femdom

Red Riding Hood

red riding

The shrilling of the phone broke her train of thought. She was struggling to get going on her essay and another interruption was the last thing she needed. She glanced at the clock – jeez, 10pm already – who’s calling at this hour? She picked up the handset and frowned. “Why are TrustForce Alarms calling me?” she wondered. She stabbed the Talk button. “Hello, Rebekkah Redmoor, who’s calling?”

“Good evening Ms Redmoor. This is TrustForce Alarm monitoring service. We have an alert from Mrs Forsyth. We called her home but got no reply. This number is listed as our emergency contact.” The caller was polite and efficient.

“Yeah, that’s Grannie. Is there a problem? She’s probably asleep. Her alarm is always going off. What d’you want me to do?”

“Ms Redmoor, we require a positive confirmation of an incident before we can contact the police. We have had several false calls from this residence recently. Is there anyone able to investigate?”

“What? No. I’m here on my own. You want me to go out in the middle of the night to see if there’s an intruder before you send the police? No friggin’ way!”

“Miss Redmoor, excuse me for asking, but are you over the age of majority?”

“Yes, I’m 21”

“Well then we do require you to confirm the report. If we dispatch police to another false arlam then Ms Forsyth will be charged the cost and we will have to terminate her monitoring service. I’m sure that’s not what you would want for your Grandmother, is it?”  His tone had changed. Still polite, but now with an assertive, authoritative air like her father. “There is no need to put yourself in any danger Miss, but we do need to know this is not another false alert. If there is the slightest reason to suspect anything untoward you can call the police directly and avoid any confrontation.”

Reluctantly, Rebekkah said she would check, and hung up. She stood up from her desk and glanced outside. “Great,” she thought, “It’s snowing.” She considered her options. Grannie had no cell phone, and they said they’d already called the house. She could call her parents, but they would be seriously pissed. This was their anniversary and they had taken off for a romantic weekend, leaving her at home with the dogs. At 21 she was certainly more than capable, and they trusted her to deal with things responsibly. That came with the territory as a Redmoor.

With no alternatives, she trudged to the kitchen to winter-up, donning her red Canada Goose jacket, winter boots and gloves. She pulled a red toque over her curly auburn hair. She was about to step into the night when she felt eyes on her back. She turned to see Wolfie straing back at her, his white fangs catching the light as he panted in anticipation. “Might as well kill two birds,” she thought. She whistled to the hound. “Wolfie, come on.”

Together they headed out into the evening snowstorm. She tugged the fur collar tighter as a squall whipped shards of snow at her face. Wolfie didn’t seem to notice – to the Malamute this was like a summer’s day. Grannie’s home was behind her own home. It had always been her very own Hanzal and Gretel cottage in the woods. In summer she would cut through the back woods and pop out on Grannie’s doorstep, but in winter she took the longer route by road.

They trudged down the lane, passing the vacant lot being cleared for another new house. With her head down, she almost smacked into a truck parked opposite Grannie’s driveway. She cursed as she stomped past. Glancing inside she didn’t see anyone, just the typical junk of a forest worker’s truck – logs in the bed, chains hanging off the guard rails, the axe rack, empty, across the back window.

Reaching the house, Rebekkah saw that there was a dim light glowing behind the curtained room to the right – Grannie’s bedroom. “She’s in bed!” she muttered to herself, “Old biddy’s probably turned her hearing aid off.”

She stepped up to the door and tried the knob. She wasn’t surprised to find it open. She spoke under her breath. “One of these days, Grannie, there really will be an intruder back here. Can’t trust anyone today you know. Just lock the damn door!”

She opened the door and stepped inside, banging her boots clear of snow. She left Wolfie outside – the big dog would just shake as soon as he got indoors and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her evening cleaning up after him.

“Grannie, you awake?” Rebekkah called. She stepped towards the front bedroom.

No reply.

“You okay, Grannie? The alarm company called, said they couldn’t reach you,” Rebekkah called out.

A voice spoke, “Oh, you know,” the replying voice wavered. Grannie’s voice sounded hoarse – maybe she had a cold?

Rebekkah moved into the bedroom and reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. “Grannie, did a bulb go?”

A hand grabbed at her wrist and yanked her into the room. She was spun around so that her back was to her attacker. The man was strong, and smelt of wood and sweat. His encircling arms pinned her. She felt his breath on her neck. “My, what a pretty little thing we have here,” he breathed. He held her tight with one strong arm and slipped his free hand inside her coat. He grabbed a handful of her breast through her sweater, squeezing and groping her painfully. “Maybe not such a little girl either,” he breathed, continuing to maul her chest.

Rebekkah flicked the glove off her hand and smashed her nails into the back of his encircling hand. The shock was enough for him to release his grip enough for her to spin free. He grabbed her again, face to face this time. He forced her backwards, towards the bed. She felt the bed behind her knees. The certain knowledge of his intentions spurred her again, and she pushed back just enough to allow her to bring her knee up hard and fast, smashing into his groin. He roard and fell back. She kicked him this time, smashing her boot into his hands which were now clutching at his wounded pride. With him doubled over and temporarily incapacitated, she made her escape.

The man recovered quickly, protected somewhat by his woodcutter gear and the adrenaline coursing through him.  He stumbled after her and grabbed her just as she started down the steps from the porch. Pinning her once more, he snarled at her, “You like it rough? I’ll show you rough.” He lifted her bodily off her feet. As he turned her back into the house, he stopped. Standing between him and the door was a huge beast – it looked like a wolf. The animal bared its teeth and gave a guttural growl, then leapt at the man.

He dropped Rebekkah to fight off the beast. Wolfie sank his teeth into the man’s arm and shook him like a tug toy.

“Good boy, Wolfie. Hold him there,” said Rebekkah. She took Wolfie’s leash and quickly bound the woodcutter, hand and feet.

Rebekkah stared down at the restrained man. “Yeah, I like it rough, but I prefer bondage, and I like to be in charge. Now, where shall we begin?”

 

Teacher’s Critique

“Ah Rudi, thank you for staying behind. I think we need to have a chat about your contributions to the Creative Writing workshop.”

“What do you mean, Alicia?” Irepkoed, acting the innocent. I had hoped for a reaction to “The Yellow Dress” and maybe this was it, I thought. She had provided my inspiration when she wore a short yellow summer dress to our summer school class a few weeks ago. I hoped this might be the moment to break the formality of our student-teacher relationship.

“Well I hope you realise I’m no prude, but I don’t feel we can do a proper group critique when you write about caning a young lady’s naked bottom, and the …” she struggled for the right words, “The aftermath. What will the ladies in the group think!?”

“Well they might quite like it.” I was a little flippant. “Better than their trite love stories at least. They probably all have 50 Shades of Grey in their library.”

“Not the point and you know it!” she snapped. “You know there is more art in showing rather than telling. What’s left to the imagination is at the heart of erotica. Graphic displays belong with pornography, and that debases us all.”

Clearly I’d touched a nerve. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me what you mean.”

“Okay, let’s take this section;” Alice read the passage, her crisp English accent adding a certain frisson to the words.

He slipped his fingers into her waistband, and slid the knickers off her cheeks and down to her feet. He could sense the bounce of her cheeks as he palmed them, and the sight of her tight hole revealed deep in the cleft. He imagined it was he who then applied twelve hard, slow stripes to her cheeks. Afterwards, with her still bent, he would step behind her to paint the red stripes with the juice seeping from his hard cock. With his orgasm mounting he imagined sliding his cock deep into her tight, young cunt, gasping as his release came.

Hearing my words read aloud by this beautiful woman sent shivers through my body, exiting through my penis and jolting him into a full, steaming erection. As she finished reading the atmosphere almost crackled. She looked up from the page.

Her voice caught a little as she critiqued my work. “Obviously the imagery is very strong, Rudi. But I wonder if it might be stronger still if you were to paint a picture and show the reader the situation, rather than telling them your fantasy. Allow the reader to see themselves in this young woman’s place perhaps?”

I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I croaked out a reply. ”Well, you see this is all imaginary,” I began. “I’ve never actually been in this situation. I don’t think I quite know what you mean.”

“So you’re breaking a second cardinal rule, which we will address shortly. But in the meantime, perhaps I can help. Have you ever written from life?”

“You mean, like sitting at the beach and using words to paint the scene? Yes, I’ve tried that.”

“Okay, so let’s try that route. I want you to paint the picture you see.” And with that, Alicia bent from the waist in front of me. She slid her hands over her buttocks and down her thighs to catch the hem, and then slowly lifted the fabric up her legs and over her cheeks. I know I gasped out loud as she revealed her bottom. Her cheeks were full, lightly tanned and essentially naked. A black strip of lace plunged from the waistband down into her cleft, where is disappeared between the full twin moons. She spread her feet slightly and the cup of fabric encasing her mound came into view.

“Now,” she said, “I want you to use all your senses to embrace what you see. Your writing will be so much stronger as a result. Feel my bottom, use your eyes, be aware of my scent.”

I stepped closer and gingerly cupped her cheeks, sliding my hands up and around her smooth flesh. My fingertip lingered on the slight scratch of the lace, hooking beneath the dividing strip to ease it up and out of her cleft. I could smell a perfume mingling with the scent of her arousal as I slid my finger down the lacy divide to the dampness where her mound was cupped.

I was lost in the sensations of this beautiful bottom. Alicia broke the spell. “I think you need to know what it feels like to cane a woman, if you are to write good erotica,” she said. “Under my desk there’s a package.”

I retrieved the slender bundle and withdrew a length of rattan, maybe two feet long with a bound handle and 3/8 inch in diameter. The wood was burnished brown and seemed old.

“Take your aim carefully. You want to strike my cheeks, and not whip around the side. Stand to my left and extend your arm so that the tip rests midway across my right cheek.” I did as instructed, still in awe that I would actually cane this delightful bottom. Alicia reached back to check my placement of the cane.

“Good, now pull back and let me have it!” I moved my arm back to a 45 degree angle and snapped it back down. The effect was very underwhelming, and lacked the crack I had imagined. Alicia was ready with a sharp critique. “You’re too stiff!” she snapped.  You need to end with a flick of the wrist. Try again.”

I positioned myself again, pulled back and snapped the cane into her cheeks. It felt better but didn’t have the satisfying thwack I had imagined. And Alicia had barely moved at all under the impact.

She sighed in irritation as she straightened. I know I whimpered a little as her skirt fell, hiding those delightful twin moons. Had I lost my chance to stripe her cheeks and maybe more through my own inadequacy?

I realized she was speaking to me still. “You need to give it more oomph. Here, let me show you.” She took the cane from my hand and snapped a stroke into thin air. 

“No, that won’t work. You can’t get the effect without an impact.  Bend yourself over and I will show you what a proper stroke feels like.” 
I hesitated, naturally, stammering my preference to decline her offer.  “Oh come along, Rudi. We’re both adults here. You didn’t think twice when it was my bum on the line!” she laughed. “Get your shorts down and bend over. You can’t write what you don’t know.” 

As I continued to prevaricate she reached forward, grabbed my waistband and whipped my shorts down, dragging my underpants off in the process. My erect cock bobbed  as he was suddenly exposed. 

“Oooh, now that’s a nice surprise for a lady,” she smiled, as she squeezed my shaft gently. Then, using my cock as a handle she guided me into position. And so i found myself bent over, hands on knees and feet spread, waiting for my first ever caning.

Alicia talked me through her preparations in real time. “Arm out straight, cane tip in the middle of the far buttock cheek. Tap a couple of times for luck,” – her ‘taps’ were rather more solid than I had envisioned! – “And then back and down with a flick of the wrist.” As she spoke I heard the brief whistle as the cane descended and then the momentary sensation of the impact as my nerve endings shot messages of surprise and pain to my brain. The reply was swift and unequivocal.

I shot upright. “Jeezus that hurt! Did you have to do it so hard?” I was rubbing my rump in indignation, forgetting for a moment that I had already delivered two strokes to Alicia’s tender cheeks.

“Don’t be such a baby. That was a gentle stroke. Your heroine gets 12 from you! Get back over. You need to know what you’re writing about.” She was teasing my deflated cock with the cane tip as she spoke, and quickly got the reaction she had intended. 

“When we’re done, you can try again on my behind, see if you’ve improved enough to finish the story.”

 Driven once again by my groin and the unstated promise of more action to come, I reluctantly assumed the position once more.

“Now, to give this caning some purpose, let’s apply some rules.” Alicia was clearly getting into character. “You must count and say ‘thank you Miss’, and if you move, you get extra,” she instructed. “Now you gave your young lady 12, so you get the same. Count!” The cane whipped down, far harder than last time. “ONE!” I yelped. “Thank you Miss.”

I don’t know how, but I stayed down for all twelve strokes. I was sweating, panting and quivering as she dropped the cane and gently ran her fingers over the criss-cross of welts that decorated my cheeks. I knew now that a caning was not some lighthearted erotica, but a serious, painful experience. And yet, now the immediacy of the pain was over the heat and tingling suffused into a depth of sensation I had never felt before. I felt alive, so alive and invigorated, cleansed almost. 

I felt Alicia’s hand as she cupped my balls from behind, gently teasing life back into my cock.

“Now, that’s a caning,” she whispered as she stroked my shaft. “And if I recall your narration, you took this and fucked your heroine. We can swap over for that part, or if you prefer, I have a dildo in my bag …”