Little Red, Riding Wood Ch. 04

Even standing out front, before the porch of the small house, Celia could hear her father snoring inside. He must have been working hard, for hours, to be so exhausted.

He should have slept late, she thought. She had awakened first, slipping quietly out of bed to start his breakfast, wearing once again only his long, soft, cotton shirt. Shortly after he awoke as well, moving to her side to help. She demanded that he sit, to let her cook for him like a proper wife.

When he refused, insisting that as lovers — her heart melted when he used that word with her — they must share everything, from pain to joy to the most mundane, she'd pouted. She wanted to be a proper wife, if only for that one day, but he was adamant and unyielding. He took her into his strong arms, pulling her body against his, to kiss her until the pout melted away and she reneged, thinking instead of getting through breakfast as quickly as possible to get back into the bed with him.

Even that he refused, saying that unlike her he was no longer in his double-twos, or even close. He was well past his double double-twos, he'd laughed. An old man like him must be allowed some time to recharge. So she had spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon helping to clean and make minor repairs, until he urged her to go out to explore while he finished some loud, hard, manly labor on his own, without her underfoot, as he'd said. He kissed her fondly, before slapping her bottom in a randy fashion to send her on her way to spend the remainder of the day wandering the forest, discovering glades and streams and stands of boulders around their new home, places that she had never known existed.

Trying not to wake him now, she stepped gingerly onto the wooden planks of the porch, hearing the slight echo of each of her own light footfalls. She eased the door of the cabin open, cringing as it creaked ever so slightly.

She peered in. Outside, the sun was setting. In the hilly forests of their home, this meant that the light simply dropped, like a penny tumbling into a well, falling, falling, before it finally plopped into complete darkness in the water at the bottom. The sun set, the light dimmed, and the world existed in a twilight state for a while longer, with everything still visible like shadows with all of the color drained from the world, until finally all went black.

Within the house Father had left a single lamp burning on the nightstand beside the bed. It's flickering, orange-yellow glow cast it's insufficient light throughout the single room of the cabin. The most light was shed on her father's peacefully sleeping form, lying atop her passed grandmother's old, wide, wooden four-poster bed.

He'd fallen asleep without his shirt. She watched as his smooth chest rose and fell with each peaceful breath. He didn't have the sprawling hair there of some of the men, or the rippling, taut muscles of the woodsmen. His chest was strong, but in a more subtle, tender way. He sported some hairs, here and there, many of them having grayed with his age.

She liked his chest. It was familiar, and warm. She'd rested her head against it, comfortable and at ease, so many times before, for so very many years of her life.

"Oh my, Father, what a very fine chest you have," Celia whispered to herself. "What a very, very fine chest you have. Wonderful. What better place for a loving daughter to rest her head?"

Seeing his form lying there, half naked, spent from a day of manly exertions, filled Celia with a spreading warmth, both in her heart and in her loins. She felt the first hint of wetness between her legs as she gazed at him.

Perhaps you would enjoy it. Yes?

The words of the black wolf came back to her, as clear as day. She enjoyed a small, private smile.

Yes. Yes, she would enjoy it.

She didn't want it to be wrong. She told herself it didn't have to be. The wolf had said it. One finds trust only where one expects to find it, not wherever one looks. If there is any doubt at all, there is no trust, and it is a delusion.

But where one finds trust, one can also find love.

And why shouldn't Celia find the sort of love she desired in the only man that she trusted? Who were they to declare whom she could or could not love, or how much, or how she could show her affections?

Celia remembered some of the harsher words of the wolf, words that had stung her at the time.

What do you have, woman-child, that an old wolf could want? What do you have to offer?

She looked at her father, lying there, temptingly handsome in his own, familiar way, and so wise to Celia, and so much more experienced in the ways of the world.

What did she have to offer him? She felt inadequate. She was unready for this. She was so young and so inexperienced. She was naive. She was pretty, maybe even beautiful he had always said, but not so beautiful as some, she knew. She had her brains, but did men really value intellect in a woman? Even for her father, when it came time to lay with a woman and share his body with and within hers, did a woman's brains matter one bit?

He said it did. He said she was beautiful. Father said a lot of things. He paid her many compliments.

He had to, she thought, he was her father.

He was also her soulmate. She knew it. She knew it in her heart. What did she have to offer? She made up her mind to be whatever he might want or need. Let him just wait and see.

Celia inched over to the bed, tensing at every creaking floorboard or clumsy scuffle she made. She moved slowly until she stood over her father's sleeping, restful form. She hovered, looking, and then lowered herself, ever so gracefully and gently, onto the bed to sit beside him.

What do you have to offer?

"I can be wicked," she said softly to herself. "Just watch, wolf. I can be so very wicked."

One hand reached out, trembling and hesitant. She was afraid. But in her soul she wanted, and knew better than to follow anything other than her heart. She wanted and needed. Her hand reached out to gently trace the lines of the muscles on his chest and abdomen.

It was harmless, she told herself. She hadn't done anything yet. He was only her father. She was only exploring him. He was asleep.

It was harmless.

Her fingers coasted over his body, skimming along the ridges and smooth flesh of his muscles. She explored his pects and his arms and his belly as he slept. She explored him, while staring at his kind, familiar, gray bearded face as she did so, studing the wrinkles around his eyes and the gray hairs mixed in among the younger, darker shades of his eyebrows.

"Oh my, Father... Monsieur Couerduloup, what very strong arms you have," she whispered, almost wishing he would hear her and awaken. "So strong. The better to hold me with, my darling father. They are so much better to hold me with than anyone else could offer."

She wasn't sure if she wanted him to awaken to stop her, or to take her and hold her. She only knew that now she couldn't stop herself.

Her hand drifted down to the tie that cinched his baggy, almost colorless beige pants closed. Her delicate fingers slowly, sensuously and irrepressibly pulled on the draw string, freeing the knot and then slowly disentangling it to free him from its constraint. As soon as the string fell free, his pants easily and pleasingly fell open.

Celia smiled in wicked delight. She saw the bare flesh of her father's groin, covered with a dense, black forest of curling hairs. She knew that just inches below that spot, hidden by the fabric of his trousers, lay a marvelous, hidden log. She glanced at his face, watching his half parted lips inhale and exhale even breaths from between the short, gray hairs of his soft beard. His snoring had stopped.

When she was sure that his sleep was still deep, and peaceful, she looked back to his crotch. One sinful hand, the wicked and irrepressible one, drifted down to grasp the fold of his trouser front between two careful fingers. It was as if doing this with only two fingertips made it less of a sin.

She peeled the fold of the linen trousers aside, as if she were turning a page in one of their beloved books. The page turned, and revealed to her the log of her dreams.

"Oh my, Father! What a big log you have," she whispered. "So big. The better to fill me with, my darling father."

She both wanted him to awaken now, and didn't. She knew now that she wanted to continue. She never wanted him to stop her. She wanted him to awaken, and come to life, and to take her. But for fear that he might stop her, she wanted him to sleep, so that she could continue to explore.

Now that she'd come this far, she didn't want to be forced to stop. She had more to do. Her fingers reached for the other fold, to peel that away in turn, exposing all of her father's manhood to her hungry, ravenous eyes.

"What a big log you have," she repeated, as her face drifted down towards it. She didn't really know if it was big. It wasn't excited yet. It was flaccid, like the cocks of the men as they went to pee. She wanted to make it hard. She wanted to see it in all of its excited glory, expanded to its full size and girth, brimming with the power of love and lust that was its nature.

Her face eased down, where she blew a warm, teasing breath across it. Her lips pursed, then moved the length of his shaft, breathing a tempting breeze of lust across the sensitive skin of his sleeping cock. She could smell an odd, musky odor, not at all unpleasant, like sweat, but different. There was no way to describe it. She looked cross-eyed down at his cock, her own father's cock, lying just a fraction of an inch from her warm, breathing lips.

"Wake up, Father," she whispered to his cock. "Wake up, Monsieur Couerduloup, and show your loving daughter how much you love her, too."

Do you think it might enjoy being devoured?

More words from the damned black wolf.

Yes, she answered in her mind. A thousand times, yes. She would make him enjoy it. She would enjoy it. She wanted to devour it and, like the ravenous wolf, make it a part of her forever. She would show the black wolf that she could be an evil, predatory wolf herself.

She breathed on her father's cock, moving from the delightful head, down to the swell of his balls, disappointingly still mostly hidden beneath his trousers. Her lips drifted ever more closely to his skin. She hovered there, hesitating before crossing that final threshold. She hesitated, and then she kissed him.

Her lips touched her fathers cock in the most gentle, loving way she could envision. She was rewarded with an electric thrill that arced through her body, starting at her nipples. She immediately moved one hand there, reaching under her cloak to grab and squeeze her left breast. With that act the feeling intensified ten fold. Her breast was suddenly aflame, as both nipples quickly hardened.

His cock twitched under her lips.

Celia's eyes grew wide. She jerked back, inches away, to stare at it to see if she could see what she knew she had felt. It lay still, but it was growing. Before her eyes, it seemed larger than before.

Now she fell on it more eagerly. Still gentle, still afraid of awakening her father, she lowered her mouth to the head, lips parted, not to kiss it, but the taste it, and devour it. Like the wolf and the poor, doomed fawn, with her own gaping maw she took the head of her father's cock into her mouth.

Her eyes were now closed in complete rapture as she relished this one, perfect, sinful moment. Her tongue reached out to taste the tip of his cock. Her lips enveloped it in warm love.

It grew within her mouth. She was consumed in pleasure as she consumed him. Her body flooded with a blazing warmth at the thought of the act that she was finally, after all of her sinfully imagined tales, was indulging. She filled with warmth, as her body exploded into flame.

His cock continued to grow. Celia took more of it into her mouth, eager now to consume as much of it as she could. At first, while it was smaller, she was able to take it all, with her lips touching the hard bone of his pubis at its base. His pubic hairs tickled her nose and cheeks, as she dared to voice a delighted hum at the experience.

But as it grew, it filled her mouth. She was forced to ease back, unable to keep the entire thing in her mouth. Her lips slid down along its silky smooth, hardening sides, and still it grew further. It grew and grew, until she finally released it to admire it in it's hardened, completely erect glory.

"Oh, Father. Father, what a beautiful, wonderful log you have!"

This clarity of her own voice startled her. She'd forgotten to hold herself to a whisper in her excitement. A furtive, frightened glance showed her that he still slept, but less restfully. His breathing was less even, and faster.

She wished that he would awaken.

She wrapped her fingers around the shaft before her to stroke it gently, as if petting a favorite goose. Like the neck of a goose, it felt both soft and smooth, but hard and muscled. It was an odd thing, but it gave her great pleasure to touch and hold it. A wet dampness grew between her thighs.

She stroked her father's cock for a fair while, enjoying the sight of her hand moving along its length. From time to time she bent down to kiss it, or to run her lips, wetted with her tongue, up and down the sides of the shaft, or to take it fully into her mouth.

She dearly wished her father were awake to enjoy this as much as she.

At last she could take no more. This wasn't enough. She stood, quickly but gracefully, so as not to shake the bed, or startle her father. She stood to let the bright red cloak fall from her shoulders to the floor. As quickly as she could, her cotton dress was untied behind her neck, and at the front. It slipped smoothly down her flanks, hesitating briefly as it brushed along her excited breasts, and again as it fell across the pleasing, feminine spread of her hips and ass.

But it fell. It fell all the way to the floor, leaving her standing naked, beside and over her father's own sleeping, naked and excited form. She reached to hold and squeeze both of her breasts in her hands. Her pussy dripped with her own excitement. She had never felt so wet there in her life. Her nipples exploded with blazing pleasure as she first squeezed the meat of her breasts, and then pinched both nipples at once, each held and pulled between two delicate fingers.

She lifted a knee onto the mattress, reaching out to steady herself, to make as little impression on the soft bed as she could. With a careful but quick motion, like a rider mounting a horse, she swung the other leg over and across her father, until she kneeled above him, straddling him, with his glorious, fatherly cock erect and waiting just beneath that aching, burning, dripping and most forbidden and secret part of her body.

I would take whatever I want, and you could never refuse.

Little Red, like the wolf, would take what she wanted. Her father could never refuse her. Since she was young, he didn't have it in him to refuse her anything she truly wanted. And this was something, more than anything in her life, that she truly, truly wanted.

Perhaps you would enjoy it. Yes?

"Yes. Yes. Become my lover, Papa. Become your Little Red's only, truly fated lover," she whispered.

Little Red hovered there, above her father's cock, daring herself to take that last, fateful step. She hovered, like a hummingbird, giddy and excited and hungry for the sweet, delectable nectar of a forbidden flower, except the flower was her own. Could she do this? Could she do this with him?

The fawn is young, and foolish, the wolf had said. It is too trusting. Trust is everything.

She was a fool, she thought, young, and foolish, and naive. Too naive to carry through with her deepest, darkest, but most cherished and sought after desires.

Trust, she thought. Trust is everything. She knew this, now. She trusted him, more than she could ever trust anyone else, ever. She trusted him, and she knew that for the rest of her days he, her beloved father, would look after her, and care for her, and pleasure her, and love her, like a daughter, a person, and most of all a woman, a grown, loving, caring woman with feelings and desires and needs.

She would never, ever trust another man the way she trusted him. She would never, ever allow another man inside of her body.

Her hand reached down to finger the soft, smooth curls of red pubic hair around her pussy. One finger slipped, very gently, not daring to enter, along the slit of her womanhood, ascertaining what she already knew, which was how very, very wet she was at this moment for her loving father. He could and would enter her so easily right now, like this. He would slip into her as easily as she imagined his thick, manly tongue could slip into her precious little circle of a mouth.

Content and wholly at ease with that unshakeable truth in her mind, she lowered herself, taking him, taking Papa inside of herself slowly and teasingly, with the same rapt attention and languorous, consuming pleasure with which one might taste a rare delicacy for the very first time.

As she lowered herself remembered the pain. It was no longer present, but Celia remembered it. She imagined it now as if this were again her first time. She wanted this to be just as real and true to life, another way that it could have happened. She imagined the searing, gripping pain that would have forced her to hold herself still here, wondering for countless moments if it would ever end, and why it felt so cruelly torturous, and why any woman would ever subject herself to such agony.

She imagined it, and then she imagined that it was gone. With the welcome relief of the passing of the pain, she finished her decent, taking her father's cock wholly and completely within her, impaling herself on him until she felt like his cock was a mighty sword, righteously stabbing up into her soul.

She stayed atop him, cock driven into her to the hilt, with eyes closed and her body blazing with joyous rapture. The feel and knowledge of it was exquisite, to be so stretched and filled, perfectly coupled with a loving, trusted man. She felt one with him in an amazing, indescribable way. She felt as if she were finally whole, as if an emptiness inside of her, a missing part, were finally in place.

"I trust you, Papa," she said, more as an exhaled breath than as spoken words. "I trust you, and I love you, and I trust because I know in my heart that you love me more than anything."

She remained like this, still and unmoving, savoring the feel of him inside of her until her body cried out for more. Then she moved, not lifting herself, but instead grinding her hips, gyrating to keep maintain her all consuming embrace of his cock, and yet to give herself pleasure, touching and pressing the tender, sensitive flesh inside of her that responded so healthily and greedily to the feel of his thick, stiff cock.

She moved on him. She moved on him like a whore, she thought to herself, or at least as she imagined a whore might behave. She grinned in delight at the image in her mind, and the dirty, filthy feeling of being not a polite, naive, loving daughter, but instead a wanton whore for her own father.

She laughed a wicked laugh.

"Yes, no, and yes."

The words were spoken softly, in quiet but rebellious shame. Once upon a time she would have said no, no and yes. For too long that had been the answer. As her passion for him had grown, or rather, as her awareness of her illicit passion for him had grown, the answer had changed. She'd suffered for so long with that burning ache and the torture of wanting what one couldn't or shouldn't have. She never could, but she had convinced herself that she should, and that some day she must.