Red

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

**Author's Note: I am still a fan of fairytales. There's no getting around it though, most of our favorite bedtime stories from childhood contain some dark elements. Little Red Riding Hood in particular was always pretty terrifying. This story is my modernized take on Red Riding Hood but like the classic, there is some underlying fear throughout. If rape play or stalking or a little bit of blood is triggering, please don't read this story. Maybe just as offensive, please know that modern day Red doesn't take any shit from anyone. **

***

Wolf

He rarely watched porn. Pornography didn't do much of anything for him and never enough to actually pull his cock out and conclude business. Sure, like any beast, his eyes were attracted to shiny flesh. He liked looking at perfectly, golden tanned skin and long hair. He enjoyed sculpted tits and waxed, nubile parts; all lubricious and pink.

It was like bright plumage on a bird. It was meant to call attention, to bring the urge to mate front and center and make the ritual impossible to deny. Skin and scent and spit and sweat all mixed in a tantalizing stew of lust brought to a fever pitch.

It was fine for others but he'd always been considered odd. And that was just the bits and pieces that people knew about. If they had any idea what lurked underneath his socially acceptable façade. For him, the bare bodies were more practical to be used as bait, for other, lesser predators.

Animal shows actually were more to his taste. Even though he'd never stroked himself while he watched National Geographic, occasionally he had noticed that he had an erection. When he observed the large cats, the truest form of predator that existed, perhaps it wasn't sexual in nature as much as recognition. He sat on the edge of his leather chair and leaned in way too close to the 72" plasma television. He liked the feeling of immersion, as if he were no longer safe in his den. He liked to imagine that he was there in the savanna, like he and the mighty beast were hunkered down together in the tall grass. Hearts beat to a primal tempo, a rhythm that carried the tremor of thunder off in the distance. Every muscle wiry and strung tight like cat gut strings on a cello.

He would quiver in anticipation.

Everything must be perfect in order for the assault to be successful. The rumble of need inside couldn't be ignored but the moment before they sprung it was just two pulses in time, following an ancient rhythm, as old as life itself.

He liked to watch the death grip and the beast's mighty paws and claws sunk deep into the prey. He liked to watch the meal fight and thrash and arch its back. He liked to think that it prayed for mercy but the cats were deaf to any such prayers. They would wet their faces in the hot pulsating stream of blood and lick their lips of the crimson spatter. It was lusty, it was truly decadent and he felt a kinship with the beasts.

He knew that he didn't look like anything fearsome and that was his camouflage. He wasn't like the great cats who strode through the fields, their jutting muscles on display with every step. They were sinew and strength, with fearsome teeth. Their shining, yellow eyes were a warning to run for your life.

No, he was much more hidden. He had to be since one of the basic tenants of a peaceful society was that everyone agreed to hide their true animal nature. So he kept his dark hair short and his face clean shaven. He had friendly, brown eyes that tended to shine with laughter or at least what was perceived as good humor. He had a steady, firm handshake that made him seem like an upstanding member of society. He dressed conservatively and voted the same and kept a small circle of acquaintances who could account for what a really decent man he was.

He kept his hunt to himself. He loved the secret, forbidden nature of it and he loved the glorious, godlike feeling of watching without being watched. He basked in the unseen and became untouchable. He felt like god; maybe but god didn't have these motives. More like a jungle cat.

Tonight, although he was clothed, he felt as though he'd stripped down to his true nature. The black shirt and pants clung to his wiry, well-muscled body like a second skin. He felt like a jaguar. The black ski cap covered his face and he'd like to have it off for this evening's escapades. He'd like to feel the breeze on his face as he crept down into his lair and studied his prey. Alas, unlike the jaguar and proud pumas and lanky lionesses that he watched on tv, he couldn't risk being seen for what he truly was.

That had to remain a secret.

***

Red

There it was and according to the doctor, it would be there forever. Underneath the crisp white, button down, she still had the almost translucent skin that wound down the back of her neck and moved down her right side. The shiny scar tissue was vine-like and wrapped itself around her ribs and her right arm down to her bicep. But on the outside, no one could tell. She could pass for one of them with the shirt and the black, knee length skirt and her wild mane combed back carefully into a ponytail. Normal.

Well, except for the ankle monitor.

Red shook her head and watched her reflection in the mirror. She waited for the green light to flash. One, two, three. There it went and that meant that some fucking cop, some fat sack of shit from the Cook County Sheriff's Department could easily point her out on a screen. Yup, there she was; Mirabelle Rasmussen, prisoner 91117C. Right where she was supposed to be at seven o'clock on a Saturday night. She was up in her shitty, puke green room in the attic at the Draper residence. All tucked away, doing her day job, taking care of Doris.

Hey fuckers, she greeted them silently. It made her smile when she counted it again. Thanks to overcrowded prisons and the whole system basically being fucked, there was only one hundred thirty-four more days until she got this goddamn monitor off. Then good luck ever knowing where the fuck she was again. She planned on being a ghost, which was perfect since everyone she ever cared about was dead.

Doris' thin voice came over the walkie talkie, "Mirabelle, dear, can you help me find my glasses?"

Well, not everyone. Red couldn't help but feel something for Doris. It was time to get back to work, Red nodded at her reflection, and that seemed about right. She had two full-time jobs and one part-time and if she were allowed to, she would have worked even more. Life was expensive and it hadn't gotten any fucking cheaper since she was inside. Going straight meant that money was just harder to come by.

"Yes, I'll be right there, Doris," Red said a little louder than she usually talked into the device. Half the time, Doris couldn't remember how to work it, the other half she couldn't hear. Probably her glasses were just sitting on top of her head but Red didn't mind. It was a goddamn shame that she lived here like this. The house, once a thing of glory, was as decrepit and crumbling as the owner. Poor Doris Draper was living in squalor with a stranger. She was an ex-felon for god sakes. Doris just needed someone to find her glasses and make sure that she didn't fall down the stairs. Okay, sometimes there was more to it but she shouldn't have to pay for companionship. Doris had family. The rest of the Drapers lived on the North Shore, just a thirty minute drive.

They never visited their grandma. Red wished she could explain that family should be cherished. You never knew when you'd be the last one left.

She ran down the four flights of stairs quickly and listened to the clack of her heels across the parquet floor as she entered the drawing room. Of course, Red had never been really good with her words, she'd really just rather punch the motherfuckers that had left a sweet, little old lady to fend for herself. "Here you go, Doris," Red said with a smile as she pulled the old lady's glasses from her tightly permed, gray hair. "Here's your glasses."

"My goodness," Doris shook her head, as if she had run out of patience with herself. "Thank you, Mirabelle. I don't know what I'd do without you," the bent old woman said with a wrinkled, twisted smile. Her gnarled hands reached up and patted her head to see if there was anything else she'd tucked away in her hair. "What are you dressed up for, dear?"

Doris insisted on using her proper name, although Red didn't remember the last time anyone else had called her Mirabelle. Everyone called her Red.

She had come by the nickname naturally due to the blood red shock of wild, red hair that had been her trademark from the beginning. A couple of guys had suggested that her stripper name should have been Ginger, back when she worked the pole. After they got to know her, they changed their minds.

Ginger was some girl with big tits and an easy smile and fluttering eyelashes. She wasn't a Ginger, she was a Red.

"I'm not really dressed up," Red smoothed the front of the button down. She hadn't ironed it, she hadn't ever ironed, "I'm working tonight."

"Doing what, my dear?"

"It's a catering company. Some big, swanky party and I get to pass champagne around. You know, hold a tray with the little food on crackers. That kind of," she almost said shit but she really tried not to swear in front of Doris because it wasn't ladylike. "Stuff."

Doris took a shaky breath, "Did you quit your job at the box factory, Mirabelle?" She made a face that meant she was in pain but Doris would never tell what hurt.

"No Mrs. D, I'm still there. I'm just on third shift now so you're usually asleep when I work over there."

The old lady made a clicking noise with her tongue, a tisk tisk. Red knew what it meant. It meant you poor thing, working yourself to an early grave but Doris was old school and wouldn't say it out loud. At least she had the decency not to show pity; Red fucking hated pity. "Well, you're young and plucky," was all Mrs. Draper said.

Damn straight, Red thought.

"Can you pull the afghan up, my dear?" The house was drafty, even in May. Red happened to like it on the cool side but she imagined that it must freeze up Doris' old, arthritic joints.

"Sure," Red pulled the soft, worn old blanket up to Doris' armpits and then tucked both arms inside. Her skin was crinkled like paper and felt dry and crispy like old paper would. She seemed to just be bone encased in a bit of squeezable blubber. They are called bat wings, Red reminded herself. There's another good thing about having three jobs. No need to go to the gym. "There you go. You all cozy, Doris?"

The old lady nodded and smiled politely. "Yes, I'm just fine, my dear. Can you tell me something?"

"Sure, Doris."

"Who are you and how did you get into my house?"

This is why Doris' shitty grandkids really needed a punch in the face, Red thought. Someone should knock some common sense into them and loosen up their fucking caps. Half the time, Doris was a peach. The other half of the time, she was still sweet as pie but she couldn't remember shit. She was so vulnerable. Doris should be in a home. One of those fancy ones on Lake Michigan that looked like condos instead of just a place to die. Some place where she could make friends instead of rotting her brain as she watched soap operas on the Spanish channel with the sound off.

"I'm Mirabelle, Doris. I live here with you and help you with stuff around the house. Remember?"

Doris gave her a nod but it was bullshit. Red could tell by the slightly hysterical look in the old lady's bloodshot eyes. More and more, Doris was frightened of her own home and the people that were in it.

Nothing's fucking fair, Red thought.

The front door squeaked open and a voice called out. "Miss Doris, it's Pamela. You decent?" she asked. Pamela was the second shift caretaker and had begun to give that greeting two weeks ago when Doris had forgotten to wear clothes. The old lady had greeted her from the drawing room, naked as a jaybird.

"I don't know what she's talking about," Doris whispered conspiratorially to Red. "Of course I'm decent." She drew her lips in tight and all that was left was a bright pink gash in the middle of Doris' face. The lady did like her lipstick even if it bled into all of the cracks around her mouth.

"Of course you are." Red repeated and patted Doris' shoulder.

On her way to the front door, she stopped to update Pamela. She watched Pamela take off her tennis shoes that she wore to walk from the bus stop and put on the house slippers she wore at the Draper residence. She was a huge woman and her calves were straight lines from knee to ankle. "She's a little out of it," Red remarked to Pamela.

"As usual," the fat woman said with a grunt as she jammed her swollen foot into the slipper. "Where you off to? Hot date?"

Red rolled her eyes at Pamela. "Nope, job number three."

"No rest for the wicked, Red."

Red supposed there wasn't but she just shrugged. She didn't need rest, she just wanted her freedom.

Red checked the pockets of her black hoodie. She had her burner cell phone and bus card in the left pocket, cigarettes, lighter and five bucks in the right. Time to go wait on fat, rich fucks and wish that she was a million miles away.

At some point during the bus ride, Red thought that before, the only time she took a job like this was so she could case the place.

But that was before the fire.

***

Wolf

He had made his choice early on in the evening. In fact, the instant that he saw her, they all might as well have disappeared. Once she was in his sights, she was all that he saw. But that was the problem with inviting people to your house. Manners dictated that you couldn't just throw them all out once you had what you wanted.

Rules.

She was trying too hard to fit in and he found it charming. She monitored what the others around her did and kept her movements similar. He recognized it immediately, he had spent a good deal of his younger years doing the same. She wore the disguise of a waitress, the white shirt and black skirt like the rest of them. It was a uniform, intended to designate uniformity. No matter what her clothes were though, she was unique. She might fool the rest of them, but not him.

She was clever. Her smile was patient but her eyes were imperious and flashed with unexpressed feelings. She was delicate and petite but she walked like a warrior, even in the low heels. Her breasts were small but in the air conditioned room, her nipples were large and noticeable. Her waist was cinched in, tight and toned. She was quite slender and her hips rolled as she moved about the room. Confidence, that was it and it radiated from her like a scent. This woman wore the waitress uniform but she felt like a queen, maybe a goddess.

Her actual scent, he had decided after he had savored a bit of it from her trail, was cinnamon. It was something earthy and hot with just a tinge of sweetness. It was subtle and had hidden depths. Her scent made him half erect and he wondered if he buried his nose at the nape of her neck, if that wouldn't make him cum.

The party continued around them, in fact it was in full swing. To his left, a male slave pleasured himself on a foot without permission. If his mistress were truly a mistress, such errant behavior would never take place. However, like the rest of his guests, she was just a poser in a shiny latex dress.

In the next room, a schoolgirl received a bare bottom spanking while three older gentlemen watched and masturbated to her young, tender flesh.

In the hall, there was young man who was naked except for a pair of fairy wings that he had strapped to his back and the blindfold. He was on his knees with his mouth open. He gagged and sucked furiously on whatever body part was pushed into his mouth and there was a semicircle of strangers who impatiently waited their turn to rape his mouth. He was sure that before much longer, one of the strangers would grab his legs and hold him in position while they raped his ass as well. Most of the wait staff stared and giggled. Some had left the room, too offended to even observe.

She watched intently but seemed to be as unaffected as he was, removed. She observed without judgment. She was like a human watching an ant.

Like god.

He felt the same. The parties had been fun for a while. In the beginning, he'd been rather obsessed with them actually. There had been the Doms, glorious and powerful men, sometimes dressed in suits, sometimes in leather pants and bare chests. There had been the mistresses, the gorgeous women in thigh high, leather boots and corsets. There had been others in pin-up lingerie, all softness and curves and flowing locks who wielded a crop in delicate hands.

Then, of course there had been the slaves. The splendid slaves, naked and shiny and new. Male slaves who had been freshly shaved and their skin gleamed in the light. Some would walk in fully aroused and obvious, some were clearly frightened and their soft penises would hide away, tucked into their sacks. The female slaves had always been a feast for the senses. Bare and beautiful, they were a cornucopia of sex. He could usually pick them out by scent alone as the evening progressed.

He'd had so much fun in the beginning. Even after he had realized that what he was looking for was more like a needle in a haystack, he'd kept at it. Sure, he'd catch a glimmer here, a glimpse there, he'd lose himself in a few hours of the sublime nirvana of hope. It had been short lived and he had a short attention span. Since then, he had mostly thrown the parties to keep acquaintances from bothering him about it.

Tonight, he felt the draw though and it was undeniable. Shortly before midnight, he couldn't stop himself. Even if it was a terrible idea, he'd decided fuck it. Even if it just ended in disappointment, he had to know, had to see her, had to smell her.

She had slipped outside. She was on the terrace, bathed in moonlight. He studied her skin, it was almost as white as her shirt and wondered what it felt like. He noticed that her nails were painted black and that they almost looked like claws. She drew a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and she tapped it on the back of her hand like a man would. There was a click of a lighter. She inhaled and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke that seemed to cling to her. It almost hid her from view.

He knew how to turn the door handle just right so that it opened silently. He could watch her without a word, without a sound, unobtrusive and unobserved if he chose but with this one, with her, he wanted to be seen.

"Are you on break?" he asked from the doorway as he took in the scent of the humid, evening air.

"Unauthorized," she said with a cheeky smile.

"Nice night out, isn't it?" He continued as he closed the door behind him almost as silently as he'd opened it.

She blew a smoke ring and he couldn't help but smile. "Gorgeous." She looked up at the sky and her milky skin was illuminated the dark. There was some kind of enchantment about her and he wanted to draw closer.

"Are you finished for the evening?"

"Just about."

"Why not stay a little while?" He could feel it, the needy twitch in his fingers. He wanted to tug that rubber band out of her hair and watch it all tumble down in a glorious, bloody shower around her shoulders. And the eyes. She had icy, blue eyes that shone, cold as the lake. He wanted to plunge into the depths and be completely submerged. As he'd watched her, he had done the calculations. In his head, he had figured the odds of a natural redhead with blue eyes and almost white lashes. On her physical attributes alone, she was an anomaly.

Only .017 percent of the world population that had been graced with similar traits. He was drawn in, like the deep inhale that she took of smoke.