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

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.

Flash Fiction – My Michaela

“You said your name was Mike.”

She smiled, her eyes large and soft and beautiful. She pulled out her license and showed it to me.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s Michaela.”

“What about everything else? How could you mislead me?” This is what heartbreak felt like. This tearing in the center of your body, like something enormous and very, very angry was trying to get out.

“Amy, I’m in love with you. Have been from the beginning. I’m sorry… everything I’ve ever said to you was truth. You’re the other half of my soul.”

 

December 15, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) explore the importance of a name within a story. It can be naming an experience, introducing an extraordinary name, or clarifying a name (who can forget Who’s on First). Go where the prompt leads.

Flash Fiction – Old Friend

We scrambled up the familiar trail, shale cascading from beneath him like marbles. We’d reach the summit to stand and gander. Such views from the rim. Cobalt skies and red rock and always a vulture making his lazy circles.

I dropped to the ground 100 yards from the top, his breath too labored. I waited while he recovered, my hand on his shoulder.

Once arrived, we stood. I turned to see him kneeling; before he went down I slid the Winchester from the leather scabbard. Thirty years of these rides. It was time. I owed him this much.

 

December 8, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write using the word gander as a verb. A gander is a male goose, yet the Old English etymology of the word suggests it was once gandra which described a waterbird with a long neck (like a crane). In 1912, it became the act of taking a long look. What is the long look your story or character is considering?

Unbearable

SoCS

 

“I can’t bear it.”

“Bare it?” his eyes sparkled. “Of course you can, it looks lovely bare.”

“No, don’t!” She tried to laugh, wanted to laugh at him, and knew he was just trying to make her feel better, to lessen the burden of the coming days. But it wasn’t laughter that came out.

“Oh baby girl,” he sighed and pulled her into a bear hug. “I know. I do. It’s hard for me too.”

“Really?” Her words muffled against his rough coat lapel. She breathed his scent, lightly mingled with the heavy odors of diesel and cold.

“Of course. Being away from you is almost impossible.”

“I’m not being a baby?” She sniffed.

“You’re my baby. But no. It is hard to bear, for sure. But you know what?”

“What?” She leaned back and looked into his face.

“It will be over before you know it. You’ll be right back here, where you belong. Because you’re MY girl.”

She smiled as she always did when he said that. Somehow those words made everything a little easier.
 

Thank you to Linda for a great prompt. Head over to SoCS to be inspired and for the participation rules!

June 1944

SoCS

 

“Shush!”

“What do you mean, ‘shush?’ Don’t shush me.”

“Would you prefer I do this?” She clapped her hand over the other’s mouth, and promptly got bitten. “OW! Heavens, Marcy.”

“Well. Don’t shush me. Or touch me.”

“I can’t hear a word if you keep nattering on. You never did know when to shut up.”

“Shouldn’t be eavesdropping anyway. You were always a nosy bitch.”

“You need to watch your language!”

“Make me.”

“What pushed you out of the wrong side of bed this morning anyway? You’re a crank pot.” Then she held up her hand, the one with the reddening teeth marks, and leaned her ear against the door.

“What are they saying?”

“That they’re going to put you up for adoption if you don’t smarten up.” There was a dark twinkle in Janie’s brown eyes. But suddenly it left. Her young face fell into an expression the younger sister perceived like a cold hand around her heart.

“What? What is it, Janie? Tell me! Is he coming home?” she hissed.

Janie looked at her with welled eyes and shook her head.

Marcy touched her shoulder. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

Janie kept shaking her head, the tears now spilling over her pale cheeks, and the cloud that descended on 1414 Chatham Street that day smothered them in a permanent hush.

 

Thank you to Linda for a great prompt. Head over to SoCS to be inspired and for the participation rules!

Flash Fiction – Wild Fire

It was the kind of kiss that started wild fires. He took her hand and held it with his in her lap. He leaned across the console. “Every touch is a promise,” he said, and his voice was soft and deep and warmed her like aged whisky. His lips brushed her nose, and she closed her eyes and instinctively tilted her head. How did she know to do that? It was not only their first kiss…

“But you’re not allowed,” he said, and the tip of his tongue brushed the cupid’s bow of her lip. “To fall.”

 

December 2, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something or someone not allowed. Maybe it’s about gender, race or other intolerance. Maybe it’s the cat who paws at the door, but not allowed inside. Maybe it’s a trail where dogs are not allowed. Go light, go dark, go where the prompt leads you.

Hope

14

Linny also spoke of the dogs. We readied the bunker and I gave order they were to stay in it at night rather than the house, and for her to always lock the twins in if she had to leave them for any reason. She helped me with a patronizing air. I knew she was going through the motions, that she was humoring me because she knew I wouldn’t go otherwise. But I would. I did know. I couldn’t make her do anything. I couldn’t make her love me, or want me. I couldn’t make her stay when times were good. I couldn’t be with her any more than I could be with Anna. I couldn’t be with anyone, in any reality. I was no more alone now than I’d been then. Perhaps less, because there was Hope.

She spoke of them in passing, with a dismissive air.

“Don’t underestimate them,” I said.

“Jesus, Jim,” she sighed. “Everything with you.”

“You’ve been out here long enough to know what fear and hunger can do. Take conscience away and you have them.”

“So fucking dramatic.” She climbed out of the bunker and into the bright yard, taking my flashlight with her, leaving me in the dark. She stuck her head back in and called to me. “Next you’ll be saying to watch out for the rats. Or the cockroaches.”

I wondered how she could be so flip and unaware. How could she not know that these smallest of creatures would reclaim the planet? Who was to say the next species of intelligent life wouldn’t evolve from one or all of them?

Humankind was no longer running the show.


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