Little Red
by Sarah Rakel Orton
“Little Red Riding Hood was my first love. I have the impression that, if I had been able to marry her, I would have known perfect happiness.” —Charles Dickens
The big bad wolf said
Come out and play, dear.
Little Red Riding Hood
Donned her coat over her head
She said, I can’t play, I don’t know you.
Big Bad Wolf said, That’s what makes it so fun.
At the first glimpse of his body, she strayed from the path. His hair, dark and thick, hung in his face; his legs and torso visibly muscled, teasing. She followed him into the woods, sped through trees to follow his shadow. He called back, a low moan, Little Red, Little Red. Her breath grew fast, her brow sweaty. But she liked the chase.
But then she heard nothing, saw no shadow. She stopped, spun around. She wanted to cry out to him, Big Bad Wolf, come get me.
From the trees she heard his low voice: “Where are you going, Little Red?”
“To grandmother’s house.” She smiled beneath her red hood. She heard him breaking through the trees. She knew he would beat her there.
He found grandmother in the bed, buried in blankets, waiting for wine and bread. She was gone when Little Red knocked on the door.
“Come in, come in.”
She saw him in her grandmother’s bed.
“Time for bed, Little Red.”
She began to climb, but he eyed her coat and said, “Throw it into the fire, you will need it no longer.”
He smiled his wolf smile, pointed teeth, glimpse of a sharp-tipped tongue. She lowered the hood of her coat, let her curls fall onto her shoulders. With a hand on either side of her coat, she pulled apart the ribbon, a slow movement of the fingers, and her body,unclothed beneath the favorite coat, still young, a girl only yesterday, revealed itself in a V: breasts, belly, thighs. Big Bad Wolf licked his lips. Little Red threw her beautiful redcoat into the fire.
He extended an arm, thick with fur; pulled her to him, her belly warm against his. She laced her fingers in the fur of his chest, so thick and soft like a cat.
Their foreheads met, lashes combed together. His blue eyes, her brown eyes — she felt lost in his irises.
“What big eyes you have.”
He looked down at her breasts, the rosy nipples; he looked at her belly, taut and petal-white. He looked at the red curls between her thighs. His mouth parted, a wolfish smile.
“What a big mouth you have.”
His fingers traced the sides of her youthful breasts. He took her face in his hands, kissed her hard. He twisted inside her mouth,pushed, traced the edges of her teeth. His tongue moved from her lips, to her neck, lingered between and beneath her breasts.
“What big teeth you have.”
He buried his head in her neck, licked the hollow of her collarbone. He looked up at her eyes, rolled back, lashes skimming her cheek, and ran the edges of his canines slowly across the column of her neck. His hands, long fingered, rising with veins, spread apart her milky thighs.
“What big hands you have.”
Now her voice came in a low moan. Inside her thighs, he traced patterns with his fingers, dipped in and out; she was like new pink satin. His hair, shaggy, brown, nearly hid his eyes, blue like the shadows on ice.
She said, red lips parted, soft: “I want you to devour me.”
She thought he laughed, but wondered if he had howled instead. She looked down, eyes widening. She remembered what grandmother had said: You will know them by their size. She looked at him, eager,curious. His penis traced her smooth opening in slow circles, and she thought of a wolf then: huge, terrifying, and yet preternaturally beautiful.
She felt it like a forced widening, a pinch of pain, and then a diffusing: he pushed upward, her real hood fallen; the pangs then, a shuddering pleasure. She thought, her tongue following his, They were right to warn me. The sheets cooled the skin of her back with each upward movement. She held onto his shoulders, colored like the surface of the moon. Her legs, still in stockings, wound around his hips. His jaw on hers, she felt their bones melding, a white heat and melting flesh. She wanted his teeth inside her skin; she wanted him to taste her.
His howl shook the bed. She watched his eyes widen, his arm muscles tensing. He lowered his head to hers and whispered in her ear.
She laughed in her grandmother’s bed.
BIO: Sarah Rakel Orton is a second year MFA student at the University of Utah’s creative writing program. Her areas of focus are fairy-tale studies and short fiction.She is new to the publishing world.