Strange Hunger

On the weekend just after her eighteenth birthday, she'd made her final attempt. And that was when she truly learned.

* * *

The age of eighteen had held a talismanic importance for her. She had been sure it was when everything would change. When Daddy would finally see her as a woman and stop coming after her with his belt. When Chris would finally relax and realize it was safe to be her friend again. When Mom would start to finally confide in her, talk to her, support her the way she'd always yearned for.

Yeah, not much to ask of a birthday party, Hanna, she had thought some days since with bleak humour. But other days, the more heartbreaking days, she could still feel the promise that milestone had seemed to hold, the hope.

There had, to be sure, been good signs. Flashes of the old Chris had started to show up in the days approaching the big occasion. Her real birthday had fallen during the week, and she been overcome with emotion when she unwrapped her brother's gift and found it was a Trojan Records rarities box set, the kind of gift the old Chris might have given her. Her brother had looked a bit embarrassed as she hugged him but also pleased, as if he'd forgotten what this felt like. And it had been Chris who bought the tickets for the Death gig that weekend, and his army of girlfriends, squeezes and too-friendly exes who'd planned out the after-party bash at a nearby squat. It was impossible not to be excited.

Hanna's friends her own age, meanwhile, had been determined to net her a boyfriend at long last. They dressed her up smart as you please and sexier than she'd ever dared before in a tight plaid shirt, a tiny black mini-skirt with braces - a skirt that made her actually a little self-conscious as it barely covered her thick, juicy ass, which by now had matched her present-day dimensions of booty-licious glory - fishnets and a fresh pair of Doc Martens.

"The guys'll go wild for you!" her best friend Lola had said with a bright gap-toothed smile. "Better get prepped! Tonight is definitely the night!" It had been Lola who, insistently, had lit up some aromatherapy candles and drawn her a bath and helped her shave off her pubes for the first time. She'd giggled and flushed and make jokes the whole time... but afterwards she felt divine. Full-on sexy for maybe the first time in her life. It was the whole reason she kept shaving thereafter.

The show had been great, the Detroit punk legends bringing the whole scene together in a way it hadn't been in years. It felt golden. Even Chris' most right-wing yob friends had been on their best behaviour, there weren't any fistfights with the punks or the Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice crowd, and Chris had danced with her sweetly and looked at her without that meanness in his eyes - with something far warmer and gentler replacing it - and Hanna had felt sure everything was falling into place.

Another boy had watched her at the show, too, and danced with her a couple of times. Strangely, she couldn't even remember his name now. She had only met him that night. But he'd been handsome, in a gawky teenaged guy sort of way, and he'd made her laugh with his goofy jokes and made her feel warm inside with his stare and he'd danced like a gypsy demon. When they got to the after-party he and Hanna had been practically joined at the hip, and her newly-shaven pussy had been tingling at the thought of making love to her first guy. The night passed in a whirl of beers and friends and snuggles and increasingly hot, probing kisses, clumsy but delicious, that had her grinding against him, feeling the slippery heat rising between her firm young thighs, feeling the build toward something wonderful.

Then a hand had taken hold of her shoulder from behind. Her right shoulder, she remembered that specifically. And it had spun her around, all unsuspecting, into a brutal backhanded slap.

She was on the deck before she even knew what was happening. She looked up and watched with horror as a big skin, one of Chris' neo-Nazi crew, powered in and glassed her beau in the face. Heard herself scream and then saw Chris standing over her, big beautiful Chris with his buzzed blonde hair, his features distorted and something like madness in his eyes, straddling her as he leaned down and bellowed: "Is this how you fucking repay me, you worthless drunken race traitor slut!" And as it was happening, she realized it had been Chris who had grabbed and slapped her.

And then she looked down and saw something he hadn't meant for her to see. As he stood over and ranted at his barely-legal kid sister, Chris was hard as a rock. The outline of his turgid prick against his tight jeans was unmistakable... shocking. Hanna saw it and looked back into his eyes.

Understanding kindled between them. An irrevocable, terrible understanding. Chris' tirade broke off as he noticed her seeing him. His eyes went wide and for just a second the anger fled, leaving the purest shame and self-loathing she had ever seen in a human face... and then she saw something disconnect, some breaker of restraint flip off as affect dropped and his expression went dead.

She honestly thought he could have killed her then.

Fortunately some of his mates had seen the warning signs. They turned back and tackled him just in time and dragged him off as Hanna's friends retrieved her, pulled her off to another room and fussed over her. She heard them clucking over her like mother hens, felt them pressing ice against her cheek, kissing and hugging her, bundling her gently onto one of the cots to let her rest.

She'd been encased in shock through all of it, but there was something else. Something shameful.

The desire that had been glowing and swelling between her thighs, despite the trauma that just happened, hadn't gone away. No, it had grown stronger. She could feel her clit pulsing, her juices moistening her cotton panties even while her friends fussed and comforted. Being at her brother's feet, helpless, a passenger in her own body as the vicious impact of his slap rang through her skull and she saw his big, hard cock tenting his jeans and realized just what he really wanted to do to her...

... it had turned her on. It was still turning her on.

* * *

Hanna hadn't known what to do with this. She had simply withdrawn into herself. Curled up on the cot and lain carefully motionless until one by one, even the most loyal of her friends had had to take their leave—Chris' mad outburst had eighty-sixed the party vibe anyway, she could hardly blame most of them for wanting to just escape—or go off and find their own spots in the squat to curl up and sleep. She still didn't know to this day if she had somehow intuited what would happen next.

"Hanna."

The voice came from the doorway, eventually. She was alone in the room, everyone was gone or sleeping. It was his voice. Of course it was his voice. Had she known?

She froze. Closed her eyes tight and pretended to sleep.

"Hanna." Chris' voice was thick with emotion. Raw with grief. Ragged with exertion. He sounded like he had been crying, screaming, baying at the moon. "Sis? I... I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

In. Out. In. Out. She breathed, held still. If she just held still he might go away. He might never know about the way her clit had started pulsing even harder at the sound of his voice. About how wet her demure little panties were.

"Sis, come on. You don't have to punish me, okay?" His voice was low. Shamed. "I know I scared you, that... I shouldn't have hit you." He took a few steps toward her. "I just got jealous. Don't know why, it's crazy, like, completely random. I must've drunk too much." This part might have been partly true; his words were slurring. "There's no way I'd have those... look, I know what feelin's you think I had, okay? I saw you thinkin' it. You're wrong, I... I'd never have those feelin's. Okay?"

In. Out. Breathe. You are a stone. A stone that doesn't feel what you're feeling.

"Sis?" Chris came closer. She could smell his cologne now, Old Spice, could smell his sweat and the booze on him. He knelt down beside her, prodded at her shoulder. A note of disgust crept into his voice: "Aaand you're out cold. Here I am trying to fuckin', like, bare my soul here and make things right and you're passed out fuckin' drunk. Great. Just great."

He sat down heavily beside her. She felt fear feather through her, and felt the wet ache between her thighs intensifying. The crystallization of a whole-body feeling of restlessness that she'd known since forever, it seemed, focused into a single rapidly-engorging nubbin at the apex of her tingling sex. She couldn't help herself. She'd squirmed, rubbed her thighs together around the rising heat... then froze as she felt Chris freeze.

In. Out. Breathe. You are a stone...

"The fuck?" Something harder was coming out in his slurred tones. "You havin' dreams, sis? That it?"

She fought not to react, not to go utterly rigid as she suddenly felt one of his big, strong hands on her. His fingers felt hot against her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. Sliding down from her shoulder over her back, moving slowly, luxuriantly as if savouring every moment of the contact. It was like the way she'd sometimes seen him touch his girlfriends. It made her heart pound, it made her pussy hotter and wetter; and helplessly, she squirmed again despite herself, much as she fought to keep her eyes closed and her breathing steady.

"Huh." Chris' breaths were growing slightly ragged. There was a new kind of huskiness in his tone as he said: "You're all passed out in your cups and dreamin' about that out-of-town kid, right? I bet that's it." He sounded aggrieved: "You know he was a fuckin' Spic, Hanna? A porta—a Puerto Rican?"

His hand traced its way across the small of her back, one of his fingers playing along her spine.

"You're too good for him, sis. We don't, we don't think about these things enough, we don't discipline ourselves. Just why America's dyin', don't you see? We've got to protect the good in us. You..." He stopped. Swallowed. "You're the good, sis. You're so fuckin'... beautiful. Too beautiful for that, that ghetto trash. I gotta protect you. I always try to protect you. Don't you see?"

His hand reached the base of her spine. Hesitated.

In. Out. Breathe...

"It kinda pisses me off, actu'lly." Something uglier started to creep into his voice. "Here I come to say sorry for callin' you a drunken slut, and here you are, passed out drunk and still bein' a slut. Huh? Still lustin' after some fuckin' greaser. You could have so much better if you just let someone teach you, you know that? If you just learned to be a good little girl... like I know you can." And now, shaking slightly, his hand slid lower. Reached out to cup one of her big, soft, supple buttocks. His breaths came harshly as squeezed and savoured it with his palm, moving his hand from one buttock to the other.

Hanna felt like her heart might burst. The ache, the yearning between her thighs was growing almost as powerful as the fear, the paralysis, the confusion of what was happening to her. Chris stroked and caressed the soft, supple orbs of her bottom as if he was a man in a dream of which he dared not waste a moment, lest he suddenly wake up. It made waves of pleasure feather through her, made her squirm again, his caresses growing bolder as it happened.

Finally he rasped: "Maybe I should teach you. Yeah? Maybe I should show you what a real man feels like, the kinda man you belong with. Would you like that, sis?" He was panting now as he reached down to caress her inner thigh, stroking the soft flesh as he began to move his fingers up... up... up toward her wet, quivering cunt under the flimsy protection of her cotton panties. His touch came closer... closer... In... Out...

He pulled in a hissing breath as his fingers encountered the saturated fabric, felt her hot juices as he started to stroke her cunt slowly. Oh so slowly. So wicked, so beguiling, so terribly and horribly perfect.

"Ahhh. So the game's up, huh? You are a little fuckin' slut, aren't you? You do need settin' straight, yeah?"

Chris might have been drunk, but his were the hands of a man with experience of dozens of women, maybe more than just dozens. They knew exactly what to do to Hanna's inexperienced, vulnerable, horny young pussy. His fingers feathered along her slit, back and forth, found her clit unerringly and caressed it in tight, gentle circles, pressed inward along her groove and soaked her panties with her sweet nectar even more.

He played her sex with a touch so masterful that even as she lay frozen in terror, biting back the urge to sob or cry out, her hips squirmed and her belly tightened and a feeling she had never felt before burst through her taut young body in waves, and waves, and shuddering, juddering waves as her juices squirted out and anointed his wicked, betraying digits. She had never felt more ashamed of a feeling in her young life. She had never felt hotter, more aroused, more wanton. She screwed her eyes tighter: she didn't know what to feel.

To this day she swore she could hear Chris actually slavering. As though his tongue was out and he was actually just letting drool drip from it. But whether that was fact or imagination she didn't know, because her eyes stayed shut just as he panted: "Alright, sis... let's straighten you out," and gently pushed her over onto her stomach.

She could feel the heat of him, the mass of him moving in above her. A cold shiver went through her as she heard his zipper come down. He pushed her skirt up, gripped the waistband of her panties and pulled. His movements still had that slow, dreamlike quality, as if he was sleepwalking. Maybe that's what he wanted to believe... or what she did. He pulled until her glutes bounced clear of the cotton, their soft creamy nakedness and the dark valley between them exposed to his ravening gaze; pulled down just to the point where her dewy, freshly-shaven slit was laid bare. And stopped.

Her heart pounded in terror. My first. This is going to be my first. She couldn't stop herself from squirming again as he reached in and stroked her dripping labia from behind. She heard his breath catch.

"Already shaved, huh?" The words were barely intelligible. Then Chris' voice turned into a guttural snarl as he said: "You slut. You... you fuckin'... slut."

He lunged into her on that last word so suddenly that there seemed to be no transition: one moment he was hovering over her, the next moment he was there inside her, the molten tightness of her honeypot abruptly impaled. Hanna tried to cry out then, or thought she did, but no sound would come; her mouth was open in a silent sobbing "O" of shock as the hot length of his tool stretched her soft, snug cunt with shocking brutality... and as, just like that, she found herself cumming all over it.

It was the most intense thing she had ever felt. The terrible waves of pleasure came washing out from the point where his balls nestled against her sensitive nubbin, from the point deep inside where his cockhead pulsed; her cunt gripping and gripping him, her channel spasming and rippling around his length as her slick nectar doused him, the hot juices bursting out around the bloated shaft. Visions swirled in her mind: memories of Chris holding her after Daddy spanked her; of Chris slapping her when she dared ask for comfort; of him beaming with approval at her while she danced around in his room and discovered the joys of Tony Tribe; of him standing over her earlier that night like some perverse, priapic Colossus of Rhodes and looking ready to kill her. Each flash, beautiful or terrible, made her cunt muscles clench again, her juices froth around him even more copiously, the waves of climax shuddering through her more powerfully. Her hands balled into fists and for a mad moment she thought she might die, it couldn't be possible to feel this much and come back from it.

Chris' throat finally emitted a strangled, ragged sound of passion. "Nnnggaahhh." He was pulling back... and lunging. Hammering another stroke into his sister's virgin hole... and another, and another, and another. Each impact wracked her, made her juicy twat squeeze and milk him and draw rapid little panting groans and sobs out of him, almost as if he were hyperventilating. He managed exactly six lunges before he tensed up and held himself steady, buried deep inside her ravaged snatch as his cock began to buck and pump thick, hot spurts of jism into her, drawing out the juddering climax in her quim as he filled it with his boiling sperm and gave out a long wordless groan: "Ahhhaaaghhh..."

As suddenly as he had impaled her, he was gone. She lay there in shock, still motionless but for the aftershocks within as Chris reeled and staggered away into a far corner of the room. He was noisily sick, retching in great heaves as she felt the mixture of pain and pleasure echo through her. He was crying, repeatedly whining something to himself that sounded like: "What'd you do? What'd you do?"

After a while he grew quieter, made noises like he was about to get up and flee, when he must have looked down at himself and realized something. And then he said the clearest, most lucid sentence he had spoken since he'd come sneaking back into the squat.

He said: "There's no blood."

* * *

It was a long time before Hanna would understand what this meant or why it sent him mad again. He started just repeating that sentence, whispering it, rasping it, growling it, shouting it, screaming it until he woke the remaining people in the squat and they had to tackle him again. He had been looming over Hanna as he yelled, maybe about to kick her - but it was Chris who got the beating then as her friends took one look at the two of them and realized what her brother had done.

Chris was a big guy, but he was too drunk to defend himself from a real attack, and nobody shrugged off a stomping from a half-dozen motivated 'byrds in steel-toed Doc Martens. Hanna was still a stone as she listened to his shouts and protests deteriorate into pleas and whimpers. She didn't move a muscle to help him, or to attack him. She didn't even move to cover herself. It was almost as if she was outside her body, just floating, looking down at all of it and thinking: Oh, you poor souls.

It was her last memory of her brother. As far as she knew it was the last time anyone saw him alive. After her friends threw him out, he had recovered enough to try to drive and in short order wrapped his car around a telephone pole. She later learned he was dead on arrival at the hospital, but she wouldn't know that for some time. She still wondered if it was drunken misadventure or suicide.

"There's no blood" of course meant that Chris had expected to have torn her hymen, and having worked out that it was already gone had jumped to what seemed to him the obvious conclusion. Slut. Hanna hadn't even really known what a hymen was. She had no memory of either having or losing hers. Later people would tell her that there were perfectly mundane ways to lose it that didn't involve sex, but she still felt like it was something she should remember. From time to time that fucked with her head and she would lie awake at night and wrack her brain, looking for gaps and wondering.

She had been numb as her friends cleaned up her up, held and rocked her and did her crying for her. She remembered feeling distantly bad for them, as if she'd caused them some spot of bother and was vaguely embarrassed by the result. Something had happened to her in that moment when Chris' cock had sheathed itself inside her. Maybe even before that, as she'd heard him say her name from the doorway. The Hanna of before was gone, and she didn't know yet just who had replaced her, breaching through the chrysalis of that moment of searing ecstasy and horror.