Little Red

Rachel Woe
20 mins read
Published about 1 year ago

Content Warning: This story includes graphic depictions of consensual non-consentrole play and age play all within the context of ongoing adult relationships that are based on respect, trust, and communication.

Enjoy your kink responsibly.


Robin doesn’t drive. She never learned how, and in a city like this with a job like hers, she doesn’t have to. Tonight she waits with her husband Avi outside the Fort Orange Club in downtown Albany, the balls of her feet sore from a full day of briefings and mingling at yet another fundraiser in three-inch heels. 

A black Audi stalks toward them, a sleek dark creature with chrome fangs that appears to leer at her. The vehicle slows and then stops. 

Robin’s pulse flutters like a bird’s heartbeat. 

“Did you remember to grab the spare key?” Avi asks. 

“I had my assistant make Julian a set of his own.” Robin straightens her husband’s tie, more from habit than necessity. “You heading home?”

“Back to the party, I think.”

“Well, have fun.” 

“You, too, sweetheart.” He flashes her a wicked smile and opens the Audi’s rear door. Robin thanks him with a kiss and then slips into the backseat. 

Dry heat envelops her, spiced with the familiar scent of leather and Julian’s cologne. The door thumps shut and her muscles dissolve, the obligations of the day washing off her like water over wings. 

Julian’s eyes are like melted chocolate, warm and inviting in the rearview mirror. 

“Bag’s on the floor by your feet,” he says. “How was the fundraiser?”

“Mind-numbing. The governor had better spend his cash wisely because this is the last time I’m dragging my ass up from DC to schmooze for him. Avi seemed to be having a good time, though.” She toes the pink sequined backpack as they ease into traffic, her face and chest flushing at the thought of what lies behind the zipper. Her phone chimes in her clutch. Hands on autopilot, she rummages for it among makeup wipes and lipstick. 

“Avi missing you already?”

Robin thumbs the screen. “It’s my assistant. I told her I’d be unreachable all weekend.”

“The weekend started sixty seconds ago. Put it away.”

“Just one text.” She rushes to unlock the device. 

“No texts. You know the rules.” Julian’s tone is firm, fatherly, though tonight he isn’t her father. Neither is he her boss, nor her teacher, nor her friend. 

Tonight, he is a stranger.

“Fine.” She zips her phone into the backpack’s smallest compartment. In truth, she’s glad to be rid of the damned thing. 

Robin knew she was destined for political office the day her eighth-grade history teacher called her forceful, idealistic, and insubordinate. True to form, she’d felt right at home as a member of the state legislature. When presented with an opportunity to reach even higher—all the way to the United States Senate—she leapt at the challenge. Now, half a dozen sleepless months after taking office, she’s beginning to resent her ambition. 

“Do you mind if I rest my eyes a while?” she asks, lids already at half-mast.

“Not at all.”

Robin closes her eyes but does not sleep. Long drives make her anxious. That she trusts Julian unreservedly is the only reason she arranged to purchase a vacation home so far from the city—that and the privacy only seventy acres on the side of a mountain can offer. 

As far as anyone outside their innermost circle knows, Julian is merely her driver, which is why they can safely make the hour-long trip into the Green Mountains without drawing attention. On paper and in public she is Senator Robin Patel, crusader for women’s rights and loving wife to District Attorney Avi Patel. 

But in private, and in her heart, she is equally devoted to both Avi and Julian.

They stop at a twenty-four-hour gas station just north of Bennington, as they have many times before. Julian gets out to fill up the tank. Robin lifts the child-sized backpack onto her lap. Anticipation takes root like a seedling between her thighs, rooting deeper as she unzips the compartment and removes the clothes folded therein. 

A pair of white cotton panties, a soft yellow dress with pink butterfly buttons, white knee socks and sneakers. 

Touching the clothes makes Robin giddy, like the first sip off a strong cocktail. Thankfully the Audi’s windows are tinted so she doesn’t have to worry about flashing anyone while she changes. She removes her make-up, then stows her purse and formalwear inside the pack.

Julian slides back behind the wheel, and though his appearance remains the same, everything about him is different. 

“What’s this,” he says with a playful lilt. “A little thing like you shouldn’t be out here all by herself. Who knows what kind of monsters roam these woods.”

Gooseflesh prickles across Robin’s arms and legs. She feels the urge to pee. Her stomach seizes as she locks eyes with Julian in the rearview mirror. She tucks her chin and opens her eyes china-doll wide. “My daddy was supposed to pick me up.”

Julian turns to study her, the hunger in his gaze even more tangible without the mirror between them. He hasn’t seen this dress before, and judging from the look he’s giving the butterfly buttons, she suspects she won’t be wearing it for long. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Red,” she squeaks, donning the epithet he chose for her on account of the way her breasts flush when she’s aroused. 

“How old are you, Red?”

If she says, thirty-seven, the game is over, though they may still fuck. Any number less than ten and there will be no penetration—his limit, not hers. The past few months, her go-to roles have been the perky cheerleader, the barely-legal cam girl, the runaway who'll do anything for a cheeseburger and a soft place to sleep. 

After the week she’s had, what she wants more than anything is to be carefree. You'd be surprised how much a teenager has to keep track of. Homework and extracurriculars, social engagements and the pressure to look, if not perfect, then ironically imperfect. 

“Today’s my birthday,” she says in a small voice. “I’m twelve.” 

Julian could say she looks older than twelve, in which case he’d be asking her to aim higher. But he knows her well enough to recognize that sometimes she needs to go deeper, darker, lower to the ground. 

Some nights she needs to crawl.

“Happy birthday, Red. Why don’t you tell me where you live so I can bring you home?” 

She recites her address slowly, stumbling over numbers.

He starts the engine. “Don’t forget your seatbelt.” 

Pulling the belt across her chest, Robin deliberately struggles to fit the tongue inside the buckle. Julian chuckles, a bottomless rumble that judders her bones. 

He exits the car. 

Robin jumps as the rear door springs open. Julian smiles, his bold appraisal making her feel self-conscious. She can tell he’s already imagining how delectable she’ll look on all-fours, how juicy she’ll be once he’s done tenderizing her. 

She half expects him to lick his chops.

“Allow me, sweet pea.” He leans in close, his dark chin-length hair brushing her chest as he fits his large hands over her smaller ones. Robin holds her breath. He connects the seatbelt with a soft click, then squeezes her hands before releasing them. He pats her knee. “There now. Safe and sound.” 

Sliding both hands into his front pockets, he draws her attention to the obvious bulge in his pants. She squirms in her seat, saliva watering her mouth at the promise underlying his arousal.

“Let’s get you home, Little Red.”

They make the winding trip up the mountain in silence as piercing as screams. Robin harnesses her anxiety about the drive, uses it to ratchet up her pulse. She’s going need the extra boost once her fight-or-flight response takes hold, as it often does when she gives herself over to the fantasy. The headlights reflect off the short lamp post up ahead. Robin’s stomach flips. Julian slows the car and pulls into the driveway, a quarter-mile stretch of pavement that curves through the woods toward a house and yard not visible from the road. It’s the only house for miles. 

The car stops. Robin unclips her seatbelt and picks up the backpack. Her hand shakes with anticipation as she reaches for the door handle. Julian watches her in the mirror, his eyes glowing eerily from the lights on the dash. She can hear him breathing. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

Julian says nothing.

Robin gets out and starts walking. She doesn’t look back, though she’s convinced she can still feel his eyes on her even as the beam from the headlights grows faint. The moon illuminates the driveway well enough that she doesn’t need a flashlight. Still, the shadows play charades with her thoughts. 

Who knows what kind of monsters roam these woods...

A hum sounds from inside the backpack, phantoms from her other life attempting to intrude. She ignores them. Red doesn’t have a phone, and she’s far too young to care about things like briefings and floor votes. All she needs to worry about right now is getting home. 

The scuffing of her sneakers is soon overtaken by the rumble of an engine. She walks faster. The trees thin, revealing an expansive lawn. A roofline crests over the hill. She’s almost home. 

Headlights cast long shadows as the SUV growls and advances. 

Red runs. 

Brakes squeal. A door slams. Footsteps pound the road in time with her racing heart. 

The sympathetic nervous system doesn’t differentiate between real and pretend distress. Though she knows Julian would never actually harm her, the symptoms of her pretend panic are real—as real as the air chafing her lungs and the sweat beading her brow. She bursts onto the field, pavement giving way to lush, silvery lawn. If she can make it to the house, she’ll be safe, she tells herself. Her daddy will protect her. Adrenaline goads her, lifts her up, makes her feel like she’s floating. 

Two strong hands drag her down to earth. 

Robin cries out; it’s not an act. No matter how well she braces for it, there’s no escaping the bewilderment of being rendered helpless. It’s what she came for, more important than the outfits and the roleplay. The violent jolt that forces her out of her head and into the present moment. Her knees hit the grass before the rest of her falls. She attempts to crawl but the tight hold on her backpack makes her stumble. She twists, managing to free her arms from the straps, then scrambles until she’s caught.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Julian purrs, caging her with his body. 

Sweat drips into Robin’s eyes. She claws at the grass, searching for an exit, but it’s no use. He has her right where he wants her, right where she wants to be. 

Julian withdraws a roll of bondage tape from his jacket. Her lower body throbs, a bass note that makes her want to hump something, anything to relieve the tension. In the real world, she would fight to the death, bash the fucker’s nose in, gouge out his eyes. But she's not in the real world. She's in their world, and in their world, she lets him capture her wrists and cross them at the small of her back.

“Move an inch and I’ll break your fucking arm.”

Robin can’t see Julian pull the bondage tape taut, but the piercing zip is music to her ears. He binds her wrists, forcing her shoulder blades to kiss, then grinds his erection against her ass. 

“Feel that, Little Red? That’s all for you.”

Saying no when you mean yes is disorienting. Screaming stop when you mean go is a total mindfuck. It takes patience, practice, conditioning.

Julian flips her over like she weighs nothing. With the moon at his back, his silhouette cuts a menacing void against the sky. Her arms ache from having all her weight pressed onto them. If it gets to be too much, she can always use her safe word, but for now, she relishes the feeling. Most people go out of their way to avoid pain; the fact that she can’t now is a welcome reminder of her powerlessness.

“Help,” she cries. “Daddy!”

Julian grips her jaw like a vice. “Shut up.”

“Please—” She hears the slap before she feels it, a fierce burn that radiates outward from her cheek. 

“I said, shut up.” He paws at her, tugging her panties down and dislodging one of her shoes in the process. The cool air laps at her most tender places before she can clamp her legs shut. He stuffs the bunched cotton into her mouth. “That should keep you quiet.” 

Tears fill her eyes as heat floods her. He rips through the dress, popping butterfly buttons and baring her breasts to the night.

“My, my, Little Red.” Julian rubs his cock through his jeans. “What big tits you have.” 

Robin’s nipples tighten against the chill. He smacks her breasts, making them bounce. Mortification scrapes across her like butter over toast—and like warm toast, she soaks it up greedily. Women go to great lengths to look attractive; girls, not so much. She wants Julian to shame her, to point out how easily she turns him on and with so little effort. 

He makes a meal of her breasts. She whimpers around the panties in her mouth, his saliva cooling on her skin. She doesn’t notice his hand inching lower until she feels the sweep of his fingers across her mound. 

"Have you ever been tasted before?" He tickles her outer lips. She moves to cross her legs, and he tuts at her, spreading them wide. "I’ll take that as a no."

She has, of course. No doubt Avi and Julian could identify Robin’s pussy by scent alone if they had to. But Red is a virgin, untried and untouched. He slides down her body, licks his lips, and hums his approval. 

“I’m going to eat you up.” He lowers his mouth to her cunt. The wet heat against her clitoris sends shocks of pleasure zipping through her bloodstream. She moans; she can’t help it. The ground is hard and cold beneath her but inside she is molten.

Julian takes his time licking and sucking, and the slurping sounds his mouth makes are loud and pornographic. They make her cringe. She leans into the embarrassment, sinking deeper into character. Robin’s the one who wants this, not sweet little Red, not that she can do anything about it with her hands bound behind her. 

All she can do is lie there and take what the big, bad wolf wants to give her.

As aroused as she is, Robin won’t come from this. She’s far too stimulated. And besides, this isn’t about getting off. It’s about letting go, about creating memories she can reach for when the plates she’s been spinning in her real life threaten to come crashing down.

Julian wipes his mouth on her dress, his lupine smirk a reflection of the ferocity with which he intends to devour her. He rolls her onto her stomach. She groans with relief at having the weight taken off her arms. 

“It’s a shame your daddy’s not here to give you your birthday spankings. Guess I’ll have to do it for him.” He squeezes her ass and then slaps it hard. Robin cries out. He spanks her again and again, twelve times in all, his blows punishing. How dare she tempt him with her wide eyes and butterfly buttons, they seem to say. That’ll teach her to accept rides from strangers.

The metallic clink of Julian’s belt sends a fresh shot of arousal through her veins. She kicks her reluctance into overdrive, thrashing as well as she can without the aid of her arms. She spits out the saliva-soaked panties. 

“Help me,” Robin shouts, her voice hoarse. “Daddy, please!”

He presses her face to the grass to muffle her cries. “No one can help you now, Little Red.” 

With one brutal thrust, Julian’s cock fills her. Robin cries out at the sudden intrusion, though she’s more than wet enough to accommodate him. He drapes his body over hers, muttering curses and commentary into her ear. How good she smells; how tight she feels inside. 

Blades of grass tickle Robin’s tongue as her feigned Nos become genuine Ohs that stretch on forever. Julian’s pace is unrelenting, and she can tell by his quick and shallow breaths that he’s close. Her own orgasm is a twisting, squirming thing, kept at bay by the violence of the moment—violence she’ll return to in the safety of her imagination when her body is more amenable. 

Julian pulls out, he groans. Wet heat splashes Robin’s ass and the back of her thigh, marking her as soiled though in reality, she’s sated. 

The ebb and flow of their panting reminds her of ocean waves. The wolf stands. The purr of his zipper is extra-loud in the sudden quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the flash of moonlight on metal, feels pressure on her wrists, hears a snap and slice. She’s free. 

She doesn’t dare move.

Julian’s footsteps recede. The car door slams and the engine revs and then grumbles past her. Robin curls her fingers around the dew-damp grass and counts her heartbeats. Her stomach cramps. She shivers, an unavoidable physiological response. There’s no convincing her nerves that this is all just a game; she will have to ride it out. 

Lights flash on in the house at the end of the driveway, slicing through the dark. Her heart rate slows. Breathing deeply, she rises to her feet, arms aching as she dons her backpack. She looks around for her missing shoe but doesn’t find it. 

Holding the torn halves of her dress together, she heads for the light.

All of this, the attack and the shaming and the making her own way home, serves a purpose. It curtails her self-sufficiency, and leaves her craving comfort and pampering. 

It makes her want her Daddy

Robin rings the doorbell and Julian answers. His hair is tied back and he’s put on fresh clothes. His kind face contorts into a look of horror. 

“My god, sweetheart. What happened?” 

Robin falls sobbing into his arms. 

“It’s all right. Daddy’s here.” Julian smooths her tangled hair and kisses her face. As aggressive as he was before, he is calm and nurturing now. “I’ll take care of you.” 

He draws her a bath. 

While the tub fills, he removes the dirt- and grass-stained remains of her clothing, piece-by-piece. Still unsteady, she lets him maneuver her like a doll. 

Taking her hand, he helps her into the tub. The water feels delicious. He washes her with a soft cloth, taking special care with the tender areas he so recently ravaged. He spreads her labia. “Did he hurt you here?” 

Robin nods. 

He touches her clitoris. “And here?”

She nods again. He strokes her gently, drawing circles over the bundle of nerves. After what Red’s been through, the tenderness is almost too much. Robin salts the bathwater with her tears as Julian washes her breasts, kisses her forehead. He has spent the last hour tearing her apart; he will spend the rest of the weekend piecing her back together. 

She doesn’t expect to come. It’s too soon. But thinking about the tape around her wrists and Julian’s former roughness, compared to the gentle way he’s touching her now. The intersection of shame and fear, love and affection... It’s enough to get her there. Her orgasm sneaks up on her, then pounces, like a wolf sinking its teeth between her legs. The sensation fills her up, pouring from her mouth in the form of whines and whimpers.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Feel better now?”

Robin smiles. She does feel better—better than she has in months. She considers what it would take to feel like this forever. She would have to leave politics. Move to the country with Julian and live the rest of her life as his Little Red. No more meetings or hearings or fundraisers. Just coloring books and dollies and play dates with Avi. 

The thought makes her lightheaded.

Clean and dry, Robin sits on the edge of the tub while Julian smooths lotion into her wrists. He helps her into her PJs and then makes dinner, boxed mac and cheese, the rabbit-shaped kind she likes. Food that makes her feel silly. At bedtime, he steers her past the master suite and instead leads her to her room. With the glow-in-the-dark stars and four-poster bed and the wooden dollhouse in the corner. 

Wrapped cozily in bunny-rabbit sheets with Julian’s body curved around her, Robin should be fast asleep. But she isn’t. Something won’t let her. Some niggling itch at the back of her mind, scratching where she can’t quite reach. 

Her phone buzzes inside her backpack, propped on a chair nearby. Reminders of her other life. 

She shouldn’t get up to check. It’s against the rules. But children are nothing if not curious.

Taking care not to wake Julian, she slips out of bed to retrieve her phone and finds three unread text messages awaiting her. The first, a group text from Avi, checking in; the second, Julian's response, a smiling devil face. 

The third came in a few hours earlier: Robin’s assistant, informing her that the low-cost contraception bill she and her colleagues introduced would be brought to the floor in just two months.

Robin’s thumbs fly across the screen. She’ll need to begin lining up appearances and meetings with women’s groups, devising countermeasures for potential attacks from the Right. The road ahead will be rough terrain, but that’s never stopped her before. 

“Someone wants a spanking,” Julian mumbles. 

Busted. Reluctantly, she lays her phone on the chair and returns to bed.  

Julian shifts onto his back. There’s just enough moonlight filtering through the curtains to make out the lines of his body, his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, the splash of hair across his chest. He pats his lap. The gentle threat chafes in ways Robin doesn’t expect. Normally, she loves a good spanking, and will go to great lengths to earn one. 

But tonight she wants something...different. 

“Would you really spank a girl on her birthday?” she asks.

Julian sits up in bed. “Depends. How old are you?”

She could say twelve, feign naïveté and take her punishment like a good girl. 

Or, she could grow up. 

“I’m thirty-seven.” 

Robin slips her tongue into Julian’s mouth, pouring everything she has into the kiss, all her love and lust and gratitude. He cradles the back of her neck, returning the kiss with a fervor that tells her he loves her, too. All of her, including her disparate personas. She trails kisses down his neck and chest, all the way to his cock, now tenting the sheet. Drawing the bunny-themed covers back, she wastes no time stroking him to full hardness before wrapping her lips around him. 

“Goddamn, I love the way you do that.” He gathers her hair in his fist so he can watch her stroke him fast, suck him hard, swirl her tongue around the head. 

Red wouldn’t know how to do any of this. She would hold him loosely, suck inexpertly. She would let him thrust into her mouth, eyes wide with feigned surprise that she could be capable of making him feel this good. She would gag as he pushed his cock deep and let his come drip down her chin. She would fall asleep with the taste of him on her tongue.

But Robin wants to be on top this time, so instead she straddles his hips. Sore as she is, it feels wonderful to take him inside her. She doesn’t need Julian to teach her how to fuck, or how to let herself be fucked, because Robin is a grown woman. The sort of woman who wears pencil skirts, dots her wrists with perfume, and struts around in heels that will inevitably age her knees faster than the rest of her. A woman who moves mountains, never backs down from a fight and answers to the title, Senator. That said, Robin isn’t ready to say goodbye to Red just yet, and since tomorrow is only Saturday, she won’t have to. 

Come morning, she’ll plait her hair in pigtails and ask Daddy to make her happy cakes—pancakes with chocolate-chip smiles. They’ll watch cartoons, play board games, and wage tickle wars until their sides burst. 

Then, later, he’ll draw her a nice hot bath, and once she’s fresh and clean, he’ll read her a bedtime story and place a goodnight kiss between her thighs for being such a good girl.

Also by Rachel:

Haunted Hearts: A Ghost Story
House Rules
Make It Right
Unconventional Methods
Wading In

RW
Written by
Rachel Woe

Rachel Woe is a forbidden love junkie who probably watched too many inappropriate movies as a teenager. A longtime lover of risqué fiction, she used to smuggle Story of O and The Sleeping Beauty trilogy to school, folded inside brown-bag book covers. On the rare occasion when she’s neither reading nor writing, you can find her camped out at the back of the cinema or on the hunt for a perfect Irish eggs Benny.