Little Red, they call her, wandering in the woods, playing with the creatures decent folk never even mention. The old women warn her that the wolf will eat her if he catches her, but Little Red just laughs and laughs. She knows the wolf well, now, knows his step and his growl, knows his forceful gesture towards the abandoned cottage they all call Grandma’s House. She knows his hands, strong and hard but never quite bruising as they strip her cloak from her, leaving her bare in the faint sunlight; knows his big eyes watching her as she caresses herself, knows the long teeth that gleam out of the corner of her eye when he smiles a wide, terrible smile.
She knows, too, the softness of his fur against her skin, the warmth of his body above hers, and the gentleness with which clawed hands stroke her sides, caress her breasts, spread wide her legs so that his long pink tongue can lap at her most private parts. Little Red, he calls her, laughing there between her legs as he makes her moan and writhe with pleasure. Little Red, he calls her as he rises over her, rampant and erect, only to fall upon her and impale her, and though this is surely not what the old women meant, it feels as though he is devouring her with his desire, his hard thrusts that feel as though she will be split in two, the rough kisses that make her whimper and clutch at his fur.
Little Red has never feared the wolf.