Little Red, Riding Wood Ch. 02

She passed near an old wickiup, a small shelter the loggers had built when Celia was a child, to let them escape the frequent rains that summer. This particular glade had long ago been cleared, so long ago that a thicket of new saplings now filled the area, and surrounded the wickiup. It made it difficult to get to, which was fine, because no on had any need of it anymore. The loggers had long since moved further out to more productive areas, with better, more valuable trees.

She heard a sharp squeak, followed by a loud shushing sound. Celia froze. After her own experience, she knew that what she should do was to run. A simmering anger took hold instead, deep down, that perhaps some other girl from the village was about to suffer the same fate.

She gripped her walking stick tightly as she approached the wickiup. Father had pointed out to her that he'd carved it to be useful for more than just walking, with a heavy, bulbous top with small, protruding knobs, not quite sharp spikes, but certainly an unpleasant detail for any skull that tried to withstand a blow. Club clutched tightly in both hands, with the business end raised and ready, she stealthily peered around the corner inside.

Madame Leonette Arceneaux stood before and against Harmonie, having backed her up against one of the support posts inside the wickiup. Leonette's rather firm, large busom pressed the younger girl back into the post. Harmonie kept her hands behind her, holding the post, but in defiance of her apparent attempt at retreat, her back was arched, pressing her own small forward breasts into Leonette's.

"Are you sure this is okay, Madame Arceneaux?"

Harmonie's voice was trembling. She had a hard time looking Leonette in the eye, her eyes instead finding the floor and walls and ceiling, but failing to notice Celia herself.

"Ssssh. Relax, Harmonie. You leave everything to Madame Arceneaux."

As she said this, she lowered her lips to Harmonie's neck. The younger girl gave a small chirp, followed by a sigh. Her chirps grew louder and more frequent as Leonette's mouth followed a path down the front of her chest. The older woman's hands peeled Harmonie's blouse down in front, revealing two small, firm, creamy breasts, each capped with an erect, red, pointing nipple.

Leonette took one of those nipples in her mouth, as Harmonie chirped even more loudly.

"Madame Arceneaux! Should you do this? Wouldn't your husband....?"

Madame Arceneaux hummed into the younger girl's breast, before releasing it to flick the nipple with her tongue, and to speak.

"He's away. And he doesn't mind. In fact, he likes you. We both like you."

"Madame Arceneaux!"

Leonette's face took on a sinister, accusing leer as she raised her eyes to stare into Harmonie's. The young girl tried to look away, but Leonette grasped her jaw roughly in her hand, like an admonishing mother ready to scold a recalcitrant child.

She appeared to be about to do just that, but instead used her hand to hold Harmonie's face still and steady as she leaned in to give what Celia could only describe as the most passionate kiss she'd ever seen. She felt her own body responding to the sight of it, as her pussy quickly became wet, and a warmth spread from there and her own excited breasts out to the rest of her body.

For her part, Harmonie did a wonderful job of pretending to resist, while doing nothing that would actually hinder Leonette's assault. She moaned loudly in recrimination, while doing nothing to stop the kiss. Her own hands pressed uselessly against the empty air to Leonette's sides, rather than pushing Leonette away.

Leonette halted the kiss, with her own nose and forehead pressed against Harmonie's, to stare directly into her eyes.

"If you're very, very good to me, Harmonie, I might share my husband with you."

Harmone whimpered in supposed fear.

"Would you like that? Perhaps you could have us both at once. A sort of lesson, to prepare you properly for your wedding night."

As she said this, Leonette squeezed and massaged Harmonie's breasts. With Madame Arceneaux staring into her eyes while fondling her small, pert breasts, the younger girl whimpered again, then closed her eyes while leaning her head back against the post.

Leonette's mouth fell on hers again, and this time Harmonie responded in kind, kissing Leonette back passionately while arching her back further, pushing her breasts more firmly into the older woman's rampaging hands. Her whimpers turned to moans muffled by their shared kiss, while her hands finally left the empty air to find purchase on Leonette's shoulders, not pushing her away, but instead pulling her close.

Celia watched to two for a long while, as they moved from the post to the ground, and from kissing and caressing to more invasive touches. More and more clothing was lifted or pushed aside. Madame Arceneaux was always in control, while Harmonie stayed placid and plaint under the Madame's authoritative commands.

Celia tried her best to stay silent as her own fingers reached into the same delicate spots where Madame Arceneaux's fingers and tongue eventually labored on Harmonie. The younger girl's screams and squeals and foolish giggles, combined with the older woman's gratified hums and moans, were more than enough to cover the little, excited noises that escaped Celia's mouth.

She watched in combined horror and jealousy as Harmonie first squealed and writhed, and then seemed to be possessed and wracked by a demon. Her screams suddenly halted, as her back arched and every muscle in her body tensed. She held herself like that, frozen solid like a block of ice, as Madame Arceneaux barked harsh encouragement at her, while asking her if she felt like a woman.

The Madame's hands moved frantically in and out of Harmonie's opening, as her mouth dove and rose from the same spot, like a bird swooping into a lake to catch fish. Harmonie eventually returned to writhing about, bucking her hips up into the Madame's face, who for her part acted like a rider struggling to maintain his position on his mount. The young girl begged and pleaded for something, but the words were incoherent.

Eventually, the two subsided. Harmonie finished with a smile wider than Celia had ever seen on her face, while the Madame laughed at her, asking if this was the first time she'd reached such heights.

Celia slipped away, then, while they cuddled and kissed and talked.

That was something she'd never imagined. Was that what her body was trying to do? What did she need to do herself? Did she need to visit Madame Arceneaux? Ask Father?

She didn't know. She only knew that she wanted to try it. For her part, she'd again gotten close to something, and apparently that something was where Harmonie had just arrived.

When she was far enough from the wickiup, Celia picked up her pace, but in a new direction. It was time to go back to Grandma's house, for some much needed privacy, to experiment with what she'd seen, as well as to make a new entry in her journal, about the time that Madame Arceneaux caught her and Harmonie kissing in the wickiup, before being joined by her husband, Monsieur Arceneaux, and all of the sordid, nasty interactions that transpired amongst the four of them on the wet, cold ground.

* * *

Sinclaire trudged through the dense woods. He should have taken a different path, today. This one was wearing too clearly, with his constant comings and goings from the house. But it was so close to finished that he grew excited, and careless.

What did it matter if others knew where the cottage lie? Why need it be kept so secret, anyway? Was it only habit, born from years and years of his mother's fears? Or something else? There was little reason for the secrecy.

He snorted in self derision. Life was complicated enough, without creating unnecessary obstacles, he thought. And so he took the easy route, plodding along on the same packed leaves and dirt that he had for a month now, making his way more easily to the little cottage that would be Celia's salvation.

He spied a motion far ahead, and smiled. The scarlet red could only be Celia's cloak. She could be seen for miles away in it. He sometimes found it amazing that the wolves never took advantage of it, and yet they seemed to have a natural wariness of people, so maybe the cloak itself was the best protection one could ask here in their territory.

What had she been doing out here? Coming back from grandmother's house, no doubt, but why? Not that it mattered. The girl was free to come and go as she pleased, at least until a husband bound her up in his own needs and desires, as well as the constant needs of the brood of grandchildren she'd someday give him.

Sinclaire froze.

He'd spied a subtle movement to Celia's left. If it hadn't passed through a flickering beam of sunlight, sneaking unexpectedly past a swaying branch of leaves above, then he would never have noticed. It was one of the hunters of the village, dressed as they did in a common gray brown that blended well with every aspect of the forest.

Something was amiss. The hunter was close enough to have hailed Celia. There was no reason for him to hide, unless perhaps he wished to play a prank on her and startle her as a foolish game. But the men of the village, and Celia herself, were beyond such childish games.

Standing still, scanning the panorama ahead of him, he spotted the other, to Celia's right. That one sat, unmoving, in shadow, with his back against a rock. It made him very difficult to see, unless one knew to look, and in any event completely invisible to Celia.

This wasn't right. The hairs stood up on the back of Sinclaire's neck. As Celia approached the spot between the two men, he suddenly burst into action, not really knowing why he did so. Who in the village could possibly want to harm his Celia, and why?

He sprinted ahead as quickly as his aging body could take him. School master or not, half a century of years or not, Sinclaire was still a formidable man. He hadn't lived a life a mere books and pampered leisure. He was still a child of the forest, and a man of the forest, even if he didn't earn his daily wages beneath the branches and leaves themselves.

In fact, in his youth, he'd been quite the athlete, and to this day placed rather highly for a man his age in the contests at the summer festivals.

But this was no contest. He ran, not entirely knowing why, but with a growing dread in his heart. He ran, as the one hunter rose from behind his blind, with a drawn bow in hand. The other stepped out from behind a tree, where Celia could see him, and froze.

It was Royden and Ruffe, Sinclaire now realized, and his fear redoubled. There was evil in those two, evil and an ill-placed sense of entitlement. They acted as if, through their prowess and their nature, they were less a part of the village, and more a part of the forest, and as such that they were due more from both, in respect and reward.

Sinclaire had never liked either.

Celia started to run, and the arrow released from the bow. Sinclaire's heart leapt from his throat, stifling the shout of warning that he tried to bellow.

The arrow penetrated into the ground at Celia's feet, right in her path, and stayed there, quivering in warning, as she stumbled to a rapid halt and stood staring, wide eyed, at its implications.

She looked about her now, seeing the archer, Ruffe, then looked back to Royden, who approached her with the calm, unwary confidence of a hunter who has already mortally wounded his prey.

Celia pulled her large walking stick from beneath her cloak. Good girl! Good girl, Sinclaire thought, if she could just delay them and give him time. He was making some noise, he knew, but they didn't seem to hear him coming, they were both so focused on Celia.

But he could see the dread fear in his daughter's eyes, and it tore at Sinclaire's soul that she should be made to feel even that, let alone whatever physical pain or loss the brothers intended to inflict.

Certainly, this was no game.

"I already told you, as did my stick, that the answer is a firm no."

Her voice was meant to be defiant, but it trembled and halted, betraying her mortal fear. Ruffe and Royden both laughed loudly. They barked their disdain at her.

"There isn't any no to be had this time around, Little Red."

That was Ruffe, with her named spoken as one might speak the name of a reluctant but already paid for whore.

"We can do this easy, Red. You can give yourself to us, and then we'll only hurt you a little. You may even like it more that way."

That was Royden. They both laughed.

"I'd rather she tried to run, and fight. I'd rather enjoy her feeble resistance, knowing that with all of her might I was too much man for her, and that she still enjoyed everything I did to her."

Ruffe lowered his bow to rub his seemingly tender head as he said it, and to advance on her himself. They were almost within reach of her now.

Sinclaire, still some distance away, could no longer contain himself. He trumpeted a long, fierce wail of anger.

Both men, now suddenly alerted to their danger, turned to face him. Ruffe raised the bow, and Sinclaire knew he would be dead steps before he reached the man. The arrow was already notched. The bow was drawn. He saw in the tip of the arrow the end of his days and his plans for Celia.

Ruffe cried in pain as Celia's walking stick crashed with a crack across his extended arms. The arrow flew, but wildly, sputtering and flailing up into the leaves like an escaping, wounded bird. Ruffe cried in shock and pain, grasping his arm.

In the moment that Royden turned to see what had happened, Sinclaire lowered his shoulder and barreled into him, sending them both tumbling into the leaves and underbrush. They separated and rolled up apart, but Sinclaire was the quicker of the two to rise. With a swift kick, while Royden was still on hands and knees trying to focus on his assailant and to rise, Sinclaire's boot connected with his chin, sending two teeth flying as Royden's head snapped back in a sickening way.

It hadn't killed him, but stunned and in pain, he crawled feebly, with a sort of slow motion, frantic futility, already trying to escape. He was a skilled hunter, but that didn't make him a warrior, in nature or in heart. He lived by tracking, stalking and ambush. He lived by defeating unarmed, unwary creatures who never even knew they were in danger.

Sinclaire turned to Ruffe who, still grasping his injured arm, had was fumbling to pull a knife from his boot. He would have done so, by now, except that it seemed his arm might be broken, and Celia kept him off balance and at bay with the threat of her walking stick.

With more composure now, Sinclaire stooped to pick up a large, jagged rock. With that in hand, in complete control of himself but with the dangerous ferocity in his eyes of a parent who's child has been threatened, he advanced unwaveringly.

Ruffe's own eyes grew wide with fear. He was familiar with the animals of the forest, and how single-mindedly they protected their young. He knew in his heart how great his danger was. He knew it, and he turned and ran.

Sinclaire threw the rock, catching him squarely in the back. Ruffe yelped in pain, stumbling forward to land clumsily on his injured arm, which redoubled and magnified his agonized yell. He rolled and scrambled, fighting to regain his feet, too fearful to look back, before rising enough to stumble forward and accelerate away to safety.

Sinclaire turned on Royden, who had made his way only to his hands and knees, but stayed there, like the cur he was, holding his pained jaw and spitting blood on the ground. A swift, hard kick to his midsection sent him over, writhing in pain on his back. Another stomp on his gut doubled him over. A final kick to the head left him breathing, but still.

As quickly as he could, Sinclaire took his eyes away from the pitiable sight at his feet. The episode had disgusted him. It reminded him of the more terrible aspects of life in a big city crowded with the desperate, amoral and down right selfishly evil. It also reminded him of one reason that had caused him to leave the forest in the first place.

It reminded him of how his own mother's life had been turned upside down.

He took Celia's hand. It was trembling, and cold and damp with the sweat born of her raw fear. There was still a look of terror in her eyes, but it shared the space with that look of love and happiness and security that only passes from a daughter to her father.

Hand in hand he guided her back to the village with him. He held her up when, in a distraction born of the memory of the terror, she stumbled. He held her close when she shivered with a cold born of that same memory.

The cottage would have to wait, maybe for a few weeks, while he helped his brave daughter to recover from this unnecessary trial.

* * *

It had been two weeks. They'd told no one. Sinclaire wanted to. He felt it was there duty to at least warn the other girls, but Celia was strangely embarrassed by the whole incident, and preferred to keep it to themselves. She had argued, rightly, too, that they would probably have to admit that it had happened in the Wolf Wood, which would lead to inconvenient questions about what they were doing there.

They didn't know if anyone knew about Grandmother's cottage, and they took some care to be sure they weren't seen heading to or from the Wolf Wood too often. Too many people were like Royden and Ruffe, and might take advantage of the seclusion of the cottage to perpetrate their crimes. The safety it had offered his mother lay in part in its seclusion, and in part in the nature of the wood, but most of all in its secrecy.

Its location was probably best left unknown, even if there seemed to be no obvious reason to do so.

People certainly knew that Sinclaire and Celia, whom they considered to be an odd pair of beavers to begin with, did foolishly venture into the Wolf Wood from time to time. They all thought the schoolmaster and his daughter to be a touch mad.

That was fine with both of them. It suited them well, they thought. People always sneered at what they didn't understand, and far too many doltish villagers didn't understand learning or intelligence.

But Sinclaire had agreed, on the issue of Royden, Ruffe, and their shameless attack. There was no reason to draw further attention to his and Celia's "odd" behaviors. Their secret was best kept as it was. They'd keep an eye out for the brothers, and warn the villagers if the two were ever bold enough to return.

Thankfully, neither Royden nor Ruffe had been seen in or around the village in all of that time. They no doubt feared that the story had been told. Their sudden absense was no surprise to anyone in town, either. Nothing seemed amiss. The two brothers often went away for weeks at a time, hunting or trading or traveling.

Sinclaire kept a wary eye out for them, but grew more and more at ease with each passing day. Poor Celia was truly frightened, although she did her best to hide it. She was far more careful, now, and hesitated to go into the more private parts of the forest without him. She was even fearful, now, of most of the other men of the village. She clung to him in public, and had a difficult time making herself go out alone. She stuck to the well-worn paths, and tried to travel in the company of other girls, or the few men that she still seemed to trust.

She would never take a husband in this state, Sinclaire thought. Never.

But the cottage was almost complete. It frightened Celia to stay at home, alone, even in the house in the village, while Sinclaire went off to finish work. But he was driven now, both by the fact that the end was almost in sight, and the fact that the need for it was now more clear than ever. Events had impelled him forward. He worked tirelessly, now, trying to complete the last tasks he needed to make the small cottage at least habitable for them both.