was a poor country wench, an utter fool! There had been no boys coming! She whirled, her hand a fist, and struck Charlotte in the face. As soon as the blow connected, Hannah’s fist flew back and, lower now, hit Charlotte in the belly. Then she kicked upward, with all her might, into Charlotte’s shin. Suddenly, she recalled Maria’s words: “The women are so cruel. Watch out for the women.”
Hands, strong hands, grabbed her from behind. Charlotte’s hands were lifted, and she fallen back against the door, but she was laughing, simply laughing. At last, Hannah looked at the faces around the room. She saw Myra staring at her and Myra smiled. She said, “I’ve been waiting all day, for this! Isn’t she a little beauty? I kept trying to find an excuse to touch her; I couldn’t wait!”
“No,” said Hannah, but without hope. She backed toward the wall, but the hands held her. Behind her, she felt Charlotte’s body, and Charlotte’s voice said, “Golly! She’s a lioness!”
The girls wore gowns—white, cream, the yellow of early spring, pink. Their shoulders and arms were bare, their hair coiffed, some wore tiaras. All wore high heels. Hannah stared. None of it registered in her brain, not at all. She was a farm girl. All her life, she had worn a few rough garments. Now, in this woodland hut, more baffling than their nudity earlier in the day, were woman who looked like ladies of Queen’s court.
Myra stepped from the semi-circle and approached, never shifting her gaze from Hannah. Her walk was regal. She said, “This little thing
never
should wear clothes.” She reached toward Hannah with long, slender fingers. Hannah could not shrink back; they held her. She said, “Come on, Hannah, change into something more comfortable.”
Hannah shook her head, glancing at the others. She had no allies, no friends. She caught Charlotte’s eyes, and, in response to the furious accusation in her own, Charlotte said, sweetly, “Don’t fight it puss. It won’t hurt. It will happen. You know that it always does happen, here.”
Myra reached out and grasped Hannah’s blouse at the neck, pulling it over her head. Hannah’s foot lashed up, but Myra was ready, easily avoiding the kick. Hannah glared, furious, at Myra. But it was Charlotte’s soft voice that said, “Oh, puss,
why
?”
Myra stood back, smiling, at ease, as though discovering merriment in all that Hannah did. Then, striking like a serpent, head lowered, she slammed her head into Hannah’s midsection, winding her. At the same time, her hands came up and seized Hannah’s breasts, crushing them; suddenly, somehow, she was behind Hannah, arms encircling her, squeezing her breasts. Myra was laughing uncontrollably, happily. Her lips fastened on the back of Hannah’s neck, and she murmured, “So, so beautiful!”
Hannah kicked viciously backward, but her foot struck nothing. Myra’s legs weren’t there. An image came to Hannah of Myra in the exercise room, her glistening muscles like wet mahogany. And then, she had an image of Myra on a floor, naked, with men all around her, their pricks out, waiting. Was it true?
Myra’s arms were around her waist, now, and a murderous squeeze expelled Hannah’s breath. Myra lifted Hannah off the floor and Charlotte darted in, seizing the cuffs of Hannah’s pants and pulling. Hannah kicked and screamed, but the pants came down and off. She kicked furiously at Charlotte’s pretty, laughing face. Charlotte easily dodged. She straightened up, waving Hannah’s pants with a triumphant cry. Hannah was naked, now, from the waist down, too, her long, slender legs kicking at air. When she realized it, she gave a cry of despair. Had Myra not held her in the impossible grip, Hannah would have slumped to the floor, curled in on herself. Then hands shoved Hannah forward, and she stumbled into the semi-circle of clapping girls.
Hannah made one long, piteous plea, “Don’t do this!” Then, she thought, desperately. “Never show them your modesty. It is an intoxicant.”
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.