Little Red, Riding Wood Ch. 02

"What's on your mind?."

She smiled at him. She seemed at ease, so he suspected that the question wasn't nearly so terrible as she'd implied.

"Why have you never remarried, Father?"

Despite her fair warning, the question caught Sinclaire unawares. She'd hinted at this sort of question before, and he thought she'd grown tired of it. It was awkward, because he didn't really have a good reason. At least, none that he could easily put into words. He certainly had thought about it often enough for the past two decades, for very many reasons.

Really, though, it was surprising that it had taken her this long to come right out and ask.

In the most good humored and seemingly careless tone he could muster, belying his true feelings, he answered her in the most honest way that he could right now, by dodging it with another question.

"And why would I want to do such a thing?"

"Because you're a man?"

"So? I'm a father, and a teacher. Why do I need a wife?"

"I don't know," she asked, her voice trailing off uncomfortably with her gaze, wandering aimlessly into the wall behind him. The unspoken concept of sex hovered in the air like the overwhelming scent of lilacs in spring. Never comfortable discussing it with his own daughter, he looked to turn the conversation in another direction.

"There are no women about who would have been a fit mother for you, Celia. Haven't I done well enough on my own?"

Her gaze snapped back to his, with an apologetically fearful expression. His distraction had worked.

"Oh, no, Papa. That's not what I meant."

"But that's what I would have wanted in any wife, first and foremost."

She chewed her lip, in the attractive little way that she had. Her mother used to do that, and it used to drive him wild. It was the look she had used on him to get him to court her, and later to get him to propose to her, and before even that to get him to lay with her. But Celia did it even better than his late wife had, without even trying or realizing the effect that it had on men — even her own father.

"It's just... that I know that... men have needs."

Sinclaire raised his eyebrows while shifting in his chair in discomfort. He hadn't expected her to be so forward.

"Don't you have needs, Father?"

It was Sinclaire's turn to look off into the far wall, to avoid her gaze. This just wasn't a discussion he wanted to have with his own daughter. He knew that she had blossomed years ago,. That was far too obvious to him. He knew that her body had more than come alive, by the way that she looked at men, and spoke around them, even if they held no real interest for her.

That was why he'd had Madame Desirlabete have a talk with her. He wasn't about to do it himself. Yet here he was, being lured into the same perilous subject he'd so carefully avoided for many years now.

"Well..." he began.

It was better to just say it, he thought. She was a grown woman, now. He had to stop thinking of her like a child. It was a fair question, and it deserved a fair answer. He deserved a fair answer, himself, he realized. Why hadn't he remarried, or at least dallied with someone here and there?

He had certainly repressed his own needs for quite a long time. It had been easy enough when she was young, and in constant need of care. He felt back then like he spent every minute of every day in a state of nearly unconscious exhaustion. The idea of entertaining a woman in his bed, at the time, really only entered his thoughts in the dark of night, or when he awoke in the early morning darkness with his own wood erect and hard, itself painfully oblivious to the realities of his situation.

Certainly, having a wife to help him in his labors would have been good, but not worth the trouble, even if there had been someone whose company he could at least endure. But his sexual needs were quite minimal at that time, when all he could think of doing in a bed was sleeping, and would have paid any price for that luxury. Somehow, afterward, it had simply become a necessary if nagging hole in his life. It had bothered him, but he was able to keep his mind off of its absence.

As Celia herself blossomed into a woman, that had changed in startling ways.

"I don't know, Celia. There's really no one here to interest me."

"Not even the widow Manette? Or perhaps Leonelle?"

"Celia!"

His daughter was cowed by her own boldness, as well as his sharp response, but really, the suggestions were no surprise to him. That Manette offered herself to any man who visited, and that whittled down many a sturdy log, was common knowledge. And Leonelle, with her husband often away for days on end, hunting or trading furs, was also known to, at least more discreetly, indulge herself with a variety of companions, both male, and Sinclaire always suspected, female.

His meaningful glare dissolved into a sigh of resignation. He hated to see Celia ill at ease with him, even when he had every right.

"Manette is far too portly for my tastes. And as attractive as Leonelle might be for a woman of her years, the walls of matrimony are ones I will not scale for any reward. I have not even been tempted to try."

He hadn't been tempted to try with anyone at all, until Celia had blossomed. Her own womanhood and intense sexuality had come on so strong and so suddenly that it caught him completely unawares. She was a stunning beauty, at least to him, but more than that she exuded a certain air that simply brought men to life in her presence, and despite his particular standing as her father, he had not been immune.

Quite to the contrary, with her own wit and intelligence, it seemed to him to be a great joke that the one woman within a hundred miles who appealed to him, in heart, mind and body, should be the one woman that he could never have, no matter how great his admiration, love or, he had to admit, his private, secret lust.

Celia was chewing her lip once more, in that damnable, unknowingly seductive way. Sinclaire purposely looked again at the wall as he tried to redirect his thoughts.

"Father. I feel so sad for you. How can I possibly marry and find happiness, when I know that I am leaving you so alone, in so many ways?"

He looked at her. Her eyes were blue and wide and innocent. Whether she even realized the hidden implications behind her words, he could not tell. Certainly, despite her fawning, physical attentions to him, she was far too good and innocent to even be considering such a thing. It was just an unconscious expression of her natural urges, he knew, redirected towards the only man in her life that mattered to her. She didn't really want to or even consider taking things any further than that. That he himself considered it even momentarily was a source of unending, private shame and frustration for him.

In fact he had only recently come to a decision regarding all of this. He could not afford to allow Celia to remain unmarried, if only for his own sanity, as well as her happiness. He needed to find her a husband, and it had to be a worthy husband. If need be, that meant that he might have to sell this home.

Jeofroll and Leroux were both to be married soon, and would be looking for a place to start their families. Their own families were well enough off to be able to afford this place. He could sell it to either of them, and with the money take Celia on an adventure down the river. Perhaps they needn't go as far as the city, with all of its dangers to her. Perhaps he could find a wealthy, educated merchant or other worthy man along one of the river towns. Surely they would see in Celia the same beauty and brilliance that he adored, and the sale of his home and things would also provide at least a small dowery, which might be a necessity for finding a suitable partner outside of their small village.

Then she would be married, and the sinful, growing temptation would be removed. He would return here, to live in his mother's old cottage out in the woods. It was almost ready. He'd been working harder on it, of late, exactly for this purpose. In fact, after a conversation like this one, it seemed that it would be finished not a day too soon.

* * *

Celia was half way to her grandmother's house. It was a cool, gray day. A light rain was falling, but here under the canopy of the dense leaves in the Wolf Wood she was mostly shielded from the drops. The forest had that damp, dusty smell to it in the rain, the one that hinted of rotting leaves and growing moss. She loved that smell.

Father almost had the house completely repaired. After Grandmother had died, no one had lived there for years. Things had first gotten dirty and dusty. The paint peeled while the roof developed some leaks. Some small animals moved in, knocking things over, building nests and adding to the general filth.

Eventually, Father had gotten it into his head to fix the place up, just for something to do and a reason to get away from the village on occasion. Celia helped some, too, when she could, and as the place had become closer and closer to habitable, she had begun to visit it herself, when she could, just for the privacy and freedom it offered.

It was her best and only escape. It was a place where she could read, and write. It was also a private place where she could explore and experiment to her heart's content with the wonders of her own, blossoming body.

She watched the ground as she walked, staring at the matted, wet, brown leaves passing by underfoot and completely lost in her thoughts. With each step she took, she carefully planted the walking stick she'd taken with her today, to avoid slipping and falling on the damp, slick moss and leaves on the uneven ground.

"Little Red."

Celia froze, jerking her head up at the sound, taken completely unawares.

"Royden. Hunting in the Wolf Wood today?"

"Aye. Hunting. Yes."

A twig snapped behind her. Celia glanced, she hoped not too abruptly, over her left shoulder to see his brother Ruffe behind her. She realized now that she was in a passage between two thickets of closely spaced saplings. The only ways out were forward, and backward, through Royden, or Ruffe.

She scolded herself for her foolishness. How could she let herself feel so safe here, in the Wolf Wood, of all places?

She tried to calm herself. It was only Royden and Ruffe. They were roguish, certainly. Of all of the hunters, they spent the least amount of time in the village, choosing instead to live often for nights at a time in the wild, and to travel to other towns to hunt and trade furs. They had unsavory reputations amongst the girls. But they wouldn't force themselves on her, she didn't think.

They wouldn't actually hurt her.

"Aren't you afraid of the wolves, Little Red?"

She eyed him keenly, but quietly. She didn't reply.

"It seems not. You like it here, it seems."

"I don't mind it."

Ruffe laughed behind her. It was a singularly unpleasant laugh, not that she expected anything different from his sort.

"I think there's something else you may not mind."

The leer in Royden's voice was less plain than the evil glint in his eye. Ruffe's accompanying guffaw was closer now than it had been a moment before.

"I think I would. And Father would."

"Father isn't here, Little Red, only Ruffe and I. And sweet Little Red."

Yes, Celia, thought, only sweet, stupid Little Red. She could feel herself trembling. The other girls told stories about Royden, and Ruffe, and some of the others. They weren't very clear about what transpired, but it certainly didn't come out with the giggling, blushing pride with which they relayed their trysts with other men. In fact, they seemed embarrassed about the affairs, too embarrassed to speak openly about the details.

She'd seen the bruises, though, even if the girls didn't openly complain. She didn't see how it could have been pleasant, and she didn't intend to find out for herself. Behind her, Ruffe's footfall squished into a mixture of mud and leaves. He was a bare arms length away now.

It apparently never occurred to them that Celia could be quick, or that she would strike rather than attempt an impossible flight. Or maybe they simply hadn't noticed her walking stick.

She struck Ruffe first, because he would have expected it the least. She'd spun from right to left, counter clockwise, swinging the stick up and out like a woodsman's ax as she turned, just as she'd read in the tales of adventuring swordsmen. Ruffe probably didn't even realize that she had the stick until it was almost to his head and it was too late to duck. He did try, at the last moment, but he was much too slow. The hardened oak connected with his skull with a loud crack, and a sickening crunch that Celia had not expected.

He fell to the ground in a heap. Royden had frozen in that slow instant, but moved quickly now. She felt his hand just reach to touch her shoulder when she acted again, entirely without thinking. That thoughtless instinct saved her. Instead of trying to swing the stick again, which would have been useless, she kicked back with her heel into his shin. It must have hurt some, but not much through his high, leather hunting boots.

But that wasn't all Celia had. His mouth opened to growl something cruel at her, but the growl quickly turned to a wail of pain as she thrust straight backward with a stabbing motion with the stick, driving it behind her with both hands straight into his groin. He, like Ruffe, collapsed in a heap, but where his brother lay unmoving, Royden writhed in pain on the ground.

Celia leaped over his prostrate form, just dodging one grasping, outstretched hand. She dropped the walking stick in an effort to run faster. Panting and frantic, she bobbed and weaved through every almost impenetrable or unnavigable thicket or gully or crop of boulders and rocks that she spied, trying not so much to get away as to put impenetrable obstacles between her and her assailants. She ran as fast as she could, but always taking whatever path seemed to make it the most difficult for them to follow.

The strategy worked. Each time she looked back, Royden had fallen further behind. Ruffe had never even gotten up to join the pursuit. After a while, he faded completely from sight.

It was still some time before she felt at ease. She found three large boulders, arranged in a triangle. She squeezed between two of them to slump down in the center, hidden from sight, to catch her breath, before continuing on.

* * *

Lying on the old bed in Grandma's house, listening to the rain drip, drip, sloop through one of the holes in the roof, splashing every third beat onto a small puddle that was spreading beneath it, Celia tried to recover from her exertions.

She'd been so close this time. She could feel it. Her body had felt like it was ready to explode. The mattress beneath her was nearly soaked with her own excited juices, she'd been at it for so long, and so furiously.

As gruesome as those two vile thugs might be, the fantasy they'd inspired had brought her to the very, very edge of the summit that she'd been trying so desperately to reach for so long. The took her unawares, unable to resist her beauty. They forced themselves on her while she struggled futilely, even as her own body responded to their presence and their groping, invasive touches. Against her own nature and better judgment she shamelessly enjoyed being taken by them.

Royden impaled her burning, gushing pussy with his thick cock, as Ruffe forced his own smaller prick into her mouth, fucking her face as if it were a second pussy. They forced themselves on her. She resisted, feebly and half-heartedly, while loving every moment of it. By the end, whenever Ruffe took his cock from her mouth and rubbed it over her whorish face, she was begging them for more, as hard and fast and deep as they could give it to her.

Still, they could never give her the pleasure she wanted, she knew. She struggled and fought, always fearful of what her father would think if they were caught.

And he did catch them. Swooping in like the gallant hero in one of her books, he charged in with his heavy walking stick, fighting them off, both at once, and leaving them both unconscious in crumpled heaps on the floor.

He defeated them, and then he stood over her, as she trembled in fear at what he might think. She needn't have worried, though. He was her father. He loved her. He reached down with one strong, familiar hand to help her to her feet, and pulled her into his arms. She hugged him fiercely, never wishing to be set free of him, and he hugged her back tightly in turn.

She felt his own manhood pressed against him. She felt it, and she looked up into his eyes to see his own lust burning there. She looked at her father's lust, and knew that after all of these long years without a woman, she must reward him for his bravery and courage.

She looked into his eyes as she loosened the tie in front of her torn and muddied dress, letting it fall in a heap on the ground. She looked into his eyes as he drank in the beautiful sensuality of his own daughter's body. She could see him warring with himself, knowing that he could never have her, but desiring her anyway.

She was too beautiful, she knew. He looked at her and saw in her the most beautiful, desirable, sexual woman not just in the village, but in the world. Of all of the men, only he had seen the city. Only he had seen not just hundreds but thousands and thousands of beautiful women, and of all of them, she was the one he most desired.

He only had to admit it to himself, she thought. He only had to admit it to himself, and to take her, here and now, to be his lover. He just needed a little help. He just needed her to take that first step for him.

She looked up into his eyes, and with her hand under his soft beard tipped his chin up, lifting his eyes from her magnificent, bare bosom, heaving with excitement, to instead look into her own eyes. She lifted his gaze, then looked herself at his tempting lips set amidst the furry gray of his beard and mustache.

She raised her lips to his, then kissed him, not like a daughter, but like a woman, like a lover. She poured herself into her father as she felt the ropes and chains fall away from him. His embrace became more fierce. His lips fought with and marauded over hers. He kissed her with the ferocity of the most powerful hero lover a woman had ever known.

And then he lay her down, with the gentle hand of a loving father, and made love to her as only he ever could.

Celia grinned with delight. It had been wonderful, the way she had worked it out, just wonderful. She pulled out her stylus and journal, hurrying to get all of the words onto the page, just as she'd first conceived them, before the glorious memory of it faded.

* * *

For several days, Celia was afraid to venture into the Wolf Wood alone. Royden and Ruffe were nowhere to be seen, in town or out of it, but Celia felt it better to keep to the more travelled routes, at least for a while. She also made a happy of carrying a walking stick, a new one Father had quickly made for her after hearing her story. He was livid, wanting to call a town meeting, but without evidence or even the presence of the brothers to prove they were even in the vicinity, he realized that his complaint would likely fall on deaf ears. The blame would be placed on Little Red herself for venturing alone in the Wolf Wood, and for what was no doubt provocative behavior on her part.

Ultimately, it was always the woman's fault. That was just the way it was, and always had been.

For now, instead, Celia moved quietly and attentively. She tried to stay with the other girls, or at least in ear shot of someone, so that a quick cry for help would draw attention to her. It was killing her, that she couldn't seek out spots to lie in privacy, to write, or to try to sate the screaming needs of her own body.