by J. E.
BAD WOLF, BE GOOD
J.E. AND M. KEEP
© 2013 J.E. and M. Keep.
Smashwords Edition
This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language. All sexually active characters in this work are of legal age. Over 11,000 words.
If you require content warnings: this particular story contains reluctance, werewolves, breeding, dubious consent, and very rough sex. It is a dark, twisted fairy tale romance.
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To our friends who didn’t judge, readers of The Keep back when we were first starting out, and Darknest Fantasy Erotica who encouraged us to keep going.
BOOK DESCRIPTION
No one dared to go in the forest, but one young woman was raised there.
Sweet and pristine, the dark beasts of the forest knew not to touch her for fear of her mystical grandmother. Yet the beast that stalks her has nothing to fear of being cursed. Nothing to lose if he takes her virginity.
Warning, this scorching novelette contains dubious consent and breeding by a werewolf, and a romantic, twisted, happily ever after. Just as a dark fairy tale should. TW: extremely graphic scenes of reluctant sex in a dark fantasy environment.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BAD WOLF, BE GOOD
NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS
COMING SOON
MORE BY J.E. & M. KEEP
BIOGRAPHY
BAD WOLF, BE GOOD
Everyone knew to avoid the woods. If it wasn’t for tales of fantastical creatures and haunting ghosts that roamed its depths, it was because of the thieves and bandits who used it to avoid the reach of the constables and militias. None of that, however, had stopped the innocent young woman and her grandmother from living there, nestled in a clearing.
The old crone, as she was known, was skilled with alchemy and was said to be a witch. The young woman didn’t understand her grandmother’s arts fully, not yet anyhow, but she knew those tales to be exaggerations. Exaggerations that saved her a lot of hassle from any of the ruffians who usually troubled those who dared wander off the beaten trail.
Her cart was pulled by an old pony, slow but reliable, it made the journey with her each time her grandmother needed more supplies. The nearby village did trade with them, for her ointments and unguents were known for their potency. Any fear they felt of her grandmother was assuaged by the utility of those brews.
Her lavender eyes were bright and cheerful against the pale white of her skin, the bright red dress hanging from her shoulders over her svelte form. Ribbons snaked up her legs from her shoes, accentuating the strong curves of her calves before they disappeared beneath her crimson skirts. Her white hair was filled with flowers and tied up with a bow, the end of her ponytail tracing between her pale, naked shoulder blades.
She hummed a familiar old ditty that she’d heard some of the children singing in the town, with a line about being “wary of the dangers that lurked beyond the border,” but it was comforting rather than terrifying. She enjoyed her privacy, after all.
Having traversed that path through the forest countless times in her young life, and many of them alone since her grandmother no longer felt up to the trip, she felt little reason to fear it. None of the locals would’ve dared trouble her. They saw her unnaturally pale hair as a sign of what they already feared, of course.
Night was approaching and the light filtering in through the trees above slowly grew dimmer. She heard the old pony huff with some minor agitation as she walked beside it, the load for the old beast of burden enough without adding her own to it.
All the same, the noise of her faithful old pony and the shifting of the grass around her felt odd. It was as if she were being watched, though she couldn’t say by what. It wasn’t the familiar sensation she often got from the deep woods, where even her grandmother warned her not to venture into. For though the old crone scoffed at villager’s superstitions, she still knew there was something to fear in the depths.
Turning around in her vain search to see if something were there she gave up, and when turning back to the path ahead abruptly she saw her vision filled with a dark silhouette.
He was upon her. Somehow, he had gotten to within a foot of her without a sound. Very nearly she stumbled into him before she could stop herself!
The man was taller than her, shoulders broad, but he was not as big as some of the large farmers and mill workers in the village. He was slender compared to them, his whole body wrapped in dark leathers but for the khaki cloth over his arms. She could see his piercing eyes, hazel and almond shaped, his skin fair like hers. She could see so little of it, though, for he wore a mask over his face.
“What’ve you got?” he asked in a masculine tone, as if he were some regular passer-by and she some travelling merchant hocking her wares.
“Huh? Just food and things,” she said honestly, though her voice quivered with the fright of him stumbling upon her. She caught herself and stood upright, her head tilted so that she could stare at him directly, “Nothing to trade.”
She watched as he looked to the side at her cart with those strange eyes of his, the pony having stopped a few feet ahead once it noticed she was no longer by its side. “A shame,” he said, and with lightning fast speed he flipped up the small cloak draped over one arm and shoulder and grabbed for her neck.
It was a strange experience, a first for her, to have someone’s hand about her neck, choking off her breathing. He pushed her to the side, pressed her against the side of the cart and as if out of nowhere, she saw a shining dagger pointed to her bulging jugular. “Then I’ll give ya a choice,” he said, his dark gaze penetrating her as he pressed up to her. “Yer grandmother’s food and supplies,” he hesitated for just a fraction of a moment, his gaze dipped down over her form, “or yer virtue.”
Her eyes widened a bit, that strange, lavender colour so different from any other. Her pale skin quickly grew red as her light feet flailed beneath her. “Second!” she said, without much hesitation. She would have been faster about it were it not for his stranglehold on her.
Still, it wasn’t a choice for her. The thought of her frail grandmother going hungry for even a day was too much for her to bare. Anything else was a price she’d willingly pay.
With a nod she heard him say harshly, “Good girl,” before twisting her about. He released her neck, but it was only momentary. Pressing her upper body against the cart, her chest mashed to the wood, he hooked an arm around her neck, choking off her breath again as he lifted her crimson dress.
She felt his fingers, bare and hard, grope at her inner thighs, and then move up in under her slip. He found her maidenhood as he leaned over one shoulder, sniffing at her hair and ear. “Yer a ripe plum,” he remarked. “Granny’s kept ya locked away fer too long,” he remarked cruelly, tracing a digit along her slit.
She made a soft sound, a whimper against his arm, feeling him press against her. It was so crude, so uncouth, and she struggled for breath. “Please!” she cried out as she gasped for air, her head thrust back as she felt him touch along her bare sex. “Can’t breath!”
Shifting his arm he moved so her neck was into the crook of his elbow, loosening up the pressure on her just enough to allow her to breathe freely again. “Make a sound and yer wolf bait,” he warned, that hard digit trailing along her puffy, virginal slit one last time before he retracted the hand.
Cera heard his belt come undone, the tinkling of the metal buckle, and the groan of leather as he freed himself to the air. She couldn’t see that stiff manhood
, bulging with veins, so eager for her flesh, jutted out beneath the tuft of dark pubic hair, but it was so firm and hard already.
Grabbing her slender waist and hip, he jerked her into position so that her rear was pointed up just so. “Hold it just like that,” came the vagabond’s harsh command.
Her entire body was so hot, and not just from the lack of breath. Not just from the fear.
There was something else, and she bit in her lower lip to quiet the gurgled scream that threatened her. She wanted to beg, to plead with him, yet his warning kept her silent, the small woman holding her body just so. It was going to hurt. She understood that, and her little slippers with the ribbons lacing up her calves tightened as she raised her body for him, standing on her tip toes.
“That’s it,” she heard him mutter just before the bulbous, purple crown of his manhood brushed against her virginal slit. It was so wrong; he was no suitor, certainly no husband. He was a bandit, nothing less. He had no place pressing to her most private folds like that, pushing that bulging tip to the thin sheath of her innocence, threatening it with rupture.
“You scream or cry and I’ll choke you quiet again,” he warned, and without further delay he pierced her hymen and shattered her virtue. It was a rough and harsh way to lose it, the hard thrust pushing him into her just a couple inches past the tattered remains of her innocence as he moaned.
Her scream died in her throat, but he felt far too big to be in such a tight place, and her eyes watered with the strain of her refusal to make a sound. She tried so desperately, but she couldn’t help but sob, her calves tightening further with the force of his thrust.
There was no relief. He shoved again and again, hard and brute-like as he wedged that thick organ into her. “So tight,” he groaned, and she could scarcely tell if it was compliment or complaint. His now freed hand went up her dress though, and she could feel his grubby grasp go for her breast, squeezing it beneath the rich red fabric with such lust.
She didn’t have much, but that pert breast had a tight nipple that poked between his fingers, her shoulders mashed to the cart as he took from her so rudely. It wasn’t sweet romance, or even passion and lust. It just was, and her vision blurred as her mind went hazy.
The rough stabs of his dick were like the dagger he’d threatened her with: sharp and hard. By the time he had gotten himself fully into her, he was pumping her delicate body like a cock sheath that was nothing more.
The slap of his hips and balls striking her filled the air, and the pony stirred ahead, dragging its hoof upon the ground as Cera was pounded so roughly behind.
It felt like an eternity. The blood of her maidenhead rammed into her again and again as he grunted and groaned. “C’mon,” she heard him say in a gravely voice, “you’re gonna take it all, skinny bitch.”
The shudder that passed through him seemed to travel into her, and with one final hilting of his manhood he shook intensely, unleashing the virile flood of seed into her with such joyful abandon. “Yessss,” he hissed.
It was her first thought.
What if she got pregnant? It hadn’t occurred to her before that final groan, but then it came to her hard and fast. Was that what he wanted? She could hide this from her Grandmother, yet a pregnancy...
A soft cry split the air as her knuckles whitened, holding onto the cart so tightly. “Why?” she whimpered softly.
With a husky exhale she felt him press against her backside. The cruelness seemed to fade from him, his hold about her neck loosening as he nestled his head over her shoulder against her pale white hair. He didn’t have an answer for her, but his voice came out, deep but softer now. “Sorry yer first time had ta be like that,” he said, “but don’t tell a soul. Not yer granny, not the townsfolk. Nobody,” he stressed. “Got it?”
She could feel his hand slip down from her breast, releasing it from the tight grasp as he gave her pale form one last feel, pausing at her hip. “Go on about yer life as if nothin’ happened.”
“Yea,” she agreed, but she was deflated and dizzy, leaning against the cart as she tried to regain her breath and balance. Her body trembled beneath the innocent red dress, and she felt the cum begin to run down her thighs. How long had he been watching her? How much did he know?
Slipping from her, his hand coming from out under her dress and slip, his cock unsheathing itself from her puffy, abused cunt, he backed up. “Stay just like that,” he instructed her, “don’t move a muscle.” She heard the tinkle of metal on his buckle as he tidied himself up. “Don’t look around, don’t open your eyes until the count of ten,” he cautioned.
She did as she was told.
One.
Two.
Each number seemed to last an eternity, and unlike days passed they didn’t remind her of childhood rhymes and whimsy. Was this what it was to be a woman?
Three.
Four.
She hoped her Grandmother wouldn’t be able to tell. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice the scent of male seed on her. Perhaps she could get away with it.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Had he been waiting for her specifically? Had he already hurt her Grandmother?
Eight.
Surely he had time to. Was he coming from there?
Nine.
Ten.
She spun about and saw nothing but the trees, and she quickly moved up to the pony once more, staying closer to it and urging it to go faster, her hand rubbing through its bristled fur.
Nobody noticed. She was changed but the world hadn’t. Her grandmother grew older, more in need of her aid, and she carried on from that day forward. Life did not stop.
When the time came she had to venture forth again it was with some hesitance, though she never let it show.
While travelling the familiar path to the village nothing came out at her. There was no disturbance. The only thing she noticed out of place was a flower in the middle of the path. It was cut, and didn’t belong there. Its kind did not grow in the forest, she knew that much intimately, for herbs and flowers were part of her grandmother’s trade. It was beautiful and crimson and pristine, but came with nothing else.
On her way back from the village, loaded with goods, there again she found another, just like the last. The shade of it so like her dress that day. Rich and lovely.
She glanced around, feeling that stem between her thumb and forefinger, and wondered why she felt so sullen. So sad. Was it just the reminder that he was ever present, ever watching her? Cera didn’t understand that twinge of melancholy and she sniffed the flower, leaning against the pony.
She didn’t wear flowers in her hair much lately. It was a gradual thing, but she’d let it grow long and hang down along the middle of her back, hiding her shoulders under the mass of wavy white hair. She hummed that song that the kids had sang those months ago, on that fateful day, and once more she wondered why.
It had haunted her, keeping her awake in the dead of the night.
Why?
As she mulled over those thoughts long, she didn’t notice his approach.
“Why do you tarry?” he asked, the silent man but a few feet away at the end of the wagon, dressed no differently than he was that day, his face and hair hidden beneath mask and cowl.
“It’s rude not to accept a gift,” she said quietly, her voice meek. Fright still ran through her, yet more than that was curiosity. A leftover from her lost girlishness, she didn’t understand him, and as her hand dropped to her side, she stared at him for a long moment. “Why are you watching me?”
He stood there awhile, his piercing brown eyes locked to hers. “You worry about being rude with me?” he asked with some astonishment, stepping closer to her, but keeping several feet between them still.
He made for a mysterious sight. The cloak draped over half of him, the leather straps about his arms, legs and torso, making him look like the vagabond he was, through and through.
Her head dropped, and her face blushed with shame,
yet she didn’t run from him. Perhaps she should have. She could have avoided him easily, for she knew he was here and had left her a present. “You don’t answer my questions.”
In silence he stared at her for a long while. “You don’t ask simple questions,” he replied at last, and she heard him sniff the air softly from beneath his mask.
“You don’t do things that warrant them,” she countered, moving closer to the pony and staring at him with those wide, innocent violet eyes. “Are you going to hurt me again? Is that simple?”
He was mostly hidden to her, but she could see his eyes droop at the corners just a bit at that. “Did it hurt so bad?” he asked. Then after a moment he seemed to reconsider it and responded, “No. I don’t intend to hurt you again.”
Her head tilted to the side, her pale brows knitting, “Then why are you here watching me?”
His gruff voice came across straightforward and clear, “Keeping you safe,” he said, as if it were irrefutable.
Her laugh wasn’t cruel, but it did have a sense of irony as she stared up at him, her arms folding beneath her modest breasts, ruby flower still clutched in her hand. “From what?”
She could see his brows raise, “You travel through the forest alone,” he remarked as if it were obvious and beyond needing to be said. “That is madness,” he sufficed to say.
“Only because people like you lurk here,” she said with a chiding tone as she began to walk once more. “I don’t think it’s my behaviour that needs changed.”
He didn’t answer her back, he let her go, standing there in the path. When at last she was far ahead and turned back, he was gone once more without a sound.
Winter approached as time went by, her every trip to the village still greeted with those crimson flowers upon her path, there and back again. He never showed himself again though, despite the increased frequency of her journeys as stocking up for winter required, and her grandmother's failing health.
