I was stuck for a blog post idea this week, so I turned to the internet for a prompt. One of the ideas I came across was to re-write a fairy tale with a twist. Enjoy.


Warm blood hit Red in the face and she recoiled. The wolf’s tongue lolled from its mouth, its eyes glazed and lifeless. Its life’s blood ebbed from the severed stump of its neck and seeped into the leaf litter.

The young man holding the axe gasped for breath. “Are you all right?”

Red gingerly touched her fingers to her face and drew them away with spots of wolf blood. Still staring at her fingers, she nodded.

“Wolves don’t usually attack people,” the woodsman said, swinging his axe and embedding it in the chopping block outside Granny’s cottage. “I think this one must have been starving after the winter.”

Red untied her red cloak and used it to wipe the wolf blood from her face and clothes. “Thank you.”

“You’re Elsie’s granddaughter, right? I’m Peter, I help her out with a few chores around the cottage from time to time.”

Red glanced at the door to the cottage and pictured the carnage she’d found inside when she’d arrived. Tears welled up and she covered her face with her hand. Peter’s brow creased in a frown and he followed her gaze to the door.

“Don’t!” she cried.

But, he strode to the door and pushed open on creaking hinges. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the rising bile.

He pulled the door closed, walked to her and wrapped his arms around her.  Red’s heart pounded in her ears and her tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She could feel the muscles in Peter’s stomach clench as he fought his emotions.

She let her hands creep over his strong back and shoulders.

“I should get you back to the village,” he said.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest, his shirt damp with her now checked tears. “Not yet.”

The feel of his lean, hard muscles, sculpted by hard work and Mother Nature kindled a deep need. She had to feel his skin against hers and her fingers plucked at his linen shirt, gently tugging it from the waist of his leather britches.


“Call me Red.” She backed up, pulling him with her, until she felt the broad trunk of the old oak tree behind her.

“What are you doing?”

She released him and lifted her dress over her head. The dark green wool fell into a crumpled heap and she stood against the tree in nothing but her petticoat and bloomers.

Peter took a hesitant step towards her, his eyes a window on warring emotions of desire and morality.

“Please. I’ve seen too much death today. Make me feel alive.”

He gave a shallow nod and reached for her. His hands grazed over the thin linen of her petticoat and gripped her hips. The first soft touch of his kiss made her feel weak and fluttery and she steadied herself against the tree with one hand.

With a guttural moan in the back of his throat he pushed her hard against the tree and his mouth crushed against hers, his tongue seeking entrance.

With a sharp tug he ripped her petticoat, exposing her breasts, and she broke away from the kiss, gasping. Lust flooded through her like molten metal, searing her skin, boiling her blood and setting her senses on fire.

Peter pulled the ripped petticoat from her shoulders and ran his hands over her. Everywhere he touched he raised goosebumps despite the heat radiating from inside. She clung to his shoulders, digging her fingers into his back.

He covered her breast with one broad, calloused palm. The very core of her womanhood ached and burned. He dipped his head and suckled her. The scorching heat and smooth skin of his mouth caressed her while his stubble scratched and tickled her soft, pale skin.

He fumbled with the cords on his britches and she reached to feel his swollen manhood through the taught leather. He released himself and guided her hand. She trembled as her palm closed around his hot, hard flesh; a hint of trepidation creeping into the flood of lust sweeping through her.

He gripped her hair in his fist and kissed her deeply while his other hand pulled urgently at her clothes. Her bloomers and petticoat slid the ground. The rough bark dug into her naked back but she didn’t care.

Peter thrust his hand roughly between her legs and all the strength left her limbs as he concentrated the feelings of pleasure, rippling around inside her, into a single, fire bright point of light that pulsed and swelled.

He lifted her leg up to his hip and his shining eyes silently asked her permission. She nodded and he claimed her body with his own.

She winced as he pushed past her maidenhead. His eyes widened with realisation and then softened. He dipped his head and kissed her, tenderly this time, although she could feel the tension in his arms and his back as he held himself back.

His fingers caressed the centre of her pleasure as he began a slow rhythm inside her. The glowing, pulsing light inside her grew until it filled her whole being. She clung to her lover and let him guide her to the highest height of bliss. Then, like the bursting of a damn after a thunderstorm she reached the peak of what her body could hold and cried out.

Peter let go of his restraint and drove himself into her quivering body until, with a growl, he emptied his seed inside her.

His body held her pinned against the tree for a few moments more and then he wrapped his arms around her. He bore her to the soft, mossy ground at the base of the tree and held her in his arms while the glorious feeling slowly ebbed away.

The red stained muzzle of the wolf, dripping with her grandmother’s blood returned to the front of her mind along with her tears of grief. But she didn’t feel alone.


I hope you enjoyed this story. Which classic tale would you like to see re-imagined with a sexy twist?