It is still October 31. The sun had set, leaving a raspberry glow on the horizon, and the big, yellow, full moon was visible though the trees to the east. The smells of autumn were in the air, though it was still pleasantly warm. I had found a good place of concealment, far from lights and surveillance cameras but still near a path, a short cut, often traveled by students. There were three good escape routes, just in case. I quivered in anticipation; I could smell one coming. My sensitive ears tracked every footfall. She was wearing tennis shoes.
I leapt from the bushes and crouched in front of her. She was about five-four, wearing a red cape and hood, and carrying a basket. She stopped, surprised, and tried, in the dim light, to identify me. “You’re Little Red Riding Hood,” I said, growling and baring my canines.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, with a giggle, “You must be the big bad wolf.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound menacing, “and I’m going to eat you.”
“Really?” she said, grinning. “Could I buy you off with a cookie, instead? Chocolate chip. I’m taking them to my house mother for our Halloween party. That’s a great costume you have. Would you like to come?”
I considered the prospect, decided it would be too dangerous. “No. I said I want to eat you.”
“I’m kind of busy now, and I don’t even know your name. I think I’d better decline your offer, thank you. Would you let me pass, please?”
“No!” I grabbed her and carried her under one arm. It was easy, with it being that time of the month, and her only a hundred and ten pounds or so. She screamed, but I knew no one could hear. In seconds, I had her in my little hide- away, and I popped a red rubber ball gag in her mouth and cinched the strap tight around her wavy red hair. I plopped her onto a blanket I had spread on the grass. “You know that resistance is futile. If you cooperate, perhaps I won’t eat all of you.” I took her cookie basket and stood, towering over her. “Take off that ridiculous cape.”
Awkwardly, she regained her feet and shrugged off the red cape. She was wearing a sorority sweatshirt and a pleated kilt. “Strip,” I commanded. She hesitated, so I grabbed the neck of her sweatshirt with both hands and tore it down the front, a feat of strength I’d bet no boy friend of hers could do. But, of course, the moon was full. “Go on.” She pulled the sleeves of the ruined sweatshirt off over her hands and stood there, in her bra and kilt. “Go on.” She hesitated. I reached for her kilt, and she pleaded with her eyes, making mewling noises through her ball gag. “You have something to say?” She nodded. I warned her to be quiet and removed the gag.
“Please, don’t ruin my clothes. The kilt cost me 75 dollars.”
“Then take it off.” She undid the clasp at the waistband and stepped out of it. Now, but for the tennis shoes, she wore only a bra and bikini-style panties. I glowered and growled. She reached behind and released the hooks at the back of her bra, but she was awkward, scared, I guess, so I ripped her bra off, too. Her breasts were girlish, about a cupful each, like halves of oranges on her chest, or water balloons, with pink nipples that protruded. Her breasts were stark white, compared to her pink, freckled skin, that typical redhead complexion. She had a barbell piercing in her navel. Her panties were a dark color, hard to define in the gloom. I swiftly dropped her on her back on the blanket and took my place between her knees.
“Please. Please don’t hurt me,” she said, in a soft, sweet voice. I growled and seized the elastic of her panties in my teeth. The first yank gave her a mighty wedgie, but I quickly gnawed through waist and crotch and spat the scraps of pink cotton into the bushes, noting the same paleness as her breasts. She sunbathed, but not nude. Her pubic hair was sparse red curls; she was a true redhead. Her labia were full, with a slit between them and a little dimple at the top. My tongue darted against her cleft, easily parting the lips and exploring within. I can easily lap water from a stream or dog dish, when it’s that time. I lapped at her inner labia, slipped inside her as far as her cervix, and lapped the swelling of her clitoris, up at the front of her cleft. I could smell her arousal and taste the nectar of her vulva. Again, I pushed my tongue into her now unresisting vagina, until my canines were buried in her soft flesh. She gave a little cry, and I backed off, licking her wet membranes as she writhed beneath me. At one point, she reached down and grabbed my wolfish ears, perhaps thinking they would come off. I let her guide me, as she moaned and whispered, “Oh. Oh, my god! Oh, oh, oh, that’s… Oh, OHHH! Oh, oh,” and she giggled.
When she let go, I licked my way up her belly to her breasts and wrapped my tongue around each one in turn. My snout is such that I couldn’t suck, but I gently chewed and slurped as she made contented noises. Then it was back to the honey pot. My tongue lashed her clit and labia until she came, time after time, moaning, screaming, crying to God, giggling afterward. The smell of sex was overpowering.
I rolled her on her tummy and lifted her hips. My penis was red, pointed, and nearly a foot long. “I’ve never done it doggy-style,” she said, lightly, as I plunged into her. I could not, of course, put the whole length into her without fatal injury, but I’m sure she was fucked as never before, and when, after I had ejaculated half a pint of watery semen, and the root of my tool swelled like a baseball, I kept pressed into her and fucked and fucked and fucked, maybe twenty minutes, as my knot distended her vagina and pounded her clitoris. She groaned and moaned and struggled for some time. When I pulled out of her, she collapsed, flat on the blanket, still dribbling from her ravaged cunt, too exhausted to do anything for a while.
Then she said, “Wolf, are you done, or are you still going to eat me.”
I lapped up my seminal fluids and ran the tip of my long tongue around her cervix, deep in the fundus of her sex, removing the sperm which might otherwise swim into her womb. I don’t know if I can impregnate a mortal woman, nor can I imagine what our offspring might look like, but by the time I was done, and she was wasted by more orgasms than her fingers could give her in a year, she pleaded with me to stop.
She sat up, there in the moonlight, the moon high by now, and covered her breasts and crotch with her hands. “You raped me.”
“So, what are you going to do? Report me to Animal Control?”
“Will you let me go now?”
“If you like.”
“I’d better go. They’ll wonder why I’m late. The cookies, you know.”
“Well, go.” I handed her the kilt, which she put on. I couldn’t resist lifting the hem of her kilt for one last lick. She stood there, legs spread, encouraging me, until her knees gave out and she was down again. Slowly, she stood and drew her cape around her, forgetting the ruined bra and sweatshirt entirely. “What are you going to do when you get to the house?”
“I’ll keep my Red Riding Hood cape tight around me, and I’ll hand over the cookies. They need not know that I am naked underneath. It feels funny, the cool air on my wet vulva. Do you mind if I tell my room mate why I’m late?”
“Is your room mate as sexy as you are?”
“Yes, if you like zoftig brunettes.”
So, here I am, waiting in my hiding place again. The full moon shines down, giving me unending strength. My sensitive ears hear the footfalls of dancing slippers, the jingle of ear rings, and my nose detects the odor of receptive pussy.
– The End –