Red was not like other women her age.
Oh, scoff if you like. But she had come from a long line of women who were cursed by fairy tales in their blood. Her grandmother had been Sleeping Beauty, and her mother had been Cinderella—of kinds, of course. No fairy tale is ever the same, especially when it is twice told. But I’m not here to tell you about fairy-tale hopes and dreams. You know better than that, do you not?
The best fairy tales are of the grim sort.
You might be wondering. “Well, she’s named Red. Does that mean she’s Little Red Riding Hood?” But, oh no, the tales do not come easily this way. Speak, if you must, of rules and witch’s brews—but fairy tales are best served like revenge. Ice, ice cold.
The wolf in our story was one such character. He had a penchant for revenge. He craved it like it was something to slaver after, thick and languid to the tongue like blood from fresh meat. Our wolf? He had his eyes on Red.
Her mother had scorned him long ago, and now the daughter would finish paying the price.
Red walked through the forest, leaves crunching underfoot as she made her way through. But she had no eyes for the dark, wild things out there. No, she was perhaps too innocent for her one-and-twenty years. She did not even look back as the wolf crept close, his nostrils flaring as he skulked closer.
When she turned her head—birdsong up on high—she did not see the wolf’s shadow.
Of course she didn’t. She had no idea of her mother’s history with him.
Or her future history with him, indeed.
In his full form, the wolf took a dive at the unsuspecting maiden. She let out a cry of dismay as she fell backward, the wolf baring its fangs at her neck. His hot breath came in spasms. One good bite, and she’d be dead.
“No,” Red said. “Please.”
The wolf seemed to pause, contemplating. But he didn’t move back. No, he didn’t retreat. Instead, he allowed his form to shift—fur receding, clothes reforming over his flesh as if it were magic, his lank hair falling to brush his shoulders—and he sniffed at the woman’s bare throat. Then, testing, he ran his tongue over her skin.
She shivered but did not make a sound.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “I’m tempted to let you live for that alone.”
She did not argue with him—didn’t utter any sound, really—but the skirt of her dress had hiked up in the tussle between them. She shifted, bare legs skimming his trousers. Just the slight contact, intimate as it was, made heat flare down to his pelvis. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself the pleasures of the flesh.
Without moving away from her an inch, he cupped her left cheek in his hand. “Little Red, Little Red,” he cooed in a sing-song, mocking way, “do you know how far you’ve strayed?”
Then he ran his other hand down until it bunched in her skirt. She didn’t fight it. Instead, she was watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as if she were drunk on something far headier than wine.
It was in this way that the wolf began his true onslaught.
Never breaking his eyes from hers, the wolf slipped his free hand beneath her skirt and pushed aside the fabric hiding her most sensitive spot from him. She gasped and turned her head as his fingertips explored, delving soft and then more probing before he broke through her slit to find the bud at her center. A low moan spilled out of her mouth.
But she still didn’t fight. That was the strangest thing of all. Here he was, trying to conquest her, and she didn’t make a move to try to rear up against him.
He pressed a wet kiss to her cheek. “You’re mine now, do you realize that?”
She didn’t say anything as his fingers stroked in a circle. She grew wetter and wetter, like a gushing fountain at her seam, and it was a madness that she barely uttered a sound even as she began to rock against his hand as if she could not fight the force building between them.
When she panted out a gasp—her hips bucking uncontrollably—he smiled viciously.
Oh, Little Red, you’re so lost that you don’t even know where the beginning of the forest is anymore.
But as he moved his hand to retreat, she startled him by grabbing his hand and bringing the fingertips that had just been inside her to her lips. Meeting his eyes the entire time, she licked at his fingers, and he hissed in surprise.
Then she bit down with her teeth, drawing blood, and then it was his turn to gasp.
Her lips tainted with crimson, she smiled serenely. “Did you think I was the prey here today, my wolfish friend? Or did I lure you into the forest to chase after me?”
This time, the wolf felt like he should be the one running.
Then, her mouth still stained with his blood, she brought a hand to the back of his head and leaned up until their mouths met. The taste of iron and salt met his tongue. He closed his eyes, deepening the kiss.
She curled her limbs around him, her cooling center rising to meet his growing hardness.
“Am I yours, wolf? Or are you mine? Or does it really matter?”
He breathed against her lips.
“I don’t care either,” he murmured.
Then, on the forest floor, Red and the wolf tangled together—away from prying eyes, away from the curses of the world outside the forest.
It was sublime. It was toxic.
But it was theirs.
In case you were wondering, I was heavily inspired by the fairy-tale writings of Margo Lanagan and Angela Carter for this piece. I wanted a “deranged fairy tale” where you think the maiden is being mistreated—but by the end you realize that she was a willing participant in “the game” between her and the wolf. But, really, this kind of story only works in the boundaries of fiction. It wouldn’t be a very good dynamic if such a thing were to occur in real life! But I suppose metaphors exist for a reason—and people play games all the time.
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Excellent.
I deliberately comment here and not by your latest post, because I believe you should be directing your sorrow into the writing - yes, writing shouldn’t be therapy, but combining it with your skills it might turn out be something dark and beautiful. This story here is an excellent example of it! (I loved the premise of subverting the roles of the prey and the preditor, though the spicy part made me blush, I’m such a prude!☺️😅). You can use those raw emotions and make them work for you - don’t let the sorrow destroy you, take it and make it into a dark story! I used to wonder why I write so much dark stuff, now I know. It’s a way to convert the destructive emotions into something productive and healing comes afterward. Keep writing fiction stories please!🩶