Little Red, Riding Hood [Shape Shifter, Modern Fairytale]

Hi. My name is Farah. I run Play Farah Publishing, a little erotic publishing house out of Las Vegas, NV. I am not an author, but I wrote this story to promote one of my authors and ended up being really, really proud of it. I’m posting it here because I want people to read it and would be interested in your feedback. I’m going to post a link to this same entry from my blog in the comments, but only because I commissioned a painting from a friend of mine to go along with the story, and she ended up doing a really amazing job.

Ummm…thanks! and I hope you enjoy.

I lay beside my big bad wolf, hands buried in his downy fur. Sometimes I stroke against the natural grain of his hair then smooth it back down. Other times I clutch at him for dear life. For now, I just keep my face pressed against his warmth and feel my head rise up and down with each deep breath, and I reflect on the truth that fairytales really do come true, just not in the ways that we expect.
As I drift, I picture the old man’s face—a grandfather in my story, not a sweet old granny—as I danced on his lap. Danced is a generous term. I stood in front of him, grinding my lacy red panties into his lifeless crotch and looking over my shoulder to see if anything was registering on his face. Nothing. He just stared past me, black-faced, not even looking at the stage. I was blocking his view. He was just staring through me.

As the song came to a close, I leaned in at the waist, practically pushing my full breasts into his face. “Thanks for the song,” I whispered in his ear, using my most seductive whisper, my pro voice. Nothing. “You just let me know if you need a little more chocolate, Baby.” My skin crawled every time I referred to myself as a food item, but white guys, especially older white guys, seemed to go crazy for it. Still, nothing.

Actually wondering if maybe he’d had a stroke, I decided to cut my losses, grabbing my bra off the seat next to us and beginning to walk away. His hand on my wrist jerked me to a stop. Immediately, my eyes found Hood, standing in his corner, arms folded across his big chest. A stylized grim reaper on his shirt loomed over his muscular forearms brandishing a curving scythe. Our eyes met—he had the kind of ice blue eyes that could make you weak at the knees, if he hit you with their full depth.
Cool as water, he raised an eye, but I raised one finger to him, signaling him to wait. Old people were weird, but they usually tipped well.

I bent back down to him again, getting close enough that he would be stuck in the haze of my perfume. Unfortunately, that meant I could smell him as well. I thought he would smell like mildew and bad teeth and medicine, the way most old people do, but he only smelled dry, the way off-road desert smells when there hasn’t been rain in months and months. “What can I do for you, Sweetie?” I asked, making sure to breath down the side of his neck. “You want another dance?”
Letting go of my wrist, he gently pinched a few inches of my hair between his thumb and his index finger. His skin looked as thin and white as paper. “Your hair,” he said. His voice was dry and dusty, just like his smell.

“You like my hair, Baby?” Watching him rub it between his fingers like that made me uneasy, but that’s my I dyed my hair something between crimson, lipstick and candy apple red—the same color as my panties—because it caught men’s eye. Full and luscious, it hung down almost all the way to my butt; good hair.

“Red,” he said, in a voice that sounded a lot like little kid wonder. I didn’t blame him. Girls with my skin color didn’t often come with red hair. The old guy was probably just trying to process it. I actually felt flattered.

“Song is starting, Baby,” I touched the back of his hand with my own fingertips. “Do you want me to stick around, or?” The old man’s free hand reached in his pocket and returned holding a wad of crumbled bills. My hands fanned the bills into a stack and folded them, doing their own thing automatically. There was enough, so I dropped the money into the cup of my bra without counting and set it on the seat beside us again. He still hand a bit of my hair, the brightest thing in the room of dim lights and dingy walls, but so what? If that’s what got the old guy off, let him have it. He deserved it just for being about a hundred years old, I thought.

I crawled up onto the big chair, pressing the soft pillows of my breasts to his chest. I straddled his legs, so that every time I moved, my inner thighs would rub against him. My knees were solidly tucked on either side, so she could get a little crazy and not worry about falling.

I fell into groove with the music, arching my back, letting my breasts slide along his cheek. I would have grabbed my nipples and rubbed his face in my bust, but again, the geezer seemed uninterested, just staring off into nothing, looking through me.

I pulled out some of my best moves, sliding my flat belly against his old man chest. Bouncing on his lap so my boobies jiggled in his face—they’re real, so they jiggle. I even considered coming in close and purring in his ear, swiping my tongue along his earlobe (I wanted him to get what he paid for) but that smell of dry dust was too much every time I got close.

I started to feel awkward as the song approached its end. He hadn’t made eye contact. His expression hadn’t changed from that vacant, haunted mask. He just continued to rub my hair in a circle between his thumb and a finger.

When I moved to lift myself off his lap, his hand spasmed. In a lightning quick twirl, ten inches of my hair was wrapped around his clenched fist. I felt my face twist in surprise and agony—not how a dancer is supposed to look in front of patrons, at all.

His face changed too. Instead of that vacant, lost expression he wore a mask of hideous rage. I felt the world move without my consent as he stood, forcing me with him.

On his feet he seemed impossibly tall and even more impossibly thin. For a moment, every part of him seemed to elongate. His jaw grew long and horsey. A slit of pale skin appeared between the cuff of his pants and the tops of his shoes, turning into a white ling and growing thicker. I felt both panic and pain as he lifted me off the ground by my hair, but he didn’t yank or pull, his arms and wrists and disgusting skinny old man fingers were all growing, getting longer.

His mouth, not a mouth at all, just a gaping, black hole. It whistled darkly as the old man thing began sucking air. The clubs walls were painted a garish, seedy purple. Fake green plants stood between all the big chairs, giving the illusion of privacy. Every light in the house had some sort of filter; white light isn’t conducive to atmosphere. A strip club is a rainbow of soft, dark and sexy. But as the thing that held me breathed in, those colors began to fade. It was like someone was turning the vibrancy all the way down in reality. The red of my hair lightened to a waxy crayon color, then even lighter to strawberry pink. My own skin—by this time I was clawing at his wrists, but they might as well have been stone—faded from rich dark brown, to tawny, to ashy.

In a moment of horror, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw my own face, sallow, sullen, an emotionless mask. And him, I looked back at the creature, the old man wasn’t looking quite so old. His white hair had regressed to gunmetal. His faded green eyes lightened to a healthy near-emerald.
I felt my head get hazy, that weird euphoria that comes right before a panic attack blackout; that feeling of your body taking pity on your situation and flooding you with endorphin right before it forces a hard reset.

And then Hood was on top of him. I hit the floor, and it must have been spectacular, because I hit the couch first and bounced upward at an angle, but I don’t remember feeling either impact. My eyes were stuck on the big, brown haired and blue eyed Irish boy who’d flung himself at the creature that was—I don’t know, eating me I guess.

I saw them both collapse onto the floor beside me. The whole world flared back into full color, like Dorothy stepping out of the house to Oz. I saw Hood raise a fist and crash it down on the thing, which didn’t even flinch. It swiped at hood with one of its hands, which had curled into claws, but Hood batted it away. He moved faster than a guy his size should.

The old man thing writhed under him, his arms and legs bending in ways they shouldn’t have been able to, joints popping with every movement. Swiping claws and kicks came at Hood from every angle, until he was forced to roll backward and away.

Free of Hood’s weight, the old man thing twisted. Its feet remained flat on the floor, but its spine wrenched so his chest was facing down and his hands were on the floor in pushup position. It straightened, elbows locked, body at a slant and head forward, looking like a perverted parody of a police dog.

A few more tenuous threads of sanity snapped as the thing’s tongue shot out and wrapped around Hood’s neck, choking him.

I watched my savior’s hands grasp the wet chord of muscle, biceps straining at his shirt sleeves, forearm muscles rippling under the skin. His face was turning purple.

And then he changed too.

It wasn’t the movie transformation of howling madness and tearing flesh. It happened quicker than I could register: he grew three feet, slabs of hulking muscle appeared under his skin, smoke-colored fur covered his entire body. His white-boy lips and broken nose turned into a long muzzle, shining with white, glistening teeth. His hands ended in claws like knives.

A flick of those flashing claws and the old man thing’s tongue lay severed on the floor. Another flash of movement and the beast that had been hood was coming down from above the old man thing, landing on him in a crunch of bones and then the claws tore in there too.

Back in my bed, I whimpered and cringed closer to Hood, forced my face into his fur to hide the tears. He heard me. When he’s like that he hears everything.

He rolled on his back and reached a hand down to touch my cheek. Those claws used to scare me before I knew how gentle they could be. “I need you,” I whispered. He lifted me effortlessly onto his barrel chest and let me lay on him that way for a minute. When I was a girl, I had a giant teddy bear, the kind that are impossible to win at a fair. I used to lay on it when I was sad and cry myself to sleep. Hood, in this skin, was better than that because he breathed and had warmth. He could love back.
“Dream?” he asked, and I knew what he meant. It was hard for him to talk when he was in this skin. I nodded. A daydream was still a dream.

“I want to forget,” I said.

I felt one of those long claws hook into the band of my panties, the same crimson ones I’d been wearing that night—what? Cute, comfy panties are hard to find.

I wiggled my hips a little to help Hood slide them down my legs. I got goose bumps.

Scooting down, I placed my knees on either side of his waist. Reaching back, I found him without looking. He was already up and hard. I aimed him where I wanted him most and slid back until my own wetness touched the tip of him. The heat flickered and rose in me before he even slipped inside.
Once he did, it became an inferno. Pushing back—hard—I swallowed him all the way to the knot at the base, then arched my back and tossed my red hair out behind me—one was to get him fully in, the rest was just for his pleasure.

Soft-furred hands with warm pads on the palms and fingers reached up to cup my breasts. I wrestled him in further and we both panted with pleasure. “Red,” he grunted in that guttural, gravely tone; the best he could manage in that skin. My skin pricked with pleasure at the sound of my name.

The little red panties lay forgotten on the bed as I rode Hood away from the nightmare from which he’d rescued me.

This was a lot longer than I’d intended, but so be it. You can’t shackle art (unless you’re into bondage).

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/54uma3/little_red_riding_hood_shape_shifter_modern