by M Palmeri
Claire found them a clearing to make camp, tied the horses, and lit a small fire of twigs with flint. Something about this gesture made it seem to be more for Marie’s sake than her own. Then the red-cloak turned on Marie, her pale eyes almost glowing in the firelight:
“Stay close to the horses. There is something I have to do. Do not follow me.”
And then the red cloak disappeared in the dark.
A few moments later, Marie heard the sound of a new kind of animal in the forest, but it was a sound that she had heard before. Incredulous, she tried to weave her way through the undergrowth, forgetting entirely about the horses or the safety and warmth of the fire, trying her best to be as silent as she could.
Away from the firelight, it took her eyes some time to adjust to the moonlight, which was barely sufficient to see the trees. But she could see Claire: the bulk of her cloak in the night made her look like a bear at first, but the sound she was making was unmistakable. She was standing with her back against a tree, her head thrown back, legs splayed, her hips thrust forward, growling in the same way she growled when Richard was attending to her special passions. Marie couldn’t see clearly, but her hands were working furiously between her legs. Then a glint of metal in the moonlight confirmed what Marie was suspecting: Claire was fucking herself, exactly as if an invisible lover had her pinned against the tree, and she was using the hilt of her own dagger to do so.
As Marie held absolutely still, Claire hammered herself harder and faster, slamming herself back into the tree with greater and greater violence, until her roar became almost a scream. Her body began to spasm violently, and Marie could see her withdraw the knife from inside her, only to clench it between her teeth so she could work herself with the fingers of both hands. Then, all of a sudden, Claire bit back all sound, holding her breath, and Marie could hear what sounded like a splash of water trickling on the leaves. It almost sounded like Claire was pissing, but it was just a few brief squirts. And then Marie could smell the tang of Claire’s distinctive musk on the air.
“It attracts predators,” Claire told her matter-of-factly, like she had known Marie was watching the whole time. “The scent of human sex. I can only imagine why.” She wiped her hands on the tree, spreading her scent, then adjusted her garments before gliding past Marie back toward their camp, scolding: “You shouldn’t have left the horses.”
The small fire had almost died by the time they returned to rekindle it. Claire settled herself into a low crouch by the slight flame, her red cloak and garments almost glowing with its light. She cocked her head, listening to something far off in the trees, and grinned a bit, taking no notice of Marie’s discomfort as she found her own seat on the bare earth by the fire.
“I am not a good story teller,” Claire began, not apologetically, “but I can offer you a tale to pass the time while we wait.”
Marie nodded as graciously as she could despite a worsening case of shivers, wondering uneasily what it was that Claire planned on waiting for (she did not have the nerve to ask).
“It is a story of a forest like this one, a young girl, and a wolf…
“Once upon a time, there was an orphaned girl who grew up in a dark and dangerous forest. She lived with her aunt, who baked for the woodsmen. And as the aunt was always busy laboring over her ovens, and preferred the girl stay out of sight of the lustful and unsavory logging men, the girl spent most of her days to herself, wandering the wood freely, and living much like a creature of it when not helping with the few chores of their little wild home. She grew strong and fleet-of-foot chasing and running with the wild creatures, and soon developed stealth to move close to them undetected, and she taught herself how to track game and avoid predators.
“The girl had one other human that played a significant role in her life: a woman of fading beauty that lived in a small cottage by the road at the edge of the forest. The aunt would send the girl each week with a traveling basket of bread and cakes for the woman, and also to provide her some form of company. The girl, for her part, found the woman to be quite disturbing, for reasons I will come to describe, but felt obliged to her aunt to continue to perform this weekly errand, and did not report the uncomfortable things that sometimes transpired there.
“These errands continued until the girl grew to be almost your age, and then she met the Huntsman. And the Wolf.
“The girl had come on her usual day, wearing her hooded cloak and carrying her basket of baking, and found that the woman was not alone. This was nothing unusual: the woman often had a man in her company, though never the same one twice, travelers passing on the remote and lonely road (and sometimes more than one at a time). As the girl had now spent most of her life in the wood, living more as a creature of it than of human civilization, she had developed keen hearing and a sense of smell almost as fine as anything that dwelled in the forest, and she could tell from quite far off when “guests” were being “entertained”. Though she tried to delay her arrival until they had gone, the woman knew to expect her, and would become especially cross if she were late, while minding not at all if the girl were to walk in on the things she would be doing with her visitors (who would often leave coin after they were finished). In fact, it seemed the woman intended the girl to watch, perhaps to learn.
“The girl did not know the woman by name, and only called her by the honorific ‘Milady’ (by the woman’s own insistence). Her aunt would privately refer to the woman as ‘Granny’ with no small disdain, though warned the girl never to say such in the woman’s presence. Otherwise, whatever relationship they shared remained a mystery, unspoken.
“As the girl matured, she became quite used to the woman’s behavior with men, but began to garner unexpected—and unwanted—attention for her being there: The woman, for whatever motive, was always sure to draw the eyes of her male guests toward her young errand-maid, in such a way that the girl was glad that what activities the woman had just engaged in had seemed to drain the ardor of her visitors, so they showed no real enthusiasm for the girl, even when the woman went further in her displays.
“This ritual, however, took a most unexpected turn for all with the arrival of this one particular stranger.
“On that particular day, the girl was surprised upon her arrival: there were no rutting sounds from the little cabin, no musky sweaty scent on the air.
“Instead, seated civilly in the little cottage (and fully dressed), was a noble-looking man in the jerkin of a hunter. He had black hair with a hint of silver, and seemed content (to the woman’s barely-veiled frustration) just to converse, with the air of one who had come on some official errand. When the girl arrived, the woman seemed to brighten somewhat, but in a way that reminded the girl of how a predator would stalk promising prey.
“’What excellent timing,’ the woman purred. ‘My ward, milord. I am sure you will find her to be quite an exotic prize, sure to be worthy of my mistress’ attentions.’
“The regular ritual began in earnest, but the girl felt immediate apprehension: the noble huntsman did seem to appraise her very intently, and whatever passions he might be keeping hidden under his civil airs had apparently not been spent before her arrival.
“The girl knew better than to hesitate. She let the woman parade her in front of the nobleman, and the woman began with her usual crudity.
“’I call her my little Red Hood. An exquisite delight, for the discerning taste…’
“The Huntsman, as all the others before him, pointed out the obvious contradiction:
“’Red, lady? Her cloak is green.’ Which set the next act in motion:
“The woman peeled back the girl’s green hood, letting loose her flaming red tresses, and giving their guest a better look at the girl’s pale and freckle-covered skin.
“’Not your common beauty,’ the woman said what she always did before proceeding, always sounding false in her almost desperate praise. And then she lifted the girl’s skirts, as she had begun to do ever since the equally flame-red hair
had grown below her freckled belly, between her pale legs. And then the woman’s fingers combed that lower fur, pulling it upward while her other hand pushed the girl’s pelvis toward their guest.
“’My Little Red Hood,’ the woman repeated. ‘A rare prize. Not particularly pretty, I will admit—and her scent is rather unpleasantly strong—but she is an uncommon diversion from what your mistress must be growing bored with. And she is untouched, at least for now, as no one has yet met my price.’
“But the Huntsman did two very unexpected things: First, he stood very calmly—not at all shocked or unsettled (or lewdly aroused) by the woman’s display—and pulled the girl’s skirt free to fall back down, restoring her modesty. And then he looked into her eyes in a way she had never known before. There was passion in him—that was unmistakable—but that was held in tight control. What impressed the girl most was his warmth, his intensity, like he was reaching deep inside of her. His hand came up and stroked her face, her hair, ever so gently. But only for a moment. Then he became the haughty noble again.
“’Yes, Lady, she is quite beautiful,’ (and he said it like he meant it), ‘but I did not come here to procure for my mistress’ darker passions, but at her behest to check on your own welfare. Am I to report that you have descended so low as to whore any available local virgins?’
“The woman sputtered apologies, begging the Huntsman to reconsider. He reluctantly agreed to describe the girl to his ‘mistress’, then excused himself, pausing only to give a warning in afterthought, locking the girl with his gaze again:
“’You travel through the wood alone, girl, and are apparently quite capable in having always done so. But there is word of a dangerous bandit of some renown, recently seen in this country. He is known as The Wolf. Beware of him: it is said he has a taste for seducing pretty young women.’
“Once the huntsman had gone, the woman chastised the girl angrily, raving that she had ruined whatever chance she had for comfort and wealth because of her pitiful ugliness and her animal stink. Such berating usually followed each time she was displayed to the rough and often drunken men that copulated with graceless brutality, who would respond with varying degrees of disinterest, disgust, ridicule, or impotent leering (more than one had begun pulling on himself frantically, only to exhaust himself in frustration). But as the girl took the long path home this time, she felt her heart torn by new feelings. This huntsman had looked at her like none of the others, with something like respect and caring, like he truly appreciated her for what she was, and had seemed to find her genuinely beautiful (despite what the woman would say). Yet he turned from her and left with only the briefest of farewells, perhaps to forget her immediately.
“The girl found herself almost in tears—something she had never shed even despite her abuse and humiliations—and was almost home before she realized: there was definitely something following her, invisible and almost totally silent through the trees.
“The presence did not return until the day of the next trip to bring food to the cottage, and then, it was neither silent nor invisible for long.
“The girl dropped her basket as soon as she felt it approach, drawing the large blade she kept under her cloak for protection, and turned to face the sound.
“’Show yourself!’ she demanded, defiant. ‘Come close enough for me to gut you and put you in my aunt’s larder!’
“’Brave girl, you are…’ hummed a voice. ‘And what a big knife you have…’
“What came out of the trees was definitely a man, though it wore the face of a wolf. It was a finely crafted mask, with black fur frosted silver. The rest of the man underneath was covered by a hat and cloak of black, with big boots and gloves, his breeches and jacket also black leather.
“’All the better to flay you with…’ the girl challenged bravely.
“The bandit drew a stout backsword and crossed blades with the girl. She could feel him grinning playfully under the mask. His mocking demeanor only enraged her into forgetting her fear. She attacked, moving quick like an animal, slashing and hacking with her big knife like a sword. But he parried her gently at each lunge, moving out of her way like a wraith, never losing his playfulness, even when she called him foul names.
“’And you,’ he returned, ‘are far more beautiful than you know.’
“That made her hesitate for an instant, and he disengaged.
“’There are many things I would teach you, girl,’ he purred. ‘But that will wait for another time…’ With that (and a small bow), he was gone.
“When she reached the cottage, it was all wrong:
“There was no scent of sex, no sound of rough passion, no voices at all. She drew her blade again, keeping it hidden by her basket, as she let herself in.
“’Milady?’
“’Yes, dear?’ But the voice was a mocking falsetto. In the dim light, she saw him come like a flash from behind the door, and whirled to cut him. But he was too fast, and strong. He caught her knife wrist, slinging her around and back up against the door, slamming it shut. She tried to kick, but he pressed in close and blocked her legs, his wolf-mask pressing close. She could hear him draw breath deep through the mask, burying the muzzle in her hair. ‘All the better to smell you…’
“He pried the blade out of her grip and tossed it away. She felt his knee push her thighs apart. She struggled, but he took both her hands above her head and held them with one hand. The other, with surprising tenderness, caressed her cheek with a shocking familiarity.
“’She tells you how ugly you are, doesn’t she?’ the Wolf whispered, his gloved fingers tracing down her neck. A quick flick unclasped her cloak, letting it fall from her shoulders. ‘She tells you that you will never find love, that the best you can do is to be sold or wedded to lowest of humanity. She parades you in front of those she whores with, hoping that one will take you away, out of her sight, and leave her a few coins in exchange.’
“The fingers traced down further, around her breast, down her flank, all the while the muzzle hungrily drawing her sweaty scent. The girl caught her breath. The hand caressed her belly, then her breasts, while his knee lifted up and pressed into her sex.
“’What did you do with her?’ she managed to gasp, surprised that she was not completely afraid.
“’Maybe I ate her,’ he teased, his fingers tracing her lips. ‘No. I have better taste than that. I’ll prove it, if you like. But then, you don’t believe me—do you?—when I tell you how beautiful you are.’
“She shook her head, protesting quietly, ‘No I’m not…’
“’I’ll prove it.’
“The Wolf raised his free hand enough to catch his glove and pull it off with the hand that still held her wrists pinned to the door. His now-bare hand retraced its path down her body, more intent this time. And then she felt him pull up her skirt.
“His fingers danced though her nether fur, stroking her gracefully, working lower, then gently spreading her. She stopped struggling, at least not voluntarily. His touch was feather-light, tender and patient, working steadily deeper, until suddenly she realized that his fingers were getting slick with the same musky wetness that came out of her when she explored herself (trying desperately to understand the things that the woman did with her male visitors). Then the hand came away from her, the fingers disappearing beneath the mask, and she was immediately flushed with shame (remembering all the things the woman had said about how she stank down there), but then she could hear him purring.
“What came next happened with surprising speed and force. The Wolf dragged her off of the door, spun her around, and pulled her across the woman’s eating-table. He stretched her out on her back, and bound her wrists in a flash, securing them over her head. Her hips were just at the table’s edge. He forced her legs apart (though she did not resist much) and tied her knees down and out to either side. Her skirt was hiked above her waist, and she could smell her own musk heavy in the air as she opened to him.
“’All the better to ea
t you…’ he purred at her. And she caught her breath in when she saw his knife. It was the last thing she saw before he blindfolded her by tying another length of sash-cord around her eyes, forcing her to keep them closed.
“Then she felt him cut: One smooth stroke rent her simple blouse and skirt straight down the middle, baring her breasts and belly to the air. He left her just like that for a moment, perhaps appraising her, savoring her vulnerability. Then she felt his mouth on her—not the mask, but lips and tongue, tender but hungry—first on her breasts, then working down to her exposed sex.
“The girl almost exploded with the first touch of tongue to her sex. He started slowly again, gently, but was soon devouring her with a passion, a forbidden hunger that proved his desire for her beyond any doubt. She was beautiful—she knew that now—even in places she had been told were dirty and disgusting, places her wolf-lover devoured like the sweetest honey, worshipping her, tormenting her with pleasure she had never imagined. She found she was no longer struggling against her bonds, but using them for leverage to thrust and grind herself at his mouth, and the Wolf growled approvingly.
“It seemed to last forever, it seemed that he could never get enough of her, only pausing his assault long enough to remind her how beautiful she looked, how wonderfully she smelled, how exquisitely she tasted. And the wetter and messier she got, the more boldly she responded, the more he seemed to enjoy her, until it seemed like he really would eat her alive.
“But just as suddenly, he stopped.
“He pulled away from her with a start, warning her to silence with a hand on her lips, listening.
“’We are not alone,’ he whispered urgently, then kissed her quickly before leaving her. Tied and blind, she heard the door open, and movement outside. Then there was a single shot, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. She struggled against her bonds, but could not get free. In a moment, she heard the door again, and a gasp of shock.
