“Pins and needles,” she says.

“Once upon a time,” she says.

In a hotel lobby, an elevator dings, and its door slides slowly open. The girl curls her fingers around the man’s elbow, her long red nails digging into the folds of his sleeve as she guides him into the open box.

“A little girl was sent upon an errand,” she tells her story, her voice soft and slow, “to deliver a basket of bread and milk to her grandmother.”

The doors of the elevator shut behind them. She presses the button for their floor and he spins her around, almost slamming her against the mirrored wall.

“The little girl walked into the woods,” she smiles, but the man isn’t looking at her face – his eyes and his hands are busy, setting free the hooks on the coat that she is wearing.

“In the woods, she met a wolf.”

Her coat is a deep red, its hood lined with white fur. The hood is pulled low over her face, the fur contrasting against two strands of auburn hair, framing her shadowed face with white and red.

“‘Where are you going, what do you bring?’ asked the wolf of the little girl.” The man released the last of the hooks, and the girl pushes him gently back with her hand.

“‘I bring bread to my grandmother’s cottage,’ the little girl replied.” One palm upon his chest, with her free hand she pulls down the zipper that hangs at her throat. She feels his heartbeat through the one hand, in harmony with the slow clicks of the zipper rippling through the fingers of the other.

“‘Will you take the Path of Needles or the Path of Pins?’ the wolf asked,” as her coat slowly spread open beneath the zipper, like a blooming flower, revealing the ascending curves of her white breasts underneath. Her smile widens as he draws in a sharp intake of breath, signalling his realisation that she is wearing nothing under her red coat.

He is no longer pushing forward, and she withdraws the hand that was on his chest. The fingers on both her hands slide along the opened zipper, moving up and down slowly, lightly dancing upon its metal teeth.

The elevator dings, jerks to a stop. Her fingers close around the edges of the coat, and she slides the cloth open as the elevator’s door moved. Her hands follow the raise of her breasts, slowing to a stop as she reveals a hint of the dark circles that marked their peaks.

Then she reaches down and pulls the zipper up, stopping it to reveal just enough, just barely enough.

“‘I’ll take the other path and we’ll see who gets there first,’ said the wolf,” as her hand curls around his elbow once again, and he is guided out of the elevator, into the empty corridor.

“Obviously, it was the wolf who reached her grandmother’s cottage first. He let himself in, and, in a single great bite, cleaved her grandmother in twain.” She can feel his eyes looking down into the shadow and the red of her coat, trying to get a clearer glimpse, a deeper look.

“The wolf ate her grandmother, save for some of her flesh, which he put in a dish, and for some of her blood, which he put in a bottle. Then the wolf dressed himself in her grandmother’s shawl, climbed into bed, pulled the blankets up, and waited.”

They arrive at their room, and, standing before the door, he fumbles in his pockets. She leans into his back, pressing herself against him as he finds the keycard. “The wolf waited,” as she whispers into his ear, “for that was all that he could do. He waited, impatiently.”

He slides the card through the sensor, and pulls the door handle down with a firm click, releasing it from its lock.

“The little girl arrived at the cottage, and knocked on the door,” she continues, and she raps her knuckle on the door; once, twice, as the door swings open.

“‘Come in,’ said the wolf,” as she curls herself around him, pulling him by the lapels of his coat through the open door.

“The little girl didn’t know that the wolf was a wolf.

“‘My mother sent me with bread and milk,’ said the little girl.

“‘Put them in the pantry, child. Are you hungry?’ asked the wolf,” as she pushes him onto the bed, then walks over to an end table, upon which stands a single decanter of wine, deeply, darkly red.

“‘Yes, I am, Grandmother,’ replied the little girl.

“‘Cook the meat in the dish,’ said the wolf,” as she opens the bottle and pours the wine, its redness spilling into one glass, then another.

“‘Are you thirsty?’ asked the wolf,” as she turns around, holding a single glass, leaving its twin upon the table. He had removed his coat and his tie, and unbuttoned half his shirt. Leaning against pillows stacked against the headboard, his eyes follow her across the room.

“‘Yes, I am, Grandmother,’ said the little girl,” as she stops at the edge of the bed, close to him. She holds the glass by its stem, slowly swirling the wine within. Again, a hand pulls the zipper downwards.

This time, only one hand pulls the coat open. This time, she does not stop until one breast was fully revealed to his hungry eyes.

“‘Then drink the wine upon the table, child,’ said the wolf,” as she dips her finger into the wine, spun it in a circle within the dark liquid. She curls her finger within, brings it out, carrying within her long red nail a tiny pool of wine.

“The little girl cooked the meat.” She releases the drop upon her nipple, her finger dancing in a slow circle, spreading the wine around her areola, the liquid causing her erected nipple to glisten in the light.

And she cradles her breast with one hand, holding her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She leans forward, and he does the same. “The little girl ate the meat,” she whispers, as his mouth closes over her nipple.

A moan escapes her lips, and she runs her fingers through his hair. A moment passes, and she pulls herself back. She brings the glass into his gaze, and he takes it from her. His eyes do not leave her breast, and so he does not notice, upon her outstretched forearm, the scars, like tiny Xs, white on white in the shape of a crescent.

“While the little girl was eating, a cat came up to her and said ‘You are eating the flesh of your grandmother!’” She walks back to the table, and sits down in one of the pair of chairs that flank it.

“‘Throw your shoe at the noisy cat,’ said the wolf,” as she removes a shoe, dangles it by her toes, tosses it into a corner. She smiles as he follows suit. “And the little girl did.”

She runs a finger around the rim of the glass of wine upon the end table, her gaze holding his. She picks up the glass, holds it up, as if in a toast, and takes a sip. She smiles as he does the same, “And while the little girl drank the wine, a bird came up to her and twittered ‘You are drinking the blood of your grandmother!’

“‘Throw your other shoe at the noisy bird,’ said the wolf,” as she removes her other shoe, tossing it, too, into the corner, smiling as he follows suit. “And the little girl did.”

“‘Are you cold, child?’ asked the wolf.

“‘Yes, I am, Grandmother,’ replied the little girl.

“‘Then take off your clothes, come to bed, and I shall warm you up,’ said the wolf,” as she stands up, her toes curling into the lush carpet, and turns to face away from him.

“‘Where shall I put my apron, Grandmother?’ asked the little girl.

“‘Put it on the fire, child, for you won’t need it anymore,’ replied the wolf,” as she bends slightly forwards, to completely unzip her coat.

“‘Where shall I put my bodice, Grandmother?’ asked the little girl.

“‘Put it on the fire, child, for you won’t need it anymore.’ And she repeated the question for each article of clothing, and received the same answer, and she threw each item onto the fire. ‘Now, child, come to bed,’ said the wolf,” as she flaps her coat outward, and turns around.

His eyes travel up the length of her legs, over the nakedness of her sex, over the rise of her breasts, to the smile on her face, and then back down again. Her eyes remain shadowed in her hood, white fur and red hair framing her smile, white teeth and red lips.

She walks back to where she stood before, at the edge of the bed, close to him. He leans forward, and she places a finger upon his lips, holding him gently back.

She moves her finger from his lips and points it at his free hand, curling it into a hook. He brings his hand to her, and she picks up his forefinger, guides it to the glass that he is holding, dips it into the wine, and uses it to coat the wine, once again, around her nipple.

He leans forward, his eyes focused, his mouth open, and she places his finger across his lips, shaking her head gently as his eyes look up at her.

She brings his finger down between her legs, moans as it easily enters her, just a little. A moment passes, and she pulls it out, her wetness forming white silken threads as she brings his finger up to her other nipple, and spreads her wetness around it.

He looks up at her, and she gives him a single nod, and his hungry mouth closes over her nipple.

She moans as she runs her fingers through his hair. “The little girl climbed into the bed, and said to the wolf, ‘Grandmother, how hairy you are!’”

She gently pushes him back, and he leans against the pillows against the headboard as she walks around the bed to stand near his feet. “‘The better to keep you warm, child,’ replied the wolf,” as she pushes his legs apart, and crawls onto the bed between them.

“‘Grandmother, what big ears you have!’ exclaimed the little girl.

“‘The better to hear you with, child,’ replied the wolf,” as she unbuckles his belt, opens his pants, tugs them down, tosses them aside.

“‘What big…” she gently encircled his cock with her fingers, licking her lips as she strokes it, “‘…eyes you have!’”

“‘The better to see you with, child,’ replied the wolf,” as she bends her hooded head lower, until she is hovering above him, her mouth almost touching him.

“‘And what sharp teeth you have,’ said the little girl.”

A moment passes, with her open mouth hovering over his cock, a string of saliva dripping down onto it.

“Tell my story,” she says at last, and her tongue flicked out.

“‘The better,’” he gulps, clears his throat, “‘to eat you with!’” he manages, and she engulfs him in her mouth.

“And he swallowed her whole,” he continues, his speech fractured by small gasps, “But a passing lumberjack came by, and killed the wolf, and cut it open, and released her from its stomach, and set her free!”

With those words, she stops her machinations, lifts up her head to reveal a wry smile beneath the shadowed hood. “A lumberjack. What a stupid ending,” she says, as she climbs up above him, lowers herself onto him.

Moments pass, as she moves herself, as his hands grab at her breasts.

“Why is the ending stupid?” he says, at last.

She leans forward as she rides him, until her lips are next to his ear, “You men always think that the only possible solution for evil men is good men.”

And moments pass, as she moves herself, as she moans into his ear.

And he asks, “You never said which path she took, the Path of Needles of the Path of Pins.”

“Hush,” she moans.

And still she moves, until, finally, her release comes, and her body shudders, and she smiles, a satisfied smile.

She pushes herself up on straightened arms, her hands upon the headboard above his shoulders.

“‘Will you take the Path of Needles or the Path of Pins?’ the wolf asked.”

Her coat is a deep red, its hood lined with white fur. The hood is pulled low over her face, the fur contrasting against two strands of auburn hair, framing her shadowed face with white and red.

The hood hides all but the lower half of her face, where still she smiles, a satisfied smile; brilliant and full of teeth.

“I don’t remember. What does it matter which path I took?” the girl says, as she reaches up and grasps the hood over her head.

She pulls the hood back, revealing a head of auburn hair, pulled back tightly together. His eyes widen as her eyes lock onto his; in the dim light, her pupils shone red. “What girl could outrun a wolf? It’s a false choice, an illusion of free will; both paths were equally prickly.”

With both hands, she reaches behind her head, and pulls out a pair of hairpins, long and shiny in the light. “Both paths were equally fatal.”

And then the pins are in his neck, a pair of lupine heads topping them. His life spurts and spills out of him. She holds onto his shoulders as his body jerks, quavers, shudders. He is still inside her, and she moans loudly in the pleasure of his dying.

She stands up, dripping and wet, pours herself some more wine, and turns to address the corpse upon the bed.

“A man who thinks he’s a wolf still dies like a dog,” the wolf says, as she raises her glass, swirling the wine within; deeply, darkly –

Red.

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