Beauty And The Beast 19

The light through the trees winked and dimmed, concealed within the woods, so that it was hard to tell just how near or far away it was. A weak candle, close, flickering in the wind? Or a star, distant but massive, obscured occasionally by planets, other worlds.

Rain continued to fall, harder and heavier as the afternoon wore on, so that as much water, dirty and foul, splashed up from the path, coating her legs, as fell from the sky. The wind, too, increased in force, until it blew the rain in sheets, driving hard, flattening her hair to her face, her dress to her skin.

Once pale-beige stockings, now a dirty rainbow of mud, thorns, and ripe red welts where her skin was torn.

Fat droplets fell from the leaves above her tortuous path. Brambles scratched her legs, tugged at her stockings, insisting that she go no further, that she turn back. Up ahead the light twinkled, still obscured by leaves and branches. The light grew bigger and brighter as she neared its source, guiding her in, while all around her grew dim and grey, what was left of daylight filtered through muslin clouds of rain.

Angela hoped it would be somewhere safe and warm. She would be there soon. She could see the light was a smoky orange, some sort of oil, so whoever lit it must be nearby. While seeing someone again would be a relief, you never really knew who you would meet in these dark, deciduous forests, untouched by modernity, unseen by all except woodsmen, hunters, and lost girls.

The cabin gradually came into view, showing itself to be far bigger than she had imagined, towering above the hawthorn that grew around it, the white flowers long gone, the dark red berries ripening.

Wearily climbing the few steps onto the veranda, water puddled at her feet, dripping from her dark hair, down her back. Her dress of white linen clung tight to her body, outlining every curve, the dim light accenting the depth of her breasts, the dark of her nipples showing through, and a shadow where hair grew. She laughed at the image she must present to whomever would answer the door to the bold knock; after which she quickly pulled her arms to her chest, concealing cold body. As luck might have it, nobody answered. The door was not locked.

Announcing her entrance more timidly than she had knocked, after all, a porch was open, inviting, a closed door said otherwise, she strained for sounds of occupation, but heard nothing more than the crackle of a log fire, saw its orange glow reflected on the old floorboards, polished smooth by years of use. Emboldened by the need for heat she swept towards the fire.

Crossing the room, feet slapping wetly, Angela made for the warmth of the log fire, knelt on the fur rug before it. Water continued to fall from hair and sodden clothing, firelight reflected in the drops that fell onto the thick hairs of whatever poor creature had the misfortune to be turned into the rug beneath her.

She pulled her loose, dark hair into a ponytail, hands tightened, wringing a thick stream of water which trickled down her arm, and fell from her elbow, while more still dripped down her back, between her shoulderblades, zig-zagging down her spine, the random path of raindrops on a windowpane. The cold water made her shiver- no, not shiver, convulse! Angela hadn't realised the extent of her cold; being lost had occupied all her thoughts, which were now free to reassess priorities. She felt cold, tired and hungry. First, address the cold.

Angela knelt at the hearth, knees and the soft flesh of her legs prickled by the fur rug. The fire provided only a fraction of the heat she would need to dry off and bring her body back from near hypothermia. A bath was what she desired. But out in the woods, with no signs of modernity, how remote the possibility seemed. She climbed to her feet, to find out.

The room about her is made of the same rough wood as the entranceway, dressed in furs and trophy heads of deer, bears, foxes, hares, an owl and many smaller, finch-like birds; hundreds of animals, hundreds of pairs of glass eyes watch her, reflecting the flickering firelight, impersonating life. Wooden shutters cover the windows, a very weak light showing through the cracks, the last of the daylight all but gone. There seemed to be no other way to light the room, save for the warm glow of the fire, as if the owner of this cabin went about by senses other than sight. In the centre of the room was a large sofa, again covered with fur, deeply padded, and showing that the owner of the cabin had either the means to buy and have delivered a large item of furniture into, frankly, the middle of nowhere, or was a master craftsman, strong hands and sensitive to the beautiful curves of this dark wood. More furs, this time smaller pelts, the white furs of stoats and martens were stitched expertly together to make cushions. So much cold death to make this home warm and comfortable.

Leaving the warmth and dim light of the living room, Angela was back in the large entranceway, main door to her left, wide stairs disappearing up into darkness to her right. Ahead a dark doorway, no indication as to what would be contained within, no light to guide her.

Walking gingerly up the wooden stairs, out of the influence of light and fire, Angela caught sight of another glow, this time much dimmer, coming from a room off to the right, above the room she was just in. Briskly she took the last four steps, onto a landing that circled the upper floor, darker shapes on the wall hinting at doors or decoration. Into the dimly lit room, she saw she was in a bathroom, with a large copper ewer beside an opulent cast iron bath. One candle lit the room, emitting a weak light, haloed by the steam from a hot, apparently freshly run bath, as if she was expected.

She closed the door, approached the bath. Pulling the straps off her shoulders, peeling down her sodden linen dress, let it fall with a wet thump upon the floor. She stood then in only her stockings, reaching her fingers inside the tight elastic, pushing down, bending at the waist to slip the balled stocking of her left foot first, the right. With each movement, blood dried on the stockings was torn from her skin, fresh beads erupted, bright red.

She stepped into the bath, hot water gripping her feet, squeezing the blood, dying her pale skin pink.

Immersed deeply, she rested back to listen again to the sounds of the house, listening for signs of occupation. Straining to hear over the noise of the wind and rain, held distant by the thick wooden walls, Angela picked out no other sounds, save for her breathing, which deepened and slowed as she felt her body relax. She closed her eyes, and smiled into the darkness. The wind outside ceased momentarily, breath caught by the beauty in the smile, the apparent innocence in the unknowing, the vulnerability of her flesh. What price the intrusion into this private world in the woods?

As Angela lay in the bath, she caught the scent of lavender; beside her was a soap dish with a pale, fleshy soap, lavender scented. She used this to wash away the mud, and soothe her scratched limbs, rinse off the thin streaks of dried blood about her ankles, rub her tired feet.

She reached down the side of the bath, the cold of the enamel a counterpoint to the hot water, icily kissing the soft flesh of her upper arm. She lifted the copper ewer, and filled it from the bath water, and kneeling upright, poured hot water over her head and hair, making it once again a slick down her back, the colour and look of the skin of a seal. Hair clean, her body warm, she settled back again and closed her eyes.

Startled awake, the water growing cold, her fingers fleshy and soft after so long in the bath. How long had she dozed, and what noise had woken her? The house remained quiet, so she stood, water once more dripping off her body, and she cast around, looking for a towel. On a chair beside the bath, was a crisply laundered white towel. She was unsure whether either were there when she got into the bath, but gratefully wrapped the towel about her. It scratched, dry and harsh against her soft skin, absorbing, sucking away the water and replacing it with a satisfied weariness. She was warm, dry, and a little dizzy from the heat. Thoughts turned to hunger.

Hanging on the door of the bathroom was a grey dressing gown, fur outside, lined with mauve velvet inside. Warm, soft and heavy about her shoulders, the material rubbing softly against her nipples. There was no belt, but in the low light she was happy for the sides to part, her pale skin visible, pink from the heat of the bath, beneath the dense, dark fur. She took the candle, protecting the flame with her hand, not wishing to extinguish her only source of light. Wax dripped down the length of the candle, biting hot into her finger, making her cry out in surprise. The candle fell, flame extinguished, darkness complete, molten wax splashed onto her bare feet, a sharp peppering of pain.

Making her way cautiously down stairs by the small amount of light emanating from the living room fire, into the room, and sat down on the sofa in front of the embers. She threw on two large logs, and watched sparks fly up the chimney. Before long the fire was roaring once more, and she could inspect her feet by the increased light. There were pink painful marks on her skin where the wax had fallen. Some beads of wax remained, which she picked off, enjoying the feeling as the wax tugged at her skin. Thin, angry red scratches from her journey through the woods showed up alongside, though the dried blood and mud had dissolved in the bath.

As she reclined on the sofa, enjoying the warmth of the fire, of the furs she wore and lay upon, she dozed off. In sleep though, she remained in the room and heard the soft pad of footsteps on the wooden floor, two pairs, the muted click of long nails. At the edge of the fire's orange influence were two dark marbles, filled with flames, reflected upside-down. The eyes belonged to a large Irish Wolfhound, a gentle giant of a dog, which pathered towards her, curious to explore the unexpected guest. Stepping slowly and deliberately forwards, the wolfhound pressed its wet nose down to her feet, sniffing. She could feel its breath on her toes, though the nose never touched her skin.

Moving up her legs, sniffing, its head came within her reach, and she ran her fingers through his thick waxy fur, the dog buried its head in her lap. Its hot breath on her thighs, the hound pressed closer still, sniffing, sensing her aroma, identifying. Angela's legs forced apart a little, and she looked down to reprimand the dog, only to find the wolfhound gone, in its place a strong, growling wolf, teeth bared, rancid spit dripping from large, yellow canine teeth. Startled, Angela kicked out in surprise, to wake up alone in the room, fire died down, a curious moisture between her thighs, her labia pronounced and wet, the way it was when she woke up some nights, breathing heavily and deeply satisfied. Self-consciously she pulled the fur gown closed, tight about her.

Two large glasses of red wine were placed on the hearth, the first indication that she would be joined tonight, though the cabin remained still and silent, save the quite settling of the logs in the fire, and the whispering of the wind outside. The wine was quite warm, having been placed by the fire, and thick too, dry and tannic, the smell of alcohol almost as strong as the peppery and dried fruit aromas. Angela brought the glass to her lips, and sipped, delicately at first, before gulping a delicious mouthful, relieved and relaxing - after all, where else had she had red wine but in comfort, secure and cared for. Red wine meant, to her, that she was safe, home and could begin to relax into her evening, later going to bed wrapped in the warm blanket of an alcoholic fug. She was in the cabin of a civilised person, at least, she thought.

Rising from the sofa, she traced the outline of the room, looking for something to read or do by candlelight, though it seemed that taxidermy was the sole occupation of the owner of the cabin. There were no books, or pictures, or paper to write upon, no instruments or music, nothing but a large mahogany chest which, unlocked, revealed the tools of the taxidermist's trade: scalpels, sewing needles, embalming and tanning solutions, many bottles of chemicals with a sticky, pungent residue around the lips, stoppered with cotton, cork and wax.

She starts at the screech of an owl, or a trapped hare. It is a short, curt, sound, a sound of distress, muffled by the wooden walls. The wind whips it away, as if silencing it, so as not to alarm her, before shushing calmly through the trees once more. Resuming her study of the room brings her back to the fire, where she stands with her back to it, enjoying the fierce heat upon her calves.

She hears heavy footsteps on the veranda, the click of the latch, and the door swings inwards, cold air pushes its way ahead of the newcomer.

Lips stained a bloody red by the wine, teeth white pearls, dark hair falling about her face in a mane of loose curls, she stood, wrapped in fur, a near mirror of the man who faced her, himself clothed in fur, thick grey hair and dense stubble on his weathered face. His eyes, like the dog before, reflected the flickering flames, upside down, absorbing light, taking in the woman before him. He moved slowly, haltingly forwards, close to her, reaching down to the hearth to retrieve the second glass of wine, which with two hands he brought to his lips, and gulped thirstily down. She could smell him, pine and moss, and earth, cut through with the dark scent of sweat. He replaced the glass, and turned awkwardly, returning to the dark entranceway from which she presumed he came. She followed him into the darkness, and into the warm, newly illuminated kitchen which stood opposite the living room.

He gestured for her to join him upon a bench which ran the length of a pitted wooden table. The table top, deeply scored by criss-crosses of knife marks, stained the myriad dark colours of bruises, had upon it three large candles, casting dancing shadows over the two bowls of stew. A strong herby smell entwined in the steam from the bowls. Thick chunks of meat and globules of oily fat floated in the broth.

The man appeared to struggle with his spoon, as if closing his fingers about its handle caused him great pain, and he laboured through his meal before Angela slid along the bench, closer to him, to help him with the food. She took the spoon and gently fed the man, who looked at her with a mixture of relief and pity. That he should pity her confused her a little, and so, in the silence, she told him about how she came to be in his cabin, how she lost her way through the woods hours before, and followed the first path she found, that led her eventually to his house. He emitted a low growl in response, a non-committal sound, indicating neither his pleasure at a rare guest, or his disproval at the intrusion. The upwards curl of his lip revealed yellow-stained teeth.

With his limited vocabulary of grunts and growls, the evening just flew by, so that before long Angela asked if she might stay the night. He indicated that she should take the bed over the kitchen, and that she would be welcome, of course (at least that's what she assumed he meant). She bid him goodnight, and heartfelt thanks, before retiring, taking with her a candle to light the way.

She placed the candle on the bedside stand, and watched it flicker in the mirror opposite. She drew back the sheets, and arranged herself within the bed, the fur dressing gown still about her. She pulled the sheets up to her chest, placing her arms without, and by her side, staring up at the ceiling, thinking. What a strange place.

Bringing her right arm back under the covers, she lay a while, stroking the fur of her dressing gown, occasionally her hand glanced across bare skin. She liked the juxtaposition. Her hand slid inside the gown, and she let her fingertips glide across the skin of her belly, and down between her thighs. She pushed her fingers through her hair, and cupped her hand over herself, a gesture of modesty. Her fingertips pressed ever so gently between her lips, feeling the warmth, the soft, wet flesh. She inched her hand lower, fingertip in, now a little more, until she had her first and second finger pushed as far as they could go. And she kept them there for a short while, before pulling them back out. She never explored, always masturbating in a functional way, simply to bring on an orgasm. Now, beneath the sheets of this stranger, in his fur robe, she touched herself simply to learn, all the textures, contours, sensations. She did this until she could resist no more, and with a final flourish of fingertips on clitoris, she came, the pleasure peaking briefly, before dwindling away to satisfaction. She melted back into the mattress and let her breathing return to normal.

She was exhausted, and before long the weight of her eyelids was too much to withstand, and her head fell to one side, her breathing became heavier, and she slept a dreamless sleep.

A noise wakes her in the night. The house creaking, or a floorboard, or another distressed animal succumbed to the night? Outside the door, she hears the owner pace back and forth, push open the door, and now he stands at the foot of the bed, watching her. He stays there for some time, torn through indecision, she sees the pain of it clear in his eyes. He gently tugs the cover, slowly revealing her, from shoulders down to her toes, with each inch exposing her to the cold and to his gaze. She wears his gown. It is open a little, and he can see the skin between it. His tongue darts across his lips.

Panting in anticipation, he moves closer, parts the fur gown, let it fall softly to her sides, exposed her body. He leaned close, breathed in every scent, from her perfumed hair which smelled of honey and spices, down her neck, the scent of human skin, sweet and enticing, as if consuming it would satisfy any hunger. Further down he went, inhaling deeply the smell of her armpit, her labours through the forest removed by the bath, leaving the bland smell of soap, further down his stubble scratching across her right nipple, down her belly which twitched in anticipation. As he reached her pubic mound, he took the deepest intake of breath yet, that he might take in every atom that she released. She smelled sweet, a bouquet of aromas, a perfume that mingled with his own woody smell.

A constellation of dark marks on her pale skin led across her belly and down towards her vagina, a line that he traced with his fingernail, into her pubic hair, which slowed his movement like brambles across a path, thorns protecting delicious fruit, fingers and lips stained black.

He continued to trace his fingers down her thighs, and followed it with his nose, shifting his weight down to the base of the bed where, curling improbably, he settled to licking Angela's feet. At first, she squirmed, the sensation catching her by surprise, but soon she settled back to enjoy it, hot tongue flicking over the tips, up the arch of her foot, hot breath teasing between her toes, which curled in delight. She brought her left hand up to her breast, while the right clutched at the sheet beneath her. He teased her feet for an intolerably long time, so that she thought she might explode.

He nipped at her little toe, sending a spasm of shock, she kicked out and struck him on the chin. He darted upright, and saw the startled look on her face. She unable to believe what she had done, unsure of the repercussions. He stood back, gauging, before pressing forward once more.

He kneeled upon the bed, (naked now, though she didn't see him disrobe, couldn't be sure he wasn't already naked) and brought himself level with her, his breath hot on her cheek. He was hard, large, and he pressed between her legs, her hair scratching at his sensitive tip, weight pressed down upon her, driving himself inside, parting the folds of her vagina, releasing moisture that would soften his entry; he slid in almost entirely, they both moaned together at the pleasure, and at the relief.