As part of a #wordsprints challenge, I wrote the following bit of a sex scene (749 words) in 30 minutes. Unedited, raw, ends on a bit of a cliffie.
Context: I’m developing a series of alternate filthy fairy tales, of the ‘what happened after happily ever after’ variety. This is our Little Red Riding Hood all grown up, walking through the forest to Granny’s house a few years after the attack from which the woodcutter saved her. She’s not supposed to leave the path, but when she hears a woman in distress, how can she not go to her aid?
Mellie hummed to herself, setting a good pace down the dirt road toward Granny’s house. She could see the bend in the track ahead, where Granny’s lane branched left, and her steps picked up. Then a woman’s cry sounded from the forest to her right. A cry of distress? Pain?
Catapulted back into the memories of her own attack five years before, Mellie dropped her basket and took off in to the woods, forgetting her promise to her mother. Branches snagged at her cape until finally she let it go, shrugging out of it, able to move more quietly without it. Another moan sounded and she re-oriented herself, heart pounding. If a woman was being attacked in the forest, during daylight, so close to the border crossing and King’s Guards, something evil must truly be afoot. A prickle of excitement also run under her skin. She would finally get the chance to test her self-defense skills against someone other than her best friend and the practice dummies.
She spied movement through the dense thicket ahead and slowed to a more cautious approach. The woman moaned again, then cried, “Oh, yes, yes!”
Realization drowned Mellie in embarrassment. Oh my goodness. Not distress, then. Adrenaline flushed through her system, still looking for a fight. The jittery sensation fueled her curiosity and she crept closer to the natural wall, peering through a chink at the scene on the other side.
A woman and a man were engaged in bizarre behavior. She, fully dressed, straddled his shoulders, but from the front. His face was hidden under her skirts, which draped around his shoulders, so that he appeared headless. She leaned back against the trunk of a tree, her arms clasped around it above her head. Her face tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open, a transported expression on her face.
The lump at her pelvis, which must be the man’s head, moved side to side. Mellie watched, fascinated, wondering what he was doing under there.
It startled her into a violent twitch jump when the woman screamed. At first, she seemed in pain, and then a huge smile spread over her face. She reached for the enveloping skirts, not seeming to mind if she fell, and began gathering the material in fistfuls, pulling it up and over the man’s head.
“That was fantastic, love,” she purred, holding her armfuls of fabric against her torso with one hand, while the other stroked the man’s cheek. From this angle, Mellie could not see the man’s face, only the woman’s hand moving. Then her finger raised to her mouth and she sucked it between her lips.
Mellie’s brow furrowed, wondering why she did that.
From the man’s groan, he was in pain. “Lass, ye’ll be the death o’me.” His accent identified him as someone from the back country. Probably a laborer. Certainly, he had the brawny shoulders for it, and the effortless strength to support the woman’s weight on his arms while she leaned back against the tree. He planted his legs and bent his head forward. Slurping sounds and the woman’s moan raised redness in Mellie’s cheeks. She suddenly understood what he was doing under the skirts.
A strange heat filled her belly. Why would he do that? It must feel good for the woman, she surmised. She had never heard of such a thing. Was it a mating ritual? Her mother had explained the basics of procreation when Mellie turned sixteen, but there had been nothing in that talk about this type of behavior. Perhaps this was something her mother didn’t know about? After all, Mellie’s father had been dead many years, and her mother had shown no signs of wishing another to take his place.
The woman’s voice raised in protest. “No, Dav, no. I can’t, not again.”
“Ye can, lassie, an’ ye will. I wan’ ye wetter ‘n yonder stream for me cock.” Such was his strength that he supported the woman with only one arm and reached the other to do something at the front of his breeches.
His words sent a thrill through the girl’s body.
The woman clutched at his hair, red lips parted, panting for breath. Her bare thighs wrapped around his head. Wet noises filled the clearing and heat flared in Mellie’s nether parts. Her hand crept down, rubbing at the aching spot over her dress.
Two large hands grabbed her from behind. One rested over hers on her belly. The other was placed firmly over her mouth.
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