They'd been very wary of having the meeting at Hannah's house. Because Hannah's house was, of course, Peter's house too. And they were all a bit wary of Peter. It wasn't that he was rude or obtrusive or obnoxious. He was just…Peter. He was a tall, well-built man with a soft English accent, he exuded confidence and charm, and he had the most intense brown eyes any of them had ever seen. Some of the more honest among them had admitted that they found him attractive. Sexy, even. But intimidating.
But not Ruth. As far as Ruth was concerned, Peter considered himself God's gift to women. His confidence she saw as arrogance, and she referred to his charisma as his "snake-oil sales skills". But then, she was Hannah's twin sister, so it wasn't to be expected that she would like Peter. Not when Hannah was so clearly under his spell, under his control.
How two sisters, two identical twins, could be so very different was hard for anyone to understand. It was as if Ruth had taken all of the strong, independent genes allocated for two, leaving Hannah with a sweet nature and an almost obsessional need to serve. In particular, a need to serve Peter. The collar she wore around her neck, which she seemed to wear with pleasure and quiet pride, was a permanent affront and reminder to Ruth that Hannah considered herself nothing more than a slave to the man with whom she shared a house and her life.
So it was with some misgivings that the Women's Group met at Hannah's house. Nevertheless, the constitution they'd drawn up specified that meetings rotated between the houses, and it was Hannah's turn. And what a time to host a meeting! With Beltane fast approaching, the Women's Group wanted to come up with something to top the previous year's celebration. It had been an amazing night, a full moon hanging heavy, seemingly within reach, just over the top of the standing stones. They'd all been shy to start with, imagining watching eyes behind every bush, hearing approaching audiences in every sound. Slowly, they'd all found the courage to fling off their matching purple robes and dance naked around the stones, their skin translucent in the moonlight, their eyes sparkling with the freedom and sense of being connected to all of the women who'd performed exactly this ritual over the centuries.
Oddly enough, Hannah had been the least reluctant of them all, for once leading the way. Unlike most of her companions, she'd worn nothing under her robe, and in the bright moonlight it had been apparent that she had no tan lines, either. When Barbara had commented to Ruth on it later, she'd shaken her head and said that Hannah spent a lot of time naked, in accordance with Peter's wishes. Barbara had changed the subject. No-one ever wanted to get Ruth started on that issue.
So now they sat, cross-legged on cushions spread out on the floor of Hannah's spacious conservatory, lush greenery and foliage all around them, discussing the upcoming celebration.
"I don't see why we can't just do the same thing," Rose said for at least the third time. She reached for one of the delicious scones with jam and cream. "I mean, it was wonderful last year. I felt all cleansed and uplifted for days afterwards." Ellen nodded.
"I did too," she said. "And if women have been doing that for centuries, then why should we change it?"
"But they haven't," Ruth said. "Not exactly like that, anyway."
"What do you mean?" Liz asked. "We researched it, and it was exactly like that, with the pentacle and the flames and the dancing and the rituals." Ruth nodded.
"Yes, but that was only back as far as the middle ages," she said. "Prior to that, they had sacrifices."
"I'm not killing an animal," Rose said definitely. "Not even a chicken."
"We could use my kids' guinea pigs," Barbara offered. "I doubt that they'll survive for more than a month anyway, and I'm sick of looking after them." Rose gave her a wounded look.
"You can have them if you want them," Barbara offered. Rose looked away. If she brought home any more animals, she'd have to declare her house a zoo and charge entry to raise money for food.
"Actually, they sacrificed men," Ruth said. Hannah, in the process of handing round a plate of little cakes, looked surprised.
"Men?" she asked. Ruth nodded.
"Well, one man every year. A virgin from the group was chosen to mate with him, and then he was killed."
"I see a problem," Margaret, the last member of their group, pointed out. "We have an acute shortage of virgins."
"Pity," Peter said from the doorway. "It sounded interesting." Ruth's face set into lines of dislike. Her back was to him.
"I thought we were going to have this meeting privately?" she asked her twin. Hannah, smiling up at Peter, turned to her and shrugged.
"It is his house," she said.
"And yours," Ruth said tersely. Hannah just kept smiling.
"Oh come on," Peter said, straightening up from his leaning position. "If you're planning to go along historical lines, it's not all that secretive now, is it? Anyone could look up the books and see what you're doing."
"That's hardly the point," Ruth said. She turned to look up at him as he approached, knowing in her heart that he enjoyed the fact that she was sitting on the floor, having to crick her neck back to look up at him. Even standing, she had a long way to look up to his face.
"I only came in for one of Rose's scones," Peter said. He smiled at the plump little brunette as he bent down to take one from the plate.
"Take two," Rose urged him. "A big man like you, half a scone will hardly touch the sides." Ruth rolled her eyes.
"Thank you, I will," he said, the words sounding much more formal and gracious with his accent. He straightened up, looked over at Hannah and smiled at her, a smile that made her drop her eyes and blush, and which made several of the other women shiver just a little. Then he left the conservatory.
"If we could return to the business at hand?" Ruth said impatiently, as soon as he was on his way out.
"Sacrificing a man?" Ellen asked. "I'm not sure that's legal."
"Pity," Barbara said. "I'd have volunteered Jim."
"You're sick of looking after him, too?" Liz asked. Barbara nodded.
"And he's a lot more trouble than the guinea pigs."
"I wasn't talking about literally," Ruth said. "More of a figurative sacrifice. Something representational, if you like."
"Representing what?" Margaret asked. She was looking interested though. She brushed her red hair out of her eyes and settled more comfortably on the cushion, or as comfortably as it was possible to settle on a cushion on the floor.
"The power of women," Ellen answered before Ruth could. "The givers of life."
"So…what would you do to this man?" Hannah asked. She didn't look at all convinced. Ruth shrugged.
"I don't know," she said. "Take his clothes off, tie him up, draw symbols on him…everything right up to but excluding the sex and the killing."
"And we'd be naked again?" Rose asked warily. She'd been the last of the women to shed her clothes the year before. Excess pounds and low self-esteem had made it difficult for her. With the exception of the slim, shapely, dark-haired twins, none of the women were particularly beautiful, but Rose considered herself to be dumpy, frumpy and plain. Not on that night, though. On that night, once she'd lost her reservations and her robes, she'd felt tall and thin and gorgeous. And strong.
"We would be," Ruth nodded. Rose winced.
"So let me get this straight," Peter's voice came from behind her again. She whirled around, angry.
"You are going to demonstrate the power of women by tying up and undressing a man? Surely that signifies only that you can't control a man unless you use unfair measures to take his power away?"
"I don't recall asking you," Ruth said through tight lips. "Or inviting you back."
"The scones were too nice," he said. He smiled sweetly at her. "I needed more." Hannah put her hand on her twin's arm. She hated to have conflict between Peter and Ruth.
"It would take a very special man," Margaret said. "Someone who was very sure of himself, who wouldn't be terrified by all of those strong women seeing him naked, taking advantage of him like that." Peter laughed softly. Seven pairs of female eyes turned to him. One pair was adoring. Another pair, identical in every other way, was angry. The other five varied from interest to annoyance.
"Most men would jump at the chance to see seven women naked," Peter said. "Particularly if there's a chance he's going to get laid." He bit into the scone and looked around, obviously enjoying the attention.
"Well that's not going to happen," Ellen said firmly. "We like the pagan rituals because of the connection to women through the ages, but some of us are regular churchgoers, too. We don't indulge in practices of that nature. Certainly not adultery." Of them all, only the twins were unmarried.
"In fact," Ellen added. "The concept of sacrifice appears in the bible. In the old testament. The book of Leviticus has verse after verse about it, specifying exactly what to do with every part of the bull or ram."
"Then their sacrifices were male too?" Ruth asked, sending a cold "told you so" look to Peter. Ellen nodded, but it was Liz who answered.
"Oh yes," she said. "There's lots of passages along the lines of "If his offering be a burnt sacrifice of the herd, let him offer a male without blemish" in the Book."
"Only because the male was considered to be more valuable," Peter pointed out.
"Yes, well fortunately times have changed," Ruth said briskly.
"The man wouldn't have to be completely naked, would he?" Liz asked. She was looking a little worried. "My Brad was a bit put-out when he'd heard about our romp last year, and I just know what he'd say if he heard that a man was going to be displaying his "meat and two veges" to us all."
"Of course not," Ellen assured her. "It's symbolic, after all."
"Finding a male without blemish would be impossible," Barbara said. She was having some trouble with Peter's attitude too. "Every male of my acquaintance is just about a walking blemish. A stain on society." The other women laughed, and Peter smiled.
"Peter doesn't have any blemishes," Hannah said softly. The man froze, then turned to look down at her, his eyebrows raised. She shrugged, coloured up a little at the laughter from the other women.
"Well, you don't," she said. "None at all."
"You're only speaking physically," Ruth pointed out.
"And the Book of Leviticus wasn't?" her twin responded. "Or could they only sacrifice bulls and rams that had high morals and blameless personal histories as well as having no physical blemishes?"
"I can't remember ever reading anything about that," Ellen offered before Ruth could respond.
"So," Ruth said. "To summarise, we'd need a man - preferably without blemishes, who would be strong and confident enough to let himself be stripped to his underpants, and tied up in front of seven women. Gee. Where are we going to find one like that?" She looked up from the fingernails she'd been contemplating, straight into Peter's eyes.
"Any ideas, Pete?" He hated that name, and he knew that she was aware of that.
"None that spring to mind, Ruthie," he responded in kind.
"Do we scare you?" Barbara waded in. Peter went to make a scoffing noise, but manners made him swallow it.
"No," he said. "Not at all."
"Then what's the problem?" Ellen asked.
"Perhaps he's shy about being almost naked?" Rose offered. To everyone's surprise (including Peter's), Hannah scoffed at that.
"Perhaps Hannah wouldn't want all of us looking at her man like that?" Margaret suggested.
"Peter is his own man," Hannah said, in the understatement of the day. "It's up to him. Besides, he wouldn't be showing any more than he does when he swims at the local pool." Again, seven pairs of eyes looked at him.
"No," he said firmly. He laughed. "I can't believe you're serious."
"I can't believe you're such a coward," Ruth said, turning away. "Well, back to the drawing board. What if we…"
"Do you honestly think that will work?" Peter interrupted her. "Insulting me?" Ruth looked back up at him, gave a long-suffering sigh.
"It's only an insult if it's not true," she pointed out. "But if I hurt your feelings, I'm terribly sorry. Now, if you don't mind? What if we…"
"Tell me exactly what would be involved," he said. Her head turned away from him, Ruth smiled to herself. Hannah was looking at Peter, and looking a little concerned.
"Do you think anyone took the bull aside and explained the whole procedure beforehand?" Ruth asked him. "Had a nice chat with the ram and gave him a running sheet? No, Petey. The sacrificee just goes along with what happens. Otherwise, he's a participant rather than the sacrifice." Peter hunkered down beside her, between her and Ellen, his brown eyes looking directly into her green eyes, so like his Hannah's, yet so different.
"Well, Ruthie," he responded. "You've got no chance of getting any man to agree to that."
"Oh, I don't know," she said, holding his gaze, but not without difficulty. His eyes were so deep. "Surely there must be someone around who's sure enough of his own masculinity to not feel terrified and emasculated at the mere thought of putting himself into the hands of seven responsible women." Peter laughed yet again, disconcerting her. He was very good-looking in that "masters of the universe" manner of his.
"That was very good," he applauded her. "Now, if I walk away, I'm insecure in my masculinity and scared of all of you." Ruth smiled sweetly.
"Well, if the cap fits," she said. He shook his head.
"All right," he said. "I'll do it. But with two provisos, Ruth. I definitely keep my underpants on, and there are to be no knives. I don't actually want to end up emasculated when you get caught up in the ritual and magic of the celebration, okay?" His tone on "ritual and magic" was very sarcastic.
Ruth nodded. She glanced over at Hannah, whose eyes were looking troubled.
"Is it all right with you?" she asked her twin. Hannah dragged her eyes away from Peter.
"Anything Peter agrees to is fine with me," she said, visibly managing to diminish her sister's good mood in one sentence.
……………………….
Like the previous year, it was a moonlit night, a hunter's moon swollen with mystery and magic suspended in a velvety sky studded with stars. The seven women, purple robes flowing, hair lifting lightly in the soft breeze, made their way up the hill. The man walked with them, feeling smug and superior. Honestly, he was thinking. They all took this so seriously! Yes, women had been doing this for thousands of years, but a fat lot of good it had done them. Wars had still been waged. Famines and disease had still killed their children. The natural order of the world, with the stronger sex dominating and ruling and fighting to the death still existed.
If he was being completely honest, he'd admit that he felt a bit stupid too. How had he let Ruth bait him into this? He was wearing a ground-length white robe that made him look like a sect leader, and his hands were tied in front of him with rope. Hannah had tied the rope, in accordance with some supposedly symbolic knots that Ellen had researched in the library she worked in. Symbolic bullshit as far as he was concerned, but the knots were certainly tight and effective. He'd have to get Hannah to show him how they were done. So he could use them on her. He looked at her now, walking just in front of him. He could see her curvy backside swinging under the purple robe.
Only he and she knew how red that backside had been in the morning. And how red it was going to be tomorrow morning, too. He didn't think she told Ruth about their sexual practices, about the hours she spent subdued in the basement, or kneeling naked at his feet. But something of it must show through, because he couldn't think of any other reason why Ruth disliked him so intensely. He never had any trouble charming women, getting them to do what he wanted. But Ruth, so like Hannah in appearance, was about as charm-able as a brick wall. And lately, she'd been exerting a bit too much influence on Hannah for his liking. Nothing he couldn't control, of course. All he had to do to bring her back in line was to imply that she was free to go whenever she wanted to. And that if she stayed, it would be on his terms.
They'd reached the top of the hill, and already the feeling was swelling inside the women. The sense of history, of ritual. The silent walk up to the stones had given it time to build, to work its way into them. And now, beside the silent sentinels of ages of rituals, the women felt ready to weave their magic. A t-shaped post had been driven deep into the ground in the centre of the stones, where the altar would have been in the past. Eight foot tall, it was set into concrete and went down another eight feet into the ground. Margaret's eldest son had put his post-hole digger to good use and obligingly followed instructions without question. He'd believed the post was for a May Pole, but he would have done it without an explanation anyway. The cross-bar at the top was anchored securely, and large eye-bolts were set into either end of it. Two heavy bolts had also been driven into the ground near the post.
Other preparations had taken place, too. The pentacle was already drawn, the pole at its heart and flaming torches at its points, and a large wooden box, its lid closed, was placed just outside the circle.
Barbara had been given the task of leading the sacrifice, because she was the only one able to reach high enough to tie his hands. Holding on to the end of the rope that bound his wrists together, she led him into the centre, guided his arms up above his head. Unable to stop himself from smiling at the solemnity and silliness of it, he let her do it, managing not to laugh when they had to bring a singularly un-mystical stepladder over for her to stand on to thread the rope through the eyebolt on the cross-bar. While she tied it securely, other hands were grasping his ankles, tugging them apart, and looking down, he could see Margaret's red head and Ellen's darker hair. They wrapped ropes around his legs, in complicated turns and sequences, and tied them to the bolts set into the ground.
Peter felt a twinge of alarm when he surreptitiously tested the ropes. They didn't give at all. Not even a fraction of an inch. And he was stretched out tight, his arms straight above his head, his legs wide. Not unlike one of his favourite positions for Hannah, actuallly. He liked her total openness and vulnerability in this position. It wasn't quite as much fun for himself though.
The women turned away from him, moving to their appointed places. He watched, amused, as Ruth, Liz, Barbara and dumpy little Rose called to the four Goddesses, calling the words out seriously, as if they actually expected an answer. Then, when all seven of them began moving around in a circle around him, clasping hands and saying the same phrase over and over again, he almost lost it. They looked like children playing a game, with just the same serious looks of concentration in their eyes. And their matching purple robes heightened the sensation. Seven schoolchildren in uniform, moving round and round him, saying the same words over and over again. He blinked. They were starting to blur, and he wanted to be able to see clearly when their robes came off. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Ruth naked, to seeing whether she and Hannah really were completely identical.
And Margaret. He'd wondered whether that red hair was natural. And he worked with the husbands of both Ellen and Liz. It would be interesting to see what their men went home to as well. Who was he kidding? He was looking forward to seeing all of them. Seven naked women. He'd had difficulty pretending to be reluctant when they asked him to do it.
They stopped spinning round him, sat down and began to say something about drawing energy from the ground. Smirking, Peter still couldn't believe how seriously they were all taking this. He looked around at he faces of the four he could see. With the moonlight on them, they looked smooth and unlined, pure and…powerful, was the only word he could think of, but he didn't like it. And then they stopped, stood up, joined hands and raised their arms up above their heads.
Oh get on with it, he thought. Just take the robes off and get on with it. Almost as if they'd heard him, the four women in front of him, Ellen, Rose, Liz and Margaret, looked straight at him, and from the tingling in his skin, he could just tell that the other three were looking his way too. He felt a movement behind him, on the incongruously mundane stepladder. And then Barbara stepped into his line of vision, her hands, palm out, in front of her. And across them lay…
"No knives!" he said. "You said no knives."
"No," Ruth's voice came from just behind him, quiet. "You said no knives, Peter. I agreed not to emasculate you, and that's all. Now be quiet."
"I will not be quiet!" he said loudly, his accent very noticeable. "Undo these bloody ropes now!"
As the narrow white cloth came round his face, he tried to throw his shoulders and back against her, to knock her off the stepladder, but he couldn't get much swing, and, unbeknownst to him, her sister was holding her steady. The cloth, despite his efforts to make it as difficult as possible, cut across his mouth, cut into the edges of his lips as Ruth pulled it taut around his head and tied it into a knot at the back.
"I did ask you to be quiet," she said, still softly. She climbed down, and someone took her place. Liz, he thought.
Peter protested against the gag, but his words were no longer intelligible. Or loud. Barbara moved again, standing directly in front of him, holding out the knife. The elaborate, engraved silver handle was balanced by even longer, slim, and wickedly tapered blade. It was heavy-looking, and the moonlight shone off the edges of the knife in a very disconcerting manner. It looked sharp.
"The athame," Barbara intoned. Peter said all manner of things in reply. In his head. The sounds that came from round his gagged lips indicated that he was not totally happy with either the athame or Barbara. She smiled at him, a very nasty, superior smile, as far as he was concerned. Then she took the neck of his robe in one hand and the athame in the other, and slit the garment from neck to hem. It fell apart, revealing his black briefs. His little joke. They were supposed to be white, but he had never intended to play along with them completely.
Barbara moved further round him, moving counter-clockwise, and handed the athame to Liz, on the stepladder behind him. He felt her hand grasp his wrist, and the knife slit down the sleeve and across the shoulder. She climbed down off the ladder, leaving him wearing one sleeve and part of a robe. It was at this point that he started to wonder what he was going to be wearing home. He'd thought he'd just be pulling the damned thing over his head. Someone climbed up in Liz's place, someone smaller, who had to reach up more. A hand grasped his other wrist and cut the second sleeve and shoulder. The robe fell to the ground.
And then the athame was passed again, and Ruth walked round to the front of him. Peter stiffened. If there was anyone in whose hands that knife should NOT be, it was Ruth. She put her hand flat on his stomach, as if testing his muscles, his skin texture there. She held the athame by its haft, the point of the blade turned towards him.
"Aa-uhh" he tried to call out to Hannah. Ruth smiled. Then she slid her hands down his stomach, lower, hooked her finger into the band of his briefs. Peter struggled again. First the agreement about the knife, and now this? He was getting angry now. The tip of the knife edged inside his briefs.
"Keep still, Peter," Ruth said. "I wouldn't want to cut you accidentally." The look on her face said that she wouldn't mind doing it deliberately though. The blade slid down through the elastic, down through the material, with Ruth pulling it out carefully so the knife edge didn't touch his skin. The briefs fell open, fell back against him, partially exposing him.
"Bitch!" he tried to say, but it came out as "itch!", which didn't have the same effect. Ruth looked up into his face, then slowly, deliberately down his body. Then she moved around him, handed the athame on.
And when Hannah came round the other side of him, he had to look hard to be sure that it was her. Dressed identically to her twin, she no longer wore the collar he had put on her. How had she got it off, he wondered? The bolt was made of toughened steel. It would have taken a hacksaw or a locksmith to shift it without the key. She must have done it before they came here tonight. But why had she done it? Her eyes, so much warmer than Ruth's, settled on his. She smiled, then brought the athame to the other side of his briefs, cut them away and let them fall to the ground, on top of the ruined robe. She bent, picked up both pieces of material, and moved away from him, leaving him completely naked in front of all of them.
He'd never felt more exposed in his life as the gaze of all of the purple-clad women settled on his body, taking in the line of him from his tied wrists down over his updrawn shoulders, chest, waist, hips and groin and out along the triangle of his legs. Every gaze returning inevitably to his groin. He wasn't embarrassed. He told himself he wasn't. He'd been naked with many more than seven women in the past. Not all at once, admittedly, but this was nothing to be concerned about. He had a good body, he kept it in shape with exercise (mostly of the sexual variety), and he was tall, well-muscled, and well-proportioned in every way. He had nothing to be ashamed of. But he couldn't help but squirm a little as the tables were so neatly turned on him. Seven dressed women. And only he, naked and helpless before them.
He searched for and found Liz and Ellen. The two of them had wanted "the man" to wear underpants. He distinctly remembered them saying it. They'd been concerned at their husbands' reactions. Well, they didn't look too concerned now, he noted. No, they just looked fascinated. He wondered how long they'd leave him hanging here like this. As Ruth had said, no-one explained the procedure to the sacrifice.
Just as he was wondering where that damned knife was, he jumped, because a hand had touched him, high on the back of his right thigh. Then another, on his left. And yet another, on his stomach. That one was Barbara, he could see her. And then more hands were on him, fourteen of them, all over him, everywhere. On his back, his chest, his legs, his butt, on the insides of his legs, behind his knees, and eventually, inevitably, on his genitals. At first he thrashed against the ropes, but then he suddenly realised what he was doing and stopped. He was being fondled by seven women. Why on earth was he struggling? And then the sensations took him over again, the stroking and touching and soft pinching. He moaned against the gag. This was too much. They were not going to make him aroused. He was determined about that.
"Ticklish, Pete?" Ruth asked, moving to the front of him, running her fingertips up and down his sides. He shook his head at her, satisfaction in his eyes.
"Not there, he's not," Hannah said from beside him. "Try at the top of his legs, just under….there." Gasping his outrage at her, he tried to swing back from Ruth's teasing touch, but of course, couldn't. So, to the symphony of stroking that was going on all over his body, was added a taunting tickle between his legs that was driving him mad. He protested as much as he could, but every time he opened his eyes, it was to see Ruth in front of him, smiling at him, occasionally looking down at where he was growing harder by the second. He moaned again. There was nothing he could do about it. Too many fingers, too many hands on his body. He let his head fall back.
He felt them move away from him, but he didn't open his eyes until he felt the rush of water down his back, startling a very unmanly sound from between his gagged lips. It ran down his butt, dripping off him and pooling on the ground between his splayed legs. And then a hand rubbed something gritty into his side, dirt, he thought, from what he could see. When Margaret approached him with a flaming torch in her hand, his eyes grew wild, but all she did was hold it close to his other side, close enough for the heat to be uncomfortable, but not to burn. Well, that was water, earth and fire, he worked out. He wondered how they were going to do wind. He could have given them some suggestions. Anything to do with "blowing" would be fine by him, particularly since he was still as hard as a rock.
He was doomed to disappointment. Barbara and Rose came closer, leant in, and puffed warm air onto his chest. Then, each of them looking down at his groin and then smiling back up at him, they backed away. And then the hands started on him again, and he found himself trying to thrust his hips forward against whichever fingers were touching him. But they wouldn't let him. Hands on his hips held him back against hands on his butt and all he could do was groan.
He felt something harder than a hand on his back, something thick and sticky. Someone was writing on him, it seemed. And then someone else drew something lower down on his back. And across his buttocks. A dark head, he thought it was Hannah, but couldn't be sure, dipped low, and something was drawn on the inside of his thighs. And then she circled around and a brunette, Rose, drew pentacles on the front of his thighs in a heavy black grease crayon. Margaret took the crayon next, drawing a circle from his navel down, almost, but not quite touching his jutting erection and then pentacles on either side of it, on the soft skin of his loins. His chest received similar treatment, from Barbara, and then the stepladder was drawn up in front of him, and Ruth climbed up on it to draw on his arms and, finally, on his forehead. Her face close to his, almost touching, she looked down his nude body and smiled at him.
"I begin to understand what my sister sees in you," she said softly. She was holding his chin with her hand, so there was no question of him bringing his head sharply forward. He wouldn't have, anyway. He wasn't a fool. If he hurt one of them, the other six would deal with him. Even his Hannah. And they had that knife.
As Ruth climbed down, Hannah moved into his line of sight. Slowly, deliberately, she clutched handfuls of the robe she wore, drew it up her long legs, up higher, showing the pubic area he made her keep shaven for him, her soft belly, her beautiful breasts. Up over her head, and she dropped it to the ground. Then she moved off to the side and Ruth stepped into place. If he could have, Peter would have licked his lips. Yes.
And then the stepladder was pushed around to the back of him and Barbara climbed up and blindfolded him. If anything, he protested more at that than he had before. He was shaking his head, trying to say the words "not fair!" through the gag. There was laughter, then the shuffling of feet, as one by one the women moved in front of him, now blinded, and removed their robes.
They moved around him, chanting again, their voices rising and falling. He heard some words, some phrases repeated over and over, but mostly it was just a wave of voices, while he hung there silently, visionless and naked.
A nude body brushed up against his back, and then another. One by one, each woman filed past him, giving him only the briefest of touches with their bodies. He tried to guess who was who, but he didn't have a point of reference. He could feel hard nipples, soft breasts, the brush of a hip against his leg, but had no idea who owned what. So this was what frustration felt like.
And then the touching stopped. There was more shuffling in the dirt, some rustling, and then someone climbed up behind him and undid the blindfold. Peter blinked hard. They were all dressed again. The look on his face told them what he thought of that, set them laughing. And then the circle of women parted in front of him, and there was a sudden bright flash that almost blinded him. He blinked again. Another flash. And…oh shit. Someone was taking photos of him!
"What do the diagrams mean?" a female voice asked.
"They're symbols," Ruth answered. "They might have been carved into the skin of the sacrifice in years past. We're more humane now, obviously."
"And he's a willing sacrifice?" the woman, a very young-looking brunette, asked, as the camera flashed again and again. Peter shook his head, setting his brown hair flopping over his face, obscuring the drawing on his forehead.
"Well he's not all that happy at the moment," Ruth pointed out, laughing. "Understandably really, given the condition he's in." He was still half erect.
"Just as well he's no ummm…worse than that," the little brunette said. "The newspaper can't print pictures of men with full erections, but I think this will be fine."
"Newspaper?" Peter was trying to yell. "Ooooozaa-her?" was the best he could manage.
"Don't worry," Ruth said to the woman. "He's signed the waiver already. You might like to get some photos from behind him, too?" she spoke to the photographer. Another woman, Peter noted wearily. He hadn't signed a waiver. He knew damned well he hadn't. At least…he looked at Hannah, standing right behind Ruth. She did their tax and accounts for them, was very good at it. He'd signed a whole sheath of papers the day before. She smiled at him and nodded slowly. His eyes sent her a very clear message. She was going to pay for this. In a big way. To his annoyance, she kept smiling.
"You timed that very well," Ruth said to the journalist.
"Well, we didn't want to disturb the ritual," the woman said. "When we looked up the hill and saw that you were all naked, we decided to wait a little longer. None of you have signed waivers, after all." Ruth smiled and nodded.
"We appreciate it," she said. The photographer came up close to Peter and took a nice, clear full-frontal shot of him.
"That'll do," she said to the journalist. "I have enough." Yes, about 24 frames, by Peter's calculations. His vision was dotted with spots of white from the camera flash.
"And I can call you with any other questions I have?" the journalist asked.
"Yes," Ruth assured her. "You can contact me at my sister's house." That caught Peter's attention. Oh could she? The journalist and photographer left, both turning to give him a very thorough up and down look as they went. He was starting to get an appreciation of how a piece of meat felt. Except that a piece of meat didn't have feelings.
"Good bye Peter," Margaret said, from directly in front of him. She reached out, brushed her fingertips over his deflating equipment. "No hard feelings." With a chuckle, she stepped to one side and waited. He managed a very heavy sigh through the gag. Ellen and Liz approached together.
"The man wouldn't have to be completely naked, would he?" Liz asked, straightfaced. Then they both started laughing.
"I can't believe you fell for that," Ellen said. "David has always said that you're a very bright man. Seeing the photos will probably change his mind, I think." Peter turned away from them. Barbara and Rose didn't bother with any parting words. They just smiled as they walked past him. Leaving him alone with the twins.
"You're right, Hann," Ruth said as they approached him together, their dark glossy hair shining in the moonlight. "He is completely unblemished."
"In accordance with the scriptures," Hannah said seriously, just before they, like the other women before them, laughed.
"erry unny," Peter said. Yeah, very bloody funny indeed. Now stop laughing and take this gag off me. He shook his head at them, pushed at the gag with his tongue.
"Should we take it off him?" Hannah asked. Ruth nodded.
"Why not?" she said. "We've taken everything else off him." While Hannah climbed up to do the honours, Ruth trailed her fingers down his stomach again, over on to one of his hips, down the side of his leg. He watched her intently.
"So you heard that I'm moving in with you, I take it?" she asked. He nodded. And then he shook his head vigorously.
"Yes she is," Hannah said from behind him. "Now keep your head still if you want this gag to come off." He kept still.
"Things are going to change around the house," Ruth went on. "Lots of changes, Peter." He kept looking steadily, his intense brown eyes not shifting from her face. The gag came clear, mercifully. He stretched his mouth.
"Uncomfortable, isn't it?" Hannah asked. "You should try it with a ball gag, baby. Or a ring gag. After a couple of hours, your jaw aches so bad."
"You've never complained," he said, finding his voice.
"You told me that if I complained, it was over," she pointed out. "And I didn't want to lose you."
"Heaven knows why," Ruth said. She held out something she'd picked up out of the wooden box. A collar.
"Like it?" she asked, holding it up to him. "It's made of kevlar. Did you know that a woman invented kevlar, Peter?" She passed it up to her twin.
"I'm not wearing that," he said.
"Yes you are," Hannah said, strapping it onto him. "See?" He heard a lock click into place.
"A symbol of my love for you," she said, kissing his cheek.
"Of our love for you, even," Ruth said. His eyes widened, and just a hint of interest came into his face. She laughed.
"Get any visions of threesomes out of your head right now, lover boy," she said. "You're going to be getting a lot less action in future than you've had in the past. Four times a day, indeed!" He tried to turn his head, to look at Hannah. She'd obviously discussed a lot of personal details with her sister.
"But if you're a good boy and do what you're told," Ruth went on, brushing her fingers lightly over his groin and getting his immediate attention. "You just might get lucky every now and then."
"Define "now and then" for me," he said. She smiled enigmatically.
"When we feel like it," she said. "If we feel like it. And after all, according to Ellen, you'd be committing a heinous sin. What was the quote, Hann?"
"Neither shalt thou take a wife to her sister, to vex her, to uncover her nakedness" Hannah quoted.
"Leviticus 18:18," Ruth said.
"I wasn't planning to marry you," Peter said. Ruth shrugged.
"The intent is clear," she said. "So, you'd be committing a real sin there, Pete." Her fingers brushed him again. "Think you're up to it?"
"Untie my hands and I'll show you," he invited. She laughed.
"We're going to leave your hands tied for now," she said. "In fact, you're going to walk back down to the car with us, just as you are. Except for your feet, of course."
"I don't think so," he said. It might take him a while, but he'd get the knots undone with his teeth.
"Do you really want those photos to appear in the newspaper tomorrow?" Hannah asked him, still from behind him. She'd been reaching up on her toes to untie the rope, but she'd paused.
"You can stop them?" he asked, hope springing. He was poised for promotion at the moment. It was hanging on a thread. Photos of him strung up like this, with occult symbols drawn all over his naked body, would roundly finish off his chances. And leave him as an object of ridicule for all of the men at work, many of whom had looked up to him in the past for his obvious domination over the beautiful Hannah.
"Of course we can," Ruth said. "We can just lose the waiver you signed. The story will still appear, but if they use any of the photos, they'll have to make sure you can't be identified, and your name won't be mentioned."
"And I just have to walk to the car bare-arsed, with my hands still tied?" he asked. She shook her head. The rope came free above his head, and he lowered his arms with real pleasure. And gave in to the urge to reach for his groin, to reassure himself that everything was still where it was supposed to be.
"No," Hannah said. She climbed down, walked round to stand in front of him. Ruth had crouched down to start untying his ankles.
"No, Peter. Those photos will stay in the newspaper stores for at least three years before they're destroyed. They can activate them at any time. Whenever they want a story on witch activity, or something like that. And we can produce your waiver whenever we need to."
"So, I have to do what I'm told, do I?" he asked, looking down into the face of the woman he had thought he had owned, body and soul.
"You do," Hannah smiled. She reached up, her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. He kissed her back, but as he tried to push his tongue into her mouth, she pushed back. Hard. He blinked as she stepped back from him.
"Do you know what Beltane is, Peter?" Ruth asked, moving to his second ankle. He nodded.
"A celebration of fertility and Spring," he said. She nodded in return, cut the last rope and straightened up. And, like Hannah had before her, stood up on her toes and kissed him.
"A new beginning," she said. She tied the rope she'd cut to the bindings on his wrists, lifted his hands away from his body.
"Let's go," she said.
