Little Red, Ridden Hard by Anel Viz

Little Red, Ridden Hard

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

In a small apartment in one of the many large, polluted, overcrowded crime-ridden, industrial cities that have come to characterize our planet, there once lived a teenager known as Little Red, not because of his stature, but because he had inherited the flaming red hair that his father, Big Red, had had until he went bald. I do not know whether Little Red was still legally a minor at the time of the events of this narrative, but he may as well have been, since he had overprotective protective parents who treated their only child as if he was (and, as I just said, he may have been). Minor or no, he had a lot more sexual experience than his parents gave him credit for (he could scarcely have had less), for he had known he was gay from early childhood and, having experimented with his friends since puberty, had long ago come to the conclusion that he was a bottom, since he had often been ridden hard and knew beyond a doubt that he loved it above all the other sexual activities he had tried, which pretty much meant all other sexual activities, period. Still, we would do well to presume that he had passed his eighteenth birthday, and I don’t want any of you to think otherwise. Got it?

He had an aged grandmother whom he loved above all else with the one exception of bottoming. She lived in an assisted living facility about half an hour’s walk from his apartment. They got a call one morning from the director of the facility that Grandma was feeling poorly that morning, so Little Red’s mother cooked up a batch of chicken soup and sent Little Red to bring it to her.

“Go straight to Grandma’s and don’t dawdle on the way,” she told him, “but keep to the streets. Do not take the shortcut through the park where the muggers and gang members hang out. The muggers will beat you up and steal your soup, or you could get caught in gang war crossfire or some gang member might even kill you on purpose. Worse yet, people say that child molesters frequent that park, and heaven only knows what they might do to you!” She shuddered.

“Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll watch my ass,” he promised. She took it figuratively, though he meant it literally.

Little Red put the thermos of hot soup in his backpack and set out. He meant to go directly to Grandma’s and make no detours, but his route took him past a video arcade where he stopped in to play a game or two (he especially like Sex Offender – do you know it?). He lost track of time and stayed there till it hit him that he was now nearly an hour late and could not possibly get to Grandma’s at a reasonable time unless he ran all the way and took the shortcut through the park. Having grown up in the big city, he considered himself sufficiently streetwise to recognize potential muggers at a distance and savvy enough to skirt around gang territory. Much as he loved getting screwed in the ass, he did not relish being taken advantage of by some pervert not of his acquaintance, but he foolishly thought he could take care of himself in that department as well.

While he was walking across a vast expanse of lawn in the center of the park, a predatory wolf with a taste for chicken soup and just plain chicken in every form, including raw, stepped out of the bushes and barred his way. Little Red instinctively knew what the guy had in mind and was definitely not interested, but he had confidence in his ability to handle the situation and felt no fear.

“What’s your name, kid?” the pervert inquired.

“Little Red.”

“And what brings you to the park? Looking for something in particular?”

“Nope, just passing through.”

“Where to?”

“Quiet Grove.”

“I can show you a quiet grove right near us.”

“Quiet Grove the old-age home. That’s where my Grandma lives. She’s feeling kind of under the weather today, so I’m bringing her a thermos of chicken soup.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in that yellow-brick high-rise you can see just over the lone tree there in the middle of the field. Now if you don’t mind, I really must be going. Goodbye.”

“What’s your rush, kid?” But Little Red had already quickened his pace and moved on.

The dirty old man (well, not really all that old) noticed, however, that after his close encounter Little Red had become more cautious and was headed for the paved path where he’d have only cyclists and skateboarders to worry about, not at all a direct route to Quiet Grove, so he cut straight across the park to where Little Red’s Grandma lived, certain of getting there well in advance of his victim.

When the predatory wolf came to Quiet Grove he went directly to Grandma’s room, where he found her sleeping peacefully. He viciously attacked her, gagged her and tied her up, stripped her naked and locked her in the closet. Then he put on her cap and nightie and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Little Red was shocked at Grandma’s appearance. He found her sadly altered and concluded that her condition was far more serious than he had been led to believe. “Oh, my poor Granny!” he cried. “Let me pour you a nice mug of Mom’s chicken soup and stick it in the microwave.”

“No, dearie, that can wait,” croaked the pervert in the most grandmotherly voice he could muster. “Come sit by me on the bed and let me have a good look at you.”

“You sound terribly hoarse, Grandma,” Little Red exclaimed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bit of that chicken soup right away? What a deep voice you have!”

“The better to speak with you, my dear.”

“How intently you stare at me through your trifocals, Grandma! What big eyes you have!”

“The better to see you with, my dear.”

“And your hands, Grandma! What big paws you have!”

“The better for giving you a loving squeeze my dear.”

“Weren’t you able to shave this morning, Grandma? I could swear you have five o’clock shadow!”

“The better to nuzzle against your tender cheek, my dear. Come give us a kiss.”

“What’s that I smell on your breath, Grandma? Have you been drinking again? You know it’s not good for you. Where did you get the booze?”

“The better to party with you, my dear. Let me pour you a shot.”

“Would you like me to get you a tissue, Grandma? I’ve never seen you drool like that before. My, what big, flabby, wet lips you have!”

“The better to kiss you with, my dear.”

And all this from a kid who’d been having sex with his friends for years and thought himself savvy and streetwise! No wonder we need laws to protect our children from sexual predators! Make the age of consent thirty or thirty-five, that’s what I say!

It had taken him an inordinately long time to put two and two together, but now Little Red’s suspicions (only his suspicions, mind you) were aroused. He took a careful look up and down his supposed grandmother and noticed the tent that the predatory wolf (who very was definitely aroused) made beneath the blankets.

“Grandma, what a big dick you have! What the fuck?... You’re not supposed to have a dick!”

“The better to screw the daylights out of that lovely little ass of yours, my dear!” cried the predatory wolf, and before Little Red knew what was happening he jumped out of bed and grabbed him. He threw him down on the bed, turned him over on his stomach, and forcing his face into the pillow, he pulled down his pants and gloated over the youthful buns covered in a fine coat of downy red hairs that had come into his possession. “I’m going to ride you hard, Little Red,” he promised. “What a beautiful bubble-butt you have!”

“Just the way I like it!” thought Little Red, and he said, “The better to please you with, Granny dear.” But his face was buried in the pillow, so the predatory wolf could not make out his words.

I know that my readers must all be terrified that this tale is about to cross the line. You don’t honestly think that Anel Viz would do a thing like that, do you? No way. A watchful attendant had seen the predatory wolf enter Grandma’s room, and she immediately phoned the vice squad, knowing what sort of low-lifes hung out in the park. Just seconds before the predatory wolf could penetrate Little Red, they burst into the room and pulled the disgusting pervert off his potential victim. They had caught the predatory wolf in the act; it was not a matter of “he said, he said.” No defensive attorney on earth could save him now from a lengthy jail term followed by civil commitment. He was doomed, and now we can all breathe freely. Whew!

One cop looked at the others and said, “Shall we give the scum bag a taste of his own medicine?”

His partner leered knowingly at him and said, “Not in front of the B-O-Y.” So they locked Little Red in the closet with Grandma, set a watch at the door of her room so no one would ever find out what they were up to (whom would you believe – a policeman or a child molester?), yanked the predatory wolf’s pants down around his ankles, and each in turn went to town on the pedophile while the horny little teenager watched everything through the keyhole. It was too dark in the closet for Grandma to see him beating off without her glasses.

(I face only one difficulty in composing my adult fairy tales, to wit, that children’s literature has to do with children and there is nothing humorous about pedophilia. Still, who among us does not exult when one of that evil crew gets his just desserts?)

Before they cornholed him, the officers of the law took photos of the crime scene. Then they opened him up with their nightsticks, lubricated with some Vaseline that Grandma kept on her night table. He sobbed and begged for mercy, or would have if they had not taped his mouth shut after stuffing it full of the cotton wadding they found right next to the Vaseline, and to make sure no one would overhear them they turned on MTV. Lest they catch any deadly viruses from him (he did cruise the park, after all, so they regarded him as high-risk) or, worse yet, leave any telltale traces of their DNA inside him, they used condoms, of which they also found an ample supply on Grandma’s night table. While one screwed him, the others watched, and when he’d emptied his nuts another came to take his place. They did not read him his Miranda rights until after they had finished, but that didn’t matter since his mouth was taped shut and he could not have prematurely divulged any self-incriminating information to them anyway.

Not that he exercised his right to keep silent. The gag muffled his cries to be sure, but they were still very audible, a constant drone hovering above the percussive music of their balls slapping against his ass cheeks, and once they replaced their nightsticks with sticks made of flesh and blood his shrieks of pain became screams of pleasure, and his body contorted in agonizing ecstasy and begged for more, as he would have done in words if they hadn’t taped his mouth shut. Only when the sixth and final cop was fucking him did his pleasure cease and the pain return. He no longer felt anything but the cramp in his hips and lower back, his battered colon walls, his chaffed rosebud, and most particularly his burning hemorrhoids.

When they’d finished hiking up their pants, the cops got his clothes back on the predatory wolf and four of them took him down to the precinct to book him. Two remained behind to take the victims’ statements. First they let Little Red out of the closet and photographed him from every angle before they let him get back into his pants and undies. It disconcerted them to hear him go into raptures talking about the gang bang he’d just witnessed, but they felt relatively secure that they could shut him up with a few well-placed threats. So as not to contaminate the witnesses’ statements by influencing Grandma, they had Little Red give his version of what had happened before letting her out of the closet. Then they listened to her story, wrote it all down, and left without taking pictures of her.

When they were gone, Grandma turned to Little Red and said, “That was nerve-racking! I’ve never been so frightened in my life! See?... I’m trembling like a leaf.”

“Would like me to heat up some of that chicken soup, Grandma?”

“Let me pour us both a stiff drink instead. Scotch or vodka?”

So I guess he must have been old enough after all.

Posted: 02/08/08