by A. J. Roman
And Hildemara no longer bothers with the pretence of modesty and walks about the little house quite naked, flaunting her wantonness openly in front of Babes who tries not to look at her oddly fascinating body as she passes, the long chicken legs so thin that they could have been fashioned from white pipe-cleaners, the tiny breasts with their large prominent nipples permanently erect and so pale a pink that they appear almost blue against her cold alabaster skin, and a long smooth cunt that seems to be naturally hairless and not shaved or waxed, her deep slit like a hungry mouth below the ever-watchful eye of her tight belly button.
“I think that we need mistletoe,” the Snow Queen announces on Christmas Eve, her body encased once more in the acid-yellow fake leopard-skin wrap that she had first arrived in, and Babes hopes for one blessed second that the leggy locust is finally departing. But, as if reading her mind, a sudden fluid movement on the woman’s part reveals that she is naked below the synthetic animal pelt and her canvas bag still rests in Fritz’s bedroom like an ice casket containing his sad heart.
“Come, girl,” she says now, caressing Babes’ face with icy fingers like a snowbird’s claw. “We need to go a-gathering and get you kissed before the Solstice is out.” And, like some sinister Pippi Longstocking, she heads quickly out to her van on lengthy stilt-like strides, her bare feet crunching nonchalantly through the frost-set snow as she goes, Babes following helplessly in her wake.
***
They drive along the snowbound tracks in silence, the van’s engine protesting as they crest crackling white hills between the deformed crones of trees, linnets swooping from their brittle black branches, robins like bleeding-hearted doves singing mournful litanies of love and despair as they hurtle past.
“You know the woods well,” Babes says finally, looking out at the glittering landscape, ivory white like animal bones that have been picked clean by carrion crows, the setting sun already a fiery red ball on the horizon as fresh flurries of snow cover their tire tracks like winding sheets over the still-fresh corpse of a young girl taken in the night.
“Like the folds of my own skin,” Hildemara replies with a knowing leer. “Or the contours of your father’s cock,” she adds, smiling cruelly.
And they have come to a clearing in a dense part of the forest, where seven mighty oaks have been felled in a perfect circle and a blackened stump sits like an alter in the centre, dark stains like dried blood encrusted in its bark like a werewolf’s foetid nails.
“What is this place?” Babes asks, wrapping her bright red parka around herself against the chill, the fur-trimmed cowl framing her pretty little face and sharp fringe with strangely comforting polar warmth, and making her look like a latter-day Louise Brooks in the fading light.
“The Valley of Shrouds they called it once, in the olden times,” the woman replies, walking barefoot through the hardened snow, her long stork’s feet blue with the cold. “Now it’s where girls like you come to gather snow berries and dream of fulfilment...”
“But I don’t see any mistletoe,” Babes grumbles, finally showing some signs of impatience, or perhaps even petulance. “We’d have been quicker just going to Tesco’s.,”
The Snow Queen laughs and her coat falls open, and it seems for one surreal moment that the setting sun is bathing her in blood and that her long narrow cunt is laughing too, but then she covers herself and points out a tree amidst the creeping tendrils of frost-withered ivy where the delicate spindly-leaved plant they are seeking indeed grows in profusion, and the moment quickly passes as Babes takes her wicker basket and reaches for the waxy specimens.
“It’s too high,” she calls behind her as she stretches, her little fur-trimmed booties sinking deep into the metallic white drift.
“Climb the tree then,” the wicked stepmother replies, her voice being carried off by the wind and making her sound as if she is far away, and then Babes suddenly hears the cough of a starting engine and turns to see the camper van nosing cautiously through the trees and then sliding down the hill like a sled, vanishing from view as a fresh fall of snow quickly covers its tracks...
***
She wanders for what seems like hours in the darkling twilight, no trace of a path anywhere to be seen and trees like hump-back ghosts stretching out malevolent claws that rip at her red coat as she stumbles past.
Surely my father will miss me and come out searching when she gets home alone, she thinks, trying hard to hold back the tears, but the face of the man that her dear old dad has become floats tauntingly before her eyes, and even she finds it hard to believe that he will notice her loss, let alone brave the dark woods to come in search of her.
And she is sure that she is walking around in circles, convinced that the stealthy yellow eyes of night birds are watching her as she blunders through the dark, but the blizzard obliterates her tracks as she walks, and the sky is a pregnant Prussian blue with unshed snow and all she can do is keep moving forward in the hope that she will eventually find shelter.
In fact, it is now so dark that she almost stumbles upon the boy who lounges against the trunk of a storm-blasted oak before she sees him, a tall and slim figure with deep-set eyes and slicked-back hair, his Brylcreemed quiff lying like a dead bird’s wing upon his deathly pale white skin. He is dressed in an Astrakhan coat with suede lapels, garnet-red waistcoat and drainpipe trousers, and, as he lights the cigarette in his mouth and illuminates his face, she sees that his eyebrows meet in the middle and that his eyes possess a fevered canine amber.
“Hello, Babes,” he drawls as if it were not dark and freezing. “I’ve been waiting for you...”
“Do I know you?” she stammers, clutching her wicker basket to her bosom and wrapping her bright red coat tightly around herself, trying to stop her teeth from chattering.
“Wolfgang,” he grins, all teeth, like a piranha. “I’ve come to show you the way...”
“The way? The way where?” she demands, standing on tippy-toes to prevent her little booties from sinking deep into the drifting snow that even now was starting to cover her back as she stood.
“There!” he replies, whispering something in her ear and pointing. And, sure enough, there through the ferocious rage of the storm, she espies a warm and inviting yellow light through the creaking trees, and, for one delirious moment, thinks that she has found her way home.
“I’m to go there?” she asks, but the boy has already vanished as quickly as he had appeared, and, having no other port in this particular storm, she blunders bravely forward towards the unknown light.
***
She stumbles through the rustic gateway and sees the gaudy cottage before her and suddenly knows where she is, even before she sees the strings of fairy lanterns and plethora of crudely-painted garden gnomes and chipped ornaments; crookedly perched pink flamingos teetering in the flurry; a pre-cast wishing well groaning under the weight of frozen snow; impaled lizards and squirrels running up the crumbling rendered walls; scalloped window boxes overflowing with man-made foliage and bright plastic sunflowers with painted faces, pretty maids all in a row.
She has found the cottage of the Thrift Store Lady.
***
And the door flies open to her knock, almost as if she has been expected, and she falls drunkenly into the crowded hall and into the arms of the rotund woman who greets her. And there is a mish-mash of brightly coloured pictures on the walls, old paint-by-numbers canvases of bowls of fruit and hideous clowns; faded prints of cheeky Kinsella children playing cricket; higgledy-piggledy towers of boxes and teetering stacks of old magazines, all leaning dangerously towards total collapse amidst armies of cats scattering in flurries of green-eyed fur as she blunders desperately into the warm gingerbread-scented air.
“Come in, come in,” the fat woman fusses, embracing her, her big round body wrapped in a rainbow-coloured assortment of mismatched garments, her chubby arms warm
and welcoming, her homely cachet the aroma of vanilla sugar and spiced almonds.
“I’m sorry to disturb you... I’m lost... “ Babes splutters, falling into the warm security of those fat arms her and embracing the opiate-like sweetness of the cottage’s spicy air. Though she has never met the Thrift Store Lady before, only seen her little house in passing and heard all the village children’s rumours of witchcraft and naked dancing amidst the gnomes and plastic toadstools.
“Hush, hush,” the woman coos, patting her and leading her inside to an equally cluttered lounge where stuffed toys vie for space on the jumble of armchairs, and a roaring fire burns in a dilapidated grate, a large pot of something savoury quietly bubbling away. “Why, you’re frozen, child, come and sit by the fire and take off all your wet things...”
And before she knows what is happening her bright red parka is peeled from her like the rind on Christmas Satsuma, and she kicks her boots off and wiggles her frozen toes into the thick pile of the gaudy Readicut hearth rug as the Thrift Store Lady fusses around her.
***
There’s an old tin bath by the fire, steaming quietly with a swirl of scented bath salts, and, drowsily, Babes wonders why she never noticed it before, but she sees a towel and soap laid out alongside and assumes that her host has been about to bathe and questions it no further. As she, likewise, does not query why the woman is pulling her soft and fluffy pink sweater up gently over her head and folding it neatly on an armchair already piled high in cast-off young girl’s garments.
“My, my, what a frail little thing you are,” the Thrift Store Lady mutters, pinching Babes’ naked arms. “I could really do with fattening you up. Gingerbread?”
“No, thank you,” Babes replies sleepily, overcome by the warm torpor of the softly undulating room. “I think I’ll just take a bath and go to bed...”
The fat woman nods, a hungry look in her eye. “Then let me help you,” she whispers, almost impatiently, her fat but surprisingly dexterous fingers unhooking the back of Babes’ little skirt and yanking down the zipper.
And Babes hasn’t had many boyfriends in her nineteen years, though she’s still hoping to meet the right one; but now she feels a strange thrill course through her as she stands before this large voluptuous woman in only her bra and tights, and she gives a little shudder of pleasure as she feels her nipples pop up under the lacy cups of her tiny black brassiere.
“Nice,” breathes the Thrift Store Lady, eating her up with her eyes. “And such lovely bones too...” she adds sotto voce.
And Babes feels the fat woman’s eyes upon her and experiences another flush of pleasure, this time in her cunt, and is suddenly overcome with the urge to be naked in front of her host. “If I strip right down for you will you do the same for me?” she asks in a small voice that doesn’t sound like her own, her long-lashed eyes studying the carpet where an abandoned earring glitters in the flickering firelight.
Yes, the woman nods, licking her lips, unable to speak, and Babes smiles, reaching behind her for her bra strap. Suddenly the temptress.
“No,” the chubby witch suddenly utters, her voice so slaked with hunger that it is barely above a whisper. “Pull your thick black tights down first, and your little lacy panties too...”
“Like this?” Babes asks, all faux innocence, dragging her undergarments to her knees, her rounded hips and long abdomen like warm ivory in the firelight, the warm brown bush on her chubby little pussy like a powder-puff of soft Musquash.
“No, pull them right down,” the woman groans. “Take everything off and stand naked before me...”
“You first,” Babes teases, twirling a lock of crinkly pubic hair between two dainty fingers. “Tit for a tit, cunt for a cunt...”
“I think just one of my big boobs is worth two of your little things,” the Thrift Store Lady grumbles, shedding sweaters and vest tops onto an ungainly heap as she hurriedly denudes herself, stepping quickly out of her voluminous skirt to stand before her guest in an arctic-white long-line bra and matching girdle, her vast thighs resplendent in sheer stockings held up by the corsetry’s utility suspenders.
“Nice,” Babes whispers, stepping out of her panties. “Now the rest...”
And with a practiced movement the witch unhooks the big front-fastening brassiere and lets her huge tits tumble out in an avalanche of buttery flesh, her nipples large and chestnut-brown, the areolas the size of old half-crowns and flecked with little golden hairs.
“I’ve never seen tits as big as those...” Babes groans and the witch smiles, hefting them in her chubby hands like an old fashioned porn model in some little black and white paper magazine.
“Want to feel them? Or suck?”
Yes, oh yes, Babes nods, though she feels so sleepy. “But not until you’re naked...”
The woman smiles wickedly and moves closer. So close that Babes can smell her arousal as she reaches out a fat hand and gently squeezes the girl’s pert little breasts inside her bra before unfastening it and liberating them. Babes’ nipples up like jelly dolly mixtures and pink as sugar candy, begging to be kissed.
“I want to eat your cunt,” the huge woman whispers hoarsely into Babes’ tiny little ear, hands everywhere, her breath hot and spicy. Like gingerbread? Or perhaps blood pudding...
“When you’re naked,” Babes insists, though her hands are straying, taking handfuls of those great big breasts. All the better to eat you with my dear...
And the Thrift Store Lady is wriggling out of the tight white girdle, her immense round belly sliding out like a muffin top, then free in all its glory, an inch of dark blonde muff appearing to herald the thick minge that lurks below, then, suddenly, with a sound like a sigh, the constricting garment is free and slithering down her thighs, taking the stockings with it, her big tummy flopping down and covering the thick hairy triangle that Babes so wants to bury her face in...
***
And they’re beyond soft touching and little butterfly kisses by now, past scented candles and boozy red-wine-and-dark-chocolate-flavoured embraces, and they fall on each other like the aroused female animals that they are, kissing with hungry mouths, groping with determined hands and sharp nails as they devour each other’s willing bodies.
“I’ve never fucked a woman before,” Babes admits, massaging handfuls of round belly and travelling steadily downwards towards the hot wet hole that she craves. “Do you use fingers or tongues?”
“Both,” the witch groans, cupping Babes’ tight little butt cheeks in both hands and pulling her close. “I want to feel your fingers up my slit and your tongue on my clit before I eat you...”
“Like this?” Babes asks, sliding easily inside the hot wet cave with first one and then two curious little fingers.
“Yes, oh yes...” the Thrift Store Lady moans as Babes finds her big swollen clitoris and starts to circle it.
“Sit down on the chair and open you legs,” Babes commands, kneeling between the titanic white thighs. “I want to watch your lovely big fanny while I wank you...”
“Like this?” the older woman groans as she lies back wantonly, legs wide open, her fat pussy lips like an orchid with layer after layer of waxy pink petals nestled in the thick forest of her copious bush.
“Oh yeah,” Babes agrees, hands busy in the slippery wetness, cherry lips like darting humming birds nibbling and sucking at the big brown nipples on those unimaginably huge breasts. “This is so good, but I’m not sure if I’ve landed in grandmamma’s cottage or I’m finger-fucking a wicked witch...”
“Don’t talk, just fuck me,” the Thrift Store Lady cries out in exasperation, dodging the question, her pussy throbbing, her big elephantine body teetering on the brink of the orgasm she so craves. “Finish me, let me come, and then I’ll eat you,” she promises, cries, her eyes momentarily flicking towards the big bubbling pot on the fire as she grinds her ass on
the cushion and pushes her cunt hard against Babes’ fingers, like an animal in heat rubbing itself against the rough fabric of a handy chair arm.
“Like this?” Babes gasps, ramming in hard, but she doesn’t need a reply because the witch starts to come, her whole body shaking with the force of it, huge breasts and belly rippling like a tidal wave with each thrust of that gargantuan frame, her cunt tightening on Babes’ fingers like a suckling newborn, spendings like copious male semen oozing out of her as she bucks and thrusts, arching her back and moaning as climax after climax washes over her.
***
“My, what a big pussy you have, Grandmamma,” Babes sighs, kissing fur, as the Thrift Store Lady finally lies calm.
“All the better to eat you with, my dear,” says the ravenous witch, rising up like a white mountain of flesh above her, sharp teeth glinting in the firelight’s last glow as she prepares to feed... and then yelling out in frustrated rage as a heavy silken net suddenly shoots over her head and secures her big body in a criss-cross of fine cords that tie and bind, dragging her to the floor like a netted whale and pinning her portly arms to her trembling, hungry body.
“Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, what treachery is this to a woman just come?” the witch screams in rage from within her bounds, her immeasurable white nakedness like fleshy quilting under the net that now holds her captive.
“Fee, Fi, Lickety-Lick, your snack made a deal with a wolf with a prick!” Babes replies as the lupine figure of Wolfgang lopes into the ring of firelight from the gloom of the crowded room. “You were so eager to eat your pretty young treat, you didn’t fasten the latch to your cottage so sweet...”
***
And so Babes decides to spend the rest of that long cold winter learning the geography of Wolfgang’s strong and supple body, and, though they’re probably not going to live happily ever after - since everybody knows that wolves develop roving eyes when the spring bulbs begin to poke their cautious heads out of their leafy beds - I’m sure that they’ll have a good few months together, warm and cosy in their own little gingerbread cottage deep in the dark, dark woods.