SCARLET RED

Little Red Riding Hood, or Little Red Ridinghood, also known as Little Red Cap or simply Red Riding Hood, is a French and later European fairy taleabout a young girl and a Big Bad Wolf. The story was first published by Charles Perrault.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTzLgnT9UFI

Scarlet Red

(1) THE TAVERN
Scarlet Jackson strode into the Sky High Tavern as if she owned the place. Turning to a coat rack, the young lady hung up a blood-red hooded cape. Cascades of flaming tresses spilled from her head in showers of radiant red curls. As women go, Scarlet’s twenty-year-old feminine form wasn’t very big. In fact, she was little. Yet, the braless size and shapes showing beneath her blouse indicated in full measure her womanhood!

Hoots and hollers followed Scarlet as she headed for the bar; “Hey Red, how they hanging?”, “How’s about a kiss?”, “Trade you a drink for a feel up!”

The only reason the men were able to get away with such lighthearted vulgarity was that Scarlet was no ordinary woman. In truth, the bar patrons were a bit afraid of her. At the age of eighteen, Scarlet had earned her backwoods stripes by empting a .38 revolver into the bodies of two would be rapist. Both men took three slugs to the heart. They died instantly.

At the inquest, dirty little secrets came out. Scarlet shared a deep-woods cottage with her grandfather, Mr. Jack Jackson. One woman testified that on a visit she had noticed only one bed showed any sign of use. Thus was planted the rumor that the young woman and her grandfather shared some kind of illicit sleeping arrangements; perhaps they even had sexual relations. This notion was bolstered when Mr. Jackson’s hobby was revealed. Jack had a vivid pretend sexual imagination. He created dirty short stories and tales to titillate. Scarlet assisted her grandfather by typing, editing, and posting his filthy works. The words she typed often made her vagina wet and hot.

Unbeknownst to the general population, the rumors of one-bed sexual escapades were true! Even though her grandfather was triple her age, Scarlet found him to be a strong, robust, and well-experienced lover. His cock could become an elongated spear which reached the deepest depths of her vagina. His cock’s massive girth guaranteed frictional fires and multiple orgasms.

“What will it be, Red? “asked Don the bartender.

“Granddad wants a jug of White Lightening and I want a bottle of Fireball,” Scarlet answered. The young lady added, “Give me a hot shot of Fireball right now.”

Scarlet received her hot shot and downed it in one gulp. When the hot shot of cinnamon-tasting liquor hit her stomach, the redheaded woman felt a contradictory feeling. A cold chill ran up her spine. An ominous presence seemed to be stalking her. Quickly, as if trying to catch the threat, Scarlet spun around and placed her back to the bar. Nothing was there.

Scarlet knew most of the men present. Of course there were no women, but she, in the tavern. Respectable women did not frequent taverns! Whores and other ladies of the night occasionally dropped in. Where did this place Scarlet? She was neither a whore nor was she a lady of the night. Yet, this young woman was shunned by all other women in the Three Forks of the Wolf hills and valleys. Perhaps the facts of her two killings and her participation in writing sexual filth accounted for her shunning. Just to spite her shunners, this young woman began to go bad. Scarlet frequented taverns, she gambled, she raced horses, and she and her grandfather fucked like demons possessed by lusts.

(2) THE RACE

Wait a minute! There was a strange man in the tavern. He was tall yet he had no attributes to say he was handsome. Scarlet felt the same ominous chill run up her back again. She turned her back on it, gathered up her saddlebags filled with whisky, and then headed for the door. The tall man blocked her path. He held out his hand for introductions. Scarlet refused the hand.

Not to be put off lightly, the man asked, “Are you the girl who works with your grandpa to write dirty stories?” He continued, “I’m the man who owns the place where you send them. My name is X.N. Nophest. You and some of your grandpa’s friends are giving my place a hard rap recently. I asked my staff to draw a random name so that I could call on the writer and hear his side person-to-person. May I accompany you home where you, your grandfather, and I might talk?’

Scarlet reluctantly said two words, “I reckon.”

The country girl threw her saddlebags over the pommel of a tall, sorrel, mountain-bred mule. The man mounted a sleek, dark, Kentucky thoroughbred.