"Little Red Riding Hood" by Gustave Dore
[Little Red Riding Hood - Sam the Sham]
This story is another challenge post between Amy of Sex, Chocolate, and Red Lipstick, Z of Phaedra Fallen and I. The challenge was Fairy Tale Erotica, 1000-1500, and I am over a day late. Oops! Check out their blogs to see Cinderella and Snow White, Rose Red. But just a warning, this particular story is a little dark, and while it is certainly sexual, it might not be as ‘hot’ as some of my other posts. The original Little Red story is incredibly morbid and I wanted to keep that feel (though I admit I left out the part about her drinking her grandmother’s blood from a wine bottle…). My final disclaimer is that the Little Red character is of the age of consent where I grew up (sixteen), and not the child she is in the original story.
Once Upon a Time,
Little Red Riding Hood grew up, as little girls do. She married the Huntsman not but three days after he saved her from the Wolf, a prim and youthful bride of sixteen with rosy cheeks and a dark little secret which kept her wet between the thighs. She cried out on her wedding night, but not because she was a virgin, only because he wasn’t the Wolf. That night, and many nights after, she sobbed softly into her pillow after her husband had gone to sleep, letting her hands coax from her clit sad, wonderful orgasms as she remembered her secret over and over again.
She remembered his large, calloused hands touching her trembling lip, reaching up and pushing the hood of her little red cloak away off her head, stroking her dark ringlets… She knew he was bad, knew Mother’s warnings, but there was something so teasing about his smile, something hidden at the side of a smirk, a hint of a fang, maybe, but more like a dare to be bad. Oh, all little girls want to be bad, sure enough, and all little girls want to succumb to a bad man once or twice in their lives. And he was the worst, which, as far as she could tell as a good little girl who wanted to be bad, made him the best.
She protested, of course. She was expected to, wasn’t she? And with every feeble no, he seemed to smile a little wider. He asked her where she was going. She knew she shouldn’t say, but the words tumbled from her mouth like precious pearls and he gathered them up with care, as if she didn’t realize he was a rogue, a thief, and certainly not to be trusted. He led her down the path a little further, pointing one of those large hands toward a field of wildflowers.
She gave in. Less to bring something pretty to her grandmother and more to please him, to do as he had said and gather a bouquet of the best. She felt his eyes, hungry, following her through the field, settling her pert new bosom and rounded backside. She knew he was behind her when she bent to pick up the perfect little bunch of bluebells, and she felt exhilarated and terrified when he pressed himself hard into the back of her skirt. He reached his arms around her, catching at her wrists as her basket of goodies for her grandmother toppled to the ground. Her heart was in her throat and between her thighs, as he held her captive against him, his strange, masculine hardness pushing into her soft buttocks.
“Please,” she whimpered softly, suddenly sure this game was too adult for her, but he forced her to face him. His mouth was rough, and he nipped at her lips with sharp teeth. Her knees buckled and he grasped tight onto her arms, leaving huge handprints on her flesh from a necessity to hold her up. His tongue tasted her, moving from mouth to ear to neck, nibbling at her skin and savoring her salty-sweet flavor.
Finally, he let her fall to the earth, crushing the perfect bluebells. He undid the laces on his trousers and there was furry hair everywhere, and in the midst of it all, his hard, eager cock. He put it in front of her cherry lips and she stared up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He wrapped her curls around his fingers and pulled, and then she understood what he meant. She took his cock into her mouth, tentative, but he showed her what to do with each painful tug of her hair.
He nearly howled when he came, pulling himself from between her lips to cum hot and sticky across those rosy cheeks and down her dimpled chin. He smiled down at her, that twisted, fanged smile, and then he ran off, leaving her in the dirt. She stared after him, licking her lips, enjoying the strange, foul taste he’d left there, an odd delight spreading over her body.
She had gathered up the bread and biscuits for Grandmother, tucking them neatly back into the basket before finding the path once more. She couldn’t get his thick, hard cock out of her mind. She wanted more of it. She wanted him to pull her curls once more and make her heart beat faster in her chest. She felt slippery and moist, ready and not at the same time.
She opened Grandmother’s door slowly when she arrived, expecting her to be sleeping soundly in her bed. She saw instead the dark form of him, and she felt a rush of fear and excitement.
“Grandmother,” she called softly, and he stirred in the bed, pulling the bedclothes up over his face. “Is that you? What shall I do with my basket?”
“Oh, little dear,” he answer, his falsetto obvious and his smirk of a smile trickling into his tone. “Come get undressed and climb into bed with your sweet grandmother.”
“But Grandmother, where should I put my basket?”
“Oh, onto the table, dear! You shan’t be needing it anymore.”
“And Grandmother, where should I put my apron?”
“Throw it into the fire, dear, you shan’t be needing that anymore, either.”
She untied her apron and dropped it into the flames. “And my bodice, Grandmother?”
“Throw it onto the fire!”
“My dress, too, and my petticoats?”
“And your stockings and your shoes but…” he looked at her, shivering and naked except for her brilliant red cloak wrapped around her body. “Leave on your little red riding hood and come climb into bed with me.”
She climbed into the bed, nervous and barely able to breathe as she realized he was also completely nude. “Grandmother, how hairy you are!”
“Oh, the better to keep warm, my dear.”
“Grandmother, what big arms you have!” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, his dick erect and pressing into her thigh.
“The better to carry firewood with, my dear.” She gasped as his hands pulled and teased her nipples, tracing down her stomach to wriggle in between her legs.
“Grandmother, what big hands you have…!”
“The better to hold you with, my dear.” He climbed on top of her and she stared into his face.
“Grandmother, what big ears you have…” His mouth twitched and he smiled, leaning in close and murmuring to her in his own voice,
“The better to hear you with, my dear.”
“Grandmother, what big eyes you have,” she said to him.
“The better to see you with, my dear,” and he slid himself into her. She cried out, first in pain, then in pleasure, as he began to fuck her. He held her arms down, one of his large hands able to clasp her two wrists, but she did not struggle. Instead, she let her body rise and fall to meet his, frenzied and rousing. His free hand reach beneath the bedclothes, sweetly tormenting parts of her body she had never knew existed.
She felt herself burst. Her body tensed in unknown joy around his as she fell into his wild brown eyes. As she started to relax, he began to thrust harder, untamed, harder and harder and harder into her until it hurt again and she cried out once more, loudly. He closed his eyes, a grotesque serenity on his face, before she felt him cum, hot and filthy and fantastic inside her.
“Grandmother, what a big mouth you have…” she whispered as he lay next to her, and he turned to look at her, that hunger in his eyes no less abated. He smiled his awful smile and bared his fangs.
“The better to eat you with!” She shrank back as he lunged at her, not knowing if he was going to bite her or kiss her.
She never knew, for at that very moment, the Huntsman murdered the Wolf, his blood spilling over her, masking her own loss of innocence spattered on the bedsheets. She was supposed to be happy, grateful, and now, a good wife, and she threw her blood-soaked cloak into the river to forget. But somethings are never forgotten, replayed underneath her fingertips while tears roll down her cheeks, and no one actually lives happily after after.
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