The Big Bad Wolff

…continued…

He found himself breathing hard, not from exertion but from the wet musk rising out of her pores. It wasn’t just pussy he smelled. Her whole body exuded hunger. When he leaned past her to close the door he caught the scent of her neck, could almost taste her pulse, and his loins surged with a ferocity barely contained. She was begging for him while feigning fear.

“I think the little girl lies,” he hissed against her red hair.

She shook her head.

He stepped back and pushed her forward. She caught herself instinctively with her hands out stretched as she hit the mattress. Then his big paw was on the nape of her neck, pushing her into the ticking. It was not a soft bed. It was not meant for the luxury of sleep. He thrilled at her gasp.

“You humor me by feigning fear,” he ground. “You aren’t afraid.”

Her voice was muffled and he let off enough that she could speak. “I am,” she whispered.

“Not yet. Because you don’t yet feel truly helpless.” He worked quickly then, buckling the leather restraints around her wrists. She fought, jerking her feet away in vain, making him work to capture them and complete her spread eagle binding.

Then he smelled it. The first hint of true fear. Acrid and sharp.

And when she felt cold steel beneath the collar of her shirt, and all the way down her back as the fabric fell away and exposed her to this world she couldn’t not see, she trembled and cried out. When his hungry tongue trailed her bare skin and dripped over her thighs and buttocks, her bladder let go. He lifted his face to the low ceiling and laughed. A thready howl that cut the air, and he said, “Now. Now my little Red knows fear.”

…to be continued

The Big Bad Wolff

…continued…

She kept her eyes ahead. The smell coming from him was not quite human, though it had human components… mothballs, sandalwood, bourbon. But also muskier scents, like dog and … almost a metallic odor, like copper. But warm. She wondered why she didn’t feel fear. She did, but it wasn’t the overriding emotion.

When her steps slowed, something prodded her gently in the small of her back. She found herself slowing intentionally just to feel it. If she didn’t pick up her pace immediately, it was a harder and sharper prod, sometimes accompanied by that guttural growl. The forest deepened and the smells from the trees and floor became darker and older, fecund, and she wondered how long since light had touched here? The canopy was like a ceiling, letting nothing in and nothing out.

All she heard was her own footfalls and breathing. She would slow or stumble to make certain he was still there.

Then he blindfolded her. Told her to stop, and something soft and black covered her sight and tightened around her head. It was almost reassuring. From that point, he took her arm and guided her. Did she feel claws? Or was that her overactive imagination? Was this whole thing a fantasy, and she still stood on that sunny hilltop with her face tilted into the yellow rays?

A squeak. And his breath close to her ear for just a second. Gooseflesh rose and raced down her back and arms. A bare acidic whiff of… coffee? Then a click. Her feet were on hard smooth ground now. And it was warm. He moved her forward.

“Do you know where you are, Red?” he asked softly.

She shook her head and felt a wave of vertigo. And when he answered, she heard the smile stretching his words.

“You are where no one will hear you scream.”

 

…to be continued

The Big Bad Wolff

…continued…

Every time she entered this high meadow he could smell her. It wasn’t perfume or soap. It was far more subtle. Like citrus and honey and earth. Like blood and flesh. She was carried on the wind into his cerebral cortex, and once there she was in him.

He always watched from his safe place. She felt him, but she wasn’t animal enough to know it. The musk of her adrenaline each time she started only added to the cocktail sweetening his own blood. As soon as he caught that whiff, nose to the sky, he was hard. Hungry. He was Hunter.

She made it easy.

The noises she alerted to in the leaves were not him. His padded feet made no noise. The wind was always in his favor. And when he finally made his move he was ready to subdue, even while uncertain it would be necessary. He was hungry, but he would not harm her. Hurt her, perhaps. But his hunger demanded she not only be intact, but ideally,  willing. The line every predator walked with his prey. Would she understand her part?

He suspected so. She didn’t fight as he’d anticipated. Instead, at his embrace he tasted arousal in the air. A touch of fear, but a mighty release of invitation from her, and he wanted to take her there, then.

He didn’t.  He whispered, “Are you frightened, Red?”

She nodded, small and unconvincing movements of her head.

“I’m not sure you are,” he growled. He wouldn’t let her know he liked that. He let her feel his fangs against her neck, and he thrilled at the reactive shudder that quaked her. Now that, that odor was fear. If he pushed her, urine would be the next scent on the wind. Then the animal might take over… He pulled back and licked the spot again. While he did, he disarmed her without her realizing, and stepped back.

She started to turn.

“No!” he barked. “Walk. Take the path, this one leading into the woods. Do not turn around. You won’t like the last thing you see, my Dear.”

…to be continued

The Big Bad Wolff

She paced the ridge line. She’d been in this country many times, tracking the wildlife, enjoying the open, unbothered by the solitude and the wolf, coyote, big cat and bear tracks she often found around the natural springs and along creek beds.

Early autumn. Everything crisp, crunchy… the smallest birds sounded like Bighorn sheep crashing through the underbrush. The sky was a Caribbean blue. Clear, clean and bottomless.

She wore red often this time  of year. She didn’t want to be mistaken for a wild thing. She hated orange. She listened to the crashing and turned, looking for the bird or squirrel or groundhog that was making it. Nothing.

She walked longer, the rifle stock bumping reassuringly against her thigh. And she got lost; lost inside her head, inside the fantasies that were more real to her than the barren life she lived, pictures of big men with big cocks, all hungry and smiling wolfishly, all sniffing around and leaving their scents and marks to keep her safe. From what?

Boredom, she thought, and smiled to herself.

She was smiling when the thing came around and covered her mouth, pulling her tight against a large…what? Solid and both hard as rock and soft as bearskin. She was wrapped in an embrace that felt less than human. But too deliberate and gentle to be animal.

Then it spoke in a low growl, “Are you Little Red?”

Fear swelled her throat and tried to choke her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she sensed any fight would be futile. And much to her surprise she felt herself grow wet.

It sniffed deeply. “I think you are,” it growled.

“Who are you?” she rasped against the leathery thing covering her mouth.

“I, little girl, am your favorite fantasy, or your worst nightmare. You pick.” And something warm and wet lashed seductively against her throat over her carotid artery, and a flame of desire swept the length of her body.

Cookie

I told him I was down in central booking. Again? he wanted to know. What now?

I need you to come down. Please.

This isn’t us anymore, Cookie. You can’t keep calling me every time you lose your shit.

So he left me there. Like everyone else had left me, so did he, and I didn’t think he ever would. I remembered the feeling in my chest the first time he put me behind the wheel. Him and his block headed brother ejected through the artificially lit glass door and were yelling at me to go before they touched the car. The adrenaline smelled like flop sweat and Jim Beam and burned the tiny hairs in my nose like gunpowder. Maybe it was powder.

We never got caught when I drove. You’re like a filly out of the gate, he’d tell me, and his breath was sour as his kisses were sweet.

After every take he’d push my face down on the hood of the Charger. My cheek grinding against the gritty prime, banging my hip bones into the grill, and he’d go till I screamed. Those were the best fucks. They became the only fucks I wanted.

I slept in holding that night. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

Sunday with Daddy

It had been a long weekend. A lot of silence between them. She wasn’t sure what was going on. He’d fucked her that morning then left the house, said he was going to check out a gun show and maybe stop by the music store… she’d wanted to ask if she could come along, but for some reason today it felt best to let him go.

It was quiet when he wasn’t around. Not that he was noisy. But he moved a lot. He kept busy. And even when he slowed down, napped on the couch or in the wicker chair in the front room, he snored. She took comfort in his presence. Even the snoring made her smile. Sometimes she watched him sleep, watched the lines fall away, the years melt, imagined the curious little boy he’d been before worry and responsibility laid their loads on him.

She heard the door off the kitchen squeak on the one hinge. He kept oiling it, and it kept squeaking. He came in from the garage. She finished folding the towels and stuffed them into the linen closet, and went down the carpeted stairs on bare feet. She was in her cleaning clothes; blue jean shorts and an oversized T-shirt with no bra. She didn’t wear make up. And fingers passed for a comb in her preening vernacular. As she stepped off the landing she heard the TV. She stuck her head around the door and he looked up and smiled. “Hi baby girl.”

“Hi Daddy. Did you have fun?”

“I did. Found my strings.” He motioned at a paper sack on the coffee table.

“Would you like me to bring the guitar up for you?”

He patted the cushion beside him. “No, sweetie. Come here and sit with me.”

That made her happy. She sat next to him and settled under his arm. She smelled his warmth and deodorant and felt the prickle of his whiskers as he pressed a firm kiss into her hairline. “I missed you,” he said.

She smiled and looked at the TV. “Who’s playing today?”

He turned her face toward him with his index finger. “I’m sorry.” His eyes were dark and warm, familiar.

“For?”

He kissed her nose, and his fingers trailed absently along her jaw and down her neck. Her entire body knew their path, their destination, and her heart sped and her nipples peaked in invitation. “I haven’t been very nice this weekend.”

She tried to shake her head. His hand came back up swiftly to firmly clasp her chin, his other arm tight around her.

“Don’t do that.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t excuse me. Just forgive me for being a dick.”

His hand left again, and before she could say anything his mouth was on hers and his hand covered and kneaded her breast. He growled in his throat. She knew it was because of the absence of a bra. He preferred her this way.

Her hands went to his neck and she shifted to straddle his thighs, sitting on his lap, kissing him with the fire he always lit in her. When they broke, he looked up at her. She felt him throbbing between them through his khakis, through her denim.

“I want you for supper.”

“I need to shower,” she said with a grin. “And actual supper is in the oven.”

His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging her flesh. He kept looking at her, holding her blue eyes, holding her hips, and he’d begun a gentle but insistent rhythmic push with his pelvis. Her own answered. It was instinctual. It was the need they ignited in one another.

He took her mouth again, his tongue brushing hers, probing deep, tasting. He fucked her mouth with his. Invading and retreating, breaths mingling, and those gentle thrusts became urgent.

He pulled back as his hands went to his belt. “Get them off,” he said casting a look at her clothing. His voice had a rough edge and her excitement flared. The sounds of football faded into the background. She stood and stripped in front of him. Quickly, without fanfare. His cock was in his hand and he pulled and stroked it. She fixated on the shining dew leaking and running. He looked hungry. Everything about him looked hungry and masculine. She felt the trickle of her own juices.

A groan from him as he looked at her. Always for her that moment of discomfort, shyness, vulnerability with all her flaws on display for him. But he would growl, take his hand away just so she could see the independent twitch and wave of his cock. He knew she thrived on his arousal. He knew exactly what to give her to make her need to please him.

She didn’t ask. She dropped to her knees on the soft carpet between his. He said, “Yes, little girl,” as he reached to touch her face. She caught his hand, and sucked his thumb into her mouth, their eyes still locked. She licked over the ball and let her tongue slide over the nail before taking it all the way, rolling her tongue to cup it like a taco. She held him there, tasting his flesh, teasing.

She sucked as he took it back, and there was something intensely erotic in the exchange. The anticipation. Her other hand was wrapped around his shaft. She hesitated, knowing well what would happen when she did. His hand on her head, pulling her face into his groin. There was no teasing, no denial today. There was only Daddy needing his cock sucked. Needing his perfect whore’s hungry mouth.

Needing her.

She loved this feeling. Of kneeling naked before him. Of his strong thighs surrounding her body and the stiff fabric against her bare skin. Of his eyes watching her and the sight fueling his arousal. His hand in her hair, sometimes resting lightly but possessively, others guiding her movements, her speed, her depth. It was a dance they performed well together, for maximum satisfaction. Never the same twice, but always perfect.

He filled her mouth, her throat. His flesh was rubbery and pillowy over the tip, swollen and hot… it was her favorite. Those textures, like a ripe plum. She scraped her teeth over him as though to leave an indentation but no mark, careful not to rupture or bruise. She sucked, gently then harder, and the tip of her tongue swirled and danced over him until she found his slit… gingerly playing there, tracing; such intimacy… to suck and taste, hoping he would feed her, her hands always working along his shaft, around his balls, a finger straying to stroke lightly over his asshole now and then. Her eyes always finding his again.

She paused briefly to give her jaw a rest. She bumped him playfully against her chin and lower lip, darted her tongue out to flick his frenulum. Smiled up at him. “You taste good, Daddy,” she whispered. “I love sucking your cock. I want to swallow you. I want your hot cum, what you made for me,” she whispered as she gently squeezed his full balls.

His reaction was an intense darkening, a deeply growled “Fuck!” and he stood and pulled her up. He pushed her onto the couch where he’d been sitting, his pants around his ankles, and he held her head with one hand wound in her short hair while the other guided his cock to her lips. “You’re going to make Daddy feel so good, baby girl. Open.”

She did, but not all the way. Only enough that he could push through her lips. Carefully wetting and wrapping them over her teeth, she braced against him and felt him push, felt the throb, heard the groan as she provided friction on his shaft while her tongue worked over him. He paused, reveling in the onslaught of sensations before beginning to thrust with some rhythm. Pushing deeper and deeper… faster. Her hands on his ass feeling his muscles contract. She had the vague passing thought that she was probably leaving a spot on the sofa cushion. Then he was blocking her airway.

She relaxed. Closed her eyes. She thought of the intense pleasure she was giving him, the things he would tell her he’d felt later, when they lay close together and he sheltered her with the same body that was taking from her; all those things only he told her because only he knew how she needed to hear them. When he pulled back she inhaled deeply and looked at him through watery eyes. He thrust again. Both hands on her head now. His pubic hair tickled her nose. She loved the heat from his body, his scent. She heard him saying words, words like take it like the little bitch you are, take Daddy’s fat cock, Daddy’s good whore swallowing his cock… And every word excited her on a level she’d never quite understood.

She knew when he came, when she tasted the salt and bitter of him, her cunt would throb and ache and long for her own release.

He pumped a few more times, giving her time to catch her breath before the last one that shot a hot stream of seed against the back of her throat. She cupped his balls to feel the contraction. She loved that moment. His release. His body climaxing, the throb of his cock and the grunt as he spasmed. Tears ran as she struggled to swallow, and he pulled back, but not out. He knew she wanted all of it. She needed him like a drug. She felt him over her tongue, one spurt after another, each hot and thick. A little ran out the side of her mouth over her chin. As his contractions eased, she sucked him gently, again touched her tongue to his opening and felt the drops pushing out. She moaned around him. She needed him now, needed him to get hard again and fuck her.

He knew.

“Suck, baby. Make me hard again so I can fuck your beautiful sloppy cunt.” He lifted her breasts, thumbing over nipples so sensitive that she moaned again. And she suckled and teased and pulled at him. She dipped her two middle fingers into her cunt, then looking at him, offered them. He took them and sucked them clean. “Again.”

Again she fed him her juices. Each taste, each firm suck had him hardening.

He finally pulled away and in a swift movement pulled her up and spun her, made her kneel on the couch, hands braced on the back. And he filled her in a single brutal thrust, all the way to her cervix, his hips pressed hard and forcefully against her ass. A firm smack with his open hand. Then his body against hers, his hands crushing her breasts, and he was fucking her like an animal. Hard, fast. And she was screaming with every thrust, begging him for more, calling his name.

He fucked her until she orgasmed over his cock, her juices flooding over him, and he came again. He kept fucking her till he softened and as his cock left her she felt his arms catch her as she sank down.

He laid down next to her on the narrow couch, his body half hanging off, and he held her close, tasted her sweat and tears and his cum on her lips. Kissed her and touched her while her shaking stopped and pulse slowed. His spent cock pressed intimately against her soft belly.

The referee’s whistle sounded over the hum of the audience, and the sun was falling in the autumn sky, and the smells of roasted chicken and baked apples mingled with the musky odors of sex and skin.

Just another perfect Sunday with Daddy.

The Drive

He is a man of simple tastes. He likes white lace and black silk, but most of all, he wants my skin. My sighs. My ecstasy. He wants what I’ll give no other man.

Traffic was heavy. At a standstill. Her voice over the Bluetooth screwed into his ear sent fingers of pure sensation from his cortex to his cock, hitting every nerve ending in between. It wasn’t the filthy words she said that strummed the tautest chords; it was who she was, what she gave.

She gave everything. She left nothing on the table.

“Is your cock out?” she purred.

“I’m driving, baby girl.”

Her smile curved her words, making them more seductive. “You’re sitting in traffic.”

She made him want to take chances, to excite her further, to please himself. She made him want to fuck with a desperation he hadn’t felt since youth. He always wanted to fuck. But she made him want to fuck. Her.

“Take it out, Daddy. No one can see. Feel how hard it is, how much you want to see it disappearing into my mouth.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing it. The tail of his dark tie acting as a curtain, aware of the proximity of humanity on all sides, each in their own steel bubble. He let his fingers caress gently for a moment, the sensuality of his own flesh, rising blood, and her voice racing over and through him. “I need to see you, baby.”

The picture came through immediately, and made his heart hammer. You want to fuck me, Daddy? It was captioned.

“You are my little whore, aren’t you?” he said. He was concentrating on keeping his face neutral, eyes ahead. But he was stroking and squeezing now, more turned on by the precum leaking and getting on his tie, his trousers. He thought he should stop before he made a mess he wouldn’t be able to hide, but she was still talking. Not only that, she was touching, too, and he heard every sensation in the subtle catches of breath and pauses in speech.

“Yes, I am. Don’t make a mess, Daddy. No one can know.”

He stroked faster. A horn pierced his brain, and he inched forward without pausing.

“Do you have a hanky?”

“Yes.”
“Put it over your cock, cum into it. You will cum for me, won’t you?”

He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. His balls were drawn up almost painfully while he listened to her pant, listened to the wet sounds and buzz of her vibrator. “I will.”

“Are you looking ahead, looking like you’re not feeling my wet pussy around your cock right now? Not hearing your hips smack against my ass, not feeling me drip over you? Daddy, I need you to fuck me, harder, faster, please please plea-” her words faded into jibberish and drawn out moans. He clenched his jaw and held the white handkerchief around his shaft, images of her tongue white with his seed, with it dripping out of her cunt, running over her tits all pushing their way through his mind and out the end of his throbbing cock.

“Fuck, baby girl,” he ground.

“Yes Daddy?” she whispered. Her voice had that slow, thick, luxurious sound it got when she was coming down.

“That turned my little whore on, didn’t it?”

She laughed, a throaty sound that if he dwelt on would have him hardening again. “Feel better?”

“You make Daddy feel so good, sweetie. So good.”

“Did anyone see?” she teased.

He laughed. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Only in theory. Now hurry home. I’m staying right here. Waiting for you.”

The line went dead, and he felt himself swelling again. He tucked himself back into his zipper before it got too difficult to do so, and thought of his homecoming.

Hope

1

It did not matter if there was enough. There was never enough. The child with the hurt eyes, hurt she didn’t understand but felt just as deeply couldn’t be left behind, alone. So I held out my hand and without thought or hesitation she reached to meet it. Come with me, I said. It will be okay.

Everything will be okay.

We say that to others like it has meaning. It’s nothing more than a pleasantry for hard times. A child believes it because they’ve never heard it before, not had it said to be disproven. Nothing would ever be okay again.

When I’d washed the ash and blood from her face I found skin as pale and delicate as porcelain. Nothing cleared the shroud from her eyes, but her skin shone with the light of something young and fresh. So out of place in this wasteland. I almost wanted to put it back, protect her, cloak her so she wouldn’t stand out.

“Papa,” she said.

I told her I didn’t know where her papa was, but I would look for him. Everything would be okay. She reached her arms to me and said it again. “Papa.”

I gathered her close, felt her warmth and life and an overwhelming desire to fight for her. Her small fists wove themselves into my hair, pulling painfully, but I held her tighter.

“There isn’t enough,” Linny said after I’d extinguished the light and the house, what was left of it, settled into silence.

“You want me to have left her there? I know this, I know.”

“It will take from ours to give to her.”

“I know!” my voice was a hiss. What had this world done to us? In another time, Linny took in every stray cat, dog and child even if it meant going without herself. Linny was a good woman.

Was. Then.

“My babies come first.”

I heard determination set her classic jaw. Imagined the cold light in her faded eyes.

“I will take care of us. I have to now, right?”

A pause. “Yes.” But not well, the accusation cut the dark like a militant’s blade.

“I will take care of us. All of us. Hope is one of ours now.”

Next

Fantasy

As the overpass loomed ahead, larger and larger, she smiled and wondered if people were built with an off-switch. Mama had said that, a long time ago. Somewhere in a past life almost buried in Jim Beam and uppers and meaningless sex. She said, we all have a switch, something, a word or a thought that pulls you out of the moment you’re in. It’s like a reset, child. God give it to you for when you get into trouble.

She was wrong though. No switch here. Just the growl of all these horses under the floorboard and the acrid smell of gasoline. Her eyes drifted to the abutment. A few more seconds, and at this speed there would be no question, no feeling, nothing left to come back from-

“Come for me,” he hissed. He was crushing her breasts with her thighs, driving painfully deep.

Part of her longed to be in that car inside her mind. It was a fantasy that cut her loose as she faked the first screams of yet another orgasm that didn’t exist.

Nothing to come back from. Nothing at all.

Within

His absence screamed. Screeched, yelled, clamored, clawed. It raked its teeth against metal bars and drew blood from the air. It was never still. It throbbed with a life that was nothing. Invisible.

You are Lucifer, she whispered. It was her own face staring back. Eyes faded to gray with worry, hair flown about a paler face in a gnarl of mats and frizz. She’d been pretty once. He’d said she was pretty, and she believed him. He made her a fool. She hated him more for that than for his desertion.

In his absence she heard his reply. Not because he was present, but because she knew him. She had crawled inside his thoughts and turned the pages she found, and learned to read him. “I never promised you anything more. There are no angels here. No fairies. No pretty things. You are the only pretty thing I have.”

How many nights had they lain, wrapped in blankets smelling of age and dust but knowing only the skin of the other, and confided the secrets of their truths? In that lost attic apartment, the gilt winking back candlelight from the lines of worn leather spines. Colors deep and dark, browns tending to wines, fading to shadow. Burlap and water-stained oak dulled by time. The bedsprings screeching as he flipped her, and mounted her, and gave her what was left of himself; his cock.

She begged for it. Without fear or shame. His eyes always blackened right before he came, and the muscle in his jaw knotted. Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he smiled. When he smiled, she came hardest.

You are Lucifer, she said again. But her lips curled around the name this time, and it heated her loins.

“Yes. And you will always bleed for me.”

I know.